Revision Piece

Everything about it is a contradiction, the antithesis of who I am, but the contrasting angles and mismatched edges fit together and the vision is flawless. Motivated by integrity, I see the world in black and white, but the dream is shallow and the city is filled with color. The goal is unrealistic and the industry is competitive. Those who fight their way through the door gain respect and their power trumps the materialistic root of their success. The streets are gritty, the sprawling landscape unappealing to the eye but it’s a city known for beauty and perfection.

It’s called the City of Angels, a place where few dreams come true and millions of souls are trampled. The neon lights are bright but so aren’t the hungry eyes of the masses that gaze at the starless sky at night, praying for their big break.

In LA, everybody thinks they’re someone and they never let you forget it. On my first and only trip to Los Angeles I remember being taken aback by the number of people I met who “worked” with insert famous person here. Relatively trusting in normal life, I was suddenly skeptical of every person I met. The distrust left me with a gross feeling in my stomach, unsettling, as if I were so hungry I couldn’t eat. I wondered if I could overlook the incessant name dropping and blatant lies. As I walked down the wooden steps of a thrift shop in Venice I worried one day I wouldn’t think twice about dropping a name or two in a town where networking is the number one way to get ahead and vowed to remember how ridiculous I thought the owner sounded when he told me about the time he dressed Kirstie Alley for a photo shoot.

One particular man passionately told me about his experience as a producer for NBC/Universal. We were on the train at Union Station when he sat across me, ready to talk. His name was Manny and he appeared to be in his mid-fifties. His dark hair was thick and though he spoke English better than some Americans he couldn’t shake his Mexican accent. “Yeah, me and Fergie,” he said. “She loves me because she knows I’ll tell her the truth.  One time…she came up to me in hoochie-mama dress. Tits hanging out, her ass wasn’t covered and she said ‘Manny, how do I look?’ You know what I told her? I said ‘Baby, you look like a hoochie –mama!! You gotta leave something to the imagination, girl. Make them want more! You know what I’m saying?”

I’m polite. I smiled and feigned interest in the appropriate places, feeling bad for the guy whose self-worth was attached to embellished relationships with the rich and famous. I wanted to believe he was telling the truth but it was difficult to believe the man sitting across from me in dirty jeans and a Hanes tee-shirt had close relationships with Dave Matthews and Britney. 

I’ve fantasized about living in LA for year but like most things in life, fantasy doesn’t transcend the realm of reality. I’m disgusted by the dirty streets and cinder block buildings covered in graffiti but the strip-mall atmosphere and smog aren’t enough to pollute my dreams, so I have to go. Most people question my sanity and people who live there advise against it. “Good luck finding a job,” said an out of work writer I called about a sublet. “I don’t know if you know this or not but the competition for servers is high. You need a portfolio full of things you’re working on, what your goal is, pictures….and once you get a serving job, you don’t give it up. There. Aren’t. Any.” I told her I’d have six months rent saved up and she said “Well….you might be able to find a job by then,” but her voice was thick with skepticism.

Every job I’ve applied for has rejected me via courtesy emails citing a ‘large number of applicants.’ They say they’re not interested at this time and always thank me for my interest but the polite dismissal does nothing for my ego. Of course, I justify their decision with the fact I currently live 3500 miles away.

When the rejections first started piling in, I lost the idealistic optimism that gave me the courage to go to California in the first place. For two days I stared at my computer screen thinking the worst. I’d spend my days aimlessly searching for a job in the miniature cities that make up LA without luck until my money ran out, no other option but to go home without my pride. It wasn’t going to happen for me. I wasn’t going to be a fashion journalist; there are millions of writers just like me who, more talented or not, have connections I don’t.  ‘It’s sad’, I thought, ‘that before I even arrive, I’m discouraged.’ Fear had overtaken my excitement and with the reality I couldn’t plan everything, panic ensued.

This downward spiral of second-guessing and uncertainty had to stop; I could feel the urge to back out forming in my gut. I made a decision that some might say is...crazy. I chose to ignore every negative aspect of the move. Mind over matter, I am positive I will find work if I try hard enough. 13.2% unemployment rate? No big deal! I’m optimistic I’ll make friends because I know I’m fun to be around and can carry on witty conversation. I don’t worry about finding a place to live after my three month sublet in Westwood runs up because in a city that big, there are apartments to be found. I don’t worry about getting stabbed because I’ve managed to survive living on Elm Street where in the past six months there was a major drug bust, a man was murdered, and a woman raped. This past Saturday there was a standoff, guns and all, and I had a prime view from my living room window. I don’t think about what I could lose or that for the first time in my life I’m set up to fail because I simply don’t believe that will happen. I have an annoying level of self-awarded confidence that borders on conceited but it has served me well so far. You might think I’m blind, naïve, or clueless to how the world works and my mother would agree with you. Me? I choose to think about things in a positive light, never letting negativity get in the way of achieving my goals.

girls

                So I finally gave in to the hype and watched the first season of “Girls.” Not because I wanted to, though I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a teensy bit curious, but because those DVD’s a friend shoved at me looked a hell of a lot better than my microeconomics objectives. “One episode,” I thought as I pressed play, “Then I’ll do my homework.”

                One episode turned into five because the HBO series is just that good. I have to admit, I was a cynic. I had seen Lena Dunham at the Golden Globes where she took home multiple statues. She and her cast of ladies looked dazed on the red carpet as they were interviewed by E!  and none of them looked like stars to me. My dislike of them wasn’t fair but it was impossible to avoid. You see, I’m a die-hard “Sex and the City” fan and this show seemed like its ugly stepsister. Just another show about well-off sophisticates in fabulous NYC. I’d seen it.  

Fast forward to five days ago when my cynicism turned to pleasant surprise when it wasn’t the rip-off I had anticipated. For one, Dunham, the brain behind the gritty show, has created relatable characters. These girls aren’t walking around on Louise Vuitton’s red soles and carrying Gucci on their arms. They wear ragged tee-shirts and underwear to bed and their eye makeup is questionable. They live in tiny apartments with second-hand furniture that doesn’t match.  Some of them can’t pay their bills and are all of them are emotional wrecks. They take the subway.

                Dunham plays Hannah, a lost dreamer who looks for acceptance in all the wrong places. Narcissistic and self-involved, her innumerable character flaws become glaringly obvious as the series unfolds. She sleeps with the wrong men and denies reality as she gets entangled in an emotionally abusive relationship while trying to finish her book.  As the bills pile up and her relationship with her roommate, played by Allison Michaels, becomes increasingly strained, the show shows the fragile nature of friendship. There’s a lot of serious stuff going on from STD’s to homosexuality but Dunham and her team of writers keep the tone light with hilarious quips and clever dialogue. Dunham holds nothing back as she embraces her imperfections by  making them a central component of the show. Her weight, oily skin, flat chest, and masculine features are frequent topics of conversation and the butt of many jokes. As for the woman behind the television screen, it is impossible to differentiate between Dunham the writer/producer and the character she plays because her acting skills are flawless as she keeps the emotion raw, though somehow, she never over-does it.

 “Girls” has a unique cast of supporting characters, most notably Shoshanna, played by Zosia Mamet. Shoshanna produces laughs with her nervous babbling and wannabe valley girl demeanor. An innocent girl who wishes she wasn’t, Shoshanna is the definition of awkward and hates herself for it. Though Mamet’s character is relatively insignificant in terms of plot development and at times it is not clear how she knows the other characters, she brings some of the biggest laughs of the first season when, in episode seven, she accidentally smokes crack because she thought it was pot. The irony of the virginal girl smoking crack at a rave where she is dressed like a school girl in silver eye shadow cannot be missed.

Clever writing aside, “Girls” explores the harsh reality of dreaming big while living in the real world. Unlike “Sex and the City” where the primary characters are successful, these new girls struggle to start their lives. Some realize their life may not be what they thought while others refuse to give up on their dreams. The characters fight to figure out the world and while the lessons imparted in the first season could easily become cliché, they don’t because the script is so good that every time somebody makes a mistake you can’t help but cringe out of sympathy as you learn along with them. Over the course of ten episodes you might get a sinking feeling in your stomach and you’ll likely cry. I am certain you’ll laugh. However you react, you’ll know you’ve stumbled upon something great because the best testament to good work is how it makes you feel and “Girls” arouses a kaleidoscope of emotions while making you think at the same time.



an expert on nothing except.....

                I wouldn’t call myself an authority on anything. I majored in psychology for two years but I gave it up when I learned about Melanie Klein's outrageous theories of human development (that she hypothesized while battling the demons of a six year psychotic state). I’m a good cook but my trial and error approach is not the fine work of a skilled chef. I’ve read a lot of books about crime but I don’t have the courage to be a detective and while I’ve flown frequently I still can’t get through TSA without holding up the line. I am obsessed with nutrition but I can’t explain to you the chemistry that makes monounsaturated fat so good for you (or even if chemistry would explain it, it might be biology…) and I can’t construct a workout regimen for a woman who wants to lose weight in her thighs.

                Really, I should feel pretty bad about myself. I’m halfway educated on the mind, a hit-or-miss cook, and a crime junkie who can’t even make it through airport security. I’ve spent years in school for a wide range of superficial knowledge on everything from economics to statistics to literature but half the time I don’t know what I’m talking about at all. And here is where my expertise comes in, the place I really shine.

                Now this isn’t something to be proud of. Of course I wish I could tell you all about how eating protein and calcium together stimulates the metabolism (or whatever. That topic may be made up because it is very likely eating protein and calcium together is detrimental to your metabolism. There is also the distinct possibility one has nothing to do with the other) but I can’t. I can’t tell you about that or how potatoes are farmed or how we keep coming up with different breeds of genetically engineered miniature dogs. Like I said, I’m not an expert on anything. What I can tell you is how to act like you know what you’re talking about even when you don’t.

                There are a lot of scenarios where you might be called upon to reach out of your comfort zone and personal areas of “expertise.” The most obvious and easiest to maneuver through is at school when you have to write a paper about something you know nothing about. It’s simple. Do your research, cite your sources, and use spell check.

                It gets more confusing when you’re put on the spot. You get asked a question in class and people are staring at you. You don’t know why the Protestant Reformation had such an impact on the lower class, all you know is that Martin Luther guy was like a cult leader. But here you are, forced to say something. In a confident voice repeat the question back. This allows you to stall for time, giving you ten to fifteen solid seconds to formulate your answer. Most importantly, it allows you to avoid that awkward pause that screams I don’t have a clue!!!  During this time think about everything you know about the topic. Use key words in the question to guide you. In this example the term “reformation” is the ticket to forming an answer without a lot of facts. Think about what you know about reform, the Catholic church, and England in general. With a smile, speak with authority and confidence, always remembering if you don’t know the answer it’s best to keep it short and sweet.

If you can’t even manage an educated guess it may be best to switch topics. You know all about Martin Luther and have a strong opinion about his cult-like ways but of course, this theory has left you without any time to explore the religious significance of the Protestant Reformation. While you were thinking about the blood and gore and the Thirty Year War you forgot what everyone was fighting about and you definitely don’t know anything about the lower class, except that they were called peasants. I’m not gonna lie, it’s a risk trying to steer the discussion in a different direction but I’m taking a gamble and betting your teacher is happy as long as people are talking about anything in class (maybe not anything...) . That being said, here’s how you do it. Repeat the question like we did before. Keep your pace even and never once think about letting your voice shake. Address the part of the question you know the most about and talk briefly (ten seconds, tops) about that before you begin talking about the closely related subject you know (something) about. Feel free to end your spiel with a question of your own that expands on the topic. At that point, everybody will have forgotten the original subject and your teacher will be thrilled by your eager participation. You really can’t go wrong.

Finally, one last piece of advice and though I’m not an authority on anything, I hope you listen to this. If you really, really, really don’t know the answer and you can’t pull together the words to pretend you do, just say so and be attentive when the answer is presented to you. Nobody can fault you for being honest and who knows everything anyways?

the glass castle

                Its cover, plain white with an uninteresting blue border, does nothing to draw the eye of those browsing the shelves of the bookstore on Saturday afternoon. I bought it for fifty cents at a yard sale and can honestly say if it hadn’t been so cheap I never would have read “The Glass Castle” by Jeannette Walls.

                I can also say if I hadn’t picked it up out of a cluttered cardboard box that summer day I would have missed out. Walls’s words are mesmerizing; they suck you in as she makes you laugh and cry at the same time. They evoke anger and frustration as well as hope. I traded Friday night dinner and drinks to lie in bed and read the vivid descriptions of her cursed childhood. The next morning I was exhausted and hit my snooze button three times before dragging myself up out of bed for work because I couldn’t go to bed without knowing the end.

So what is this book with the boring cover about? It’s a memoir that begins in Walls’s childhood and follows her as she achieves success despite all odds. Of course, this sounds unoriginal but the Walls family is so unique that the reader can’t help but be simultaneously intrigued by their utter dysfunction and envious of their love. One part hilarious, one part disturbing, and two parts shocking, this is a story so good that it has to be true because nobody could make it up.

One the perimeter of the story lie problems that plague many. Alcoholism, homelessness, and mental illness all play a role in “The Glass Castle” making it relatable, though almost everyone who reads it will be thankful for their own lives as they realize they didn’t have it that bad after all. If you’re thinking the book sounds pretty miserable, it is.  At the same time, it is inspiring, hopeful, and thought-provoking.  Without a doubt, the reader will want to draw from Walls’s strength and drink in her depth. Walls writes with certainty and her descriptions are perfect. Her storytelling ability is unmatched as she knows how to balance heavy topics and humor but it is her uncanny ability for forgiveness, acceptance, and love that make “The Glass Castle” worth reading again and again.

pills pills and more pills

                It was seven pm and the air was fresh with the excitement of early summer. School was out for the year and it was his tenth birthday. The party had been earlier that day and now everyone was home. Mike was sitting on the front porch in his usual position. Elbows on his knees, hands crossed in front of him, signature frown on his face. Harley sat next to him, with his elbows on his knees and his hands crossed in front of him. With a dazed smile that didn’t match the tone of his voice he whined,”Daddyyy, I have to take my meds.” Mike glanced at his watch and ignored his request. Harley’s voice grew to a high-pitched screech. “Daddyyyyy….” He pulled at Mike’s arm as he yelled, “I HAVE TO TAKE MY MEDS!!!” and like clockwork, the evening ritual of pill-popping and drool-induced sleep began before the sun even set.

                My younger brother Harley is just one out of the 2.7 million American youth between the age of 4 and 17 who is medicated for Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder (ADHD). Over the course of his young life he has been prescribed more medications than most thirty year old adults. Various types of Ritalin, Adderall, and Concerta have graced the medicine cabinet in my family’s home along with sleeping pills, allergy medicine, mood stabilizers, and antidepressants. Whenever one wouldn’t work the doctor would move on to another, never once thinking to re-evaluate his diagnosis. Through trial and error, the doctor would find a cocktail of pills that suppressed Harley’s outbursts, confusion, and meltdowns and when they stopped working she upped the dose or added the newest miracle pill to the mix.

                “Hey buddy,” I said, groggy as I opened my eyes. He was standing in the corner of the room, back to me. In the dark I could just make out his shadow and nothing more. “What’s up?” He didn’t respond. Instead, Harley pulled down his pants and proceeded to pee on my bedroom floor, in a dead sleep. The next day he didn’t remember his surprise bathroom break and Mike installed a lock on his bedroom door.

                He came home from school one afternoon and kicked the door open. Throwing his coat on the floor, he scowled at me before he ran upstairs. I chalked it up to just another one of his moods until our brother told me that they had been weighed in gym class that day. My stomach sank as I imagined his embarrassment when it was his turn. He didn’t wear baggy tee-shirts and jogging pants every day because they were cool and he knew it wasn’t normal for kids his age to be on strict diets. He knew he was different and he was beginning to understand why.

                It’s impossible to measure the benefits of something when all the good comes at a high price.  For a stable mood Harley gained weight and sacrificed a genuine smile and the light in his eyes. In order to focus he gave up sleep. To capture the sleep that evaded him, my brother gave up evening bike rides and ice cream, baseball and game nights.

                Does Harley value stability, focus, and sleep? I don’t know because I never asked him and nobody else did either. He was six when he took his first pill and my mother was exhausted. Fed up with his incessant crying and the daily outbursts, she did what she had to do to make her life easier. A short-term solution for a lifelong problem, behavioral therapy has never been utilized though one would think it would be the first option for families with challenging children. Not only would behavioral therapy change patterns of thinking in the long-term, it can correct bad habits before they become too ingrained. Impressionable children learn coping skills and families can learn together how to manage ADHD with charts and incentives for the child to behave. At six, drugs should not be the first option but a last resort.

                There’s little emotion in his voice when he speaks. It’s weird to hear him talk because his voice is changing; it cracks sometimes and I try not to say anything about it because I don’t want to embarrass him. He’s fourteen, a freshman in high school but he’s still Harley to me, wearing those jogging pants and a baggy tee-shirt that falls to his knees.

 Reference

“Increasing Prevalence of Parent-Reported Attention –Deficit / Hyperactivity Disorder Among Children ---United States, 2003 and 2007” (12 Nov 2010). Morbidity and Mortality Weekly Report. Retrieved from: http://www.cdc.gov/mmwr/preview/mmwrhtml/mm5944a3.htm?s_cid=mm5944a3_w

Week Two Re-Do: Series of Events

                It wasn’t love but I won’t deny I had a small crush.  My fingertips melted into the softness and I imagined how they’d feel on my skin. Heavenly, I thought. Like nothing I’ve ever had. Then there was the white lace detail. I may have been able to bypass the lace but white?? It was too much, I couldn’t resist. I looked at the price tag and reluctantly pulled my hand away from the silky material. Maybe I could resist after all. “Hello!! Can I help you with anything?”

                “No….I was just browsing,” I replied.

                “Well what kind of jeans do you normally wear?” the girl asked. Her brown eyes sparkled behind a pair of black glasses and she was smiling brightly.

                “Uh….jeans?” I said. What kind of question is that? “American Eagle mostly,” I clarified.

                She looked me up and down, a frown of concentration on her face. “Turn around for me?” she asked. I turned around awkwardly, uncomfortable with her critical assessment of my body. “You look like you’d wear a size two or zero here,” she said. I was still stuck on her delusion when she asked “What kind of jeans were you looking for?”

                “Skinny jeans,” I said. Wait!! What?!?! I didn’t want ANY jeans!

                She came back with two pairs and led me to the dressing room where I found out how that silky fabric felt against my skin. Weightless, I felt like I was relaxing around the house in leggings. They were even the perfect length. At five feet, that never happens and my jeans always end up tattered and frayed. They were perfect.

                Handing them back to her I said, “I didn’t really like them.”

                “What exactly didn’t you like about them?” she asked, visibly concerned. Clearly, this wasn’t something she heard all the time.

                “I don’t know. They just didn’t fit right.”

                “We do have other styles. I saw you were looking at these ones when you came in?” and she pointed at the jeans. “Why don’t you try these on and show me so you can tell me exactly what you don’t like about them.”

                Ohhhh, I was getting sucked in. I could feel it. My first attempt at walking out of there without swiping my card failed, my second one did too. This girl was a force to be reckoned with, she was winning every round. She had me trying on jeans I never wanted to buy; I was just trying to kill some time before my flight. She flattered me, manipulated me, and now she had figured out my weakness in these perfectly girly, tomboy jeans that made me look amazing.

                I’d like to blame it all on her and the fact that she probably relies on commission to pay her rent; it’d be so much easier that way. But it wasn’t all her (even though she literally forced me to try on jeans). No, it was a combination of my seemingly uncontrollable spending habits and the irrational guilt I felt. She had been so nice, so helpful. I didn’t want to waste her time and every girl needs a pair of nice jeans, right? I swiped my card and the second I entered my pin I knew I was making a mistake. I would never wear these jeans. I should’ve gone with the skinnies, I thought. At least then I’d be able to wear them. She wrapped them up and gently placed them in a little brown bag, sliding them across the counter as if she were giving me a gift. I took it and smiled at her as I vowed to stop shopping for two months…..or one.

big risk, big reward?



               

              It is called the City of Angels, a place where few dreams come true and millions of souls are trampled. The neon lights are bright but so aren’t the hungry eyes of the masses that gaze at the starless sky at night, praying for their big break.

In LA, everybody thinks they’re someone and they never let you forget it. On my first and only trip to Los Angeles I remember being taken aback by the number of people I met who “worked” with insert famous person here. Relatively trusting in normal life, I was suddenly skeptical of every person I met. The distrust left me with a gross feeling in my stomach, unsettling, as if I were so hungry I couldn’t eat. I wondered if I could get used to the incessant name dropping and blatant lies.

One particular man passionately told me about his experience as a producer for NBC/Universal. We were on the train at Union Station when he sat across me, ready to talk. His name was Manny and he appeared to be in his mid-fifties. His dark hair was thick and though he spoke English better than some Americans he couldn’t shake his Mexican accent. “Yeah, me and Fergie,” he said. “She loves me because she knows I’ll tell her the truth.  One time…she came up to me in hoochie-mama dress. Tits hanging out, her ass wasn’t covered and she said ‘Manny, how do I look?’ You know what I told her? I said ‘Baby, you look like a hoochie –mama!! You gotta leave something to the imagination, girl. Make them want more! You know what I’m saying?”

I’m polite. I smiled and feigned interest in the appropriate places, feeling bad for the guy whose self-worth was attached to embellished relationships with the rich and famous. I wanted to believe he was telling the truth, that part of his story was real, but it was difficult to believe the man sitting across from me in dirty jeans and a Hanes tee-shirt had close relationships with Dave Matthews and Britney.  

I’ve fantasized about living in LA for years and even though I was disgusted by the dirty streets and cinder block buildings covered in graffiti, it’s a part of me. The strip-mall atmosphere and smog wasn’t enough to pollute my dream, so I have to go. Even though most people I talk to question my sanity and people who live there advise against it, I have to go. “Good luck finding a job,” said a woman I called about a sublet. “I don’t know if you know this or not but the competition for servers is high. You need a portfolio full of things you’re working on, what your goal is, pictures….and once you get a serving job, you don’t give it up. There. Aren’t. Any.” I told her I’d have six months rent saved up and she said “Well….you might be able to find a job by then,” but her voice was thick with skepticism.

Thank you, kind lady, for your advice and encouragement.

I got off the phone and panicked. Was I really that naïve? I thought that I would fly into LAX with three suitcases and my cat and find a job within a week. Maybe a month. It had never crossed my mind that this plan might not work out. The idealistic optimism that had given me the courage to go was suddenly my downfall.

I was thinking the worst. The cute apartment in a secure building became a small room on the first floor with five locks and bars in the windows. I’d spend my days aimlessly searching for a job in the miniature cities that make up LA without luck until my money ran out, no other option but to go home. It wasn’t going to happen for me. I wasn’t going to be a fashion journalist; there are millions of writers just like me who, more talented or not, have connections I don’t.

It’s sad, I think, that before I even arrive, I’m discouraged. Maybe it’s just fear that has overtaken my excitement or maybe the reality this might not work out has cut deeper than I realized because I don’t feel like myself. Maybe I know I’m doing the wrong thing but don’t care. Maybe I’m crazy for giving up everything or maybe my risk will get me everything I ever wanted.

I’ll keep you posted.