Tuesday, May 27

... About Being a Real Fake Journalist

I like to plan ahead, Reader. Case in point: Maren and I went on a little roadtrip up to Boise this weekend. We were gone for approximately 28 hours, but we starting making the plans for this trip over a month ago. Another case in point: about two years before I went to London I started perusing "must-see" guides and tube maps. Yet another: I spent the last three years slowly accumulating everything I would need for my new apartment, so that when I moved this weekend I hardly had to go out and buy anything.

I utilized the same kind of forward-thinking with my education. In 8th grade we had an assembly where we talked about our upcoming high school experience. They explained to us about credits and required courses and electives, and I thought to myself, 'Hey, if I take my required classes early and save up my electives, I can goof off my entire senior year!' Genius!

It was that kind of brilliant planning that landed me the sweetest schedule possible for my senior year. I had no math, no science. I pretty much played all day every day - Japanese, Lit Mag, cooking, sewing, seminary, film & literature.... I even took a typing class. I could type 85 wpm, so I finished the entire semester's worth of assignments in the first week and then spent all of 7th period napping for the rest of the year. I'd always liked school, but my senior year was by far the most fun time I'd ever had.

It was also the year I learned I never wanted to be a journalist.

One of the few "real" classes I took was journalism. I love writing, so I thought it would not only be fun but would actually be beneficial, career-wise. That year I was also interning at the WJ Chamber of Commerce, writing business spotlight articles for the local free weekly, the Chronicle. I quickly discovered that I hated journalism. I craved the freedom to write what I wanted, how I wanted, when I wanted. I didn't want to write about the grand re-opening of some factory that nobody had ever heard of. I didn't want to have to fit a specific word-count and use the inverted pyramid method. I didn't want to leave out all expression and style and strip stories down to the Joe-Friday-"just the facts, ma'am"-leave-your-feelings-on-the-subject-at-the-door structure. I wanted to be creative! I wanted to bend the rules of grammar! I wanted to use exclamation points!

Now, I realize that this is not how all journalism works. But that was my experience with it, and it totally turned me off the idea of ever working for a newspaper. Unfortunately, that made it very difficult for me to ever realize my career-dream of being a professional writer. The odds of being a successful novelist or screenwriter are... well, not good. Essentially, the only way to make a life for myself by doing what I love, writing, would be to do it in a way I hate, journalism. It reminds me of that Woody Allen quote:

"To love is to suffer. To avoid suffering, one must not love. But then, one suffers from not loving. Therefore, to love is to suffer; not to love is to suffer; to suffer is to suffer. To be happy is to love. To be happy, then, is to suffer, but suffering makes one unhappy. Therefore, to be happy, one must love or love to suffer or suffer from too much happiness."

Sigh. Sophie's choice, right?

Flash forward to seven years later (I hope you wore your seatbelt), when I discovered there was a way to get the best of both worlds. Enter The Regal Seagull. The perfect combination of fiction and journalism (second only to the New York Post!), and the brainchild of an avid 'Onion' enthusiast who realized the need for a weekly publication that lovingly mocks Utah culture. He and I are clearly meant to be friends.

So I took up a post with Utah's #1 News Source and am now proud to call myself a staff writer. I'll post links to all of my Regal Seagull articles on the sidebar, so that when you tire of reading my blogs over and over and over and over and over again (and we both know that you do, Reader) for your primary source of entertainment, you will be only a click away from your new secondary source of entertainment.

You're welcome, Reader.

I've only been writing for the Seagull for a couple of weeks now, and the site itself is only a couple weeks older than that. But we all have high hopes for it in the future. Soon the Regal Seagull will be available in print, and then it's only a matter of time before the Seagull nabs the Democratic nomination and becomes the first-ever independent publication-turned-President of the Known Universe and then...!

Sorry, Reader. I was just planning ahead.

Wednesday, May 21

... About Haute Couture

My parents are going to Puerto Vallarta next week. My dad bought his first pair of sandals for the trip, and for the life of him could not understand why my mother, my sister and I would not allow him to leave the house wearing them. Not that we had anything against the sandals. Our opposition was to the white ankle-high athletic socks he insisted on wearing under them.

"There's nothing wrong with this!" he exclaimed. "You're SUPPOSED to wear socks with them!"

No. No, you're not.

Try as we might, we could not get my dad to understand that it makes no sense to buy sandals if you're planning on wearing socks. Socks defeat the entire purpose of sandals. Anyone can see that! And what he really had a hard time grasping was that we were not trying to be mean to him. We were trying to help him. We were trying to help him avoid becoming that guy. It's a sad and lonely world, and we were protecting him. But he didn't hear all of the "we love you"s and "this is for your own good"s that were woven subtly through our argument. All he heard was, "Seriously? Seriously. Go upstairs and change your shoes. You look like a moron."

Now, I don't consider myself much of a fashionista, Reader, but at least I am not guilty of such obvious faux pas that other people feel the need to save me from my poorly-dressed self.

Or so I thought.

Twice in two days people have questioned my clothing choices - to my face! At work this morning Senior commented on my flipflops. It's a rainy day, and he wondered why I wanted to get my feet wet. My argument was a very convincing, "Oh, well, you know." But what I was thinking was: of course I'm wearing flipflops. It's May! I avoid wearing shoes that require socks whenever possible (we all know that socks + Buscemi ankles = disaster waiting to happen), and it's pretty much a set-in-stone rule that between the months of March and October I wear flipflops. Every day. Every. Day.

I wouldn't have put much thought into Senior's flipflop comment, except that last night I had a perfect stranger question whether my t-shirt was appropriate.

And she was, like, five.

I was painting my TV cabinet and was one can of spray paint short, so a quick trip to Lowe's was in order. It looked like rain, and I was painting outside, so I had to hurry. I grabbed the paint and was on my way back out to my car when I encountered a mother with two little girls in the parking lot. One of the little girls asked, "Do you work here?" When I told her no, she pointed to my shirt and said, "Then why does it say something on your shirt?" I happened to be wearing my Juno shirt that I got at the sneak peak for the movie. On the chest is a "my name is" sticker with "Juno" scrawled across it. I told the little girl what it said.

Her reply was, "Oh. Why would you wear that?"

Why? Because it just happened to be what I was painting in and I didn't take the time to change before heading to the store. At least, that was my excuse yesterday. But the truth is, I have worn that very shirt on occasion just to wear it. Why? Because it was clean. And/or the first shirt I saw when I opened the drawer.

Reader, you know I'm not a good shopper. Anyone that's ever been shopping with me for more than twenty minutes deserves a Congressional Medal of Honor. But even I go and buy a couple of shirts or jeans or something every couple of months. So I started wondering, when's the last time I went clothes shopping? I'm pretty sure it was before Christmas.

Christmas! I've made at least 3 D.I. drops since then. No wonder I always feel like I have nothing to wear. I'm getting rid of my clothes and not replacing them.

So I'm thinking, now that the weather's turning warm, I really should go out and get some new clothes, so I don't have to resort to wearing t-shirts emblazoned with Juno and Potter Puppet Pals' slogans. A few new tops, maybe a summery skirt or two, some khakis...

Hey, while I'm at it, I'll pick up some new sandals. And socks.

Thursday, May 15

... About Stimulating the Economy

Reader, you know that guy who does those late-night infommercials about how if you give him a bunch of money he'll teach you how to get the government to give you a bunch of money? He wears a smoking jacket with dollar signs all over it and prances around the Washington monument like a loon? You know who I'm talking about, the guy who looks like a cross between Bill Nye and Woody Allen?

I hate that guy.

And I'm SO happy that I finally got a chance to prove him wrong. Even without forking over my hard-earned cash to learn his "invaluable methods!" to "achieve! real! financial! success!", I managed to trick the government into literally giving me free money. And unlike that greedy sonuvabee, I'm going to tell you how I did it. You don't have to pay me anything or buy my yet-to-be-published book (pay me money and buy my yet-to-be-published book). I'll tell you exactly how I tricked the government into sending me $600 last week.

I paid my taxes.

I know what you're thinking, Reader. Why in the world would any right-minded citizen pay taxes? Well, lemme tell you, doing your civic duty pays off. So I decided to do my civic duty once again and spend my $600 like President Bush asked me to, to help 'stimulate the economy.'

Now I'm a good girl with high morals, and am generally opposed to stimulating things before marriage. But I am also a law-abiding citizen and understand the importance of respecting the office of the President (even if respect for the person who locks himself in that office to, Iuhno, play the Wii for six hours a day? is waning), so I girdled my loins and drove to the one place where I could be guaranteed to spend obscene amounts of money - Target.

Target and I have a love/hate relationship. I always walk in with a purpose - today I am buying shampoo, today I am buying socks, etc. I love that I can get these little necessities at a good price. But Target hates it when I leave with only the item(s) I intended on purchasing. So the Powers That Be fill up my little red cart with all sorts of stuff that I never knew I needed. But once I spot them, waiting for me to rescue them from their retail shelf-prison, these poor homeless items must be mine!

That is not to say that I always buy frivilous or useless things. They all have some sort of logical purpose. Once I went to Target for mascara and came home with a little cabinet and storage totes for all of my toiletries. Did I know I needed something like that before I passed the aisle it was in? No. But I'm glad I have it now - it's a much better system for keeping my makeup, lotions, and hair stuff organized than my old method, which was basically throwing it all in a basket and never finding what I wanted.

But I still always feel a little bit guilty, no matter how productive my purchase turns out to be. It's the cheapskate in me. So I couldn't bring myself to spend all of the government money. Even though it was totally free and should therefore be totally guilt-free, my heart about stopped when the register passed the $100 mark. Because, after all, I don't want to be one of those people who become consumed by their posessions. Like Edward Norton at the beginning of "Fight Club". What a sad life that would be, sitting home alone every night, surrounded by all your fancy stuff but with no one to share it with. When you can't sleep you console your loneliness by watching late night infommercials for fitness equipment and kitchen gadgets and -

Ooooooh! A Magic Bullet! Gotta get me one of those!

Monday, May 5

... Acerca de Mis Tres Aniversario

Hola, Lector! Feliz Cinco de Mayo! It's time to break out the nachos and margaritas! Ay-ay-ay!

Cinco de Mayo is far and away my favorite quasi-American holiday. Mostly because I love Mexican food, but also because I've had some pretty fun and exciting Cinco de Mayos in the past. For example, last year I went to Birdie and Marcus's wedding on Cinco de Mayo (Feliz Aniversario!) and that was tons of fun. The year before, Cinco de Mayo marked the end of my finals and the first break I had from school for over a year.

But I think my best Cinco de Mayo ever was three years ago. I don't think it's a coincidence that on 5/5/05 I got to spend the day with 5 uber-celebrities. These aren't just your run-of-the-mill movie stars, Lector. These are the top tier of the entertainment/sports/stage-management world. Joe Perry, the man who can describe a kiss with a kick-a guitar riff! Hank Azaria, the man of a thousand voices and the bespectacled scientist who left Phoebe for Minsk! George Foreman, the man who named all five of his children after himself and introduced a new way to grill delicious food while knocking out fat! Biff Henderson, the man who sets up mind-boggling stunts, ambushes red carpets and small towns alike, and... well, basically sacrifices his dignity for humor! And last but not least, Conan O'Brien, the man whose hair can be seen from space!

Wow. Can you believe that was three whole years ago, Lector? How time flies.

Why can't we Americans steal more foreign holidays and call them our own? Victoria Day in Canada is coming up soon. We should totally celebrate Victoria Day. But how? Let's ask Dr. Google:

"Several Canadian cities hold a parade in honour of the holiday, with the most famous being in the monarch's namesake city of Victoria, British Columbia. This holiday is also often celebrated with fireworks shows. In some parts of Canada, the holiday is colloquially known as May Two-Four. This phrase has two meanings: the holiday always falls near the date of May 24, and a two-four is Canadian slang for a case of 24 bottles of beer, the most common packaging of the drink in Canada (wikipedia.com)."

Fireworks and beer? That sounds just like the kind of holiday that Americans would embrace! But let's not just stick to our unsuspecting neighbors Mexico and Canada - there's a whole world full of holidays we can steal! Guy Fawkes Day, Greek Independence Day, Janmashtami; the choices are limitless! We'll never have a normal, boring day again. Whenever we feel like our lives are in a rut, and there's nothing new happening, there'll be no worries because it's a holiday and there's something to celebrate! The world will be a more joyful place.

But it's not just about stealing other countries' holidays, Lector. It's about embracing them as American holidays the way only Americans can - with piles of food, obnoxious revelry, and pyrotechnics. That's the kind of America I want to raise my kids in, one that celebrates simply being alive (and living longer, thanks to healthier eating options with George Foreman's Next Grilleration).

I can just see it now, Lector. Sitting around a fire on Scottish Burns Night, celebrating life, love, and low-fat grilling with my dear children Kristen, Kristen, Kristen, Kristen, and Kristen.