the happenings.

In an effort to (somewhat regularly) update my blog, I suppose another update is due. Not everything has calmed down yet, but the inevitable march of time is forcing me to slowly tick off my "to do" lists. I just recently finished a computer graphics final (as of 20 minutes ago) and now only officially have two projects left to finish: a feature writing article and a photography project. Hopefully all will go well and that I'll finish my article tonight (or at least early morning on Thursday). I will most definitely probably absolutely need a drink tonight before plunging into the rest of my projects so maybe you'll see me on a bar stool near you. But only for a drink (or two). Then onto other projects.

It seems as if I shouldn't feel so hassled by having three classes at community college, but not only are these laborious classes, my side writing jobs are taking longer than expected to complete. Despite blogging being seemingly formless and "easy" to write, topics aren't always the easiest to come up with. I have been doing my Gridskipping, but have also recently added on SFist. While Gridskipper feels so national and large that I can hide behind its vastness, SFist is so intimate and well-read here in San Francisco that the comments feel more snarky, more sarcastic and I often find myself wrestling over what to include (or not). A recent example is a recap of the Yelp! party I wrote, in which there were some questionable captions placed beneath pictures of a scantily clad woman. Personally, I hate it when writers (bloggers?) personally address any comments left on the site, so I've saved the rebuttals for my personal blog. First off, those captions were courtesy of my editor. They were a bit meaner than I would've liked, but I didn't find them completely distasteful until the dreaded commentary. Nowhere did I (or my editor) state that the woman was a stripper. In fact, she is a burlesque dancer, meaning you see neither tit nor tat. The whole thing was completely blown out of proportion that my editor re-edited the post and changed the header picture to something more neutral.

Other than that, everything's been going great. I did a few posts on Gridskipper that I'm proud of, particularly Dating the Ex and Crappy Bar Crowds. I'm not so self-centered that I like to promote all the crap that I'm writing, but I have to say that I'm proud of these articles; it's been such a tough few weeks that I'm surprised that I actually got these articles going and readable. Not to mention, barely edited (hurrah!) -- meaning that the red pen of my editors was scantly used. Despite the stress, I managed to pull through in a clutch and it turned out pretty well. Awe. Some.

So what else does one do when they're stressed? Work hard, yes. Play harder, hell yes. For those privy to my Facebook/MySpace--yes, I am a member of those atrocities, I weep for myself and others--I'm sure you have seen my brand spanking (if you know what I mean) profile pic courtesy of the Yelp holiday party. Last Friday was another holiday party that I attended and was rocked due to the awesomeness of J.Ma and Lor. Let's just say alcohol was present, lap dances were had (but not given by me), and iPod fondling happened. I also met the awesomest cab driver ever, who knew every address in the city, I shit you not. Once I found out this amazing ability, in my drunkenness I decided to test him on addresses. I give him an address, he gives me the cross street. After giving him two addresses I knew by heart (apartment address, old work address) and he gave me the correct cross streets, I yelled out:

Fuck you! You are the awesomest cab driver ever!!

Le sigh. If only I had taken down his name. I will forever remember him, though.

Rock on, Address-Knowing Cab Driver Guy. Rock on.

Breaking Old Habits, Starting New Ones

Have you ever felt your life spinning out of control, but when trying to figure out why you can't really pinpoint it? The stress really just becoming an amalgamation of deadlines, problems and annoyances that have no start or finish? The usual routine of separating out and troubleshooting every problem becoming near impossible?

That's how it's been lately. It's this feeling that suffering doesn't have to be this total, but I'm making it worse. I had a little retail therapy followed by cleaning therapy, which has helped somewhat. Cleaning in your new black hoodie can do wonders. But now I'm looking for another vent and Blogger was sitting here, and now I'm writing. Give me some time and stress and procrastination will provide a new post.

I've been reaching boiling point and I know the bf feels the same way this week too. Last week was my D-day and I turned in my Berkeley applications for graduate school. Although I thought I was moving towards the deadline at a good pace, writing my essays and preparing letters of recommendation, I still found myself staying up until 4 AM in the morning writing every day the week prior to the due date. Everything I wrote seemed corny, but how else is one supposed to seriously answer questions about what life experiences qualify you for Berkeley? In 700 words or less, how can you sell yourself into being the most viable candidate? Anything short of writing out my essay in blood seemed in order. But I "survived" and now I am looking forward to (ha!) preparing my other applications for the other schools.

So, like a dumb shit, I thought that the weekend after my application was due would be the perfect time to schedule in something fun: scuba diving lessons. Uhh, I don't think so. Imagine a 9 AM - 6 PM class consisting of 3 hours in a classroom and five hours in a pool wearing 6 mm thick wet suits with breathing equipment, ginormous tanks of air and a completely different vocab revolving around breathing underwater? The classroom lessons scaring you enough to have thoughts of "decompression sickness" or "the bends" running through your head as you ascend from the surface to the bottom of the pool we were learning from. Don't descend too fast, don't ascend fast either. Equalize your ears. Keep track of your air. Learn new hand signals. What's the hand signal for being out of air? Hands crossed over your chest, fake wrapped around your throat as you pretend to gag and kick about? No? You want me to "rescue" my 6 foot boyfriend and pull both of us across the pool? Sure. You want to follow that up with a full week of writing deadlines and class deadlines with no room to rest? Why not?

So, beyond the stuff that's going on, what's the old habit I broke? My cell phone. Yes, ladies and gentleman I have broken my cell phone and therefore sent myself on a one-way wagon to Amishville. It's so weird to not have a phone that I swear I'm hearing phantom phone rings while driving my car or when alone in my apartment. My left pants pocket still feels like I have a cell phone sitting in it. I am in fucking withdrawal, people. So much so that I have squirreled away most of my day on the internet checking my Facebook and Gridskipper like a fiend. It's the cell phone oversensitivity that is really making me question the necessity of having a phone in the first place. I'm actually considering getting only a Firefly phone [google it, I'm too lazy to put in a link] for emergency use and nothing else. I have an apartment phone, that should be enough yeah? Le sigh.

As for the new habit? I've re-started smoking. I had occasional cigarettes before, but now I have a complete pack that I am just blowing straight through. When I'm walking, I have a cigarette. Stressed, I have a cigarette. If I need a break, I have a cigarette. Stepping outside for some gum just isn't the same. Augh. I need some healthier habits.

Wow. I sooo don't update this anymore.

I should. But I can't. I'm hella hella busy.


Hella.


Give me a month to get things back to normal. Hopefully.

Halo 3: saying goodbye to my brain cells

Halo 3 is out. I can feel my brain cells leaving my brain as we speak.

Now, people may think I'm talking about how video games are a waste of time, blah blah blah. No. I'm talking about how I just may be that small percentage of players that video game boxes warn everyone about.

What am I talking about? I've been playing Halo for about an hour and I'm nauseous. Apparently, video games have been known to cause seizures in a "small percentage" of players. Since the bf is not at home right now (which is why I actually was able to get my hands on the 360 tonight), I didn't think it'd be a great idea to come home to me on the ground with controller in hand, having a seizure and foaming at the mouth. So, as loathe as I was to turn off the game -- I was in the middle of a frustrating campaign, maybe it was a good idea to step away -- I walked away and have hopped onto my computer with a weird headache, my eyes feeling sore and a nauseous stomach.

I can't shake off this weird feeling and while staring at a computer screen probably isn't helping, I'm wondering if maybe I'm just not built for video games or if it's my shitty tv that's to blame for this headache of mine. Since I'm a nerd and must google everything, I came across this article on "[helping avoid] rare cases of seizures triggered by flickering lights from TV and video games."

Included in the article are tips on making video game playing more comfortable and reduce stress on the player. While most were valid ("sit at least 2 feet away from the screen" or "reduce the screen's brightness"), I was a little amused at this suggestion:

Cover one eye while playing and regularly change which eye is covered.

Hrm. Are they trying to suggest I wear an eyepatch while playing? Like this guy?



Or, am I supposed to play with a perpetual wink, switching eyes when tired?

Augh. Whatever. I'm sooo going back to play once Reaper is over. And then when I'm finished playing, I'm going to lay down and rest right after.

Besides, it's sexy to watch girls play video games with one eye closed. Right?

Rawr.

New Post

I was going to write up a new post, but I'm tired. It's all of 11:35 p.m. and I am contemplating going to the safety of my bed.* I shall try and write up something tomorrow. I'm trying to give myself a two-post per week deadline.

In other news, the side writing gig is giving me a raise in November. Suh-weeeeet!

Happenings: Sondre + Air show on Wednesday. Exciting..








*I miss my social life.

New Hangouts

I am working. Hard. While I sit and copyedit, I am at my new neighborhood bar, 540 Club. As a writer/editor, you can't help but love a place with free wi-fi and alcohol.

As a side note: I am currently on my second Hoegaarden. I friggin' love this place.

I've been on the lookout for new hangouts and this is as good as any. With the swell of bar-goers at Trad'r Sam's, I am forced to go elsewhere but have been pleased with results.

Where else can I go that the bartender pauses the music ("Humpty Dance") to have an informal poll: Is a pissing contest about distance or endurance?

Answer -- according to bar-goers -- is distance.

I've been recently having a love/hate relationship with San Francisco, having problems with the pretentiousness of us and yet loving how we are low-key, all at the same time. It's only when I am at local dives that I question how I will ever be able to leave (graduate school? new job?) and the prospect of leaving seems impossible.

The hatred of San Francisco, however, is actually stemming from a few different places. Not to point fingers (cough*Marina*cough) but I was recently at a bar, sitting at a stool. At my own admittance, the bar was quite full and I was lucky enough to snag a seat. That was when another patron decided that I wasn't using enough of the stool and decided to share it with me.

Yes. He sat on the back portion of my stool while I sat at the bar. What. the. fuck.

Despite hip negotiations wherein I tried to reclaim my seat, once he realized that I wanted (all of) my seat back, he had the audacity to sigh (loudly) and act indignant at losing the back half of my stool.

Don't even make me mention the asshole who ran through a red light in Union Square and almost hit my friend's daughter (in baby carriage). Upon confrontation with him -- where "Why don't you watch where you're going?" was yelled into his open window -- he flipped off me, my friend, and my friend's daughter. Classy.

The asshole-ishness has seemed to transformed onto the web as well, typifying San Franciscans as self-righteous commenters. Writing for a website has become daunting: the SF commenters are brutal. Myself and others from SF have been writing articles about the SF scene and are constantly bombarded with rude messages: "Are you even FROM San Francisco?" to "Haven't you ever heard of _______? Obviously you haven't." Snide jabs to make you question why you love this city and its inhabitants so much.

No city is perfect, but I hate to have such a negative stigma creep in. This is one of the few weekends where I've been able to realize a more purified San Francisco experience (bridge and tunnel dwellers have been limited as the bridge and tunnel have been temporarily put out of commission) and it hasn't been bad. Is the horrific attitude I'm coming across from our neighboring cities? As a native east bay'er, I'm loathe to think so.

Right now, I'm trying to go out as much as I can this weekend so I can experience this city at its least crowded, in its full glory and at its best. I don't want to believe in a city where we've been typified by our "smug" and our ability to enjoy our own farts (ref: South Park) but we've somehow earned it. I'm embarrassed. This isn't us. Yet, I can't help but smirk as an outsider and an insider. Shit. What are we going to do with ourselves?

*I've felt the purpose and reason for this post ebb and wane. Four hoegaardens in. Let's just say I'm distracted. I'm sure I'll be flamed through messaging by tomorrow. cheers.

Cheating.

Doing a trial run on Vox.com.







We'll see which one I like better.

Vote for Tyler.

Tyler Durden: You have to know the answer to this question! If you died right now, how would you feel about your life?
Narrator: I don't know, I wouldn't feel anything good about my life, is that what you want to hear me say? Fine. Come on!
Tyler Durden: Not good enough.

--------------------------
I've been in a Fight Club mood lately; it's a feeling that usually creeps up on me every season or so and flourishes into this whiny "what the fuck am I doing with my life?" vein of thinking. It's not something I really like to succumb to -- perpetual bitching that makes its way onto my blog -- but there it is.

I haven't been blogging lately because to be perfectly honest, I haven't felt the need to. If you could look at my pending entries, I must have at least five going, but nothing I felt needed finishing or publishing. Sometimes I feel that blogging is depressing, its blatantently self-promotory -- something that I cringe at, but have fallen victim to.

--------------------------
San Francisco moments:

In an effort to get more creative juices going, I decided I needed a change of scenery and headed to Fillmore street for some veggie chili + wi-fi. And since Fillmore Street is.. well, Fillmore Street, I was having some problems finding parking. After 15 minutes of circling, I ended up blocking traffic for nearly five minutes waiting for a car to leave its space. While the person who I was waiting for failed to mention to me that he was illegally parked when I asked if he was leaving, the valet for a nearby restaurant jogged over to let me know it wasn't a space. He gestured to his valet sign and shrugged, saying, "Valet?" I shook my head and said no, but thanks anyway and drove off.

I spend fifteen more minutes looking for parking when I find myself turning back onto that same block with the valet person. He recognizes my car and we lock eyes for an instant, me feeling embarrassed that I'm actually still looking for parking. I shrug as a funny gesture and keep driving, finding a parking spot -- finally -- three cars down. I back up and reverse into the space. As I climbed out of the car, I see the valet person jogging over towards me and I think, 'oh shit, give me a fucking break. This isn't a space, either?'

Instead, when he reaches me he says, "Awesome space!" before giving me a high five and running back to his restaurant.

Sometimes I fucking love this city.

Found.

From my former, wistful, girly blog:

Detach and Release

This is a Contest.

There are only two competitive structures:

1. Who can care less?
2. Who can let go first?

Contestant number one, through years of intensive training, is leading the pack and dominating in the first structure of the game. She is, however, at the ready to win the second competition should it come down to the wire and is determined to stay in until the last second before ducking out and remaining victorious with an intact and still-beating heart.

Contestant number two will never know what hit him.

*****
It is a simple thing, this thing that's happening, and yet she can't quash the cuteness, the quietness of the act -- she can't stomach the full enjoyment of it in case of its inevitable leave from her.

And he questions her, "You mean you've never..." and she says, 'no' and leaves it at that; thinking back on if there was ever anyone who tempted her or made her wish for a closeness that wasn't there. This isn't about sex, but intimacy; she had learned long ago, when hearts were only imaginarily broken by unrequited crushes, that her unbridled heart must be tamed. That the quiet simple acts -- when shunned or taken away -- are the real moments which injure the soul if it is not tucked away carefully, oh-so-carefully, and can irreparably tear everything apart. Wildness can be broken and, once she has tamed her heart, she can wile away the time wisting away for those once-true moments from a safer distance. Those moments long gone and learning to be no longer desired.

She thinks of the parts of herself that are hidden away that she once gave freely and wonders what this means for her future. Not their future, per se, but her own outlook on love and where her experiences will take her and lead. She relaxes and gives into the smiles and the gleam in her eyes, but feels a shadow in the back of her mind that allows her room to recoil and retreat. It is then that you notice the sadness at the helm of the ship -- if you pause and look -- something he sees sometimes but doesn't understand and lets slip away with a singular 'no' and a look that begs not to be questioned.

*****

I could post something nicer and non-heavy, but it's Monday and I feel like it.

You Know You're Not Having a Good Day When..

you're absolutely convinced that this doll can make everything seem better.

Despite the fact that you are 24-years-old and no longer living at your parents house.

How Can I Not?

I know. I should resist. I can't.

A friend of mine was saying that he doesn't normally take such glee at another's misfortune but something about this whole Paris thing that is just so darn satisfying. And I agree. However, I think after this whole thing with prison, etc. there's just no point to Paris news anymore.

Y'know. Unless she dangles a baby off a balcony or something.

As a journalism major, there's definitely been a lot lacking in news and media. When I was younger, I wanted to write for magazines like Us (when it was actually good, probably circa 1991-3), Vanity Fair, Premiere Magazine, etc. At the time, I felt that politics and world news were not for me -- my frustrations with our government and world politics had taken me to the point where I figured that since that part of journalism was covered, why not write about something more carefree and fun?

Since graduating from high school, so many things have changed. We have entered into war, elected an idiot as President and have fed the Paparazzi machine to where I am ashamed to have it associated with something I am considering doing as a living -- journalism. I'm finding the news lackluster and limited in its view. Each morning I would check in on sfgate.com to check out the local news but I am missing out on so much more in terms of world news. Did anyone realize that there were mudslides in Bangladesh that killed 79 people? Or that Chinese hospitals have been using fake protein drips for their patients? If you were only paying attention to the San Francisco Chronicle, you wouldn't know about these things at all.

I have finally decided that my self-imposed apathy (save for voting and recycling) has to come to an end at some point. I wasn't apathetic by nature but became so because sometimes I am too sympathetic for my own good. I have finally switched over to getting my news from the BBC (still somewhat biased, but at least more globally based) with an occasional glance-through at sfgate.com and sfist.com. I want to get started on doing something I can call useful and worthwhile and I'm trying to figure out a way to incorporate the things I love to do ( writing, film, photography) with something I have been trying to forget and put aside (my humanity and sympathy). And I'm hoping I'll find it soon.



SF Gate
SFist
BBC News
one more. it's a funny/ironic one, I promise: Jezebel on Paris

The Deal(io).

So I'm trying out this whole internet integration thing as a way, I suppose, to drum up some writing gigs and (possibly) some photog gigs -- if my photography progresses. I've been picking up the camera a lot lately while the bf's gone and it's been fun exploring San Francisco and shooting the tiny, random, and beautiful things I find. Currently, I have my first roll of film at the the photo place and I am curious to see how my consciously photographed photos turned out. By "consciously" I mean that I actually paid attention to framing, composition, colors, aperture, sunlight, film speed, etc as opposed to leaving everything automatic and digital. I am trying to develop (haha! lame joke) my skills for later translation into my films and writing.

One opportunity has recently rolled in my e-mail box that I'm hoping to take advantage of soon enough. And, surprise surprise! this job does not take place on the internet. It is an opportunity to start writing for a local paper to get some experience. Unfortunately, the whole applying for an internship thing hasn't been working out too hot, but I suppose this could be the same type of thing. I'm excited for the meeting next week and can't wait to get cracking. In the meantime, I have to continue writing for Gridskipper again and see if I can up my posts to three (maybe four) a week. Okay, probably three. Or, two. At least two.

Well, shit. I know I have to guarantee at least one post. Augh. Note to self: must aim for three. Or four. Gah!

Right now, however, I'm just trying to take enough pictures to make the blogging thing interesting. Instead of stealing (ahem, borrowing and crediting) all of my pics from other Flickr users I'm hoping to take all the pictures on my own and see my progress. We'll see how this goes. Maybe I'll start taking photos for my Gridskipper posts. The possibilities are endless. This integration thing is awesome (despite my earlier resistance).

Working on it.

Working on a few new posts, but I did add some bright and shiny new links to your right.






Well do ya, do ya, do ya wanna?
You're lucky, lucky, you're so lucky.

Drinking tonight. Watch for it.

(pic courtesy of Jumini on Flickr)

Ye Olde Pastime of Internet Stalking

I can never tell whether I should be grateful we have the internet or rue the day we ever met. Sure, we have everything at the tip of our fingers but when paired with a broken heart, that's when information becomes too much. Finally, the questions you've been wrenching your guts over can finally be answered: How fast did they get over us? Were they cheating this whole time? Are they actually. happy. without. me?

It's hard to believe, this person actually getting over you. Prior to internet stalking, whenever a boy would turn me down (for shame!) or break my heart, I would try to hold strong and pretend that they didn't exist or that they spontaneously combusted. This theory of spontaneous combustion works very well in terms of helping you move on. No more lingering feelings or "what if" wonderings. There is no guilt in sending thoughts of ill will upon them because spontaneous combustion is a pure act of nature -- or karma -- that even you can't control. Perhaps you can look upon your time together with (almost) nostalgia and not ever have to imagine how good the sex they're having with someone else is.

But now! Oh, the gluttony of the internet and its networking sites, blogs and Flickr galore! Those keyed into the internet can now see Exes whenever they want, message them, see the pics of the new S.O. (significant other), read about how happy -- or, even better! how sad -- they are in their new lives minus you. For the truly obsessive, you watch their progress, hope for something to fail, wish for your own loserness to disappear and make promises never to visit these foreboden sites; meanwhile, you end up doing anything except the required moving on.

Now this isn't to chastise the internet and make it feel bad but for all its Information Highway-ness, it still has a sense of lacking. In mystery. I twice quit MySpace for telling me things I didn't want to know -- how, yes, he has a gf despite words convincing me otherwise -- it's been a tough realization that the Internet is what you make it. While his lying ass was hardly MySpace's fault, I didn't want the drama that I associated with all networking sites. Now, nearly two years later, I am a blogger, MySpacer, Facebooker and (briefly) Nerve.com gal. I have finally learned to reassociate these sites with something good and useful. I'm grasping the concept of mystery and self-control and now know that there is goodness in the internet.

But still: Clicker, beware.

Don't say I didn't warn you.

(pic courtesy of NaOH on Flickr)

Your Go-To Person Not Feeling So Go-To'able

It's a known fact in my circle of friends that if you're looking for anything to do in San Francisco, I'm one of the people to contact.

For the last couple of years of my living here in San Francisco, I've looked for anything interesting to fill my time, trying to learn about cute new shops (Flight 001, Flicka), events (Maker Faire, Folsom Street Fair), quirky things (a model of San Francisco in Jell-o, Urban Golf). While I may visit maybe half of these things, my mind has become a wealth of knowledge for the non-SF inducted.

My brain, as of late, has become waterlogged (knowledge-logged?) with all of the things one can do in SF, as I've recently been hired by Gridskipper. The responsibilities? A commitment of at least one post a week, chronicling lists of things to do in SF. In its own Gridskipper way. Not a bad gig, but when you factor in the day job, night school, other projects, the bf, the fam and other random shit, you begin to feel out-of-tune with the city you live in -- esp. when the closest thing to the perfect night consists of staying in and being sloth-like on the couch and perhaps trying to make it to your favourite neighborhood bars. Where they're beginning to recognize you.

But, I digress. Perhaps I shouldn't complain about things, seeing as how I live in the best city in the world (San Francisco -- duh) and am being paid for doing what I (unconsciously) do for friends: recommending places/things to do.

Shit. I'm tired, though. And seeing as how I haven't seen a dime of this writing thingie yet and since we haven't been officially relaunched and how -- technically -- I haven't officially written anything yet...?

Fuck that. I'm going to complain about all the shit I have to do.

Although, I love my job. I do.


(photo courtesy of Thomas Hawk on Flickr)

Blogger Nirvana

I got this picture from valleywag.com and while this was a tongue-in-cheek "how-to" on how to achieve maximum readership, this is actually a very shrewd guide to reaching blogger nirvana.

And while I haven't written anything in almost two weeks, I still haven't come up with anything I feel like writing about. I have been gearing up for finals, writing applications for internships, trying to get my Gridskipper lists on, and trying to unearth myself from the mountain of work on my desk. I wish I had stories to make you all gooey with schadenfreude, but alas! I have none. I also haven't felt indignant about anything since the Warriors lost on Tuesday.

I am a big pile of 'bleh'.

the end of the beginning.

The masthead from my second-ever blog once read: The beginning of the end. Maybe I was feeling Smashing Pumpkins-y or something, but it feels apt to begin something new with something old. To juxtapose, if you will.

As this is my first blog post, typical blog prototype says that this is the appropriate time to insert mission statement here. Bah. I'm more inclined to just start in (no introductions, no nothin') but perhaps what I'll do first is MY version of a mission statement -- the half-assed kind, my fave -- which I should in no way be held to.

1. I will try not to write a Carrie Bradshaw-esque blog. Meaning, I will try not to: dish about my bf (I have one, yes. You don't need to know all about him), wonder about the San Francisco dating scene, ask for proof of whether there are any good men left on this earth. Yes, maybe this will come up, but I will try to refrain. But if I do: cut me some slack, people. I am still a girl.

2. As an offshoot of the first statement, I will not be giving advice. I can barely handle my own life, let alone yours.

3. May begin posting my amateur-ish photos. Am hoping to improve my photography/DP skills. We'll see. Be kind.

4. Umm. Okay. I'll add on as necessary. I told you this would be half-assed.

Halfway There. My newfangled blog of sorts. Yeah. Welcome.