Good, not good

I must remember not to eat creme brulee from Whole Foods before bed. It makes me restless so that I can't fall asleep. It's one am and all I want to do now is play guitar. Not good. Well, good for me because I can practice. It's not so good for the rest of my family.

Crème brûlée
Crème brûlée
Crème brûlée
Winter girl.

Fuck it. I'm going to tune the guitar.

First world problem

What am I going to do with myself in New York City for a week? Well, to be more specific, what am I going to do with myself in Brooklyn for a few days? I'm over the tourist traps. Would it be wicked to just sleep and wake up for happy hour? Fall into a drunken stupor and repeat the cycle?

Methinks it would be acceptable.

Balls to the walls, I can't sleep. The one time that I don't need caffeine to work, it invades my brain. Where are you on morning commutes? Where are you during the work day? Treacherous bastard, it's like biting the hand that feeds you. Or in my case, slapping the mouth that tastes you. Terrible metaphor but let's focus on what really matters. It's 1 am and I am wide awake. How awake? I can recite to you certain passages from Romeo and Juliet. I can debate you on the finer points of Superbad. I can probably walk someone through open heart surgery right now, if given access to wifi and wikipedia. But all of those things require another person present to be carried out.

In my lonesome, I thought about driving to downtown LA and visiting my friend Jack Daniels at a bar. I thought about driving out to Glendora to the 24 hour Donutman shop. I thought about lying in bed, listening to Turn on the Bright Lights. But my better judgment refuted these choices. For 1) It's Saturday night and let's not deal with check points. 2) Glendora at this hour? Do I want to be shot? 3) I still can't connect Paul Banks' voice to his face. Mindfuck! Have you seen his picture? He looks like he should be singing for a pop punk band! So now I'm out of options again. To the drawing board!

Maybe I will simply lie in bed and hope that dragons won't walk the earth and set everything on fire with their fire breaths. Which I know is not a possibility because Chuck Norris is alive and he would never allow such a calamity to happen. Unless, he was caught in a cage match with Jean Claude Van Dam. Then perhaps, I do have something to fear. No more negative thoughts. Think optimistically. Dragons are kind, friendly creatures who are simply overprotective of their young, so don't disturb Mama Dragon and we're good. She'll never set major cities on fire and we'll never enter a post-apocalyptic world where our main modes of transportation are roller blades and bicycles. We won't have to wear ill-fitting trench coats, fingerless gloves, and white high tops. We won't have bad mullet haircuts. We won't assume our potential stepfathers are vampire or lose our houses to golf course developers. Oh shit, I might have described every movie Corey Feldman and Haim were in from the 80s. So strike that and reverse.

In conclusion, Libya is a land of contrast.

And I need some sleep.

My friends are idiots. But they are my friends so I love them.

Penalty Kick to My Heart

It's a game, so why am I so upset? Grown men run across a giant grass field, passing a small ball between each other and hope it goes into a net. So why was I holding my breath and praying and making promises to the FIFA gods?

I have no idea.

But twice, TWICE!, the USA team has left my heart in shambles that I don't even know where the pieces are. And Ghana, you are on my black list.

So breath. It's been a grand tumultuous ride since the 2007 qualification games, and I'm sorry for calling you so many names Dempsey. 2014 will be around the corner before I know it. So boys, see you then.

Group of Death!

Brazil v N Korea: The last 20 minutes of this game were insane and I spent most of it on the edge of my seat. I hope the Korean goalie was Man of the Match because those were damned good saves. Aside from that, I was sorely disappointed by the first half of this match. Brazil, you are supposed to be a top seeded team but what happened? Was it the altitude? Or opening game nerves? Because you and many other teams have been playing so poorly!

Cote D'Ivorie v Portugal: Ronaldo should be given Tim Cahill's red card. I have no idea what was going on with the Uruguayan referees because there was moments when yellow cards should have been given and moments when they were undeserving. That was one of the sloppiest games I've seen so far. It was highly aggressive defense from the midfielders but once in possession, butterfingers! Or butterfeet!

And how did they allow Drogba to play? You have a fractured arm! Fractured! Arm!

Ahhhhhhh!!!

Is it July 11th yet?

This is delirium

Dear FIFA,

For the next few weeks, you and I are one. I wish we had a symbiotic relationship where give-and-take prevails, but let's be honest: This is sado-masochism through and through. I need you more than you probably need me so I'm willing to wake up at godforsaken hours for your matches, spend about 7 hours in the front of the TV, or create multiple flowcharts with my predictions. I will do all of these things, but if I'm going to be up at 4:30 am, then don't give me the reach around. Remember the semi-final game between Germany and Italy back in 06? You don't, FIFA? I do. I was on my knees in a frozen shocked state. I might have even cried. Double overtime and Italy slips Germany a roofie for a 2-0 win. I am still in frustrated shock to this day.

So, FIFA, you owe me. You owe me brilliant matches where I am cheering myself hoarse. You owe me solid defenses and grand offenses. You owe me fair refs, re: Tim Cahill and his undeserving red card. You owe me sleep. You owe me better commentary than the shit ESPN is sprouting on the radio as I drive to work. Half of the time, I had no idea what was going on during the Uruguay/France game because your commentary was beyond lackluster. I hardly knew which team was in control of the ball until someone attempted a goal. Then it's hurried description.

So Fify darling, I'm yours till July 11th. Just please, please, please don't blueball me all along the way. Give me some action, love.

Sincerely,
Cam

P.S. Fuck you France for your last match against Ireland. I'm glad you played so terribly against Uruguay.

P.P.S. I am so impressed by South Korea and Japan this year! You warmed my Hello Kitty, kimchi eating heart. North Korea, I laugh at the fact that you qualified. Oh, and your coach is nuts.

P.P.P.S. Germany, you may be a mismatch team of veterans and babies, but that was a massacre on Sunday. A bloody, beautiful massacre. Please have the same amazing offense against Serbia and Ghana.

P.P.P.P.S Denmark, I will not even comment. I will suggest that Poulsen and Kuyt go hang out with Robert Green.

P.P.P.P.P.S. When we reach the sudden death round, I know it's going to be GER/US. When that time comes, I don't know who to root for. My adopted Deutschland or underdog homeland? Ahhhhhhhhhh, that will be a heartbreaking game no matter who wins.

P.P.P.P.P.P.S. GOD I LOVE THE WORLD CUP!

Hallmark moment

"Thanks so much! I feel better now, and I'd like to say that it really takes guts getting up and talking about sex to kids who really don't take things very seriously. You did a great job and you were really nice and I learned a lot I didn't know before!"

This is the reason why I love my job. This is the reason why I spent an hour researching on how to clean up after masturbating and the proper way to clean up semen. This is the reason why I'm okay when my lesson plan goes to shit after hours upon hours of working on it the days beforehand.

Thank you Anonymous Student, you honestly made my day and validated all the work I attempt to do.

Forward

This is for grand plans. Because I will not remain in this dead city I adore and abhor. Because I will reach the triple digits in weight. (God willing.) Because I will get rid of this absurd heartache that stems from fictional romances. Because I will find some ladder for you to reach me and maybe I'll break from this birdcage. If not, we might be on equal footing.

This is for finding sleep. So that when I wake each morning, it doesn't feel like a mild hangover. So that there is clarity and clear consciousness. So that I can leave this zombie state of mind and state of being.

I will not be the Skeleton Girl.

I will be the Girl with High Rise Schemes and Saw Fit to Accomplish Them.

First step, sleep. Then wake. Then crack that book open.

Veni, vidi, vici Coachella

Last year I bullet pointed my experience. Coherency will exist this year by compartmentalizing the event by days because I have no idea how to explain the glorious and the downtrodden moments of Coachella 2010.

FRIDAY. We arrived the night before and I crammed into a room with four boys, three beds. As the sole female and straight person in the room, I had no snuggle-boo to call my own. After spending the morning in the pool, we headed for the festival and joined the car clusterfuck. It took 6 hours to get from Palm Springs to the festival grounds. Four of those hours were dedicated to traveling two miles. In junior high, it would have taken me under 20 minutes to run that. In a car, you would assume it would take 2 minutes. NO. Four bloody hours later, we parked in the further lot and made a mad dash to LCD Sound System. If I had missed LCD, it would been Franz Ferdinand 2010 all over again with me in tears and Carlos attempting to console me with cigarettes and beer. James Murphy was drunk on champagne but elated to open for Jay Z that his energy was infectious. Vampire Weekend performed as expected: excellent. Jay Z commanded the stage but I got sleepy/annoyed at him for asking "What's up, Coachella?" or "Throw ya diamonds in the air." every few minutes so I staggered towards Fever Ray.

Fever Ray scares me. It was not her outfit. Or her weird head piece. But her voice. Karin Dreijer Andersson is a poor man's Bjork to me. Her voices spikes and distorts in awkward juts that I called it quits after 30 seconds.

Leaving the festival was an adventure of its own. Sadly not a fun one. Cell phones were basically large hand held clocks because you couldn't text or call with them. Once I was miles away from the festival, my phone bleeped like an fire alarm with messages. So that didn't help when I was lost and separated from my friends who couldn't remember where we were park due to lack of signs. I wandered for an hour before finding my car. An hour later, my friends found my car. So we didn't leave till 3 am, which was a technical blessing as there was no exiting traffic. Then again, I was lost in the desert in minimal clothing with biting winds and scared as all fuck that if I didn't find my car in time, they would tow it. Coachella, woo-hoo??? No, more like "Go sit in the corner, Coachella, you've been a naughty, naughty child."

SATURDAY. I wandered from stage to tent by myself that day. Portugal. The Man has never failed to impress me with their live show. I skipped out on Girls and Beach House for reasons that still elude me. White Rabbits is part of a three way tie this year for "Favorite New Band I Stumble Across." (The Gossip and Little Boots round out the other bands. Beth Ditto, I will never doubt your singing prowess again because that lady had a big voice to match her girth and also possessed the cutest personality. Little Boots had a grand light show and funtastic electropop dance music.) Bounced over to Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros, who reminded me of the Polyphonic Spree sans the cult motif. Pinballed back to the main stage for Tokyo Police Club and spent a good portion of their set questioning their late afternoon main stage slot and the lead singer's age. I would have pegged them to be in the Mojave tent and him to be 17. I would also have pegged Coheed & Cambria to have a midday dead slot. But alas, they played the coveted sunset slot. The XX were sparse and beautiful. Hot Chip made nerd dance music popular. They wasted no time in playing crowd favorites like "Over and Over" and "Hold On". I'm huge fan of bands extending song times by building up the bridges of their songs because it feels like you're riding on a giant musical wave, floating up and up and up that you no longer wonder when you'll hit the ground. The descent will happen and it will hit you without warning. So ride it. As Modest Mouse would say, "Float on."

So. My friends visited the Heineken dome for beers and there was a "silent" disco occurring as well. The gimmick was you danced with wireless headphones on. Without a set of headphones on, you just see people shuffling about awkwardly, clapping their hands at what seemed like random moments, and sudden outbursts of lyrics. I took my headphones off during "Like A Virgin" and it sounded like a cheerleading camp with people clapping in time and singing a cappella. Visiting that dance party meant skipping out on MGMT, which I had no problems with at all. It also meant, I missed half of Muse. Again, not a problem.

For Muse was Muse, anthem rock and whatnot. I did regret not skipping them earlier to see Diplo. I have no excuse for my absence during Major Lazer's set, just shame. So we move on. Flying Lotus bored me. The Dead Weathers were shown in black and white on the large screen for reason I won't label as art. Just weird. Die Antwoord was my band of the night. I don't normally listen to hyper-sexual, misogynistic lyrics but I let that slide for Die Antwoord.

Die Antwoord are a hip hop/rap group and could be considered the South African equivalent to Slim Shady. They became an internet viral phenomenon and I will never be able to erase the image of Ninja's testicles literally ping ponging around in slow motion under Dark Side of the Moon boxers. To apologize for that acid on my eyes, they wrote ridiculously catchy hooks. Apology accepted, Die Antwoord! They played for only 20 minutes but I would go back in time and punch Abraham Lincoln in the beard to see them again. I ended the night waiting for Devo to play "Whip It." I never found out if they did because my poor feet were tired so I walked past the main stage where glitter rained on the crowd during Tiesto's crazy light show and DJ set and to the meeting spot. Another two clusterfucked hours in my friend's car and we made it home.

SUNDAY. Sunday, bloody Sunday. I can summarize that entire day in one word: Gorillaz.

Shall I repeat? GORILLAZ.

They were the end all, be all set for this Coachella experience.

Is it April 2011 yet? Because I am ready for another round of this vagabond life.

April's Jester

It is April. As apparent by the discussions of jokes to pull on each other in my office. I suggested we fill up my departmental VP's office with condom balloons. So we did. Sort of. We filled it waist high before accepting that we underestimated how big her office was.

Then I took all the ballons and taped them to the ceiling while my co-workers were at lunch. It was like a janky Bellagio.

I am awesome.

I am also a procrastinator. I told myself at the end of last year that I would take the GRE's come April. It's freaking April and I haven't even studied.

Last night

Last night, I drove the dark miles to reach you, curved along the tarred road where the 10 twisted into the 101 freeway. Ignored the city lights that glanced down like Cheshire cats where on any other night I would have been entranced. For you and tonight, we were far from that wonderland.

Tunnel vision carried my feet up stairs and I came to a sudden stop.

Slumped against the doorway, you were the wounded animal, defensive and scared. Cradling your bleeding heart in tender hands, weariness stripped your want to talk.

"It's okay, it'll be okay," I said, approaching you slowly. My white flag outstretched in the form of a plastic shopping bag. "I bought beer."

"Cammie, you know me so well." The corners of your lips tugged upwards, a tired smile.

"Of course, I do, sweetheart."

Last night, I sat against your bedroom wall. The small pyramid of beer cans grew as you matched me two cans for my every one. Romantic trials awaited you come the new day. And I'll stand by in shadowed companionship. Harrowing phone calls where confusion tilt on question marks. Billowing sighs where answers do not cross. That was our tomorrow. But for now, there was just quiet conversation and the comfort of my crossed legs on wooden floor.

tempest

When it rains, I'm not here. I'm thousands of miles away and wishing that my corporeal being was with my wishful mental state. I am in Tokyo, bewildered by the time zone and wild lights as my jacket catch dew drops. I am in New York City, taking the stairs from the humid underground to the drizzle of Chinatown. Berkeley where the moon hangs so low and wide that I want to swallow it whole so I could blanket the city in darkness, like a leaked ink pen over paper. Prague, where the rain streams through the cobblestone and I'm crippled by the trek across Charles Bridge, up the castle, and back to Wenceslas Square.

Sunshine, clouds, and windy days still my heart as if the smog of LA has captured me in a vise-like grip. But when it rains, I'm swept up in the wistful past. Each droplet is a reminder of my traveling feet. I'm somewhere else. Somewhere older, somewhere happier. Saigon, and the rivers I ford from my aunt's store to the Nintendo gaming parlor. Saigon, and speeding through the back roads on a motorbike. Saigon, and the drumming beat of rain on plastic tarp.

I'm never here. Always somewhere else.

One day too late for love? Hardly.

Happy Birthday, sweetheart.

Harbor/Fortress

Now would be a good time for you, me, and the Velvet Underground. Ian Curtis can come, too. We'll lay on my living room floor so that our hearts will thump along the bass beats. We'll discuss Nico's merits and whether she or Lou Reed had the bigger coke problem over bites of mango jello and sips of green tea. Pleasant company and warm afternoon sun, let's channel some of that bliss.

Emergency, emergency!

Yes, it looks like I've placed a golfball in my cheek. Don't worry. It also feels like I did. Goodbye wisdom teeth, all four of you, though you won't be missed. A slew of things happened in the last 24 hours. Namely, I passed out from dehydration/liquid diet/vicodin/losing so much blood.

I scared a whole bunch of people, namely my parents who probably thought I was dead. So when I regained conciousness, my family had crowded around me while paramedics were marching through the back door. Of course, the first thing I did was give a small beauty queen wave and timidly said, "Oh hey guys, how's it going?" I really need an on-site monologue writer to pass me better quips.

This bed ridden business is not cool. I wish I were with Di and Phuong at Cole's instead. Or doing arts and crafts at Phuong's place. In light of everything, I just need to keep in mind these following words: "Every time I get injured I measure it's severity by asking myself 'Would this stop me from going to Disneyland?'" - Chris Colfer

And to be honest, no. Despite all the bleeding and fainting, I would be first in line with a wheelchair smuggled from the hospital.

endings

December heralded so much dismay that it seemed impossible to escape that vortex of 31 heart stomping days. Break downs, break ups and make ups, phone calls in search of a connection, everything felt tragic to the point of comedic humility. But now we stretch through the torrents of rain for the patch of sunlight to grow and heal our battered hearts. Hippie pyscho shit? No, it's optimism that it can't get worse. Is it really necessary to spit on me after you've broken my shins and taken a kidney?

January will recite moments of mourning but February, glorious February, must hold redemption for the nonsense of the past year.