Under covers

It's starting again. That dull ache that whirls in the pit of my stomach that I can feel it fester. It's a parasite and I want it out. I want this longing to be gone because I want to close my eyes and not picture neon lights.

The post-travel high is the worst. Because the nostalgia sets in and that sense of freedom from all responsibilities. For a week, I was a tourist, a stranger, a traveler in some new-found land. And it was beautiful, the way you stumble upon the perfect night with your best friends. Those nights just happen and you wake up with acceptance that it was a chance of a lifetime. So now, I lay to waste in awful memories.

This happened last year after Europe. Each night, I saw spires. Now I see neon lights and there's an anguished grip on my heart. Or it could the nicotine withdrawal. And knowing my body and it's lack of poetic license, it is probably the latter. Oh, Tokyo, take me back.

Sad reality knows that I can go back, but what would I do there? Honestly speaking, I'd be a poor sack of bones in Japan. All the responsibilities that I've shirked at home will catch up, or just pile upon me in the new city.

Tough luck, eh?

But it's ok. The ache will pass until I'm left with a scar and it will be replaced by something, some place else. Belize, 2011. I'm looking at you, kid.

Back to the right side of the Pacific

I bought a leather bracelet while in Japan and am sure that it will make me happier any ring ever will. Now I worry what will happen to it when I shower. Please, don't break.

Japan was everything I expected it be and so much more. The heated toilet, the neon lights that flash epileptic messages, cute cartoon figures everywhere, and insane politeness. I thought my head was going to nod off by the end or I was going to rip out my ear drums so I wouldn't hear another sales clerk's welcoming.

And the fooooooood, I ate so much but my brother mentioned how much skinnier I seemed. I blame walking for 13 hours on our first full day in Tokyo. That's not including sitting for meals or rest time. I have never done so much walking where my feet are cracked and sore. That's actually a disgusting image but that's how weary my feet are.

Now to deal with my jetlag. Accidental nap in the afternoon and paying for it with wide awake eyes at 3 am. Oh well, now to catch up on emails, music news, and US news while eating green tea kitkats.

Silly Rabbit

Wedged between my Harry Potter books, His Dark Materials series, and other young independent reader novel is a copy of "Paradise Lost" by Milton. And at the bottom of the stack of children novels is "Sex, Drugs and Cocoa Puffs" by Chuck Klosterman.

This is my life: trapped between wondrous curiosity and bleak realization.

Damnit.

Skeleton Girl

I spread myself way too thin that I'm slipping through the cracks. I should really pick a hobby and stick with it, but once I latch onto something, it's hard to let go: photography, guitar, music, writing. All hobbies that I wish I could expand and explore. Instead of this dabbling shit. It's annoying actually, to feel like such a novice. But that's what I am. Oh well, cheers to hard work and time-consuming wants. How they drain my wallet.

At last, it's been decided. Assuming my vacation request goes through, I'm going to Japan in November. I'm not sure how the initial plan earlier this spring has brought my feet from Cairo to Tokyo. So I wouldn't be surprised if I announce next week that I'm going to Sweden. Oh November, come soon. A week in a city where the language eludes me, where my meals will be based on me pointing to the pictures in menus, and where (hopefully) I will tower as a giant among their women. And they sell beer in vending machines. God, what a wondrous culture. Any and all travel recommendations will be greatly appreciated.

I'll be flying back to the US on the 21st of November and am thinking about catching the Friendly Fires and the xx later that night.
My shoulder angel says: Don't go. Your jetlag will bog down the show.
My shoulder devil says: Do it. You're in love with the guitarist.
I say: I'm going to mother-effing Japan!!!!!!! Wahooooooooo!

Twice as low

I'm pretty sure I would be a lot happier if I weren't so chicken shit all the time. That and if I didn't have such an addiction to Starbucks double shots. And quite possibly if I could focus all my obsessive energy from bands/guitarists into something more productive and concrete. Like life.

Ha.

But really. I'm tired of my idle hands, so useless and a waste of flesh and bones.

Rough Landing

I was about five different ways of being f'ed up this weekend that I'm still trying to wake up, even though it's Monday night. So was it a bad weekend or a good one? The jury's still out on the verdict, though I will say it was uneventful despite my current state. Let's put the blame on Starbuck Doubleshots as they're becoming a breakfast replacement. So good and so terrible for you.

I saw a bunch of my favorite/current infatuated bands play this past weekend. It reinforced my love for live music as there's nothing like your heart crumpling onto itself at the sound of the vocalist's first note and then to have your heart swell and explode when the song is reaching its climax. There's pure adoration when I see a band play live.

Sunset Junction, till we meet again next year and hopefully, I'll have more time to spin on death wheels and traverse down fifty foot slides.

I'm a music whore

Stars and Songs. Okay, here's my attempt at just posting songs I like and ranting about terrible albums that I question how many ears heard it without anyone questioning the musical merits of it. I will try very hard not to pull a Pitchfork review in my entries because I hate their inclusive style of writing, as if one has to have a wide musical knowledge to understand the name dropping and references. If only I had started that blog years ago so I could shit talk Rilo Kiley's last album and the last two Interpol albums. (Don't lie, your ears gave you a WTF moment after hearing those albums, too.) I stick to my earlier review of Our Love to Admire.

The new Interpol album, Our Love to Admire, reminded me of what disappointment felt like. After sampling the first five seconds of each song, I was convinced my friend sent me Antics instead. There was absolute conviction that I heard the intro "The Heinrich Maneuver" on a past cd and this copy was a false leak. Confusion lead to research lead to hope lead to dismay lead to disgust. This album is far from "expressive" as the band members want me to believe. Okay, I give into the addition of a few wind instruments but Paul Banks is still singing in the same note on every song. I let that pass on Antics, but now, forgiveness will not be granted.

I'm so disappointed in you, Interpol, you were supposed to offer me something new, not this sloppy third helping of cheap dark and dank sex in an alley shit. Your debut was gorgeous and reminded me of Joy Division so much that I thought Ian Curtis was alive again. Find yourself another (music) whore because I'm not putting out for you.

So for more tirades in such fashion, I'll be hobbling on that other space of the interwebs.

In other news, I find myself quoting Robert Frost these days. I feel cultured yet am perplexed in my doing so. At least I'm not quoting Shakespeare. That's loony bin time. Or awesome time. Obviously, it's still up for debate.

Rock, meet hard place

I want to start a music blog but then I get lazy and don't feel like writing the first post or trying to personalize a webpage. Even though I've written about a hundred posts in my head to justify how fun it would be to expose other people to random awesome songs. But then I don't know how many times I'll be able to preface each song with "awesome" before people question my ability to write and to use synonyms. It would be easier to compile a list of quality songs but that would be the complete lazy gal's way out. So tempting. I've got no expectations to reach Brooklyn Vegan status or have the desire to write off putting reviews like Pitchfork, but music is so incredibly fascinating.

I tried to explain it once to someone that music is amazing as it's never repeated. You have these same sets of notes and chords but rearranged to create something unique. And then I also wonder, why bother when I know only Carol would read. Hmph.

FML, but not really

I am eating a pizza sandwich, which is really just two huge slices of pizza squished together. For this very reason, I'm glad I'm skinny/have a fast metabolism/consider this my only meal of the day.

Huzzah!

PS I imagine this is how the makers of Hotpockets, the pepperoni version, came up with that product.

PPS I really have regret shoving all that food into my mouth.

West Coast travels

I'm in San Francisco and have discovered that work conferences makes a person suicidal or craves sleeping pills really bad. No wonder all those celebrities od'ed in their hotel rooms, there's absolutely nothing else to do but drink or, if you have the access, drug binges. Both of which I would gladly do at the moment if to just pass the time.

I'm Seattle bound tomorrow and looking forward to it like nothing else. Joanne will be trapped at work for some of the hours that I'm there but just hand me a map of the city and I'm good to entertain myself.

I spent this weekend at SD pride and lost the title of Gay Icon but did receive he holy title of Religious Icon. I now wonder if Brazil will erect a towering monument of me now, except I won't have my arms stretched out. I'd rather be in a Kung fu pose.

Ok. This conference has officially set me into delirium.

My laptop bit the big one Thursday night. I've lost all my pictures from 2009 and whatever music I've received over the last four months. Which was A LOT. I'm glad I backed up my harddrive in February but it still doesn't alleviate the pain.

In the meanwhile, it's back to the old pen and pad of paper.

Yes/No

Thumbs up:
Believing in the "anywhere but here" motto. Doing activities in one sitting. Marathon reading. Drunk dancing. Soft blankets. Plum eyeliner. Gay boyfriends. Paychecks. The smell of "green" and vanilla. Spontaneous acts of recklessness. Nighttime Skylines. Conor Oberst. Motorbikes. Takeoffs and landings. My dead poet lovers: Ian Curtis. Kurt Cobain. Elliott Smith. Making lists. Academia. Red nail polish. Free wifi. Giant coffee mugs. Tiptoe kisses. Making short term brilliant/long term piss poor decisions. Languages. Jewish musicians. New York City. Street vendors. Farmer markets. Arm in arm walks. Gael Garcia Bernal. Coke. Black motorcycle jackets.

Thumbs down:
Pop music. Sarah Palin. Beer breath. Long distance. Traffic. Laundry. Taxes. Short battery life. Delays. Telemarketers. Idiots. Sarah Palin, who's worth a second mention. Confederate states with people who people it's still 1863. Red eye flights. Soggy shoes. Diaper duty. Dry skin. Epilogues. Breaking concert etiquette. Chick lit.

Greenbacks, payback

Madoff, you silly fuck. You screwed my organization out of millions of dollars. There goes my pay raise. I hope you get shanked in the showers.

I'm developing a workshop/program for the LGBTQ community and last week my boss told me, "No pressure, but we have a lot of grants riding on your program. But no pressure, ok?" Insert deranged laughter here. Grants = a few thousand to hundred of thousands of dollars. So no pressure indeed.

And current travel plans? Egypt and Greece. Sweet! Knowing me, this will change in a week's time. Oh, my fickle, fickle tendencies.

P.S. I really hope someone pees on your bed, Madoff. I really do.

Do it

I am going to make a short film this summer.
But first, I will write the script for it before even trying to get that ship to sail.

I am going to be an somewhat-okay-but-still-needs-to-work-at-it amateur photographer. (I do not think I included enough hyphens in that sentence.)
But first, I will take a thousand pictures on each setting I have so I can figure out what the hell my camera is good for, then upgrade to something more expensive!

I am going to visit my friends wherever they are this year. First stop, Seattle. Next will be Chicago or Monterey. We'll see.

Those are my three goals for 2009. I don't make New Years resolutions because I suck at them. Instead, I'll try to get my ambition to work out for me because I really miss making short films and haven't done so in quite a long while. Biggest problem that's stopping me isn't writer's block, it's having a damn camera to film with. God, materialism does make the world go round.

Across the universe

It's been a shit-tastic couple of weeks but I'm already edging on the "been there, done that" part and moving on. Summer is about to start and I'm getting my plans in action. I'm trying to narrow down my choices of travel spots. If David pulls through, I think I'm going to Africa. But the prospect of stepping on a landmine while I'm in Morocco is not appeasing. I really had my heart set on Belize but it's windy weather in the October and if I'm going to Belize, I am not going to be bundle up in long sleeves and jackets. So, Barcelona and Berlin could be another option in the fall. Or Japan, Korea, Hong Kong, Brazil, etc etc etc. Odd how I don't have Italy, London, or Paris on my list of places to go. Western civilization be damned, I suppose.

I've been bitten by the travel bug so bad that it's developing into a constant itch. No matter how much I want to get it out of my system, I'm stuck with the ever wanting desire to be somewhere new, trying something new.

It's awful. I dream of airports. That's how bad it is. Le sigh.

Blue light special

Raul shouldn't have taught me how to work the ISO function, I played with it for the rest of the night while my friends danced around the living room in a drunken frenzy. Another Sunday night as usual, huh?


I'm learning how to use the shutter speed and aperture function on my camera. Shutter, I'm getting better at. Aperture still confuses me. Oh well, more experimenting to come!

Golden Slumbers

The break up was inevitable. To say that I saw it coming is nothing but wistful hindsight because when it did happened, I still stared moronically in frozen confusion. I had to go from the We mentality to the just Me mentality after years of Us. Contemplative sadness, silent regret that I should have been more careful. But five years, five years of abuse, of rock n roll tumbling, of one-sided wants that my iPod would eventually give out.

Sleep tight, Pretty Baby. You were my first iPod and now I leave you to Apple heaven. A little part of me died the day you showed me that electronic iPod with the unhappy face, like the Microsoft blue screen of death, you stilled my heart. A moment of silence please, then crank up the volume to 11 as I host an all night dance party in lieu of your wake.

Rawr!

So that pretty much sums up my weekend: birthday parties with moon bounces, bar hopping, sitting and talking to a random guy on a roof of a party my friends and I crashed, faux-Weezer show at the Knitting Factory, the demented streets of Hollywood and how I would take a piss on Jimmy Kimmel for blocking off Hollywood Blvd, Factory Record night at the Echo, eating pints of frozen yogurt with Carlitos, losing my favorite lighter (it had a daisy print!) to a gutter, cementing my fag hag status, arguing with my mom that I am not a lesbian and that Phuong and I are not running away to NYC together, crying to Bon Iver because I'm an emotional wreck, and dancing to Joy Division because I got over being an emotional wreck.

One of the busiest weekends in a while. Normally, I'd just sleep 40 hours straight. But in the end, it was also a weekend of lessons. For instance:


Which I find a whole lot better than those "Employees, wash your hands before returning to work" signs.

Mid-week Pondering

"Cammie! I need your opinion! During my emo stage yesterday, I realized that you were going to be my friend forever, so I need you to pay attention to me!"

Best words ever.

Strike that, best words ever would be: "Hi, I'm Alex Kapranos/Conor Oberst/one of the other musicians I've had a fan girl crush on since I was 16, and think you're gorgeous. Will you be my muse and come with me on a world tour?"

Those would be the best words ever. Ah, wait, more best words include: "Hi, I'm Hugo Chavez, Venezuela is yours. That was an amazing coup, by the way."

I keep telling myself to do something fun with this blog, so I won't sprawl on my bed all day long reading comics and the news. Both of which has me highly versed in obscure topics, but hardly a conversation starter. I know all the current presidents/dictators of South America. Uh, so what? Thus, I am leaning in two directions.

1. To start a music blog and share one of my favorite songs a day. That would take dedication, which I lack. My friend Carol has a daily blog, TodayontheInterwebs.blogspot.com, and she's told me how time consuming it can be, not to be mention, the dearth of new items to post.

2. Gonzo photojournalism. My life is amazing in the minute ways. With Carlos and Phuong at my side in LA and a camera in hand, I am sure there will be millions of random moments and bizarre events to capture. Plus sides include working on my photography skills, which are nil at the moment so all the more reason to play around with the functions on my point-and-shoot; hanging out with Phuong and Carlos more; and having photographic evidence of my adventures in LA. Downsides include all the above as I would have to leave my house to have said adventures, and do I really want evidence of such events?

So I can always do both but I would berate myself later for a lack of focus. I think I'll mull over these options for some more and maybe by the year 2025, I'll finally come to an answer. If not, here's to years of compulsive whining about it!

World News

The world is crazy place and South East Asia is a crackpot capital for crazy regimes. I've been moved to pieces by what human nature can do. Anyone recall the march of the monks in Tibet? Or the floods in Thailand and the government's refusal for aid? Well, the Fijians are the next in line for regimes that deserve awards for stupidity. In short, the Man has shut down all manner of relaying political news to the people. In return, the media has done the following:

The television news bulletin was canceled and the next day the Fiji Times appeared with blank columns with "This story could not be published due to government restrictions" written across them.

The rival Fiji Post tried a satirical approach, reporting on what staff had eaten for breakfast on the front page.

Oh, Dictator Voreqe Bainimarama, you silly rabbit with your silly lock downs. And what's with this swine flu business? I'm beginning to think vegans are exacting their revenge on the world by attacking commonly consumed meat. First the avian flu, now swine? What animal is left? Fish? I'd say beef, but we've got Mad Cow Disease for that. The funny thing about this new epidemic is my newly fueled enthusiasm to join the World Health Org or the CDC. So far, mild cases have been noted in all affected countries but Mexico, where's it been most fatal. I feel like I could Nancy Drew the situation and find out it was Colonel Mustard in the Conservatory with the lead pipe. Or at least pull a "Eureka!" when I discover the polluted water supply producing tainted food for the pigs. Which Colonel Mustard could have had a hand in because we all the Romans went a little crazy (and dead) from know lead pipes.

In conclusion, I had no idea that Colonel Mustard was alive during the Roman Empire until two sentences ago. Why am I not pursuing a doctorate in history? I'd be an awesome professor!