Tara Aspires to Pterodactyl Status, Via Words

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 Have Stooped to the Bloggies

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.

‽

A Poem For the Day After Christmas

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

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

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.

This Week On the Brain: Writing

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.

‽

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

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

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):

• Official Corrsolla Robot Website
• Deviant Art
• Facebook 

‽

An Unscheduled Flashback. Deal.

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.

Technical Difficulties

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.

Pun in a Million! [::nudge nudge::]

My friend Phil* had an idea for a script once that was based entirely on the use of puns. He titled it, quite aptly, "Pun in a Million." (just thought I'd clear that up in case you thought I was trying to take credit for it. I'm not that clever guys!)

In reality, I've never been one to pun. I'll be the first to admit my jokes are pretty wamp-wah in nature, but I haven't sunk to the embarrassingly father-like humor of punnery; the kind your dad will repeat over and over again as his trademark line. Case in point, Daddy Stromberg: "You want some furniture, IKEA. You talk back to me, IKEA." (Har har har)

I notice a lot of blogs utilize paronomasia in their titles, which is mostly where the inspiration for "Goy Vey" was born. This is mainly the extent of my pun-ability. I often wonder if this was a bad choice....does this devalue my writing? Do I sound like I'm actually a glasses-wearing dork who secretly laughs at her own bad jokes?........Ahh, shit ::looks in mirror::

I guess I'm sort of a fan of clever puns that focus on grammatical wordplay, like these fine blogging gals:

∆ Hyperbole and a Half
∆ My Inflammatory Writ
∆ Some Whine With Cheese

I love goofing around with words. Ryan and I (and whomever agrees to join into our world of odd hobbies) love taking random strange and magnificent phrases we overhear or suddenly blurt out to be later used as band names and titles for our future-imagined book of memoirs. It's become quite a past time.

Most of the greats have been lost over time. So I've started writing them down in an effort to share their glory with others. So without further ado, here is the list (thusfar) of Memoir Titles/Band Names/Album Titles (What Have You)....

∆ "Sorry for My Greasy Napkin"
∆ "I Opened My Mouth and My Teeth Got Cold"
∆ "Boomerang of Knowledge"
∆ "Dancing for Whispers"
∆ "This Is What a Rainbow Sounds Like"
∆ "Express Walk to Harlem"
∆ "Johnny Depp's Sweat Stains"
∆ "Sexy Virus"
∆ "Always an Adventure at the Mic"
∆ "City Red"
∆ "Sweatin' in the Grocery Store"

Try it. Good times will be had by all.

To Be Brief, or Not to Be Brief

I will try to curtail this posting of the usual lengths, so as not to scare the faint of reading away.

Yes, I am talking to you! Thou who has not the time nor the desire to read through such wordy entries, which require so many tiresome scrolls and the squinting of red, bleary eyes into the throbbing, epileptic interlacing of thine computer screen.

Oh, how I cry for thee.

And I do. It's a lot to ask someone to read through my rants each day, pretending to give a hootenanny about my odd, childlike obsessions and musings on humdrum life, when there are many other non-Jewish girls out there, living in NYC and thinking that their day-to-day thoughts are just as worthy of being read. I'll be the first to admit that mine is not a remarkable status.

This blog (among my others - I could never do anything in small doses) was created for the purpose of....

a.)....having a creative outlet that is both easily accessible and less intimidating than putting a pen to paper
b.)....keeping memories from fading from my aging mind
c.)....putting a fire under my ass - the best way to get things done is to threaten oneself with potential public failure.

However, I would be remiss to not admit that of those three reasons, there is a wee little part of my humble mind that would love for other people to be reading. To enjoy. To show that they...care, perhaps? This might stem from a deeply seeded unfulfilled childhood need for self-worth, OR, it could just be that I'd like to have people that find some worth in my writing, aside from my selfish reasons. If you'd like to leave a thought or share that you've read, it just makes me smile a little extra.

But I could never take advantage of this ability to share my thoughts with others to enforce my writing upon then. Do with it what you will. Take it or leave it.

And that said, for those of you who insist that what I write is too much for you to spend your time reading. Well...thou art lazy. But I can't hold it against you. I'm just not going to be changing my habits anytime soon.

Or should I? That is the question: do I forsake my long-winded nature to appeal to the masses? Or do I stay true to my words and blow a raspberry into the faces of those who'd rather not give me the time of day?

To whomever is out there, audience/loyal reader/avid writers/passing curious-eur.....if there is indeed anyone (let's not be cocky and presume here, folks)......as you come to the end of this not-so brief read.......what is your opinion on this question of brevity?

Delusions of Grandeur

In March 2008, I visited Los Angeles for the first time to interview people for an A&E Biography on Winona Ryder. I was extremely excited. I'd never been to the West Coast, and I was going to finally see the legendary Hollywood! The Film Frontier! City of Dreams! I am not a stranger to naivety, but I was perplexed by what I actually found. The city was glum, overcast and rainy, with a chill in the air, which certainly didn't help. Driving around, it felt like a ghost town: no one was out walking, the buildings boxy and dull. The colors were bright but seemed muted by loneliness, as if we were making our way through a vast, abandoned movie set.

The Kodak theater had already begun to set up for the Oscar ceremony. Tents and red carpet lined the street. But there was no excitement, no kinetic energy, no passion. I felt as if I was playing a game, that this wasn't really Hollywood, we were just pretending it was. I could walk up to the and push over building facade like a piece of cardboard. And in my eyes, that's all that Hollywood seemed to be: a dying illusion.

***

Where is everybody?

I have taken a bite out of the Oscar noms [nom noms].

Normally I would be very excited about the Oscars, but over the years, my anticipation has dwindled substantially. Like every rare-yet-memorable tradition (Christmas, birthdays, lunch at McDonald's), the Oscars were a welcomed treat in my family. At least, for my mom and I, it was our Super Bowl. It was the only time of the year that....

a.) we were allowed to stay up until 2am
b.) total control of the remote was relinquished to us from dad (and thus no skipping through commercials!)
c.) we could eat entire cans of pringles and make cheese nachos, whilst on the couch, whilst in pajamas...

..and lastly, that I could immerse myself in the glitz and wonder of Hollywood. Hilarious things happened at the Oscars, things that (before the internet world) you simply couldn't miss seeing firsthand. Billy Crystal as Luke Skywalker! Whoopi as the Queen of England! Roberto Benigni jumps over chairs to accept Oscar!

By age 9 I was convinced that I could become history's youngest Oscar host. I would arrive in one of our crappy Stromberg fixer uppers on wheels, wearing an exclusive TJ Maxx ensemble. James Earl Jones would come out with a bunch of yellow pages to prop me up high enough for all to see. (Ah, a child's humor.)

But it wasn't just the hype and the entertainment value of the Oscars that left a kid like me in awe. I just loved movies. My parents had brought me up on a healthy diet of Bugs Bunny & The Twilight Zone, cartoons like Animaniacs & The Simpsons, which parodied some of the greatest films ever made. Even though I hadn't seen most of these classics, I already knew them so well somehow. Granted, I had a long way to go. But Spielberg, Burton, Lucas and Orson Welles were common vocabulary during my childhood . I worshiped them. They did what I longed to do; write amazing stories, envision them onscreen, and convey that vision to the world.

However, what was hidden to me were the politics of the whole biz. The fact that this was a film "industry", and that not everything was as magical and wondrous as it appeared. Cynical as it may sound, I'm sure everyone can agree that money runs the show. And while many are often rewarded for creativity and filmmaking prowess by the Academy, there always seems to be a hidden agenda as well. I knew about Spielberg and Burton for a reason. And there were many other movies, other directors, other writers, completely other realms of film that I had not even begun to explore.

Now that I'm older (though not exactly wiser), and have attended a film school divided amongst the pretentious (who think that the Oscars are simply a joke, a dog-and-pony show for manufacturings of the industry mill), the enthusiasts (for which Spielberg, Scorsese and all epic filmmakers reign), and those who are in-between/uncertain/tolerant.

I'm not sure what category I fell into, since all of these new realizations scared the shit out of my naive mind. I just wanted to make movies...or so I thought. What did becoming a filmmaker mean?! Would I have to sell out? Or would I have to give up my love for those movies that were now deemed "cliche"? I was afraid that I would never be able to honestly like a film again. I would be labeled! classified! ridiculed!

As a child, I thought everyone equally respected movies; all movies. I thought celebrities were figures of prominence, success. I believed that the union of moving image and music and performance was an art form - was a superior art form - that when experienced could evoke joy, resolve conflict, bring people together, move them to tears. I wanted to be a part of that, share in that moment of creation and be responsible for changing people's view of the world.

Now, I find myself confronted by a big brick wall. On the other side, a machine that is fueled by money, fame and thousand of egos. How can one scale this wall? And once you do, how can you be sure that you're doing it not out of a delusional hunger for fame and acceptance, but from the sincere passion to create something of meaning?

Weekend Enlightenments (or "It's About Damn Time Ya Blogged!")

Lots of things happened this weekend. And since I'm too far behind on my blog in general, (and I very much enjoy lists) I will quickly run through the highlights, in no particular order, and possibly provide an explanation when I deem it necessary:

∆ Amazing Mexican food at Taco Chulo in Williamsburg
Let it be known that I am not a taco fan: at least not a taco that has anything more than the stapled meat, cheese and tortilla ala powdered flavoring sauce. But my steak quesadilla combo, with Chihuahua cheese & onions ($14) came with an amazingly spicy tortilla soup (better than chicken noodle!) and a sweet, tomato salsa (I don't even like tomatoes!)
Of course, the Mexican hot chocolate aperitif won me over from the very start.

∆ The realization of two new great memoir title ideas:
- "Sorry for My Greasy Napkin"
- "I Opened My Mouth and My Teeth Got Cold"

∆ Pretty sure the movie "The Happening" is tongue-in-cheek.
I know Mark Walberg is a bad actor....but here is no way that he could be THAT bad without some purpose. (Either I over- or under-estimate his potential.) Those fishbowl perspective shots, the ridiculousness of the story, and the hilarity of the dialogue are very telling of an albeit forced parody, not just a "horrible movie."
Did that make it more more enjoyable, and hence good? Well I did laugh my ass off. (C'mon, that crazy woman at the end had so many good one liners, ie; "Why are you eyeing my lemon drink?").
I just wonder if Shyamalan really meant to pull our leg.

∆ NES Games had awesome music.
The game "NARC" let's you blow up drug dealers, limbs flying everywhere, whilst you listen to this awesome music. Other than that, I still maintain that after 15 minutes, I lose all interesting in playing any video game.

∆ John Goodman was in "C.H.U.D." ('84)!
(Presumed eaten by cannibalistic humanoid underground dwellers on Kenmare & Lafayette, which still has the same small diner marquee, now a Mexican food hotspot.) Daniel Stern and John Heard also acted alongside eachother, then were reunited in Home Alone. Great film to see the grimy evidence of SOHO before its fashion gentrification - I feel like this should be a double feature alongside Street Trash.
Another little nipplet of knowledge: (you'll understand my shitty pun in a second...) On the DVD Extras menu, click on the flashing cursors over the creature's eyes and you'll get to see the shower scene in all its topless glory. Don't judge; everyone enjoys boobs.

∆ Ft. Greene has KICK ASS apartments!
Slanted roofs! Turrets! Towers! Bay windows!
Williamsburg has lots of condos.......with no one in them.

∆ Something in the world of Chat 'n' Chew has cha-changed....
Their fries are no longer seasoned. They serve brunch (or did they always? I never do get outdoors by 12pm), and they have a new dessert fridge...not that I'm complaining that they have more room for cake. And the mac 'n' cheese is still delectable and gut-busting.
What will I miss most? The cute 50's-ish, retro diner paraphernalia decor. No more decrepit tin Coca-Cola signs or vintage toasters...where have they gone?! And more importantly, where can I buy them?

∆ John Carpenter's student film "Dark Star" is sort of boring.
Funny? Sometimes. The giant beach ball alien was the best part, but alas, deflated early on.
However, I bet as a student film it was pretty awesome, considering the special effects used to recreate the 2001-esque setting.

∆ They may have changed Domino's pizza sauce, but their cheesy bread still rocks.
And in case you're wondering this is the same day of the mac 'n' cheese. Hence, my weekend cheesy-carb diet.

∆ Isabella Rossellini is in "Death Becomes Her." And she is HOT.
Something I probably didn't quite get at age 10 while watching it on Channel 11's Sunday Night Movie.

∆ After cleaning my closet out for the first time in 5 years, I was able to stuff 6 large shopping bags full of unwanted/never worn/worn out/shrunken clothing away from my wardrobe forever.
Beacon's Closet credit price: $12.50.

>sigh<

Childhood Revisited...again...

In lieu of the new trailer that just came out for Spike Jonze's film adaptation for, "Where the Wild Things Are," (which looks amazing since they decided to knock off the CG character attempts), and the upcoming 3D animated, "Cloudy With a Chance of Meatballs" (which, I already fear, looks atrocious), I have compiled a list of children's books to celebrate those wonderful stories and illustrations that I have cherished so much over the years. And will continue to, no matter what my age.

My mom is the one I should give all the credit too. She always encouraged me to read early, and to appreciate the many facets of a good children's book. Just because it was meant for the young, doesn't mean it didn't have artistic value. To this day, she refuses to throw out or give away any of her favorites.

For awhile I thought about being a children's book author or illustrator, and had a couple of pretty good attempts. I think my firsts were "Tara's Book of Big Cats," and "The Parrot and Computer on a Stick"......I was four, it was forgivable...

So, without further adieu, here is yet another venture into the past!

Tomie DePaola
Strega Nona The Legend of the Indian Paintbrush The Popcorn Book, Pancakes for Breakfast

-Back in the days of being a little tike, this guy was what I considered a celebrity. I actually got to wait on line and meet the author himself, and I still have my autographed books. Strega Nona was a great way for mom to harp on my Italian lineage.

Allen Say
Tree of Cranes, My Grandfather's Journey, The Boy of the Three-Year Nap
- My mom's favorite author...or one them anyway (you'll come to find that there were many.) Note to self: trying to make paper cranes for mom's b-day...actually very difficult. Buy book instead.

Chris van Allsburg
Jumanji, The Polar Express, Two Bad Ants
- Not many people know about Two Bad Ants. That is sad. I would read this over and over again. I think this is what fueled my desire to constantly play with real ants, while subjecting them to adventurous situations that for an actual tiny ant, were probably incredibly harrowing and dangerous. Like leaving one floating on a packing peanut in the middle of my kiddie pool, with only a cookie crumb for survival. What? He was going on a trip.

Jan Brett
The Mitten. The Wild Christmas Reindeer
- My mom always said that the one thing she wanted was for Jan Brett to illustrate Hans Christian Anderson's "Snow Queen."

Alexandra Day
Carl's Christmas, Carl's Masquerade
- They were only picture books, but the illustrations were pretty and the story touching. A baby and her dog...the tame precursor to Buttons and Mindy.

Maurice Sendack
Chicken Soup With Rice, Where the Wild Things Are, Little Bear, Pierre
- I too, could eat Chicken Soup on a crocodile along the Nile, but I'd rather it have noodles. Also, Wild Things....creeped me out. My mom loves it though.

Lane Smith
The Stinky Cheese Man and Other Fairly Stupid Tales, The True Story of the Three Little Pigs
- (No, not the same Lane Smith from Lois and Clark.) These books were all the rage at the Harmony Elementary School book fair.

Satoshi Kitamura
Angry Arthur, When Sheep Cannot Sleep, U.F.O. Diary
- Where do I begin? This artwork was my first intro to Japanese art. My mother, of course, was the one who first became hooked, and we would turn every night into Woolly Lamby's sleepless journey. Angry Arthur, however, had by far the best story and the craziest illustrations I'd ever seen. Think Terry Guilliam meets Miyazaki. Seriously. Go get these books. Then you'll realize why I am the way I am. And if anyone can buy me UFO Diary, since my copy was destroyed in a terrible bed-wetting accident...please. My inner child would once again be at peace.

Janet & Allan Ahlberg
The Jolly Postman books
- Even fairytale people need the postal service. And now you are privy to all their private mail! Seriously, this was cool; you could open letters within the book and read stuff. There was even a Tom Thumb pull out brochure!

Stephen T. Johnson
Alphabet City
- Ahh. I loved New York even then.

Gerald McDermott
Raven: A Trickster Tale from the Pacific Northwest, Arrow to the Sun
- The illustrations in Arrow to the Sun are pretty dyno-mite. I mean look at the cover, it was like tripping on LSD.......only for children.

Jon Stone
There's a Monster At the End of this Book
- Your furry pal, Grover, and his illogical fear of danger. Quite the psychological twist.....the monster is HIM! First copy was the victim of our washing machine (don't ask how it got in there.) But luckily, we found a new one at the dollar store.

Joanna Cole and Bruce Degen
The Magic School Bus series
- My favorites were the weather subjects, and when they went into Arnold's stomach after he ate too many carrot flavored crunchies and turned orange. The PBS series was just as engaging, but it didn't have the cool notes that were always on the side of each page.

Jerry Pinkney
The Talking Eggs: A Folktale from the American South

H. A. Rey
Curious George
- Oh that George! Always getting into mischief. Luckily, he's so darned cute, which wouldn't be the case if he was drawn to look like a real monkey.

Ed Young
Lon Po Po: A Red-Riding Hood Story from China

- Creepy. Fucking. Cover.

Arnold Lobel
Frog and Toad, Fables
- Another story of two friends that is just s darling, it makes my eyes foggy.

Eric Carl
The Caterpillar, Pancake, Pancakes
- What can I say? I just really like pancakes.

Ludwig Bemelmans
The Madeline series
- "In an old house in Paris, that was covered in vines, lived twelve little girls, in two straight lines." Ms. Clavel's nun habit and her "something is not rights" were a little freaky, but I liked that when Madeline got her appendix out, she saw a crack in the shape of a rabbit on the ceiling. Things only a kid would notice.

Lois Ehlert
Eating the Alphabet
- This colorful, Eric-Carl-esque book about veggies and fruits taught me many things about food that I never knew, like there's such thing as a "Starfruit," and a veggie called "Radicchio."

Felicia Bond
Four Valentines in a Rainstorm
- I don't know why I liked this book. I think it was because it was a small sized book. I always had a small book fetish. But it was a cute story, where animals were given valentines. I could never remember the name when I went to the library to find it over and over again.

Ezra Jack Keats
The Snowy Day, The Trip, Whistle Willie
- My mom's favorite book was The Snowy Day, and we had this VHS tape about Ezra himself, with a video board of each story. The Trip was the coolest, with weird music and a Halloween theme. It inspired me to make my own shadowbox, and did the same for my little sister , Lili, ten years later.

The Velveteen Rabbit
- I would purposely avoid this book so I wouldn't get upset. This story always made me cry, especially when they have to burn the toys, and the rabbit cries when his boy forgets him. (WTF?! kids are reading this, and now you've scarred them for life)It reminded me of my brother's attachment to his polar bear, Bo-bie.

Judi Barrett
Cloudy With a Chance of Meatballs, Return to Chewandswallow
- Food falls from the sky! It's a great concept; grandpa tells his kids the story of the land of Chewandswallow, where the weather is edible. And guess what's in it.....a giant pancake!!!

Shel Silverstein
The Giving Tree, Where the Sidewalk Ends
- I can still recite "Sarah Cynthia Sylvia Stout" in her refusal to take the garbage out. The drawings in this book are out of this world, but I remember some hard-ass parents tried to get this banned cause they showed *gasp* a naked derrière! (As if we didn't see one EVERY DAY.) But the best of his works is definitely, "The Giving Tree," which is a story that still brings a tear to my ear.

Graeme Base
The Eleventh Hour
- Okay, this was the coolest book, and let me tell you why: the story was a "Whodunnit" mystery, but in order to figure it out, you had to follow the clues that were masterfully hidden into each page, within the ornately drawn borders, in the form of images or numbers. The drawings themselves are exquisite, so you won't mind reading over and over again. My mom would not let me open the sealed packet in the back that explained each clue and ultimately led to the solution, but after awhile I had to. Base spins a curious web....

Robert Kraus
The Spider, Fly and Ladybug series
- Simple drawings, but you ain't never seen a cuter spider. And of course, the fly is an asshole.

William Steig
Sylvester and the Magic Pebble, The Amazing Bone
- For anyone that has not read these books yet, it is a MUST, no matter what the age. Sylvester gets turned into a rock, a pig finds a bone that talks...and the best part is my mom used to read them to me with different voices for the animals.

Gertrude Chandler Warner
The Boxcar Children
- The first book was the best. They lived in a boxcar! That's awesome!

Vera B. Williams
A Chair for My Mother
- A cute story. And it was on Reading Rainbow!

Munro Leaf
The Story of Ferdinand

Alice & Martin Provensen
A Visit to William Blake's Inn: Poems for Innocent and Experienced Travelers
- My first introduction to the word "marmalade."

Peggy Parish
Amelia Bedelia
- Hahah. She tried to make a sponge cake with an actual sponge. So silly.

Marcia Brown
Stone Soup
- Hahah, they tried to make soup with stones.........Oh wait, that actually worked.