a new era

While my audio french lessons have served me well ("Hello, how are you?" "I'm fine, and you?" "not too well." "why, are you sick?" "no, I'm very tired." etc.), I found that there were holes missing where I couldn't actually SEE the french words I was trying so hard to pronounce.

Salvation is here in the form of Podcasts. After spending three full days gorging on the Ricky Gervais Show, I found something even better: The French Podclass. Yes. 27 Lessons in all, including daily worksheets, audio and video lessons.

Simply amazing.

park that car, drop that phone

Let me tell you about my last day as a child.

Like moths to a flame (for lack of a better analogy), we returned to the desert. Josh the Hippie, Ryan the Idealist, and myself. Summer was still early in its conception, burgeoning in the mix of hot daytime sun and cool nighttime air. We'd gotten out of the house, stifled by the drawbacks of the domestic life. We couldn't be constrained by walls and carpet and couches and sinks. Not tonight.

Tonight we were archeologists, digging through the sand of a million seconds already spent in search of evidence. In our minds bounced a million memories of that same desert; covered in snow, covered in stars, covered in dust; covered in the tire tracks that traversed uncharted territory. Tonight we were waiting. Ryan and Josh were waiting for the epic sweep of their summer abroad to begin. I was waiting to grow up. Or run away. Or face adulthood, wincing and uneasy.

Collectively we shared the crushing pressure of a summer that needed to be monumental. What we had instead was an empty park, for lack of anywhere else to go. I squinted into the stars, willing two of everything into existence so I could feel the weight of the universe on my shoulders. Josh and Ryan were scuffling against asphalt, scraping bits of skin and jeans and egos into the ground.

There was nowhere else to go. So we wandered into the park, one arthritic tree silhouetted against the molten glow of a lamp. The swings stirred, lynched on cold metal bars. There was a scuffed baseball diamond under my feet and the breathing, living sound of a desert night spread out before me.

A park at night bears the tired sags of an elderly man who has lived one too many years he doesn't understand. I thought about how tonight was my last night as a child. I thought as we ran through the grass, picking our feet up to keep the dew from soaking our socks, and I thought as we stared at the sky, at each other, at the ground. This is the year I'll look back on and not understand.

The park held nothing for us anymore. It was a blank stare, an empty room. We returned to the car, squirming under the weight of bruised expectations. We went out in search of something that resembled an epic adventure, and instead found a deconstructed myth. The excitement of the desert was fading.

And fading with it, too, was the memory of parking that car, of running through that grass, of the stirring of those swings. We couldn't be epic, we realized. So instead we waited.

Almost a year later, we're still waiting.

"Used to be one of the rotten ones, and I liked you for that
Now you're all gone, got your make up on, and you're not coming back."
Broken Social Scene

Sig alert failed me again!

The world ended today (and by 'world' I mean my sanity). I knew it was bound to happen.

I was driving along the 60 heading West (to Keruoac's--and nobody else's--ragged promised land). Driving is too strong a word...I could say lilting, or halting, and still that implies movement. My car and I were engaged in what obesity doctors like to call "sedentary activity." I was in what driver's ed teachers like to call "a wolf pack" of big rigs and Toyota Corolla's, and was quickly headed down the path of what psychiatrists like to call "a mental breakdown the likes which not even Charles Manson has seen--a truly perfect storm of mental mayhem and personality defectiveness on a Peloponnesian scale."

Maybe psychiatrists (or my pre-graduate school pysch major friends) wouldn't use this classification verbatim. But of course, from my reclined position on their black leather chaise, I would go in for the kill.

"And did I mention that I had been on hold with the utility company for 30 minutes?"

"Hmmm. You were stuck in traffic and you were on hold with the utility company?" He scratches a note on his pad of paper.

"Yes." I pause for dramatic effect. "And there was NO hold music."

"No hold music? No hold music? Ms. Dailey, I hate to say this, but you were headed down the path of a mental breakdown the likes of which not even Charles Manson has seen--a truly perfect storm of mental mayhem and personality defectiveness on a Peloponnesian scale!"

"I couldn't have said it better myself, Doctor."

.........

Back in traffic, I could see the world's end looming on the horizon. And then the Dark Horse came galloping into view--the true end of civilization, or at least the frayed end of my mental rope--in the form of Culture Club's Karma Chameleon.

I had no choice but to sing along.

"Comma comma comma comma comma Chameleeeoooooooooon..." (I can see now that you are wrinkling your nose in mock disgust, O Musical Elitist. 'It's Karma Chameleon,' you'd say, over emphasizing the -r sound, subsequently sounding vaguely British. But I ask you: Does anybody really know the words? I didn't think so.)

"...You come and goooo-ooohhhhhh..."

It was then that I realized that the entire musical world was at war with itself. Devo was hurling Whip It's at Nickelback, who responded with--oh, who am I kidding? Anything in Music World War would kill Nickelback. And this War of the Worlds got me thinking.

If there was a fight between Sigur Ros' lead singer, Sujfan Steven's orchestral theatrics, Wilco and Radiohead, and then everybody tragically died, the ghost that would rise from the rubble would be Broken Social Scene.

In the path of musical armageddon, I'm content to be pushed, pulled, waxed and waned along with the rhythms of You Forget It in People and their self titled masterpiece, Broken Social Scene. It's a specter that doesn't haunt as much as reminds you that your taste in music isn't too shabby.

Even if your mental health is hanging on a thread.

happy 2006.

2006 will be the Year of Failure. I am tossing this prediction out right now with hopes that this is one resolution I'll stick to. Unfortunately, it's likely the first resolution I've ever made, as I'm not really a fan of the whole New Year, New You poltergeist that haunts the early months of every calendar year. Nevertheless, I've titled it, I've named it, and I've cloaked myself in "Failure is cool if I embrace it" pretense.

We'll see how that one pans out.

However, this is LA and I'm 22 and the whole Father Time/sweet-cheeked newborn analogy is a little too Old Lang Syne for me. Here in the Tangerine Playground, it just wouldn't be the new year without those ubiquitous Lists. And I wouldn't live up to my full 20-something, messy-haired potential if I didn't wholeheartedly affirm lists.

Which I do.

Bloggers rejoice! The slump that usually flops itself between the end-of-summer romanticizing and early-spring lovesick whining is momentarily given a breath of new life in the form of End-of-the-year Lists.

Hipster rejoice! The likes of Spin, Pitchfork, Pajiba, et al have released their year-end musings regarding music, film, and whatever else they deem important.

Californians rejoice! Hollywood steps up its game through the influx of end-of-the-year Gotta-slip-it-in-before-all-those-darned-overinflated-fashion-parades--I mean, awards-shows of cinematic choices. So on that note, Hollywood is transformed for the time being into the center of the universe as we endure the People's Choice, Golden Globes, SAGs, and ultimately, the Big Brother that governs them all, Oscar. These are the ultimate lists, if you will. Best of this, Best of that. And so on.

I could go on, but I digress. Cusak and the Good Times Gang (from that movie we all forget to love until someone brings it up and everyone else chimes in with, "Oh, I love that movie!") had it right. Lists. What a glorious way of compartmentalizing! Why not take the year at a glance and condense it into pill-sized poppers that we down with a swig of Aquafina?

So here it is. I throw my hands in the air and offer up my soul to the Conformity Gods with this, my 2005 List.

In no particular order, here are 10 things. 10 Things in 2005. I refuse to classify even further, so compartmentalize at your own risk, my fellow feel-good pill-poppers.


10. French. I'm trying to learn it, I really am. Those audio French lessons have taught me a wealth of phrases (which I can't write down because of the aforementioned aural nature of the lessons). But I work at the Pink Wonderland, and a majority of my coworkers triumph French as their native language. I dare anyone to listen to Brigitte Bardot romp through Tu veux ou tu veux pas and not want to convert.

9. And while I'm on the subject of music, let's all take a moment to affirm the abundance of feel-good shimmy-shimmy-dance songs out there. At the top of the heap is the Harlem Shakes A Night. I have head-bobbed my way through 67 listens of this infectiously poppy anthem, and I just can't get enough. Following close at its heels, The Guillemots' lead singer flutters his falsetto all over the equally infectious Who Left the Lights Off, Baby? This song is so sunny and bright it may as well have its own UV index. Last, but not least, who can honestly say they haven't closed their eyes and sang along, fists pumping, to Nada Surf's Always Love at least once this year? C'mon. You know you want to. "Allllllllwayyyyys love..."

8, 7, and 6 (since this list is longwinded as it is...who am I? top 40 radio's 500 Best Songs of the 90's? No, darling). Gourmet chocolates (Picholine, 3360 West First Street, LA), bleu cheese fries (Pete's Cafe, 400 S Main St), and Pocky from the Japanese super market (Little Tokyo. Pick a place, any place). All three heart-attack inducing. All three a strict no-no to the sad "Lose Weight" mantra of so many staunch New Year's Resolution addicts. All three devilishly good and worth the trip. Just one lavender or cognac truffle from Picholine, and you, too, will be watching Chocolat with a newfound appreciation.

5. Arrested Development. Long live the Bluth's.

4. Traffic. The lilting my-life-is-a-nightmare stop and go hell of a twice daily commute. Oh, wait...I'm sorry. For a second there I thought I was contributing to a list of Things That Make Me Want To Eat My Own Hand and Sit Through A Week-Long Marathon of Dancing With The Stars Before Coming To And Realizing That Life Simply Isn't Worth Living If Brad and Jen Can't Make It So Why Don't We All Just Shoot Ourselves And End it All. My bad.

Now where was I?

Oh, yes.

3. Senior Portraits. I have already posted my bitter diatribe against the LA teen set. I think that's all I have to say.

2. Cacti. Oh, the Family. They have occupied more than their fair share of space on my white picket fence of cyberspace. In further news, Jezebel may be on its' (her? his?) last breath, but the Unnamed One is flourishing and growing preternatural arms reminiscent of a certain Boo Radley.

1. Antlers. I'll be moving soon, and when I do, I will put into effect Phase II of Laurel's Life as an Adult in the form of Interior Decoration. The theme this time around? Urban forest. Modern rustic. Log Cabin Chic. Daniel Boone is my boyfriend. And riding on the crest of the re-decoration maelstrom is a set of antlers shot, skinned, and given to me from a friend who appreciates the Cabin Life as much as I do.

So that's it, children. I promise to lay off the lists until at least April.