What is the deal with traffic? I can not understand why people constantly have to slow to look at the most mundane of things - a broken down car, a parked tow truck waiting for a call, some smooshed roadkill, etc. It's not even like it's a fender bender or a lunatic wandering in the street? You would think people would be wanting to get on their merry little ways and keep the flow of traffic moving, but no, our society of gawkers is astounding. Do people just think that pain, death or anxiety in others is worthy viewing material? It's like a form of crack to driver's, they can't help but to stop and look, hoping to spot broken glass, a trail of blood, or a fist fight that might break out at any moment. They seem to view all things stopped on the side of the road as a potential accidents or tragedies that will fuel their water cooler chatter for the day.
They don't care if someone is hurt or if they've slowed to a stop for two seconds,inadvertently creating a 3 hour traffic jam at that very spot they stopped to view an abandoned car. We are a collective of selfish people, subconsciously seeking out things out of the ordinary for our typical lives because it gives us a sense of relief that we're not the person in trouble or hurt, but an objective viewer that can revel in the grief or frustration of others without being directly effected.
We want to view hardships other then our own, not live them, and stopping to spot things on the side of the road helps us accomplish this goal, even at the cost of sitting for 2 hours moving an inch every 5 minutes to achieve this goal. It is so sad what types of people our social environment has turned us into. So I ask you, dear readers, if you see something on the side of the road, and it doesn't have a blinking orange arrow or red flames directing you to move to another lane, just keep driving...keep the flow of cars proceeding to their destinations unhindered by brake lights.
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
Monday, July 19, 2010
My Birtdhay Wish
Hello Everyone,
I am one of those people that really hates being the center of attention, having all eyes on her, so celebrating a birthday is pretty scary to me. Having everyone around you, wanting to celebrate in me turning a year older, it's a daunting conscept. But when you have amazing friends, parties can be fun and the people you're with, help you not realize the extra grey hairs you've aquired or the little more pug to your midsection. They remind you of the good times and the crazy times you had with them in the past and share in new memories to be remembered. So for this birthday, I would like every single one of you that reads this page, as your present to me, to leave a comment. You can write whatever you want: a single letter, an expletive, a poem, a short story, gibberish, your name, etc. Just leave me something so I know you care. I love creativity and gifts that come from the heart. I know that almost everyone who will visit this blog today will visit it because I asked them to, so follow through with my wishes and leave me a "comment" of anything, as long as it's not two simple, but unoriginal words of, "Happy Birthday." Anything but those words. And thank you ahead of time for your best wishes.
I am one of those people that really hates being the center of attention, having all eyes on her, so celebrating a birthday is pretty scary to me. Having everyone around you, wanting to celebrate in me turning a year older, it's a daunting conscept. But when you have amazing friends, parties can be fun and the people you're with, help you not realize the extra grey hairs you've aquired or the little more pug to your midsection. They remind you of the good times and the crazy times you had with them in the past and share in new memories to be remembered. So for this birthday, I would like every single one of you that reads this page, as your present to me, to leave a comment. You can write whatever you want: a single letter, an expletive, a poem, a short story, gibberish, your name, etc. Just leave me something so I know you care. I love creativity and gifts that come from the heart. I know that almost everyone who will visit this blog today will visit it because I asked them to, so follow through with my wishes and leave me a "comment" of anything, as long as it's not two simple, but unoriginal words of, "Happy Birthday." Anything but those words. And thank you ahead of time for your best wishes.
Monday, July 5, 2010
Fireworks and Port-o-Potties.
You know when you go to large events and there are always real, in-a-building-type bathrooms, and then there are always a wall of port-o-potties set up somewhere near the real bathrooms? When Robby, myself and a group of our friends went to the 4th of July fireworks event at the Santa Barbara beach yesterday, we had to decide which of these lovely facilities to use. Yes, there were 20,000+ people weaving themselves in and out amongst everyone else, blocking your way by walking at a snails pace or randomly stopping to stare at a shit kicker of a Chihuahua, making it so your anticipated annoyment at waiting in a line for a port-o-potty that much worse.
We had been closer to the building bathrooms first and as we approached its beige walls and murky yellow lighting, we noticed something equally disturbing, a line of women milling about out, starting from the entrance, extending down the pathway to the sidewalk and hooking a right, ending further down the street. The boy's side wasn't much better. I looked at Robby, "Hell no," my head indicating the line of women and then pointing towards the second bathroom option for the evening, "Scary X-file port-o-potty's it is." 15 yards to the right of the amazingly long Women's bathroom line was the start of the port-o-potty line, but this line was different.
Upon approaching the tall gray shit houses that make you cringe every time you touch the sides, there was chaos. One large line that we'd originally seen from standing by the real bathrooms was for the wheelchair shit box only. Apparently most people were willing to wait for the large port-o-potty because they wouldn't have to touch anything except the door and the floor and it looked more conducive for the people with little children. Sadly, I wonder what would happened if some one in a wheelchair actually rolled up to the box, would they have first priority to line jump or would they have to wait like everybody else?
Once we managed to make it past the wheelchair line, we were immersed in the chaos. 15 port-o-potties all with their own version of a line, either a group of people waiting for a couple shit boxes or people standing in front of one single box. Robby and I chose to be behind the line that was attached to one shit box rather than multiple because there is always the chance of getting cut when you're in the multiples lines. Yes, it's sad and petty, but if you're going to wait for 15-20 minutes to use a smelly and untouchable toilet, you don't want to be cut by a random Joe Blow that has just walked up. It's not fair and it really urks me. Can you just imagine a lovely cat fight over a port-o-potty, two women flipping their hair back, raising their index fingers to shake, and preparing their, "if looks could kill," stares? Not pretty for the two people involved, but most likely great entertainment for the rest of the people waiting.
Anyhow, the two port-o-potties that Robby and I happened to stand in front of were the mysterious, never opening port-o-potties. Every box around us, doors opening and closing, people coming and going, mostly rubbing hand sanitizer between their palms upon exiting, but the doors in front of us remained closed. Two Asian Women showed up next to me and started talking in broken English about the slow people in the Johns we'd stood in front of. I don't know why they were complaining, they'd only been standing there 3 minutes, but it was funny. We all kept wondering if someone was actually in them, I even joked that the x-files monster managed to survive the past ten years and was current active in Santa Barbara, but when I knocked, I was rewarded with a grumble, so yeah, the guy just got lost, not eaten. A mid-thirties drunk man appeared on my left and slurred out, "Man, did we choose the slowest ones or what?" he looks at me for confirmation, "Yes, I think they fell in," an old saying of my Dad's. The guys tilts his head and then nods, "yeah, yeah, that's a good one."
One of the shit boxes next to the never opening ones, was free and Robby, then I, grabbed it. After I finally got to go and was exiting the stuffy little box of crap, I saw one of the Asian women still waiting and I asked her if someone had come out. "Yes, a man came out." I was equal pissed that I didn't get to see what the guy that lived in the port-o-potty looked like and equally happy I didn't have to use the shit box that someone had previously occupied for 15 minutes or longer - I think it was occupied before we showed up to wait. Advice for going to one of these events in the future: either try to hold it, invest in a funnel, or just knock over the never opening shit box because it's way more entertaining then standing around out front waiting and you just might forget that you need to go through all your laughter (or you just won't care that you don't have to go anymore if you know what I mean.)
With that, I hope everyone had an enjoyable 4th of July.
We had been closer to the building bathrooms first and as we approached its beige walls and murky yellow lighting, we noticed something equally disturbing, a line of women milling about out, starting from the entrance, extending down the pathway to the sidewalk and hooking a right, ending further down the street. The boy's side wasn't much better. I looked at Robby, "Hell no," my head indicating the line of women and then pointing towards the second bathroom option for the evening, "Scary X-file port-o-potty's it is." 15 yards to the right of the amazingly long Women's bathroom line was the start of the port-o-potty line, but this line was different.
Upon approaching the tall gray shit houses that make you cringe every time you touch the sides, there was chaos. One large line that we'd originally seen from standing by the real bathrooms was for the wheelchair shit box only. Apparently most people were willing to wait for the large port-o-potty because they wouldn't have to touch anything except the door and the floor and it looked more conducive for the people with little children. Sadly, I wonder what would happened if some one in a wheelchair actually rolled up to the box, would they have first priority to line jump or would they have to wait like everybody else?
Once we managed to make it past the wheelchair line, we were immersed in the chaos. 15 port-o-potties all with their own version of a line, either a group of people waiting for a couple shit boxes or people standing in front of one single box. Robby and I chose to be behind the line that was attached to one shit box rather than multiple because there is always the chance of getting cut when you're in the multiples lines. Yes, it's sad and petty, but if you're going to wait for 15-20 minutes to use a smelly and untouchable toilet, you don't want to be cut by a random Joe Blow that has just walked up. It's not fair and it really urks me. Can you just imagine a lovely cat fight over a port-o-potty, two women flipping their hair back, raising their index fingers to shake, and preparing their, "if looks could kill," stares? Not pretty for the two people involved, but most likely great entertainment for the rest of the people waiting.
Anyhow, the two port-o-potties that Robby and I happened to stand in front of were the mysterious, never opening port-o-potties. Every box around us, doors opening and closing, people coming and going, mostly rubbing hand sanitizer between their palms upon exiting, but the doors in front of us remained closed. Two Asian Women showed up next to me and started talking in broken English about the slow people in the Johns we'd stood in front of. I don't know why they were complaining, they'd only been standing there 3 minutes, but it was funny. We all kept wondering if someone was actually in them, I even joked that the x-files monster managed to survive the past ten years and was current active in Santa Barbara, but when I knocked, I was rewarded with a grumble, so yeah, the guy just got lost, not eaten. A mid-thirties drunk man appeared on my left and slurred out, "Man, did we choose the slowest ones or what?" he looks at me for confirmation, "Yes, I think they fell in," an old saying of my Dad's. The guys tilts his head and then nods, "yeah, yeah, that's a good one."
One of the shit boxes next to the never opening ones, was free and Robby, then I, grabbed it. After I finally got to go and was exiting the stuffy little box of crap, I saw one of the Asian women still waiting and I asked her if someone had come out. "Yes, a man came out." I was equal pissed that I didn't get to see what the guy that lived in the port-o-potty looked like and equally happy I didn't have to use the shit box that someone had previously occupied for 15 minutes or longer - I think it was occupied before we showed up to wait. Advice for going to one of these events in the future: either try to hold it, invest in a funnel, or just knock over the never opening shit box because it's way more entertaining then standing around out front waiting and you just might forget that you need to go through all your laughter (or you just won't care that you don't have to go anymore if you know what I mean.)
With that, I hope everyone had an enjoyable 4th of July.
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
Vicarious Happiness
Have you ever met a person that does something so amazing and creative that you're instantly jealous? Musicians are those people to me; somehow they are able to compartmentalize so well they know how to direct an audience in a sing-along while synthesizing 5-10 instruments and singing the lyrics to a 6 minute song; this after they've writtenl the lyrics and the music to the song. I can barely remember the hook in a 2 minute song, how the hell do you remember numerous songs spread over various albums? I find it uniquely fascinating how one person can retain a certain type of knowledge, while another doesn't have a clue. It's most definitely the way that our brains are wired, but I can't help to wonder if I was taught a certain skill, say music, at a young age, would I now be able to play as well as the Grammy winners or am I just not designed for that type of thinking?
I had the pleasure of attending the Imogen Heap concert last night in Santa Barbara, and I must say, Imogen is truly brilliant. Not only does she play upwards of 15 instruments and fully understand all musical keys, but she knows how to work a crowd. It could be a British thing though. Before Imogen went on stage, her two British opening acts were super cute and adorable when speaking to the audience; with their shy undertones while asking audience members to purchase an EP (CD) and witty nervousness in explaining why they were wearing a shirt that seemed to look like a night shirt, but wasn't. It could just be their accents as well, but I think Imogen and her fellow musicians have a certain ambience that speaks to audiences of confidence and a tad hint of mischief. You automatically dismiss any of their mistakes for entertainment and enjoy their musical blunders because their responses to them are so entertaining.
The first song that Imogen played involved her coming out onto the stage by herself swinging a long plastic tube (the kind most sports fans buy at ball games) above her head and humming in a high tune. After she'd synthesized the "whooshing" sound of the tube, she threw it to the side and started to sing. 5 seconds into her song, she stops, mumbles something about the key being off and then wanders over to where she threw the tube. She tells the audience that she's accidentally thrown the tube onto her synthesizer and it's changed the voice pitch to where she sounds like a "Dialek" (lovely Doctor Who reference Robby, Myself, and about 5 other people in the audience got). She mumbles some more to herself about how she should start the song over, while making wild hand gestures, before announcing to the audience that she's going to start from scratch, meaning everyone - she points to her band - needs to get off the stage, including herself. The stage clears, the lights reset, and 30 seconds later, she back, front and center, swinging the tube, singing, "Feels like this," but adding, "again" at the end ("feels like this...again") It's always good to have a sense of humor when making a fool of yourself in front of 10,000 people.
Imogen has to be one of the most inspired musicians I've ever heard. She uses what she sees, hears, and feels around her to design her songs. In between her different songs, while the stage hands set up various mics and lights or her musicians plugged in to their instruments, Imogen would tell an abbreviated story of how the song she is about to sing, came to be. One song came to her as she was going for a run in the park. Every day she would hear birds chirping and so she wrote a song about how she felt alive at hearing those birds. She even used bird chirps in the harmony. Another song starts with the crackle of a fire burning. Apparently she burned a log of wood that held special meaning to her and her family (not sure why) and she wrote about her emotions as the log burned while being surround by the people she loved the most. My favorite song she wrote was an erie "Down the Rabbit Hole" harmony inspired by a disastrous date where she cooked for a guy who said he was allergic to wheat, fish, eggs, and basically any ingredient she knew how to cook with. After she'd managed to cook a surprisingly tasty meal, she was still hungry (cause there wasn't any meat), so she grabbed a chocolate biscuit off the table. The guy grabs one as well and starts to eat it when she goes, "You can't eat that, it has wheat and egg in it." He responds, "It's just a small biscuit, I'll be fine." She's thinking, "Well, we could of just had a small piece of fish and you'd be fine!"
She is also very in-tune with experimentation. I guess, when she's writing songs, she plays around with various objects, trying to learn their sounds and how she can use them in a song. A guy came onto the stage with a rusty saw and proceeded to start off the melody of a song with a stick caressing the blades. She starts another song with, what I consider to be a tribute to "Miss Congeniality", the rimming of wine glasses. Her band incorporates: 4 different kinds of cymbals, Bells, Vibes, electric and normal guitars, piano, keyboard, birds, fire, saws, drums, voice, hands, clothes, life and objects.
I just love her way of seeing the world, at any one moment, something could inspire her to dance or sing or write. If only the majority of people in the world were this easily influenced to create and be happy, we'd be a better society of people. I'm envious of her seemingly free spirit and ability to truly be one with herself. I encourage everyone to listen to her music and watch her perform, if not for the sake of hearing her music, for the chance to become happy vicariously through Imogen.
I had the pleasure of attending the Imogen Heap concert last night in Santa Barbara, and I must say, Imogen is truly brilliant. Not only does she play upwards of 15 instruments and fully understand all musical keys, but she knows how to work a crowd. It could be a British thing though. Before Imogen went on stage, her two British opening acts were super cute and adorable when speaking to the audience; with their shy undertones while asking audience members to purchase an EP (CD) and witty nervousness in explaining why they were wearing a shirt that seemed to look like a night shirt, but wasn't. It could just be their accents as well, but I think Imogen and her fellow musicians have a certain ambience that speaks to audiences of confidence and a tad hint of mischief. You automatically dismiss any of their mistakes for entertainment and enjoy their musical blunders because their responses to them are so entertaining.
The first song that Imogen played involved her coming out onto the stage by herself swinging a long plastic tube (the kind most sports fans buy at ball games) above her head and humming in a high tune. After she'd synthesized the "whooshing" sound of the tube, she threw it to the side and started to sing. 5 seconds into her song, she stops, mumbles something about the key being off and then wanders over to where she threw the tube. She tells the audience that she's accidentally thrown the tube onto her synthesizer and it's changed the voice pitch to where she sounds like a "Dialek" (lovely Doctor Who reference Robby, Myself, and about 5 other people in the audience got). She mumbles some more to herself about how she should start the song over, while making wild hand gestures, before announcing to the audience that she's going to start from scratch, meaning everyone - she points to her band - needs to get off the stage, including herself. The stage clears, the lights reset, and 30 seconds later, she back, front and center, swinging the tube, singing, "Feels like this," but adding, "again" at the end ("feels like this...again") It's always good to have a sense of humor when making a fool of yourself in front of 10,000 people.
Imogen has to be one of the most inspired musicians I've ever heard. She uses what she sees, hears, and feels around her to design her songs. In between her different songs, while the stage hands set up various mics and lights or her musicians plugged in to their instruments, Imogen would tell an abbreviated story of how the song she is about to sing, came to be. One song came to her as she was going for a run in the park. Every day she would hear birds chirping and so she wrote a song about how she felt alive at hearing those birds. She even used bird chirps in the harmony. Another song starts with the crackle of a fire burning. Apparently she burned a log of wood that held special meaning to her and her family (not sure why) and she wrote about her emotions as the log burned while being surround by the people she loved the most. My favorite song she wrote was an erie "Down the Rabbit Hole" harmony inspired by a disastrous date where she cooked for a guy who said he was allergic to wheat, fish, eggs, and basically any ingredient she knew how to cook with. After she'd managed to cook a surprisingly tasty meal, she was still hungry (cause there wasn't any meat), so she grabbed a chocolate biscuit off the table. The guy grabs one as well and starts to eat it when she goes, "You can't eat that, it has wheat and egg in it." He responds, "It's just a small biscuit, I'll be fine." She's thinking, "Well, we could of just had a small piece of fish and you'd be fine!"
She is also very in-tune with experimentation. I guess, when she's writing songs, she plays around with various objects, trying to learn their sounds and how she can use them in a song. A guy came onto the stage with a rusty saw and proceeded to start off the melody of a song with a stick caressing the blades. She starts another song with, what I consider to be a tribute to "Miss Congeniality", the rimming of wine glasses. Her band incorporates: 4 different kinds of cymbals, Bells, Vibes, electric and normal guitars, piano, keyboard, birds, fire, saws, drums, voice, hands, clothes, life and objects.
I just love her way of seeing the world, at any one moment, something could inspire her to dance or sing or write. If only the majority of people in the world were this easily influenced to create and be happy, we'd be a better society of people. I'm envious of her seemingly free spirit and ability to truly be one with herself. I encourage everyone to listen to her music and watch her perform, if not for the sake of hearing her music, for the chance to become happy vicariously through Imogen.
Sunday, June 20, 2010
A Must See Film!
My Friend, the amazing Julien Nitzberg, is a brilliant documentary filmmaker that just completed a new documentary on an insane and extremely entertaining West Virgina family. He spent a year following around a group of drug obsessed hillbillies that love having a good time and being with family, no matter all the stupid shit family can do to piss you off. His film has premiered at Tribeca Film Festival and is now opening in Los Angeles on June 25th. It is also on "On Demand". I highly recommend this film to anyone over the age of 18. Not really appropriate for the little kids as there's drug use, nudity, and swearing...but that just means it's even better for all of us with slightly dirty, corrupt minds.
Now, for all you folks out there that think documentaries are...gasp...boring, you're in for a surprise. This film is highly entertaining, and surprisingly funny. You're immediately sucked into the family's drama, wanting to learn more about their problems while trying to comprehend how a person can think and act the way they do. I encourage everyone to take a step outside of their comfort zone (or suck up their pride if they think it's "girlie" to watch docs) and go see this movie. Support Julien while entertaining yourselves!
You can find out more information on the film at http://www.wildandwonderfulwhites.com/
or watch the trailer below:
Now, for all you folks out there that think documentaries are...gasp...boring, you're in for a surprise. This film is highly entertaining, and surprisingly funny. You're immediately sucked into the family's drama, wanting to learn more about their problems while trying to comprehend how a person can think and act the way they do. I encourage everyone to take a step outside of their comfort zone (or suck up their pride if they think it's "girlie" to watch docs) and go see this movie. Support Julien while entertaining yourselves!
You can find out more information on the film at http://www.wildandwonderfulwhites.com/
or watch the trailer below:
Sunday, June 13, 2010
The Rate of Evolution
You know when average people, who aren't mothers - natural or otherwise, are asked to hold a friend or family member's baby without the actually asking - the baby is pushed into their wobbly, outstretched, elbow locked arms, with a tiny, raspberry burping human staring at them - they try and comprehend, "how the hell do I hold it?" Yea, well, this is a natural and expected question to the unexpected holding of another life force. You don't want to drop the baby or hold he/she upside down or wrap one hand around the kid's stomach the first time around; all very bad. You have to be gentle, cradle the kid in your arms so those large, inquisitive eyes can stare up at your face and wonder, "Who the hell are you? Where's Mommy!" before waling to high heavens. Anyhow, holding a baby is a little tricky.
Yesterday, as a favor to Little Di, I brought Tony Stripes (cute kitty from my blog a couple weeks ago) to "The Hills Have Eyes" kitty adoption people at the local Petco, so he could get his deworming shot and some other shot that kitties need to stay healthy. While I waited for the odd adoption, epitome of a "Cat Woman", lady to finally notice me in the practically empty store, two mid-teenage sisters wandered over to the kitty cages and spotted Tony in my arms. They started talking about how they really wanted a kitten, but their mom wasn't so sure and since they currently had a guinea pig that shits everywhere, it wasn't likely they were going to get an animal that uses a smelly litter box.
One of the girls asked me if they could hold Tony, and I'm like, "Sure," while holding him out for her to take. She gives me a shy look and says, "I don't know how to hold him." This is where the baby part of this blog is relevant. It's one thing to not know how to hold a baby, they don't always land on their feet when dropped, but a kitten? Cats somehow manage to defy gravity 98% of the time, Nova - my cat, is one of the exceptions; the poor thing is so badly uncoordinated she falls off the foot wide edge of the couch. You can grab a kitty on the back of the neck (just like his mom would), pick him up under his tummy or armpits, cradle him in the crook of your arms, etc - it's not rocket science. Kittens are very mailable animals that will indubitable squirm in your arms whether you hold them correctly or not. The main goal when holding a kitten is to try and not let the animal abuse you too much as as a jungle gym or bite you.
If the kitten happens to fall out of your arms, whether you've accidentally dropped he/she or he/she's decided to learn how to fly, you needn't worry too much because a small 3-4.5 foot drop is like a mini "Drop Zone" to the kitten. Somehow their fascinating agility will always find a way to rotate them in mid air so that, most of the time, they'll land feet first. It's one of life's amazing wonders. Cats have an ability to fall up to 9 stories and still land on their feet. Maybe this is where all the "9 lives" rumors come from, cats falling from a height that should have killed them and surviving.
Anyhow, the kid asking me how to hold Tony was rather ridiculous to me. I pushed Tony into her arms and said, "Just make sure you're holding most of his weight and if he falls, he'll live, so don't be afraid." At first the girl was extremely nervous - smoshing Tony between her right forearm and her abdomen, while her left arm was under his feet. Tony, still being a little wary of the other animals in the Petco, was unnaturally calm (not climbing on and biting everything in sight), but the girl was still afraid she was going to drop him so she announces, "I think I'll sit down. I don't think I'm ready to stand and hold him." Um... ok. The kid's sister sits down next to her, enviously watching Tony be petted. "Can I hold him too?" she asks. "Sure, Tony doesn't care."
Tony gets passed, tentatively, from one sister to the other. Both girls are immediately smitten by Tony's adorableness, and thank goodness, his subdued (nervousness of new surroundings) manner. They talked to me more about wanting a kitten, but one of the sisters said their mom was currently in love with another guinea pig she'd found in the store and so the chances that they could get a cat, that day, was pretty slim. I told them that eventually, maybe when they were older, they'd get their kitty. Hell, when they're 18, they can move out on their own and get their very own cat while trying to figure out how to live without supervision or rules and be responsible adults. It will be a blast to look forward too.
Eventually the "Cat Woman" warms up Tony's shots, and within ten minutes of entering Petco, Tony's made two new friends, and ready to go home without actually realizing he's received any shots ("Cat Woman's" that good); only a nasty taste in his mouth from the deworming serum. In those same 10 minutes, I learned that there are some seriously naive people in the world, but I also might just be a huge bitch. I guess everyone learns simple things at different stages in their lives, so I shouldn't be a harsh, judgemental asshole, but then, I wouldn't be me and this wouldn't be the World According to Em.
RANDOM NOTE:
When I was pondering why cats manage to walk, eat, and jump within a few weeks of life while humans take many years to learn these simple things, Little Di surmised that kittens are usually left on their own after a short period of time, so they've evolved to adapt to life quicker than Humans, who have people looking after them for longer periods of time, hence, a slower rate of evolutions. I guess, extremely slower rate in some people.
Yesterday, as a favor to Little Di, I brought Tony Stripes (cute kitty from my blog a couple weeks ago) to "The Hills Have Eyes" kitty adoption people at the local Petco, so he could get his deworming shot and some other shot that kitties need to stay healthy. While I waited for the odd adoption, epitome of a "Cat Woman", lady to finally notice me in the practically empty store, two mid-teenage sisters wandered over to the kitty cages and spotted Tony in my arms. They started talking about how they really wanted a kitten, but their mom wasn't so sure and since they currently had a guinea pig that shits everywhere, it wasn't likely they were going to get an animal that uses a smelly litter box.
One of the girls asked me if they could hold Tony, and I'm like, "Sure," while holding him out for her to take. She gives me a shy look and says, "I don't know how to hold him." This is where the baby part of this blog is relevant. It's one thing to not know how to hold a baby, they don't always land on their feet when dropped, but a kitten? Cats somehow manage to defy gravity 98% of the time, Nova - my cat, is one of the exceptions; the poor thing is so badly uncoordinated she falls off the foot wide edge of the couch. You can grab a kitty on the back of the neck (just like his mom would), pick him up under his tummy or armpits, cradle him in the crook of your arms, etc - it's not rocket science. Kittens are very mailable animals that will indubitable squirm in your arms whether you hold them correctly or not. The main goal when holding a kitten is to try and not let the animal abuse you too much as as a jungle gym or bite you.
If the kitten happens to fall out of your arms, whether you've accidentally dropped he/she or he/she's decided to learn how to fly, you needn't worry too much because a small 3-4.5 foot drop is like a mini "Drop Zone" to the kitten. Somehow their fascinating agility will always find a way to rotate them in mid air so that, most of the time, they'll land feet first. It's one of life's amazing wonders. Cats have an ability to fall up to 9 stories and still land on their feet. Maybe this is where all the "9 lives" rumors come from, cats falling from a height that should have killed them and surviving.
Anyhow, the kid asking me how to hold Tony was rather ridiculous to me. I pushed Tony into her arms and said, "Just make sure you're holding most of his weight and if he falls, he'll live, so don't be afraid." At first the girl was extremely nervous - smoshing Tony between her right forearm and her abdomen, while her left arm was under his feet. Tony, still being a little wary of the other animals in the Petco, was unnaturally calm (not climbing on and biting everything in sight), but the girl was still afraid she was going to drop him so she announces, "I think I'll sit down. I don't think I'm ready to stand and hold him." Um... ok. The kid's sister sits down next to her, enviously watching Tony be petted. "Can I hold him too?" she asks. "Sure, Tony doesn't care."
Tony gets passed, tentatively, from one sister to the other. Both girls are immediately smitten by Tony's adorableness, and thank goodness, his subdued (nervousness of new surroundings) manner. They talked to me more about wanting a kitten, but one of the sisters said their mom was currently in love with another guinea pig she'd found in the store and so the chances that they could get a cat, that day, was pretty slim. I told them that eventually, maybe when they were older, they'd get their kitty. Hell, when they're 18, they can move out on their own and get their very own cat while trying to figure out how to live without supervision or rules and be responsible adults. It will be a blast to look forward too.
Eventually the "Cat Woman" warms up Tony's shots, and within ten minutes of entering Petco, Tony's made two new friends, and ready to go home without actually realizing he's received any shots ("Cat Woman's" that good); only a nasty taste in his mouth from the deworming serum. In those same 10 minutes, I learned that there are some seriously naive people in the world, but I also might just be a huge bitch. I guess everyone learns simple things at different stages in their lives, so I shouldn't be a harsh, judgemental asshole, but then, I wouldn't be me and this wouldn't be the World According to Em.
RANDOM NOTE:
When I was pondering why cats manage to walk, eat, and jump within a few weeks of life while humans take many years to learn these simple things, Little Di surmised that kittens are usually left on their own after a short period of time, so they've evolved to adapt to life quicker than Humans, who have people looking after them for longer periods of time, hence, a slower rate of evolutions. I guess, extremely slower rate in some people.
Monday, June 7, 2010
With Dancing Comes Knowledge
I went to the Key Club last night for the first time. Little Di and a friend of hers wanted to go see Spazmatics - a group of four High School wedgie candidates; complete with masking taped glasses, suspender pants hiked higher than Urkles, a pager, false buck teeth, a neck brace, plaid pants that flood, and more outrageous stuff from our youth we all wish to forget - that preform 80's cover songs at midnight on Sundays and Thursdays in Los Angeles. The Spazmatics gained notoriety about 20 years and have been performing ever since across America, enlightening young and old minds to songs they'd forgotten and wished to hear again.
Since the Spazmatics didn't perform until midnight, and Little Di and I arrived at 10:30pm, we had some time to kill. You would think that the Key Club, a famous Hollywood nightclub, would have an opening band to entertain the masses, but no, they had a DJ that liked to change the current song every minute or so, throwing off a dancer's rhythm. Like most of the people in the club, we opted to talk over a drink rather than attempt to dance to the ever changing beat. We'd also discovered that the "Hollywood Prom" was taking place at the Key Club that evening.
When we'd first entered the club we were a little shocked to see so many young looking people milling about in prom dresses and suits; some people even had corsages. It was like a bad acid trip; going to a place you don't really want to relive (I mean, who actually enjoyed their prom so much, they'd love to go to another one?), and then wondering if the random guy that comes up to you and asks you to dance is even old enough to buy you a drink first. A little frightening. Most of the people that go to Spazmatics come decked out in 80's outfits: leggings, knitted arm sleeves, scrunchies, stylized ripped t-shirts, etc. - I'd only been to the Spazmatics once before and I never remembered anyone coming in prom outfits.
Luckily one of the bouncers set us straight and explained that the "Hollywood Prom" was just a sales gimmick and that everyone in the club, despite their appearances, was over 21. Well, that was a relief, getting asked to dance by a 15-year-old looking 21-year-old in a Tuxedo printed T-shirt; ahhh, my dream date.
As we were waiting for the main event of the evening to start and checking out the awfully wonderful prom dresses that some of the kids were wearing (wondering if they'd bought them on clearance after the local High School's real Proms ended a few weeks prior, or if they were actually wearing their original Prom dresses), when two girls in scandalous outfits paraded onto the main stage, while one girl hopped up onto the mini stage, with parallel post adhered to the floor, in front of where Little Di and I were standing at the back of the club. The DJ changed the music to a faster tempo and the girls started to dance.
I have to say, it's an interesting experience to watch a late 20's, stick thin Blond woman, wearing a lace white mini skirt tutu with black, barely wider than a thong, panties underneath, and a sequins bra top flip upside down on the parallel bars and start to do the splits. It's even creepier when she puts one foot on the ground, turns sideways, her hands holding the bars, and starts to kick her free foot straight above her head and over repetitively with an almost bored, indifference plastered on her face.
The two girls dancing on the front of the stage had on similar outfits and mostly booty shaked their bodies to the music. They both slid to the floor in splits a few times, but it wasn't nearly as fluid as the girl on the bars. All three of the women were thin, with blond hair and great legs. I couldn't help but wonder how they got their jobs, what the hiring interview was like: "Hi, I'm here to apply for your dancer position." "Yea sure, give me a second to look at you," the Hiring manager responds, "Well, you're a blond, that's good. You seem young enough to appeal to the Key Club crowd," He looks her up and down, "Can I see you dance?" The Dancer just shrugs her shoulders and starts moving to the beat in her head. "That's great," the Hiring Manager says, "but can you do the splits? How do you feel about wearing next to nothing and dancing in front of drunk, horny men?"
I guess to a Dancer, dancing at the Key Club is on a level slightly higher than being a stripper, but not by much, judging by the skimpy outfits and the way all the men's eyes in the club seemed to follow the girl's moves with lust. While Di and I watched the dancers (there was nothing else to watch and I was envious of the flexibility these women had), we were speculating that the one girl on stage with the urber fake boobs was probably doubling as a stripper and that the one on the bars had most likely come to LA to be an actor or work with some kind of dance troop, but ended up dancing at the Key Club (or worse) and after being objectified for so long, became apathetic to everything around her, while the poor remaining girl on stage was fairly new to the Key Club dance scene and hadn't yet become jaded judging by the genuine smile she wore as she moved to the beat.
It was a fascinating cultural anthropological study about the human condition and what people are willing to do for money, no matter the cost to their pride, vanity, or self-respect, watching these women dance. I guess there is something to learn or be thankful for everywhere you go, you just have to open your eyes.
Since the Spazmatics didn't perform until midnight, and Little Di and I arrived at 10:30pm, we had some time to kill. You would think that the Key Club, a famous Hollywood nightclub, would have an opening band to entertain the masses, but no, they had a DJ that liked to change the current song every minute or so, throwing off a dancer's rhythm. Like most of the people in the club, we opted to talk over a drink rather than attempt to dance to the ever changing beat. We'd also discovered that the "Hollywood Prom" was taking place at the Key Club that evening.
When we'd first entered the club we were a little shocked to see so many young looking people milling about in prom dresses and suits; some people even had corsages. It was like a bad acid trip; going to a place you don't really want to relive (I mean, who actually enjoyed their prom so much, they'd love to go to another one?), and then wondering if the random guy that comes up to you and asks you to dance is even old enough to buy you a drink first. A little frightening. Most of the people that go to Spazmatics come decked out in 80's outfits: leggings, knitted arm sleeves, scrunchies, stylized ripped t-shirts, etc. - I'd only been to the Spazmatics once before and I never remembered anyone coming in prom outfits.
Luckily one of the bouncers set us straight and explained that the "Hollywood Prom" was just a sales gimmick and that everyone in the club, despite their appearances, was over 21. Well, that was a relief, getting asked to dance by a 15-year-old looking 21-year-old in a Tuxedo printed T-shirt; ahhh, my dream date.
As we were waiting for the main event of the evening to start and checking out the awfully wonderful prom dresses that some of the kids were wearing (wondering if they'd bought them on clearance after the local High School's real Proms ended a few weeks prior, or if they were actually wearing their original Prom dresses), when two girls in scandalous outfits paraded onto the main stage, while one girl hopped up onto the mini stage, with parallel post adhered to the floor, in front of where Little Di and I were standing at the back of the club. The DJ changed the music to a faster tempo and the girls started to dance.
I have to say, it's an interesting experience to watch a late 20's, stick thin Blond woman, wearing a lace white mini skirt tutu with black, barely wider than a thong, panties underneath, and a sequins bra top flip upside down on the parallel bars and start to do the splits. It's even creepier when she puts one foot on the ground, turns sideways, her hands holding the bars, and starts to kick her free foot straight above her head and over repetitively with an almost bored, indifference plastered on her face.
The two girls dancing on the front of the stage had on similar outfits and mostly booty shaked their bodies to the music. They both slid to the floor in splits a few times, but it wasn't nearly as fluid as the girl on the bars. All three of the women were thin, with blond hair and great legs. I couldn't help but wonder how they got their jobs, what the hiring interview was like: "Hi, I'm here to apply for your dancer position." "Yea sure, give me a second to look at you," the Hiring manager responds, "Well, you're a blond, that's good. You seem young enough to appeal to the Key Club crowd," He looks her up and down, "Can I see you dance?" The Dancer just shrugs her shoulders and starts moving to the beat in her head. "That's great," the Hiring Manager says, "but can you do the splits? How do you feel about wearing next to nothing and dancing in front of drunk, horny men?"
I guess to a Dancer, dancing at the Key Club is on a level slightly higher than being a stripper, but not by much, judging by the skimpy outfits and the way all the men's eyes in the club seemed to follow the girl's moves with lust. While Di and I watched the dancers (there was nothing else to watch and I was envious of the flexibility these women had), we were speculating that the one girl on stage with the urber fake boobs was probably doubling as a stripper and that the one on the bars had most likely come to LA to be an actor or work with some kind of dance troop, but ended up dancing at the Key Club (or worse) and after being objectified for so long, became apathetic to everything around her, while the poor remaining girl on stage was fairly new to the Key Club dance scene and hadn't yet become jaded judging by the genuine smile she wore as she moved to the beat.
It was a fascinating cultural anthropological study about the human condition and what people are willing to do for money, no matter the cost to their pride, vanity, or self-respect, watching these women dance. I guess there is something to learn or be thankful for everywhere you go, you just have to open your eyes.
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