Thoughts of a 20-Hour Driver



M and I took a road trip this weekend to see a friend in Texas. We don’t live close to Texas, so as you can imagine there was a lot of driving and not a lot of bathroom breaks. Your driving strategy for these kind of trips starts to include purposefully dehydrating yourself  so as to avoid the need to stop along the way in the middle of the night. It’s very unhealthy, but very invigorating. Invigorating in the kind of caffeine-high why-did-I-grab-this-bag this-is-not-food fueling sort of way.

M doesn’t really buy into the caffeine thing, so he slept more than I did. I spent a lot of hours alone, staring across dark deserts, allowing my eyes to glaze over, and thinking about what it all meant.

And here’s what I came up with.

1. I don’t think parents really mean what they teach their children. In fact, when they talk to children, they aren’t really talking as people. They’re speaking on behalf of a corporation. The corporation of “CHILDREN ARE THE FUTURE.”  There are just things you’re meant to say to them. But, when parents become people again, do they really think that anything’s possible? That it’s never okay to lie? I don’t think so. Why don’t we start teaching children to think in shades of gray sooner?

2. Breaking Bad is a really good show. How do I know when a story is good? If anyone can create an irony and develop it to the point that it makes me want to cry and dwell on it for days, it’s good.

3. I can’t imagine where my life would be if I hadn’t decided, without a doubt, that film was my path in life. I don’t think flexibility would be a good thing for me in this area.

4. Drooling in sleep. I’m glad I’m not asleep right now, I’m not in a drooling mood.

The rest of the many hours on the road were spent with a blank mind.

I can only guess my sleep-deprived subconscious was churning out some real doozies. Because the whole of my trip I spent in sort of a relaxed state of wonderment.

Texans like donuts. Cowboys are real. America is still a source of pride for some. Local aviators are better than internet-bought aviators.

What an awesome trip.

Now I’m going to go sleep for eight years.




I Am a Hipster and I Love Ke$ha


People have called me many things. A girl, “hey you,” and a hipster.

That’s all I can think of right now.

As a society-labeled hipster, I have to be very careful about the interests I have. I must prefer Bon Iver to Jack Johnson. I must like men with beards. And I must end my love affair with Ke$ha.

It’s just so hard, Internet. It’s. So. Hard.

I don’t think I have a single person in my life right now that supports my love of Ke$ha’s music.  “It’s not natural. It’s disgusting. It’s like you have chlamydia.” There is not a single loved one of mine that loves me as much as they want to. All because they haven’t accepted that I love Ke$ha yet.

So I’m going to defend myself.

I started listening to Ke$ha halfway through college. When I graduated highschool I was an organic hipster, as pompous as they come. I refused to listen to the radio, unless it was the local grassroots station that played crunchy Jazz between 2 and 4 pm. Yeah, I had to listen to crappy crunchy Jazz as I drove just to prove my commitment to art. Stupid art.

I don’t know what came over me, but I think I was pushed over the edge one day. It was my second year of college, and I think the last of one too many Ani DeFranco songs caused me to spasm and change the station.

Katy Perry. “What is this strange magic?”

I listened to all this new music, interested but not surprised. Black Eyed Peas had lame lyrics. Katy Perry had lame bridges. Pink had a weird anger that seemed very unfounded and directed at nobody in particular. Fun. had been cool, but they turned to the dark side. Kelly Clarkson SHOOT ME. For the most part, I felt assured that I hadn’t been missing anything spectacular in the world of popular music.

Except for one.


That spectacular, spectacular bitch.

I couldn’t explain it at the time. All I knew was that I continued to listen to pop radio for the rest of my college days, and I believe it was all out of the hope of possibly hearing “Tik Tok” that day.

I’ve had plenty of discussions with my more philosophically-minded friends about the issue, and all I ever get in forms of a retort are statements along the lines of “Ke$ha? KE$HA?” “You’re just wrong.” and “She has a dollar $ign in her name.” But no other artist makes me want to dance like Ke$ha, and hers is the only celebrity hair I’ve ever seeked out the forums of the interwebs to recreate for myself.

Her obsession with glitter is insane. It feels like she’s tapping into a magic that not enough people know about yet.

She looks like she’s hung over all the time. It’s fantastic.

She is always yelling a little bit. YEAH. LETS YELL ABOUT BOYS. THEY LIKE IT.

Her melodies have very little diversity, but all her thumping chord progressions back them up. Her lyrics are all about partying and boys, but every once in a while she’ll word something in a way that makes me go “Huh. I never thought about partying and boys that way. U R a dinosaur.”

The most philosophical I can get on the matter is by suggesting that she is the ultimate embodiment of freedom and confidence. She likes boys, and she likes looking sexy for them, but she doesn’t need them. She’s there for her girls and to dance. She’ll kick them boys to the curb.

(Unless they look like Mick Jagger.)

She wears ripped leggings, gnarly tops, all sorts of disorganized braids and feathers in her hair, and she looks great while doing it. Anyone who advocates the use of yesterday’s eyeliner as today’s eyeliner is my ultimate fashion goddess.

There’s something about her whole demeanor, and the way that it reflects directly onto her songs, that is incredibly empowering. I promised myself I wouldn’t even argue the fact that she’s apparently a genius, but it’s interesting, isn’t it? So many people would argue “Why isn’t she doing something useful with her intelligence?”

Maybe that’s why I listen to Ke$ha. I’m smart and I’m artistic, but when I listen to her music I don’t feel like I owe my talents to anyone.


Laughing at the Symphony


We went out to the symphony on Friday night to hear Dvořák’s New World Symphony. Like always, they tricked us and snuck in a strange and unrelated Russian modern piece in the middle of the concert.

Typical symphony.

M knows music better than I do. As soon as he saw the program he rolled his eyes. “This piece is going to be some shitty experimental thing, just watch.” And he was right. I tried really hard to enjoy the song, because I really like liking things that M doesn’t like.

But, he was right, it was a little bit shitty.

I can respect the aims of experimental art across all mediums. But when it comes to music, and my role as a “viewer,” I can’t just scan, absorb, and move along. I have to listen to every note and essentially experience every intended idea. And if I don’t want to experience every intended idea, well then that’s just too bad because everyone would see me leave and know that I’m a rude person.

One moment of the piece in particular was just a bunch of noise. The percussion section especially sounded like they were just speaking some sort of not-that-pretty language with their mallets. Similar to how American English sounds as a non-English speaker. They’re definitely words you’re hearing, but you’re not quite sure what they mean and you’re not sure that you should care.

Right in the middle of the mallet mess, a phone started ringing. The woman in front of us jumped, realizing it was hers. She scrambled for her purse, and embarked on a two-minute journey to locate the phone, and then the off-switch.

Her cell phone ring was one of the standard and most popular iPhone rings. The bright little marimba one.

And it sounded EXACTLY like the song. Only the ringtone had more structure.

Another woman down the row stared this frail little lady with the darkest of scowls. Punishing her with the most sophisticated of weapons: disgust and disdain in the face of art and class.

But, judging on the lack of glares I saw all around, I think our neighbors were overall enjoying her contribution to the piece.

To me, it was the best part of the song.

(But the New World Symphony was amazing.)


I’m Sorry That I Have to Do This.


I’m so sorry.

But I have to take a minute and talk about how great my boyfriend is.

I met M at a film festival a little under two years ago. His film had won the year prior, and he was there to look pretty in front all of the young aspiring filmmakers in our community. I was a volunteer worker for the film festival, so I wasn’t really supposed to be “networking.”

I really hate “networking,” anyway.

But there was something about the way he looked that was so impressive. He wore a fancy gray blazer over a t-shirt. He was composed and stoic, but when he laughed his eyes crinkled up in this amazing little way.

I told myself, “If you don’t go talk to him well, then, you can just die filled with regret, I guess.”

So, I forced myself to talk to him. I thought it was an exercise in becoming more courageous, a better networker. What I didn’t realize was, that strange impulsive decision on my part would change my life. Completely, unalterably, and for the better. No exaggeration.

He was crewing up for a feature film he was directing. He needed a script supervisor. I was a script supervisor, but I made him believe I had more experience than I did. I had never done a feature-length film before. But every time he laughed, I knew I had to say whatever I could to get him in my life.

Working together on a film all summer sped up the process I normally take with the people I date. We were instantly comfortable with each other, and went from that stage to tearing at each other’s throats quickly. All those exhausting all-nighters on set didn’t allow for us to have any bullshit with each other. I was working right at his side, and as often as I was helping him with the logistics of filming I was also driving him up a wall with my suggestions to “improve” the script. And every time he missed a little detail in the script that I found to be extremely important for whatever reason, I was up the wall with him.

And yet, we’re still together today. Not only that, but every day we become more and more entwined together. A lot of people use some semblance of that expression, “growing closer each day.” What I think it means to me is that every day, every conversation we have, a bit more memory is logged away. My memories of him, and his memories of me, they grow a bit each day and take over the other memories, the ones that don’t matter. We are partners in crime, roommates, best friends, and two people who are in love with each other.

We have created so much beyond a normal life together. We have created stories, films, and whole worlds together. And the interesting part is, our world views are vastly different. Most conversations we have resemble arguments, but I can’t believe how much this stretches me. Grows me. Nobody can make me more irritated than he can, but something about that irritation is so exciting. It’s the kind of irritation that, now, I don’t know what I would do without.

My relationship with M hasn’t been my easiest relationship. But my easiest relationship was also easy to leave. If I had to lose M, something inside me would snap off and go with him. That something would be made up of the feeling of his scruff on my skin, mixed with my outlook on life and a large part of who I am today. Without him, these things would be gone, and I don’t know who I would be without it.

He has taught me more than any other person has. These lessons include:

  • How to show the mean Internet company who is boss over the phone.
  • How to purchase land.
  • How to adjust an aperture (and what the hell that really means).
  • How to correctly act around dogs.
  • How to correctly recover from a wounded ego.
  • How to start a business.
  • How to edit an action scene.
  • How to convince others that you’re the shit.
  • How to be the shit.
  • How to be a tiny bit less messy than I was before.
  • How to keep my cool around bison.
  • How to keep my cool in general.
  • How to know when I’m in the right place.

I don’t know how I ended up where I am now. It was either insane luck or divine intervention. But however I got here, I could never question whether or not it’s the right place. Being with him is the best possible place, and he helps me see it every day.

Take this cheese and do what you want with it. Thanks for reading!