The Hollywood Librarian

better than feathers

2012-01-20T13:14:00.000-08:00

no habla espanol

2012-01-13T12:28:00.000-08:00

I ran away to Costa Rica to avoid Christmas, but that’s not really why I went to Costa Rica. I went to learn Spanish, but we all know you can’t learn Spanish in two weeks -- and certainly not in a town like Montezuma where everyone speaks English, and its service professionals have little patience for a gringa-ass like mine practicing its Spanish in restaurants where a sandwich costs $12, and yes, they take American dollars. What I really wanted to do was read and write for two weeks in front of the ocean, uninterrupted, which is what I did (except for those four hours of Spanish every day and the hour and a half of yoga every night, and all of the fire-dancing I was required to watch as a temporary denizen of this town ruled by the Poi People, who -- around 9 p.m. each night -- crawl from the ocean and into the streets with their flame-retardant, underworldy elfin garb, fire sticks a-twirling).

What I really wanted was time to figure some things out.

I packed my seriously heavy copy of Swann's Way and downloaded John Jeremiah Sullivan's Pulphead to my Kindle (dear everyone: go read Pulphead now). I didn’t crack the Proust, but was instead pulled toward a battered copy of the Rings of Saturn, found in my one-bookstore-town’s one bookstore. Too much multi-tasking meant I didn't get through either, but Sebald and Sullivan made excellent traveling companions on a trip about figuring stuff out.

I wrote every day until my hand cramped and could tell you 30 stories and give you a few epiphanies. Maybe I’ll get around to putting some of them here, but I'll probably save most of it.

The thing I struggle most with in writing, and why I can’t commit myself to getting serious about it, is that I’m a slave to the first person. I write best about myself, or with myself as narrator, and I’m kind of ashamed that fiction is so hard for me. It’s like I’m constantly punching myself in the head, telling myself to get over myself already. It feels self-important -- what makes my POV so interesting anyway?

But here are a couple of things I figured out: John Jeremiah Sullivan is a great first-person essayist and my roommate was a total weirdo. She was so strange that I devoted pages of my journal to her without realizing I was doing it. And what a great thing that was for me: the privilege that time affords, the ability to pay attention, to notice, to get out of my own head a bit.

"I feel so alive here," was the roommate's constant refrain. She said it at least once a day, half to me, half to herself. And then she would sigh. She sighed a lot: tiny Chinese-American sighs, the repression escaping in bursts through her pretty mouth.

The roommate was dreading her return to the states, and as the date approached, her affirmations of life were followed by the occasional, "I don't want to go back."

I, on the other hand, felt ready. Most of my vacations are followed by a week of crippling depression -- the Hollywood sign becoming a shadowy, ominous thing hanging over my head -- but I had a feeling this time would be different. It was. The trip strengthened my resolve to read more, write more, work on my Spanish, and be more present. I was feeling good about this, motivated.

Apart from being arguably present, I haven't done much of these things since my return.

For example: I want to revise the essay I wrote before I left, and try to submit it somewhere. The problem is that it's so sad, and I'm not. Every time I look at the thing, it's such a buzzkill that I put it back into the metaphorical drawer. Unfortunately (for my productivity), I met someone before I left for Costa Rica, and I’ve been very distracted since my return. He made me black-eyed peas and collard greens on New Year's Day, and we haven't spent much time apart since.

And that's all I'm going to say about that because reading about another person’s new-relationship-euphoria is boring.

Instead, I will tell you about my roommate, who, on our last night in Montezuma, danced for the first time on the back lawn of the town's only bar. The music was terrible, a genre I dubbed "Thump-Thump Latin Grind Fuck," and it creeped from the bar's dance floor onto the grass, infecting our bare feet. We danced in a circle -- me and my far-flung classmates, some of whom I'd grown to love in those two weeks. Back home in my insular Holly-world, I can't imagine our paths ever crossing -- and I'm not talking about the geographical distance that separates us. The bar's DJ insisted on reminding us where we were every minute or so, cutting through the music to shout the Spanish equivalent of "Give it up, Montezumaaaaaaa!"

The tropical mist swirled around our ankles like cauldron smoke while the mosquitoes were held at bay by a force field of Deet, our toxic Costa Rican perfume. The roommate's dancing was a thing to behold: a jerking marionette at war with her puppeteer. Her arms flailing, her head thrown back, she faced the moon defiantly, but with closed eyes. I watched and wondered what she was thinking.

XMAS SMD

2011-12-14T14:47:00.000-08:00

One of my favorite holiday traditions has become my friends' JJ and Marisol's annual caroling party. Sunday night was the second year I participated, and it was magical. This year's theme was Sock Puppets. Our merry crew took to the streets of Angelino Heights, which teems with beautiful Victorian homes. Our sock-covered hands belted out holiday classics like "Frosty the Snowman" and "Come on Feel the Noise," accompanied by an acoustic guitar. We were invited into a few homes and rewarded with cookies (and in one case, a fistful of joints).

My sock puppet was hella hungover on Monday

I'm not a scrooge. I can get behind secular holiday traditions -- spending time with loved ones, preparing/eating rich food, the spirit of generosity, etc. What I'm not down with is the rampant consumerism, which punches me in the gut a little harder each year. How many Starbucks gift cards, scented candles, ugly scarves and functionless thingamabobs does a person need? This year, I'm bowing out. I'm not buying a single gift, and those who might be inclined to buy me something are under instructions not to bother.

What I'm also not down with is another Phoenix Christmas. I'd rather visit my mom under different circumstances. It's just she and my brother and we don't have any traditions to speak of. She usually works on Christmas anyway. So, a few months ago, I made an executive decision to do what I wanted to with my holiday off-time. I'm spending 12 days in Costa Rica, learning Spanish and practicing yoga. Adios, muchachos.

Mom wasn't thrilled about my holiday travel plans, but to compensate, I offered to buy her the French Bulldog she's been dreaming about for months. Apparently, this dog is a suitable stand-in for me. She lit up as soon as I made the offer, and Costa Rica hasn't been mentioned since. Win-win.

Next year, I'm dreaming of a Thai Christmas. I wonder what animal I will have to sacrifice for that one.

on writing

2011-12-08T11:26:00.000-08:00

I haven't been writing here lately because I'm in the throes of a personal essay-writing class. It's taught by a prolific essayist -- a woman who earns her living writing these things, freelance, publishing her work in glossy mags and newspapers on a regular basis. The objective of the class is to refine your craft, learn some tricks of the trade and get your work published -- and many of her previous students have succeeded in this. The instructor knows the industry well and offers great insight (sometimes shockingly) into her students' work. At times, the class feels more like a group therapy session than a writing workshop, and while that's a little weird for me, it can get interesting. There are ten people in the class, and based on the early drafts I've read, I'd estimate 2/3 are writing publishable material. Yes, I realize that leaves us with a fraction of a person, but it's still pretty good.

In taking this class, I've learned that I don't have much love for the personal essay as a genre (I didn't really know what I was signing up for when I registered). Most personal essay writing is somewhat glib for my taste -- easy to swallow life-lessons, and it's not really my bag.

I wasn't taking the class to get my work published. My B.A. is in journalism and I worked as a writer for a few years after college, absolutely hating it, which is why I wound up a librarian. I adore the written word, but find it painful to write on command in a voice that is not always my own about things that do not move me. So instead, I chose to surround myself with the words of others.

But I still love writing. Over the years, it's become therapeutic for me. Since I mostly write about myself these days, it affords me a different kind of control over my life. I'm able to craft a narrative, assign symbols, and make connections among things that are not necessarily related so I can make some sense of them. It's comforting. I journal frequently and write here sometimes, and maybe this sounds silly, but it's a way to give my world some meaning.

I took this class because I wanted to become more disciplined about my writing, and maybe get some ideas going with an eye toward writing something long-form in the future. Maybe. I was testing the waters. But I was embarrassed by the essay draft I brought to class Tuesday night. For lack of a more apt metaphor, I thought it was a piece of shit.

In the course of writing the essay, I decided I was a fool for taking this class. I was struggling with the personal essay formula my instructor had prescribed. There was a format, and I didn't know how to make my writing comply. Reading the first round of my classmates' drafts the previous week, I was surprised by the mostly consistent tone of their writing: breezy and conversational, and in some cases, quite witty. When done well, it's a style of writing I often admire in others because it seems so effortless.

By comparison, my own writing feels heavy and twisted, complicated and literary. I mean this in the worst possible way. Just because something is literary doesn't mean it's any good. And that's how I felt about the essay I brought to class Tuesday night: it was the work of someone who couldn't master the personal essay trying to disguise it with the affected voice of literary fiction. I didn't do it on purpose, but it's the only way I know how to write about anything personal -- with the distance my narrative voice affords. And I hated the parts of the essay where I had to talk explicitly about the way I felt -- what the instructor calls "your ugly paragraph(s)." I wasn't used to writing this way. I shy away from spelling anything out for a reader, and prefer to communicate my feelings through scene and metaphor.

I tried to put a positive spin on it. The class hadn't been a waste of my time. I'd learned a valuable lesson from this experience: I don't want to write for other people. I don't want to be published. Maybe it was time to put my pen away. And what was I doing with this stupid, sporadically updated blog anyway? It's embarrassing and I should probably just delete it. Keep this stuff in my journal.

You can probably guess where this is going, so I won't detail the overwhelmingly positive feedback my essay received, and my instructor's insistence that I publish it. As my classmates handed copies of my draft back to me, I kept seeing the same comment scrawled across the top: "write a memoir." "memoir material." "have you thought about writing a memoir?"

The essay I wrote is about buying my mother a dog, but of course, that's not what it's really about. I haven't decided if I want to submit it anywhere because I don't know how representative it is of my style as a writer. I made a lot of compromises.

I'm not sure why I'm writing this. Maybe this is a blog post about when I started to take myself more seriously as a writer. Or maybe it's a more general commentary about how unforgiving and critical of myself I can be, and how maybe I should lighten up. But I'm not sure that it's either of those things. I've come to no conclusions, which is probably why I'll never be a good personal essayist.

going home again

2011-10-21T16:46:00.000-07:00

The T.V. in my mother's new condo is always on -- even when there is no one home to watch it. A wall-mounted flat screen, I imagine the high-definition faces exist to greet her when she walks through the door after another 16-hour shift. When I arrived home on a recent Friday night -- my mother still at work, my brother asleep -- I was welcomed by The Long Island Medium, warm and glowing.

"I fell off the bed last week," my mother tells me the next day over lunch. It happened like this: home from another long day/night at the nursing home, she sits on her bed. Reading one moment, the next she is on her back, a sea of white wall-to-wall carpeting keeping her afloat. "I must've fallen asleep sitting up. I could've cracked my head on the nightstand. I was lucky."

She told my brother the same story, and a few days later, a pillow appeared on the floor near her bed.

"Sounds like he's worried about you," I said.

"He does what he can."

What he can do isn't much these days. Out of rehab and newly fired from another job, he mostly hangs around the condo sleeping or smoking or watching T.V., not paying rent, intermittently taking drugs and then trying to quit them. He says he's moving to Vegas next week. Somehow, he's driving an Infiniti.

I didn't want to be in Phoenix, but a sense of duty had pulled me east. The older I get, the more inexplicable it seems that this is my family. My mother: naked, gaunt, her body looking, somehow, like it's trying to swallow itself. With every visit, she appears smaller. Is this the same woman who used to read "Are You My Mother?" to a four-year-old me every night before bed? Who taught me to roller skate? Who used to drag me down the hallway, screaming, by my ponytail? She is disintegrating, and I never feel more alone in the world than when she looks at me, her eyes brimming with raw pride and affection. We speak different languages. This is the person who loves me more than anything, but I do not trust her.

We went shopping together, a play at being functional. I don't think we'd shopped together since I was a kid. Then, she used to steal things in front of me, but she doesn't do that anymore -- at least not that I've noticed. We went to only one store, Pier 1 Imports, my maiden voyage to this strip mall port. Walking through the automatic glass doors, my nose was assaulted by scented candles, a cloying stink cloud permeating the air. Everything here was glittering, ornate, overwrought, often without function. For Halloween, displays of animatronic witches cackled at my mother, and she smiled in return, her new bridge twinkling among decaying teeth. How many animatronic Santas, snowmen and bunnies had she seen before this one? But there she was, enchanted, as if seeing it for the first time, a child.

"Isn't this one neat?" She kept thrusting bejeweled picture frames in my face, soliciting my opinion. I squinted, repeating the same phrase I'd uttered a thousand times already. "It's not really my taste."

When it came time to pay, Mom couldn't find her Pier 1 credit card. With a line of people behind her, she poured the contents of her purse onto the counter, scavenging among the envelopes and rubber bands and prescription bottles. With a tight smile, the cashier offered to look up her credit card information.

"Can I verify your address?" she asked.

"I don't know it," Mom said, frustrated. "I just moved."

It had been three months.

Imaginary Postcards (pt. 2)

2011-09-23T11:42:00.000-07:00

(continued from here)

Photo by Ji

Dear Dicky,

Today I learned that Adriana and Ji don't like Morrissey. WTF?

Photo by Adriana

Dear Dicky,

I lost the keys to our rental car somewhere inside a Long's Drugstore today, and 2.5 hours of vacation were lost in consequence. We scanned each aisle countless times, ransacked the trash bins, combed the parking lot, but these keys had something to prove. The Long's staff rallied to help us, interrupting their workday to join the hunt, and I was touched by their genuine concern.

I felt like a stereotype -- another absent-minded woman losing her keys -- and inside, I was beating myself up for it. Repeatedly, I apologized to Ji and Adriana for my fuck-up, but they responded only with reassurances. "Yes, we're stuck at a drugstore," Ji said, "but it's a drugstore in Maui and it doesn't get much better than this." I thought of boyfriends from vacations past, and wondered if they would've been so kind.

We ate fish from a cart in the parking lot and weighed our options. I was ready to call a locksmith (a $300 pricetag for new key), when an employee ran from the store, a fistful of silver flashing. The keys had been hiding among the water socks. I went back inside and thanked every employee personally. To myself, I vowed to be a better person.

Later, we took the long way to Waimoku Falls and the Seven Sacred Pools -- the West Maui Highway. The landscape here is alien, a little like land coming back to life in the decades following a wildfire. I piloted our car through the winding dirt roads, stopping occasionally to inspect the herds of grazing Maui cows, who seemed somehow more relaxed and friendly than mainland cows. "Moohalo!" we'd shout to them. The cows would only masticate and stare in response, but we could see the pineapples twinkling in their eyes. And all along this narrow road, the bluest ocean was always to our right, a constant companion crashing against the lava rocks.

"What planet is this?" one of us asked.

If you filmed landscapes like this, I think I'd enjoy your work more.

Dear Crystal,

I ate the best meal of my life tonight -- our last in Maui -- at Mama's Fish House. Granted, we got incredibly stoned in the car beforehand, which proved a little embarrassing since the parking lot was valet-only. I had to relinquish our smoke-filled vehicle to an attendant who slid behind the wheel without making eye contact. Heightened senses or no, I still think it would've been the best meal ever. I'm pretty sure.

We ordered three appetizers, three entrees and three desserts. I think the waitress was a little afraid of us -- three women who ate with such abandon and gusto. Several dishes were served in coconut shells, and Adriana asked for a spoon so she could scrape out the flesh. At the meal's end, these were our only leftovers -- our plates were bare -- and so we took the coconut shavings home with us in a box. The bill was over $300 before tip, which I'm sure you find horrifying, but it was worth it.

On the ride back to our vacation rental, we listened to our favorite Maui old school radio station, and sang along to Exposé's "The Point of no Return." On the eucalyptus-lined road to Hai'ku, we stopped the car short because so many frogs were hopping into the road. Illuminated by our headlights, a single frog waited, looking up at the three of us expectantly.

"Go touch it, Ji!" Adriana squealed. Ji exited the car and walked toward the frog. As she got within striking distance, she took a step backward, paused, and then moved closer again. She reached out her hand, but then snatched it away, stepping backward. This happened several times before she turned toward us and said, "I can't! I'm scared."

"I think I can handle this," I said, rising from the passenger seat. I crouched next to the frog and stared him down, the headlights cutting through the fog around us, creating a spotlight. I was surprised by the frog's muscularity -- the little guy was ripped. Our eyes were locked as I reached out and touched his clammy back, shocked that he didn't move as my fingers grazed his skin. I turned and looked up at Adriana, still behind the steering wheel, in awe.

"Kiss him!" she shouted.

I turned back to the frog and lowered myself into plank position. As I moved my face toward him, he leapt away. Instinctively, I assumed a frog position and hopped after him. I chased him to the edge of the eucalyptus grove, but I wasn't quick enough -- he'd disappeared into the foggy woods.

I stood, balled my fists and turned my face toward the low-hanging Maui moon, howling, "Unrequited love!"

I know you haven't been too interested in traveling to Hawaii, but I think you'd like it here. So many things remind me of you.

Photo by Adriana

Dear Shannon,

I brought three books to Maui (two on my Kindle). This does not include my copy of Maui Revealed, which is the only one I've cracked for six days on this island. I'm carrying my journal too, but my pen only appears to sign checks. Is this living in the moment? I'm writing these postcards now, here on my blog, because stopping to write about anything that happened as it was happening felt impossible. I did buy some postcards on my last day in Maui, which I scrawled hastily on the first leg of my flight, and then mailed when I changed planes in Honolulu. I can't remember anything I wrote.

I hope you haven't found any more poop in your library. I'm still trying to figure out what I should do for Thanksgiving. It's not the same without you.

Imaginary Postcards (pt. 1)

2011-09-08T10:27:00.000-07:00

Our plane is circling above the island, making our final descent into Kahului, but through the cabin windows, there isn't much to see. Clouds. The darkening sky. Adriana has the window seat and Ji is on the aisle. It seems I have made a sacrifice by volunteering for the middle, but I only wanted a guaranteed sweet spot for the return trip. I am planning for the end before anything has begun. A few moments earlier, Adriana was singing "Knocking on Heaven's Door." We have not yet seen the island, but as we descend, Adriana says, "I want to get pregnant here."

Second waterfall. We hid our cameras in the forest after this. Photo by Ji.

Dear Lei,

Today we went chasing waterfalls and Adriana surprised me. The guidebook described the hike to the Four Falls of Na'ili'ili-Haele as an "adventure" -- a category that is distinct from an "activity." On the trail to the first waterfall, through the bamboo forest and across the wooden plank that served as a bridge, families were turning around. "The waterfalls here aren't any good," a mother tried to reassure her young son who was too tiny for the rock-climbing.

The first waterfall was small, but after scaling the slippery rocks, we were rewarded with the gorgeous second waterfall. Before I could take in my surroundings, Adriana jumped into the pool. She glided through the water, a bespectacled mermaid home to breed.

The pool, the falls, the pebble shore, the birds chirping in the bamboo forest: it was enough for me. More rock-climbing and a trip up a rickety rope ladder attached to a 12-ft rock face would be required to reach the third waterfall. I was ready to call it a day here (guidebook: "This is as far as most people will go"), but Adriana was already out of the water and climbing. "If gyms were this spectacular, I'd be so fit." I remembered the time I brought her once, years ago, to my Burn & Firm class at the Hollywood YMCA. Twenty minutes in, she was balled up in a corner of the gymnasium, head between her legs, hyperventilating under the fluorescent lights. Who was this creature now, climbing waterfalls barefoot in a hot pink bikini, as I slipped around in my waterlogged tennis shoes? Reluctantly, I followed her up the side of the rock.

The hike was worth it. At the top of the third waterfall -- more breathtaking than the previous two -- we took turns jumping into the pool 30 feet below. We hadn't packed any food, but it didn't matter. As we splashed around, perfectly ripe passion fruit floated toward us. We'd suck out the oozy flesh and watch the discarded rinds drift away with the current.

"I'm done," said Adriana as she floated in the pool. "If this vacation ended now, I would be completely satisfied." It was only Day 2.

So . . . have you killed my plants yet?

Photo by Adriana

Dear Mom,

I am in Maui. I don't think I told you I was going. Sometimes I feel guilty when I tell you about my travel plans because you've never been anywhere, and I know it's not for lack of interest. When I visit anyplace other than Phoenix, I know I am making a choice. I wonder if that occurs to you too -- even though I don't think you've ever said anything to make me feel bad about it.

We stopped for barbecue today at a shack on the side of the Hana Highway. I love driving here and it makes me think of my other favorite drives -- the Pacific Coast Highway through central California and Australia's Great Ocean Road. Not that Hana looks anything like those places -- it's just that same feeling of otherworldliness. There is a waterfall every few miles. The guidebook described a condition that is common among vacationers: beauty fatigue. It hasn't happened to me yet.

The barbecue stand was out of mahi-mahi. We didn't think we'd make it to Hana before sunset and the guidebook warned that our food options were limited. Jesse, the islander behind the grill holding a Heineken says, "Chicken or Pork?" After explaining that I don't usually eat meat, he says, "What? You come all the way to Maui and you not gonna try the pork?" He has a point. "Pork," I say. He piles my plate high with the stuff and I carry it to the long wooden picnic table.

Did you cook pork when I was a kid? Because I don't remember it ever tasting this way -- I don't think it would've been possible. I tell myself that it's Hawaii falling apart in my mouth and it's paradise. With some help from Ji and Adriana, my plate is cleaned.

How is James doing?

Photo by Adriana

Dear Chris,

Today my camera fell off a cliff.

Yesterday, we met a guy working a roadside barbecue stand who offered to show us around Hana. When we asked how much it would cost, he said, "Spend the day with me and at the end, you decide what it's worth." He told us his Hawaiian name at least three times, but I can't remember it. He also goes by Jesse, so that's what we call him.

The first place he took us was the Blue Pool, which is on private property, but Jesse's somehow related to the owners, so it was OK. In fact, I've noticed that he addresses most everyone we meet as "brother" or "cousin." The water in the Blue Pool is spring-fed. We took turns drinking from it and then letting the water pour over our heads, the force of it making our skulls vibrate. "This is your baptism," Jesse said.

He drove our rental car through the winding roads of Hana with a Heineken between his legs. I don't know why this seemed acceptable, but it was. Maybe because my father always drove with a beer between his legs? Maybe because the sky was full of rainbows? We made stops for waterfalls, beaches, and to gather food: fruit, banana bread, avocado, and once, a salad (which involved Jesse hacking away at the brush along the side of the road). We listened to the Knife ("This sounds like music for people on Ecstasy") and Bo Diddley, which Jesse liked better, though he kept singing over the vocals with impromptu island songs.

He wanted to cook us fish for dinner, which meant fish would need to be caught. This meant scaling the side of a cliff, the dirt crumbling beneath our feet as we took tentative steps, clinging to whatever protuberances we could grip in the wall of rock. We eventually settled into a perch and watched Jesse stand in a tree for a half-hour, surveying the surf below, scanning the tide pools for the telltale silvery glint. We watched the Heineken bottle slip from his hands and crash a few hundred feet below. And then he was off, armed with a backpack and a net, bounding down the side of the cliff like a kid playing hopscotch.

We watched the water and waited. Sometimes Jesse was visible among the rocks, but mostly he'd disappear for long stretches of time. Silently, we considered what we'd do if he didn't come back -- how would we get out of this place without his guidance? -- but we kept our fears to ourselves. When the silver camera slipped from my hands and fell soundlessly below, we all thought that it could have been any of us. When I moved to look over the cliff for any sign of it -- maybe it got caught on a rock, I thought -- Adriana said, "No. Don't. Stop."

Nearly an hour passed before Jesse returned to us, his blue backpack heavy with fish. "Sorry that took so long," he said. "You hungry?" We went back to a home that wasn't his -- another cousin? -- in a neighborhood that felt a little like South L.A., but with a better view, and watched him fry the fish whole. We ate fish eyes and drank beer on a stranger's porch as the sun set over Hana. Stuffed, we left Jesse with a fistful of cash.

How is the pizza in New Haven?

(to be continued)

moohalo

2011-08-26T14:23:00.000-07:00

I went to Maui for a week with Ji and Adriana. We saw a lot of these:

According to the Shepherd of Hana, aka Uncle Jesse, rainbows are NBD. "I see them every day. What's really cool are moonbows. You can put your hand through them."

Also, we did a lot of this:

And then I came home to this guy:

Roaches are a rare thing in my apartment. Clearly, he was straggler from Lei's week of hard-partying in my absence.

More later...

detritus

2011-08-12T09:26:00.000-07:00

A couple of months ago, Chris bought a truck. Last weekend, he crammed its shell full of camping gear, sparing only enough room for Nico and a few succulents. Joel offered himself as co-pilot for the nearly 3,000-mile drive east, where C will spend the next two years at grad school.

A few things I inherited:

Beer: 1 can of La Playa, 1 bottle of San Miguel, 1 bottle of Red Stripe

1 bottle of Jagermeister

1 bottle of Pamplemousse Rose Perrier

Assorted frozen foods including (but not limited to): cheese blintzes, chocolate soy ice cream sandwiches, TJs vegetable gyoza potstickers, eggplant & zucchini, a bag of frozen corn, mini croissants

1 ice pack

1 Bikini Kill cassette tape

1 Crass cassette tape (a gift for Dicky)

1 broom
1 dust pan
1 roll of bubble wrap

Assorted cleaning products
1 bottle of hydrogen peroxide
1 bottle of isopropyl rubbing alcohol
6 light bulbs (of varying shapes, sizes and wattage)

a pile of recycling (which remains near my front door, awaiting transfer to its temporary resting place in the blue bins outside my apartment)

houseplants: 1 mother-in-law's tongue, 1 Euphorbia Obesa, 1 purple shamrock (grown from a cutting I'd given Chris as a housewarming gift when he moved back to L.A.).
1 Echo Park Time Travel Mart mug

countless strands of dog hair

Chris spent his last night in L.A. at my apartment, and when I woke Sunday morning, he'd already picked up Joel. I could hear them bounding up and down the stairs, loading up the truck. I didn't want to watch, so I hid in my room for a while, and when I sensed they were nearing the end, I made my way downstairs, into the unwelcome sunlight. The truck was parked in front of my building and they were making the final adjustments. My neighbor -- a middle-aged black woman to whom I had never said more than "Hello" -- was taking photographs, trailing Chris and Joel, their arms laden with boxes and crates, like she was some kind of moving day paparazzi.

She turned to me.

"I'll get you the pictures later. You'll want to remember this day."

Which is funny because I've already forgotten the moment his truck pulled away.

kitchen drive

2011-07-14T15:03:00.000-07:00

Dicky's work challenges me. In last year, much of it has become performance-based, which is to say that his participation (e.g. projecting slides, playing recorded sound, etc.) has become part of the work. He'll usually leave some elements to chance, rendering each performance unique.

Generally, these performances are long. If he's projecting film, it's not edited. The camera is handheld and sometimes it's out of focus. If he's projecting slides, there are a lot of them, projected for varying durations. The images are often scenes that I find unpleasant: Phoenecian landscapes, the meeting of desert and concrete. If a score accompanies, it is tape-recorded and tinny, projected from a single speaker cassette player, and it often sounds like noise: random sounds, snippets of conversation, rustling, breathing, etc.

Everything about it is defiantly analog. It's raw and without technical sophistication. It tests my patience, and that's part of the point, but it doesn't make the experience any less uncomfortable.

A recent six-hour performance featured the re-creation of a roadtrip in someone's kitchen on a Monday afternoon. I wasn't there. Dicky sat at the kitchen table, projecting slides, drinking coffee, playing his score, making conversation with those who had come to watch and who had become, unwittingly, his roadtrip companions. Some of the images were from trips we'd taken together -- of note, our annual holiday ride to Phoenix, on the I-10 across the most bleak stretches of the Sonoran Desert. I hate that six-hour drive, but I appreciate his rendition of it. Particularly in the form of a six-minute clip where INXS kicks in toward the end.

two days

2011-07-07T11:01:00.000-07:00

July 3:

The yellow dress was a mistake, I think. Biking from Hollywood to downtown on the hottest day of summer so far, it showed every streak of perspiration. When we stopped for iced coffee, I asked Chris if I looked dewy or sweat-soaked.

"A little bit of both?"

He was being kind. We sat under an umbrella and wiped the sweat from our brows with paper napkins.

The dress was a parasail, catching the wind and billowing around me as I rode toward the museum. I tried to contain the skirt with the grip of my legs, but I wasn't always successful, the white of my thighs flashing at oncoming traffic.

At MOCA, I heard my recorded voice come through a single speaker, childish, played on a cassette tape as Dicky projected the accompanying slides onto a screen. We only caught the tail-end of his performance, and I'd walked into the room just in time to hear myself. The images and recording were from Big Family Day a month prior. I remembered following him around the museum that day, frustrated because he seemed to be running away from me, camera and tape recorder in hand.

"What are you doing?" I'd asked.

"Creating documents."

His response had annoyed me because it seemed like ambiguous art-speak, but now it struck me as quite literal.

On this day, the museum was filled with experimental music. In the courtyard, Liam was making noise by touching dry ice to triangles.

Hours later, I was on a rooftop on the edge of downtown, drinking Modelo and Jim Beam. The heat and the alcohol were bringing out the best and the worst in all of us. We told stories from our childhoods and some of us became children. There was crying and hair-pulling. A girl punched a boy. Someone grabbed my head and tried to kiss me as I stood very still, lips clenched, as he pressed his face against mine. When he tried a second time, I pushed him away, saying "NO."

On the plant-covered rooftop, mosquitoes buzzed beneath the yellow dress, sucking on my thighs. Above us, fireworks burst and faded.

July 4:

I love a good fireworks show, and I can't remember the last 4th of July I didn't watch one, but when Dicky suggested an 8 p.m. showing of Tree of Life, it seemed like the right idea.

The film was flawed, but when it worked, it was wonderful, evoking certain feelings from childhood I'd forgotten. It also made me deeply sad to confront the reality of never again experiencing things for the first time.

I'm not planning to have children. As I've grown older, I have a hard time identifying with kids despite willfully living much of my life like one. The film made me recall what it actually felt like to be a child -- not just pretending at it. The truth is that kids intimidate me, and I wonder if it's because I envy them.

After the movie, Dicky and I wandered aimlessly around Hollywood, discussing the film and how it made us feel -- in the language we lacked as children. A single white firework went off above our heads, and I was reminded of a 4th of July years ago. It may have been 2004, and from the roof of the San Francisco Art Institute, we watched fireworks explode over the bay, the bridge. The fog rendered their shapes invisible, so they merely lit up the clouds -- red, then green, then blue -- a Technicolor storm.

On the Walk of Fame, a black woman sat in a plastic chair wearing only a bright yellow bathing suit. As I stared, taking in her outfit, I tripped in my three-inch platform sandals. Then I decided she had the right idea -- the night was an oven.

muscle memory

2011-06-21T16:29:00.000-07:00

It is my instinct to always pay for valet. I believe that my time is valuable and should not be squandered driving in circles. An even worse of use of my time? Driving in circles, annoyed. That said, I will hesitate before valeting because I hate my car. I hate my car so much that I do not wish it upon anyone -- even a valet attendant. So I will usually drive in circles for five minutes, annoyed, before acquiescing to the thing my heart of hearts desired all along.

On Friday night, I valeted the Bookmobile in West Hollywood (for obvious reasons if you've ever tried to park in West Hollywood on a Friday night). When I retrieved my car, I became flummoxed because I could not get the gearshift out of park. I kept trying to force the stick until I eventually sprained my thumb -- an old derby injury, aggravated. Finally, I had to call over the valet attendant, saying, "I don't know what you guys did to my car, but I can't get it out of park." The attendant reached inside and turned the key, igniting the engine. This fixed the problem. I drove to Echo Park, thumb and ego aching.

I played derby for the first time in seven months last night, landing on that bad thumb once again. I skated with my former teammate Crystal Deth in Wreck League -- the recreational leg of LADD. I was a little nervous going in -- seven months off-skates is an eon in Derby Time. But I surprised myself by seemingly picking up where I'd left off: still pretty fast, able to take a hit (many, actually), recover from a fall quickly. My agility and lateral movement didn't seem compromised.

It was bittersweet. I had a blast skating, and it was reassuring to discover that I could still hold my own after a considerable break, but I left practice with a welt on my thigh and an angry thumb. A couple of times during the night, I felt my left arm tingle following a fall. This is really the worst thing that seven years of derby has done to my body: a compressed nerve that runs from my neck down the length of my arm. I still wake up in the middle of the night, my arm completely numb, hand clenched. It's been better since I've stopped playing, but it's still with me.

Practice used to be my favorite part of derby. I was always a more consistent skater in practice than in games because nerves too often got the better of me. During my last season, I felt like I'd plateaued, and practice became a chore. When the only thing I looked forward to was skating in a bout, I knew I was done. So, it was nice to have that old feeling back last night -- of playing a game, for fun, with friends. I just wish it didn't come at such a cost to my body. I'm still thinking about going back next week though.

I have a strong, flexible back. I realize now what a critical role this must've played in my longevity as a derby skater, and in particular, my ability to always bounce right back after the worst of hits. Backbends are one of my strengths in yoga, and I surprised myself by dropping into full camel pose during a class on Saturday. I think now of my mother's back, her spine grossly curved and rounded from scoliosis that went untreated during childhood. Now in her twilight years, her internal organs have shifted.

In other news, during a hike in Chantry Flats on Sunday, I discovered an orchid in full bloom. We found it on our way back down the mountain. We'd missed it on our way up, or perhaps it wasn't there before. At the top of the mountain, we removed the cover to a water tank, which may or may not have been the gates of hell.

good ideas

2011-06-14T13:49:00.000-07:00

I also listened to Franzen's Kenyon College Commencement address twice last weekend.

beautiful noise

2011-06-10T15:15:00.000-07:00

I attended Big Family Day at MOCA last weekend, and the highlight was my friend Liam's Styrophone Orchestra (Liam is an experimental musician, his instrument of choice being styrofoam). Every participant was handed a styrofoam cooler and a drumstick, which we used to "bow" the cooler.

Liam gives instructions to the musicians.

The cacophony begins.

Adriana gets bossy.

Shit gets punk.

What surprised me most about this event was the lack of boredom. I expected the kids to get sick of playing their Styrophones, but nearly everyone kept going until their instruments were obliterated. I don't know if it's more or less surprising that the same thing applied to the adults. We played our hearts out, chunks of styrofoam flying into the air all around us like a blizzard. As we experimented with the range of sounds we could draw from our Styrophones, the expression on most everyone's face was bliss.

At home later that night, after eating the most satisfying bowl of udon at a Little Tokyo cafe, I sat on my sofa with Adriana and Liam, watching Planet Earth: Ice Worlds, and happily picked styrofoam from my hair.

Haiku Friday

2011-05-20T11:54:00.000-07:00

Nightfall: clip clip clip

In bed I hear Lei's toenails

Fall like snow on tile

Mexican Bike Ride

2011-05-18T11:00:00.000-07:00

Last weekend, I participated in the bi-annual Rosarito-Ensenada 50-mile bike ride, now in its 32nd year. In the weeks beforehand, whenever I mentioned the ride to someone, the response was invariably the same.

"Is that safe?"

"I'll let you know."

It's an organized event and thousands of people participate each year. On the route's urban stretches, children lined the road with outstretched hands, waiting for the passing riders to toss candy. I felt bad that I was unprepared for this, so I plan to load up next year.

Here's the ride in photos, most of which were taken by Chris.

Chris sizing up the competition at the start line. I appreciated his ensemble because the yellow shorts were easy to spot in the distance when we got separated.

Lady Gladiators (Kathy included).

"If only he was towing a dog . . . and not drinking Tecate Light."

Jesus Shaves.

Message to Zico Coconut Water: SMD.

Fun with photostitch.

The ride is billed as the "number one party on wheels." It seemed like a lot of riders blew their wads early and walked some of the gnarly hills. The route was challenging (and an interesting choice for a party ride), but even after stopping for the occasional beer or margarita along the way, I never considered walking my bike.

And the video that says it all:

exercises in restraint

2011-05-10T11:56:00.000-07:00

I don't know how to throw, hit or catch a ball. I have no aim, no follow-through, no swagger. It's a glaring omission from my jock's repertoire, but I was a bookish kid, a late-blooming athlete. In school, I barely participated in P.E. Even tetherball filled me with existential dread.

My dad was an obsessive baseball fan, but he was a listener -- not a player. The dial on his car radio never strayed from 660 AM, New York's WFAN. It became the soundtrack to certain stretches of my childhood: every other weekend and then, for a few years after I'd moved to Phoenix with my mother, Long Island summers. But when my dad moved to Florida, that signal faded, and I didn't see him anymore. I read A Fan's Notes in my mid-20s, and it remains one of my favorite books. Exquisitely written, it's a brilliant portrait of the emptiness found at the heart of fandom.

My mom worked all the time, but she wasn't really a thrower anyway. She is a nurse, but once, she was a surfer. In her late teens or early 20s, she went surfing during a hurricane, lost her board and then found it again when it smashed her in the face. Late 1960s reconstructive surgery left her with a golf ball-sized lump above her cheekbone, which I don't really see when I look at her. She's my mother after all -- in possession of the first face I ever laid eyes upon. I never realized there was anything wrong with it until she told the surfing story, which delighted me as a child. Another beloved mom story: the time she drank gasoline. Another favorite: the time she and her first husband robbed two members of Steely Dan at gunpoint. Another favorite: the time she jumped off the Bayville drawbridge on a dare. Every time I rode shotgun over that bridge as a kid, I pictured my teenage mother, plummeting.

I didn't throw things to my half-brother, either. Seven years my junior, we mostly watched TV together. Sometimes we played Nintendo. During the excruciating Phoenix summers, we played Marco Polo in our condominium complex's swimming pool, enclosed inside a gated stucco fortress, posted signs warning "no lifeguard on duty." Mostly we floated on inner tubes, barely moving across the too-blue water, basted in chlorine, hors d'oeuvres crisping under the sun.

At the beach a couple of weekends ago, I tried to play frisbee, but quickly became frustrated with my ineptitude. My friends were patient, but I don't enjoy doing things I'm bad at. I bowed out of the game, sat on my towel, and watched Dicky wade slowly, gingerly into the rocky ocean. He hadn't been interested in frisbee. His white shoulders reflected the sunlight and I felt a kinship with him: we were aliens here, desert people. But really, we weren't: I spent my earliest years on Long Island, he on the Jersey Shore. Displaced persons, we craved the warm Atlantic.

I have spent several summers, with multi-year gaps in between, on this particular beach in Corona del Mar, and this will probably be my last. During those gaps, other lives were hatched. In front of Chris's parents' house, a "for sale" sign hangs with the "sold" attachment dangling beneath. It's not a private beach, but there is a gate at the end of his street, and his parents still hold the key for now.

My mother's home is also sold. In a few weeks, she'll move from her four-bedroom stucco Peoria home to a North Phoenix stucco condominium that she plans to share with my brother, who is now 25.

While I'm not a thrower or a catcher, I am tenacious. On the beach in Corona del Mar, Dicky moved carefully through the water, and I rose from my towel. I let Jesse toss me the frisbee again, and this time, I caught it in my cleavage.

Game, set, match.

beach reading

2011-04-26T15:55:00.000-07:00

I am always resolving to be friendlier to strangers. In Tulum, I felt uncharacteristically open. I smiled and sung "Hola!" to nearly every person I passed on the street. Mysteriously, "hola" is more difficult for me to say in English.

On the beach, I read things, though not necessarily in this order:

1. "Freckled skin ages prematurely." -- Jennifer Egan, A Visit From the Goon Squad

2. "The people who knew David least well are most likely to speak of him in saintly terms. What makes this especially strange is the near-perfect absence, in his fiction, of ordinary love. Close loving relationships, which for most of us are a foundational source of meaning, have no standing in the Wallace fictional universe. What we get, instead, are characters keeping their heartless compulsions secret from those who love them."--Jonathan Franzen, "Farther Away"

3. "The first Europeans to see Tulum were probably Juan de Grijalva and his men as they sailed reconnaissance along the Eastern coast of Yucatán in 1518. The Spaniards later returned to conquer the Peninsula unwittingly bringing Old World diseases which decimated the native population. And so Tulum, like so many cities before it, was abandoned to the elements." --guidebook.

4. "And when did we just, like, throw in the towel? I'm surrounded by adults wearing jammiez and eating Chips Ahoy." --personal correspondence

5. "The curious thing about David's fiction, though, is how recognized and comforted, how loved his most devoted readers feel when reading it. To the extent that each of us is stranded on his or her own existential island -- and I think it's approximately correct to say that his most susceptible readers are ones familiar with the socially and spiritually isolating effects of addiction or compulsion or depression -- we gratefully seized on each new dispatch from that farthest-away island which was David." --Jonathan Franzen, "Farther Away"

6. "Monotony collapses time. Novelty unfolds it." --Joshua Foer, Moonwalking with Einstein

7. "come home soon!" --personal correspondence

On our last day in Tulum, I was chatting with one of the hotel employees.

"What do you do for a living?" he asked in flawless English. He'd lived in Santa Barbara for 18 years.

"I'm a librarian," I said.

"You don't look like a librarian."

No one has ever said that to me before.

(more photos here)

when librarians take ill

2011-04-08T11:35:00.001-07:00

Tuesday at the reference desk, a patron sat before me and muttered something unintelligible.

"Excuse me?"

[mumble mumble]

"Excuse me? I need you to enunciate more clearly."

"YOU HAVE A BOOGER IN YOUR NOSE."

"Is it a big one?"

"Nah, but I can see it."

"Well, thank you. I appreciate that. Now, why don't you tell me what you need so I can go take care of my booger?"

"A book of speeches for my public speaking class."

race wrap

2011-04-06T12:23:00.000-07:00

The final stretch of the race was a two-mile descent. At the bottom of the hill, I looked out onto a beach and watched the gray waves roll in, the kids building sandcastles as their parents sat on blankets. It was an idyllic ending to a race that had taken me 2,200 feet into the rolling headlands, past just-blooming poppies, through marshes, under canopies of eucalyptus trees, past World War II gun bunkers, and awarded a perfect view of the Golden Gate Bridge and San Francisco skyline in the distance.

Then I realized I would have to run my last half-mile across the sand.

A tide pool separated the beach from the finish line. I removed my shoes, waded through, and crawled up a small dirt hill onto the asphalt. I ran the last 100 feet sans shoes, crossing the finish line barefoot, covered in mud.

I finished the race in 2:22, four minutes under the average finish time and placed within the top half of runners. Not bad considering how completely unprepared I felt going into it. My friend Kathy finished in 2:06. When we had speculated on our finish times the day prior, we were both shooting for three hours.

Back in Kathy's apartment post-race. We didn't make any of our three dinner reservations that night.

Given the difficulty of the course, I think this was the most physically challenging thing I've ever done. It's a an entirely different mindset from derby where I had thirteen teammates depending on me to deliver points, and in turn, I could depend on them to help me through the pack (and let's not delve into the countless instances where we let each other down. It's all part of the game). At the Doll Factory, there were 2,000 people cheering me on -- something I've always had a complicated relationship with. When I finished the race, I had Kathy to high-five and encouraging text messages from my friends. But I also had a singular sense of accomplishment and euphoria that I've never experienced before. I knew immediately that I wanted to do more Envirosports half-marathons (an ordinary half-marathon would probably seem boring after this).

On Monday, I started my research. Big Sur half-marathon in September? Sign me up. Death Valley 30K in December? Yes please. Then I calculated that 30K = 18.6 miles, and thought, well, I still have seven months to train....

Fan Mail

2011-04-05T23:08:00.001-07:00

"I'm enjoying your journal after roller derby" -- Jace, South Carolina.

the runs

2011-03-31T12:07:00.000-07:00

Last night, I walked into my apartment and laid eyes upon a familiar scene: Lei, Lee and Pablo gathered at the dining room table, playing a board game. This time it was Arkham Horror. Lee and Pablo have been at our apartment every night since last Friday. I noticed that underneath Lei's chair was a pair of white socks. Beneath the pair of white socks was a pair of black socks -- his socks from the previous day. Our trash can was overflowing with fast food packaging: Wendy's, Chipotle, more Wendy's...

They looked up from the board. "How was yoga?" Lei asked. I was was completely soaked, my hair dripping wet. It was a Bikram night.

"Disgusting," I said.

I made a beeline for the kitchen to make myself a smoothie.

I'm running my first half-marathon on Saturday and I don't feel prepared. I ran 10 miles last Saturday, a personal distance record. I should've run 10 miles a month ago, but time constraints and bad weather have hindered my training. Not to mention, those 10 miles were on a relatively flat paved surface. The course I've chosen for my first race, the Golden Gate Headlands, features a 2,200 foot gain in elevation. It's trail running. At this point, all I can do is hope for the best, and look forward to dinner. I made three separate reservations so I would have options depending on timing and mood.

Background: On New Year's Day, I walked into Vulvy's house still a little drunk from the night before. Weezy started talking half-marathons and New Year's resolutions, and deliriously, I commited. I didn't know what I was signing up for.

Of the group of people who resolved to run that day, guess who's the only person in the race?

From a woman who committed in January 2010 to run 52 marathons in 52 weeks (she ran the Golden Gate Headlands in April 2010): "Looking up at the hills, I started to wonder just how intense this marathon might get...Almost the first 2 miles were heading straight up. No headphones were allowed and with the intensity of the incline, all I could hear was heavy breathing and feet pounding."

And later: "I can honestly say it was one of the most beautiful places I've ever run, but with such steep hills I found myself walking more than running. There was very little flat ground....During the first loop I talked with a couple ladies who were running this as their first marathon. I was impressed! I couldn't imagine picking such an extreme course for my first!"

See the entire blog post with pics of the course here.

...

This morning, as I was getting ready for work, I glanced into Lei's bedroom and saw him standing on his bed. He was trying to step over a pile of board games on the floor. There was no place for him to walk.

L.A. Bike Ride

2011-03-30T11:28:00.000-07:00

Eight Sundays ago, give or take, I rode my bike to Silver Lake to meet Ji and Weezy. The three of us continued north where an ice cream truck waited in front of The Eagle Rock Brewery. The pink and silver truck, which looked like a cartoon brought to life, offered a variety of sustainable, organic, architecturally-themed ice cream sandwiches (e.g. the Frank Behry). I ordered butterscotch rosemary ice cream in a biodegradable cup. I took my ice cream inside the brewery and dropped it into a beer. This was the whole point of our bike ride.

Inside the brewery, we sipped our beer floats while outside, the sun disappeared. Two beers later, it seemed like a good idea to ride our bikes to Shannon's house in Burbank. We took the L.A. river path north, five miles or so. We rode alongside the river in near darkness, save for the white and red flashes of our LED bike lights. A fence separated our bicycle train from the cars barreling down the I-5 to our left. To the right, the river sludged along in its concrete bed, reminding me of the omnipresent canals that slice the Phoenecian landscape. The water was black, and from its oily surface, defiant trees sprouted. It seemed impossible, but there it was, an urban bayou. Tendrils of smoke rose from the factories to our east, swirling in the starless sky. It was beautiful and sinister and in that moment, I felt overcome with joy. I thought: I'm so grateful I don't have children.

In Burbank, we collected Shannon, and rode south to an art show in Studio City. It was a tattoo art show, but I didn't know what this meant. The tattoos were rendered on paper or canvas, framed, hanging inside a gallery. I wasn't sure if the work had been created exclusively to be hung. Or if these hanging pieces were renditions of tattoos that existed elsewhere in the world, on an arm or leg or neck. Or maybe the works represented the artists' dream tattoos, which they waited to inscribe onto a worthy body, should one ever present itself. I didn't feel like asking so I never found out.

I was eating a chocolate-covered strawberry when I heard, "You're my librarian." He was Latino, looked about 22 and wore thick glasses. He was a student at one of my colleges, but I didn't recognize him.

The thing people always ask librarians is for the names of our favorite books or authors. That's what he asked me. We kept trading the names of writers until we found one we both knew and liked: Raymond Carver. The whole time we spoke, I worried that I had chocolate on my teeth. Later, when I smiled at my reflection in the bathroom mirror, I was relieved to see that I did not.

Our bike gang relocated to the bar next door for more beer and food. Around us, the Grammys flickered on four televisions, and we watched Lady Gaga hatch from an egg, a yolk hat balanced atop her head. Drunk, I shared my L.A. River epiphany with the group -- about how happy I felt to be childless, unencumbered.

"It's funny," Weezy said. "Because I had the opposite thought." She revealed that she and her long-time boyfriend were contemplating children. She said: "I kept thinking, would I be able to do this if I had a kid? And I thought, sure. I'll put a seat on the back of the bike, bring the kid to the tavern." I wasn't sure if this was realistic, but I recalled the formative years I spent on an Oyster Bay barstool, drinking Shirley Temples alongside my father. It wasn't so bad.

After the bar, the gang broke up, out of steam, and accepted a ride back to L.A., cramming their bikes into a vehicle. I rode my bike back to Hollywood alone, over the Cahuenga Pass, a dangerous route I'd never attempted sober. The 101 pulsed to my left, the main artery into Hollywood. The lights of Universal City illuminated my path, and as I sailed past so many palm trees, I thought, My life is good. If I die here on this road, that's OK -- a fine ending. I am nobody's mother.

a few things my mailman knows about me

2011-03-25T11:22:00.000-07:00

Gas Company, Department of Water & Power, Time Warner Cable
California Teacher's Association
UCLA Alumni Association
Graduate School of Education & Information Studies
ASU Alumni Association
The Cronkite Journal
The New Yorker
catalogs: Urban Outfitters, Anthropologie, Sephora, Free People, Paper Source, Crate & Barrel, Aaron Brothers
Southwest Rapid Rewards
Jet Blue TrueBlue
paystubs
Dicky Bahto
KCRW
KPCC
LACMA
MOCA
REDCAT
Orange County Performing Arts
San Francisco Opera
Hollywood Bowl
Hollywood YMCA
wedding invitations
The Believer

more signs of the apocolypse

2011-03-22T11:09:00.000-07:00

I drove south on the 101 Saturday night, en route to a party where nothing would happen, and the supermoon showed itself to me -- a TV moon. Previously hidden behind a swirling cloud cover, it was either the closest or biggest or brightest moon in 10 or 20 or 1,000 years. I forget. Actually, something happened at the party: I ate five pearl onions pickled in balsamic vinegar. They were a revelation. At 1 a.m., as I walked from the party to my car, moon no longer visible, the clouds released their first tentative sprinkles.

The L.A. marathon charged through my neighborhood Sunday morning while I was in bed with a book, listening to the rain. Twenty-five runners were hospitalized for hypothermia. On my way to yoga that afternoon, I drove past the Other Meghan (my ex-boyfriend's ex-girlfriend), running in the downpour, a little hat perched atop her red head. At the intersection of Riverside and Laurel Canyon, I forged a small river, determined to practice my handstand.

The previous week, on St. Patrick's Day, my non-profit held a happy hour meeting at the Pink Taco in the Century City Mall. The staff, three of us plus one intern, squeezed into a booth where we discussed literacy, our shrinking budget and the Compton Unified School District over tequila. Green plastic beads hung from our intern's neck. When our tacos arrived, they were not pink, but green.

Afterward, shopping for bras in Macy's, I stupidly accepted a phone call from my younger brother. Earlier that day, he had been escorted from my mother's home by four police officers. I told him to get a job as I handed my credit card to the cashier. I spent over a hundred dollars on underwear.

At the Black Boar in Eagle Rock later that night, I dropped the sleeve of my jacket into a toilet bowl and then continued to wear it.

My favorite stretch of Highway 1 fell into the ocean. Next Friday, I am driving to San Francisco for my first-ever half-marathon. I'd planned to take this route, carb loading at the Big Sur Bakery along the way. Now I need to reevaluate my travel plans.

So many things are happening in the Middle East and I can't wrap my mind around any of it. Instead, I think about food and sex and fiction. Meanwhile, in Japan, this happened:

(via the Dog Blog)

This morning I listened to a Dorothy Parker story, "Just a Little One," on my way to work. The protagonist said, "I should stop wearing mascara. Life is too sad."

I disagree.

Friday night rituals

2011-03-21T15:01:00.000-07:00

A phone call:

"Can I get one order of vegetarian pho for pick-up?"

"This Meghan?"

"Yes."

"5 minutes, Meghan."

"Thanks."

missing the movie

2011-03-17T13:01:00.000-07:00

Tuesday night, I tried to see Minnie and Moskowitz at Cinefamily with an ex-boyfriend, but we arrived to find a gaggle of crestfallen hipsters milling around beneath the marquee. The film was sold out. So we did the other thing we sometimes still do together: drink.

Over a Newcastle and an Old Fashioned, he told me that he'd bought a new mattress that day. It made spiritual sense, he said, because we'd bought his previous mattress together.

"That mattress was a mistake from Day 1."

I recalled the Glendale mattress store, the two of us lying side by side, testing different floor models. I stared up at the ceiling and tried to determine what a good mattress was supposed to feel like. I was 26 years old and still had no idea.

We talked about the expense of a quality mattress, and while I considered the cost of my semi-recent mattress purchase a splurge, I balked when he revealed his mattress's pricetag: $5500.

"Well, you know, that includes the box spring and some other stuff."

I tried to rationalize this expense.

"Are you still having back problems?"

"Not really. It's weird because I had lower-back problems throughout our relationship, but they just kind of went away." He paused. "My legs get pretty achy from running though. I think the mattress will help."

This ex-boyfriend is going through a transitional phase, having vacated the sprawling and dilapidated Hollywood apartment he occupied for nearly 10 years. That building, that apartment, contained me for three of the ten. I pictured it like a dollhouse: the institutional white stucco exterior, the rats scurrying up the palm trees, the foosball table, the roof parties, the wall-to-wall blue carpet (an ocean in Hollywood!), the side-by-side ovens: one for pizza, one for cookies.

Now he's holed up in Valley Village, killing time until he finds a house to buy. Throughout our conversation, I noticed that he kept referring to the apartment itself as Valley Village, as if the neighborhood existed only through his front door.

"Valley Village is just a layover," he said. "This is my time to sleep in the trenches."

"But you're sleeping on a $5500 mattress."

"Good point."

Malibu Tony

2011-03-16T10:50:00.000-07:00

In September, I took my mother to a beach in Malibu. The water was too cold for swimming, so we sat on our blankets and watched the waves crash. We were alone on the beach with the exception of a shirtless man and his dog. The dog ran to us and the man followed. My mother played with the dog, some kind of poodle, and the man spoke. It was his girlfriend's dog, he told us. He worked in real estate. The market was bad. He lived up the street. His name was Tony.

He was closer in age to my mother, and I think she was happy that Tony was talking to us. She was smiling a lot and her New York accent became thicker as it does when she wants people to ask where she is from.

"Do you like the beach?" Tony asked, looking at me.

I told him I did.

"You should come back to Malibu sometime and we can go together. What's your number?"

He caught me off guard. The sun was directly overhead and his girlfriend's dog was panting and I was wearing a bathing suit. I could hear my mother breathing next to me and I may have taken a pill that morning that made me a little kinder, more tolerant. I take these pills when I spend time with my mother. The numbers fell from my mouth.

Malibu Tony calls once a month. That's his name in my phone so I know not to answer. This was his message this morning, verbatim:

"Hey Meghan. This is Tony in Malibu. Remember we met last September when you were on the beach? And, um, it's Wednesday, March 16th, and I just want to know what's new. I thought we were gonna maybe get together, have a nice time. I know you like the beach and I like the beach too. Well, anyway, I hope you'll give me a call. Maybe if you come out to the beach, we can get dinner or something like that. Or lunch. And we'll have a nice time. Thanks a lot. Bye."

Podworka

2011-03-11T11:38:00.000-08:00

Me: Are any of them hot?
Dicky: I don't know. They're old. They're like . . . adults.

desert, ocean

2011-03-02T12:32:00.000-08:00

I arrived at SeaTac with an hour to kill only to find that my fight was delayed an hour and a half. I was hungry and there was a soggy sandwich in my bag -- leftovers from our final Beach House breakfast that I'd stuffed between two slices of bread: tofu scramble, tempeh bacon and sauteed greens. I contemplated this sandwich as I stood in the central terminal, the neon sign of a seafood bar buzzing, its siren song calling to me.

I went for the fish.

Sitting alone in this restaurant (where I would spend $35 without regret on a bowl of ciopinno, a loaf of sourdough bread (on which I only nibbled) and a bottle of Perrier), I felt aware of my shifting demographic. I read a novel on my Kindle as the 40-something waitress kept bringing me things. I used my iPhone to take a photo of my food, which I posted to my Facebook page. Later, I used the phone to calculate the waitress's tip. I walked away from the restaurant, my leather boots feeling tighter around my calves. I'd spent the weekend celebrating Amy's 30th birthday in a rented, luxurious vacation house, the out-of-state guest list comprised of those who could afford to be there.

Hours later, on my second flight, I ate the sandwich for dinner. It tasted better than expected.

Photo by Adriana

Two weekends, two different planets: Joshua Tree was Mars, and Moclips, along the Washington shore, was somewhere icier, Planet Big Chill. In Joshua Tree, our troop hiked Mount Ryan, a 3-mile out and back trail, a reasonable choice given Nico's age and the threatening clouds, which followed us up the hill, but delivered only the occasional snowflake.

Photo by Chris

In Moclips, we wore rubber boots onto the beach, snow crunching underfoot until, finally, our soles sank into the sand. The water spread out before us, a sheet of glass reflecting the clouds. It was difficult to discern where the sky ended and the earth began.

Photo by Sean

North of the I-10 East, past the sign that reads "Desert Cities," we were holed up in our tiny Western-themed bungalow called "The Cowboy Hideout." Above my bed, a guitar was mounted, which lit up from its soundhole. The sheets were covered in horses. Our Moclips Beach House could've slept 20, but we maxed out at a comfortable 10 on Saturday night. Both places featured warm meals and good friends, old and new.

Beach House: There was a hot tub. We ran from the house in our bathing suits, bracing ourselves against the cold, knit hats on heads, and jumped.

Joshua Tree: We gathered around our fire pit and Dicky read a Donald Barthelme story aloud. After he'd finished, he said, "We should burn it." It seemed like an appropriate sacrifice, but as the story blackened and shriveled in the fire, he said, "I wish we hadn't done that."

On the beach in Moclips, we found a dead seal defrosting in the sunshine. We weren't sure if it was a rock or an animal until we saw its gleaming teeth. It sunbathed on a pile of snow, the corpse green and red and stinking. Sean took a picture.

Joshua Tree: We listened to a country & western records at first. The "Cowboy Hideout" came with vinyl and a turntable. Later, we had an inspired, effusive Morrissey singalong: You had to sneak into my room / Just to read my diary / It was just to see, just to see / All the things you knew I'd written about you.

It was a lullaby. Not long after, we paired off, curled up and fell asleep.

Beach House: We listened to Beach House. Later, we danced on the kitchen table to something else. Sean told me this story: "I have a friend who, whenever she starts to feel depressed, reminds herself that she has a great ass. Think about it."

I have been thinking about it. A great ass, like most things, is fleeting. Despite all of my running in the snow, someday my own great ass will abandon me.

There was so much dancing in both places, but in Moclips I couldn't make it stop. There was something about the sensation of my feet sliding across that slick, hardwood floor. I was floating. To dance across it was an impulse beyond control. Walking was no longer an option -- I only danced from room to room. Our last night there, while my friends played in the hot tub, I stayed inside the dining room and danced alone. Amy's boyfriend, Ben, was my unwilling audience, sitting at the table, hunched over his laptop. Occasionally he glanced up at me, flailing across the room, and shook his head. I danced until I was so sweaty that I had to throw myself into the hot tub to cool down.

My favorite writer, Lorrie Moore, said it better than I ever could:

"I tell them dance begins when a moment of hurt combines with a moment of boredom. I tell them it's the body reaching, bringing air to itself. I tell them it's the heart's triumph, the victory speech of the feet, the refinement of animal lunge and flight, the purest metaphor of tribe and self. It's life flipping death the bird.

I make this stuff up."

retraction

2011-02-08T07:56:00.000-08:00

A couple of weeks ago, I wrote about my unexpected love affair with my Kindle. "No more books!" I vowed. It was a whirlwind romance, and now it seems that I've come to my senses: I miss paper. There are a couple of books I've been looking forward to reading -- authors I'm really excited to devour -- but when I think about consuming them on my Kindle, it's like...cold mashed potatoes. I can still put my Kindle to good use, but my heart belongs to the book. Why am I so surprised?

Listening

2011-02-02T07:24:00.000-08:00

I don't think I've ever read a novel twice though I've often wanted to. I won't let myself because it feels wasteful -- why should I read something a second time when there's so much great literature I've never touched? I'll reread short stories and essays because they're less of a commitment and their lessons are tight. Recently, a coworker expressed frustration with her eight-year-old daughter, a voracious reader who only wants to read the books she's already read. I envied her a little.

A few years ago, I had a boyfriend with a short list of favorite things, which he consumed on repeat. He watched the same movies again and again, listened to the same handful of bands and reread his favorite books. I found his predilection infuriating and made it my mission to introduce him to new things. Occasionally he'd be converted, but mostly it was like trying to make a kid take his medicine. I'd play something unfamiliar to him on my Ipod and he'd grimace. I'd grow irrationally annoyed. If I met him today, I like to think I'd be more forgiving.

A book I've been wanting to reread lately is The Corrections (funnily, a book on said ex's short list. At the time we dated, he'd read it seven times). I read Freedom shortly after it was published and was disappointed. For the past six months, I've been dealing (or not dealing) with some family dysfunction from a comfortable 350-mile distance, and The Corrections keeps popping into my head. I might cave and do the bad thing: read it again.

I just finished listening to Gary Shteyngart's Super Sad True Love Story as an audiobook. I'm not totally sure how I feel about it -- it's a little slick and gimmicky for my usual taste. I wonder if my opinion would be more developed had I read it the old-fashioned way. That said, most readers and critics are really hung up on the satirical aspects of the novel, which are either dazzling or heavy-handed: a disturbing portrait of a completely networked, youth and consumer-driven culture in the not-so-distant future, a world without privacy. But I got wrapped up in the romance, which was indeed super sad, and felt so true to me in certain parts, that toward the end of the recording, en route to one of my libraries, I had to pull my car off the I-10 and cry.

This particular library involves a longer commute, which I don't really mind because it's only three days a week and I can catch up on Podcasts and audiobooks. I discovered my love for audiobooks on a cross-country roadtrip with another ex, and I'm a little embarrassed by it. It carries the stigma of the old lady whose eyes are too weak for even a large-print edition. But it reminds me of my favorite part of elementary school -- the half-hour my teachers spent reading aloud to the class: Cricket in Times Square. The Chronicles of Narnia. From the Mixed-Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler. A Wrinkle in Time.

It is not happenstance that many of the people closest to me are great storytellers.

As I've grown older, I've definitely become more of a listener than a talker (at least when booze is off the table). David Rakoff wrote in Half-Empty, "There is no better way to conceal oneself than by listening to others," and when I read that line recently, it got to me.

The other night, I went to a friend's house and unloaded some of the family garbage I've been hauling around lately. He listened as I articulated a few things I've been afraid to say out loud. Later, when we parted ways in front of his building, he apologized for not being able to give me advice. I hadn't been looking for advice though -- everyone is always telling each other what to do. I just wanted to talk and be heard.

To be fair to Mr. Rakoff, the quote in its entirety: "There is no better way to conceal oneself than by listening to others.... Let me add that there is also, perhaps, no greater kindness."

Flourishing

2011-01-21T13:23:00.000-08:00

Retirement is agreeing with me -- more than I ever expected. I feel like I have my head back a little. Even when I wasn't playing the game, it's amazing how much time I spent thinking about it. Derby isn't just a time-commitment. If you take it seriously, you become evangelical.

I don't have much affection for David Brooks, but I liked this bit from his recent New Yorker article:

“I’ve come to think that flourishing consists of putting yourself in situations in which you lose self-consciousness and become fused with other people, experiences or tasks. It happens sometimes when you are lost in a hard challenge, or when an artist or craftsmen becomes one with the brush or the tool. It happens sometimes when you’re playing sports, or listening to music or lost in a story, or to some people when they feel enveloped by God’s love. And it happens most when we connect with other people. I’ve come to think that happiness isn’t produced by conscious accomplishments. Happiness is a measure of how thickly the unconscious parts of our minds are intertwined with other people and with activities. Happiness is determined by how much information and affection flows through covertly every day and year.”

I read this on Saturday, swinging in a hammock, outside the Integratron in Joshua Tree, following a moment of profound disconnectedness from other people. I had bought tickets to see Gregorian chanting in the desert and instead I got a choir of assholes who couldn't actually sing. They came outfitted in blond dreadlocks, five-finger running shoes and gauged earlobes. I got Orientalism and inauthenticity. I got a woman plucking away at an instrument that looked sort of like a sitar but wasn’t exactly a sitar. I got a round room, a dome designed as a beacon for UFOs, crammed full of new age yuppies perched on Navajo blankets and yoga mats holding their hands over their hearts. There was cuddling and there was singing, but nothing that resembled Gregorian chanting.

The point of this event was connection, I presume. A meditation on friendship and peace. But as I looked around the room and saw so many self-satisfied 30-somethings sitting in lotus position, I was filled with hate. I'm pretty sure this was not the emotion the organizers of this event intended for me to experience, and I didn't want to be feeling it, either. I was getting skeeved out by my own negativity and judgment. I felt consumed by self-consciousness and the overwhelming desire too flee. I felt bad for bringing my friends to this place.

It was the poetry that finally sent me running for the Joshua trees: A woman stood and recited an ode to a cactus -- an homage to both the painful and prickly exterior and the oh-so-soft and sweet center. Couldn't we see? They were both of equal value! This was supposed to be a revelation, and so I stood, crawled down the ladder and exited the Integratron. I made my way to the Hammock Village and opened my New Yorker as a sad rendition of "Amazing Grace" pored from the dome, saturating the desert. I flipped the pages. But I was OK again: happy to be in the desert, in a hammock, in the sun, reading something. I was happy that I wouldn't have skate practice tomorrow, or the day after that or the day after that. And when the singing stopped and my friends scattered from the dome looking like they'd witnessed an atrocity, I was grateful for them.

"This why I hate white people," Adriana said. "This is why there is war."

When you walk away from the Integatron, you face a giant mirror. The four of us stood before it.

"Maybe we should take off our clothes and masturbate?" I suggested.

In the car, during the 2.5 drive through the desert back to L.A., we discussed blowjobs, food and Crass (among other things). We were connected. The information and affection flowed, covertly, and we were in a better place.

shop talk

2011-01-17T21:14:00.000-08:00

On the heels of this NYT article about America's lack of progress toward creating a national digital library (compared to Europe and Japan), last week OCLC released a report called Cloud-sourcing Research Collections: Managing Print in the Mass-digitized Library Environment. Findings from the year-long study conclude:

There is sufficient material in the mass-digitized library collection managed by the HathiTrust to duplicate a sizeable (and growing) portion of virtually any academic library in the United States, and there is adequate duplication between the shared digital repository and large-scale print storage facilities to enable a great number of academic libraries to reconsider their local print management operations.
The combination of a relatively small number of potential shared print providers, including the US Library of Congress, was sufficient to achieve more than 70% coverage of the digitized book collection, suggesting that shared service may not require a very large network of providers.
Substantial library space savings and cost avoidance could be achieved if academic institutions outsourced management of redundant low-use inventory to shared service providers.
Academic library directors can have a positive and profound impact on the future of academic print collections by adopting and implementing a deliberate strategy to build and sustain regional print service centers that can reduce the total cost of library preservation and access.

At one of the two community colleges where I'm adjunct faculty, I work as a database & systems librarian -- a position I share with a tenured librarian, a PhD, who would prefer if the majority of our collection was digital. Particular to the demographic our school serves, it's an opinion I've come to share.

For my birthday this year, Lei bought me a Kindle. On my mental list of Needful Things, an e-reader didn't rank very high, but I'm really enjoying it -- the convenience, portability, the dwindling pile of books on my nightstand. There is less dust in my bedroom.

I'm seriously considering a move come early summer -- just a little east, probably Echo Park or Silver Lake. I keep looking around my apartment and seeing nothing but things that will need to go into boxes. Heavy boxes filled with so many books I will never read again.

Cloudbusting

2011-01-07T09:57:00.000-08:00

When I'm home for Christmas, I run. I run because I have nothing better to do and because I won't accept the holiday season as an excuse for sloth. In spite of this, I always manage to put on a few pounds. Phoenix has never agreed with my ass.

My mother no longer lives in the house where I grew up. Ten years ago, she moved to a bigger house a few blocks away. It is the same neighborhood, dense with the standard issue white stucco, red-roofed homes. This is southwestern suburban living: rocks instead of grass, a barrel cactus or palm tree in the yard. The streets are empty -- even in the 70-degree winter, no one really hangs around outside. When I ran on Christmas day, I saw a few kids riding their new bikes, but generally there are few signs of life. So I run around like I own the place, through the housing developments with the meaningless names I remember from childhood: "Discovery at the Orchard" and "Peppermill Run." I sing along with my Ipod, something I would never do in L.A. When I was a kid, I had a song called "Peppermill Run" that I sang, loudly, as I rode my bike through the empty streets.

I like to run the bleachers and track at my old high school, which I never did as a student. I ran there the day after Christmas, a Sunday, and found men in masks and worksuits, spraying the track the color of so many desert rocks, burnt sienna. So I kept running, past the high school into a part of Peoria I forget exists: a few blocks of older, sprawling ranch-style homes with orange trees in their front yards and barns in the back. There are no sidewalks here, the road is lined with dirt, and a few of these homes feature horses grazing in their front yards. One horse, white with big brown patches, nodded as I ran past, and I recalled the first time I saw a horse with an erection, its penis dragging along the ground like some giant parasitic worm out of a horror movie. Still, I saw no people. Growing up, I never knew the kids who lived in these non-stucco homes.

We moved to Arizona from Long Island when I was eight. We moved because the cost of living was so much lower -- it was a place where my mother could afford to buy a home, something that was very important to her, but remains of little consequence to me. It was also a place where there would be no shortage of employment: my mother is a nurse on the assisted living circuit and Arizona is where old people go to die. Our town, Peoria, borders Sun City on the east. Sun City is the nation's oldest retirement community, constructed in the 1960s by Del Webb. It is 98.5% white and you can drive a golf cart through the streets.

"I'm getting old, Meg," my mother said on Christmas. She'd been lamenting the implementation of computers at her workplace, the transition to electronic med charts. She doesn't know how to type let alone navigate any kind of digital interface and she's having a hard time keeping up. "I'm older than some of my patients now."

My mom often works holidays because she is paid time and a half. We spent Christmas morning together until she disappeared into the bathroom for her daily grooming ritual. Meanwhile, I went running. I was sitting sweaty in the living room when she emerged two hours later looking basically the same.

And then it was off to the old folks home for her 3-11 shift.

I took the mostly deserted Loop 101 to Rick's family's North Phoenix home. I exited 7th Avenue and made a left on Utopia, where churches guarded both sides of the intersection: Methodist to the west, Church of the Nazarene to the east.

For Christmas dinner, we ate crab from the shell. It was my first time. I used a nutcracker and crab juice splattered across my glasses.

Afterward, Rick and I retired to the guest room we were sharing, our clothes, luggage and Christmas gifts strewn everywhere, an obstacle course to be conquered. We curled up in bed and watched Wasteland Utopias on the giant flat screen TV. The documentary makes tenuous connections between psychiatrist/naturalist Wilhelm Reich and construction mogul Del Webb, two men with divergent utopian visions. While Webb was erecting Sun City on the western edge of suburban Phoenix's sprawl, Reich was approximately 200 miles southeast, trying to make rain with his cloudbuster, a device that could drain the atomosphere of Deadly Orgone or DOR. Reich believed that DOR was the antithesis of Orgone, a term he coined to describe a primordial cosmic energy associated with libido.

Reich believed that desert-living was conducive to DOR poisoning, hence his cloudbusting experiments in the Sonoran Desert. In addition to "a dull gaze in the eyes, with an expression of despair of the face . . . emotional outbursts of hatred," Reich wrote that diarrhea is a symptom of DOR poisoning.

When I arrived on my mother's doorstep Christmas eve, my stomach was in knots, and she hugged me so hard I thought I might crap. She clung to me like a hungry parasite and I felt her curved spine, the growing hump on her back. She shook as she sobbed and I fantasized about a porcelain bowl. When I finally extricated myself from her grip, I headed straight to the downstairs bathroom and clogged the toilet. A few ill-advised flushes later, I stood ankle-deep in my own dirty water, dreaming up a way to get out of this shit.

I want to try on your clothes

2011-01-04T11:55:00.000-08:00

My team did something very sweet for my last game: during our skakeout, everyone donned fake glasses and argyle socks in my honor (the argyle socks stayed for the game; the glasses, more impractical, did not).

Will the real Judy Gloom please stand up? Photo by Susanica Tam aka Mia More.

The song we skated to was Bikini Kill's "Rebel Girl," one of my teenage anthems. So, I thought I'd share this video of BK's/Le Tigre's Kathleen Hanna covering "Smells Like Teen Spirit" in December. It's more than a cover -- it's a performance piece wherein she talks about the night she spent with Kurt Cobain that inspired the song. And she breaks into a bit of "Rebel Girl" toward the end. It's 10 minutes long, but really fun to watch.

One of my many new year's resolutions is to write more, so I hope that translates into an increase in blog updates. There will be a lot less about derby (obv), and you can probably expect more writerly type stuff as I try to flex those atrophied muscles, but I still hope you'll hang with me. I'm kind of loving 2011 so far.

legendary

2010-12-21T09:55:00.000-08:00

“How is retirement treating you?”

It’s the million dollar question – the one that derby folk and civilians alike keep asking – and I don’t have much of an answer. It’s only been a month and the league is on its annual holiday hiatus. I guess retirement is fine, so far. Maybe I haven't noticed because I’ve been busy: I had a birthday. I went to Seattle and Portland. I leave tomorrow for Phoenix, my obligatory Christmas in the desert.

With my OG derby wife, Stitches Stew, in Seattle. Note the Space Needle behind us.

I haven’t exactly stopped skating yet, either. I’ve skated at wreckLeague (wL) a couple of times, including this past Sunday afternoon. I was missing my skates and thought it would be fun to scrimmage and horse around...which it was (especially since a couple of my former teammates were in attendance). I did take a few spills, however, and there was one jam in particular where I raced through the pack and slid out on my knees, rockstar style, as I called it off. Consequently, my groin muscles have been sore and tight for the last two days. I suppose this is the biggest change I’d failed to notice since retiring: I’m not sore all the time. Now that I’m hobbling around again, I can appreciate the difference.

I’m trying to figure out where derby will fit into my post-derby world. I can’t imagine not skating regularly, but I probably shouldn’t do full-contact as regularly. I know I’ll continue to drop in on wL occasionally because, well, scrimmaging is fun, but if I did it all the time, it would sort of defeat the purpose of my retirement.

LADD honored its first class of Legends at a reception last week where those who’d been with the League five or more years were paid tribute. It was basically a bunch of old-timers taking turns at the podium, reminiscing about thee olden days when roller derby was a drinking and wrestling club, and most of us were just trying to figure out how to skate. But we were a determined and dedicated crew of rapscallions, and hey, look what we built.

The ceremony ended when the Legends stood for applause and knocked over one of the tables, sending beer bottles and plastic cups toppling. Crystal Deth and I were seated at the lower-tier table, and naturally, all the booze poured directly into our vintage purses. It was a fitting end. Oh, drinking and wrestling days, how I miss you.

Skateland, 2004

Hellraiser I, our first league fundraiser, 2004

A few Fight Crew old-timers, 2010.

last jam

2010-11-23T09:48:00.000-08:00

As a kid, if I ever dreamed of seeing my mug in the newspaper, I doubt I would’ve pictured it on the front page of the sports section, but here you have it:

When an L.A. Times photographer approached me about doing this piece, I was conflicted. It was an honor, of course, but it also made me a little squeamish. I’ve been a member of the Dolls’ PR committee since joining the league, and for three years, I was its director. It was my job to get reporters and photographers to point their equipment at other skaters. But this girl? The limelight makes me squirm.

As I’ve chronicled extensively here, retiring from roller derby is hard. It’s even more difficult when you’re being tailed by paparazzi.

In the documentary piece that ran on the Times’ web site, there’s a bit where I talk about the unimportance of makeup in the world of derby – yeah, we’re girls, and yeah, we like to play dress up, but the game always comes first. Last Saturday night, as I sat in the makeup chair before my final game, I cried. I had given the makeup artist free range because I was sick with anxiety and couldn’t make decisions.

Her work finished, I stared in the mirror and saw eyes I didn’t recognize as my own, thick with black eyeliner and mascara and hot pink shadow all the way up to my brow line. I looked old. It was the face of a retiree, the eyes of Tammy Faye Baker. Meanwhile, in the vestibule adjacent to the makeup room, the Times’ photographer was interviewing skaters about their reaction to Judy Gloom’s retirement and I could hear every word of it. It was all too much and I broke down.

My performance in the game was uneven, but so was my derby career, so it seems like a fair ending to the saga. In the last jam of the night, Fight Crew leading by only eight points, I committed a major penalty that prevented me from scoring or calling off the jam even though I was in the lead (boo). But…I managed to hang onto that lead while slowing the opposing jammer, successfully preventing her from making a third pass and cinching a 2-pt victory for the Crew (yay). It was one of those dramatic, sports-movie moments and the good guys won.

Photo by Mia More/Susanica Tam

Now that it’s all behind me, I’m really pleased with how the documentary piece turned out, but less enthusiastic about the article (I’m so tired of the “Librarian by Day, Killer Roller Derby Babe by night” media angle. I tried to steer the writer in another direction, but he wouldn’t budge. A quote from his article: “Hell on wheels, this little Glendale librarian.” And here’s the headline from a 2009 CNN article about another derby librarian: “Tiny librarian is hell on wheels.” Oh well).

Most importantly, the Derby Dolls made it on the front page of the L.A. Times’ sports section – above the fold! – and this is my crowning achievement as the former head of PR. I just never imagined it would be my helmet and specs in the photo.

Photo by Robert Gauthier/L.A. Times

Lena Dunham opens the door

2010-11-22T19:38:00.000-08:00

I’d never heard of the 24-year-old writer/filmmaker Lena Dunham until reading Rebecca Mead’s profile in the November 15th issue of the New Yorker. I still haven't watched her Youtube videos or acquainted myself with her considerable internet presence. Therefore, I have no opinion of her work other than it was born from a place of privilege that is entirely foreign to me.

Dunham’s parents are both successful New York artists, about whom Mead writes, “Laurie Simmons makes photographs in which dolls and doll-house furniture are arranged to unsettling effect; Carroll Dumham makes exuberant, antic paintings that often feature a masculine figure with a penis where his nose should be.”

Dunham didn’t do well on her SATs, and therefore, spent her first year of college at New York’s New School (she later transferred to Oberlin). In the article, Dunham discusses the classmates she encountered during her freshman year and the unsettling experience of being on her home turf, but surrounded by provincials. For me, one of the most striking things from the profile is this quote about a New School classmate: “There was this boy who was really smart and really intellectual and he came from, like, a steel town in Pennsylvania, and his family called him ‘the freak.’ I had never met a person who was different from their parents before.”

Whether or not this is actually true isn’t relevant because I believe the sentiment is. Certainly she had met kids who were different from their parents, but she either never noticed or paused to consider the distinction.

As a person who regards close parent-child relationships with an instinctual suspicion, her statement I had never met a person who was different from their parents before was like peering into an alternate universe and having the door hit me in the face.

working it

2010-11-11T10:12:00.000-08:00

It was a hard thing when my teammate Crystal Deth retired in 2008. I had spent most of the season benched with a grade 3 ankle sprain, and during that time, I watched her game improve dramatically. I liked to think that she was skating for both of us, but in reality, she was just pissed. She hadn't made the all-star team that season and had something to prove. So, Crystal stepped it up -- attending extra practices, cross-training and thinking more strategically. Her skating jumped to another level -- a deer on wheels leaping over fallen bodies.

Ankle mended, I was able to skate with my team that fall. Then Crystal dropped the R-Bomb in December. I couldn't believe it. Quit now? She'd been on fire, and I loved skating with her because we always pushed each other to work harder. But she was quitting while she was ahead, and years later, I've come to appreciate that decision.

Photo By 3D Sean.

A couple of weeks ago, I was approached by a subpooler (in LADD, a subpooler is a skater who isn't yet on a team, but may be asked to "sub" for an injured team skater during a game. To be in subpool is to be in roller derby limbo).

"I heard you're retiring," she said. "I can't believe it! You still have so much skate in you." Maybe so, I thought, but I'd like to keep some "skate" in reserve -- not leave roller derby depleted, exhausted and washed-up.

My leaguemates have surprised me with their support and kindness these last few weeks and it's been emotionally overwhelming. It hasn't made saying goodbye any easier, but it completely reinforces what an incredible, meaningful experience these past seven years on skates has been.

Some other reactions to retirement:

Tawdry Tempest (Fight Crew, retired 2009): "I've never looked back."

Queen Elizadeath (Varsity Brawlers): "What are you going to do with your skates?" (for the record, I have some very bad-ass skates into which QED's feet would fit nicely. Apologies to QED and other small-footed derby girls -- I can't part with them!)

P.I.T.A. (Sirens): "I just want you to know that you and Crystal Deth were such an inspiration to me when I first started Fresh Meat."

Bonnie D.Stroir (Swarm, OG Derby Doll who is "taking a break" after this season): "You're not really retiring, right? You're just taking a break."

Tawdry Tempest (a couple of weeks following her previous comment): "Guess I shoulda worked my retirement like you."

Thora Zeen (league co-founder, former Siren, and one of my all-time favorite skaters): "It's about time!"

Halloween

2010-11-02T13:00:00.000-07:00

Halloween started with a bike ride to the home of a retired skater for brunch. A small group of us had gathered -- Dolls past and present, but mostly past. We ate french toast and an announcement was made: a baby is coming.

One other still-skating Doll was in attendance, a veteran like me, and she was noticeably limping. She's skating again following a year spent recovering from knee surgery. It hasn't been an easy comeback for her. Every time she falls at practice, we skaters collectively suck in our breath, hoping she's OK.

It's funny to think back on our early years together in the league. I was working in the FIDM library where she was a student, and every once in a while, I'd help her at the reference desk. I'd been with the Dolls at least a year when she started skating. Barely able to remain upright that first month, she wasn't exactly a natural, but she was determined and progressed quickly. She eventually became one of the brightest stars in the league -- talented, strategic and a great leader.

I don't doubt that she's capable of making a total comeback from this injury, but watching her take those uncertain steps on Sunday, all I could think was, I don't have that in me anymore.

Our stomachs sloshing with bread and coffee and beer, the old folks caravanned to the Bob Baker Marionette Theater to watch a Halloween-themed puppet show. I've passed the building countless times, fascinated by the idea of marionettes living beneath 2nd Street overpass, but for whatever reason, I never found the time to attend.

It was magic. The puppeteers worked in plain sight, manipulating their marionettes to a soundtrack that hasn't changed in decades. I loved the rawness of it, the old-timey feel. The show stood as a testament to Bob Baker's faith in his audience. In the age of slick animation, CGI and Pixar perfection, I was delighted to watch children suspend their disbelief in the face of a dude with his hand clearly up a puppet's ass. This was the kind of entertainment so many of us grew up on, and I was grateful to experience this bit of nostalgia with kids who maybe aren't as hard as I sometimes fear. That this place endures makes me feel good about L.A.

Afterward, we filed into a party room decorated for every season -- dust-covered ribbons and ornaments hung alongside withering skeletons. Among the rows of long, cafeteria-style tables, we were handed plastic cups of ice cream to eat with flat wooden spoons.

A pit stop at a nearby bar followed. A bloody mary and a michelada later, we rode our bikes across town in search of Thai food. We sailed past Echo Park, the towering palm trees guarding the lake like sentries, to Sunset Blvd. At Coronado St., the iconic Happy Foot/Sad Foot greeted us, ushering our crew into Silver Lake. The sun setting, we rolled toward Hollywood, flying past the packs of roving trick-or-treaters, tiny warriors with pillowcases slung over their shoulders, scavenging the streets for chocolate. The air was filled with the scent of pastries baking somewhere.

And finally, Jitlada. There were six of us, but we ordered food for ten, and over two hours, we licked our plates clean -- no morsel left behind. Noses ran and tears rolled down our cheeks as we worked. A whole fish was ordered and decimated. We took turns pulling it apart with our fingers, a grade school dissection project. We devoured the cheeks, the eyes. Sated, we sat back in our chairs, sucking on the bones. This was Halloween for grown-ups.

beyond pain

2010-10-27T08:30:00.000-07:00

"Pain that you have not yet experienced is avoidable."

That's what my yoga instructor, Patty, said to our class yesterday morning. We were in savasana, or corpse pose, and I was trying to meditate. As usual, I was failing -- this time because I was thinking about food.

Pain that you have not yet experienced is avoidable.

It was exactly what I needed to hear. When my thoughts drifted to lunch, I repeated the mantra in my head.

I have a little yoga crush on Patty, another Shakti Box instructor I've only recently discovered. She's an excellent touchstone as I try to sort out what exactly my yoga practice means. Or, rather, what I want it to mean.

I came to yoga because in roller derby, you fall a lot. Often you put your hand out to break the fall. It’s instinctive. And if these repetitive falls are causing nerve compression in your elbow and neck, you won’t be doing your body any favors by adding a daily routine of push-ups, tricep dips and overhead presses on top of it. Sadly, it took me a long time to figure this out. My body didn't want to do the stuff I was forcing it to do, but I was in denial.

It was about a year and a half ago that my former roommate, Shannon, rekindled her lapsed yoga practice. She started coming home late from work with a mat rolled under her arm. She bought yoga blocks, DVDs and books. She told me about this great new donation-based studio she'd discovered just down the street from our apartment. She recommended instructors.

Meanwhile, my body was breaking down, but I was dangerously attached to my workout routine. When it became clear that I couldn’t keep doing what I'd been doing, yoga started to seem like some kind of compromise. I'd always been wary of the practice -- the spiritual junk made me squirm, and I harbored a lot of preconceived ideas about a certain yuppie, bourgeois culture. I was afraid that it wouldn’t be challenging enough for me. I worried it might be boring and I wouldn't stay in shape. Would they play weird music? Would I be forced to chant? The whole thing seemed strange and cultish and way outside my comfort zone, but then again, so was derby at first, so I decided to give it a shot.

I started yoga with the mentality that a workout wasn't valuable unless it left you wrecked and choking on your own sweat. Fortunately, it was easy enough to find Vinyasa flow 2/3 and power yoga instructors who could work me this way. So maybe I was missing the point of this whole yoga thing, but hey, I was getting a solid workout and my nagging injuries were no longer being exacerbated. Some of them even seemed to be improving.

My practice is evolving, though, and my affection for Patty is evidence of that. Don't get me wrong: her classes are challenging and rigorous, but I don't feel like she's trying to kill me. The good news is that I'm starting to be OK with that.

Ego is kind of a big deal in yoga. Lately, when an instructor talks ego during class, I listen a little more closely. Confronting my ego has made me less competitive, which has been great for my yoga practice, but not so helpful for derby. It's forced me to question why I'm still skating when a thrice weekly practice regimen isn't so fun anymore. For years, I was fueled (at least in part) by competitive energy. I think this kind of energy can have value -- a time and a place and a purpose -- but the reality I'm coming to terms with is that it's no longer serving me.

The other night, when I told Lei about my impending derby retirement, he asked, "What are you going to do with all that free time?"

"Practice more yoga, I guess." There are other things I have in mind too, but those were the first words that flew from my mouth. Certainly, it seems like a good place to start.

breaking up with derby

2010-10-18T07:51:00.000-07:00

My gear is falling apart and it stinks. Duct tape is the only thing holding my wristguards together. After practice, when I peel the sweat-soaked pads from my knees and elbows, I know the smell is buried in the folds of my skin. I leave the locker room smelling like a locker room.

It's time to buy new gear, but I've been holding out because retirement looms. (Maybe). Why should I drop the cash on pads that I may only wear for another couple of months?

And why can't I say, definitively, that this is the end?

My team, Fight Crew, won our bout a couple of weekends ago. It felt pretty amazing following our previous 2010 games, which were both losses. We're still contenders for champs. And this girl had a good night-- highest scoring jammer of the evening. Not too shabby for a skater in her twilight years.

Photo by Tim the Enchanter.

I've been saying for a while that 2010 would be my last season. Then I backpedaled. Now I'm back to thinking it's time to hang up my skates. Age-wise, compared to other LADD skaters, I'm neither old nor young. But in derby years, I'm a fucking relic. I've been skating with the Dolls since 2004, and there are only a handful of skaters who've been around as long.

An infamous TXRD skater once said: "Roller derby. It was harder to quit than heroin." She'd gone in and out of retirement twice.

I still love skating games, but lately, practice has become a chore. I don't look forward to it and I rarely give 100%. I'm just not inspired. I want to be, but most of the time it feels like I'm going through the motions. There are so many amazing skaters in the league now, and rather than wanting to compete with them, I think, "let them have it." These days, I'm more excited about headstands and mastering different arm balances.

I'm lousy at breakups. For the last six years, roller derby has been the center of my life -- everything else has come second. When I finished grad school, rather than don a cap and gown and walk with my classmates, I chose to skate an outdoor flat track game at the North Hollywood YMCA in 100-degree weather (this is back when the Dolls were between venues). The announcers presented me with a phony diploma as my mother watched, fanning herself with a program. It was not the event she'd come to Los Angeles to see, but I skated a good game that afternoon, and she was proud.

Roller derby: I loved it and still love it. This sport changed me fundamentally. I still can't believe I lived 25 years convinced that I had zero athletic ability -- that I was physically weak. And thanks to derby, I've met some of the most amazing women that otherwise I never would've known. Physically and mentally, however, all signs point to letting go. It's one of the hardest things I've ever had to do. On one hand, there's going to be a huge, gaping hole in my world when I leave the Doll Factory after my final game. On the other, I'm pretty excited about what I might find to fill it.

But don't hold me to it. Maybe I'll change my mind tomorrow.

rusted wheels

2010-09-27T11:21:00.000-07:00

Fight Crew is back this weekend -- our last game was when...May? It's our final shot at making it to champs, so if you're in L.A., put on a red shirt and come cheer us on.

Get your tix in advance because it will probably sell out!

lo-fi

2010-09-09T09:58:00.000-07:00

I went camping in Big Basin Redwoods State Park a few weeks ago with some good friends (one of whom, my former teammate/Homegirl4Lyfe, Crystal, better documented the weekend here).

Elliott brought a single-speaker cassette player. At night, when we gathered around our campfire, it provided our music, and it was appropriate: a small, haunted sound in the vast wilderness. To conserve batteries, El rewound his tapes by sticking a pencil through the reel and spinning incessantly. Camping affords you the privilege of doing things the hard way -- to expend such luxurious effort.

Elliott still records off the radio, so we listened to a lot of that -- songs from San Francisco's KPOO and Rhapsody in Black. It was a junior high throwback, like the mix tapes I’d made from radio recordings as a kid: the jerky mid-song starts -- when I'd rush to my tape deck and hit record just as my new favorite song was pouring from the speakers -- or the premature endings when the tape ran out unexpectedly. Of course, Elliott has much better taste in music than I did then.

When we drove into Santa Cruz on Sunday, Elliott went into a record store and came out with two purchases: cassettes -- Siouxsie and the Banshees and Neil Young -- $2 a pop.

El gave me the tattoo on my bicep a few years ago. It looks a little like I got bored and drew on my arm -- people often ask if it's a pen mark -- but it's actually a music note, etched into my skin with a needle and india ink. Crystal has a music note too, also administered by Elliott, but hers appears more polished. El has a handful of these small, homemade tattoos -- a music note here, question mark there, various squiggles. Once, when someone asked him what was up the music note, he replied, indignant, "I love music."

The weekend after Big Basin, my brother, James, came to town with his friend, Sam. It was after midnight on a Friday when they arrived, wanting to see Hollywood. I drove to the Cahuenga crawl and released them into the thick of it -- where creatures in too-tall platforms swayed and vomited onto the Walk of Fame.

The next morning, James and Sam showed me their new tats, acquired on Hollywood Blvd. for a $100 apiece. On my brother’s chest was a black hole, ostensibly left there by some imaginary bullet. From the hole, blood splattered across his chest like red rays from a black sun. Next, Sam showed me his: a purple music note -- big, bubbly, airbrushed-looking and occupying most of his forearm. It floated there, snarky and effervescent. In solidarity, I showed him my own music note. He brought his face closer to my bicep, squinting, as I flexed instinctively.

seeking sentiment in tar and blubber

2010-08-09T12:24:00.000-07:00

When asked what I’m doing this summer, my stock answer is “reading Moby-Dick.”

Due to budget cuts, the library where I work part-time is closed this month. As for my other job, running a non-profit that serves impoverished school libraries, there’s not a whole lot to do when school isn’t in session. So, August is a slow month for me on the work front. And if I’m going to be honest, June and July weren’t exactly bustling either.

I would have liked to use this free time to travel a bit, but my bank account is still recovering from The Great Engine Explosion of February, which was followed a month later by P.S. You Need A Brake Job Too, Sucker! Oh, and then in April, How About a Retreatment of a Root Canal from a Endonondist who Claimed to be In-Network, but Oops!, $1200 later, Turns Out He Wasn’t?

That leaves Moby-Dick and Me. Hello, summer.

I don’t think I would’ve picked up the book on my own, but a couple of library school alums formed an MB reading group, and I was inspired to join. It’s also Shannon’s favorite book. I miss her a lot, so I figure reading MB is sort of like us hanging, tickling each other’s brains. All of that said, I’m pretty sure I’m the only group member who is actually reading the thing. Over on the MB Facebook discussion page, it’s crickets.

I’m treading along at a moderate pace because, of course, I’m reading too many other things. I’m nearly finished with Just Kids, Patti Smith’s account of her early years with Robert Mapplethorpe, and I’m still plugging away at The Collected Stories of Deoborah Eisenberg, which at 960 pages is actually four books in one. Four hundred pages down, I’m halfway through the second book. I’ll continue reading the stories intermittently, alongside Lydia Davis, which means I probably won’t wrap it up til Christmas. I preordered the new Franzen novel, which should arrive on my doorstep in a couple of weeks, and I’m dying to read David Lipsky’s account of traveling with David Foster Wallace during his Infinite Jest Book Tour. Also, I would like to read most of these 100 recommended magazine articles (note that seven DFW articles made the list, which, fortunately, I've already read).

I'm also practicing a fair amount of yoga, running through my neighborhood’s canyons and, now that the Dolls’ annual summer hiatus has concluded, I’m back in roller derby training. So, I guess I'm keeping busy. But what I really should be doing is learning Spanish.

From SparkNotes on Moby-Dick: The movements of whales, like all of the secrets of the ocean, are largely hidden, and the whalemen’s struggles to piece together what they see and hear resemble other people’s struggles to make meaning out of life or stories in books.

A few weeks ago, I went to a screening of my friend Rick’s films. I brought a date, and we struck up a conversation with Rick’s new roommate, Larry.

"How is your summer going?” Larry asked.

“Well, I’m reading Moby-Dick.”

“Are you interested in whaling?”

“Not particularly.”

“Then why are you reading it?”

Before I could answer, my date interjected.

“Maybe because it’s in the canon? It’s a classic.”

“Yes, but I don’t understand why someone would read it if they weren’t interested in whaling."

“I’m fine with the whaling," I said, "but I guess I'm more interested in the book thematically, and in Melville as a writer."

Larry looked perplexed.

“But it’s about whaling. How can it hold your interest if you don't care about whaling?”

The date interjected again. “Do you really think every person that reads Moby-Dick does so because they’re interested in whaling?’

“Most, yes.”

And from here, the conversation between the men – neither of whom had actually read Moby-Dick – escalated. I extricated myself, floating toward the table where a bottle of whiskey twinkled.

"Over Descartian vortices you hover. And perhaps, at mid-day, in the fairest weather, with one half-throttled shriek you drop through that transparent air into the summer sea, no more to rise for ever."

summer, cont.

2010-07-16T11:13:00.000-07:00

I grew up in Arizona, but I've never seen the Grand Canyon. It wasn't going anywhere, I figured, and I'd get around to it eventually. It's still on my list of things to do.

Similarly, the closest I'd been to Lake Havasu was watching Bill Bellamy, Eric Nies, et al. grind away my teenage afternoons on MTV's Spring Break. Thanks to last weekend's Fight Crew retreat, courtesy of Broadzilla (a Havasu homeowner), all of that has changed. I can now say that I have piloted a waverunner over Lake Havasu's glassy surface, red rocks looming large and martian in the distance. I held on for dear life as my inflatable Bonzai raft was towed and tossed by a boat. I rode a wakeboard. I drank a frozen margarita from a green plastic container fashioned after a naked woman. I cruised under the London Bridge as the Beastie Boys' "Root Down" blasted from the boat's speakers. I peed in that lake.

Fight Crew wins at wakeboarding.

Unrelated, more yoga wisdom from Clio: In class a couple of weeks ago, we practiced upward facing bow while squeezing blocks between our thighs. When a classmate's block dropped to her mat with a thud, Clio announced, "We all shit bricks sometimes."

summer

2010-06-29T15:59:00.000-07:00

"The days just clutter up with things I feel like doing and do. One after another, I fill up and dispatch dayfuls of things." - Deborah Eisenberg (currently reading: The Collected Stories).

in the face of defeat

2010-05-21T13:01:00.000-07:00

This morning in yoga, Clio instructed us to take wheel pose with the backs of our heads against the wall, our hands on blocks. She told us to start stepping our feet toward the wall as we walked our hands up the wall. I did as I was told, but I wasn't sure what I was trying to accomplish. Clio hovered over me as I moved upward.

"There you go!" she encouraged. "You're almost there!"

I was three-quarters of the way up the wall, and Clio was cheering me on, but I was confused.

"What am I working toward?" I asked, my head hanging upside down through my extended arms, glasses askew, palms pressed flat against the wall.

"Enlightenment!"

"Oh." My eyes were fixed on the white wall behind me. "Sometimes I forget."

"But more immediately, you're trying to stand upright."

"Just stand up? I can do that."

I walked my hands a little higher, lifted my chest and head out of the bend, and there I was: standing. Clio smiled and clapped, beaming, a proud parent.

game day brain

2010-05-15T09:53:00.000-07:00

Whipity Pow / Rocky Mountain Rollergirls / Photo by Jay Vollmar.

I've spent a lot of time thinking about Whipity Pow's thigh this week. I don't want it for myself, but it's an incredible thing to behold.

David Foster Wallace on tennis great Roger Federer:

"Genius is not replicable. Inspiration, though, is contagious, and multiform -- and even just to see, close up, power and aggression made vulnerable to beauty is to feel inspired and (in a fleeting, mortal way) reconciled. "

Recently, there was an episode of Radiolab about limits. During the segment on limits and the human body, Jad and Robert interviewed Julie Moss about her legendary second place finish in the 1982 Ironman Triathlon. It was really insightful to hear the analysis of how our brains deal when we push our bodies.

Anyway, here's Julie Moss shitting her pants and crawling to the finish line:

I was hanging with some Brits the other night, and the roller derby thing worked its way into the conversation.

In her adorable accent, the Girl Brit asked, "Is that the sport where the angry girls on roller skates hit each other?"

"I'm not angry," I said. "I'm just determined."

U.S. Roradabi: fight formal and trippings are forbidden

2010-05-06T11:05:00.000-07:00

Did I mention that I have a game coming up? I do. Buy your tickets in advance because it will probably sell out.

about my not-so-new roommate

2010-05-05T14:15:00.000-07:00

If you have a roommate, you should probably keep your pants on. Even if you think your roommate is gone for the day -- all the way in Orange County, which is practically another planet. Even if you've finished a five-mile run, and your pants are sweat-soaked, and you've just peed, and you're about to hop in the shower, which is running. So, really, what's the point of putting your pants back on while you pluck your eyebrows with the bathroom door wide open?

The point is that your roommate might return unexpectedly -- with your weekend house guest in tow -- and for a split second things will seem normal because you're still wearing a tank top, but then he'll glance down and look! No pants! Someone will say "Oh my god." Front door and bathroom door will slam in awkward unison.

I've known Lei since we were teenagers. We went to high schools on opposite sides of town, but we'd run into each other at Food Not Bombs feedings (which, at least in Tempe, AZ in 1996, was more about having a picnic in the park than it was about feeding the homeless). Lei didn't talk much at FNB meetings. He was the bespectacled Asian kid who showed up and doled out scoops of couscous to the gutter punks, kept his mouth shut, and then disappeared as mysteriously as he came. He seemed like a weirdo, and I vowed to make him my friend. I didn't really succeed until after he'd moved to Berkeley for college and I started writing him letters. Eventually, I'd make frequent trips to the Bay Area, and we'd hang non-stop in Phoenix when he'd come home for the summer and holidays.

We lived together during the two years we were in grad school, both at U.C.L.A. getting our master's in information science. And all these years, he'd never seen my beaver. So is our friendship fundamentally changed? No, of course not, but I do think it's funny considering our old pact. When we were in our early 20s, we agreed that if we were both single at 30 (or was it 31? or 32?), that we'd marry each other. And here we are -- around the designated age, living together again -- and Lei catches a glimpse of my ladyparts and we're both horror-stricken. So, marriage? Seems laughable, but I should point out that he's become my emergency contact for every piece of paperwork I fill out these days. Maybe we'll just wind up common law.

fly girl

2010-03-23T09:50:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, I updated my Facebook status to read, "There once was a lady who inhaled a fruit fly." Because I did. The buggers have been a nuisance, all up in my den these days, and yes, I have tried the usual tricks to no avail.

It didn't occur to me until after I'd updated my status that the nursery rhyme actually starts "There was an old lady...." I didn't intentionally omit the "old." I just misremembered. Kind of like old people do.

Speaking of geriatrics, the Derby Dolls enacted a new policy for skaters who have been with the league five or more years: In conjunction with our newly anointed LEGEND status, we are no longer required to volunteer at bouts. Too old to work? Sure, I'll take it. Now I get to show up on game night after 6 p.m. and watch roller derby like a civilian. If called upon to pour wine or work PR or DJ, I might bite, but mostly, you'll find me at the games I'm not skating drinking a medicinal beverage. And that's if you find me at all. No more parking lot detail for this LEGEND.

I am beginning to understand the appeal of "lounge wear," or the urban gal's answer to sweats. I almost ventured outside yesterday in pants that clung to my waist with a handy drawstring. I was only leaving my apartment to receive a massage from a nice Thai lady in the San Gabriel Valley who crawls all over my back like a 110-lb spider. I would be required to strip upon arrival, but still, I couldn't bring myself to go outside with a rope around my waist if exercise wasn't involved. So, I changed into respectable pants. The kind with a fly.

After yoga on Sunday (I was just talking about lounge wear, remember?), I rode my bike through Griffith Park with some friends. We were hunting for the free bacon-wrapped hot dogs one of us had read about on the interweb. Apparently, there is a guy named Javier with an irrepressible urge to share the joy of the bacon-wrapped hot dog with his fellow Angelenos. It's become an annual thing where he sets up shop in the Old Zoo and gets to grillin'. On this Sunday, Javier wore a red t-shirt emblazoned with a t-bone as he manned his makeshift grill. A cookie sheet and small propane tank were involved.

When we rolled up to the Zoo, I introduced myself to Javier, and foolishly asked, "Are you a street food vendor? Are you promoting your business?"

He laughed. "No. I just love bacon-wrapped hot dogs!"

He made me a veggie dog wrapped in veggie bacon, and it was the best I'd ever eaten -- probably on account of all the bacon grease it had rolled around in.

The whole event turned into a great Los Angeles picnic -- people showed up with beer and condiments to share. No one knew each other, but fast friends were made. Pie holes were stuffed with dog after dog, laden with California condiments like kimchee, seaweed and avocado, and it was official: Spring in L.A. has sprung.

Flowers on the prairie where the June bugs zoom

2010-03-03T13:21:00.000-08:00

Oklahoma City: conquered. No snow after all.

What you should know about OKC: All lettuce comes from a bag. Some public restrooms double as tornado shelters (indicated by a placard outside the entrance illustrated with a black tornado, which looks suspiciously like a turd). Do not order the Ahi tuna (even if you well know that tuna in OKC cannot possibly be good, but still, it is game day and you are a pescetarian and believe that protein is required to be properly fueled). Also, that children ride the elevators for fun (maybe children do this everywhere, but there were SO MANY elevator-riding orphans in OKC, and they will insist on pressing the buttons for you, and all you can think is, "Kid, where I come from, you could get paid to do that). Service industry professionals are ridiculously kind and attentive, and in general, Okies are super nice and all the unsolicited hellos and waves from strangers on the street will be a little unnerving.

Oh, and if you order a yogurt and granola parfait in Caffeina's Markeplace, the hotel's cafe, the granola will be a pulverized Nature's Valley granola bar. When you point this out to the barista, she will not understand why this is disgusting or weird.

Finally, that banked track roller derby could be frighteningly big in Oklahoma. It's a city where there isn't a whole lot to do on a Saturday night, and its denizens are really, really enthusiastic about sports.

The Red Dirt Rebellion Roller Girls rented the large and well-lit Cox Center arena for the game, which was conveniently conjoined to our hotel via Sky Bridge, providing the Aftershockers (my team) a theoretical opportunity to never set foot on a public walkway in OKC. It was hard to gauge crowd size inside the Cox, but I would hazard a couple of thousand, which is impressive considering that this league isn't well-established. The Doll Factory's capacity is 1700, and though we almost always sell out, we push those 1700 seats hard. OKC is, obviously, a much smaller town.

The game was a blowout in favor of the Aftershockers. The final score was 239-31. RDRRG put up a good fight, and hell if those ladies aren't tenacious, but they're still awful green. With time and experience, I'm certain they will become a force, and it's exciting to have another banked track league up-and-coming in such an exotic locale.

amateur hour

2010-02-25T12:58:00.000-08:00

When we last left the Hollywood Librarian, she was riding in a tow truck. The driver was right – it was expensive. The auto shop estimate was $3400, but estimates don’t include sales tax.

I blew out the engine. “Oil change” was on my Google calendar for Wednesday, and the engine went on Tuesday. The bookmobile was a couple of months overdue and its innards were (apparently) bone dry. Amateur move? Yes. Do I know better? Yes. And was it 100% my fault? Yes.

I am quick to abuse my car, I think, because I resent that it was forced upon me by this city. That attitude isn’t going to get me very far though. I’ve learned an expensive lesson.

I did not drop this bag of money without pause. A new car was out of the question because I am not interested in car payments and increased insurance. I considered buying a new used car for a comparable price. I looked at Craigslist and quickly became anxious. Though my purple Saturn is an eyesore, I know this car: one previous owner, my mother, and only 80,000 miles. Classic devil you know vs. the devil you don’t know, and I chose the former. My mother generously gave me that car. Now I’ve bought it.

In other news, Fight Crew lost the game on the 13th, but we did it with panache. At some point in the 3rd quarter, we were down by nearly 40 points, and we came back to lose by 10. This girl had a solid game, scoring 26 points, but it wasn’t enough. Oh well. The season is young.

Photo by Colin Young-Wolf/LA Weekly

I’m flying to Oklahoma City tomorrow for a game against another banked track league, the Red Dirt Rebellion Roller Girls. What's to do in Oklahoma besides play roller derby? I hear it's snowing there. I haven’t seen snow in years -- not since 2000 when Tony and I drove to Flagstaff to pick up a Volvo gifted from his brother. I think there was snow melting on the side of the I-17, but we never got close enough to touch it.

I’m not sure what to do with snow. Maybe I will bury myself in the stuff to soothe my nagging aches and pains.

car woes

2010-02-09T11:02:00.000-08:00

My car almost exploded on the freeway yesterday. It had been making a funny noise for the past couple of weeks, and I'd planned to take it in, well, today actually. As I drove home from work, bookmobile heavy with groceries, the unexplained sound escalated from "funny" to "assault rifle." When smoke began to billow out from under the hood, I felt compelled to turn on my hazards and pull over.

Things I am grateful for: My AAA membership.

Cars barreled past, rattling me, when I stepped from my vehicle onto the shoulder. This probably isn't very safe, I thought, as I popped the hood. I looked inside and saw what appeared to be an engine. Hmmm. The colors looked right, nothing was oozing lava or pus and there were no visible signs of a silverfish infestation. So, I got back inside and waited for the tow truck. I listened to an episode of the Moth on my Ipod and pulled a bran muffin from a grocery bag. I ate half. Thank God I didn't starve to death in the 20 minutes I waited for a tow. I'm good in a crisis.

When the tow driver arrived, he started my car. It still sounded like an assault rifle unloading. He winced.

"What do you think it is?" I asked.

"I don't know, but it sounds expensive."

He towed my car to a mechanic a few blocks from my apartment, and I'm still waiting on the diagnosis.

In happier news, my team is skating its first game of the 2010 season and you should come. It would cheer me up to see your shining face in the crowd, dear anonymous reader. Tickets will sell out in advance, so get yours soon.

blocking

2010-01-25T15:09:00.000-08:00

I keep telling people that this is going to be my last season. When they ask why, my responses vary, but they're usually along the lines of, "I keep getting older and bitches keep getting younger" or "I've been doing this way too long" or "I've been neglecting my other hobbies for the past six years" or "I need to focus on my career" or "I'm broken" or "My scrabble game needs work" or "I should get out of L.A. and buy a house somewhere" or "I'm tired" or "I'm moving to Tucson." I'm not sure which of these things remain true outside of the moment it was uttered. When I see them in print like this, I'm skeptical (Wait, what? A house? Tucson?!).

Many of these sentiments felt true during the holidays, when the league was on break and I had so much time to myself. Another season of derby seemed far away and like a lot of work. Then I put my skates back on a few weeks ago, and lo, the fire under my ass was reignited. Oh yeah, I love doing this shit. I still think this will be my final season, but the plan is to go out in a blaze.

Saturday night was the 2010 season opener, the Sirens vs. the Varsity Brawlers, and I was working the Paso Creek bar with Krissy Krash, pouring wine to raise money for the league's travel teams. The Dolls' biggest blocker, Krash has nearly a foot on me. I stood on a crate behind the bar so as not to be dwarfed. She was all overgrown Girl Scout in her Tough Cookie uniform, and me, midget to her left, was all layers and a scarf because the Doll Factory is a meat locker in January. Even on a game night.

Bong Jovi, the league's Head of Events, breezed by our table on his rounds.

"You should block more," he told me.

"You think so?"

"Yeah, I like your style. It's been a while."

"I don't know. I can obstruct, but my hits aren't very powerful."

"No, blog."

"Block?"

My hearing isn't so great, but Jovi eventually got his point across, so here I am blogging. I have a lot of things I could write about -- the most recent wedding I attended or my new roommate, Lei (who's really my old roommate), or the fun stuff the Beer Committee's been up to, or my yoga breakthroughs, or health care, or FUCKING HAITI, but I think I'll just tell you about my bad reading habits for now.

In my experience, when you read too many things at once, you manage to read very little. I have book club obligations, a tower of New Yorkers to conquer, books gifted to me, the stuff I want to read for pleasure and the stuff I should read for pain. I did finish The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao, which is as good as everyone says, and I listened to Zeitoun as an audio book on my drive to and from Phoenix, which I've been recommending to everyone.

Since December, I have been reading the Collected Stories of Lydia Davis the way I imagine people read the bible. Her stories are short, quick, arresting. They feel like fables. The collection is heavy at 600+ pages, but some stories are only a few sentences. So, I open the pink volume to a random page and read a story or two, sometimes when I wake up in the morning or before I go to bed at night.

Tomorrow I might blog about that wedding.

The Gift of Danzig

2009-12-23T09:01:00.001-08:00

My buddy Ji gave me a little Danzig a few days ago, and I feel compelled to share the wealth.

Happy Holidays! And now Phoenix, ho! I'll be sure to drive past the Danzig estate on my way outta town.

Strawberry Jam

2009-12-22T11:36:00.000-08:00

I got back from yoga Sunday afternoon and had a meltdown because there was no sign of Shannon. The boxes and suitcases were gone from her bedroom. Her toiletries were MIA. I started to cry because I didn't have a chance to say a proper goodbye. I opened the refrigerator and took an inventory of the food she left behind: shredded vegan cheese I will never eat; her homemade pesto that I definitely will.

Shannon's LAPL contract is over and she's moving back east. Thanks to a series recording that she programmed, the DVR is amassing episodes of The Jersey Shore. I watched for the first time yesterday to get a sense of the world to which Shannon is returning. Not only did this show fill me with existential anxiety, but as I watched Snooki get punched in the face, I worried for Shannon's safety.

No more Shanny asleep on the sofa; no more happy nipples to greet me when I walk through the door. Other things she left behind: the amazing bike rack she bought for my birthday (with the help of some friends); a cabinet full of tea; the tinfoil star that she made for our Christmas tree; the construction paper happy birthday banner that's still strung across our living room all these weeks later. Neither of us had the heart to take it down.

A few weeks ago, while we were both at work, she wrote me an email that said, "Meghan! I got you a present today and I don't think I can wait until Christmas to give it to you because I am excited!"

The gift, it turned out, was something I'd already purchased and devoured a few months prior: Lorrie Moore's latest novel, A Gate at the Stairs. The copy Shannon gave me was better though because it was signed by Moore, my favorite writer.

"Tell you what," I told Shannon. "I want you to have the one I bought for myself. It will be your Christmas present."

It was good to see her curled up with that book on our sofa these last few weeks.

I was sitting on the same sofa Sunday afternoon, staring at the tinfoil star, cursing myself for not getting back from yoga in time to say goodbye, when Shannon came running through the front door, breathless.

"You didn't leave!" I jumped up. "I thought I missed my chance to say goodbye!"

"I forgot my jam in the fridge." A few nights ago, Shannon made jam to give out as Christmas presents. I'd had some on toast that morning. This moment marked the end of homemade jam.

"Are you crying?" she asked when she saw my face. "I'll be back next month!"

It was true. She'd be back in mid-January to finish up the last few weeks of her work contract.

"Yeah, but that's not the same. You won't be living here!"

So we hugged and kissed and I got the closure I thought I needed. She ran back out the door, her arms now laden with strawberry jam, and I thought about the first time we met: on the street in New York, 2005. I was on vacation, and we were standing outside a club on the Lower East Side with a group of our mutual friends. Olivian had mentioned that Shannon was applying to UCLA's library program. It was summer and all of us were shining with sweat. My hair was frizzy from the humidity and the subway ride. Shannon had been riding her bike, and wore impossibly short shorts that I would see her wear again, years later, prancing around our apartment. She looked like my kind of girl, someone I could be friends with. She told me that she liked my dress, which was red and I thought maybe too flashy considering that all we did that night was stand around on the street, never setting foot inside that club. But I thanked her for the compliment. I wouldn't see her again until a year later when she showed up in my Los Angeles apartment with her boxes and lavender-scented cleaning supplies.

The apartment felt so empty Sunday night that I rode my bike to the Sunset 5 and watched a movie in a theater full of strangers so as not to be alone.

Hooray for Haolewoods

2009-11-16T08:30:00.000-08:00

Photo by Jason Ziemlak.

The ladies of Hawaii Pacific Roller Derby were gracious winners and unparalleled hostesess. Photo by Jason Ziemlak.

Our beach in Waimanalo. A few of us had a beautiful house to ourselves courtesy of one of the skaters.

Morning calisthenics on the beach.

Hanauma Bay. We snorkeled here. Did you know they make optical snorkel masks for the bespectacled? Now you do!

Winning wasn't the point. Hawaii was the point. And every time my ass hit the concrete, I looked up and saw the most amazing mountain, Diamond Head, which loomed large and lush over the outdoor roller hockey court. LADD has it good for sure -- a banked track, our own space, an incredible production crew -- but I was completely thrilled to have my ass handed to me in front of such a spectacular backdrop.

More photos here.

How about a video too? OK.

Roller Girl Down & Derby: HPRD Hulagans vs. L.A. Derby Dolls from Mike Orbito on Vimeo.

Going Haole Wood

2009-11-05T08:57:00.000-08:00

In 2000, before roller derby was born again in Austin, TX, I dressed up as a derby skater for Halloween. I went light on the protective gear (such a rube!), but there was a helmet, sparkly shorts and spandex involved. Not to mention roller skates. I drunkenly shot the duck on sidewalks in front of several Tempe house parties that night. It's a move that has no practical application in the world of roller derby, but who cares? The costume was a big hit.

It's hard to top an awesome costume. I wanted to be a roller derby skater every Halloween until I actually went and joined the derby four years later. I'm afraid that's how I'll feel about my costume from this past Halloween.

Me as Flying Ace WWI Snoopy accompanied by J.D. as Charlie Brown from the It's the Great Pumpkin. Big props to J.D. who labored for hours on my doghouse.

Snoopy digs bananas!

In other news, I'll be piloting my doghouse to Honolulu on Friday for a flat track track game. I'm captain of a rogue team called the Haole Woods, and we're taking on Hawaii Pacific Derby in an exhibition match during Girl Fest Hawaii. Post-bout, I'll be sticking around the north shore of Oahu for a few extra days with some members of the Beer Committee. Former Fight Crew skater Jihad came out of retirement to skate this game, and I look forward to some grabbing sun, surf and Hawaiian brews with her and the rest of the BC.

I really hope my new glasses are ready tomorrow (thanks to the fine selection and excellent costumer service at Gogosha Optique). Though it may seem counter-intuitive, I don't want to vacation sans specs -- even if I am hitting the beach. I loathe wearing contacts.

And finally, I was kind of on Oprah yesterday. Watch Ali's Dare Devils take on the L.A. Derby Dolls here. The episode was all about "stepping outside your box," and I think we gave these ladies a shove in the right direction.

better late

2009-10-29T09:42:00.000-07:00

Bad News First:

I snapped my glasses in half last night. I was stupidly squeezing the frames, trying to make them fit my face more snugly, and they cracked apart in my hand. I guess I don't know my own strength. And it's probably ill-advised to squeeze your glasses anyway.

Chrome Hearts frames, 2006-2009, R.I.P.

I began a hunt for new glasses a few months ago, which I sort of abandoned when I lost patience trying to find the perfect pair. Looks like the hunt is back on.

I am wearing contacts today and I feel naked.

Good News Second:

Photo by Charlie Chu/Shutterthug.

Fight Crew won the game on Saturday, 101-88, which is an incredible way to end the season. We were 12 or 13 points ahead when Haught Wheels went to the line for the final jam of the night, and it would've been miracle for the Sirens to score enough points in that jam to tie or win the game. As Haughty plowed through the pack, I watched from the infield with a smile so big I thought my face might crack. She didn't stop skating until the game clock hit zero, and the moment it did, she brought her hands to her hips and the expression on her face said: "Fucking finally." This was our first regular season win since 2007, and I think breaking our losing streak will be a huge psychological boon to the team going into 2010. I'm really grateful that Haughty joined our team as co-captain this season, and though it took three games for the Crew to finally get its shit together, I think her leadership and focus has been instrumental in our turnaround.

Here is a bout recap from a guy who had some nice things to say about this girl.

And here is a great photo montage from LADD photographer Stalkerazzi:

bad at this, again

2009-10-23T12:38:00.000-07:00

I accepted some freelance work about a month ago that has hindered my blogging productivity. I'm also skating for two travel teams (went to Tucson last weekend and I'm flying to Hawaii on Nov. 7th). Oh, and my team is playing its last game of the season tomorrow night and you should come!

But yeah, I've been kind of busy.

Here's the press release I wrote this morning (distributed internally to members of the Beer Committee):

Witness the epic Battle of the Brewsers! Fight Crew's BEO, Lägeraison, & Beerbrarian face off against the Sirens' Brewologist. It's our last game of the season and the Brewologist's LAST BOUT EVER. The Beer Committee's very own Pilsnerd will greet you at the door with a self-adhesive wristband. The neon hue of said wristband connotes VIP or general admission.

Post game festivities will feature BEER.

I can't decide if it's to Fight Crew's advantage or detriment that our roster is so BC-heavy.

it begins

2009-09-28T11:56:00.000-07:00

Monday night, 6:30pm PST, derydolls.tv presents an all-star celebrity event featuring:

- a sneak preview exhibition of Tough Cookies vs. Varsity Brawlers
- an exclusive performance by recording artists and Whip It star Landon Pigg
- a Q&A with the cast of 'Whip It' live from the middle of the LADD banked track, and you can ask questions of Drew, Ellen, Juliette, Andrew Wilson and others directly from our chat room!

FREE and LIVE from the comfort of your own home on derbydolls.tv

And if you want to get up close and personal, there's a game Saturday night. Get your tix here.

Couple's vacation captured in photos and police log

2009-09-18T12:28:00.000-07:00

Something I like to do when visiting a small town is to find the local newspaper and subject my traveling companion to a dramatization of the paper's police log. So here I give you a few choice pics from Big Sur and Monterey accompanied by excerpts from the Carmel Pine Cone. Reporter Mary Brownfield is a new favorite writer.

Carmel-by-the-Sea: A citizen on Dolores Street attempted to grab onto an object to maintain his balance prior to crossing the street and lost his balance after his hand slipped off the object. The citizen slid to the ground but did not sustain any injuries. CFD and CRFA responded as a precautionary measure but were informed by the citizen that he was not injured and he had no complaint of pain. The citizen advised he fell as a result of losing his own balance.

McWay Falls, Julia Pfeiffer Burns State Park.

Carmel-by-the-Sea: Fire engine and ambulance dispatched to Scenic and Eighth for a hazardous condition. There was a report of a hot air balloon on fire traveling over the area of San Antonio and Eighth, headed east. Crews searched the area but were unable to locate.

Yurt interior.

Carmel-by-the-Sea: Female roommate reported an unwanted person visiting her roommate on Seventh Avenue. Roommate and unwanted person contacted, and roommate advised the mentioned person was not unwanted.

Carmel-by-the-Sea: Report of littering and minor property damage to a tenant’s unit on Mission Street that was previously reported. Contact was made with a party who may have leads. This was met with negative results.

Garrapata State Park.

Carmel area: Man reported that someone went inside his residence at Valley Way and Highway 1 during the night and stole a bottle of vodka.

Carmel-by-the-Sea: Citizen called to report being verbally harassed by the manager of a restaurant on Sixth Avenue. She was offended because the manager came out of the restaurant and asked her to pay her bill. She has an agreement with the owner that her daughter will receive free meals up to $200 a month. The manager stated there was no longer an agreement regarding free meals and verbally assaulted her outside the business. Citizen was concerned with the tone and the words used by manager. Citizen’s daughter was in vehicle and citizen believes daughter may be affected by words used as they were detrimental toward her husband, who had committed suicide. None of the language was threatening, according to the citizen. She stated it was only rude in nature and inappropriate.

Cell reception not-so-good in Big Sur.

Carmel-by-the-Sea: Person called the police department to report losing his wallet last night while visiting Carmel Beach. A brief description of the wallet was provided. The person was advised to call police if the wallet was found. At 1700 hours, the person called the department to request to cancel the report. Person said he found the wallet at a nearby restaurant he dined at last night. Nothing further.

Garrapata State Park.

Carmel area: Report of a suspicious note.

Biker Bar in Carmel Valley.

Carmel-by-the-Sea: A 32-year-old subject was located lying asleep in the middle of the street at Santa Rita Street and Fourth Avenue next to his bicycle. The subject had vomited all over himself and was under the influence of alcohol. Subsequent investigation revealed the subject in possession of a small amount of marijuana.

Organic garden, beer in hand, Treebones.

Carmel area: An adult male in Palo Alto reported his 15-year-old daughter ran away from home. After receiving the report, the responding party received a telephone call from the juvenile and agreed to pick her up in downtown Carmel.

Beer Committee Report: Zeno Supper Club

2009-09-10T10:20:00.000-07:00

On Tuesday night, the Beer Committee held court at the Zeno Supper Club, an event described on their web site as:

"a social experiment to see what happens when you bring interesting people together with food, drink, and a creative environment. Through webisodes that are based on cooking lessons with 'Top Chef' Lee Anne Wong, the Zeno Supper Club will explore broader themes like environmental activism, buying local, living in a sustainable community and alternative transportation."

The BC's very own Beermonger (and only non-Derby Doll Committee member) is a Zeno chef and resident Beer Expert.

Other Brewsers in attendance: BEO, BE-Co, B-EMT, Beerbrarian (moi), Pilsnerd, & Brewologist.

Appropriately, Zeno's theme for the evening was Action Sports and the event was sponsored by Stone Brewing Co. It was as if the night had been custom tailored for the BC's athletic, albeit beer paunch-burdened, bod.

In the spirit of the Supper Club's commitment to alternative transportation, and given the athletic-themed evening, and knowing that we would be doing some serious brew-chugging and face-stuffing, the B-EMT and me opted to ride our bikes from Hollywood to Venice. We arrived on the scene sweaty, frizzy-haired and a little winded from the trek -- though, IMO, the most convincingly athletic-looking of the dinner guests. We were also very hungry and thirsty.

Yes, the food was good, the brews were tight, and the Committee even scored a tour of Stone Brewery (date TBD), whose CEO was in attendance and is the newest L.A. Derby Dolls fan.

Lessons learned: Do not drink good beer from a plastic mug (even a 2006 hot pink LADD Championship mug -- it will taste funny). Also, the ride back from Venice, uphill, is slightly more strenuous when you're toting several bottles of Arrogant Bastard in your messenger bag.

where are you going, where have you been?

2009-09-09T13:41:00.000-07:00

Labor Day weekend found me in Kansas City, KS for a traditional Hindu wedding where JD was a groomsman. Yes, traditional Indian buffet made an appearance.

My impression of Kansas City is mostly limited to the various freeways connecting the Kansas City International Airport to the Sheraton Hotel, which is where we stayed and where the ceremony, lunch, cocktail hour, dinner, and reception were held. I also spent a reasonable amount of time in the Sheraton's fitness center between festivities.

The ceremony was two hours long and conducted in Hindi. An excerpt from the program:

In Tamil tradition, the bride and groom sit together on a swing and married women from the families circle rice balls around the couple in circular motions and walk around the couple four times while holding a lamp. This rite is believed to prevent evil forces from disrupting the wedding ceremony.

JD with the bride and groom, Maya and Chetan:

JD and I at the reception with much-photographed Ganesh ice sculpture:

Summer's officially over but I'm not done vacationing. On Sunday morning, we're hitting the road again, bound for a yurt in Big Sur.

I don't want to talk about it

2009-09-03T13:51:00.000-07:00

Photo by Stalkerazzi.

Sad Gloom in the penalty box. Photo by Charlie Chu.

So, we lost the game by 10 points. What else is new? Console yourself with this radical bout intro:

Thanks Dr. Detroit and Awesome Sean!

In other news, there is a tiny 53-year-old librarian playing roller derby in Ohio. Totally commendable, though my gut reaction to the article was "Dear God, let me be done playing roller derby at 53. " Which may not be the case if my team doesn't pull out a victory in the next 23 years.

Inspired by the CNN story, this blogger, Fresh Meat Daisy, compiled a rundown of known Derbrarians worldwide.

And finally, I'm on a roll with the ice-cream-eating. Tuesday night, the beer committee biked it to Golden State, where I downed a beer float: Old Rasputin paired with a scoop of Scoops' peanut butter coffee ice cream. In an attempt to negate this indulgence, I accompanied my beer float with a tuna salad.

Who am I kidding?

Mojo

2009-08-25T12:38:00.000-07:00

Fight Crew has a game on Saturday night against those precocious upstarts, the Varsity Brawlers (whom you may recall nearly beat the Sirens a few months back). Prominently featured in the upcoming bout will be these:

Behold my new skates, which I am totally loving. Riedell Minx boots & Roll Line Energy plates short mounted for speed. These were not cheap (particularly since I bought them right after buying a pair of skates that did not work out, which I'm still trying to sell). They're worth every penny though. Roll Line Energy = triple lightning bolt action. Oh, and the boots don't fly off my feet mid-jam, which can only be a boon to my team's overall performance.

Check out the latest bout promo and buy your tix here:

So, I think this is gonna be a good game despite a recent setback. Right before hiatus, Fight Crew acquired a new player, a former Argentinian figure skater who skates with speed, precision, tenacity and heart whom I'm pretty sure is destined for jammer stardom. She is young and tall -- a great asset to a team of so many old shorties. Needless to say, she was a welcome addition to the Crew.

During our rehearsal scrimmage against VB last week, my co-captain remarked, "This is the first game Fight Crew will play with a full roster!"which is kind of a kiss-of-death thing to say almost two weeks out. We won the scrimmage unscathed though, during which our new girl came out swinging. And then....during the team's private practice immediately afterward, she locked wheels with a teammate and took a fall, landing on her knee in a bad way. She left practice on crutches and will not be skating the game.

I saw Jorga at the Y last week and disclosed this latest development -- another plot twist in my team's ongoing saga with some bad voodoo.

"Fight Crew needs a witchdoctor to wave a headless chicken around your bench," he said, and then paused. "Actually, I know a guy who can do that."

If we don't win this game, maybe I'll look into his offer.

I think we got this one though. Seriously.

History through Mattresses

2009-08-24T08:16:00.000-07:00

In 2001, during my final year of undergrad, I bought a mattress off a guy for $75. I had to pay him in installments: $40 upfront and another $35 a couple of months later when he called to remind me that I still owed him money.

Eight years later, my financial situation has improved, but I'm still sleeping on that very same mattress. It graduated from college; traveled with me across the desert to Los Angeles; supported the backs of several boyfriends and the occasional overnight guest; kept me afloat through grad school, and gave me a place to collapse following every grueling derby practice for the past five years. I never questioned its devotion or integrity or really thought much about it all. A mattress was just another place to put my bones.

My chiropractor, however, disagrees. He prescribed an upgrade.

"You'd be better off sleeping on a pile of blankets on the floor," Dr. Michael said as he affixed pads to my upper back and arms. The pads were connected to his electrode therapy machine. "In fact, I'd advise you to do that until you buy a better mattress." And with the flip of a switch, my back spasmed and my left hand involuntarily reshaped itself into a claw.

Now that Dr. Michael mentions it, I suppose I don't wake up throughout the night with my hands clenched into numb talons when I sleep on JD's million dollar mattress. Hmmm.

...

I was eight when my mom left my brother's father the first time. In a 26-foot U-Haul, Mom at the helm, we moved from Long Island to Arizona without his knowledge. Bundled into a car seat at my mother's side was my infant brother -- precious, smuggled cargo; to the back of the truck, our green Honda was hitched. This was a multi-vehicle pilgrimage, a fleet of nurses relocating to Phoenix in search of a better life, more affordable housing and a booming geriatric population for which to care. Eileen's blue car was out front, our pacesetter, and Loretta's red Hyundai trailed the U-Haul. It was here that I held shotgun, beside Loretta, my mother's best friend. She owned one cassette tape -- the Dirty Dancing soundtrack -- which became our soundtrack as we moved from ocean to desert.

She's like the wind.

My mom bought her first house in Peoria, AZ (a townhouse, technically). My brother's father -- the man who would become my stepdad -- tracked us down and moved in.

My mom bought me a new bedroom set for my new room. She let me pick out all of the pieces, which I think was sort of a consolation prize for the baby-daddy situation. I chose a daybed, and I slept on the mattress that came with it from the time I was nine until I graduated from high school. Sometime around junior year, the springs started to poke through the mattress's decorative Kokopelli fabric, but rather than ask for a new one, I just started layering blankets on top of it. By then, my mother had divorced my stepfather and he was dead, and I'm certain she would have bought me a new mattress had I complained, but the sad truth is that the thought never even crossed my mind.

Apparently, all it took was a doctor's orders. Last week, I finally laid down the cash for a new, quality mattress, all the while thinking of other things on which I'd rather spend my money. New glasses. A new chair for my living room. A new dinette set. But a good night's sleep...that's priceless right? TBD as I dream about the impending delivery of my first grown-up mattress.

Gazing into the Cone

2009-08-21T09:13:00.000-07:00

Last Friday, I rode shotgun as Dicky piloted my purple bookmobile to San Francisco, our bikes harnessed to the back. We parked the car a few blocks from Kathy's new apartment, and promptly forgot it existed, riding our bikes out of Noe Valley, down a hill, up a hill, into the Mission and beyond. On Sunday morning, I went for a run, and on a whim, decided to check on my car. It was no longer where we had parked it.

A few phone calls later I discovered it had been towed only hours after we'd abandoned it. The alarm kept going off and some folks in the neighborhood called the police. I couldn't blame them.

I had planned to spend my San Francisco Sunday riding through Golden Gate Park, visiting the Conservatory of Flowers, admiring the bridge and the bay. Instead, I embarked on a Kafkaesque car retrieval odyssey, accompanied by Kathy and Dicky, which entailed (not necessarily in this order): two visits to two different police stations, a bit of crying, two visits to two different copy shops, a strained phone call to my mother (to whom the car is still registered for complicated reasons), a sad Soju Bloody Mary, a Chimay, several cups of coffee, a trip to the tow yard and a $425 price tag.

I don't eat ice cream very often. While I'll occasionally steal a lick from another's cone, I can't recall the last time I went anywhere and had my very own serving of the stuff. On Sunday, after finally reclaiming my vehicle, we rode our bikes to Bi-Rite, stood in line for a half-hour and I ordered a motherfucking ice cream cone. It was one scoop of Salted Caramel and another scoop of Coffee Toffee. We walked across the street to Dolores Park and found a decent patch of grass in the sun where I promptly ate the shit outta that cone. Let me tell you something: Ice cream is good.

weekend in photos

2009-08-04T10:48:00.000-07:00

The Long Beach Aquarium.

JD's birthday at Casa Escobar.

Hiking in Malibu Canyon.

Point Dume State Beach.

The Red Shoes, restored.

I'm keeping busy.

"It Makes my Mouth Hurt to Speak with Such Merriment"

2009-07-29T09:22:00.000-07:00

I don't think I've ever worked so hard for a paycheck. The three days I spent at Comic-Con -- skating through the streets of the Gaslamp District, blowing my whistle, screaming promotional sound bites at pedestrians and ninjas and Boba Fetts alike -- it was unlike anything I've ever done before. I've never touched so many strangers -- the hugs, the photographs. My palms are sore from so much high-fiving, which is to say nothing of my feet, and the beating they took from the asphalt.

My Babe Ruthless uniform was heavy, and we were always outside, about seven out of 10 hours per day in the sun. We did stunts -- setting up shop on street corners and taking turns jumping over each other; bulldozing down busy sidewalks, a nine-person roller train, blowing our whistles and chanting "Whip It! October 9th!" as we plowed through. We shot the duck. When I peeled off my uniform after the first shift, I was shocked to find my knees covered in bruises. Upon closer inspection, I realized they had been dyed from the green nylons I wore under my kneepads.

I felt a little bad for the folks who had to share an elevator with nine sweaty rollergirls at the end of the night, one of whom was Ludacris.

I think I now have some sense of what David Sedaris experienced in SantaLand. I feel a kinship with Cuervo Man from John Hodgman's "This American Life" piece. I appreciate the plight of Pinchy, the misunderstood Fight Crew Lobster.

I was only slightly humiliated when my troop of Hurl Scouts skated past a guy I went on a couple of dates with a few months back. I recognized him immediately and was hoping to fly by incognito until I heard "Hey Meghan." There was smugness in that greeting.

And then there was the guy who shouted, as I was tossing "Whip It!" sweatbands into a mile-long line of folks waiting to a watch movie preview, "Hey, didn't you go to Centennial High School?"

Why yes! Look at me now. All grown up on roller skates and wearing a too-short girl scout uniform.

None of this is to say that I didn't have a good time. It was amazing to witness our enthusiasm infect almost everyone who crossed our paths. Funny that when you scream at people, they so readily scream back; blow a whistle and they will wave; chant "WHIP IT! OCTOBER 9th!" and they will chant it right back to you, fists in the air. It helps when you're tossing out free swag, but even when all we had to offer were high fives, people lined up to receive them ("Good game!" we told them. "You were great out there. Way to rock the Con!" And then we'd blow a whistle in their confused, delighted faces).

Being "on" for three days straight was completely exhausting. As an introvert, this part was the most difficult for me, more so than the physical stuff. I spent my three hour breaks alone, walking through the streets where I'd been skating earlier, searching for a good reading spot, and appreciating how it felt to pass another person and not have to smile or scream or wave, feeling blissfully invisible.

Don't get me wrong: I am sore. Rolling over so much rocky asphalt takes its toll. The vibrations get you everywhere -- it's like being jackhammered. I have never paid for a professional massage, but I have been thinking about it. I will probably keep thinking about it until the appropriate amount of time has passed and it seems too indulgent for this workhorse. I am also a little tired of strangers touching me.

And I Sat Behind a Young Woman With a Killer Fade

2009-07-28T12:50:00.000-07:00

I want to write about the 30 hours I spent on roller skates at Comic Con last weekend, but that has to wait. In the interim, I will say that Grace Jones killed at the Hollywood Bowl on Sunday. And fortunately, I don't need to write anything else about that because better bloggers than this girl already took care of it.

like your favorite pair of jeans

2009-07-20T15:05:00.000-07:00

Jezebel's breakdown of the "Whip-It" trailer is pretty apt.

"Which is not to say I won't be first in line to see Whip It — teen angst and roller derby are a couple of my favorite things."

Whip-It Trailer

2009-07-17T15:30:00.000-07:00

The directorial debut of Drew Barrymore, stars Ellen Page (JUNO) as Bliss, a rebellious Texas teen who throws in her small town beauty pageant crown for the rowdy world of roller derby. Marcia Gay Harden (MYSTIC RIVER, POLLOCK) plays Bliss’ disapproving mother, while Kristen Wiig ("Saturday Night Live") and Juliette Lewis (OLD SCHOOL) play roller-derby stars. Also starring Eve, Jimmy Fallon, and Daniel Stern.

Oh yeah, and it was written by an L.A. Derby Doll, former Siren Maggie Mayhem.

Good Sunday

2009-07-14T15:11:00.000-07:00

Waking in a bed more comfortable than my own to the sound of JD getting ready for sailing class. Emerging from said bed to discover a pot of coffee and a note waiting.

Yogurt with honey.

Two hours of yoga.

My Ipod intuitively playing the right songs on shuffle.

A cold bottle of Perrier and a banana.

A ride on the back of Bryan's motorcycle, and not thinking too much about my father's mangled leg, or, potentially, my own.

Conversation with Bryan over a cheddar, onion and avocado crepe at Local.

Riding my bike to Griffith Park. Finishing a book, splayed out on a blanket. Pace of reading hindered only slightly by screaming kids climbing my favorite tree. Happiness in knowing these children are not mine.

The sound of a party in the distance, a chorus singing "Happy Birthday."

Riding my bike downhill.

A drive to the Valley on the near-empty 101. A fellow skater, an accountant, finally does my taxes. And guess what? A refund!

Later, celebration with sex and omelets.

Celebrity Sightings

2009-07-02T09:27:00.000-07:00

Last night was my good friend Bryan's birthday, so I took him out for dinner at the Hollywood Loteria before meeting up with a slew of derby folks for birthday karaoke (which, sadly, never went down. The bar we had chosen for our shenanigans was hosting a beer pong tournament, usurping the advertised karaoke night). Our crew relocated to the Powerhouse where a few folks sang along loudly with Bryan's selections from their first-rate jukebox. Everyone went nuts during "Don't Stop Believing," but the room stayed mostly quiet for "This Must be the Place," which is one of my favorite songs.

Before the bars, when we were finishing our dinner at the restaurant, Bryan leaned across the table and said: "Doesn't that woman sitting to your right look just like Carrie from Sleater-Kinney?"

I turned.

"That is Carrie from Sleater-Kinney."

The tables in Loteria are close together, and there wasn't much space between us. Here was the guitarist from a band I was obsessed with growing up, sitting right next to me, and had Bryan not pointed her out, I would've left the restaurant without noticing. These days, she writes the only music blog I occasionally bother to read, Monitor Mix.

putting some violence back into science

2009-06-10T12:44:00.000-07:00

mysterious today

2009-06-04T11:34:00.000-07:00

I haven't been feeling very writerly lately, so this is all you're getting from me this week.

Things that are Awesome:

1. Goths in Hot Weather

Thanks, Kathy.

2. This mural featuring the Silver Lake Walking Man:

Thanks, Pinchy.

3. Leaving for Austin in a few weeks.

4. Adriana's latest comic.

5. Brunch here.

6. A much-needed car wash & wax (I think it had been a year) at the hands of a bespectacled, body-building Jew.

Not so awesome:

1. Slamming my finger in a car door and the impending loss of yet another nail.

2. Finally realizing the major contributing factor to the carpal tunnel syndrome that's been waking me up throughout the night with numb hands and forearms for almost a year: weight-lifting and push-ups.

I will need to modify my entire workout routine, but on the upside, maybe I will get through the night without pumping my fists to combat the numbness.

3. This t-shirt.

4. Waiting for summer. June gloom, beat it!

Camo brings out my freckles

2009-05-27T13:09:00.000-07:00

Photo by Axle Adams from the Big One Tournament.

Photo by my uncle.

temporary tattoo artists

2009-05-21T11:40:00.000-07:00

Monday night, Mila Minute and I hit the red carpet on roller skates for a booze-tasting party in Hollywood. A winery in Paso Robles (trying to market itself as the Pabst Blue Ribbon of wines) is working out a sponsorship arrangement with the Dolls. They hired Mila and I to pour their vino and apply temporary tattoos (bearing the winery’s logo) on party-goers tipsy enough to believe temporary tattoos are either cool or a good idea, ever.

We showed up in our uniforms and skates, and in addition to talking up the winery’s flagship red zinfandel to those who stopped by our table for a taste, everyone wanted to know more about the Derby Dolls. The league has a game on the 30^th, and naturally, neither Mila nor I brought fliers to promote. A few phone calls later and Tilda Whirl came to the rescue with promotional materials in tow.

“Have you seen the latest flier?” I asked Mila while we waited for Tilda to arrive. We were standing behind the table, munching on stinky cheeses and intermittently sipping our glasses of merlot, cab and zin. “It’s me! I'm flier famous.”

“That’s you on the flier?” she said. “Really? I thought it was me.”

“No, it’s definitely me. It’s obvious if you’ve seen the photo it’s based on.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, definitely.”

“Because I really thought it was me.”

“I’m telling you! It’s me. Just wait until Tilda gets here. She designed the flier. She can settle it.”

Meanwhile, the general manager of the winery stood with us behind the table, witnessing our egos do battle. We make the Diva Jammers look humble.

(when Tilda pulled up to the club, she said to Mila (without any prompting) "Did you know that's Judy on the flyer?" It's based on this photo by Charlie Chu).*

In the world of signature derby moves, skaters like Mila and Krissy Krash have the rocket whip and the leg whip. Judy Gloom, the Charlie Brown of the banked track, will forever be the skater who’s skates fly from her feet mid-jam. It happened again over the weekend at the Big One Tournament. As my skate soared into a cluster of ACDG spectators, I heard the very kind Cherrylicious attempt to make me feel better: “That’s totally happened to me too!” she hollered from the crowd. What she didn't realize is that it’s the fifth time it’s happened to me.

To my credit, after frantically lacing up my skate, I still managed to score on that jam, so maybe those 2-minute flat track jams aren't so bad after all.

And I’ve got new skates coming in the mail.

If you’re feeling like a road trip, Fight Crew is playing a flat track game in Bakersfield on Saturday. Let's hope none of those Bakersfield skaters try to eat my eye on the track.

Also, check out my recent guest blog over at The State I Am In. It’s supposed to be about cooking, but Georgia turned it into a tribute to my awesomeness. I’m not complaining. Georgia is my friend, and an amazing one at that.

*addendum to the wine-tasting event: Guess who woke up the next morning with her arms covered in temporary tattoos? Temporary tattoos are not as temporary as one might think. I wore long-sleeves to the library that day.

Rosehips

2009-05-01T13:45:00.000-07:00

Jorga, my occasional acupuncturist, was staring into my ear this morning when he noticed something. He had already finished his business with the needles, paying special attention to the line extending up my arm to my shoulder, which I had injured last week, and was the reason for my visit. He twisted those needles one at a time, and when I winced and told him it hurt, he did it again.

"Are you having problems with your hips, too?" he asked my ear.

"No," I responded, but too quickly. Initially, a "hip problem" made me think of a joint problem, but the truth is, my hip is bruised as hell. I keep knocking the same spot, right where the bone protrudes a bit, and the result is layer upon layer of bruising -- a kaleidoscope of wounded yellows, blues, and gray-greens. At flat track practice last night, a newer skater wiped out in front of me, and I went down with her, crashing onto the concrete hip first, again. I jumped from the floor in a flurry of angry "Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!"s. The upper crust is of my kaleidoscope bruise is newly pink where the injury is fresh.

"Yes," I changed my answer. "I keep bruising my hip."

"Your left one?

"Yes."

"I can see that. It's here in your ear."

Then he taped some seeds in my ears and told me to buy Indian food because the tumeric would help my shoulder heal.

"I cook with tumeric all the time. I have it at home."

"You should go buy some Indian food now."

It was 9:30 a.m.

"O.K."

Fly Me to Texas!

2009-04-22T13:15:00.000-07:00

One random game night a few months back, I was standing alongside Paris Kilton in the darkest recesses of the Doll Factory, waiting to use the skater loo. Fight Crew had the night off, but Kilton was suited up in her bad-cop Siren uniform. She examined herself in the mirror and turned to me.

"I don't know how I feel about my boutfit tonight."

I had never heard this term before, but decided it was brilliant, and immediately incorporated it into my derby lexicon (and for the record, Kilton looked killer in her boutfit that night). Apparently, Boutfit has finally reached the masses via Urban Dictionary. It's nice to see that someone who wasn't me took this initiative.

In other derby news, the all-star Ri-Ettes (myself included as an alternate) are headed to Austin, TX in June for the 2009 Battle on the Bank. The only problem is that it's kind of pricey to fly 16 skaters to Texas and put them up in the sort of roach motel reserved for traveling Derby girls, so the Dolls are asking for help.

Check out our fundraising site. You can even buy a Ri-Ette a boutfit!

And how about this great fundraising plug from American NonFiction?

"The woman of the Roller Derby are the new face of the subversive culture in a way ANF could never be. Like Football for America, the Roller Derby is our game, the face of the common man, as boxers once came from the docks, our roller girls come from a childhood of slanted equality. They are not highly paid prima donnas sat atop a cash tidal wave but a ground swell of 3 cord grass roots. No other roller derby organization better defines the elements of grass roots and the ethos of D.I.Y., than the L.A. Derby Dolls."

Hell yeah! Thanks, SuperMegaFanBoy.

taking care of business

2009-04-15T13:17:00.000-07:00

There is an LADD game on Saturday. I'm not skating, but I will be your DJ for the evening, and no, I do not take requests. Check out the latest promo video:

What else? The Dolls were recently honored as a Treasure of L.A. and City Council President Eric Garcetti wrote a very nice blog post about us here.

On the personal front, I'm pretty sure my left toenail is going to fall off any day now -- it's a leftover injury from my Kath & Kim stunt work. In the words of one ex-boyfriend, "You have the feet of an Afghan refugee."

As I wait for the toenail to drop, I am concerned that maintaining my to-do list might actually be hindering my productivity. I've even turned to Merlin Mann for guidance, but all I can think when watch his presentations is "Fuck, I should really quit watching this video and do that thing on my to-do list. Or maybe I should process some goddamn email."

I like crossing items off my to-do list. It is deeply satisfying. But for every item I remove, I'll add two more. Last night, for example, I finally knocked out "jewelry box" (this referred to picking up the contents of my overturned jewelry box, which had been twinkling in the crack of floorspace between my dresser and wall for the past week). Basking in this accomplishment was short-lived, however. I crossed it off only to add "change oil" and "press list for Saturday." Poof. The glow was gone.

I don't know how real grown-ups manage their lives -- you know, those people with kids and mortgages and f/t jobs. Sometimes I feel like a professional emailer. Like, writing and responding to emails is my job. I also sometimes feel as if I'm drowning in my personal administrative duties. I skipped skate practice last night to spend hours emailing and filing and shredding and updating my Google calendar (mostly with roller derby obligations).

In far more interesting news, I spent my Easter eating this fruit, and then subsequently drinking tequila, unsweetened coffee, sucking on limes and chowing down on salt & vinegar chips, which tasted candy-coated. I was completely skeptical going in, but the fruit is indeed magical. Thank you, Bryan. I saved a couple of the seeds and will be planting them soon. It's on my to-do list.

falling trees

2009-04-09T09:48:00.000-07:00

Consider this: If a Google search yields zero results (and further, does not offer a suggested alternate search/spelling), does the thing exist?

I just had this experience on the reference desk. Google had been my last resort. I plugged the patron's query into the search box, and got nothing. I turned the screen to show her the absent hit list and its little epitaph: "Your search did not match any documents." The placard next to my computer mocked, "I'm here to help you...please ask." Sadness and confusion and disappointment flowed across the desk between us.

All I could come up with was "I''m sorry."

blind leading the blind

2009-04-08T11:24:00.000-07:00

i have been shopping for new glasses, which is sort of like buying a new face. my current chrome hearts frames barely stay put these days. when i'm doing push-ups at the gym, they slide from my face and land with a clink on the gymnasium floor. i can feel them bounce when i'm biking, which is potentially disastrous. case in point: back in december, i was in a bike accident (a pothole on Vermont was at fault), and i went over the handlebars. my glasses went soaring too -- across the nighttime sky like a bat in flight. me, bike and spectacles all landed separately on a patch of grass somewhere near the 101 overpass.

i am blind without my glasses, and the darkness didn't help. i crawled around on all fours, my knee oozing blood, dumbly groping the moist grass for my frames. cars zoomed past, their headlights illuminating nothing, but someone who had witnessed the accident pulled over.

"you ok?" he asked.

"yes, but i can't find my glasses," i stared up from the ground, squinting at his blurry face. "i'm blind."

i couldn't discern what happened next, but i detected movement. then, as if conjured from the smog around us, the man produced my glasses. ta-da! the guy was clearly a magician.

"be careful, girl," he said as he handed them over. "and you should really wear a helmet."

i returned my glasses to their nasal perch as his car sped away, finally in focus. it looked fuel-efficient. i remounted my bike in pursuit of beer, which i later guzzled at Pure Luck as blood dribbled down my leg.

conclusion: my glasses are officially dangerous, a liability, a disaster waiting to happen. purchased in 2005, these frames have not aged well, and painful as it is to send a loved one packing, they are broke down, old and maybe a little senile. retirement is overdue. party details TBA.

(an aside for derby folks: the glasses i wear when i skate are customized "stunt glasses" and not the glasses i wear in my everyday life).

the shopping has been slow-going because it's a major life decision as far as i'm concerned. i've enlisted two high-powered consultants for the task - georgia and adriana - women who are both good company and possessors of impeccable taste - the two requirements for this consulting gig. they also accept compensation in beer, which is my preferred method of payment.

in preparation for our first foray into spec shopping, we spent most of sunday afternoon eating eggs and drinking beers at 1739 public house, which boasts 40 varieties on tap.

tip: if you are ever overwhelmed by the vast quantity of unfamiliar beer available at a given bar or restaurant, ask the bartender to recommend her three favorites (or four or five, etc., depending on the size of your group. (this was adriana's idea. do add brilliant to her list of consultant qualifications). next, share the recommended beers. in my experience, each will be top-notch.

follow-up tip: make a point to remember (better yet, write down) the names of the beers! to this end, i failed.

we managed to extract ourselves from our booth at Public House with just enough time to check out a couple of optical shops in the vicinity before they closed. right now, i'm leaning toward a pair of frames from gogosha, which i've visited twice already. both times, i was bowled over by the amazing customer service. in the words of one yelp reviewer, "Julia Gogosha is the greatest thing to happen to eyeballs since the retina . . . [she is] as much a stylist as she is a shop-owner."

i don't want to make any hasty decisions, however, so the optical shop rounds will continue with my consultants in the coming weeks. there's a good chance i'll do the same thing i did the last time i shopped for new frames: unable to decide between two styles, i purchased both, and proceeded to wear only one for the following four years.

on an unrelated note, tell me how you feel about capitalization. in my offline existence, i follow the rules, but in digital communication (blogging, email), my compliance is arbitrary at best. does it actually bother anyone? i can handle the truth. i want to be a better blogger.

skating around the issue

2009-04-01T09:38:00.000-07:00

i really hate wearing a mouthguard, and for years, i played derby without inserting one of those chewed-up, saliva-drenched, carcinogen-laden wads of plastic into my maw. yes, i was at the game where iron maiven's tooth was knocked out. the thing is, i've already lost three of my front teeth in two (separate) non-derby accidents, and i've never been totally happy with the dental work. my attitude is that if i wind up taking a bite out of the kickrail, it just means the time has finally come to upgrade my grill.

my former teammate, crystal deth, was my non-mouthguard-wearing comrade in arms (in her case, ostensibly due to gag reflex issues). i think we were the only people in the league skating games without them. however, in 2008, it became a penalty to play sans guard, and i couldn't risk punishing my team for my hard-headedness. begrudgingly, i had to suck it up.

fact: mouthguards do not make for flattering photos.

this monkey is out for blood!

both photos by charlie chu.

ok, ok. all of this mouthguard talk is a flimsy excuse to avoid dishing about the actual game, which we lost. so much for determination and triumph. fight crew doesn't skate on the banked track again until june, so we have a few months to get our heads together and regroup. in the meantime, i will be skating with three other teams: the flat-track Ri-Ettes, the banked track Ri-Ettes (i'm an alternate), and the L.A. Aftershockers (a one-off banked team put together to take on ACDG's Rocket Queens). no rest for the weary.

p.s. if you missed the bout and the amazing opening video, here's your chance to sing along at home:

in a better world

2009-03-27T14:28:00.000-07:00

i'm hanging up my signature argyle socks this game. they're getting kind of holey and don't really complement Fight Crew's snazzy new uniforms. speaking of the bout, if you're planning to attend and haven't bought tix, it will probably sell out online tonight. you have been warned.

Fight Crew is playing the San Diego Swarm, and my team is determined to triumph. it's been way too long since we've won a regular season game and we're fed up. i know i speak for everyone on the crew when i say i'm sick of this close-but-just-out-reach bullshit. we lost our previous game to the Cookies (08 champs) by four lousy points. i'd like to win this game by at least 10 and i know we can do it.

i tried to convince my team to do our skateout routine to the Screamers, which I think would be very L.A. of us (while inducing terror in our opponents), but no one went for it.

i guess i'll just listen to the Screamers on my own before the game and get all bloodthirsty and shit.

tonight, i'm headed to pure luck with georgia where i will eat a burrito as big as my head. we jocks call this carb-loading.

weekend on wheels

2009-03-16T11:51:00.000-07:00

my skates hardly left my feet this weekend, but i didn't spend much time playing derby.

friday was the Electrical Circuit PSA shoot. sixteen hours on wheels, occasionally rolling through water. And I still can't get that Electric Six song out of my head. Fire in the disco, Fire in the Taco Bell!

On Saturday, several Dolls represented the LADD at the Human Rights Campaign's Gala Dinner. We opened the show on stage inside a giant rotating clam with emcee Wanda Skyes in the center. Need a visual? Watch the clip from CBS news here.

We skated on-stage at a couple of different points during the show, mingled with the crowd before and after the ceremony, and even met Dianne Feinstein.

you can't see it, but sen. feinstein's hand is resting on the small of my back!

notice that sen. feinstein is a tall broad. we're all on roller skates and she's still holding her own next to us. the senator's husband, who took this photo, lamented that he never learned to roller skate because size 16 skates are somewhat elusive. he also warned us that we would be paying the price for our rough-and-tumble lifestyle when we got to be his age.

but here we are: still young, agile and looking generally glamorous:

we were on skates for about five hours at the HRC dinner, oftentimes rolling on carpet, which is actually a pretty good workout. not to mention all of the stairs we climbed on wheels.

then on sunday, shannon and i hosted a well-attended brunch at our apartment, which went into the early evening. many bloody marys and mimosas were consumed, and i only had a couple of hours to sober up before it was time to strap on my skates yet again: 8 p.m. fight crew practice.

tonight i'm giving my feet a rest, sort of. no skates! but i will be hitting bootcamp at the Y.

danger! high voltage

2009-03-12T11:48:00.000-07:00

as an LADD skater, i've had opportunities to to appear in TV shows, music video s, documentaries, news programming, etc. but i have never been so excited to be cast in something as my latest gig, which is shooting this friday at the Doll Factory. i'm playing an Electron in an EU public service announcement on the Electrical Circuit.

"The main objective of this spot is to increase awareness among the young about science and the EU's support on Research."

Here's another PSA, Chemical Party, which was produced by the same company. It is awesome:

and this is the song we are skating to -- Electric Six's "Danger! High Voltage." The video is all kinds of amazing:

and when i'm not appearing in the background on your TV set, i can be found playing roller derby. in fact, i have a game in a few weeks.

add this to my resume

2009-02-19T16:11:00.000-08:00

check out tonight's roller derby episode of "kath & kim" on NBC and see if you can catch me.

photo courtesy of Diva Jammers.

(short notice because i am bad at self-promotion (case in point, this under-utilized blog)).

Episode Description:
Kath discovers that she is still married to her ex, Rusty, and must find him in order to finalize their divorce. Kath's search throws Phil, Kim and Craig into the world of roller derby where they meet a rough-around-the-edges skater named Whitney and where Kim falls in love with the sport.

problem/solution

2009-02-09T15:05:00.000-08:00

sunday evening, micah, georgia and i discussed my ongoing and debilitating insomnia over beers at el prado.

me: "i can't seem to fall asleep in my own bed at night, but i have no problem sleeping everywhere else. like in my car, for example. at stoplights."

micah: "i know how to fix your problem."

me: "how?"

micah: "race car bed."

There is money in poetry

2009-02-05T13:14:00.000-08:00

I was conducting a site visit in Watts, there to confirm a school's eligibility for a grant from my organization. I observed a meeting of the after-school book club. The topic that afternoon was poetry, and the Library Aide told her students: "There is money in poetry."

Of the nearly 1,000 students at this school, three are white. Ten students were present for the book club meeting on this Tuesday afternoon.

The children sat rapt as the Library Aide related the story of a girl who, once upon a time in the fifth grade, entered a district poetry contest and won One Thousand Dollars (to this, the students responded with incredulous "Ooooohhhhhs!") and a computer, which was practically unheard of at the time, "it being the early 90s." The tale continued, following a convoluted path, eventually ending at Howard University, which the girl received a scholarship to attend, more or less, because of a poem she wrote in the fifth grade.

My job often takes me into parts of Los Angeles I had never seen previously, but when I cruise through Watts in my purple bookmobile, it is the neighborhood that feels the most otherworldly. The streets in this part of town are narrow, patrolled by the occasional pack of dogs, sans collars. Once, I had to stop my car short to let a chicken cross in front of it. Nearly every yard is fenced, the metal spikes piercing the smog, painted in bright, garish colors, and from these, clothes sometimes hang like defeated flags. I am embarrassed for myself because I want to feel like this is my city, my Los Angeles too, but it remains foreign.

On this particular day in Watts, I am wearing a vintage navy blue polka-dotted dress, something that's probably hung in my closet for too many years and has never gone out of rotation, a Meghan Classic -- a dress once described by an ex-boyfriend as the thing I'm always wearing when he pictures me in his mind. In addition to the dress, I wear (increasingly age inappropriate) white knee socks and brown oxfords. I must appear to these children as a caricature of a white girl, a character from one of the books in this library whose life is so unlike their own -- Anne of Green Gables or Pippi Longstocking.

The Library Aide promises her students a field trip to Hollywood, to the El Capitan Theatre (less than a mile away from my apartment), to watch The Tale of Despereaux. To earn the field trip, they must first read the book.

"We don't have any copies in the library," she tells them, "so you'll have to go to the public library, or ask your parents to buy you a copy."

How far is the public library from their homes, I wonder. From the school? How safe is the walk? How many copies of the book does it have? How many parents are able to buy their kids this book? How many of them will, realistically?

That night, in addition to the new library books this school will receive from my organization on the coming Saturday, I order 15 paperback copies of The Tale of Despereaux -- not as library books, but as gifts, for keeps, to members of this club.

work, revealed

2009-02-02T15:43:00.000-08:00

technically speaking, i have three jobs, though most weeks, i manage to avoid working full-time. my main gig is as the library program director for a non-profit organization that provides books to school libraries where at least 90% of students live at or below the poverty line, which i wrote a bit about here. i also put in a few hours a week as an adjunct reference & instruction librarian at a local community college. and about twice a month, i work in the bel-air home of a wealthy rare book collector, Snodgrass*, primarily writing bibliographies for his dusty 18th and 19th century tomes, letters and manuscripts.

my office at the Snodgrass Estate is a guest bedroom, and from its ceiling, a chandelier hangs. it is a monstrous, Chihuly-looking thing from which sinister glass flowers dangle, dripping blood and raspberries. One October morning i stepped inside my office-bedroom to find that a white crib -- complete with mobile and teddy bear -- had appeared next to my desk. i wondered if my duties had been expanded to include childcare, or if this was a new receptacle for the works of Samuel Johnson and Sir Richard Burton.

last week, i finally met my unlikely officemate: a 12-pounder in pink pajamas named cleo. so the new piece of office furniture was not a book drop after all.

cleo, the snodgrass's newest granddaughter, is a frequent visitor to the estate, and in my absence, my desk doubles as her changing table.

last thursday, i was left alone with cleo under explicit instructions to "keep an eye on her." for a few minutes, i did no such thing, keeping my eyes glued to my laptop as cleo gurgled happily in her crib. then she started to cry. i thought i should do something, but was clueless as to what. i walked over to the crib, looked down and tried to read her blubbering face. she thrashed her tiny limbs through the air wildly -- a pink beetle on its back.

"please stop crying."

i never know what to say to babies.

it occurred to me to pick the kid up, but i wasn't sure i knew how. i realized that i couldn't remember the last time i held a a baby. i racked my brain, but could only come up with my baby brother -- 23 years ago.

and though i am no nanny, i didn't want the snodgrasses, who were clearly doting grandparents, to think i was irresponsible, or worse, a cold librarian. so i went for it, awkwardly scooping her up and trying to make some sense of this baby business. i held her at arm's length for a moment as she flailed, and considered my options. head up, right? so i brought her to my chest and the feeling was not unlike snuggling up to an overgrown earthworm. cleo didn't shut up. i attempted to bounce her, the way i've seen it done on TV.

"she's nice to hold, isn't she?"

lady snodgrass was standing behind me.

"she's very warm," i said.

with great relief, i allowed lady snodgrass to extract cleo from my grip. she wrapped the baby in her arms like a pro, gave her a few expert bounces, and started with the baby talk.

"meghan's the best librarian, isn't she, cleo? she takes such good care of grandpa's books, doesn't she? yes! yes! yes!"

and somehow, she made it sound quite dignified.

*name changed to protect anonymity

skating in my sleep

2009-01-22T22:35:00.001-08:00

i don't know what to say about the nearly two months it's been since i've last updated except that i made a new year's resolution to start eating eggs. i've spent a lifetime turning up my nose at that stinky yellow business so often served with toast, but true to my resolve, i have been eating my eggs and learning to like them.

i've also developed a pretty mean case of insomnia, which started back in november and doesn't seem to be improving. if i don't take some kind of drug, i won't fall asleep at night. since i really hate the idea of being dependent on a pill for anything, i do a lot of hoping and praying for sleep, and these prayers largely go unanswered, which shouldn't surprise me at this age. i have an appointment tomorrow with both a sleep specialist and a hypnotist. maybe one of them can work some magic on me.

i have a game this weekend. if you live in LA, you should come watch me jam, zombie-style.

oh yeah, i'm on twitter now too.

last night i stopped by georgia's new and adorable apartment. she was baking in her adorable housedress.

"do you want to take a cupcake with you?" she asked as i was leaving.

"what?" i was visibly appalled. "are you fucking crazy?"

while i'm sure georgia's cupcakes are perfectly delicious, it was as if she had offered me a frosted cat turd in a decorative paper cup.

other things have happened since i stopped sleeping and started eating eggs. barack obama became our 44th president, which gives me hope for saturday's game against the tough cookies. i was tickled by this quote from ice slice, an interview subject on the inauguration episode of this american life:

"i voted for obama because i feel like i'd be hating on him if i didn't. same reason why i buy DVDs from the cat at the gas station."

i love it that president obama hasn't been able to quit smoking. it's humanizing (though for the record, i'm a militant anti-smoker who has never put a cigarette to my lips in my life). i picture president obama in the rose garden, a pack of cigarettes hidden in a bush, sneaking the occasional puff between pentagon briefings and meetings with Ahmadinejad, sans preconditions.

something else happened last week

2008-12-03T08:42:00.000-08:00

excerpt from a phone conversation with my mother:

"i can't believe you're 30. i'm so old."

"mom, i'm the one who just turned 30 for fuck's sake. you're not helping."

"this isn't about you. this is about me"

"...."

"i can't believe i'm old enough to have a daughter who is 30."

ad infinitum.

yes dear readers, much to my mother's dismay, i turned 30 last week. i didn't want to make a big fuss and i didn't want to get shitfaced* so i went out for mexican food with a few friends. this was followed by cake, cupcakes, gifts and an impromptu keyboard jam session at kathy's condo. kathy & georgia collaborated on the most amazing birthday cake ever:

pancake cake! my friends are the best. thanks for making 30 feel pretty OK.

*according to blogger's spellcheck, "shitfaced" is a real word. "blogger," however, is not.

thanksgiving casualties

2008-12-02T15:58:00.000-08:00

fresh sage is tough and therefore difficult to mince, so the night before thanksgiving, i thought i had a genius idea when i threw the dark leaves into the coffee grinder. a real genius, however, wouldn't stick her finger into the grinder before the blades stopped spinning.

blood sprayed onto the white tile countertop when the blade cut through the front of my fingernail and into the flesh beneath. it could have been worse. i don't know why slicing into your finger by way of your nail is so much more jarring than a regular old cut, but it is. at least to me anyway. the tenacious nail is still hanging on though it's probaly just a matter of time before it blackens, rots and falls away.

i shouldn't complain. my friend bryan lost the tip of his thumb preparing food for our thanksgiving party. he arrived having adhered the bit of flesh back onto his digit, secured with a band-aid. i suspect it will go the way of my fingernail...onto the sidewalk. or maybe it already went into the gravy.

....

shannon bravely prepared a turkey because she didn't want our omnivorous guests to go without. i am a pescetarian, and shannon is vegan, so we don't see much poultry around these parts. in the days leading up to thanksgiving, i would rummage through our fridge and accidentally poke the soft bird, incognito in its plastic grocery bag. i'd pull my hand back, uncertain what i'd touched. remember those haunted houses from childhood where the mad scientist proprietor would stick your hand into shoebox full of spaghetti and call it brains? or a bowlful of eyes, which were really just grapes floating in water? the bird in our fridge was similarly befuddling.

for Chef Shannon the Vegan, cleaning the turkey was the biggest challenge. thanksgiving morning, i heard the squeals and the "ew! ew! ew!"s and the "yuck! yuck! yuck!"s coming from the kitchen. i abandoned my blowdryer in the bathroom and ran to the scene, ever helpful, armed with a camera. shannon was hunched over the sink, elbow deep in the bird's gash.

"how do people do this?" she reached inside and extracted the giblets.

i shrugged and snapped a pic. "how about some wine? is it too early to start drinking?"

shannon's gag reflex was in full-effect.

between four and nine p.m., guests trickled in and out of our apartment, assorted entrees in tow. the omnivores agreed that the turkey was up to snuff, which is an impressive feat for a chef who couldn't taste test. the menu also featured mashed coconut yams, lentil chestnut stuffing, onion torte, biscuits, dueling gravies, mashed potatoes, cranberry relish, fennel, walnut & persimmon salad, faux turkey, fennel apple bacon stuffing....and more. there was also dessert, which included two vegan apple pies shipped with love from babycakes in new york, courtesy of shannon's mom and dad. bryan made his now-famous pistachio rosewater cupcakes. unlike our drop-in guests, i was in for the long haul, and over the course of five hours, i don't think i ever really stopped eating.

your hostesses ate their weight in mashed yams.

i think one of my favorite moments of the night occurred post-party. as kathy, ji and i drove to the cat & fiddle for digestifs, the aforementioned bryan (also en route to the bar) pulled up alongside us -- a pot precariously strapped to the back of his motorcycle. it's not every night you see a leather-clad biker carting leftover mashed potatoes around the city.

in conclusion: the second annual Cheremoya Thanksgiving Party was a success. because our apartment can get pretty warm when we entertain, i had circulated an email the day prior, warning, "don't wear a sweater!" so of course, nearly everyone wore a sweater, proving once and for all that no one likes to be told what to do. whatever - we've hosted toastier shindigs. and besides, in heat, there is intimacy.

in the media again

2008-11-21T14:43:00.000-08:00

check out the derby dolls on foxsports.com and msn.com!

Get Well Soon

2008-11-12T11:34:00.000-08:00

This Saturday, November 15th
9am-3pm at the Doll Factory
1920 W. Temple Street
Los Angeles, CA

The Los Angeles Derby Dolls are partnering with St. Vincent's Hospital (3rd and Alvarado) to provide free medical services to people of the community.

Services provided:

Mammograms for women over 40 (please call for an appointment)
Clinical Breast Exams
Pap Smear Referrals
Chair Massages
Glucose Screening
Flu Shots
Body Fat Composition Testing
Blood Pressure
Information on low cost insurance programs

For more information, please call 213.484.7929.