Showing posts from February, 2007

the poetry of busy

Every now and then, someone makes me want to write a poem. Most recently, it was Tess Gallagher and Eloise Klein Healy , who read and talked poetry Monday night at the Geffen Playhouse . It hasn’t happened yet (the writing of the poem); in fact, even the writing of this blog entry is barely happening. Yep, it’s one of those weeks where I forgot to book any real downtime for myself. Chronic over-bookers are annoying because: 1) They tend to act like it’s not their fault. Like God instructed them to work a serious job and take a writing class and go to two readings and one movie and one mysterious sales pitch about something that their friend swears is not like Amway all in the same week. 2) They then proceed to play the I’m-sooo-busy card in discussions with others, which implies that others are not busy, which of course they are. They’re just quiet about it, and they manage their time better. Think about it: Do you know anyone between the ages of 12 and 80 who’s not busy?

very special youtube

Have you noticed that a lot of blogs aren’t so much chronicles of the blogger’s life or opinions, but more depositories for their favorite YouTube videos? I’m not saying that I’m above this, just that I’m a little late to the game. Until recently, I’ve been a passive YouTube watcher, watching only what people send to me or, well, post on their blogs. But last night I crossed a line. After coming home solo from my sister’s birthday party (AK and I both wanted quality time with our cats—not to fill any lesbian stereotypes or anything), I had some post-party energy that took the form of watching old episodes of Punky Brewster on YouTube. It’s amazing how much new technology is used for nostalgic purposes. First I watched an episode from the third season (by which Punky had stopped wearing the same thing everyday and started teasing her bangs) called “ Metamorphosis .” While Cherry is despondent that she’s “a pirate’s treasure, a sunken chest” (big canned laughs—I guess the studio audienc

girls, interrupted

1. rhymes with bitch One great thing about driving down highway 99 in a rental car (and there are not a lot of great things) is that you can listen to the CD of the Wicked soundtrack that your sister burned for you over and over. That’s how I spent Thursday and Friday of last week, and by last night, I was fully prepared for opening night at the Pantages (Cathy’s awesome Christmas present to me). I knew that Stephen Schwartz ’s score was as catchy as his earlier musical Godspell and that the lyrics were even better (no offense to Matthew). He is a master of breaking words in half and sewing them together to make unpredictable rhymes. For example: And helping you with your ascent al- lows me to feel so parental Or: Uh, Nessa, I’ve got something to confess, a reason why I asked you here tonight. Add to that a story ripe with political allegory and literary allusions and I’m in heaven. The musical opens with all of Munchkin Land ding-donging about the witch’s death, then flashes back t

what would jesus drink out of?

I just purchased a $15 purple thermos at Starbucks. In the past, I’ve looked at the overpriced coffee accessories on the shelves and wondered, Who actually buys that crap? Now I know the answer. Ed’s sermon on Sunday was about lent. As a newbie to this church thing , I’ve never given up anything for lent before, but it’s the type of project that appeals to me. I always have a long list of self-improvement-related tasks waiting in the wings, ready to be called into action at the slightest provocation: a new year, a birthday, a Monday. Lent offers a new opportunity to reach for an unattainable goal—only this time I’m answering to God, so I better not fuck up, right? I thought about sacrifices I might make—ideally something that would improve not just myself, but the world too. All Saints is all about that. Ed sort of sighed and said, “It’s not really about giving up chocolate or cheap white wine.” Then he said something about embracing your enemies rather than slandering them. Damn. My

the good news is i’m the “perfect editor”

This is me. This is me reading at UC Riverside earlier today. This is the flyer that was posted on campus to promote the reading. I’ve Googled my name enough times to know that this Cheryl Klein is a children’s book editor. I’ve always wanted to email her and say, “So, we’re both named Cheryl Klein and we both do stuff with books. Crazy, huh? Want to hook me up with a publishing deal or something?” This may be my in.

like a hot pink, swarovski crystal-encrusted candle in the wind

Isn’t it frustrating when someone you could look to in your shallowest, least empathetic moments—someone you could count on to be so vapid and sluggish and selfish that you felt completely comfortable judging her and sooo the opposite of those things— goes and dies ? Then you’re like, Oh shit, she was a real person. As much as I’m all for laughing at spoiled people, maybe sad things happen when those spoiled people are also kind of dumb and have family issues . I sort of feel like I contributed to the demand side of a really ugly economy. In other news, Britney and that guy who looked like K-Fed but wasn’t K-Fed have broken up.

i wish sarah silverman really did write for glamour

Why? Because she is magic:

glorious nation of america

1. site-specific moviegoing Because AK and I like to stay on the cutting edge, we just saw Borat . (I’ll agree that it’s funny, and that that Sacha Baron Cohen kid is a smarty, but I’m not sure it was the big exposé of America that people have said it was—I just came away thinking, Yeah, America has some nice folks and some assholes. ) It was only playing at a second-run theater on Hollywood Boulevard . The good news is that tickets were only $7. But these days, seven dollars apparently gets you a seat in the world’s longest, skinniest theater, where, when you shift to try to dislodge the metal spring from your butt, the whole row of seats moves back a foot. The ticket taker was a tall, lurching man with a birthmark covering much of his face. It was hard to understand him because the speaker in the plastic wall of the booth was broken. When we walked in, a smaller man scampered down the stairs to ask if we wanted him to open up the darkened snack booth. We didn’t. The t