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Your 1996 Theme Song Is: 1979 by The Smashing Pumpkins |
 Shakedown 1979 Cool kids never have the time On a live wire right up off the street You and I should meet |
On a whim this morning, I decided to do this quiz. I got a decent answer: Smashing Pumpkins. I suppose I would have preferred Radiohead, because I <3 Thom York. But alas, what can you do?
The nineties. Wow. That was a long time ago. That was when I may or may not have worn denim overalls. And that is something that my dear readership will never know/see the pictures that I’ve burned.
I remember my first day of school. My mom took me into the classroom and I walked in feeling like everyone had done this already. Like it was only my first day and everyone else had been here a week. I guess that’s how we all feel at some point in our lives; that everyone else has it figured out. Later, with age, you gather a wide array of wisdom and knowledge until you finally come to the conclusion that no one knows that the hell they’re doing. Funny how it works out, isn’t it?
In Pre-Kindergarten (two years before Kindergarten) I was a proud member of a global gang called the “Kissy Girls”. We were a bunch of neo feminists that decided the playground’s class ceiling needed to be broken. We wouldn’t take any more sexual abuse from the males who loved to kiss and run. We would reclaim our SLIDE!
The gang was made up of the toughest, smartest, and prettiest bunch of four year olds that Hawaii has ever seen. Our plan of action was this: run up to boys, kiss them, and run away. Complexity and depth were innate in our philosophies, obviously.
I started off running ground work, but eventually made my way up pretty high on the totem pole. Of course, secrecy was essential, and though I was a leader of the group, I never knew much of the history until much, much later.
It was only a few years ago that I found out Angelina Jolie used to be a fellow Kissy Girl:
‘I was a member of a group called the Kissy Girls…I created a game where I would kiss the boys and give them cooties’
Story of our lives.
Warning: This is by far the trashiest post that has ever graced the photons of Love and Logic.
1. Ira Glass
2. Slightly vapid, but with some quality substance, teen TV shows (i.e. the O.C., Gilmore Girls)
4. Radiohead
5. Sustainability
These things have made me very happy recently.
First off, if you don’t know that I want to marry Ira Glass and have his babies, then you have either been living under a hole, or your universe isn’t centered around me (how dare you!). He is perfection in a voice. I won’t wax on about his simpering vocals echoing from my radio every Saturday morning like clockwork. But they do simper. Very well.
They were simpering along last weekend, doing a very good job of it, too. The show started off great–Ira Glass talking about radio vs television, J.J. Abrams talking about the Golden Age of television, David Rakoff: a story about a man who lived without television, Sarah Vowell talking about Thanksgiving situational comedies with all situation and no comedy, Ira Glass talking about…WHAT??? THE O.C.?????????????? THE CHRISMUKKAH EPSIDODE? WITH A REFERENCE TO GILMORE GIRLS????????
Stop.
Have I died and gone to heaven?
No, really. I think I must be walking down obsession lane.
Let me transcribe:
“One Saturday night I was watching the O.C. with my wife [who is not nearly as mentally witty and physically attractive as Lindsea]. I don’t know if you watched the O.C. before it got taken off, but it’s kind of a funny, interesting show. If you have no idea what I’m talking about, go to season one and watch the Chrismukkah episode. And, uh, it was a teen soap opra on Fox network, and the main couple was Seth and Summer, not Marissa and Ryan. They could have killed off Marissa back in season one as far as I was concerned. And uh, so there’s this scene on this particular Saturday night where Seth’s in his room, talking to his girlfriend Summer on the phone, and a girl is in his room, Taylor, who is basically the same character as Paris on Gilmore Girls, but that’s a different story. So there’s this girl in his room, and Summer hear’s her voice in her boyfriends room. And this moment happens: [plays the audio recording of the O.C. episode]
Summer: That sounded like a girl.
Seth: Did it? Yeah. Well. Sure. Because I’m listening to the radio and This American Life is on, so…there’s a girl talking.
[Back to Ira Glass] And then Summer makes this reply which I have to say totally…
Summer: Is that that show by hipster know it alls that talk about how fascinating ordinary people are? Ugh, God.”
It goes on, but you’ll just have to listen to it yourself. I think at one point Ira Glass admits to belting along to the theme song to the O.C.. “Callliffooorrrniaaaa….”
Anyways, that made my weekend.
So that’s number 1 and 2 covered. Now on to number 3.
I love Nine Inch Nails. I went to their show when they came to Hawaii, and I’ve gone through the obligatory “I’m in love with Trent Reznor!!” phase. It was not my shining moment, of course, but it happened. As most of you know, I’m also a fan of web 2.0 and the whole I’m-John Vanderslice-and-I-support-music-blogs-and-free-mp3-downloads. Yes, I do.
If you don’t already know: Nine Inch Nail has made their album downloadable. Full quality. I love love love them.
And then Radiohead, same basic concept. But add sustainability.
Photo by Joe Philipson
It’s midnight, and I’m sitting in my room in the dark, listening to New Young Poney Club. My mind feels like solid heat in this warm, humid air. It’s hard to think, and I wonder why I haven’t been writing recently.
About once a year, my mind shifts. It grows a year older in the way that my slowly decaying body or the marked calender can’t. It’s not so much a growth forward as it’s up, like Google Earth zooming upwards. Each year I need a new shell to live in. I have to abandon my old mind on the side of the proverbial high way and once more build something for my thoughts to be inhibited by. As I keep destroying old ones and tossing them out like used McDonald’s cups, the new ones’ designs change. The blueprints tell me to build it bigger and bigger until (look!) I can see my town. And (wow!) I can see my state. And (zogs!) I can see my country. It continues on and on. I keep breaking-rebuilding-making it bigger. In that order. Over and over. I go through a mental collapse (or at least I seem to) in between these growths, and the “how” changes. The “what” changes too. It’s not necessarily the scenery that’s so different, but what I look for in that scenery. It’s sort of like how I watched Donnie Darko over and over again so many times last year, looking for different things each time. One time I just payed attention to the sound effects and sound track. One time I listened to dialogue. One time I watched what was going on in the foreground and background. Right on schedule as I unusually am, this is happening to my world.
I feel like I’m making less sense than usual as I yawn over my keyboard. The humid air makes me paralyzed. I don’t want to move. I don’t want to, but I have to.
I have a lot of great things to write about, but now is not the time. Now is the sleep typing time, letting waves of indiscernible thoughts and emotions waft over me like this air and inputing them here.
101010,
Lindsea
This is an article I wrote for the school newspaper’s April Fools edition. It was published in the Sports section. I’m writing it from the point of view of someone who hates sports.
I was planning on spending a couple of hours writing a response to Satre’s Humanism of Existentialism, but I put it aside when an unnamed sports fan insisted that this may be the last chance to attend what he referred to as a “championship”. I was not eager; I confess I don’t know balls. I am no a sports fan.
I went with him to this game for two reasons only: 1) to shove the most convenient form of high glucose corn syrup I can find into any/all open orifices and 2) to seek out the clandestine contrast between brown and pale skin on the upper thigh. After seeing the teenage boy’s short shorts in Basketball Diaries, I was determined to seek out the illustrious Tan Line. I find the line between tan and ghostly white on the thigh area very fascinating. To me, it is the highest form of avant garde art.
Balls. What are balls any ways? Think about it. Balls sum up the Great Human Condition. They go one way across the field, only to be pushed back to the other side. There are no exits for the balls. They must remain in the game forever. It’s Tragic. I wept bitter tears over my ketchup-smeared hot dog. “The balls! The balls! The horror!” I muttered.
As I was sitting there in the stands weeping like a senior that has just received their first rejection letter, an enthused fan ignited the crowd with something called “The Wave”. For those of you unfamiliar with “The Wave”, it is a cult-minded movement of the body, where people raise there arms and gyrate their hips in synchronicity. It all happened so fast that I was left sitting alone in a forest of swaying, fleshy limbs and sensible shoes. “NO!” I cried. It quickly became clear to me that I was in the midst of fascist anarchy at its purest mob-mentality form. Hallucinations that I doubt the most pitiful LSD victim ever saw flooded my senses; swastikas swirled and “Hiel Hitler!” echoed in my ears.
Then it hit me: what I should really be afraid of are the losers. These people may all be on some Spectators High now, but later they will have come to the Championship as Princes only to leave as Toads. That, I have now learned, is when the Fear hits. The Fear can be seen in the deep black pits of the losing side’s eyes. Soon the black pits become satanically red. This is when the Fear grips the observer like a cold, spiny hand around the neck. The Fear’s slow thighs follow you, even the next day, even to the concession stand.
But let’s not worry about the Fear now. I have come to the grand Sports Ring to see SPORTS, not bawl hysterically over balls and break out in nervous sweat because of the Fear. No one can be expected to handle a situation like That.
Let’s get back to some semblance of sanity. Tan Lines. The Tan Line is a sacred thing. To outline the brief history, the first recorded Tan Line was in 369 B.C., during an interglacial period (also known as global warming). The Neanderthals drew elaborate pictures on the cave walls of hunched men with toga-like tan lines on their shoulders and calves. The Tan Line took a quick break during the first Olympics, where the players went nude. It was a happy one for the nudists and voyeurs but a very, very sad day for the Tan Line.
But what these boys—or should I say men?—wore went below my lowest expectations, literally. My ideal, The Great American Shorts, are supposed to come up to the athlete’s upper thigh, showing off the contrast of white to brown. These shorts shocked my system beyond recognition, coming down to the fool’s MID CALF! How am I supposed to observe the Tan Line? How dare you suck out all the joy and happiness from this reporter’s life. Yes, you. I know where you live. This covering of thigh brought out the raging feminist in me. This isn’t the 1800’s, for God’s sake. I really am not offended by seeing some ankle.
Sitting there in the stands, I contemplated my situation. This “game” had been going on for what seemed like days. Was I merely waiting on these ridiculous elevated benches for something that would never come to an end?
And then it came. The purely sublime end buzzer.
Oh yeah, the score was 75-43.
I have no idea why the title is funny to me, but here I am cracking up and drooling all over myself.
Last year around this time, I wrote a blog entry about my spring break. I was going through my self education phase where I felt like I had to watch all the cult classics/wackiest films I could find. I needed to broaden my mind and give myself a bit of culture. I was also thinking of working in film at that time, which I’ve since revised. I’m not sure what I’m going to do in the future, because I all care about is right now. But I digress.
Historically, my spring breaks have sucked. Some sort of evil vortex lies over this time of year.
The first really horrible spring break that I remember was four years ago, when all I did was lay around my room reading. This in itself doesn’t sound too bad, but it actually was a nightmare. It gave me plenty of time to self critize and ask myself what the hell I was doing with my life. And I also learned about time management, which ended up being good. But all in all, it was a very depressing time.
Then we have Freshman year. We were having a holy flood of sorts in Hawaii. Forty days of non stop rain and no sunshine. So spring break starts and I already have a seasonal disorder type thing, due to the lack of sun. My face is also an oil well because of all the moisture. On the fun side, my friend Kim came to visit me. We had some crazy times but there were definitely a couple of low points that I won’t get into now, because it is the past and over with. Let me assure you they were not fun or happy. Looking back, it really wasn’t that bad, but I distinctly remember feeling very gross and sad, mainly due to the fact that the weather was horrible, there was complicated drama, and I was just starting to grow up.
Sophomore year spring break was not exactly an all time low, but let me tell you that it wasn’t an all time high either. My favorite teacher had just drowned to death, leaving his wife and two young children. It’s something that I’m still struggling with. The event threw me into a depression that I didn’t see coming, and I had to work my way out of it on my own, because, first of all, I had no idea that it actually was depression, and second of all, I didn’t tell anybody at the time how I was truly feeling. I kept it inside and had to go through it on my own. I was sad and confused and hurting and slightly unbalanced, but I was able to learn and eventually grow from it in a positive way.
This spring break contained neither dead teachers nor teen drama. It wasn’t a waste, either. It was just there. I had a whole bunch of plans for this break, lots of dreams and hopes for a certain romance, many adventures that were to be had. It turned out that the dreams were more fun to think about than to live. I think I got too caught up in the fantasy of spring break–something that I had so truly convinced myself was reality. I tried to live my dreams, but they just fell flat. I realized that sometimes you want to experience adventures with another person; you can’t always explore by yourself. Here comes the venting: The tall concrete buildings mocked. The streets laughed with their hands covering their mouth. My neighbor died. My finger got slammed in a car door. I went to the doctor for the first time in two years (alone, by choice). They drilled my finger open. I walked out of the emotionally sterile hospital and around town by myself, clouded by the stress of pain and release. I didn’t cry. I read a book about death, and realized that I was still enormously sad about Mr. Johnson. I thought I had figured out death and pain, at least for now. I realized that I was wrong.
Ahh, that’s better.
Books that I read over spring break:
The Brothers Karamazov
Waiting for Godot
Essays in Existentialism
White Noise
End Game
Donorboy
Dry
Possible Side Effects
Sellevision
Moves that I watched over spring break:
If…
Closer
Breakfast at Tiffanys
My Fair Lady
Funny Face
I HEART Huckabees
Easy Rider
Garden State
Wow, that’s not a very good list. Half of those on the list I already saw a million times. I think I should watch more movies again. My old list was way better.
Just letting everyone know that I’m not looking for sympathy or whatever. This is just something that I need to write and let out. Usually my life is wonderful and exciting. Like all things it has it’s lower moments, and I accept that happily (haha, ironic). I love my life. I look forward to getting back to into a momentum and out of this quicksand.
I NEED NEW EXPERIENCES! I NEED SURPRISE! I need to be jarred awake again because somehow I fell asleep!
Have you ever noticed that on the cover of some books it says, “Title of Book, A Novel.” I can so easily see myself up on a shelf in a Barnes & Noble-esque air conditioned environment, with a matte finish and a clever yet twee artsy cover (perhaps in clashing pastel colors that translate to I’m-actually-quite-punk-despite-the-vomited-Easter-egg-hues) saying in bold type writer letters, “Lindsea, A Person.”
Would I place my best reviews front and center on the cover? Would my author have a short biography and possibly a picture?
Would I be like someone’s failed novel stuffed into a forgotten cardboard box in their sad and lonely Mid-Western parent’s basement?
Or would I be a paperback that was a jarringly tragic page turner BUT still funny and “acidicly witty” (–Entertainment Weekly) enough to scrape by with a New York Times bestseller?
Would I be just “wickedly delicious” (–USA Today) enough for some bored housewife to take to the beach during the hot summer months?
Or would I be passed around a book club? Or perhaps instead a trendy coffee house?
Would I put my page numbers on the bottom or on the top?
Maybe not even have any? Would I be a mystery, even to me?
My words fading onto the familiar smelling cream paper as I hang about some old library, some closet shelf, an alcove, a coffee stained cafe.
Burned by furious religious fanatics.
Have a cultivated cult following.
Be poured over by a teenage girl sitting in her room in the middle of the Pacific with a broken finger and a half eaten slice of pie at (wait not quite) midnight.
And then in the final act tossed into the Goodwill bin and *gasp* left to rot next to dirty jeans and used Doc Martins.
Dear Person X,
You make me smile at our bashing of the people who have no backbones. You should be president. You + me = positively pessimistic buddies. If I saw you I’d say ‘Hey’ and smile (but last time I saw you was at 7:30 and it is impossible to smile under those circumstances). I would build a paper flower just for you. I would get your name tattooed on my tongue. If I could sing you any song it would be ‘rock the casbah’. My love for you is like that of an ant to a piece of chocolate (I am really tired and can’t think of anything cool).
Love,
Lindsea
Straight from my head, the voyage to school:
There are a suprisingly large number of obese people in Jamba Juice at seven a.m.. It makes me wonder what came first– the fat person, or the corporate devil dressed in simple carbohydrates?
There was a long line but now that my order is in, I think I’ll just watch the employees mix the fruit. Who’s smoothie will come first? It better damn well be mine. Hah! I reign queen, it’s mine.
I don’t think I fashion myself terribly clever. No, correction, I do. Especially early in the morning before my sane mind has woken up. She doesn’t wake up till noon usually. It’s ironic because I drink coffee to jolt her awake, but it usually ends up making what’s left over even more self righteously hyperactive. And I’ll have you know that this is the latter part talking.
Hell yes! That is my bus. Ten seconds after I sat at the bus stop. Who literally is the Master of the Universe?
I have my Jamba in one hand, my Beatles Anthology in the other, and I’m stuck with one Bose headphone on, one off. Crap. Maybe if I use my elbows? Nonono. Damn. I look like a drowned emo. And for some reason my sane side just woke up in time to find this hilariously funny. She’s up early…oh no, she’s gone back to sleep.
Maybe I’ll start a cult. I think that would be in my best interest. Perhaps a Bus and Coffee cult? I’m sure I’ll have plenty of followers judging by this mass herd of the quiet desperate packed into the jerking fossil fuel eater called The Bus. I’ll call them Bus and Coffee monks. They will wear yellow garb. Actually, no, I’ll have to design the outfit later. But it will be wonderful. Oh, here is my stop. Bye bus driver, see you tomorrow.
***
The smooth, cold air brushes against my face as I walk east to that green field with the glowing dew on it. It sparkles as the sun rises over the jagged mountain into a cloudless sky, silhouetting the twisting branches of the monkey pod tree. I breathe in the familiar path to school from the bus stop once more.
This morning I woke up sad. I went to bed tired but happy, and woke up confused and missing something. Like someone had thrown me something, and I forgot to catch it. It was eerie.
I’m thinking about having breakfast by myself at my favorite breakfast place. They make the best eggs benedicts and at this point the only company I want is my own. I want to read a book and forget myself; experience the feeling of total non-being, and then all at once wake up and be sucked back.
I need to stop thinking about my favorite artists’ and favorite writers’ suicides. One jumping into a freezing river, one crashing his own car, two shooting themselves. Everyone in my head seems to be talking about it. It’s hot gossip.
I haven’t showered since the day before yesterday when I took two showers. I thought two would last me two days, but my skin doesn’t feel very good right now. I’m obsessive about my skin. It must not feel too oily, it must not feel too dry. I would take a bath if I didn’t think the minutes would speed by me too fast, and I’ve already missed the entire morning.
If I could be a coffee, I’d be an iced soy latte.
If I could be a journal, I’d be a moleskine.
If I could be a pen, I’d be white out.
“We scratch our eternal itch
A twentieth century bitch
And we are grateful for
Our iron lung” –Radiohead
