Part one of the half hour original experiment now translated into pop music
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GXrRC3pfLnE
Friday, April 30, 2010
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
slutty, shameless celebrity crushes
beck
chris martin
andy samberg
jason lee
jimmy fallon
paul rudd
coming in at a close second,
jude law (used to be #1 until he aged)
sloppy thirds go to david beckham.
chris martin
andy samberg
jason lee
jimmy fallon
paul rudd
coming in at a close second,
jude law (used to be #1 until he aged)
sloppy thirds go to david beckham.
Friday, April 16, 2010
Drinking and Brazil
why do i drink? why did i move to brazil to be on a beach for 7 months?
i drink because i'm bored. i drink to bring out a more creative side of me. i do it because i like the way it makes me feel. i don't drink when i'm sad. i like who i am and i like to drink. is there anything confusing or complicated about that?
i didn't intend to go to brazil to sit on a beach. i never knew what i was getting myself into. i went to brazil because i'm impulsive. i require change because i find the most growth in change. changing anything! moving furniture around. changing jobs. changing friends. changing locations. anything different is a fertile ground for growth. i don't need to be "stable" but i need to be balanced. they're not the same thing. when i bought my ticket to brazil, it was an impulsive decision. i was dating this guy (a good friend, now) and we were planning to move to spain together. i was looking for programming jobs for him. well, one night, we got into a fight. at 5am, i impulsively bought a ticket to rio. i was like, fuck it. i'm leaving. and that's how it happened. i left myself two months to plan, to make some more cash so i could live there. i had bought a return flight so i wouldn't be trapped in brazil with no money, no way to make money. then i told all my hair clients i was leaving and scoured the internet for places to live.
i eventually found a house in a little surf town called "praia do rosa" on the south coast. the little place looked like a tree house. it was so hemmingway-esque. a breeding ground for creativity. i needed it. it became what i obsessed about. it was going to be my life. when i arrived, i landed in rio. from there, i had to take a 13 hr bus ride south, due to a flight being canceled. from there, i had to take a small bus to another town. from that small town, i took an even more rickety bus to praia do rosa. i thought, jesus christ. what am i doing here? i was in the middle of nowhere. never in my wildest dreams had i imagined being in that place. mountains and beauty, beach, cows, horse-drawn carts, little cars, poor people walking on the side of the highway, concrete storefronts with brightly painted signs, old men in shoddy bars in the middle of the day. it was all so foreign, for lack of a better word.
i tried to find work. i did. but working at a salon was fruitless. haircuts cost $5 in that town. i decided to budget and save my time for leisure instead of work. so that's what i did. i sat on the beach and did absolutely nothing for 7 months. i mean i did stuff. i started to learn to surf when the water was warm enough. i learned about brazilian culture through language, food, dance, music, television. i learned about the people, how to survive, how things work there. how to negotiate. i learned more in those 7 months than one can learn in any classroom.
and that's why i moved to brazil. yeah. i'm just now coming up with a reason.
The Story of My Marriage
well, my ex and i met and dated for 2 weeks, then he proposed and we were married 2 months later. we were in love. as in love as 2 people could be. our wedding was spectacular. he was the one.
after a year and a half, something happened. i started to not trust him. i don't recall what it was. then i looked through his email and found letters he had sent to an ex girlfriend just 3 months after we were married. the letters spoke of feeling lonely, of longing.... and her reply, respectfully was reminding him he was a married man.
i went ballistic.
we had it out and he wanted to separate. i fell to the ground like a child and clung to his leg begging him not to leave me. i promised myself i would never do that again. we separated for 5 months. in that time, i went to europe and fucked two guys (something i just recently got over. there has been a world of guilt on my shoulders regarding those actions). i also had a threesome with a female friend and some guy we dragged home from a bar. but i couldn't bring myself to have sex with him or go down on him.
so patrick emails me while i'm in europe and tells me he wants to be together again. i come home and live with him. a week later, he tells me he can't do it and wants a divorce. the song "these days" by nico will forever mark that week in my life.
the night he told me that he wanted a divorce, i broke. i called my best guy friend in SF and he told me to come live with he and his girlfriend, without even asking her. he just said come. the next day, i went. i lived with them for a month and managed to split them up. (i'm sure they had bigger problems than me living there). patrick and i were in no contact during that month, and then one day, i get an email. he can't live without me and wants to get back together. he moves up to san francisco.
we get back together and everything is beautiful again. we build a life. he works at the east bay express and i'm doing hair at one of the best salons in the city. he is in a cigar phase. i am making art. we are happy.
then, we get bored again. we decide we want a house. we miss our subaru station wagon and our two german shepherds. we decide the only way to get that back is to move to st. louis to be near his family, to start a family. mind you, we had unprotected sex for the entire 4 years of our marriage and i never got pregnant.
so we move. i become incredibly close to his entire family, his 3 brothers, mom, dad, cousins, aunt and uncle. we are a family. then something happened. i don't know what. i think he began to feel agitated that i couldn't find a job i liked. no salons were good enough for me. i couldn't build a clientele. he felt pressured to make all the money. with that resentment, he started spending more time away from home. i would cook dinner and he would come home and eat a bag of chips on his chest in a recliner in front of the tv. i would go buy a bottle of cheap chardonnay and drink it. so we grew apart. as i was going through art school, i rode my bike in the snow for 30 minutes each way. i worked part time at a hair salon then eventually worked at a gift shop wrapping gifts. i was so unhappy. my soul was sinking and i needed a way out. i was unhappy because i knew i couldn't stay in st. louis. i wasn't making friends, i didn't like the place, it was so out of touch with what i was used to. i needed progressive-minded people. i needed sushi, mexican food, an art community, the ocean, healthy people who understood me, who were moving forward, not just sitting at home getting fat with their fox tv and racism.
we ended up separating again. but i promised myself the first time, if we separate again, i don't think i can handle it. i don't want to have to convince my husband that he loves me or wants to be with me, which is what i felt i was doing. those two months were the unhappiest months of my life. i was alone. completely deflated, doubting the meaning of love let alone whether it existed. i drew the best drawing of my life. it was a 12 foot drawing of tiny lines, probably a millimeter long, each. there were waves, colors. it flowed. then i took a slide projector and some old slides and projected it onto this massive work. i traced flappers dancing, tourists walking around europe. it was gorgeous. i included it as a main piece in my final art show at the university. but all the while, i would call my close friends and talk to them about what i was going through. then one of my friends woke me up.
she said "REGINA, you are like a dog on a leash in the backyard. your owner has gone away and you are just waiting for him to come back. but he's never coming back. so just chew that fucking leash and get out of there". to this day, i am grateful for her. for waking me the fuck up and getting me out of that marriage. patrick is amazing. i have never met anyone as bright, intelligent, complex, funny, complicated, phony, gorgeous and impulsive as him. that's what i loved about him. but i had to leave. he wasn't working on "us" so i told him i wanted a divorce.
well, soon after our divorce was final, i saw him with a girl. i was with my roommate and we were walking across a crosswalk and some asshole was going through it. i looked up and it was patrick in OUR car with his new chick. i fucking lost it. it had only been 2 weeks! my friend told me it's not worth it. he's not worth my tears. i quickly sucked it up then of course thought all night about it, silently.
i was at work when he told me over the phone that our divorce was final. i took my russian friend and went outside to break down. she comforts me then says "you have 15 minutes. no more. no more tears after that". as if she were some sort of authority, i listened. i let myself go for 15 minutes then i stopped. she was right. at some point, i had to accept that my marriage was over.
i graduated from school and i didn't even walk. i didn't even do a final senior show like i was supposed to. i just submitted a video this art professor friend of mine made and pretended it was mine. i packed everything i owned into a car and drove back to san francisco.
patrick and i kept in contact for a while. he would call to see how i was doing. we would talk. but eventually i tired of the conversation. he used to take a shit while i was in the shower and now we're reduced to talking about the weather and how the family is doing? no. that's not enough. it's not real. but eventually he went his own way. he eventually asked me to stop contacting him. he got married to the emaciated, black-haired girl i had seen in the car with him. i haven't talked to him in probably over two years.
and that's the story of my marriage.
after a year and a half, something happened. i started to not trust him. i don't recall what it was. then i looked through his email and found letters he had sent to an ex girlfriend just 3 months after we were married. the letters spoke of feeling lonely, of longing.... and her reply, respectfully was reminding him he was a married man.
i went ballistic.
we had it out and he wanted to separate. i fell to the ground like a child and clung to his leg begging him not to leave me. i promised myself i would never do that again. we separated for 5 months. in that time, i went to europe and fucked two guys (something i just recently got over. there has been a world of guilt on my shoulders regarding those actions). i also had a threesome with a female friend and some guy we dragged home from a bar. but i couldn't bring myself to have sex with him or go down on him.
so patrick emails me while i'm in europe and tells me he wants to be together again. i come home and live with him. a week later, he tells me he can't do it and wants a divorce. the song "these days" by nico will forever mark that week in my life.
the night he told me that he wanted a divorce, i broke. i called my best guy friend in SF and he told me to come live with he and his girlfriend, without even asking her. he just said come. the next day, i went. i lived with them for a month and managed to split them up. (i'm sure they had bigger problems than me living there). patrick and i were in no contact during that month, and then one day, i get an email. he can't live without me and wants to get back together. he moves up to san francisco.
we get back together and everything is beautiful again. we build a life. he works at the east bay express and i'm doing hair at one of the best salons in the city. he is in a cigar phase. i am making art. we are happy.
then, we get bored again. we decide we want a house. we miss our subaru station wagon and our two german shepherds. we decide the only way to get that back is to move to st. louis to be near his family, to start a family. mind you, we had unprotected sex for the entire 4 years of our marriage and i never got pregnant.
so we move. i become incredibly close to his entire family, his 3 brothers, mom, dad, cousins, aunt and uncle. we are a family. then something happened. i don't know what. i think he began to feel agitated that i couldn't find a job i liked. no salons were good enough for me. i couldn't build a clientele. he felt pressured to make all the money. with that resentment, he started spending more time away from home. i would cook dinner and he would come home and eat a bag of chips on his chest in a recliner in front of the tv. i would go buy a bottle of cheap chardonnay and drink it. so we grew apart. as i was going through art school, i rode my bike in the snow for 30 minutes each way. i worked part time at a hair salon then eventually worked at a gift shop wrapping gifts. i was so unhappy. my soul was sinking and i needed a way out. i was unhappy because i knew i couldn't stay in st. louis. i wasn't making friends, i didn't like the place, it was so out of touch with what i was used to. i needed progressive-minded people. i needed sushi, mexican food, an art community, the ocean, healthy people who understood me, who were moving forward, not just sitting at home getting fat with their fox tv and racism.
we ended up separating again. but i promised myself the first time, if we separate again, i don't think i can handle it. i don't want to have to convince my husband that he loves me or wants to be with me, which is what i felt i was doing. those two months were the unhappiest months of my life. i was alone. completely deflated, doubting the meaning of love let alone whether it existed. i drew the best drawing of my life. it was a 12 foot drawing of tiny lines, probably a millimeter long, each. there were waves, colors. it flowed. then i took a slide projector and some old slides and projected it onto this massive work. i traced flappers dancing, tourists walking around europe. it was gorgeous. i included it as a main piece in my final art show at the university. but all the while, i would call my close friends and talk to them about what i was going through. then one of my friends woke me up.
she said "REGINA, you are like a dog on a leash in the backyard. your owner has gone away and you are just waiting for him to come back. but he's never coming back. so just chew that fucking leash and get out of there". to this day, i am grateful for her. for waking me the fuck up and getting me out of that marriage. patrick is amazing. i have never met anyone as bright, intelligent, complex, funny, complicated, phony, gorgeous and impulsive as him. that's what i loved about him. but i had to leave. he wasn't working on "us" so i told him i wanted a divorce.
well, soon after our divorce was final, i saw him with a girl. i was with my roommate and we were walking across a crosswalk and some asshole was going through it. i looked up and it was patrick in OUR car with his new chick. i fucking lost it. it had only been 2 weeks! my friend told me it's not worth it. he's not worth my tears. i quickly sucked it up then of course thought all night about it, silently.
i was at work when he told me over the phone that our divorce was final. i took my russian friend and went outside to break down. she comforts me then says "you have 15 minutes. no more. no more tears after that". as if she were some sort of authority, i listened. i let myself go for 15 minutes then i stopped. she was right. at some point, i had to accept that my marriage was over.
i graduated from school and i didn't even walk. i didn't even do a final senior show like i was supposed to. i just submitted a video this art professor friend of mine made and pretended it was mine. i packed everything i owned into a car and drove back to san francisco.
patrick and i kept in contact for a while. he would call to see how i was doing. we would talk. but eventually i tired of the conversation. he used to take a shit while i was in the shower and now we're reduced to talking about the weather and how the family is doing? no. that's not enough. it's not real. but eventually he went his own way. he eventually asked me to stop contacting him. he got married to the emaciated, black-haired girl i had seen in the car with him. i haven't talked to him in probably over two years.
and that's the story of my marriage.
Thursday, April 15, 2010
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
I aint bringin' that shitty ball home with me
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7cqOEr_yfak&feature=player_embedded
Romantic Language
Ever wonder why they call Latin languages "romantic"?
Let's begin with Italy. Remember that old black and white photograph with the woman being ogled by about 5 Italian men at once? Well, it's truth is one of the qualities that have kept it classic. I've been to Italy. They whistle. They cat call. They know no "subtle". They let you know that they are attracted to you. I had a conversation with a nice older man at his pizza place in Florence and we were talking about fidelity. He says, "yes, I have mistresses. But that doesn't mean I don't love my wife. I'm just realistic." I think about this statement for a few seconds. And it makes a little sense. But it's not romantic and it doesn't explain why the language is considered romantic. By the way, I don't support cheating. But if an open relationship is what it takes to live with your partner for the rest of your life, so be it.
Moving onto France...
Yes, it sure sounds alluring. I mean c'mon. I hear a French accent and my knees are weak. I imagine a man with sultry bedroom eyes whispering "I'm going to give you all the pleasure you can take" (only in French).
And what about Spanish? Well, I don't find the language attractive, but I have to say, I saw more gorgeous men per square mile in Spain than any place I have ever traveled, more than in Rio. And that's saying A LOT.
Then, then, there are the Brazilians.
The Brazilian men are supple and sexy, the language a cocktail of centuries of colonization. It's Portuguese, Dutch, African, German, Japanese and Indian. The softness and intonation is totally unique, sounding like a question is always being asked. But what makes it romantic, other than any other language, is how it translates.
In English, we say "I miss you". In Portuguese, you say "I am in deep longing", or "I feel your absence". In English, it's "I love you". In Portuguese, "I adore you". When you want to say farewell, you say in Portuguese, "I'm sorry for anything I have done, and thank you for everything". There is a Brazilian song who's words translate into "listen to my heart that beats to the rhythm of the drum of passion".
Nuff said.
Let's begin with Italy. Remember that old black and white photograph with the woman being ogled by about 5 Italian men at once? Well, it's truth is one of the qualities that have kept it classic. I've been to Italy. They whistle. They cat call. They know no "subtle". They let you know that they are attracted to you. I had a conversation with a nice older man at his pizza place in Florence and we were talking about fidelity. He says, "yes, I have mistresses. But that doesn't mean I don't love my wife. I'm just realistic." I think about this statement for a few seconds. And it makes a little sense. But it's not romantic and it doesn't explain why the language is considered romantic. By the way, I don't support cheating. But if an open relationship is what it takes to live with your partner for the rest of your life, so be it.
Moving onto France...
Yes, it sure sounds alluring. I mean c'mon. I hear a French accent and my knees are weak. I imagine a man with sultry bedroom eyes whispering "I'm going to give you all the pleasure you can take" (only in French).
And what about Spanish? Well, I don't find the language attractive, but I have to say, I saw more gorgeous men per square mile in Spain than any place I have ever traveled, more than in Rio. And that's saying A LOT.
Then, then, there are the Brazilians.
The Brazilian men are supple and sexy, the language a cocktail of centuries of colonization. It's Portuguese, Dutch, African, German, Japanese and Indian. The softness and intonation is totally unique, sounding like a question is always being asked. But what makes it romantic, other than any other language, is how it translates.
In English, we say "I miss you". In Portuguese, you say "I am in deep longing", or "I feel your absence". In English, it's "I love you". In Portuguese, "I adore you". When you want to say farewell, you say in Portuguese, "I'm sorry for anything I have done, and thank you for everything". There is a Brazilian song who's words translate into "listen to my heart that beats to the rhythm of the drum of passion".
Nuff said.
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
Thursday, April 8, 2010
only the most awesome thing i've seen all year.
http://www.dailymotion.com/video/xcv6dv_pixels-by-patrick-jean_creation?start=45
A Night At The Motel
There's value in getting a hotel instead of a motel. I'm not sure why I'm just now reminded of this, as I have traveled in some sticky locations.
So I get this motel. It's just for one night. I'm alone in my home town. I chose a motel close to the court I have to visit tomorrow and it seems good enough. It's just one night.
I walk into the room and immediately grab the corner of the bedspread with the tips of my fingers to fold it back. There is a large but faded blood stain on the white under-belly of the quilt, a small dead spider on the pillow. Normal?
I turn on the heater and go to take a shower. I turn on the faucet and leave it running, checking with my palm every so often for warm water. No hot water. So I go to the phone to call the front desk. No instructions on what to dial and I already tried 0 which continued to ring. So I walk to the front desk and tell them about the water. They guy comes in to fix the water. I sit at the edge of the bed, being careful not to touch the comforter I had moved to the side. The water problem is fixed. It was reversed. So the guy leaves and I take a hot shower while expecting someone to rip the curtain open and stab me with a knife. You know, like the scene in Psycho. I get out and for the first time, found out why motel towels can be useful. Exfoliation. They were so stiff I actually exfoliated my heels with them.
I plop on the bed sheets to watch The Office and I lean back, noticing pieces of my hair sticking to the headboard. And how did my hand become sticky? I just took a shower. It must be from the TV remote. Now, I'm pretty grossed out, knowing there is spankavision. I pull the bed spread completely off the bed. Back to back episodes of The Family Guy. Brush teeth. Sleep. Try not to imagine gun shots in between the echoing rants of Santa Maria teens after midnight.
So I get this motel. It's just for one night. I'm alone in my home town. I chose a motel close to the court I have to visit tomorrow and it seems good enough. It's just one night.
I walk into the room and immediately grab the corner of the bedspread with the tips of my fingers to fold it back. There is a large but faded blood stain on the white under-belly of the quilt, a small dead spider on the pillow. Normal?
I turn on the heater and go to take a shower. I turn on the faucet and leave it running, checking with my palm every so often for warm water. No hot water. So I go to the phone to call the front desk. No instructions on what to dial and I already tried 0 which continued to ring. So I walk to the front desk and tell them about the water. They guy comes in to fix the water. I sit at the edge of the bed, being careful not to touch the comforter I had moved to the side. The water problem is fixed. It was reversed. So the guy leaves and I take a hot shower while expecting someone to rip the curtain open and stab me with a knife. You know, like the scene in Psycho. I get out and for the first time, found out why motel towels can be useful. Exfoliation. They were so stiff I actually exfoliated my heels with them.
I plop on the bed sheets to watch The Office and I lean back, noticing pieces of my hair sticking to the headboard. And how did my hand become sticky? I just took a shower. It must be from the TV remote. Now, I'm pretty grossed out, knowing there is spankavision. I pull the bed spread completely off the bed. Back to back episodes of The Family Guy. Brush teeth. Sleep. Try not to imagine gun shots in between the echoing rants of Santa Maria teens after midnight.
Friday, April 2, 2010
tears of joy
today, i cried tears of joy. then i got to thinking, when was the first time i cried tears of joy? oh i remember. it was in the sixth grade. i had a boyfriend for two years(i was a serial monogamist even at that age) and he had a bouquet of flowers delivered for easter. the doorbell rang, i answered it and sitting on the ground was a small bundle of flowers. i knew they were from him, and being the first time i had ever received flowers from a boy, i cried.
today, it was a tv show. i was watching a travel show and the host goes to uganda. the way the tribe greets him is they jump and dance, all clad in their colored and jeweled attire, there they are, in their beautiful glory, DANCING. just to meet a new person. it touched me in a profound way, even though it was television. i imagined how magical it would be to go and be greeted with such passion, gratitude, genuine happiness. i couldn't contain my tears.
today, it was a tv show. i was watching a travel show and the host goes to uganda. the way the tribe greets him is they jump and dance, all clad in their colored and jeweled attire, there they are, in their beautiful glory, DANCING. just to meet a new person. it touched me in a profound way, even though it was television. i imagined how magical it would be to go and be greeted with such passion, gratitude, genuine happiness. i couldn't contain my tears.
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