interrobang‽

Happy Haul-idays!

2011-11-09T16:10:00.000-05:00

Say the words "books" and "free," and after months of being the absent writer, I am THERE. I'm starting to think that the only thing I really need for inspiration is a carrot in the form of a free book dangling ever so close to my nose. I would sniff that shit a mile away. The most important reason why this is awesome is because I could win free books. No explanation needed, except to say that these books are also pretty coolirific AND they'd give me plenty of excuses to continue not writing, which I desperately need.The second reason is that I get to give another friend the same list of $500 books if I win. I don't have many friends, so if you are my friend, your chances are probably better than anyone else's, so you should feel lucky (at least just this once.) Also, I hope you like books about farts. And the third, and possibly only commendable reason, is that another $500 will go to the charity of my choice, which in this case is Reading Tree. They believe in literacy for all, which I wholeheartedly support. Why, if I'd never become a book nerd, I would have just been...."a nerd". And that is unacceptable.


Grand Total $498.78
	Let's Make Some Great Art	$19.95
	Indie Publishing	$24.95
	Little Book of Letterpress	$24.95
	Creative, Inc.	$16.95
	Doodles	$19.99
	Scribbles	$19.99
	I Was Here	$16.95
	Memento	$19.95
	Bedside Dream Journal	$16.95
	Living Out Loud	$17.95
	Ready, Set, Novel!	$16.95
	The Autobiography Box	$19.95
	The Observation Deck	$19.95
	The Cloud Collector's Handbook	$14.95
	Farts Around the World	$15.95
	A Year in Japan	$19.95
	At a Crossroads	$19.95
	America's Doll House	$24.95
	Writer's Workshop in a Book	$14.95
	The Writer's Toolbox	$24.95
	You Know You're a Writer When . . .	$9.95
	TCM Classic Movie Trivia	$22.95
	F in Exams	$9.95

Sleeping Around

2011-08-24T20:26:00.001-04:00

...in a good way.
And another good excuse for me being a little......ehhhhhhhhhhh-let's say "busy."

Check out my fresh & direct commerical acting debut, right here.

The Road to Zortopia Continues....

2011-07-29T13:54:00.000-04:00

I've mentioned before that sometimes, when I'm all alone and feeling the desperate need to reach out to the fuzzying images of my fleeting childhood, I google "Zorts."

Or "Zortian."
Or just "Zort."

It's my hope that somewhere in this world, there's another 10 year-old stuck in a 20-something body, still drawing those 3-legged aliens with uninhibited glee.

Recently, I've been quite lucky.

And I'm still on the hunt! So, what a surprise to find that not only has my 1st discovery (I like giving myself credit for this as a self-proclaimed "Zortianographer"), Joe Kuth, had given me a little shout-out on his Red Panda Comics blog.

AND, out of the countless Google images that are still, sadly, my own, there was another glimmer of hope: a delightful Zort tribute by DeviantArt-ist Mike Dugan.

I need to start googling more often.

And, now that the men have fully represented in the Zortian department, I ask: where my girls at???

‽

"Miss Rumphius" Audio/Visual Book!

2011-07-25T15:40:00.001-04:00

I apologize for the sudden influx of video-related media (the written word has been put on the back burner for now, because why have words when you can have PICTURES!)

A few weeks ago, I recorded an audio book with Roman Chimienti for his company, The End Audio Productions. The accompanying video has finally been completed thanks to the swift editing skills of Jessica Rondash from Verbatim Studios.

The book, Miss Rumphius, by Barbara Cooney, is a favorite of Roman's. If you're a frequent visitor, it's no mystery that books (especially those from my kinder days of yore) are my greatest obsession. I can still remember curling up to Cooney's Hattie and the Waves as a little girl. Obviously, I jumped at this opportunity, and I'm so glad I did.

But enough chatter - just sink into your best PJs and security blankie and cuddle your beloved stuffed counterpart as you have a look (or a listen, depending on your mood) to a childhood favorite.

And don't forget to visit The End Audio Productions for more audio books narrated by other great voice over artists. (Like how this sentence assumes I am one of them?)

Country Bandit Rides Again: Part 1 of 3

2011-07-18T19:42:00.000-04:00

Let's skip all the "it's been awhile crap" and cut right to the chase.

Here is the 1st part of many excuses.

Created by me as an homage to the two weeks of absolute country bandit splendor that I experienced in May....you will hear much about it, to be sure.

And for kicks, check out the Country Bandit legacy (otherwise known as my travel blog) for reasons why I'm calling myself a country bandit.

Well, This Is Awkward

2011-04-19T12:49:00.002-04:00

You know that embarrassing feeling you get when you bump into someone that you've been purposely avoiding for a long time? There is that shocking "oh-crap" moment that passes across your face like a shadow, which you struggle to conceal before the other realizes your horror. But they don't need to see your face to know that this is not easy for either of you. You choke back a nervous laugh and paste a smile on....a really big, painful smile. Your body wants to run, but you can't. You're stuck. So your feet do a sort of twiddle dance impatiently as your mind tries to keep up with your mouth, which seems to be spewing utter nonsense. You expound upon the weather...who the eff cares about the weather? God I sound so stupid.

What do you do with your hands? I don't what you do with your hands. Most likely they hang, as dumbfounded as you. Every move betrays you, communicates the discomfort, the shame, the need to be elsewhere. You think of far away places, dark places, underneath covers and behind closed doors. Any place else than where you are at right now. To be rid of the shame.

This is pretty much what writing in this blog feels like right now.
I've tried to avoid you, but I can't. It was bound to happen that I would step right into the universe's trap of facing this fear, of facing you.

You're a clever one, blog. Always the clever one.

Let's hope this is enough to break the ice, so we won't have to speak of this moment ever again.
At least until the next time I avoid you.

Sooo how about them clouds?

Dammit.

Oscar, I'm Grouchy

2011-02-28T16:18:00.000-05:00

I've explained it once, and I'll explain it again:

My bittersweet relationship with Oscar.

‽

Gaga, I Had You All Wrong

2011-02-26T12:00:00.003-05:00

I don't normally blog about pop culture. I would be lying if I said I wasn't hip to daily gossip, considering that I gobble it up like buttery, cholesterol-laden popcorn. However, I'm not into pop music, I don't watch TV all that much, and the only things I obsess over are nostalgic paraphernalia from my past.

Yes, celebrities do have a sort of intrigue about them that I cannot ignore, and I do formulate my own opinions of them based on not only what I hear, but from what I observe as a seemingly dispassionate twenty-something.

When Lady Gaga, informally known as Stefani Germanotta, burst onto the scene, I wasn't remotely interested. Her music? Meh - I like some dance and techno, but nothing that's had a frequency on MTV (and if you're assuming that I'm a pretentious hipster because of this, rest assured....my strange interests are quite unclassifiable.) Then there was the fuss with the clothing and the ridiculous music videos and essentially the martyrdom of a pop idol. Again, not my cup of tea, but certainly interesting to peruse images of a half-naked lady in 5 inch heels and tape on her nipples carrying a cup of tea. That's not something you see every day.

However, as in all my opinions of others, I was hesitant to give in to the "Fame Monster," as Gaga so adequately addressed her obsessive following. I respect...
....those who are giving and thankful....
Miss Gaga is very close with her fans.
....who are kind and have firm moral beliefs....
She is an ardent support of LGBT rights.
....who are true creative artists........
Gaga writes her own lyrics, music, and is involved in every aspect of her performance.
....who are still grounded to their roots.....
She lives still lives in the same NYC apartment and keeps in touch with her parents everyday.
....who are healthy role models......
I don't care if she drinks or does drugs, but I sure am glad the girl still eats her steak.

Well dear lord, you might exclaim, why shouldn't I love Lady Gaga, in all her amazing glory?!
One reason: I respect those who are humble.

Someone who parades around in all her gallantry, covered in meat/lace/nothing at all, commanding those who bow to her with the presence of a queen, all the while proclaiming herself amazing in every aspect of character, is not necessarily humble.

A friend of mine who attended NYU's acting school said they each had a class together a few years ago, pre-fame days. She scoffed at how, on the first day, Ms. Germanotta very simply stated that her voice was superb and proceeded to sing for her new classmates. This didn't surprise me, but it did turn me off. I couldn't imagine being around someone with such arrogance, and I certainly didn't aspire to that attitude, in which someone blazons their talent like a triumphant flag.

But is that really arrogance? A few days ago, while surfing Perez Hilton (don't judge me, you know you do it too), I watched a snippet of Lady Gaga's 60 Minutes special with Anderson Cooper. Pure, dreadful curiosity, was my drive; or was it that a part of me really wanted to like her?

In any case, she said something that has really stuck with me since: "I'm just as delusional now as I was at 18. I was 18, telling everyone around me, I'm gonna be a fucking superstar. And everybody was like, 'Yeah, whatever, she's an egomaniac.' And then...HaHaHa."

This quote, amazingly enough (considering my obvious disdain for arrogance) did not piss me off. In fact, I couldn't stop thinking about what it meant for her, or what it could mean for anybody. Earlier in the clip, she had gotten a little emotional visiting her old apartment and realizing how far she had come. Therein lies the duality of her attitude - she is both solid in her belief that she is good at what she does, yet upon looking back can still appreciate how far that climb was, and what it took to get there.

In that instant, I realized that the reason I hated people who were arrogant, and why I so treasured the self-deprecation of others, is that it's exactly the way I act. I refuse to praise myself, as if it were a sin or weakness to avoid at all costs. Somehow, I have convinced myself that under-estimating my worth and abilities will make others see them more clearly. Perhaps even make them admire my modest attitude. Besides, their approval is what counts, right? I can't get there on my own, can I?

All my life, I have assumed that my desire to appear humble was the most unselfish trait I could have. But in making others responsible for proving my worth, I have been as selfish as one can be. During which time, my experiences in trying to write, make films, socialize, keep relationships and be content, have been incredibly difficult and lonely.

It's quite possible that someone as eccentric and bombastic as Lady Gaga is trying to pass on a very important lesson in emotional health: be proud of the person you are, and confident in where you will go, as it is the truth. There is in fact nothing truer than the love you have for yourself. I believe that it is this passion that allows Stefani Germanotta to be Lady Gaga.

And it is this same passion that I must find in myself, in order to be the writer, creator, the talented Tara that I know (deep, deep, I'm sayin' WAY deep inside) I've always been. And if some people perceive this confidence, this self-awareness that allows one satisfaction, as being domineering and bitchy, then, as Lady Gaga would say, "I'm a bitch."

Lady Gaga, I aspire to be as much of a bitch as you are - the proudest, most energetic, successful and hard-working bitch I can be. You may say I was born that way, but it takes a lot longer to realize that it's okay to be that way - and that it's an integral part of reaching the happiness that all of us deserve.

Honestly, I don't care whether it's all a ruse for publicity, or for the sheer image she may be trying to uphold for her career. In spite of these possibilities, I still think it's a damn good example to set for anyone.

And if you need a tangible metaphor for this steadfast belief in born-that-way beauty; merely gaze upon the nose of Gaga - that wonderful, "silhouetted bump" of an Italian schnoz (much like yours truly) - that has never been altered, regardless of fame. My dear, for all your fellow nosy gals - don't ever change.

....it hasn't right?

‽

FLASHBACK FRIDAY: The Films of 2010, and How I Got There

2011-02-25T12:56:00.000-05:00

It occurred to me a few weeks ago, upon finally realizing the end of 2010 and the beginning of a new year, that I have watched a lot of films within 12 months.

As a former film student and production-seeking career girl (I can't really say I'm in film until my paycheck says so - advertising, I'm afraid, does not count), this should not be surprising. Nevertheless, it is.

My taste (and experience) in the art of watching films has transformed exponentially over the last few years of my life. Obviously, my NYU film courses were the first major transition from watching movies purely for entertainment to analysis of the film craft. I had always admired filmmaking from afar, thanks to my mother's long-standing awe of classic films and Simpsons parodies. And there were always the TV movies, childhood movies, and summer blockbusters that one fixates on amidst boring suburban life. These were always, for the most part, from one of the following categories:

Classics Films before 1970
Oscar nominees
Movie Premieres on network television
Disney
Excuses to go to a movie theater
Action Flicks
Childhood Favorites

I had never seen an art house film (nor were they part of my regular vocabulary), and indie flicks had not yet assumed the norm. My parents and friends didn't know of any, so neither did I. And besides - I was content with my list, entertaining no other possibility for film other than the usual plot-driven, dramatic/comedy/action/thriller I had grown to love and aspired to make. Under no circumstances did this include horror films - why, it took me years just to sit down to watch Jurassic Park without peeing my pants.

Cue the harsh slap-in-the-face that is film school. Some fellow classmates didn't think I had the knowledge for it. Maybe I didn't - but wasn't that the point of learning?

It was humbling to see that the art of film was not so black and white, as it had seemed; there were some films that never made it to the Oscars, but were admirable nonetheless. There were short films that only showed at festivals, B films and C films, films done for art-sake and films done for the hell of it. Some "stories" focused on character development only, while others seemed to be about nothing at all. I finally got to watch some of the breakout and cult films of the first 14 years of my life that I was never privy to, simply because I wasn't considered mature enough to watch them at the time: films like Pulp Fiction, Goodfellas, and Clerks, which was shot less than 10 minutes from my house.

At this point, one can revel in the discovery of so many new realizations, or curse themselves for being the idiot who hadn't come about this knowledge earlier. I fell for the latter, mainly because I was 17, on my own, and full of fun emotional drama.

It's taken since that first year of college to really get the courage to dip my toes into the pool of films I dared not touch before. I have to thank my professors first, and my friends after, for introducing me to them, as I trembled, unworthy. A few of them worked at the old TLA Video on 8th Street before it closed down, and each had their own specialty of favorites within the film world. If I attempted to describe each of their tastes in three words, they would be:

MARK: Brooding, Foreign, Cannes

JAMES: Character, Epic, Journeys

JOSH: Cult, Offbeat, Horror

Though there were many instances of shock and awe throughout my education, one that stands out the most as something that stuck with me quite indefinitely was The Holy Mountain by Alejandro Jodorowsky.

This is not the type of film I would have gone to on my own - I had never heard of either the director or the title, but apparently it was big enough to be shown at IFC at midnight frequently. They insisted I go, and it being my college years, why the hell not? However, I was not ready for the symbolic imagery barrage with each chanting, triangle-trilled, vibrational-pulsed moment. Quite frankly, it was the strangest film I had ever seen, but I could not look away. And I could not stop thinking about it afterward. I've seen it three times since then, and have even written an entire thesis paper on its subject of religious symbolism. That's more intellectual fodder than Forrest Gump could ever provide.

Watching "Daisies" in Prague had a similar effect; I knew it must be laden with meaning; but even aside from that it was a rhythmic poem that replayed in my mind. And so since then, many fascinating films have crossed my eyes and riddled my eardrums - even, I must admit, horror films. Ryan has done a good job of forcing me to sit through them, and I can't say that I'm not grateful (though I could do without the occasional shocking scare that streaks my hair grey and inflicts possible stomach ulcers.)

The point in all of this, of course, being that traveling, meeting others and experiencing life as a more mature (but let's not get carried away), open-minded individual has given me the chance to really appreciate a film on a deeper level.

That said, I'd still take Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles any day. You can't become too pretentious, you know.

OH, THE FILMS I HAVE WATCHED: 2010

Labyrinth, Jim Henson (1986)
Made in the USA, Jean-Luc Godard (1966)
The Short Films of Al Jarnow, Al Jarnow (2010)
Shutter Island, Martin Scorcese (2010)
Suburban Commando, Burt Kennedy (1991)
District 9, Neil Blomkamp (2009)
Kamikaze GirlsTetsuya Nakashima (2004)
Dolls, Stuart Gordon (1987)
Day of the Dead, Steve Miner (2008)
Mr. Booogedy, Oz Scott (1986)
Hot Tub Time Machine, Steve Pink (2010)
Iron Man 2, Jon Favreau (2010)
Metropolis, Fritz Lang (1927)
Best Worst Movie: Troll 2, Michael Stephenson (2009)
Possessed ["Bool-sin-ji-ok"], Lee Yong-ju (2009)
Tetsuo: The Bullet Man, Shinya Tsukamoto (2009)
Brazil, Terry Gilliam (1985)
The Tenant, Roman Polanksi (1976)
Diva, Jean-Jacques Beineix (1981)
Performance, Donald Cammell & Nicolas Roeg (1970)
Daisies, Vera Chytilová (1966)
The Mist, Frank Darabont (2007)
Matthew Hopkins: Witchfinder General, Michael Reeves (1968)
A Town Called Panic, Stéphane Aubier & Vincent Patar (2009)
The Naked Kiss, Samuel Fuller (1964)
The Fearless Vampire Killers, Roman Polanski (1967)
Scott Pilgrim vs. The World, Edgar Wright (2010)
It Is Fine! Everything Is Fine!, David Brothers & Crispin Glover (2007)
I Sell the Dead, Glenn McQuaid (2008)
Simon: King of the Witches, Bruce Kessler (1971)
The Skull, Freddie Francis (1975)
Enter the Void, Gaspar Noé (2009)
The Social Network, David Fincher (2010)
The Gate, Tibor Takács (1987)
[REC], Jaume Balagueró & Paco Plaza (2007)
The Red Shoes, Michael Powell & Emeric Pressburger (1948)
Polyester, John Waters (1981)
Solaris, Andrey Tarkovskiy (1972)
Nosferatu the Vampyre, Werner Herzog (1979)
Apocalypse Now, Francis Ford Coppola (1979)
Twin Peaks: Fire Walk With Me, David Lynch (1992)
The Kingdom ["Riget"], Lars von Trier (TV Series - 1994)
The Road, John Hillcoat (2009)
Paris, Texas, Wim Wenders (1984)
Days of Heaven, Terrence Malick (1978)
The Exploding Girl, Bradley Rust Grey (2009)
Four Flies On Grey Velvet, Dario Argento (1971)
Krull, Peter Yates (1983)
Summer Wars, Mamoru Hosoda (2009)
Black Swan, Darren Aronofsky (2010)
Fritz the Cat, Ralph Bakshi (1972)
Tentacles, Ovidio G. Assonitis (1977)
Heavy Metal, Gerald Potterton (1981)
Innerspace, Joe Dante (1987)

A Valentine Memory

2011-02-15T14:41:00.000-05:00

I know this is a day late, but holidays have a habit of hitting me after the fact.

I thought I'd share my first favorite library book with you all, in lieu of Valentine's Day. I mentioned it briefly in my Childhood Book lollapalooza - quite simply, I was obsessed with this book starting at 6 years old, and proceeded to check it out every time I went to the Middletown Public Library until my mom told me to cut it out and look for something more intellectual.

Well, she might not have said that, but it was the gist I got.

"Four Valentines in a Rainstorm," by Felicia Bond (or "The Day It Rained Valentines" as it has now been re-titled - not merely as poetic, but I suppose more obvious for the youngins) was a story about hearts falling from the sky during a rain shower. A little girl decides to pick them up and make valentines for all her animal friends, who for all intensive purposes are fully autonomous citizens of the neighborhood who can in fact receive mail and live in a house.

Why did I love this book so much? Perhaps its small size? (As you may know, I have a thing for miniatures) The phenomenon of teeny rain-hearts? Arts and crafts? Animals with opposable thumbs?

I don't think I'll ever know. But at least I've moved on to more mature reading as of late....

.......>ahem<

‽

FLASHBACK FRIDAY: Love & Hammers

2011-02-11T16:53:00.001-05:00

How do I count the ~~Ways~~ days? It's odd that football should be the thing to mark this momentus occasion, but it has been 3 years.....

3 years since the last super bowl I blogged about...
3 years since my wisdom teeth were pulled...
3 years since I got the hell outta Queens...
3 years since Ryan and I have been together.

Oh, where to begin? I can hardly believe that I am capable of remembering all those times as if they had been vague fogs of yesterday, but it's true that I do. Yes, I have my writing, my blog, to thank for most of this. However, there is one thing I couldn't forget if I tried (not like I have, but you get the idea)
.....my first date with Ryan.

This is a subject of constant dissension with us, and the reason why we still have yet to mark an official "anniversary." I honestly consider it hogwash - I don't need a day to remember someone who steals the sheets every night and to whom I relay every banal daily activity to with the utmost excitement. But it's nice to have one, I suppose, so that you can prove to each other how long you've had to put up with them.

I don't mean to rude - I'm trying to skirt around the whole lovey-dovey-ness that people whom have the fortunate of having someone to be with often make the mistake of falling into, to the disdain of those around them. I too was once alone, and I don't like the possibility of my being one of those people that unintentionally rubs it in someone's face. I've been hurt too many times to act so impudent - however, it being the time of the year when our economy urges us to spend money in lieu of love (who can complain really, when no matter whether you're single or not, you still get candy and star wars valentines?), I shall momentarily forget this rule and be forthcoming in my telling of my first date with Ryan, some three years ago.

The moral of this story is that good things come when you least expect them. I say this in the beginning in hopes that even the most curmudgeonly of romantic souls will not completely curse me off at the end of this post without taking a bit of hope along with them.
The other moral is that no one means as much to you as yourself, and that takes the longest to figure out - so you might as well start now.

After finishing college, I returned to Triple Threat Television in February of 2008 as producer on the Winona Ryder Biography. I had just moved into my apartment in Elmhurst, Queens and was relieved that there was a job to pay for it. Things hadn't changed much since my last stint there in November, except for the faces: they had recruited all new interns to their Harlem office, and when I walked in they all stared at me with the gaze of startled gazelle.

One of the gazelles had a soul patch - this was Ryan. He didn't look very friendly, but then again, my first impressions of people are usually not very accurate. We were seated squished across from each other at small table with our gigantor powerbooks, forced to exchange occasional awkward glances as we worked. I don't remember much of our interaction other than he liked to show odd video clips (that usually ended with my shaking my head in pity and confusion), and that we grew to bickering almost immediately. That really should have been a tell-tale sign that we were meant to be together.

My legs, being incredibly long, needed lots of room underneath the table. Even in his tight pants, Ryan was somehow able to encroach upon my half of the floor. I berated him constantly for it - most of the time in good spirits, but also because it was really freaking annoying.

We talked a lot - he had come from Ohio and was starting anew here in New York for a career in film. I thought this very admirable for someone who had never been on his own in a strange place. One day, he told me about a bakery that was offering free hot cocoa. FREE and HOT COCOA are the secret words to my Pee-Wee brain, so I immediately wrote down the info on a sticky note and promised to check it out.

Here's something you should know about me if you don't already: I am hopelessly oblivious to attraction. I never once thought why he had asked, assuming it was simply a nice gesture. I went as far as inviting my friend Matt to join in on the free-givings; however, after 30 minutes of trying to find the place, we discovered the bakery was closed. I was mostly upset about missing free hot chocolate.

The next day he apologized profusely, insisting he didn't realize that they had closed so early. I shrugged it off. And it wasn't long before he invited me, along with my other coworkers, to a concert - the one-man-band (or, one-man-with-strange-piano-flute, as I later found out), White Williams, was from Ryan's hometown of Akron. He seemed very insistent on me going; and since I wouldn't be alone, I decided it would be better than spending my night unpacking hoards of boxes.

And it was. First, I chipped my tooth on a bottle of beer. (I figure I had this coming to me, after weeks of sipping teeth-first.) Consider it lucky, I suppose: a metaphor for either the wisdom teeth I would later lose, or the piece of my heart I would soon be sharing.

Second, I got drunk. We had pre-gamed before, so it wasn't surprising. Ryan didn't seem to object, as evidence by this photo taken shortly after.

Third, I danced.
I don't do this unless I am drunk enough to not give a crap what people think. But people don't dance at concerts, especially hipsters (these were 2008 hipsters, so they were even more hardcore.) But apparently - when the DJ is on before the next set, there's smoke machines going, and the spectators clear a giant space for you in the crowd so that they can witness the ridiculous spectacle (or to not get hit by crazy flailing drunken arms, either one) -
I do.

Perhaps at this moment, Ryan was watching my frenzied steps, high heeled sneaker-boots slamming the ground like a toreador on steroids, and thinking "This is the girl for me."

Perhaps not.

I tried to drag him into the empty dance circle that was only me, but understandably, he declined. And what continued was what could only be described as the furious, dream-like stupor of uninhibited expression that is only possible when caring about nothing at all. It was me, in all my odd, slightly spastic glory. And it's possible that this is what brought me closer to finding true love than ever before.

Later, I lay slumped at a column, falling asleep. Ryan came over to introduce me to White Williams, who I groggily shook hands with. He was not amused - but then again, hipsters never are. He spent the rest of the night trying to keep my eyes open - but I was content with feeling the beats through my butt, foggy lights passing over my eyelids. On the train home, we talked about one another - mostly about our families. I expected nothing of that night, but it seemed as if things finally felt right. The next time we saw eachother at work he asked if I wanted to hang out that weekend.....

"Oh, well, I have a lot things to pick up for my new place, but I guess you could come over and help me put up my bookshelf."

"Okay."

It's not a normal occurrence for someone you hardly know to agree to building a piece of furniture for you. Way out in the middle of Queens. On a Sunday.,,,,without there being a motive. Either they want to murder you or go out with you. Or they're gay and have a thing for interior design. I didn't think to wonder what it could be, and a date was the furthest from my mind. After all, who puts up a bookshelf on a first date?

....Apparently, we do.

I met Ryan in the electronics department of Kmart at Astor. I deemed this an acceptable meeting place. He carried my National Liquidators trash can to the subway for the trip back to Queens, making it talk to me in muppet voice as he lifted the lid up and down. This folks, is when the magic started.

He did put my bookshelf up - and we made a good team. I'm sure there's something to be said about getting to know a guy as he's using a hammer - I'll let you be the judge. I never thought I'd end up falling for a guy that day, in that circumstance, but when he asked if I was going to kiss him, I did. And I haven't stopped kissing him since.

..........well, unless I'm eating and breathing, but you get what I mean.

‽

Here We Go Again....

2011-02-09T15:19:00.002-05:00

So....this is happening again.

I know as soon as play food even enters my mind, I'm a goner. I don't think I've actually been conscious for the passed two days. I know, it's bad. I need some sort of conditioning experiment to instill horror with the mere thought of plastic in-edibles. But that would just take so much joy out of my life.

Case in point:

I've finally found proof that I'm not making my childhood up: I did, in fact, have Fisher Price waffles-in-a-box.
And of course, their syrup counterpart.
Oh, how I wish I appreciated their whimsical worth back then!

I could be one of those crazies and order it off Ebay, but I'm not crazy enough to pay $30. Hell, some of these "vintage" toys (80's is vintage now apparently, and thus, as am I) go for almost $60 or $70! Totally taking advantage of helpless nostalgics like me - good thing I'm a cheapskate.

However, this is not even the BEST part of my two day binge. I recently found this video on Facebook:

I call this the "Gateway Drug;," since after I watched it, I couldn't stop my obsessive quest for the Japanese toys they call "Popin Cookin" (edible) and "Konapun" (inedible).

Um, this shit is ridiculous, and it leaves me mesmerized. (Check out more here!)

Quite simply, I need one of these sets, and I need them now. I'm convinced they hold the key to my happiness.

‽

Post-Production Update on Short Film

2011-02-03T15:18:00.000-05:00

Check out the official site of my short film, "Cereal for Dinner"

for the latest news on sound design,

PLUS a sneak peek at the theme music!

‽

The Forgotten Art of Forgetting

2011-02-01T18:48:00.000-05:00

Okay, so I'm 25: I realize that I will now be experiencing chronic back pain, as a result of years of heavy backpacks and hunched computer usage. I will accept the fact that my energy has seriously dwindled since the days of playing tag. I was unnerved, but not sad to see my appendix and wisdom teeth yanked from my body forever in bloody glory.

But I beg of you, whoever "you" are: father time, fate, Morgan Freeman...
Do not take my memory away.

At least not now, when I'm still old enough to be making memories. You have to admit I'm not yet so old that I should be going to bed by 10 (does 11pm count as early?), or visiting the doctor on a daily basis (I only wish that I could), or even having to keep multiple pills in the medicine cabinet for my many elderly ailments?

Actually, it did all start with my medication.

Last Thursday I had gotten to work late after trudging through a post-blizzard Brooklyn. Surprisingly, even after an hour of stop.go.stop.stand.stand-some-more.breath-in-noxious-subway-people-sick-fumes.go.stop-in-freezing-subway-station.go, I was feeling a-okay. That is until I ate, sat down to my computer, and started working.

All of a sudden, I thought I was going to be dizzy. Then I thought I was going to throw up. Then I wasn't sure if I needed to rest or if I had a fever coming on. I was hot, sweating, couldn't concentrate. I switched rooms, drank some water.

Then I got the chills, even though I was wearing two layers. I took a Dayquil, and sat on the toilet pondering my new disease - did I catch something from the guy who was squished up next to me on the train this morning? Was that warm cheese I ate past due?

All the symptoms seemed so very familiar....I just couldn't put my finger on it.

At 5pm, a little light bulb in my head sparked from Dim to Duh: Could it be that I was going through withdrawal as a result of missing my medication?
Ego: Oh, silly, you take it every night without fail!
Me: But what if I forgot?
Ego: Well, you'd have to forget for like two days or more.
Me: ..........
Ego: Well did you?
Me: ......Last night does seem fuzzy....I can't say for sure..
Ego: How can you not remember??? You do the same thing every night!
Me: I have no clue how I could have forgotten TWO days in a row....
Ego: YES EXACTLY. What the hell is wrong with you?! The answer is obviously that you suck at life and you are slowly losing your memory forever.
...And so on and so forth.

Seriously, there hasn't been that much going on in my life that I would allow myself to skip something so important; and also, so ROUTINE.
But, I decided it must have been fatigue, and tried to shrug off the ego to cut me some slack. It won't happen again.

Unfortunately, it has....only this time, in other forms:

The very next night, I went to sleep with my contacts in, and regardless of waking up with eyeballs nearly crusted over, and the ability to see my alarm clock without squinting for 30 seconds, AND putting eye drops in 2 inches away from the mirror, I didn't realize it until I opened my lens case and saw that they were not in fact there.

At work, I have begun to forget what I was about to do or thinking of doing in any of the following scenarios: typing, walking, talking, eating, getting up to go to the bathroom, leaving the bathroom, and remembering data that is pertinent to me doing my job.

My inner-Thesauraus, which used to be as fast as a Google Search, is now the equivalent of an arthritic man with 3-inch thick spectacles trying to turn the pages of a cobwebbed book, upside-down.

And it's not just short-term folks - my mother mentioned this weekend how we had gone to look at a Philadelphia college during high school - not only had I liked the school, but I had also liked Philadelphia.
In my recent memory, I have NEVER liked Philadelphia.
In fact, I had no recollection of the trip whatsoever.

At this rate, I fear that in a year's time, at least half of my 25 year life will have disappeared from my memory. And as I already seem to be forgetting the present, that will probably increase exponentially until I have the mental capacity of a goldfish.
Or, my 90 year old great-aunt.
But even SHE still remembers to take her medication.

I'm hoping that the cure for this crippling condition is a vacation - a REAL vacation.
Where I can wipe the slate of my mind clean, fill it with the wonder and awe I used to have as a child, and hold on dearly to those precious memories, as I sink deeper into the depths of monotonous ~~old age~~ adulthood.

Now, what was I saying?

‽

On the Brain: Bloggers

2011-01-28T19:13:00.001-05:00

So, apparently the theme these past few weeks here in Unkosher-land is writing posts about random things so that I don't need to do any heavy thinking on my own. Sometimes you need a break, yaknowhatImean?

Back for yet another peek into the constant mish-mosh that is my mind, it's.....

THIS WEEK ON THE BRAIN: New Favorite ~~Addiction~~ Blogs

I love finding new blogs - it's like getting a quick fix. (...not that I would know.)

You spend all day sucking in the delicious fumes of humor and introspection. Getting giddy with the feeling of newness as you discover this new world of a blogger. Then fall into a lifeless lump of procrastination and lethargy at the end of the night, dreaming about all you and this writer seem to have in common, to have shared in those fleeting moments of intimate reader-dom.

And then the next day you read the slightly disturbing comment you left on their last post, glance around your dump of an apartment, and stare into the mindless recesses of your bleary eyes asking, what the hell happened?

This, my friends, is how I spend my nights: perusing the minds of equally neurotic, imaginative oddballs like myself. And fucking loving it.

Blogs That Automatically Win

My Emoticon Heart

Adventures of Bacon
You had me at bacon. I honestly don't care what else the site is about - although luckily, it is about the daily travails of a plush bacon that can only repeat, "I'm bacon". Need I say more?

My own betta fish:
the late and great sulking Selkie.

The Junk Drawer
Kathy's humor is the junk to my trunk. I thought that would sound funny. I also thought it would make sense. Neither of which are true.

The Sneeze
This man is funny - the male equivalent of Allie Brosh from Hyperbole. I was particularly tickled by his Betta fish story. In all fairness, I do have a soft spot for Betta fish, but now I can't really write about mine 'cause this dude already did it better.

Was That Awkward?
Each painstakingly funny post is closed with a rating on the awkwardness. Where have you been all my life?

Bent Objects
Not only are his photos adorably hilarious, they feature food (which is an automatic plus for me), and Terry Border is an inspiration: sometimes you don't always find your craft right away. But judging from his work, the wait is definitely worth it.

Anal Sex Is Sex
Seriously, it's not what you think.
....Okay, it is.
I'm not just putting her on here because she's one of my good friends; the girl can write, and apparently she can also have lots of sex.

Fake Science
Like Billy Nye, only snarkier.

Filleosophy
I'm not a girly girl, as you've probably noticed. (.....Okay, correction, I don't let on that I'm a girly girl even though I really do love clothes and cute things because i have some childhood tomboy-envy issues.) Fille isnt your typical gal either, but she's got everything a woman should have: snappy writing, wit, and a helluva sleek, contemporary blog design. She is the woman I aspire to be - on my normal days.

Honorable Mention

These are the blogs that are in my Google Reader Evaluation stage; I read some posts, became slightly amused, and yearned to be further titillated. And so the evaluation begins....

Check these 20-gonna-be-somethin's out. You gals have got it - now flaunt it for your unkosher lady!

Please - send me more delicious blogs!!! Nom nom nom nom nom......

‽

Tara Aspires to Pterodactyl Status, Via Words

2011-01-26T19:03:00.000-05:00

Have you heard of 750 words?

Well you should have - and if you haven't before, then you have now.

I first learned about this site from Ryan at Cyan Years. It was Christmas Eve, and I was feeling a little fret-lagged (the term I use for making the anxiety ridden shift from bustling New York to quietly boring New Jersey.)

I took a peek at this new writing tool - which was a sort of private daily blog that keeps track of your words each day and interprets their meaning in a page of statistics, designed to be an eyeball into your subconscious. Like the "morning papers" that the author suggests a writer should always keep in The Artist's Way, a book I had read coincidentally not too long ago. In fact it was these same papers that I had tried to force myself to do...to no avail. There was really only one disciplinarian in that equation, and that was me. And I sucked at it.

I didn't think that 750 words would be any better. At an average of 3 pages (for those big-handwriting folks) daily, I figured I would last a day or two. Maybe a half a day - I get lazy. If I had been trying to write for this long, even with a number of blogs already under my belt, how the hell would I be able to keep THIS going without losing enthusiasm (and steam) after the novelty wore off?

Well hell, I thought, why not? I had nothing better to do than sit trapped in a house during the great blizzard of 2010.

Long story short, I wrote about 7 days straight. Granted, it was during the holidays, and I was literally stuck in the house with snow drifts of up to 5 feet outside my door. But there were many other useless things I could have done with my time - and instead, I allowed myself to squeeze in about an hour or two of thoughtful reflection before I busied myself with something consisting of less neural activity.

I've since been on-and-off on my usage - what with work, sleeping and procrastination. But sooner or later, I'll log on, start typing about how I don't have anything to write about, and before you know it, I'll have surpassed 750 words.

Oh, it's absolute drivel; but my mind is suddenly clearer, my shoulders lighter, and my fingers satisfied with their efficiency. More than often, it's the only way I can get through all the muck of criticism and anxiety to find what's really going on inside my little inner-me.

I'm not really that into fads, diets or yoga, or any other sort of obsessive trend that some bloggers may enthusiastically rave about. I also think it's really effing annoying. But I have to admit, 750 words has done me a world of good, both as a writer and a person. Sure, I can write in my blog till the cows come home, but the truth is, I'm always going to have an audience in mind. This site allows me to write as if it were a journal, where I don't need to be conscious of who else is reading.

So why is it actually better than your basic, run-of-the-mill journal?
I admit, I do miss writing like in olden days. However, here's what I don't miss:

Obsessing over my handwriting
Hand cramps
Having my innermost thoughts lying around for sneaky people to read
Wasting trees

Here are the reasons why 750 words (or any other live diary, for that matter) beats pen and paper:

It's smart; all of your words are counted each day and tallied altogether, so you can keep track of your progress. It also lists statistics based on what your focuses are, which can help to see what's driving you subconsciously day-to-day.
Like Jesus, it saves. Every day. And you can go back to re-read things without having to navigate through hastily written handwriting.
You can copy and paste anything that's good enough to show elsewhere.
You get gentle reminders to write every day, and little incentives to keep you going. Like a penguin badge. Penguins make everyone want to work harder. (Personally I aspire to the Phoenix, Pterodactyl and Monocled Owl.)
If you forget to write one day, no one stabs you in the face.

And there you have it. I have successfully plugged 750words.com. But don't try it for me - I bet you'll be hooked from the moment you start.

And that's when I'll get my check.

I Haz a Dream

2011-01-26T15:38:00.002-05:00

I know I've been neglecting my blogger-ly duties here for a few days (gimme a break, willya?)

So while you wait for my inspiration to return (or my laziness to recede - both are acceptable in this case), why don't you take a peek inside my dreamscapes?
(You can also access this site from my sidebar feed and the cute little tab on the top right.
Organized much?)

Now you know where all that imagination of mine is really hiding!

‽

Iz Be Famous!

2011-01-20T18:30:00.000-05:00

Ok, not really. But I got you there for a second, didn't I?

Check out my film blog, Got Film?

My voice over is on a Pillsbury cinematic commercial.

Cinematic =

Creepy Sim people in a 3D world trying to sell stuff to test audiences by glorifying products.

If you've ever wondered what I do well....I produce that shit.

So watch it, listen to my super-cute advertising voice, and go buy some fucking Pillsbury already!

‽

In the Words of George Michael....

2011-01-19T17:28:00.000-05:00

Faith. You gotta have it.

Some people confuse faith and religion. Just like they confuse religion and spirituality. They all can exist together, but they can also function independently. I don't have to be religious to have faith - but if that's the case, then what does faith really mean?

Well, I know I don't have much of it. So that's a start. Over the years I have grown more and more pessimistic. Whether this has to do with getting older, dealing with more disappointments and sorrows, or having more responsibilities, I'm not sure. But I could guess that it's all of those things.

You might ask, how is it possible to have hope in a world like this? Where strife is on the daily news, and things have a tendency to suck. A lot. More than often.

Or you might say, having faith is for idiots who aren't in tune with reality - who just want to ignore the inevitable. To maintain a fabricated, lovely world for themselves.

And maybe you have had faith before, and in turn been disappointed. And now you're angry, hurt, and believe that the only way to prepare yourself for the future is by assuming nothing can go right. That way, you don't get hurt.

Well, it took me awhile to realize that even though I might catastrophize every single possibility, even if I assume that things are going to be terrible, even if I try to pretend that it won't occur, if something sucky happens....guess what?
It still fucking sucks.

But now it sucks even more so, because instead of being happy for days, weeks, even months beforehand, not bothering to WORRY or be ANXIOUS about what the future might bring, you were miserable.

So who really wins?

Bottom line is the universe/life/God/Satan/Spaghetti monster/Nature/Essence/Buddha - whatever the hell you want to call it - is gonna do what it's gonna do. Shit happens, and sometimes it doesn't matter how you prepare, how you push back, how angry or happy you get, because it's not going to change the course of nature. Living things die. The weather, moods, jobs, relationships, feelings, and fads change - constantly. You don't get what you want, while some people do. Some of that may be in your power to fix; but when it's not, what choice do you have?

Therein lies my problem. I tend to conveniently forget that there are some things I don't have the power to change. I admit, that's a little egotistical. When you're a child, it's normal for you to be the center of your own universe, as that's all you know. But as a 25 year old woman, I must understand that there are things beyond my control, that have no personal connection to me whatsoever. Yet, I continue to personalize EVERYTHING.

This was particularly my issue this passed year, when a series of awful things seemed to be happening in succession:

First my email was hacked.
Then my credit card was stolen.
My loans increased.
I had surgery on my appendix.

My first thought was "Why is this happening to me?" ANGER ---> Tears and rage ensued.
My second thought was "Of course this would happen to me." PLAYING VICTIM ---> Depression set in.
My third thought was "What am I doing to do? I can't deal with this." ANXIETY ---> Worry after worry.
And then finally, from my hospital bed, I said, "You win." ---> ACCEPTANCE.

Don't get me wrong; fighting my own feelings of dread while stuck in the hospital with an inflame urethra and bladder bordering on explosion was the biggest obstacle of all. I kept thinking, "I can't get through this. This is going to kill me."

But I'm still here. Somehow, I survived.

I go through this cycle every single day. And I'm still alive - so far.
And I don't think I'm the only one. Never once when I was going through this ordeal, or any other for that matter, did I think to bypass the ANGER and the PLAYING VICTIM and the WORRY to get straight to the ACCEPTANCE: this is what is happening; how can I cope with this now.

For some reason, the universe put me through this. Yes, reality is chaos and there are most likely no Greek gods playing chess with our lives up in the heavens. But I do believe there is a thru-line that connects everyone and everything, and that there is a reason (or a reason to be found) for what we go through. Sometimes the only way to learn something is by getting a slap in the face by old Spaghetti Monster himself.

So, where the hell does faith come in, now that I've gone off on this ridiculously long philosophical tangent?
Keep your shirt on.

I believe that faith is what can keep us all sane during these times when life gets hard. Faith that there is light at the end of the tunnel. That you will survive. And most of all, faith that the universe will lead you in the right direction.

I'm not saying it won't suck. Because sometimes, it will suck majorly. But you will be stronger and happier if you have that faith, rather than the anger, fear and anxiety (which will only serve to feed more negative energy), to guide you through these challenging times.

I like to give myself credit for this Zen-like metaphor I thought up for my guest blog on Cyan Years, to describe this state of paralysis I often find myself in when confronted by challenge (if only I would quit thinking up fucking metaphors and just follow my own damn advice):

You’re holding onto a flimsy branch to avoid being swept away by the fierce rapids of a fast-moving river. Of course you’re afraid to lose your grip – you could be trapped in the current for days, hit a rock, be lost over the threshold of a waterfall. But if you stay clutching the branch, you will never budge from that spot. The only way to move on, the only way to break free, is to let go….and see where the river takes you.

‽

FLASHBACK FRIDAY: Moving Forward into Adulthood..for real this time

2011-01-14T17:17:00.001-05:00

Oh, I forgot. I turned 25 this December.

I have officially been on this earth for a quarter of a decade. The day was pretty uneventful as far as quarter-century checkpoints go, but I spent the night with people who cared, so I don't regret it.

The inconvenience of my birth date is somewhat reminiscent of my family's inherent untimeliness. I suppose you could say that after all the car breakdowns and odd injuries that besot my parents before I came into existence, my birth - which occurred 2 weeks early the night before New Years Eve, and 5 days after Christmas - was preordained to hassle.

It was because of me that dad couldn't work the New Year's bar shift; but I made up for it by being tax deductible.

I've always prided myself in desperately clinging on to my childhood: who says cereal isn't dinner? someone else will eventually wash the dishes! cartoons are forever! I shall showcase my stuffed animals and useless trinkets without shame!

I mean, I still sleep with a stuffed octopus for godsakes.

Somehow, even through my childish thinking, I've made it up until this point without seriously damaging myself or others around me (though that first point could be greatly debated.) I suppose that's pretty good.

However, now that I'm 25, it's as if I am forced to accept the fact that I am an adult now. I've passed the threshold. When I first started working at my job, I was the youngest at 23, merely a tadpole in a pond of...frogs.
25 seemed ages away.

Well, it's not anymore, baby. It's right here.
Dammit.

I can no longer hide behind the cloak of naivety. I don't need to change myself, but the way I think needs to change. This is mostly to help myself function in this crazy world of reality, and to re-assert the power I've always had, but have never believed I did.

Here are 15 ways I pledge to be a better adult:

1.) Don't leave dishes in the sink. It stinks; literally.
2.) If you can't take care of yourself, don't mope around when you get sick and wonder how the hell this could have happened.
3.) Take responsibility for the things you do wrong. There are no siblings around now to blame.
4.) Cheeseburgers are NOT a good weekly source of vitamins and minerals. Neither are fruit snacks.
5.) When something angers/upsets you, understand that you are not a pussy and can deal with it.
6.) "Because I don't wanna" is no longer an excuse.
7.) Tantrums are for 5 years olds; not 25 year olds. That's why we created misdemeanors and restraining orders.
8.) Learn to throw.useless.shit.away. You will never use it; and you haven't used it for SIX YEARS.
9.) Realize that humans are only human.
10.) Realize that if you leave clothes on the floor...they will most likely stay there.
11.) Finally, remember to love yourself, not expect others to do so, using the four mantras:
12.) Compassion
13.) Understanding
14.) Forgiveness
15.) Willingness to Learn

And conversely, these are the 10 naive things that I will continue to do, regardless, in order to keep the spirit of childhood innocence alive (and because adults are inherently boring.)

1.) I reserve the right to buy and keep toys; for no other reason than they are cute and/or awesome.
2.) They may not be for every day, but I ain't cutting cheeseburgers completely out of my diet anytime soon.
3.) If my body decides to sleep till 1pm on weekends, I shall continue to let it do so.
4.) I will tell stories with completely anti-climactic endings, whether you like it or not.
5.) My heart may be jaded, but fluffy animals with big, sad eyes will still make me melt.
6.) I will keep Gossamer, Sailor Jupiter, Donatello the Ninja Turtle, a winking banana and the smiley egg on my key chain.
7.) The pajamas stay.
8.) All dogs are puppies.
9.) I'm still allowed to use my imagination.
10.) I can still call my mommy.

All adding up to 25 pieces of good advice for the new year.

‽

Mechanical Animals

2011-01-13T19:01:00.001-05:00

Check out these great new animated short films

on my film blog, Got Film?

Rats. Fish. Cougars. Cars.

...wait, what?

‽

Confessions of a Fake-Food Porn Addict

2011-01-10T18:47:00.000-05:00

Hi, my name is Tara.....
And I have a problem.
(Well, apart from my other problems, that is....)

I have an unhealthy obsession with fake food. Not the kind that's mass produced by an evil corporation and contributing to the nation's obesity. Not real fake food. But the inedible kind.

There are many odd obsessions in my life:

The smell of old books
Items that are filled with water (like snowglobes, sicko)
Things that are tiny.
Things that are fake food.
Things that are tiny and also happen to be fake food.

These last two take the cake (pun TOTALLY INTENDED! Hah!) And when I tell you they're an obsession, I mean that whenever I see a stack of pancakes with a smiley face I respond much like I'm falling in love. Drool and all.

To give you an idea of the level of my infatuation with all things appearing edible, I went to Ikea a few months ago to carry out my adult duties of purchasing housewares. And this I did; except, in addition to my new window trimmings and bookshelf, I also left with these:

Look at the wittle snausages!!!!

Plush Swedish Smorgasbord. Also know as Children's Stuffed Toys.
I was this close to buying the fruit basket hat.

And, in a twisted mingling of childish and attempts-at-adulthood, these are now sitting on my kitchen table, as if ready to be feasted upon. Needless to say, my boyfriend is not amused.

I wanted to share these foodie feelings so that I could prove I am not alone in my pining. I recently found that my previous obsession with old, abandoned locations actually has a label: it's ruin porn. (Hipstercrite says so, and that's good enough for me.) So naturally, I had to assign a label for this obsession in hopes of at least slightly normalizing this very odd excitement towards fabric pizza.

Be forewarned: if you're like me, delving into the rest of this entry will soon lead you into a bottomless pit of food-crazed compulsion.

FOOD IN SHEEP'S CLOTHING

...or in this case, cats'.

This is so effing cute I think I'm gonna throw up.

POSH NOSH

Food as [somewhat functional] fashion.

The egg gown is my fave. That's what I'll most likely what I would wear to the Oscars.

(I'm not going to put the cupcake bra on here cause, contrary to the general populace, that video was slightly disturbing to me.)

DELICIOUS, PLUSH NUTRITIOUS

The ultimate cute factor in fake food: Softness and Smiles.

Oh my little bacon-and-eggies, I'll love you forever!

TINY RATIONS

Feed your little inner child.

I personally have an egg keeping my key ring sunny.


For Christmas, I got a lemon and a lime in a sidecar.

NOVEL NOURISHMENT

Everyday items that have been given the tasty treatment.

Lego my Eggo!

A cruel, cruel trick.

Helium for breakfast.

Why did I not have this as a child???

Please show your love for all things fake- food related and check out these links!

LINKS

‽

Hungarian Films Are Fun!

2011-01-07T17:42:00.000-05:00

New review for Taxidermia up

on my film blog, Got Film?

Read it.

Then you'll understand why it's so fun.

‽

I Have Stooped to the Bloggies

2011-01-03T15:10:00.000-05:00

I'm usually not one for tooting my own horn.
Loudly that is.
....Okay, that's also a lie. Let me rephrase:
I'm not one for tooting my own horn, albeit loudly, without the inevitable onslaught of incredible guilt that hangs over my head like a rain-sodden cloud of dread.

There, is that better?

But I shall try to chase this cloud away for once (heh, good luck), and ask that you all honor my unkosher lamentations by nominating Interrobang‽ for a 2011 Bloggies Award.

This year, I was sieged by cockroaches and reggae, enraged by the MTA, and robbed....twice. During nostalgic times (which is like, everyday), I harked back to better times, romancing over lost toys and the sarcasm of my youth. And just when I thought the year had stopped surprising me, my appendix unexpectedly peaced out.

Yes folks, it's been quite the whirlwind year. Help me start off this new one right - by grasping an intangible award as merely a reason to pat myself on the back.

But, fo' seriously now. It would be great to get the recognition for any of the categories below, and the love from all you gosh-darn spiffy readers out there.

Vote here or click on the cute little sparkly-star button on my sidebar to submit your nominations:

"Best Writing of a Weblog"
"Best Humorous Weblog"
"Best-Kept Secret Weblog"
"Weblog of the Year" (I'm really stretching here I know, but might as well go for the gold while I'm at it.)

And don't forget to vote for all your other favorite bloggers as well! We are a fragile folk, us writers, who constantly crave your affections to relieve our inner qualms. So don't leave us hanging; or we'll have to swallow our bitter tears of neglect with a gallon of Häagen-Dazs.

Thanks so much to all of you for being a loyal reader throughout this tumultuous year. And be proud to know that you are slowly rebuilding my self-esteem, one bloggie at a time.

‽

I Don't Wanna Grow Up

2011-01-02T22:42:00.001-05:00

This passed week I celebrated Christmas, my 25th birthday and the end of a decade.

Here are my firsts for 2011:

WAKING TIME: 11am
FOOD: Cookies & Leftovers
MOVIE: Summer Wars
MUSIC: Tron Legacy Soundtrack
PURCHASE: Cheeseburger w/Fries

Starting off the new year as the maladjusted woman-child I am?

PRICELESS.

A Poem For the Day After Christmas

2010-12-26T19:06:00.000-05:00

Twas the day after Christmas and all through the house,
No a creature was stirring, not even a mouse.
Which is probably why I did not wake until 2,
That, and a day in NJ is worth sleeping through.

I kid, I kid; though I had reason to rest,
For outside, a billowing blizzard still pressed!
Cars and trees, all covered in white,
It must have crept up on us this Christmas night!

As I sipped on my tea and toast with jelly,
The dog drooled nearby wishing it in her belly.
Poor sister was sprawled on the couch with the flu,
She spent the night puking, and she still felt quite blue.

But next to her bucket, our tree was pretty as ever,
Despite her (and the neighborhood) feeling under the weather.
Each bough trimmed with memories from holidays passed,
Funny how time seemed to go by so fast.

Below, I marveled at the snow globe I'd crafted,
For my mother, and others (that hadn't get shafted).
If only the glue I'd used hadn't been such a damper,
By issuing a warning of its fumes causing cancer.

I'd redeemed myself Friday by making some sweets,
What better crafts than the ones you can eat?
Linzer tarts, made of almonds & raspberry jam,
Then we sat down to a dinner of spaghetti and clams.

That Christmas Eve night, Lili left Santa a note,
The next morning she saw that he had in fact wrote!
"Santa Claus" had signed his name oh-so elegantly,
And left a shit ton of presents underneath our tree.

I unwrapped my gifts of stockings and clothes,
And we tossed aside boxes and wrapping and bows,
The poor dog sniffed longingly at the gifts at our knees,
So I gave her a present of some sharp cheddar cheese.

An American Girl doll and books went to Lili,
I got Bullseye the Horse and a gift card to Chili's,
Tron's Daft Punk soundtrack and jewelry too,
Plus Stieg Larsson's "Girl with the Dragon Tattoo."

Mom sent out boxes of her homemade cookies,
To all the new NJ neighborhood rookies,
At one time, I knew everyone's faces,
But they've since moved away to far-off places.

Twas time to pick up Grandma, and Sis;
My 91 year-old aunt, a delightful old pris,
Passed the farms and forests, I seemed to get lost,
At least that day the roads weren't covered in frost.

At home we proceeded to eat, as Italians will do,
Turkey, ham and meatballs: ravioli too!
The stuffing was missing, but it wasn't a loss,
Since we'd our fill of potatoes and cranberry sauce.

After an indulgent dessert of pies and cakes,
We finally succumbed to our stomach aches,
So we said goodbye and I went to sleep;
No wonder I couldn't be roused by a peep!

So I sit writing a poem because I am bored,
Outside the window, it's still snowing a horde.
Almost 7pm now, and it's still hard to admit,
That Christmas is over so lickety-split.

Best of the Best

2010-12-23T16:30:00.003-05:00

Take a look above.
Go ahead; I swear I won't pants you.

You see it up there? New link: "The UnKosher Best."
A pictorial list of my favorite blog entries, for your viewing/reading pleasure, and my ego.

Here's some interesting thoughts I had on writing recently, which came to me after reading George Orwell's "Why I Write":

"When you realize you are writer (notice I say "are," not "want to be"...since it's more like you realize you "have to be"), someone should warn you that you'll be spending your entire life trying to prove to yourself that you are.

However, that is not to say you're not a writer unless there is a constant inner struggle of self-worth. I believe that it is the shared, accounted act of achieving the knowledge that your talent, and worth, is innate - a journey most of us already endure - that defines a writer's life. A life that is ruled by inner conflicts between the ego and the true self; or truth, in itself, which all writers continually seek."

Well, do you agree or no? What are your own thoughts on being a writer?

Okay, NOW I'm gonna pants you.

A Blog Swap Post

2010-12-21T17:12:00.001-05:00

I won't pretend to hide my enthusiasm in introducing you to my 1st ever guest blogger (all thanks to the clever guys at 20Sb) - so don't rain on my parade! It's not every day you get some excitement round these parts.

However, his introduction is largely superior to anything I could write (not to mention, succinct, which is a word I'm not terribly familiar with), so I shall not taint this entry further-

In the Year 2011: A Blog Swap Post
Hi, my name's Ryan. I'm not the enormously talented person you're used to reading over here, in case you hadn't gathered. Tara and I are participating in a blog swap, which means that for today I'm posting on her blog and she's posting on my blog. Nice to meet you.

We were told to write about something we planned on doing in 2011 that we've been putting off for far too long. My initial reaction to the assignment was “shoot, I don't really have anything like that.” Tara and I planned to chat sometime about writing about something else, but (as of this writing) that never really happened as both of us tend to be pretty busy people. So it happened that as I was riding back to Portland with my girlfriend that I realized “oh shoot, today's the 20th. Guess I'm writing about that first topic...”

Fortunately I only thought I had it more or less together. Turned out that I had a few projects waiting in the back of my head for just such an occasion. The ones that sprung on me as I watched the landscapes turn to cityscapes were my handful of unfinished novels. It's been my ambition since I was old enough to read to write a book and have it published. To be an author and to be read. I was a class clown, so of course this was a natural impulse, an extension of my “look at me” attitude. Somehow though, I've not yet realized that ambition.

My mental block tends to go a little like this:

“I should publish a novel.”

“Yeah! You should! Let's get going!”

Lots of writing ensues, and then, if I'm lucky:

“Alright, there's a first draft. Let's let it sit for a bit before I start editing.”

Time passes. Then the manuscript is picked up again and:

“Ew! Wow, did I really write that? I don't think I can even look at this anymore. Maybe I should rewrite it...”

But the rewrite never happens. Nor do edits. Instead the novel sits half-finished, rotting on the shelf until it's more or less forgotten while I go about my life. Then the cycle starts over again.

So I think in 2011 I'm going to try to break that cycle. I have a quirky little novel that I wrote mostly for fun, but partly to annoy, and I'm hoping... no, going... to edit it and have it ready for publishing of some sort by the end of 2011.

I'm gonna' do it this time. Really, guys.

Really.

FLASHBACK FRIDAY: High School Blogging

2010-12-17T18:04:00.000-05:00

I'm pretty sure I'm going to regret this in the morning, so let's do this fast before I regain my "what the hell are you doing‽" response system.

Oh yes; it's time for-

∆ FLASHBACK FRIDAY ∆

Once upon a time in high school, I kept a LiveJournal. For the sake of my reputation (as if it could be any worse than the one I have now), I will not be disclosing the name of it so that all you snoopers can just laugh in the face of my fragile seventeen year old self. That's my job!

Back in 2004 (a staggering SEVEN years ago; this is why flashbacks are so saddening. Not because of the memories of then. But of remembering you are old), computers were all the rage. I don't know if some of you tots were old enough to remember, but things called Facebook, MySpace, smart phones and yes, even iPods didn't yet exist in popular culture. You know what did?

Napster.
Palm Pilots.
AOL Instant Messenger.
...and LiveJournal. Everyone was doing it. My friends convinced me to get one, and it seemed a perfect fit as I was a writer and liked to whine. What could be better than doing it publicly?

I always scoff at bloggers nowadays who write as if they are giddy little teenagers (most of whom ARE still teenagers), abusing emoticons and cheesy internet slang that sounds straight out of a sitcom. However, today I re-read my old entries and realized I did the exact. same. thing.

I suppose we all feel that way about our teenage days, but we'll just have to live with it until we get old enough for our brains to deteriorate and pruning away at our memories in order to salvage what's left of our normal autonomous functioning.

With that, I give you the one entry I was ~~not ashamed~~ least afraid to share:

Will it snow? Or won't it? Feb. 5th, 2004 at 9:12 PM
I dont really know-the meteorologists change their minds very frequently. it confuses me. so ill just let mother nature do its little thang and see what happens..

so it turns out this mentorship thing is really cool. i get to go to jerseywood productions studio in highlands and learn about the film industry etc. maybe kevin smith will stop by one day. im hoping ^.^

PLUS i get to miss a half a day of school, which is always rather delicious. :P and this weekend i get to take driving lessons that i dont need since im 18, but my mom is making me pay for anyway. which isnt so delicious. but hey, you know what, this week wasnt all THAT bad.

now watch, i bet i just jynxed myself. -_-

i've actually been very void of sleep lately, and ive been conking out at any possible free time during the day. this often includes bus rides, viewings of Hitchcock's WEIRD ass movie "vertigo," (compliments of film appreciation/electronic field production class-and yes i know, the two class titles really have NOTHING to do with one another...-_-) and 1st period, advd. bio.

you know i was looking through the book the other night in a sleepy stupor, when i came across ACTUAL photos of a human cadaver, cut up like it was some kind of a lab frog. it was seriously freaky. ive never seen a person CUT OPEN before, and i certainly had no desire to. needless to say, i was a little weirded out by the images....though the guy closely resembled a squid i dissected in 7th grade. i guess what they say is true; it doesnt matter how different earth's creatures appear...in the inside we're just all the same ...... =)

wellllll enough about dead bodies.... ^.^ (what dead bodies :P)tomorrow is FRIDAY thank god. i get to work and maybe sleep if im lucky. im hoping that this month goes quickly....really quickly.....like super quickly..because im not partial to winter. and ive got senioritis. bad.

so adieu all. (or, however many ppl have actually decided to waste their time reading this....)and post ppl. because you might as well after getting this far. and i love getting mail!!!! ^_^

• Mood: sleepy
• Music: The Film~ " Girl With a Pearl Earring" and Dido-White Flag

If this were a room, I would leave it to avoid the embarrassment that would most surely come from looking you in the face after reading this. A sensible person who eventually wants to to be taken seriously in the adult world would probably have chosen to purge their old blog accounts before they came back to bite. But I have sealed my fate by publishing this; and since you are in fact continuing to read my rant on the internet right now, it seems I still haven't learned my lesson.

One more flashback for you before I forget this ever happened. Even more embarrassing perhaps than my ramblings above - I give you, my bedroom (aka crime scene) circa 2004:

There's not really much to explain about his photo; I feel it already says everything about my adolescence that needs to be said: Pure Chaos.
I've created a key below for the items of most interest. Signs of the times, and of my scattered brain.

A. These boxes are from Avon. I thought they would work as a makeshift table. Silly Tara. Did you know I was an Avon lady? Probably not, as I bought more than I sold.

B. Awesome bubble lamp that changed colors, and broke soon after I got it. It was in my room until just this passed Thanksgiving, growing algae.

C. Ah, my iRiver mp3 player - only held 7 songs, but had a microphone!

D. My Staples laminated Final Fantasy VII collage of Yuffie and Vincent. I didn't even like FF. Yet, I still insisted on being a fucking nerd.

E. Among the items on my bureau: Izone camera film, a lip gloss set, my Kickboxing arm rope (TOUGH) and a tube of M&Ms that was most likely not filled with M&Ms, but that I kept regardless.

And somehow I still wonder why my teenage years were so damn stressful, after apparently having to climb a mountain of clothing just to get to bed.

‽

This Week On the Brain: Writing

2010-12-15T18:09:00.000-05:00

Sometimes, I like to be lazy and post other people's writings for you to read, instead of my own.

This is one of those times.

When I'm not compulsively checking Gmail and Facebook those every 5 minute moments of the day that I'm not running around work like a lizard with it's tail cut off, I'm on Google Reader trying to find material that I relate to my life; ie. stuff that reminds me of myself. (It's quite selfish I know, but don't we all just want to be understood?)

On what sort of "stuff" you ask? On film, on writing, on music, on art, on humor, on zorts, on life. And don't worry; I do it all with proper attribution (and genuine adoration.) Give these sources some love!....so it doesn't look like a complete cheat; aheh.

So if you're really that into what I'm into (creeper), please enjoy the fruits of my lethargy!

THIS WEEK ON THE BRAIN: Writing

(Said in 1930's Newsreel voice)

"Stephen King on Writing," from Matriarchal Script Paradigm
Inspiration for all [blocked] writers everywhere. Who enjoys reading about writing, while not actually writing?.....that would be me.

"Her Idea" by Rilla Alexander, from Journey Round My Skull
Making psychological creative crises cute and colorful.

"The Problems You Are Facing In Your Creative Work," from Kid In the Front Row
A little side helping of Chicken Soup for the worthless-feeling-creative-Soul.

"Thoughts on Hybridity," from hamgirl
Proof that being reflexive is sexy. And totally fine. IT'S TOTALLY FINE, DAMMIT!!!! ::pants::

"How to Write a Great Script," from ScriptShadow
"Yeah, yeah, yeah" is what you'll think. But "Ohhh yeah" is how you'll feel after reading these inspiring pointers. Go get 'em tiger!

"Behold, the Blank Page," from Drawn

Click to enlarge.

And since everyone loves a meme (look at me, pimping this word - I didn't even know what the hell it meant till, like, yesterday), here's one I ~~stole~~ borrowed from My Inflammatory Writ, called "Writer's Envy," which consists of listing all the famous writers that one is jealous of. Perfect fit for this entry, wouldn't you say?

(Check out Writ's picks here.)

Novel you wish you'd written: Oh lord, for reals? Do you have a couple of years? I guess if you forced me at gunpoint and/or promised me a cookie, I could settle on A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius, by Dave Eggers. A genius it was, Eggy. You fucker.

TV you wish you could have been/could be a staff writer on: "The Simpsons," "Arrested Development" (I'm so original!)

Blog you wish you'd started: Forgotten Bookmarks. I loot antique books for worthless old artifacts in my spare time already!

Play you wish you'd written: I'm going to pretend I overlooked this, and that I'm slightly uncultured.

Poem you wish you'd written: "Sarah Cynthia Sylvia Stout Would Not Take the Garbage Out" (Silverstein) & "The Raven" (Poe). I wanted to be eclectic.

Screenplay you wish you'd written: (You asked for it) Amelie, You Can Count On Me, Beetlejuice, The Princess Bride, Let the Right One In, Mixtape, Adaptation...

Song you wish you'd written: "Rapture" by Blondie. Find this song for an amazing trip and lyrics you will want to memorize immediately.

Blogger with skillz (or readership, for that matter) you wish you could steal: Hahaha, oh that's easy. How about EVERYONE ELSE.
Okay, I sort of kid. "Hyperbole & A Half" is top on my list.

Hey kids! Steal the "Writer's Envy" meme for yourself and unabashedly unleash your inner jealousy unto the internet!
In other words, I'd like to know.

‽

FLASHBACK FRIDAY: It's Christmas[Music]. All Over. Again.

2010-12-10T19:17:00.003-05:00

I'm not gonna lie. I like Christmas songs. They remind me of Christmases long, long ago; the way I used to feel all snuggled up indoors, with the smell of pine needles and the heat coming up in the morning...

I LOVE Christmas music.

So shut the hell up, go roast some.chestnuts, dress yourself in some fucking flannel, and listen to my

Top 13 FLASHBACK FRIDAY Holiday Tunes

The ones you all know and love, but perhaps are afraid to admit. It's okay - that's why I'm here.

To take on your shame.

Paul McCartney - Wonderful Christmastime
Wham! - Last Christmas
Band Aid - Do They Know It's Christmas
The Waitresses - Christmas Wrapping
Beach Boys - Little Saint Nick
Nat King Cole - The Christmas Song
Trans Siberian Orchestra - Christmas Eve/Sarajevo 12/24"
Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer - The Crystals
A Holly Jolly Christmas - Burl Ives
Frank Sinatra - Santa Claus Is Comin' to Town
Jose Feliciano - Feliz Navidad
Bobby Helms - Jingle Bell Rock
Vine Guaraldi Trio - Christmas Time Is Here (from Peanuts)

The Zortians Are Coming....

2010-12-08T18:08:00.001-05:00

Well this just makes my little heart go pitter-patter.

I got the urge today to once again Google the word "Zort" (surprisingly, or perhaps not so surprisingly, this is an ongoing hobby of mine), hoping in silent desperation that there was indeed another little nerd child out there who was as enthralled with the world of "Ed Emberley's Big Green Drawing" book as I, and was painstakingly uploading their myriad of childhood sketches of the little one-eyed darlings in hopes of reaching me on the other side of the interwebs - like a Google message in a bottle.

(For those of you not versed in the world of Zort, please refer to my previous zortian ramblings.)

The back cover of the best [drawing] book ever.

Usually, I have no such luck. I find only my own images, which tends to make me somewhat depressed about the state of my almost 25 year old life. However, today: breakthrough!

I am happy to say that after many years of looking, I have found another work of zortian perfection:

Courtesy of Joe Kuth @Red Panda Comics

This adorable piece of imagination is by fellow blogger, talented artist, and obviously awesome dude, Joe Kuth. I can't tell you how excited I was to find this. Actually, I'm telling you right now, though I shouldn't since it's slightly embarrassing: I may have peed a little.

The best part of this discovery is that I no longer have to hide my blushing face as I fawn over little green men with three legs - there are others out there who share in my appreciation of Ed Emberley and his wonderful world. (Read an interview with Kuth here; you'll see what I mean.)

BUT WAIT - (that's right, you know the rest....)

....MORE EXCITEMENT!
Joe, in part with his blog, has put together a tribute book to Mr. Ed Ember' himself, consisting of artwork drawn by other fans around the country!

Where the fuck was I when this was happening?!

Thankfully, my disappointment at not getting the chance to be included in this book was overshadowed by yet another amazing discovery (I'm running out of ways to emphasize my text):

Yes, it's true. There is a documentary. About Ed Emberley. Coming. Soon.

Does this mean that Zortians might make an appearance as well? Possibly even......animated?

Only time will tell......and I will await, ever anxiously....

‽

In Which Some Cool Comics, the Black Swan & Matt Groening Serve As a Mirror Inward

2010-12-06T00:23:00.002-05:00

I like to sometimes to write about my weekend activities, in case you think I don't get out enough. Rest assured, I do try to make the most out of my days off. At least the first day - then, as is the case with this Sunday, twelve hours are set aside for delicious sleep.

So whether you want to hear it or not (forget the fact that it's easy enough to click off this page), I will happily recall my weekend experiences, in a neat listed form:

Black Swan
I was anxious to see this, and that anxiety followed me throughout it's viewing and into my dreams. As with Aranovsky's film "Requiem for a Dream," I would impart the following advice to any 1st time viewer: prepare to be unnerved.

And I was. I won't go into too much detail because a.) I trust you aren't reading this blog for a movie review (and if you are, I apologize, though it's a very good idea, come to think of it....), and b.) giving it away would be awfully rude.

I will say this: Winona Ryder is exquisitely scary, the music of "Swan Lake" is as haunting as the jaunty hand-held choreography, and the entire experience of watching this movie will make make your insides feel as dark and hollow as the cheekbones of a ballerina.
Hence, good stuff.

Brooklyn Comics & Graphics Festival
Conveniently located down the street from our apartment, the festival proved to be the perfect way to spend our Saturday (and our money). Crowded, yes; but filled to the brim with some awesome comic artists, which I feel compelled to share with you all, as I spent the entirety of last night adding their blogs to my Google reader and subsequently goggling at their art. And, as a bonus, may I remind you that they are all lovely ladies, which gives this sort of lovely lady hope.

Junko Mizuno - bought a signed copy (!) of her first manga (now out of print), "Cinderella." Cute and deadly are the words that best describe her style.

Jennifer Tong - alas, I could not bring myself to shell out the $50 for her beautiful neon lemonade silkscreens, but luckily I was able to see all her fruitallucinations on her site. (Yeah, that's right, I shoved that pun right in your face.)

Marian Churchland - though she wasn't at the festival, I felt I had to bring her up in the company of my new fave female comickers. The main squeeze of Brandon Graham (also a great artist, and the brain behind "King City"), Marian lives in Canada and brings the cuteness as she she blogs about pie and jackets. I snagged a copy of "ELEPHANTMEN: Damaged Goods" last time I was at Bergen Street Comics. Good investment!

Fittingly, Marian's cover for Brandon's "King City."

Aidan Koch - I passed by her table quickly, trying to keep myself from nabbing a copy of "The Whale," in all its water-colored poetic glory. Later on I find out it was actually the artist herself sitting quietly there, trying to sell her first comic ever. Now I really wished I'd bought it.

Jungyeon Roh - again with the expensive silkscreens! So wonderful and yet so out of reach....I really wish she had been selling her book. I understand the reasoning for the price however; >sigh< if I only I were rich enough to buy art instead of getting angry at myself for not creating it.

Lisa Hanawalt - I can't take complete credit for this find; for Ryan, it was love at first sight with the "Hats" sketch. I soon followed after he brought home #1 and 2 of her "I Want You" series. Not many women can get away with psycho sexual animals and subtle fart jokes...but Lisa can.

Click to enlarge (believe me, it's worth it to see the Irritable Bowel Syndrome hat

Matt Groening
This is what really made the weekend - after 3 hours of festival goodness, Ryan and I make our way to the entrance. And who is standing at the Ad House Books booth, bag full of goodies, but the creator of "The Simpsons" himself, the first artist I ever learned the name of at the tender age of 7 - in short my hero - Matt Groening. Ryan urges me on, and I sheepishly creep up behind the unsuspecting ~~victim~~ guy and introduce myself. (Finally, knowing the real pronunciation of his name pays off!)

As is the case with most celebrity/hero sightings, I babble on about loving his work and seem to forget my confidence. Out pours my undying devotion for "The Simpsons" over the course of my lifetime (which coincided with the shows existence as well.) He chuckled at the image of me with a Bart doll in the crib, and I thanked him for bringing years of humorous dinner time TV to my family.

You'll be happy to know that Mr. Groening is a perfect gentleman and all-around nice guy, who seems genuinely pleased with meeting fans; and thank goodness, as dealing with a motor mouth like me can prove to be difficult. He even asked me what I did, after I professed that my love of film mainly stemmed from his Simpsons parodies. What proceeded was my usual explanation of "Well, I'm a producer...for test commercials, but that's not what I want to do.....I actually went to school for film directing and writing, and I also did animation, but I had to ultimately choose one, and I'm still paying it all off..." yada yada. The poor man.

And then the most insightful thing came out of his mouth: "Well, what do you want to do?"

Apart from being completely flabbergasted at his wanting to know in the first place, I also had to stop and think. Why would he ask me that question? And why was this happening today, of all days, at the comics festival of all places? Was there perhaps something serendipitous about this particular moment?

All I can say is that ever since he asked me, I've been wondering about the same question myself.

‽

FLASHBACK FRIDAY: Animalympics

2010-11-24T18:37:00.000-05:00

There are certain childhood memories that, when I look back on, seem so amazingly joyful that it's almost too much to handle in that moment. Hardened stress-driven New Yorker that I am, being able to experience perhaps a small millisecond of childlike joy just shoots a laser beam right through my jaded soul.

Bittersweet is perhaps the best word to describe the feeling of nostalgia, as it is both heart warming and heart wrenching to think that at one point in your past, things seemed truly magical.

Sometimes those instances still occur, but because most adults are so preoccupied with worldly things, it's not so easy to hold onto. Hence, the flashback, and its appeal to me; because for once, I can revel in the glory that was childhood, and try to keep it alive....at least for a little awhile.

Now that you've dried your tears of this sentimental interruption, let me focus your attention on the latest (emphasis on "late" - and completely justified. Since it's the day before Thanksgiving, this qualifies as a Friday...right? Right.)

FLASHBACK FRIDAY

Animalympics was one of the VHS movies we had that we weren't sure how we acquired. It's possible that Grandma saw it one day at the video store and decided that since it was a cartoon and featured animals participating in Olympic-themed sports, that it was instant gratification.

By george, was she right.

First of all, it was a parody - and given that we were a snarky family, this was immediately a plus.
Second of all, it has the voices of Gilda Radner (of SNL fame), Harry Shearer (of The Simpsons Fame) and Billy Crystal (you could tell he was a big deal since even I knew who he was.)
Third of all, it was goofy. There's an alligator boxer, a Japanese penguin gymnast and an Italian octopus bobsled team called the "Calamari Brothers." Yeah. Awesome.
And finally, it had a great soundtrack. By people that were not Disney.

I was trying to fall asleep the other night, but I simply could NOT get these moments out of my mind. I remember watching this video over and over again, and constantly being swept away.

But it's just a cartoon, you say!

Ahhh, but there's no such thing as just a cartoon......

This is how the movie opens - can I begin to try to explain how fucking amazing this looks? Possibly not, it's mostly because you're not 10 anymore. Shit sucks, don't it?

Little did I know, the animators who worked on this film had some pretty impressive resumes: Brad Bird (Pixar, The Iron Giant), Roger Allers (The Lion King), and Steven Lisberger (writer and director of Tron, and I you can definitely see the influence here.) I was a geek before I even knew what it meant!

California neon ocean hallucination trip. As a kid you were flabbergasted, mystified, perhaps a tad bit frightened, yet completely enthralled with the images that were being played across your TV screen. The only thing that's changed is the lack of a VCR.

For some reason unbeknownst to me, no one has posted this song with the visuals from the actual movie. For those of you that were not fortunate enough to see, just picture this - Million Dollar Man + Wild Boar = Ski Champ - while you're listening.

Let's face it; coming off the 70s, there had to be some disco in here. I have to admit, I was a BeeGees fan, so this delighted me beyond words. But even if you don't like disco, or dancing animals getting it on, it's still pretty damn catchy.

I leave you with a final gem; the song itself is a bittersweet trip into something that whispers like nostalgia, makes your stomach float as if on air, and your mind imagine that for a suspended moment in time, you really are away from it all.

This is the stuff that childhood dreams are made of.

‽

You + Me = $500 Worth of Free Books

2010-11-18T11:50:00.001-05:00

This is a little bit different from my usual ranting, but when it comes to books, all time stops for the matters at hand.

Thanks to a tip from Indy Grrrl, I recently discovered that Chronicle Books is holding a contest exclusively for bloggers (yeah, I guess I would consider myself one; sure): Post a wish list of $500 worth of books and get entered into a drawing to win them all.

Needless to say, I'm all about this, and spent the latter part of yesterday drooling over the list you see below. But I'm a generous one, and like people to read what I'm reading, so if you comment on this posting and I happen to win, you could get all these specially, handpicked books too!

So if you share the same odd taste in books as yours truly, get on this shit.


	TARA'S UNKOSHER LIST OF BOOKS So Crazy Japanese Toys! By Jimbo Matison Foreword by Rodney Alan Greenblat When huge alien spiders or ocean-dwelling mutant dinosaurs hell-bent on destruction decide to pay a visit to humankind, they always seem to stop in Japan first. So Crazy Japanese Toys! showcases a cast of totally cool, totally sugoi ... MORE
	ACME Catalog From Warner Bros. Text by Charles Carney Iron birdseed, anvils, fake holes, and more—for years The ACME Company has been the sole purveyor of the fine products used by Looney Tunes characters. Chronicle Books is proud to present an exclusive catalog featuring ACME's must-have, ... MORE
	Secret Lives of Great Filmmakers By Robert Schnakenberg On the heels of Secret Lives of Great Authors, Great Artists, and Great Composers comes Secret Lives of Great Filmmakers—an uncensored look at screen legends ranging from D. W. Griffith and Frank ... MORE
	The Doorbells of Florence By Andrew Losowsky These alluring photographs of doorbell panels in Florence, Italy, inspired stories that imagine the lives of the people who dwell at each address. Charming, whimsical, and elegant, each story is a perfect match for its photo, balancing the ... MORE
	Olive, the Other Reindeer Written and illustrated by J.otto Seibold and Vivian Walsh Olive is merrily preparing for Christmas when suddenly she realizes "Olive... the other Reindeer... I thought I was a dog. Hmmm, I must be a Reindeer!" So she quickly hops aboard the polar express and heads to the North Pole. And while Santa and ... MORE
	America's Doll House By William L. Bird, Jr. From the Star-Spangled Banner flag to Dorothy's Ruby Slippers, the Smithsonian Institution's National Museum of American History is home to some fascinating objects. In fact, one of the most fascinating of these, and one of the most ... MORE
	Secret Lives of Great Artists By Elizabeth Lunday In the tradition of our best-selling Secret Lives of the U.S. Presidents (120,000 copies in print), here are outrageous and uncensored profiles of the world's greatest artists, complete with hundreds of little-known, ... MORE
	Secret Lives of Great Authors By Robert Schnakenberg In the tradition of Quirk's bestselling Secret Lives of the U.S. Presidents (100,000+ copies in print), here are outrageous and uncensored profiles of the world's greatest writers, complete with hundreds of little-known, ... MORE
	You Know You're a Writer When . . . By Adair Lara You know you're a writer when . . . You'll never forgive your parents for your happy childhood. . . . The doctor tells you that you have terminal cancer and you think, "I can use this." . . . You accidentally sign a check with ... MORE
	Writer's Workshop in a Book Introduction by Richard Ford Edited by Alan Cheuse and Lisa Alvarez Since 1969, the prestigious Squaw Valley Community of Writers has helped develop the art and craft of many who are now household names. Instructors such as Michael Chabon, Mark Childress, Diane Johnson, Anne Lamott, Robert Stone, and Amy Tan ... MORE
	The Writer's Toolbox By Jamie Cat Callan Designed by a longtime creative writing teacher, this innovative kit includes a 64-page booklet filled with exercises and instructions that focus on a "right-brain" approach to writing. Sixty exercise sticks—First Sentences, Non Sequiturs, ... MORE
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Once Upon An Appendectomy....

2010-11-11T16:25:00.002-05:00

Clouds tend to follow me.

I'm sure it's obvious by now that I was in the hospital for appendicitis, but I doubt many of you know the wonderful story behind it. It's probably a little conceited of me to assume you'd want to read about my experiences before and after my surgery, given that it's such a personal story, and also that you probably don't give a crap.

But whiners gonna whine, so you must accept that this blog entry will continue as thus.

It seems fitting that I'm documenting my ailment once again, as my first blog entry after a long hiatus came about after a grueling wisdom tooth operation. I was bored, heavily drugged, and feeling like a depressed, chipmunk-cheeked coward. These are all perfect circumstances for writing. It seems that when I'm at my worst, my inspiration to write with anger and fervor are at their best - so when suddenly I found myself without an appendix, but with a catheter, I felt an instinctual need to rant my head off to the Goddess of Curmudgeons.

Dear Una,

(Not sure if reading your blog daily qualifies me to address you informally, so forgive me Mrs. LaMarche, if it does not....)

I'm writing to you in hopes of being christened a curmudgeon; it's something I've been meaning to ask for a few weeks now, but I've been too much of a pussy to do it. (I'm cutting to the punch here; I can pretend I had "things to do", but I know myself better.) Let me first say that you are an inspiration to curmudgeon writers everywhere, and if I hadn't found your blog I might not have continued mine.

My blog, Interrobang (formerly called "Goy Vey".....it's a long story) is a completely selfish personal account of things I like to whine about. Also, bittersweet nostalgia (mostly about childhood). And self-deprecation. So essentially, it's Freud's wet dream.

However, I haven't written in awhile, as I often suffer from bouts of crippling writer's block. There are times when the self-deprecation doesn't even make it to the page, because of, well....me being so self-deprecating. And for awhile I was unsure if being a curmudgeon was something I deserved. But I think this quote pretty much sums me up:

A curmudgeon's reputation for malevolence is undeserved. They're neither warped nor evil at heart. They don't hate mankind, just mankind's absurdities. They're just as sensitive and soft-hearted as the next guy, but they hide their vulnerability beneath a crust of misanthropy. They ease the pain by turning hurt into humor.....
Perhaps curmudgeons have gotten a bad rap in the same way that the messenger is blamed for the message: They have the temerity to comment on the human condition without apology....Their versions of the truth unsettle us, and we hold it against them, even though they soften it with humor. (Jon Winokur, whoever the fuck that is)

Sure, I've been known to start loud, obnoxious scenes to vent my anger; complain openly and adamantly about my life, even though it's incomparable to the rest of the world's woes; and my amount of negativity is seriously impressive, if not frightening. Whether I'm to be proud of this, I'm not sure. Sometimes it's just nice to have the knowledge during your monotonous commute that at any point your rage can be directed into a fistful of bitch out.

At other times, this behavior seems more attributed to say, criminals, or schizophrenics.

But, I can honestly say that at this point, I've racked up enough grievances to warrant my curmudgeon-dom. These passed two months have truly been filled with the stuff of curses:

1. Tara has email hacked. By some asshole in Nigeria. Apparently I am in London, was robbed at gunpoint and need money to get back to the states. Since my life is on Gmail, this ultimately blows. It takes a week of troubleshooting and lengthy explanations to friends, family, coworkers and my gynecologist that I am safe in Brooklyn. Although London sounds preferable.

2. Tara has credit card stolen. This happens 2 weeks after the hacking, yet is completely unrelated, and blows infinitely more. Some bitch in Brooklyn decided to go on a shopping spree at Burberry with card numbers that were most likely stolen by someone delivering me a burger. Bank freezes my account and the $1800 they stole until they verify that I'm not lying. I insist that I'm really more of a Kmart girl.

3. Student Loans Increase. Rent Check Bounces. Sobbing, screaming phone calls are exhibited in the workplace as a result. Those around me shrink upon my presence to avoid evil eye.

4. Tara has emergency appendectomy. I can only guess that the amount of stress and pure bloodcurdling anger at recent events was cause enough for my appendix to peace out. Three days of hospital hell later, I'm infected with a UTI. Six days later, I am sitting at home typing this with a catheter tube up my hoo-ha and a bagful of urine hanging from my leg. I have degenerated to an 80 year old.

I'm hoping that, with your blessing (as you are indeed the queen of curmudgeons), I will break through the walls of writer's block and continue to share my rantings with all who will listen. But most importantly, I'll be giving myself a reason to express myself again. Perhaps being an anointed curmudgeon will light that fire under my ass and scare my critical ego into slinking away into obscurity. I know that writing this has already done wonders.

Now if you'll excuse me, I need to empty my bag of pee.

Yours truly,

Tara

So why expound further? Well, why not? I've been thinking about why so many unbelievably odd and inopportune experiences so often plague me. It's a dumb luck inherited from the Stromberg clan, the depths of a past which I have only begun to discover.

OR...perhaps the universe just wanted to give me some great material to write with. If that's the case, then I better do so - don't look a gift horse in the mouth, as they say.

Here are the cliff notes of that fateful day:

I eat tacos. Immense abdominal pains follow. I assume I have really indigestion.
After attempting to use the bathroom, I realize I can hardly walk. Okay...it must be really bad indigestion.
I frantically Google "appendicitis." I then fall asleep wondering if I'm going to die.
I wake up, thankfully. I must REALLY need to poop.
Stay home from work because....I need to take a dump? This is greatly embarrassing....So, I travel limp-like-a-hunchback-ready-to-hurl to the doctor in hopes of finding a better excuse for skipping work.
Doctor sends me to ER. I am seen at 5pm. I drink lots of iodine.
The cleaning lady walks in while they're doing my uterus scan. She refuses to leave until she takes out the garbage, which is right next to my straddled legs.
I get a CAT scan and some crazy drugs that make me feel warm and squishy inside.
While waiting in the aisle of the ER at 9pm, doctor greets me with an enthusiastic "You have appendicitis!"...........at least it wasn't diarrhea?
I am introduced to 15 doctors, only 5 of which will actually be in the OR.
I use the anesthesiologist's iPhone to update my Facebook status per my imminent surgery (so cheeky, am I.)
They ask me what music I would like to doze off to as they fiddle around with my insides. I say, anything but Lady Gaga....
......"Ra-ah-ah-ah"-CRAP!
Last thing I remember is funky smelling oxygen mask....

I find it suiting that I should end this entry with a graphic interpretation (emphasis on "graphic") of how my surgery probably went down:

Pretty symbolic if you ask me.

‽

So About My Family [Briefly]....

2010-11-08T14:15:00.000-05:00

I spent the weekend before last in my hometown of New Jersey, for quality time with the aforementioned fam. It was dad's surprise 50th, so there was an immediacy to this visit (don't want you to think I'm going all soft.)

Well really, I just needed a haircut, but the family was there, so I figured, what the hey - might as well kill two birds with one stone.

Like most family functions, my father's thirteen Stromberg siblings and boyhood pals decided twas best to use this celebration to roast all 50 years of his wonderful memories. I was also chosen to write a roast speech. When my Uncle Robby, the organizer of these shenanigans, first proposed this, it was September. By the time I arrived in October, I still had nothing written.

Frantically nearing the hour of truth, after driving around crazily like a Jersey housewife on steroids, dragging my victims (er, guests) for the night, Josh and Cara, through confusing U-turns and overpriced Halloween stores with costumes like "Money Ho," "the Blow-Me Breathalizer" and "Testey Tea Bags" (we're really not trying to overcome stereotypes in Jersey, it seems), I finally came to a realization:

I needed to write this freakin' speech.
(Even if my audience would be mostly intoxicated by then.)

So I did what any normal twenty-something would do in this situation - I ~~winged it~~ improvised. Using a previous blog entry, and sketches drawn by my sister, I put together what I thought was a lovely summary of dad's life.........of pain.

Surprisingly, for such little preparation it drew quite a bit of laughs (story of my life.) And coming from the Strombergs and one Joshua Goolsby ("sarcasm extraordinaire"), this is saying a lot.

After a lovely experience of living at home again for two days amongst the Strombergians, I've realized that I haven't described my incredibly unique family members to all of the folks out there who probably don't give a damn. Why goodness, in order to understand the Strombergs, you must take a close look at the dynamics! We are a highly complex system, that has a massive weekly intake of 2% milk. And the best way to observe this rare species of American family at its peak of dysfunctionality is in their natural habitat.

*DISCLAIMER: Since I know they're reading this right now, jaws agape at the sheer audacity of the use of "dysfunction" to describe them, please realize: there are no families that exist without dysfunction, at the risk of being incredibly boring.

∆ Mom

Aside from inspiring my love of books, you may remember her from previous flashback entries concerning shitty cars. She was my first impromptu guest blogger....albeit without consent.

∆ Dad

Alas, you've had your days in the spotlight already. As well as here.

∆ Nick, brother
For his last birthday, I devoted a blog entry to my little brother, praising his eccentricity. That's enough, right?

Cinco de Birthday

∆ Ceri, sister
Her psychologically-fused drawings of sarcasm have shown up in this entry, as well as my previous one highlighting our quirks of humor.

Insult to Injury

[NOTE: I realize that this has turned into a "Greatest Hits" list rather than a for reals blog entry.........I got lazy.]

∆ Lili, sister, &; Lexy, dog

There's a reason I've lumped these two together; obviously they're not equal on the totem pole of family hierarchy (one crawls on the floor for godsakes; although I guess you could argue that they both did at one time.)

When Lili was born, I was 14 years old and Lexy was closing in on middle age. I acted as mommy and Lexy, well, acted like a dog, as expected, as well as her counterpart. She was there to guard against ghosts in the dark and provide entertainment for the new baby. (Their trust was tested when Lexy decided to leave a nervous trail of poop all over her room; there were a few months of uncertainty, but eventually the deed was forgotten, once the smell wore off.)

Lili also provided her own entertainment, as she was the first to be caught on the family's new video camera. Even though she's grown to 10 years old now, I can still remember the cartoon-ish adventures of the two of them, which eventually inspired me to capture their sweet yet short adventure in baby/puppy-dom....

Lexy, with her two quirky ears: one Collie, one Doberman.
Lili, with her beloved stuffed pal, Fishy - a somewhat preschool Calvin and Hobbes, if you will.

(Fishy once braved an 8 floor plummet through an elevator shaft in my old NYU dorm. Somehow he fit perfectly lengthwise through when dropped; poor Lili proceeded to scream uncontrollably. Those in the elevator with us were quite unsure of what to do. Luckily, NYU was able to retrieve Fishy, showing how persistent a stuffed fish - and an NYU janitor for that matter - could be.)

No matter how old they get - Lexy, with her arthritis and deaf ears; and Lili, with her Justin Bieber and Bratz dolls - I'll always choose to remember them this way.

‽

It's Time for "WTF Is Your Problem Now?"

2010-11-07T17:10:00.001-05:00

Oy, I'm kvetching.

....with the queen of complaints: me.
I have to remember, my workplace is a pit of disease, much like a kindergarten play room.

I compromised my attitude for coming into work by promising it'd leave me some time to write in my blog: all the things I've been saving up to finish in my drafts, everything that's been waiting on handwritten notebook pages to be copied into a long column of writing that people will probably groan about having to read through....things of that nature. Including yesterday's journey through Park Slope with the Rybotz, buying comics at Bergen, visiting KingCon, chatting with a bored Jonathan Ames, scoffing at overpriced vintage wares, and switching locations of stifling to frigid temperatures faster than that stupid Katy Perry song. (Like how I just summarized my day in a sentence? I need to try this more often - less bored readers.)

That said, somewhere in between sweating in my coat, freezing because of the sweat caused from excess coat when sprinting outside with my long impatient NY legs, then reverting back to sweating once my coat was recovered with all the winter items I had since peeled away.....I got sick.

This also might have been a result of my skimpy Frosted Flakes + Fiber Bar diet, which was finally topped off with a hasty dinner that I eagerly devoured within 5 minutes, out of fear it might disappear before I could finish. These are the illogical realities of a New Yorker; or just a starving idiot - not sure if there's a difference.

Anywho, walking up and down the subway stairs made me realize that I was dizzy, almost weak, and that my irritation at being slow was not as important as my fear of possibly becoming that loathsome sick passenger responsible for delayed F train service. I'm usually guilty of despising that person, but now all of a sudden I'm guilty of being that person who forgot to eat their Cheerios in the morning and passed out in the middle of the closing doors. (However, rest-assured I'll still be complaining about the asshole who throws himself in front of the train in the near future - some of us have lives you know.)

My answer to this faint feeling was protein in the form of a McDonald's double cheeseburger. I have never glared at a cashier with such pale, sickening intensity. How long does it take to get a pre-made patty slapped on a bun and thrown into a bag? Apparently, longer than it takes me to get angry about it.

Later on at friend's, head still woozy while watching 1977's Tentacle by Italian director, Assonitis (don't think the pun was lost on me, and don't judge my off the cuff selection of entertaining Saturday night fare), I began to retrace my steps in hopes of discovering what the hell was wrong with me.....

OhmygodIhadaTamponinfor8hours. I'm probably going to die.

This provided me with at least 3 hours of pure hypochondriacal panic, as I fretted over my symptoms in relation to TSS, along with the possibility of seeing a giant octopus eye suddenly emerge from the depths of the ocean in HD.

Luckily, as I sit here the next day at work, there are no rashes to be seen; but my stomach is still unhappy with anything I feed it, and my eyes refuse to stay alert enough to focus on my typing. What could it be? What plague hath befallen me this time?

It's not a far stretch to assume I contracted something while working. All week, there have been bodies walking around with the cold, allergies, stomach flu, who knows what else. Come to think of it, ever since I started working here 2 years ago, I've been to the doctor more frequently than ever. Perhaps this is a direct result of the gift of health insurance....perhaps not.

In any case, the condition of my health and those of this morose, dust-filled prison seem inextricably connected. That, and my editor is playing crappy early 2000 Emo music with shrill guitars and thoroughly annoying twentysomething tirades about burying graves, wasted time or some shit.

And I shall continue to whine about it.

‽

Fun With Organs...Though Not the Ones You Think

2010-10-14T13:09:00.001-04:00

I know how much all of you are just dying to know what the silence these past few months has been about (isn't it funny how I just materialize an audience out of nowhere?). However, I enjoy teasing too much to give it all away so soon.

Instead, I'll play a little game: I give you a clue, and you see if you can't figure it out before I decide to share (ie, procrastinate, file my nails, worry about what the hell I'm going to write next.) I fear that building this up too much might result in a huge let down, but then I guess that's your problem isn't it? I'm just going to keep thinking that for my own peace of mind. Kthanks.

My sister, Ceri, has inspired me to go back to my artful origins (yes, it's true; once upon a time I drew), and create my own comic of injury - though, slightly more "cerebral." (It's a joke that will pay off later, I promise.)

My therapist brought up a great juxtaposition of emotional and physical conditions that I thought would be perfect fodder for a comic that took all of my recent bad luck and packaged it up into a neat little bow of witty self-discovery.

*NOTE: I bet I know what you're thinking: "Therapist‽ Um, yeah, I'll see you later" ::runs away:: If not, kudos to you, because you're open-minded and not an asshole. If you do happen to be rolling your eyes and starting to lose your credibility in this blogger persona I have so artfully created for myself, then I probably don't like you, so I don't care. HOWEVER, consider that my therapist is the mechanism by which the things I should be discussing with myself are reflected back at me in a way that is both enlightening and a slap in the face. Much like broccoli, you really should try it sometime. It's a good source of nutrition.

Here's a review of the players, introduced by their medical definitions, which will be useful in interpreting what the hell I'm trying to say:

Hippocampus: An area buried deep in the forebrain that helps regulate emotion and memory.
Amygdala: A small oval structure in the temporal lobe of the brain that is closely connected to the hippocampus and plays a role in the sense of smell, motivation, and emotional behavior.
Cerebral Cortex: The cerebral cortex is responsible for the processes of thought, perception and memory and serves as the seat of logic and problem solving (among other functions). It is not formed until later in adolescence.

(Thanks Med Terms)

*My appendix either look like a muppet, or a really dinky representation of male genitalia. But we are talking about organs here, so it's all good.

Insult to Injury

2010-10-11T13:39:00.002-04:00

I'll be the first to admit that when I blog about my family, it's usually tinged with sarcasm. How awful you must think me to be. Don't I think of my poor mother‽

Of course I do. Where do you think the sarcasm comes from?

In our home, sarcasm was the #1 coping mechanism. Our family has been through some unusual unpleasant experiences; however, nothing that can't be cured by good ol' sardonic aplomb. Give us a glass half-empty, and we'll see it as such; and then we'll fill it with beer and suck it down. Cause we figure you might as well drink it up, and toast to the irony.

And while my mom was the first to point out the facts in my blog about family car woes, she did it with the hilariously flippant cynicism of a champ. You see, I learn from the best. That said, it's not surprising that I write to express myself (and that my early dream was, in fact, to become a comedian.)

My siblings are no different. Creativity by way of self-deprecation is the way to go. Our work is almost always reflexive.

Another fun fact about my family: we are accident prone. This is most definitely a Stromberg trait. I could go on and on about this one, but I'll save it for another day. For now, I'd like to use it in context with my recent situation...

As I was [finally] leaving the hospital a few weeks ago (I know, the suspense must be killing you by now - explanations to come later), my sister, Ceri, was on her way to a hospital, via ambulance. This is her first year at Savannah College of Art and Design. I suppose that the only way to celebrate this wonderful opportunity was to do so in the Stromberg tradition: accidental, self-inflicted injury.

It was a deep cut, but only to her finger. Conveniently enough it was during an attempt to cut a bagel. All she was trying to do was eat. By 4am she was glued up and sent back to school with another scar to add to her collection. The perfect college initiation, by way of bagel. (Jewish joke anyone? Anny-body?....)

The most amusing part about this story is that it was in no way surprising to the family. Upsetting? Yes. Stressful? Most definitely. Inevitable? Of course; and thus, pretty hilarious.

Now, before you decide I'm quite possibly the worst sister in the world, I must remind you of the nature of my family. Instead of being bitter, Ceri takes it all in stride, by using her injuries to fuel her creative musings. It's a running gag that both she and my father (most likely the giver of the accident gene) have racked up a long line of ridiculous impairments. And since she has an artistic gift, Ceri decides to document them:

Since then, there has also been the Bagel incident, as well as the Bowl incident, which occurred when a glass bowl exploded over an open flame in Home Ec, sending shatters of glass into her arm. Ironically, the scars look suspiciously like the result of some retardly botched suicide attempt.

This constant barrage of bad luck, though it sucks terribly at the time, is just another Stromberg oddity. We're so used to it by now that it's almost a given that something will almost always go wrong when you least expect it. And, conversely, something incredibly right must follow. This irony is reflected in much of my writing - it's at once a curse and a blessing; the mark of my namesake.

The fact that my sister is also using it to her artistic advantage, is deserving of applause. I believe her most recent work says it best:

Check out Ceri's other works below. (And please buy her merchandise to fund her future hospital bills):

‽

Back, with a Vengeance‽

2010-10-03T23:45:00.000-04:00

I sit here on my couch this Sunday evening in a strange, dreamlike stupor, trying to salvage the day after a waking hour of 3pm, sipping groggily on flat Wild Cherry Pepsi. I believe it is time.

I'm finally going to say it, even though I hear my inner critic already chastising me for defying the unwritten "Blogger Code of Ethics." It cries, "No one wants to hear your sap story! Save it for your diary, Wendy whiner."

To this I say "Fuck you," evil ego, and watch as it slinks away spinelessly into the dark recesses of my mind. It's my blog and I'll cry if I want to, which includes admitting certain truths that I've been neglecting to face.

"It took awhile for me to allow myself to start writing again, because I was afraid."

There, I said it. And so far nothing has exploded or ended in an engulfment of flames. So I guess I'm safe........for now. I apologize if this doesn't seem a sufficiently exciting beginning to a blog entry - in time you will realize that the most recent turn of events have a somewhat cartoonish quality that will test your belief. In short, I can't make this shit up.

For those of you who need a visual aid in order to understand, this is a pretty accurate representation of what I've been dealing with over the past two months:

It is due to this rather unlucky and preposterous chain of events that I have made a few changes in the Unkosher world. However, only as far as my blog is concerned. What used to be "Goy Vey," a title which heralded my Woody Allen-esque views of life in lieu of my very non-Jewish heritage (clever as it was), has now been replaced with something less offensive, less religiously charged, and a lot more arrogant.

"Interrobang" is a word I always thought to be interesting. I remember it popping up in my Google web clips and thinking it was some nerd's idea of an apocalyptic grammar explosion. In a way, I guess it sort of is. The definition, as you can see on the sidebar to the right (for those of you who are too lazy for Dictionary.com) defines "Interrobang" as the combination of both question mark and exclamation point, used to express incredulity and disbelief......loudly.

This little punctuation mark, my friends, is the definition of my life.

To find out why, I invite you to continue reading, as more [incredulous] truths are revealed.

‽

The Unkosher Guide to Subway Survival

2010-05-21T14:56:00.000-04:00

There's nothing I love better than not having to pay car insurance, deal with mechanical failures or release pent up road rage by instead allowing public transportation to do the brunt work for me. However, the daily commute let's loose a whole new kind of rage that could drive some to the brink of bodily harm.

Thus, I'd like to share some coping guidelines that I've learned (or am trying to anyhow) on surviving the New York subway experience:

Walk swiftly, and don't stop in the middle of the walking paths on the platform, looking like a lost orphan. People, ie me, have places to go, faster than it takes you to figure out that you're on the wrong platform or to look at your shoes forlornly. If you don't move, then there will be nothing to hold against me when I accidentally push you off the platform. Which brings me to my next point....

Stay Away From the Edge of the Platform. Seriously, it makes me nervous.

Especially if you have kids. Why, as a parent, you are allowing your kids to venture any more than 1 foot in front of you in either direction, let alone screw around near the edge of the tracks is beyond me. And I'm no mother.

What To Do If You Fall on the Tracks. You won't, because I just told you to stay away from the edge. And if you went down there to get something you dropped, you're an idiot.

Subway Etiquette
Regardless of chivalry, good manners and all the other morals that humans should uphold, the subway-riding experience is more akin to the cutthroat ravages of the wild. Eat or be eaten. Kill or be killed. There is a delicate balance that must be found between the human and animals instincts within us.

Sitting. I don't care how much you've convinced your delusional mind on the size of your "package;" if you're sitting in a seat with other passengers, your legs should be reasonably equidistant from one another, not spread out like you're ready to hump the poor person who is forced to stand directly between them. If this person refuses to accept the fact that his dick can't possibly need that much breathing room, then even a female passenger seating beside him has the right to obnoxiously take up more leg space than needed until they close that shit up.

Eating. I've done it a few times myself, so I won't go so far as to condone eating on the subway; however if you must, please mind what your mother taught you. Don't eat with your mouth open (that's gross anywhere, at anytime). Also, anything that requires a utensil or sloppy enough to require a bib is absolutely NOT cool. It already reeks of BO and urine; do you really need to eat right now?

Loud Music. When dealing with a passenger who's trance/hip hop/death metal/Whitney Houston music volume is blaring through their headphones, I encourage the use of pre-made signs as an initial polite request:

If this method fails, feel free to use the following retorts:

If you'd rather not spend the time making communicative signs, there is always the possibility of beginning to dance in an obnoxiously spastic way, relative to the passenger's music of choice. If they are not dense, they will soon understand that you are making fun of their shitty music, to the delight of all other passengers.

Violence/Harrassment. If this is happening to others, don't be a hero unless someone is in serious danger and you have the balls. If the violence/harrassment is happening to you, verbally or physically, you MUST have the balls.

I won't speak for everyone, but I know that personally, if anyone utters any disrespect or purposely lays an extremity or other unwanted substance on me, there will be hell to pay. Subways are shitty places to begin with, and I can bet that at any point in the day I am not in the mood to deal with assholes. I will not hesitate to react. I'm not sure how, but let's just say I'm most likely taller than you, equipped with nails, and have at least 25 years of pent up rage waiting to be unleashed. Try me. I dare you.

Musical Subway Chairs
You deserve to sit down on your long journey. Why?
Because you've done a shit load of walking.
Because you're pregnant.
Because you didn't have time to do your make-up.
Because you're old and feeble, or have a lame leg.
Because you worked until almost midnight and need to catch some sleep before you go back to doing it all over again.
Because it's a free fucking country.

There is most certainly an art to finding a seat on a crowded subway. This often becomes a meditative study on human behavior, where one must "hide in the bushes" - metaphorically speaking - acutely observing any possibility of flight, in order to pounce at the most opportune moment.

Here are a few key observations to make whilst scoping out the next possible open seat:

Sleeping Passengers. Granted there is a BIG difference between fully conked out/drooling on oneself to simply closing one's eyes. Most likely, a person won't be getting off at the nearest stop if they aren't alert and awake. But then again, I'm the best at maintaining a state of half-conscious awareness which allows me to intuitively know when I need to open my eyes, stop dreaming about killing the person next to me, and get ready to bolt at the next stop. So don't completely rule out the sleepers.

Reading Passengers. If someone's stop is coming up, they will almost ALWAYS put their reading material away beforehand. Watch for movement.

Anxious Passengers. Many commuters will glance anxiously outside the subway car doors at each stop, making sure they haven't reached theirs yet. They will also glance at their watch or curse under their breath in frustration.

By Occupation. I don't want to make generalizations about all suits working in midtown, and all students going into the village, and all Asian bag ladies getting off at Canal Street. Okay, I am.

By Frequency. Get to know the people that you've seen leave seats early on previous morning commutes. That's your best bet.

The hardest time to grab a seat is rush hour times and in the middle of the subway car sections (where traffic usually gathers.) Also note that standing close to the chairs and hanging on the above bars will place you in an ideal position to grab any seats that free up along the edge of the car. If you decide to stand against the door or in between the door area, there's no way in hell you're getting to an empty seat fast enough.

And lastly, a note about manners. If you are one of the few who still have them, good for you. You will stand up for the elderly, disabled or with-child. But these are the only times when you should let your guard down and the politeness in.

The majority of the general public doesn't give a crap about your gender or physical state; they will take a seat in a heartbeat, regardless of whether you think you're entitled or that you're standing directly in front of it. Remember, kill or be killed. You will dart over the feet of others, push through the idiots who think it's okay to stand against the poles, cut in front of the asshole who tries to trick you into thinking he just needs to get to the door, or if needed, throw your bag/coat/whatever you have in your hands onto the empty seat before someone else's ass hits it first.

We all gotta survive somehow.

FLASHBACK FRIDAY: Here Lies My Toy Will

2010-05-14T18:30:00.002-04:00

Mom always used to say that she wished she would have held on to the toys of her youth. When she was a wee little Italian girl growing up on Beverly Road in Brooklyn, she fondly remembers her most favorite playthings: a wooden circus train with accompany circus animals, like the seal on wheels, balancing a ball; hundreds of hand-sewn Barbie doll clothes that my grandma fashioned herself.*

*(On the other hand, she also told us about the zebra ash tray that Uncle Artie had made, casting long scary shadows on the walls at night, which just about scared the shit out of her. Her brother, Jerry (my godfather) used to chase Aunt Diane around with the real stuffed alligator that an aunt had brought from Florida. This in turn became a torture device for n older Diane to use on my much littler mother. It served a purpose for all ages, I suppose.)

After hearing about all the wonderful toys my mother could remember growing up, I wished that she had managed to save them over the years to one day pass them onto me. When I found out she had given the Barbie clothes and the train set away, I was heartbroken. I'm sure in some ways, she was too.

I resolved to never let the same thing happen to my toys. Yes, I enjoy holding onto the past for dear life, but I'm not talking about storing some Barbies and Polly Pockets in my current apartment and taking them out for a summer fun pool party with my boyfriend anytime soon. And yes, I will forgo my childhood dream of creating an ultimate Star Wars figurine stop-motion film now that I'm on the cusp of being an adult (note how I have not admitted it fully yet).

Instead, I am suggesting that I keep my treasured toys (at least, those that I know are still around) safely hidden away in my parent's New Jersey attic, unknown to garage sales and other bratty children, until I can pass them on to my someone who I feel is worthy enough to experience their toy-glory.

So, without further ado, I hereby present my toy will, which lists the toys of which must be kept safe and intact for however long I am here (and oh, let's say, 20 years after), at which point become the sole property of my predecessor, canine or otherwise. A failure to uphold my wishes will result in a.) bludgeoning with a nearby object of choice, b.) a tantrum, which includes excessive bawling and feet stomping, or c.) eternal haunting by my restless apparition.

Also part of this will is a list of those toys which shall be forever held in memoriam, as they have sadly been lost to the ravages of time and mom's spring cleanings.

IN MEMORIAM

∆ Disney Magic Kingdom Playset, (Loss: Unknown)
I was quite young when I got this, so I'm not sure how it came about. All I know is that we kept it in a wooden box in the closet. It had a runaway train and monorail, and a Dumbo-esque ride.

∆ Miniature Dollhouses, (Loss: Unauthorized Chucking)

Not to be confused with the Polly Pockets of the same genre, this was a three house miniature set of pastel suburbia that was bought by my Aunt Diane as a Christmas/Birthday present. I don't think it had a brand name, since it was bought at a flea market or auction, but I fell in love with it. Each piece of furniture was delicate and detailed, and the houses came with a neighborhood mat with shrubbery and sparkling pools. There was a purple grand piano that really played music with the help of a watch battery.

One day I found out that mom had gotten rid of it because she thought I never played with it anymore. Now I go to therapy.

∆ Colorforms, (Loss: Most Likely Unauthorized Chucking)
Some of you might remember these sticker-like, rubbery things from the early 90s. I had Mickey Mouse themed colorforms and (the best) a giant Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle underground scene that was as big as me. I don't know what ever happened to them, but if I found them on Ebay I would definitely reclaim them.

∆ Inspector Gadget LIFE Cereal Box Back, (Loss: Recycling)
My brother and I always fought over who got the cereal box to read during breakfast, but none were more worth the battle more than the LIFE Cereal back which featured a map of Inspector Gadget's Metro city (very ala Where's Waldo.) With much pleading, we convinced our parents to hold onto this for months at a time; but sadly, it's only a matter of time before mom gets sick of keeping an empty cereal box around for "no reason."

Apparently, there are many who think that it IS worth it, nearly 20 years later!
(If you buy this before me, I will kill you.)

∆ Micro Machines, (Loss: Unknown)
I'll admit it - even though I was a girl who loved Barbie's and play make-up, I loved playing with tiny cars. (This could also have been due to my fetish with miniatures but......for all intensive purposes, let's just say.....I enjoyed playing with cars.) My brother had the Micro Machines Super Van City (which is epic, even in its name), and was perfect for making up car chase disasters.

There was also a drive-in restaurant made especially for Micro Machines, which was my personal fave, but that disappeared suspiciously long before the van city...

∆ Shrinky Dinks, (Loss: ....Probably Just Not Worth Saving)
These have been around for awhile, so I won't go into too much detail. But I had TMNT shrinky dinks, and I wish I still did. Mainly because I can color inside the lines now.

∆ Burger King Playdoh Set, (Loss: Hardened)
Due to my obsession with play food, the marriage of Playdoh and Burger King (while on the surface, sounds incredibly gross) was AMAZING to me. Even long after the Playdoh turned into solid rock, I was using the condiment place mat to serve all my food-crazed needs.

∆ Play Food, (Loss: Scattered about the house in disarray)
The rubber bacon. The plastic scrambled eggs. The Eggo waffle box with the fake pouring syrup. I freaking loved play food. I would still play with it now.

∆ Precious Places, (Loss: Who knows; I may still have it.)
I had almost completely forgotten about this (again) small playset. You controlled moving the little Victorian, rosy-cheeked people by using a magnetic key. The main building was a lovely little Gazebo. Half the time I just used the little people in other locations to suit my own imagination.

TOY WILL

∆ Barbies
Alright, might as well get this out of the way. I love Barbies as much as the next girl, and I had a pretty good assortment. The Heart Family, Skipper, Courtney, the older one my dog chewed, a bunch of mermaid outfits from various places. Then there were the Disney barbies who's heads were at least twice as big as those of regular Barbies (which made kissing Ken rather awkward.)

There was also my blonde Megan doll from My Little Pony. She had a different look than the Barbies; narrower eyes, a bit of a dirty face, and was smaller than Skipper, but I liked it that way. Made her unique. She became the charismatic adventurer/inventor, who would think up crazy ways of getting to the top of my bed, or into a cave.

And I had a LOT of accessories: red Mustang convertible, inflatable pool, kitchen, cafeteria, grocery store, the Barbie Fold 'n' Fun House (from a garage sale). But it doesn't matter how many I have, and that they were all massed produced. I CANNOT get rid of them. I refuse to grow old with regret.

∆ The Littlest Pet Shop
One of the best presents I ever got was the Littlest Pet Shop playset, which included the shop and a shitload of small animals. I played with it ALL THE TIME, but still managed to keep everything intact and together, including the magnetic newspapers for the dogs and the gerbil water bottles. Even the cash register items! Then my sister inherited it, and now who knows where it all is.

∆ Polly Pockets
I can't even count how many of these I have; I am praying that they are still somewhere in my attic waiting for me to re-discover. I didn't even need to play with the little Pollys; I just marveled at the intricacies of the minute worlds. I also had the mansion which had a sun-room and the water park, which you could fill with real water (much to the annoyance of my mother) and make jacuzzi bubbles.

I will be that old woman who has a bunch of Polly Pockets on display in her living room, rather than those crappy Christmas villages.

∆ Star Wars Figurines
I admit I was a Star Wars nerd. After the trilogy was re-released, our parents got us nothing but Star Wars paraphernalia for two Christmases in a row (especially Princess Leia stuff for me, since she was like, oh my god, my idol). We'd race to the stores and search through hundreds of figures to find the rare ones. I even spent a whopping $14 each for the special Princess Leia collection figurines with cloth wardrobe, and then opened them in spite of other snooty collectors. My brother, Nicky and I would stage wars between the Rebellion and the Empire on our coffee table.

>sigh< Those were the days....

∆ Assorted Little Peoples
Over the years, my whole family has amassed a collection of little people, or miscellaneous figurines from Christmases, birthdays, fast food meals and garage sales. Some of them might be worth a pretty penny, but I only want to keep them for the memories of many an imaginative days....

We have Disney characters, Looney Tunes characters, McDonald's Barbies from the Happy Meals, the transforming robot/McDonald's food, Smurfs....the list goes on.

Sadly, many of my Smurfs were lost in a supermarket when I was young. I left for a moment and then they were gone. I cried for them.

I'd have to say my favorite is the Anne Marie figure from All Dogs Go to Heaven that my cousin Janean let me keep. I'll definitely be keeping that one for awhile :)

∆ Legos
Where do I even start? Legos were the staple of our familial happiness. We made a dream house out of Legos every year (on our Lego table, no less); I would always use the clean black slate Lego for the dining table, top it with a square black vase of flowers. My room would have a telescope and a lava lamp.

My brother was obsessed with legos, and also refuses to sell them or lend them out to cousins. Attaboy.

∆ April O'Neil Figurine
As a TMNT fan, April O'Neil was a must have. My dad, who was manager at KB Toys for a long time, went everywhere trying to buy one for me. She came with a briefcase, a camcorder, gun and ninja store (all essentials for the working woman.) Eventually he did, and she is still lying somewhere with the rest of the toys I once loved. Hopefully I can find them all again soon.

One Christmas, all of us kids decided to get our mom two pieces of her long-lost wooden circus train off an Ebay auction.

It certainly was a surprise to her, nearly 30 years later. I'm hoping that by keeping what appears to be junk, around a little while longer, I'll have the very same moments a hundred times over.

What toys would you keep around?

Cinco de Birthday: Rybotz & Nickyness

2010-05-05T14:02:00.006-04:00

It's been a year since my last celebration with Ryan on his special joint Cinco de Maya/birthday. This year it's his 25th (quarter-life crisis time!....don't worry it only gets better from here, so I've heard.) It is also the week of my brother's birthday; he turned 20 this passed Sunday.

That's why I think it's only fitting to celebrate their many splendiferous years of living with a blog entry dedicated to two of the most important men in my life: one I know very well, and one that perhaps....I don't. You'd be surprised which one is which.

Ryan (aka Rybotz) is from Ohio, but contrary to what you might think, not nearly as boring as his birthplace. It's impossible to describe him in words. You just have to meet him to know that you're getting someone that has neon bolts of creativity bursting out of his ears. For the most part, experiencing the eclectic sounds of music fuels this phenomenon. But that's only the surface of his admiration for artful, imaginative things.

Like the rubber city of his roots, he is hard-working and reliable, but always in pursuit of a grander goal. We've been together 2 years now, and every day has been an individual struggle that we've tried to support one another through. The city has not been easy to his mid-western lifestyle: here it's fast, fleeting; blink one eye, and you miss it all. Everything in NYC is done on a larger scale; bigger/bolder/better. Luckily everything about Ryan is bigger and bolder. His excitement is catching to everyone around him, but on low days, so are feelings of anger and frustration.

Ryan left Ohio to be a part of the energy of this city, and he is surely becoming part of it. One day, he will be in sync with this flow of passion and creativity, and really show the world what fantastic possiblities lie within the infinite universe that is his mind.

And all psychological theory aside, I am grateful to be by his side on his 25th year, as he experiences the most memorable, unpredictable and thrilling moments of his life.

Happy Birthday my Rybotz. You are just as amazing as you are sweet. <3

My brother Nick (or Nicky, which is what I've always called him) has come a long way from the little bald baby that once peed on my cousin when she was changing him. It makes you feel rather old and confused when you see the same boy you used to play Micro Machines and Barbie Prom Date with (...it's true. Don't judge. Who didn't love Barbie? Even he got upset about ending up with the nerdy guy...), doing adult things: driving a car instead of pretending to blow one up.....working at Sears instead of perfecting his homemade sound effect technique.....dying his once light, wavy hair to the color aquamarine.....complaining about getting car tickets and bank statements rather than imagining that you've saved your family from a man-eating tiger while trapped in a raging fire.

Nick was always laughing; he once had a giggling fit after watching the Simpson's episode where Homer falls down a cliff for an absurdly extended period of time, yelling "Doh" at every moment of contact. He could hardly breathe, he was laughing so hard. Then he rewound the tape and watched it again.

At the age of 4, Nick would beg me to put on the Fantasia VHS and fast-forward through all the fairy stuff to get to the dinosaurs and their eventual demise to Stravinsky's "Rite of Spring." It gave me the creeps, but it never phased him. He watched Jurassic Park for the first time at age 6, while I hid in my parent's bedroom, trying to block out the sounds of velociraptors.

He could make any inanimate object explode with unidentifiable sounds. He engrossed himself in a small 1x4 Lego block for hours, making it emit spitful explosive sounds as he shook it within his hands. Who knows what kind of intergalactic war was being staged within his imaginative mind.

But most of all, Nicky was the sweetest, most gentle kid brother a girl could ask for. While other boys were tearing the heads off their sister's dolls and generally wreaking havoc, Nicky was eager to play with anyone at any time, and loved to make people laugh. His younger sisters were the rambunctious ones, and he took a lot of abuse from their rough housing and tantrums. But that was Nicky's way; he couldn't stand to see anyone upset. He just wanted to feel he belonged.

Today, Nick is in college, but still living at home. I know it must be hard still dealing with the craziness of sisters, shitty family cars and living in a town you can't seem to escape. It's enough to make anyone a little irritated. But I hope that even at 20, little Nicky is still there at heart.

Happy Birthday Nicky-ness Maximilian Eggward Whites Yolken Midori-Ximus.

Shameless Self-Promotion....What I Do Best

2010-05-03T17:33:00.008-04:00

It's allllll about ME!

MUAHhahahahahahahhaahah!!!!!

(*cough* please love me.) AHEM ^.^;;;; Please don't pay any attention to that small person; she is obviously retarded.

It may be that my creative pool has run dry (as is usually the case when I've had a shitload of work for a long time and then suddenly things are calm ::knock on wood::). Don't get me wrong I have tons of stuff to share (despite the fact that no one gives a damn), I just haven't had the energy or the brain power to squeeze it out. I start entries, then stop them, wondering what my inspiration was in the first place. Then I go back to making lists of the things I should be doing, and this sort of repeats itself in a dizzying, infinite cycle for the next few weeks.

I'm sure I'll get over it.

Meanwhile, allow me to invite you into the universe that seems to ever-revolve around me and my unkosher glory, and listen to my new VO Demo that I've been working on. Some of them are actual demos I've done for work, and others are exercises from a VO class I took back in October (with the wonderful Karen Murray! And since I am also a fan of shamelessly promoting others, please let this woman teach you how to make your voice a star.)

I'm still trying to fine tune things and add some more conversational character pieces, but I'm still open to critiques. This is your one chance to really be brutal on me and not feel like an asshole about it.

FLASH_____ FRIDAY: Moving On, Perhaps?

2010-04-30T18:09:00.007-04:00

It has been a week without a post, and in my punitive mind this is not acceptable.

But I'm going to tell the punitive part of my mind to shut the fuck up so I can focus on the things that are making me feel good instead. Take THAT punitivity! You've been punitively powned.

I was planning on writing a long post about how this apartment search was making me go bonkers, but today I finally found a place that I will hopefully be able to call home.

I'm superstitious, so I'm not going to say anything more than that until I fork over the money and finalize the deed. Until my feet are planted firmly in Greenpoint and not in the hell-hole I call home right now.

Maybe I'm exaggerating. There was a time I was hopeful about my new apartment. Kensington was everything I thought I needed: space. nature. beautiful homes. closet space. the Q train.

But you know what Kensington is to me right now?

REGGAE.

The Boom Boomboomboom Boom vibrating through the chair, straight through my seated bum, making my heart pump spasmodically to the same beat. Blood pressure rising. Urge to thrust fist through floor and grab the nearest pothead I can find and scream so loud that my spit shoots down their throat. The woman with lopsided breasts, teeth missing, her face so shockingly busted that my eyes almost bulged out of my head the first time I saw her.

Don't lecture me. I'm allowed to be mean when I spend $1200 on a place that broods such aggression. Where you reach to grab your toothbrush and a cockroach says hello. Where hot water isn't hot. Even unexplained specters, fueled by the negative energy of our heated anger, have plagued us.

I will miss the antique Victorian homes....lazy afternoon brunches at Connie's....The walks in Prospect Park. Rocky's Pizza....The reliable Chinese place that gave us an extra soda for delivery....That store called "Tis Da Season Too."...The sign over the paternity test clinic that asks "Does he really have his father's eyes?"...The way the light comes through our windows during the day....the predominantly Jewish car wash....

Dear Kensington, you are not all to blame. In the beginning...it was good. But it's time for a change. Ive found a place with friendly neighbors and a landlord that might as well be my third grandmother. Where the neighborhood has hardly changed since 1920. The streets are vibrant and cozy, sharing the bustle of the city life and the charm of a main street suburb. Polish groceries on every corner. Friends that live only a subway ride away.

There's even a dishwasher.

So, I apologize for any disappointment in this Friday's post; it's not so much of a flashback, as much as it's a flashforward. Hopefully, into a better future.

And no more fucking reggae.

FLASHBACK FRIDAY: "Unkosher", the Trailer

2010-04-23T13:10:00.010-04:00

Well....2006 is not that far back of a "flashback", so I may be cheating here a little. But I certainly have grown over the past 4 years, so I deem it fair.

Here it is, a trailer based on the self-documentary, the catalyst from which this very blog was formed....

"UnKosher," 2006
Director, Writer & Editor
Documentary, NYU Undergraduate Film

*This has also just been updated on my website, along with all my other film works. So, you know, if you want to continue to hear me toot my own horn, be my guest.

FLASHBACK FRIDAY: Matlock Corrupts My Youth

2010-04-16T17:11:00.011-04:00

I knew that would get your attention. I'm will be talking about Matlock, and how as a sweet little girl I was charmed by his elderly wit into committing a devilish deed; but first:

I have a new professional website. Thoughts? Concerns? Airborne tomatoes? (Whatever, this site is a helluva lot better than redirecting people to my film blog constantly. I need to grow up sometime, people.)

Speaking of growing up, I shall now continue doing the opposite, and tell you all a little tale for...

FLASHBACK FRIDAY
(the colors make it super-fun!)

As most of you might have already figured out, I wasn't very popular in school, and so even elementary days were tough to get through. This may have been completely inside my head, given that I was extremely shy and thought everything was my fault, but I'll opt to play the childhood pity card today.

I remember sitting in my 2nd grade art class doing some sort of sculpture and generally talking about things that probably seemed really important at age 8, but most likely weren't.

The two "most popular" girls - each with the same letter in their first names (birds of a feather flock together, especially the bitches) - were sitting across from me. "Popular" meaning: one had a training bra, the other an acting trainer. (I could say I had the training pants, but not sure of the bed-wetting timeline here...)

At some point during the conversation, things got ugly. I don't remember what we started arguing about, but it didn't matter: they were right, and I was stupid, ugly, worthless and, of course, wrong. After the two had thoroughly beaten my self-confidence into a quivering mass of worthless scraps, the familiar saltiness of tears began to resurface in my throat, while almost simultaneously my head fumed like Mt. Vesuvius. But which emotion to act upon?

I was tired of being the shy one, the easygoing one, tired of being put on the spot and then laughed at because everyone knew I wouldn’t do a thing about it. It was time to fight back.

Most people might turn to Jesus at times like these, but at home we had our own religion: television. Every night at dinner, we would all gather round the table completely ignoring eachother while we watched the small B&W TV mindlessly, entrapped within the world of 90210. One of dad's other favorites was "Matlock;" that rapscallion of a lawyer with his smart wit and snow white hair! He must have been the perfect role model for an 8 year old - after all, we had so much in common: we both wet the bed and were generally grumpy about life!

In that moment, when I was up against my vicious classmates, unable to defend myself, I thought, "WWM[atlock]D"? Earlier that week, Matlock had lost a case to some stuck-up lawyer, and he had felt the same sense of shame and anger. And what had he done? He had called him a jack-ass.

So I turned my eyes away from the girls, so the fear in my face was hidden, and muttered: jack ass.

They stopped talking. "What did you say?" they gasped in disbelief. At first, I was overcome with triumph! They would have never though to use such a clever word!

But almost immediately afterward my stomach nearly dropped to the ground. No second grader uses that word, because it's BAD.

Jack ass fail.

They were already telling the art teacher by the time I realized my fatal mistake. Once my homeroom teacher came back, I performed the walk of shame as I faced them both, hot-faced and ruined: all my exemplary elementary years (about 2 of them) flashed before my eyes in a taunting whirl. They were stunned at my language...I had never caused any trouble before. By the time word got around to my mother, I was done with the incident. I never wanted to talk about it again. It was a mar on my record, and it was only the beginning of a youth full of embarrassments.

The worst was that I had tried to stand up for myself, and yet still failed. I was the bad guy somehow. It appeared to me that keeping quiet was the safest way to get through life.

It took me a long time to learn that keeping the anger inside was like trying to hold in your shit. One of these days, it's bound to hit the fan. Nowadays I curse people off all the fucking time...it's become part of my daily language. And it makes me feel better.....sort of.

What else did I learn? That TV really does influence kids.
And don't trust lawyers; they're jackasses.

The Crochety Crocheter, (or the Pains of Getting Old)

2010-04-14T16:29:00.006-04:00

It's a gorgeous Wednesday: the sun is out, the temperature is fair, and instead of being stuck inside at work not really enjoying it all, I am sick in bed, really not enjoying it.

If my immune system were capable of answering me apart from waves of nausea and the secretion of more respiratory-blocking mucous, I would it address it as follows:

Dear Body,
Since when have I had allergies? Why do I feel like an elderly woman that will quite possibly fall and then not be able get up at any given moment?

This bit is getting a little ridiculous. I am 24 years old for god sakes. Let's not continue to be sour about the recent influx of pizza and lack of exercise over the past......year. We need to work together. And I need to get shit done.

Yours sincerely,
Tara (the brain part)

No one warned me that after 21, you literally lose 40% of your health. Where did my energy go? My immunity to nasty, body-invading elements? My ability to climb more than two flights of stairs without getting winded?

Sometimes I really believe that I am becoming an elderly woman. Suddenly the old taunts of "Grandma Tara" are coming true: and this time, it's not just about wearing a shawl everywhere and using phrases out of the 1920's. It's both physical and psychological.

When I started working my 10 hour + per day job, I realized that my ability to concentrate passed 8pm had diminished. So had my physical ability to say, stand up straight and finally, to actually stay awake. I started turning in for the night around 10:30/11pm.

By that time, most people my age haven't even gotten drunk enough to puke yet.

I can't even think about going out late on a weekday unless I want to be a zombie during work hours. And even 7 hours of sleep is not enough to burn the daily oil on. Ten hours of work is a bitch. And so am I, if I don't get my fucking sleep.

Like my lovely elderly grandma (who is nowhere near being a bitch), I have developed a plethora of aches and pains that I had once scoffed at when complained about by older folk. I'm quite certain I'm developing a hunchback from leaning forwards on my laptop all day, and my spine seems to forever be out of place and knotted into god-knows-what excruciating mess of deteriorating muscle. After just a day of walking a little extra than usual, my legs feel like rubber, and they chafe easily in cold weather. I can tell when it's going to rain, as my jaw begins to ache in remembrance of a previously painful wisdom tooth extraction.

Also, I now regret all those times I boasted that I had never felt a headache before. Because I have. And they suck. Best of all are the sinus headaches, which I've been having more and more with the onslaught of allergies. It's as if someone is trying to push a brick wall outwards from inside your face. Constantly.

I NEVER had allergies until last year. I had one bout with sinusitis and from then on my head become a ticking time bomb. At the slightest bit of congestion, I freak the hell out. It could just be a cold; OR it could be an infection that renders me incapacitated in bed, hiked up on antibiotics and having fever dreams with melting clocks. Over the past year and a half, I have feel victim to my sinuses three times.

Now, I'm stuck at home on a spring day afraid to even breath the air, since the record high pollen count has left my throat raw and my head heavy. I tried going to work yesterday, but felt as if there were cartoon-like putrid sick bubbles seeping out from my breath all day. I walked around as if I needed a cane and a couple of pills to make me lucid.

So today I decided to lay low and get the pollen demons out of me; although they are proving difficult to get rid of. I thought maybe I'd get some minor stuff done at home while I have the time; but.....no.

My body simply pines for the comfy bed, a cup of tea, and a Rosamunde Pilcher novel. Throw in some Advair and an over-sized flowery muumuu, and I'm ready to party like I'm 89.

FLASHBACK FRIDAY: More Zorts, Of Course

2010-04-09T22:40:00.013-04:00

Yes; it's time for more zorts.

If zorts (or as they are more formally called, zortians) are unfamiliar to you, then please refer to my past bloggentry (it's got a nice ring to it no?) concerning the origin and fascination behind these green little rapscallions.

I, unfortunately, cannot take all the credit for their whimsical creation (this entry is just so chock full of word goodies!). The talented Ed Emberley knew not what he created in these six-circled space creatures.

I promised I would dig up some of my old zortian doodles for your viewing pleasure. They were my escape during boring schooldays; I would use them for math sheets, word quizzes, note-taking reminders, and as characters in school projects.

Yes, I was a weirdo, but fuck you, zorts are awesome.

That said, welcome to...

THE WONDERFUL WORLD OF ZORTS

Fashion

Some early drawings of the zortian species. Like humans, they also enjoy being stylish. Apparently, wearing checkered clothing amongst sad Charlie Brown Xmas Trees is considered fashionable on Planet Zort.

Transportation

Wildlife

A woofler (sort of like a horse) dog..seen here sniffing zits. Yes, you read right.

The fwap...not as friendly as the woofler. Lets out a noise that sort of goes like this....

"FWWAAAAP!" Thus, its name.

Literature

When I was a bit older, I was moved to write stories about the creatures, utilizing my exceptional compositional skills.

At the beginning of the story, the Zorts meet a Rok, a most despicable creature that ironically becomes polite when you hit it with rocks. I wonder if this trick would work with New Yorkers.

The tall creepy birds are Gleeks. Like all gleeks you know, they like to sing awful musical theater and sulk around all the other cool aliens.

Further into the story, the zortians leave Planet Zort and encounter Planet Earth (of course) where they land on an island, enter a lighthouse and encounter a boy with a backwards cap. I've spared you the rest of the visuals. I'm sure you can imagine....

Commercialism

I was quite cheeky as a child. Not sure when I drew these, but I thought myself pretty clever.

Note my interpretation of early 90's GenEx fashion trends, and my bold, new ideas for selling toilet paper. Charmin, eat your heart out.

Careers

In middle school I continued to incorporate zortians into my life. This time, they helped me cope with the harsh transition from childhood to maturity. I wasn't about to give up without a fight. Years later, I'm still fightin'.

When finished with vocab quizzes early I would doodle on the paper, hoping to give my teachers a bit of humor and a break from the shittiness of dealing with moody, hormonal teenagers. Zorts were able to take on a variety of roles....

Technology

My 8th grade self being transported to the Planet Zort....accidentally.

Perhaps that's where I truly belong.

An Unscheduled Flashback. Deal.

2010-04-07T16:44:00.003-04:00

Sooooo, I haven't been writing very frequently these days. STFU, it happens.

It's been absolutely crazy at work, then there was Easter in Ohio, and when I DID finally get a moment to myself, it either didn't last very long, or my brain could not scramble together coherent words worth writing down; it would have sounded something like Bill Cosby talking whilst fully submerged in Jell-O.

That said, I've been unable to keep up with my Flashback Friday (I only lasted two weeks....this is not a surprise.) Each day I attempted to begin writing one to redeem myself, cleverly naming it with the use of the current day: Monday Memories.....Time Travel Tuesdays....

But alas, shit happens. So screw alliteration. It's a fucking Wednesday and I'm gonna talk about my childhood.

As you know, I love to reminisce, especially when I'm back in NJ, sifting through my treasure trove of junk, now piled carelessly in our attic after my room was taken over (thanks little sis!). This can also be described as my tendency to hoard massive amounts of childhood paraphernalia in an effort to cling to the past. Whichever romantic notion you prefer.

I do not shy away from sharing the great colored pencil masterpieces of my imaginative youth. They are the gentle reminders of a simpler life, where diner place-mats served as canvases, and people were drawn with no necks. Every idea seemed like a good idea. Like the time I wrote the label of every room in marker next to the light switches: cause everyone needs to be reminded of what room they're standing in!

Here a few gems I was able to dig up last weekend:

"Tara's Different Kinds of Cats," My First Book
I must have been at most 5 when I crafted this masterpiece. At least I hope so. I don't even know why I made this book about cats....I wasn't a big cat person. My guess is that I only knew about 2 kinds of dogs, but at least 5 different types of cats. They were also easier to draw.

This was followed up by "The Parrot and a Computer on a Stick," inspired by some interesting pencil tops.

"An Un-Ordinary Family," My First Script
When I was about 7-9 (the years are blurred here), I came up with what I thought to be the most groundbreaking and fantastic idea for a play/movie ever imagined: a kooky family with an uncle named Popie and an aunt who hoards cat food, and their general crazy shenanigans (gee, wonder where I got that idea...) My cousins Beck and Missy were giddy with excitement at the prospect of acting this out. We often put together our own plays to perform in front of the family.

This particular performance debuted at Missy's house alongside our other hit "Sometime's You're Gonna Get Hurt" (a musical, complete with a namesake theme song.) But "Unordinary" was different; this was gonna be big...like Hollywood big.

I started the script and tried to put together a production in 3rd grade (see my above announcement that was taped to our classroom door). This plan eventually fell through, since attention spans at that age are slim. Apparently, I assumed that all scripts were just a continuous stream of consciousness that took up three columns to a page.

"Return to Chewandswallow," One of My 1st Rip-Off Books
I say one of my first rip offs because the first one I wrote was actually based on a Full House episode where D.J. befriends a horse. I was so proud of myself, I brought it to class to show off (man, I was such an egotistical little first grader). Then one girl, who probably meant no harm at all, pointed out that she had watched that Full House episode the previous night too. Bitch.

Anywho, after my devout love of "Cloudy With a Chance of Meatballs," I decided that there should be a sequel. (They literally came out with one a few years later....but whatever.) The big deal here was that my mom taught me to sew the binding myself. I must have been tired after doing all that, which probably explains why the rest of the book was done so crappily. I prefer the laziness factor over the risk of being perceived as retarded.

"Personality T-Shirt," Take This As You Will
We had to make a t-shirt design that displayed our personality traits. Don't judge; it was 1996 for god sakes.

Jamaican Me Crazy!

2010-03-31T17:19:00.000-04:00

I am in the middle of a tumultuous love/hate relationship with my apartment right now. In all relationships, I suppose there are ups and downs. But I fear there is no compromise to be made on this one. The whole situation has become a prolonged agony; a torment between having to make a huge change that involves time, money and stress, or dealing with daily, nerve-wracking irritations that threaten a healthy, happy lifestyle.

Kensington ain't all its cracked up to be.....despite the obvious dinosaur.

I hate apartment hunting.

In the past six years or so, I have moved about....ehh.....I would say 10 times. This is a lot of schlepping, a lot of picking and choosing, a lot of money. And it seems that every time I move I end up spending more than I did last time.

I'm sick of it.

I thought that when I moved to Kensington, I'd be done. A place of my own....and in Brooklyn! (Elmhurst, Queens was not a happening place.) But no; yet again, there are problems...even worse than before, when it was just about space and location. Now it's a matter of sanity.

Let's review the pro's and con's of my Kensington abode....

PRO's (I'm not leaving the best for last, 'cause I'm eager to end loudly on the angry points)

Proximity to @ Prospect Park - it's only a couple of blocks away to trees, greenery and ducks
Proximity to Q Train - we all know this is the only reliable, true Express train
Over 700 sq. ft of room.....for all of our crap; ie, clothes, books, paperwork, somebody's eclectic record/DVD/CD collection, more clothes, more books......
Sunny - almost too much so, but I need my Vitamin D since I never get to see the light of day during 10+ working hours
Cheapo - $1200 a month is a good price these days for a place that doesn't resemble a dilapidated cardboard box

CON's
Neighborhood - though very mutli-cultural, there is not much to do for a twenty-something (who hardly gets free time in the first place). No one likes to visit "us all the way out here" (by the way: fuck you "no one"), and there are no restaurants that stay open passed 7pm....except for KFC. And we've relented on the fried chicken many times, much to the dismay of our bowels.

Landords - are useless. They smoke pot all day - which, whatever, I don't have a problem with - but if this keeps you from say, doing your job, then I would say it's a problem. Also, still waiting for him to fix the radiator which is emitting massive amounts of heat. We need to keep the window open and the fan on in the middle of winter just to breathe.

Cockroaches - they are in my sink. Their babies are under the coffee maker. They are dead in my toaster and their carcasses are hiding in my cabinets. Disembodied bug legs and antennae are causing us allergies. Cooking? What, so I can have some roach eggs in my soup? I don't think so.

We also had to chase a silverfish before it got to our bed. Do you know how fast those things are? It moves like a fucking cheetah on speed.....only with SIXTEEN LEGS. Yeah, not happy.

Mice - doesn't worry me too much. I think they are coming from the apartment below us, which leads me to my next crucial point....

Noise - this encompasses many things:

...the Jamaicans below us playing shitty reggae at all hours of the day AND night, which shakes our walls and floors, and beats repetitively under our pillows
...those same Jamaicans throwing things around their apartment as they SCREAM at each other at 7am. (I believe I've heard "No man can stand you!" and "Don't you touch him, he's only 8!", at which point I almost called child services.)
...one of their kids actually threatened to kill me while Ryan was home, then proceeded to taunt him through the floor by yelling, banging and BARKING as if in a drug-induced craze.
...and finally, the people next door to us playing shitty Gospel music, blaring through our kitchen, thus entrapping us within a bubble of bass-blasting misery.

*DISCLAIMER: the only reason I am calling them Jamaicans is a.) I don't know their surnames, and nothing else with which to identify them, and b.) they are, in fact, Jamaican. So, no I am not racist; I don't care who the hell they are, I just want them to shut the fuck up.

I just want a place that I can come home to after a long day of feeling completely exhausted, angered by commuters and frustrated with society, to just REST. Without having to whip out the Raid.....reel in agony over the digestive effects of take-out.....or stomp angrily on the floor whilst my entire body succumbs to the vibrations of the same goddamn notes of bongo drums EVERY SINGLE DAY!!!

I just want a place to call home.

As you might have already realized, I'm a little worked up about this issue. Finding a place has become both my dream and my secret hell, as all my sanity seems to both depend and hang on its balance.

So I ask, have you any advice?
Any leads? Any neighborhoods that I should grace with my unkosher presence?
(There's also a poll to the right if you want something short and sweet.)

Technical Difficulties

2010-03-29T18:50:00.000-04:00

After several attempts at writing today, Tara has continued to hit a brick wall. This, as you may imagine, has proved less than helpful, as brick walls to the head are quite traumatic.

Our apologies for the lull. Hopefully, after a good night's sleep and a slap in the face, the unkosher girl will be back in all her whining glory.

This Is Not About the MTA, Is It....?

2010-03-19T18:55:00.091-04:00

I have anger issues.

I realized this over the previous weekend after bitching out an MTA employee. Usually, I would maintain the belief that anyone who works for the MTA deserves this, as they seem to care nothing about anyone, and generally have no soul (except of course those guys who announce the stops like they're the radio jockey for Lite FM. Those guys got soul.)

But granted, they do work long hours and get screwed by the system (let us not forget the recent strike.) And this isn't my first time bitching someone out. Since I've started living in New York and grown some balls after a highly awkward childhood, I've had many a hot-headed encounter with persons of authority.

First there was the small incident of being reprimanded for unpacking my NYU dorm boxes from our family truck on move-in day. The police officer (or "traffic cop," which though sightly less intimidating is probably the most accurate) sternly instructed me to move our vehicle from the side of Water Street, as it was against standing room policy. I, dripping with sweat and already freaking out over carrying six large bins of crap up to the 15th floor (while mom complained about ridiculous amount of said crap) promptly began to yell my exasperated rant on the corner for all to hear:

"DOES IT LOOK LIKE I CAN MOVE THE CAR NOW??! NO ONE IS HELPING US, NYU COULD GIVE A CRAP ABOUT TRYING TO MAKE THIS EASIER AND THEY TOLD US TO PARK HERE. YOU CAN'T YELL AT ME! IF YOU HAVE A PROBLEM TAKE IT UP WITH THE DAMN SCHOOL!"

Needless to say, mom was quite startled that I had the gall to back-talk a police officer. He did leave us alone......but that's probably because he thought I was crazy.

The next time I flew off the handle, was in Ohio. Ryan and I had rented a car to drive back to NY with all his stuff (why do I always seem to be in the process of moving! No wonder I'm so stressed...) Everything was all reserved a month in advance and I was feeling dandy as we approached the Avis counter at the airport....until he informed me that my credit card was invalid.

Me: Why is it invalid?
Indifferent Employee: Because it's a debit card.
Me: Yes, but it's also a credit card.
Indifferent Employee: The system won't read it as such.
Me: Why didn't they tell me when I was GIVING MY CARD INFO OVER THE PHONE A MONTH AGO??!!!
Indifferent Employee: I don't know.
Me: I NEED THIS CAR TODAY! I have no other way of getting back to NY! How can I pay for it?! I can give you CASH-
Indifferent Employee: We don't take cash, only credit cards.
Me (to Ryan): Maybe we can use your mom's card for now....
Indifferent Employee: But she would have to be the one to drive the car if it's in her name.
Me: WHaaaAAAA???!!!^%(^&#*^)#$*@($)!#(!!!????

Cue ballistics.

In a slew of tears, swear words and most likely some crazy spastics, I chewed the indifference right out of that mofo. That's when he called airport security. Ryan, meanwhile, hid behind the counter and tried to forget he ever knew me.

You can call it rebellion, or PMS, or even temporary insanity. I call it lack-of-patience-cause-I-live-in-freaking-NYC. And yes, perhaps, I have a bit of a problem with managing my anger.

Can you really blame me though? After years of being so eager to please, the exemplary student that was just scraping by, I wanna get mad. If you push me, I'm gonna push back.

But I think that sometimes, things can get out of hand. And it's gotten to the point that my fuse goes off without me even thinking about, or realizing that I'm acting out of raw, raging emotion. My bout with the MTA is an example of that.

It was the night of the torrential downpour. It was 2am. We were tired and waterlogged. Luckily, we caught a Q and were making our way back to our lovely Kensington cockroach-infested abode. The Q stops at Atlantic/Pacific to this announcement:

"Due to a downed tree on the Q line, all service is suspended until further notice."

That's it? No other alternatives? No "sorry we're leaving you in the cold and rain tonight to fend for yourselves"? No sympathy for those who cannot afford a cab?

I was fuming.

After exiting the train, I marched right up to the MTA man in his reflective vest, a train attendant standing nonchalantly behind him in her sunglasses (?), and commanded him to tell me how the hell I was supposed to get back home if there were no freaking trains running to where I needed to go.

He looked at me with no emotion whatsoever and shook his head. "I don't know."

Damn I wish I could use the phrase "I don't know" for every single answer to god-knows-what!
"Do you know how to do your job?"
"I don't know."
"Well gee, sir, I'm sorry to trouble you with such a silly question; as if you'd know, wearing that shitty MTA yellow vest and everything."

If people don't think I know, they'll leave me alone! I bet this is what this guy was thinking. I wasn't settling for that.

"Where are you going?" he finally asked, once I wouldn't shut up. A crowd had formed around me: I was speaking for the masses!

"I need to get to Church Ave, the Q stop. To Kensington"
"You can take the IRT line."
"That WHAT? What are we in the fucking '80s? What the fuck are you talking about."
"The 1, 2, 3 line, number lines. Take it to Brooklyn College."
"Are you on crack???! That is nowhere near where I just told you I'm going!"
The woman behind him just stared on. I couldn't tell if she was just enjoying the show, or if she was in fact dead inside.

I stormed off, cursing and thanking him for being such an asshole. Ryan stared at me as if I had unleashed my inner She-Hulk. I had actually convinced myself that my confrontation was nothing more than an exasperated plead for advice. But, according to Ryan, it was more like raging-bitchtastic-spit-flying-tirade.

After sharing a cab ride home with a very nervous Jewish waiter/ex-personal trainer (which happened to calm me down a bit - I was upstaged by neuroticism) it finally hit me. I was uncalled for. I was out of control. I was angry. And it made me feel so awful inside, that I could turn into such a monster of a person. But I don't think it had anything to do with the MTA....but perhaps it did have to do with Authority.

So, wherever you are, sleepy-looking MTA employee. I hope that you can forgive me for my harsh behavior. Please don't throw yourself in front of a train: I'm sure you were just over-worked and pissed off by New Yorkers, like you are every day. Just like me.

FLASHBACK FRIDAY!: Wedding Bell Blues

2010-03-19T16:33:00.106-04:00

For my ongoing theme of planes, trains and automobiles within the history of the Strombergs, below is my mother's romantic recollection of her memorable wedding to my father, 24 years ago. It is a tale of Newark hitchhiking, creepy Poconos hotels, death-defying leaps, and the quirky beginning to our family.

*[My wisdom-infused comments in italicized brackets...to shed a modern light.]

Then night before the wedding, I traveled from Brooklyn to the then unknown [to me] territory of Newark, New Jersey to pick up Aunt Nancy from the airport. At the time I drove a 1 year old Hyundai. The plane was delayed and the terminal of arrival was changed, so sometime after midnight after riding around to find the other terminal (Newark was small and its terminals and roads not well indicated back then) I picked up Aunt Nancy, started home and probably due to the late hour or my stress level or poor driving I bottomed out on a raised concrete fork in the road where there was some road construction.

So there we were, trying to flag down some help in Newark, NJ, after midnight (remember no cell phones back then; three women, alone - one with bright red hair - in Newark). A noisy, battered-up, suspicious looking car pulled up to help, immediately followed by a much nicer sedan that pulled up to the side of the creepy car exchanged some words, and the creepy car drove off. Three off-duty policeman came out of the sedan to offer there help (lucky us).

They asked if I lived nearby. Nope, of course; I was from Brooklyn. "Can your Dad or Mon come and get you?" Nope, no Dad, and Mom doesn't drive. [Mom was only 25 at the time.] I explained the circumstances: I'm getting married in a few hours. My fiancee is out with his buddies (again the era of no cell phones).

Little did I know Dad was out with Uncle Robbie jumping off the Highlands Bridge at the time! [I guess this was their idea of a bachelor party. For his wedding, he had some nice barnacle-ravaged hands.]

Anyway, the very kind policeman helped calm me down (I was pretty upset) and took my bridesmaids to dinner, while one of them took me to rent a car and vouch for me (at the time a driver under the age of 25 could usually not rent a car). I rented a car, picked up the girls at dinner, and drove home to Brooklyn. Only about 6-7 hours left.

I showed up at my wedding in great rented car (Dad though it was wedding surprise ha ha.) We took the car to our honeymoon in the Poconos. We were traveling late at night in the fog and stopped for directions (remember no google maps, no cell phones...)
[Yes mom, I understand, we have it SO much better nowadays.]

We ended up at a deserted hotel in the process of construction (it looked finished). The doores opened when we entered, whereupon a security guard came up and asked us if we saw Joe (don't actually remember the name he asked). He didn't ask who we were or why we were there in an emplty lobby after midnight. We asked about lodgings, he said the hotel had not opened yet (eerily, we got in with no problem) He suggested a boarding house at the end of the main street, we thanked him. He seemed worried about Joe and took off looking for him. This gave us the creeps and Dad and I quickly returned to our rented car and headed toward a major highway.

Never knew what that whole thing was about. Sounds too much like film noir or Twilight Zone.

On the way home from the honeymoon while traveling through NYC, I needed to stop for gas and got off the FDR drive in Manhattan. After getting gas and looking for the entrance back onto the FDR drive through some side streets, a man ran out between two parked cars to catch a bus, running right into the passenger side of my car, striking the passenger windshield and side window. It was horribly frightening. The man had a huge bump on his forehead, like in the cartoons; it grew as we were tending to him. There was a hospital riight across the street, where he was treated.
He was released that day.
Ominous happenings, eh?
We got married anyway...with success."

As always with the Strombergs, even through the craziest of shenanigans, things tend to work out. Like me, for instance.

.....Although, I suppose this is open to interpretation.

3/23 Update
And just for the record, here is come clarification from my dad:

"The car was a Renault Alliance not a Hyundai...The Hyundai, I totaled running into a toilet bowl after going through the front of a house on Union Ave."

Thanks for clearing that up, dad.......Wait-what?

interrobang‽

Happy Haul-idays!

Sleeping Around

The Road to Zortopia Continues....

"Miss Rumphius" Audio/Visual Book!

Country Bandit Rides Again: Part 1 of 3

Well, This Is Awkward

Oscar, I'm Grouchy

Gaga, I Had You All Wrong

FLASHBACK FRIDAY: The Films of 2010, and How I Got There

A Valentine Memory

FLASHBACK FRIDAY: Love & Hammers

Here We Go Again....

Post-Production Update on Short Film

The Forgotten Art of Forgetting

On the Brain: Bloggers

Tara Aspires to Pterodactyl Status, Via Words

I Haz a Dream

Iz Be Famous!

In the Words of George Michael....

FLASHBACK FRIDAY: Moving Forward into Adulthood..for real this time

Mechanical Animals

Confessions of a Fake-Food Porn Addict

Hungarian Films Are Fun!

I Have Stooped to the Bloggies

I Don't Wanna Grow Up

A Poem For the Day After Christmas

Best of the Best

A Blog Swap Post

FLASHBACK FRIDAY: High School Blogging

This Week On the Brain: Writing

FLASHBACK FRIDAY: It's Christmas[Music]. All Over. Again.

The Zortians Are Coming....

In Which Some Cool Comics, the Black Swan & Matt Groening Serve As a Mirror Inward

FLASHBACK FRIDAY: Animalympics

You + Me = $500 Worth of Free Books

TARA'S UNKOSHER LIST OF BOOKS

So Crazy Japanese Toys!

ACME Catalog

Secret Lives of Great Filmmakers

The Doorbells of Florence

Olive, the Other Reindeer

America's Doll House

Secret Lives of Great Artists

Secret Lives of Great Authors

You Know You're a Writer When . . .

Writer's Workshop in a Book

The Writer's Toolbox

TCM Classic Movie Crossword Puzzles

The Indiana Jones Handbook

Hollywood Glamour Pack

The Star Wars Poster Book

Picture Show

Wookiee Cookies

What's Your Poo Telling You? Activity Book

Urawaza

Bedside Dream Journal

Curious Lists

Gratitude

The Egyptian Book of the Dead

52 Ways to Nurture Your Creativity

Drop Dead Cute

The 1000 Journals Project