My Target Audience

Old Beginnings

2007-08-19T00:51:00.000-07:00

"I'm a soldier, Adriana. You gotta remember that."
Christopher Moltisanti

It was that quote from The Sopranos that inspired me in many ways. It, among other things, is the primary muse for this installment of my anonymous, unread Internet opus.

A quick background: Christopher and Adriana are two twenty-somethings who are engaged to be married. Christopher is a made man in the Soprano family - one of Tony's (the boss) cousins. Adriana is his naively dumb but loveable girlfriend who loves him despite his frequent beatings and his prolific drug use. She desperately wants the two of them to leave New Jersey and their life in "this thing" behind, and while he has entertained the idea for her benefit, he's never really thought seriously about walking away from his entire life. Which begs the question: can you ever walk away from your entire life?

There are a slew of aphorisms and quotes that would make it seem that you can walk away and start afresh somewhere else: Every day is a new beginning. It's never too late to start over. Et cetera.

But IS it ever too late to start over? I've written, I believe, before about how you can make all the changes in your life you want, but at the end of the day, you're still yourself - stuck with your past, your mistakes, your triumphs and failures. These will never change. And they will forever influence the choices we make. So that to me says that you can never really start over. You can never have a clean slate.

Sure, you can make changes. You can change careers mid-life. You can finally get that divorce. You can move to a new city where nobody knows you. But are you back at the beginning? You're not - you're a 50 year old intern; you're 45 and single, not 25 and single; and you still know you. You may be at a figurative beginning, but it often leaves you either very far behind or very worried that whatever you've tried to get over in your past will eventually come back to haunt you.

This is one reason I have so much admiration for recovering alcoholics or drug addicts: they have actually managed, in some form, to cast off their past and look forward to a different - not new, but different - life. I have yet to win the war against my temptations, and part of me feels like, what's the point? Just because I stop doing XYZ doesn't mean I never did it - I'm still damaged goods, imperfect, a danger to myself.

So I guess what this comes back to is the universal theme in my life - how we deal with our past. I can't seem to get over mine; it lives with me every day. Some days I'm able to forget about it, when I'm busy, or feeling unnaturally content, but some days it comes back with a vengeance, like a roaring tornado set on destroying everything in its path. You can rebuild a town, but that won't stop the tornadoes from coming. I have allowed myself to fall victim to my past, which bolsters the idea I've built up around myself that I can never start over. Yes, in a way, I realize this is a self-fulfilling prophecy and that I'm only setting myself up for misery by thinking this way, but there IS a grain of truth to it.

I hope that one day I'm able to allow myself to believe that I can start over and leave the past and all its troubles and worries behind me, but it never seems to work out. I'll say, This is the last time, this is it, really, this time, and then it's over. And a few days later I'll be back in the exact same spot, holding back the tears of disappointment. I have yet to learn the tools for moving on.

Which makes for a rather interesting existence. A major part of life is learning to let go and move on, because, to be cheesey, if you're not living in the present, you're doing no favors to anybody. What's past is past, you can't change it, so get over it...right. So I live every day trying desperately to move on from things that plague me, I spend my time daydreaming about how in the future, "one day," everything will be different. I spend very little time in the present. And I don't think that's a good way to live.

It's sad, really, because I do want the most out of life, and I do want to learn to let go and move on without the heavy burden of age-old baggage. So every day I try to drop one tiny piece from all those suitcases being dragged around in my mind, try to forget one old hurt and regret. It's slow moving, but I think it's working.

In the end I don't think it's about starting over when life takes an unexpected turn, but more about the big picture of where each misstep and action puts you next. My uncle once said to me, "Remember, every decision you make is right if it's yours." I had to think about that a while, because initially, I completely disagreed with it. But now I understand. You have to own yourself, you have to recognize that everything is a brick in the journey - the journey that can end in eternal bliss.

But until I've mastered the art of forgetting, I try to listen to those former alcoholics: one day at a time.

The Ramblings of a Fool

2007-07-09T21:44:00.000-07:00

I have recently been accused of being self-involved and disregarding of the welfare of others. This is not the first time this has happened; other so-called friends have said the same thing. The thing is, they all have one thing in common: they are males who have made their sycophantic love for me more than obvious. And so, for this reason, I sort of slide into a mode where I feel that I can talk about myself forever and they will be there to listen.

I think (I hope) we all have those random, scattered people in our lives who we go to to listen to us, to give us limited feedback (even when more is desired), to fill in a sporadic void when one needs desperately to pour out one's soul to someone. So is it really fair to accuse someone of being self-centered and uncaring when it's inevitable that they have similar people in their lives? And they usually never even bring up themselves anyway - how do they know I wouldn't offer the same listening ear if they were to lay out their issues and problems for me?

We all have people we use and abuse in life - I guess this isn't really a good thing and isn't something I should be promoting, but my thoughts are acutally that it helps us as a people to prop each other up in this manner. As long as you're not using someone for malicious or self-promoting purposes, what's the harm in having a shoulder to cry on?

Honestly, the point of all this is that I was really insulted by the attack of this most recent "friend," and wanted to cease contact with him. The funniest part? I haven't stopped talking. As long as he's going to listen, I'm going to talk. Right or wrong, that's just what it is.

The Unexpected Fear

2007-06-18T23:56:00.000-07:00

Up until very recently I thought my biggest fear was failure, unemployment forever, a lifetime of spinsterhood. But now that things have suddenly and inexplicably fallen into place, I have discovered a whole new fear: contentedness. It's just so eerily unfamiliar that I'm not quite sure to make of it. Great job, great boyfriend - nobody can have it all, so it's frightening when it appears that you do. I find myself anxiously waiting a dreaded phone call that something terrible has happened, that my family has fallen apart, that someone I love has died, that it could all fall apart at any moment.

People have been telling me they wish they had my problems - my financial situation, while shaky, is gaining ground and I'm well on my way to supporting myself; the seriousness of the relationship (my first) with my boyfriend has suddenly terrified me and I don't know how to cope with that fear; I'm stressing about making a big purchase (my first real mattress since leaving home). But they're missing the point - problems are problems. It's like people who think that being a millionaire is blissfully perfect, smooth sailing once you've entered that coveted tax bracket. But it doesn't solve any problems, it just introduces a whole new set of problems.

Suddenly money + a fantastic job + an even more fantastic boyfriend doesn't equal perfection. I knew it would never be easy, I just never expected this fear that it wouldn't last to set in as a sort of permanent (though I hope it's temporary) rain cloud looming in the distance. I hope that I can embrace happiness and my good fortune, that I can accept that I've worked hard and deserve everything I finally have, but it just seems too risky. Is the bet worth it? Is it really worth it to live in the moment and not worry about what may or may not happen?

The logical answer is yes, that is what our ultimate goal should be - to embrace the good times and enjoy them while they're there. But that's so difficult to do when you've conditioned yourself to unhappiness, regret, and longing. How can we suddenly retrain our style of thinking when we realize we sort of have it all? The ideal situation, I guess, is to shed the worries of the future and love every moment (and I really despise such pathetic cliches).

This is becoming easier as I'm easing myself into this new phase of life - a phase filled with real, not empty, promise; filled with love and understanding and growth. I suppose one of the most important lessons of times of happiness and calmness is to allow yourself to grow and gain from the experience. Bank good feelings, recognize when you're blessed, and give yourself room to falter. As my new - and fabulous - boss reminds me every day, people make mistakes. You will fall, you will screw up, you will not please everybody you encounter. But allow yourself to enjoy the mistakes, because they're just minor blips on your current happiness radar.

I'm not really sure what my point is, or even what I'm talking about anymore, other than to point out that just because everything seems to be perfect doesn't mean it is - good fortune is still heavy with the mystique of what lies ahead, where the next block will take you. Because it won't always be like this.

But the eternal question still plagues me, the question that haunts me in my deepest moments of darkness and hatred and uncertainty still haunts me in my pleasant times: how did it end up like this?

The Power of Unemployment

2007-04-20T19:29:00.000-07:00

If I have learned anything since graduating college, it is that at no other time in one's life can your happiness truly be in the hands of others than when you are unemployed. Yes, I willingly quit my job. Yes, I am happy about that decision. But no, I did not realize that it would be so hard to find another job.

Six weeks into unemployment, the fear and dread and mild depression have sunk in. Internal monologue is peppered with "I am worthless," "I'm not doing anything with my life," and "Nobody thinks I'm good enough" sentiments. You have been told all your life by well-intentioned elders that nobody has control over your happiness but you, but somehow, in the face of rejection after rejection after rejection, it seems that they have a little more power than you were taught.

It's hard, because on the one hand, you know you're worth something, that you have plenty to offer, that things are most likely going to work out. But on the other hand, sometime shortly after sending out the 75th resume and cover letter, the subtle sting of rejection grows into a mighty stab that leaves a gaping wound on your psyche. You try to fill your extra time with productive things, but your bank account is starting to disappear along with your self-esteem, and it takes all you can just to dress yourself in the morning.

Maybe some people don't fall victim to such bouts of depression, but I would venture to wager that the majority of educated, talented, non-morons would at least start to suffer a touch of the blues after six weeks of failed attempts to make that next career move. You begin questioning everything you did that got you here - was transferring schools, leaving behind a great group of friends and a wide open door for travel at the sake of your future career really worth it? Were three years of unpaid, illegal slave labor for the sake of having the extra edge necessary? Do you even actually know what you're doing? Sure, you're still young, you're still trying to find your way. But...shouldn't the road be a little less bumpy at this point?

I guess the lesson in all this is that life really never is easy. That even when things seem good, they're still precarious. That as optimistic as you can enter into something (I was plenty excited and looking forward to this job hunt for the first two and a half weeks), it always has the potential to take a disappointing turn. It is during these moments that you must desperately hold onto the concept of being in charge of your own happiness. That you mustn't give in to these feelings of hopelessness, that this will pass and it will work out. That you must truly use this as an opportunity to learn how to take responsibility of your own happiness.

But at the end of the day, the rest of the world is still treating you as though you're not good enough, and you can't deny that that's hard to deal with. It can be difficult to drag yourself out of bed in the morning, but the best you can do is to power through it, and to force yourself to experience the power of positive thinking. If you must cave and sacrifice some of your dreams, swallow some of your pride to make ends meet, it will just make you stronger - I hope.

I have to take to heart the words of my father, for whom I have the highest respect and admiration. He's a big fan of metaphors and catchy words of wisdom, and one of his favorites is the old adage, "It is not your situation, but how you handle it that defines you. Hold onto yourself and don't forget...I love you."

I realize that I'm luckier than most, with parents who are not only willing to but are able to support me, both emotionally and financially. So I take comfort in that, and force myself to actively seek out the positives that are meekly shining in what seems to be the dark night. This is an opportunity to learn, a chance to grow stronger, a reminder that I actually am very blessed.

So I have realized that though the power of unemployment is mind-boggling, it is no match for the power of human determination. And I am grateful for that lesson, despite its costs.

Brangelina: Not Your Average Saints

2007-03-15T00:39:00.000-07:00

http://perezhilton.com/topics/angelina_jolie/they_grow_in_factories_20070314.php

3 March 2007

The media’s worshipping of Brad and Angelina disgusts me to my very core. After hearing this morning that they’re in the process of adopting yet ANOTHER ethnic child, I am beyond infuriated and can’t believe that people buy into their bullshit.

NEWS FLASH: CHILDREN ARE NOT COLLECTIBLES, ANGELINA. “Collect all thirty-seven!” doesn’t come stamped on the baby-soft butt cheeks of wee ones, and starting a veritable United Nations of ethnicities and creeds under one roof is nothing short of moronic. In addition, her quotes recently to that French mag about how her natural born child is not as love-worthy as her adopted ones because she was born into privilege is vomit-inducing. Your little orphans never experienced pain, dumbass, you swept them out of their terrible situations before they could formulate memories of living in squalor. It’s almost as if she only had Shiloh as a favor to Brad, who, in his American stupidity, wanted a blood child.

Yeah, you’re pretty effing lucky if you’re an abandoned Third World type who gets adopted by an American celebrity. But I’d much rather be adopted by Kevin Federline than by these two lunatics. They aren’t even raising their own children, and their collector’s items are by default destined for rehab and death-by-overdose. Money doesn’t make somebody a good parent, and when you can’t even treat your own flesh and blood with respect, how can we expect you to treat the others with respect? The whole peace-among-all-colors line is nothing but pure publicity.

Angelina’s dagger stare and her know-it-all smirk make me want to rip off my arm and attack the real estate agent who sold them their house in New Orleans. They don’t deserve to live in a city where real families exist. Or even real people, for that matter. They should move to the moon and start their own colony of doll children. They can bring the Thetan Cruise clan along with them and invent space ships to take them to L. Ron’s Galaxy of Greatness. That’s where they all belong.

Point Break (AKA The Greatest Movie Ever Made)

2007-03-15T00:34:00.000-07:00

Point Break (1991) is one of those rare hidden classics that you find amongst the “VHS For Sale—Everything $2” bin at your local video rental. The crowning glory of the rival surf gang action adventure genre, Point Break takes its star-studded cast (Gary Busey, Keanu Reeves, and Patrick Swayze) and award-worthy script to whole new levels of awesomeness.

I had the good fortune to Netflix Point Break recently—and not, admittedly, because of its cast or what could only be an incredible storyline, but because of a supposed cameo by my own personal rock hero, Anthony Kiedis. But little did I know what a cinematic treat I was in for.

The premise of Point Break is straightforward enough: two undercover FBI agents (the green young Keanu, who is partnered with the seasoned and wise Busey) are directed to find and arrest a gang of bank robbers who have been terrorizing SoCal and call themselves “The Ex-Presidents” because of their choice of disguise (masks of former U.S. Presidents). Somehow Keanu decides that some of the local Malibu surf gangs are suspicious and chooses to take up surfing to infiltrate these enemy actors (and who wouldn’t?). After getting rescued (Keanu’s surf skills aren’t quite up to par for the wilds of offshore Malibu) by the chic and 90s-sexy (meaning flannel and a I’m-a-strong-woman-with-a-man’s-haircut) Lori Petty, Keanu comes to the obvious conclusion that these surfers know what’s up. So, he enlists Petty to teach him how to surf.

Through Petty he comes to meet the demi-god himself, the charismatic and sage-like Patrick Swayze (if ever there were a poster child for the ballet dancer action hero, Patrick Swayze would be it), the leader of the cool surf gang. He takes young Keanu under his wing, teaching him the ways of the surf world and how to master the tides.

But, lo and behold, Keanu becomes too close to his new friends, losing sight of the job at hand. Enter Anthony Kiedis, member of an evil meth-fueled surf gang that throws wild parties and is clearly up to know good. Said surf gang pummels Keanu and nearly kills him until Swayze runs to his rescue. Keanu’s partner, The Man With Teeth Like Chiclets, then realizes that Keanu has become too close to the group he’s trying to infiltrate, and tries to shake some sense into him, but in vain, as Keanu has already fallen for the sexy Lori Petty and is under the enigmatic spell of Swayze.

With red herrings (energized by Anthony’s stellar role as an Indian chief-esque meth lab worker), twists, Oscar-worthy performances, and the ever-present symbolic role of the ocean, Point Break brings good moviemaking to whole new levels. The highlight of the film is obviously when Swayze leads Keanu into certain death by making him jump out of an airplane with no parachute. What happens? Well, you’ll just have to see to find out.

Point Break (1991): Thirty Stars out of Ten

They're Dropping Like Flies

2007-03-15T00:31:00.000-07:00

As I learn of yet another one of my close 22 year old friends becoming engaged, it takes all my energy not to ball up my fists and punch a hole through the wall in pure, unadulterated rage. What the hell happened to the women’s movement?

Now, I am the least likely candidate for a feminist. I once was a registered Republican. I am, for the most part, a traditionalist. I think that the man should make the first move and believe in the fundamental inequality of men and women. I can’t stand those bra-burning bitches with unibrows and hairy legs and their “feminine mystique.”

But it really irks me when my friends decide they’re worth nothing more than writing their life away at 22 for a man.

Okay, whatever, they may be “in love.” But that’s a crock of shit. Nobody falls in love at 22 anymore who isn’t Amish or Mormon. It’s just not normal. For all of the craziness that the feminists in the 60s and 70s brought us, they also had a point: women, tear off your aprons, take the world by storm! Despite our fundamental inequalities, women are just (if not more, I might add) as capable as men to run corporations, find cancer cures, be politicians, blah blah blah.

This we all know and love and nobody in their right PC mind would try to challenge it. Which is why I just cannot get my head around the concept of my fellow females being so willing and eager to get married and have babies so young. Don’t you have dreams of your own? Career aspirations? Personal life goals?

They say that history moves like a pendulum, and that this retroaction is a natural reaction to the women’s movement. But that doesn’t really make a whole lot of sense, since the women’s movement changed the world as it was. It evened out the playing field, and made the world more receptive to women in general. These things should be championed and celebrated and we should praise our fuzzy-legged foremothers for them.

And some will argue that the point of the women’s movement was that women should be allowed to do whatever they want to do—even if that means closing down shop at 22 and turning into a baby machine at 23. I shouldn’t begrudge anyone their right to choose, I know. But it would behoove you marrying folk to take a second look at why, exactly, you think it’s necessary to cut your life off at a time when the world is at your feet. We’re not exactly in the depths of a shrinking human race, here, it’s not crucial that you reproduce ASAP to propagate the species.

I think the real problem is not that they’re in love or that they want to have babies, but that they’re apathetic. Generation Y is the generation of affluence, and with affluence comes apathy. We’re not as motivated as Gen X’ers or Baby Boomers to go out and change the world—it even seems that anti-war protests and stormtroopers on the White House are spearheaded by “real adults.” It has been made so easy for our generation to just sit back and do nothing but watch TV, play on the computer, page through the tabs, etc. etc. etc. With more money and more education, we take just about everything for granted.

I’m not trying to denigrate my peeps, here, but honestly, why else would girls flash their tits for some beads? Why else would they decide to shack up right after college and work a brainless job until they can get hitched? Boredom, I tell you, it’s boredom. You would think that something like the Iraq war or the horrific treatment of women in the Middle East would be issues that would mobilize people, but apparently, we’ve decided it’s just more pleasant to do nothing. (Until it affects us, that is.)

I can’t help but wonder if we’re throwing everything our mothers and grandmothers worked for away, back in their faces. Maybe I feel like an outsider because I do want things for myself, and because I have been single my whole life. But it just seems to me that girls who marry themselves off so early in life aren’t giving themselves enough credit and aren’t embracing all of the options the world has for them. You can’t very well drop everything and go backpacking around the world for a year at 27 if you’re married and have a mortgage and twins on the way, Susie Q. Why would you want to deny yourself the experiences of life?

In the end, I suppose it’s none of my business to pry into the reasoning behind other peoples’ decisions, and the beauty of living in a free society (so they say) is that we’re free to do as we please. And so I am grudgingly happy (and, natch, a little jealous) for my friends who are overjoyed that they’ve found “true love” and are going to live happily ever after. I hope the divorce rate goes down, I really do, for the sake of all my friends. I hope they’re still able to do something for themselves other than fall into a life of soccer motherhood. We do have a right to choose, and I shouldn’t try to stop anyone from seeking out what they believe is their path to happiness.

But don’t you dare come crying on my shoulder when you’re knee deep in diapers and haven’t had sex in a month.

23 and So Tired of Life...Such a Shame to Throw It All Away

2007-03-15T00:08:00.000-07:00

I’m in at 11:39 on my birthday (I have work in the morning) and I can’t help but wonder…how did it end up like this? I never thought I would be 23 and so unaccomplished. I used to have such huge goals and plans for myself (and pretty much still do), and somehow, they have all eluded me. Until now, I suppose.

I spent my birthday with good friends at a classic Sunset Strip haunt (my beloved, Anthony Kiedis, hung out there as a child, because his father was dealing drugs out of the place)—Rainbow Bar and Grill—and then went over to another Sunset Strip classic, Viper Room, to see my boss’s son’s band play. Suck up, you say? Not really. The guy is actually pretty hot.

And it’s strange, because I meet so few straight men in the city, and this guy actually seems pretty cool, and is definitely very hot. But he’s pretty much unattainable due to the fact that HE’S MY BOSS’S SON.

All of this is unnecessary back story. The point is, I’m 23, and I’m nearly unemployed (I quit my job with the aforementioned boss on Monday), and I am nowhere near the success and fame I had planned on in my early 20s. I don't even have a boyfriend (nor have I ever), and somehow I doubt that my boss's son will be in my future. I’m trying to convince myself that it’s just a lot harder than I originally thought, that I’m doing the best I can, that it will happen eventually. But there’s a growing, subliminal fear that…maybe it won’t.

Maybe I won’t ever be a published author whose audience is far greater than the handful of you who read this column. Maybe I won’t ever have the opportunity to make incredible films. Maybe I won’t touch anybody, maybe I will never make an impact in any way on anything or anybody. This is a very possible fear, a very likely reality.

But the naïve, innocent, still-hopeful side of me is desperately trying to convince the other side of me that that is all nonsense. That it will happen, that I’m destined for greatness. That 23 is just a number, and a small number, at that. That this will pass and the next year will be amazing.

I’ve never had a boyfriend, never really have done anything remarkable, never have lived life on the edge as I have imagined I would. Sure, I’ve had more experiences than a lot of people, I’ve seen a significant amount of the world, I’ve had some pretty cool things go on in my life. But it’s nowhere near what I ever wanted.

How do you cope in this world if you’re forever wishing for something else? How can you go on if your dream is in a part of a world that is rapidly changing—the world of art? It’s not like artistry has ever been an easy thing to make an impact in while you’re alive; we’re not all Andy Warhols and Steven Spielbergs. But I have to grab on to the hope, the promise that permeates every day life here in Los Angeles, that it still can happen. That 23 isn’t that old. That there’s still plenty of time, that it will all work out. Because without that hope, I would be nothing.

And as I’m buzzing and confused and wishing I didn’t have to go to work in the morning, I’m also desperately trying to ignore the fear and the wonderment that nothing significant will ever happen to me. I may have experienced travel, working on a major motion picture, exciting flings, and jail, but I’m not confident that I will ever experience life as it could be if nothing comes of my desire to make a real impact as an artist. And that’s what makes me sad on my 23rd birthday—the fact that I’m growing more aware that it could be possible that my dreams are becoming further and further away.

I feel as though I should be wearing shoulder pads to work and should be financially independent. I’m still supported by my father and I wear t-shirts to work as I ruin my eyes by staring at a computer screen for 8 hours a day. I wish beyond all wishes that my life were different, and I hope beyond all hope that quitting my current job will open me up to the possibility of real success. But still I worry that it won’t happen.

So I don’t really know what to make of this birthday, except to cling on to the miniscule hope that the guy I’ve been dating will turn out to be someone decent, that maybe I will find a friend in my boss’s hot son, that maybe something will work itself out in my career. It’s that hope that keeps me going, that forces me to get out of bed every morning, that refuses to disappear even in the depths of my despair. I can’t push it away yet, because I am still so unable to settle on the notion that it will never happen.

And maybe it won’t ever happen. Maybe the people I will only ever reach with my art are the people—you—who are reading this column. But I pray that I will never lose the hope, the fire that pushes me, the unnatural desire to make an impact and to make a difference. Because without that hope, without that driving force, my life would be meaningless. And so, I have to be pleased to some degree that I’m still a naïve young twenty-something who has celebrated her birthday in style.

With her boss’s hot son. You know you’re in Los Angeles when…

I Swore I'd Never Do This

2007-02-27T10:39:00.000-08:00

First, I swore I’d never be an assistant. That rapidly changed as I realized it was pretty much the only way into the industry I want to be in (the entertainment industry). Then, I swore I’d never be a personal assistant. Excuse me but fuck me gently with a chainsaw if I’m ever going to be paid to take care of someone’s dry cleaning or order their daughter’s birthday presents. Then, I swore I’d never work a desk job. And where am I now?

Working a desk job. Gobbling Tums to settle my acid reflux stomach and writing posts for my Internet column (I will never call this a blog. Perish the thought.). I don’t know what my boss thinks I do all day, but as his Development Executive, I tend to do more “personal time” things than work things. Don’t get me wrong, I perform all tasks put in front of me with lightning speed and an even more impressive perfection, but most of my time is spent “brainstorming” in front of a computer that is rapidly degenerating my vision and is so ancient (circa 2000) that it barely turns on anymore. I even do a helluva lot of brainstorming and come up with plenty of worthwhile ideas for my boss, but unfortunately, the nature of the game of independent artisans is that they generally can’t bring to fruition most brilliant ideas.

I kind of am under the impression that I am about to be let go; this only has a little to do with the fact that I haven’t come up with any million-dollar ideas (according to him) and more to do with the fact that I don’t think he can afford me anymore. But that’s okay, because I swore I’d never work a desk job.

Desk jobs are soul-sucking. They drain you of your will to live just as they drain your eyes of their ability to see. I just never thought I’d be 23 and so tired of life…such a shame to throw it all away (Dave Matthews)—in other words, I never thought I’d be 23 and have nothing to show for myself. Sure, I got the random Associate Producer credit, I’ve worked on a feature film, but I have yet to truly reach out and touch anyone with my work (except for you, loyal column-reader). It’s really effing hard to be a dreamer in 2007.

Not only a dreamer, but a perfectionist. I’m remember with haunting clarity a gentleman’s bet I made with a friend-slash-nemesis the summer of 2002 about who would be more successful in five years. I’m still pretty sure I won that bet, but I didn’t win it in any way in the way I thought I would win it—with an Oscar under my belt and a lot more money in my checking account. If you don’t want to be an investment banker or a doctor or a lawyer, what else is there besides paltry desk jobs or—heaven forbid—retail?

While my life is hardly an episode of The Office, it’s nowhere near the glamorous glory that I imagined it would be. Desperate to be finished with schooling and a functional member of the working world, I never thought I would find myself dreading waking up in the morning and hitting snooze until the last possible nanosecond, watching Matt Lauer and Meredith Viera and praying for an earthquake so I could have a few days off of work. They say you always look back with rose-colored glasses, but I just didn’t think I’d look back with such yearning for those days of innocence, of coming home from class at noon and spending the rest of the day blissfully stoned and daydreaming about the wondrous world that awaited me upon graduation.

Reality bites, it really does. As GenY is learning this, I think we’re also learning to cope in a world quite unlike any other (though that’s not really all that novel of a statement, given that every generation faces a world unlike any other), facing down the demons of demands by the media and society and the pressures of perfection and pursuits of riches. The focus on money and the race to the top is so heavy that it’s easy for the average artist to get trampled in the stampede (as I once was—literally—trying to get into a USC Trojan football game). So what is the value of art in today’s world?

The “art” of film is certainly not truly appreciated in the world of blockbusters. The “art” of music is definitely not appreciated in a world of Britneys and Fall Out Boys (what happened to the rock band?!). And the “art” of writing is not appreciated in a world of dumbed-down mass appeal paperbacks topping the New York Times Best Sellers List (although, I will make an exception for Harry Potter et al). How does an artist, who wants to be true to himself but still reach a wide audience, cope?

Well, he doesn’t, really. He, at some point, has to give in to The Man and work a desk job to make ends meet until his big break comes along. And this town is full of bright aging hopefuls waiting desperately for that big break. The tease that has been present in our lives since the explosion of television and tabloid journalism. The sad reality is, the break will never come.

And that will be the downfall of our generation.

I Wish I'd Never...Sent That Love Letter to Anthony Kiedis

2007-02-21T17:27:00.000-08:00

I had hit the jackpot: the man whose child I was now baby-sitting was a business manager for a few bands. And not just any bands, my friends, but THE band. The band I've worshipped as performing music from Heaven itself. One of the last great sustaining rock bands. The one, the only, the Red Hot Chili Peppers.

I have had a minor obssession (which technically has grown into an uncomfortable obssession as of late) with Anthony Kiedis (the lead singer of RHCP) since I saw their Behind the Music in 1998 for the first time. I had no idea who he was or who they were but I was instantly drawn in by his sexy butt-length brown hair and his commanding eyes. The band's story was made for Hollywood and was nothing short of a rock legend. This first encounter with Anthony was but a brief moment of "Wow, that guy is HOT, maybe I'm not attracted to blonde preps with popped collars after all." Then I filed it away and pretty much forgot about them until 2002, when By the Way was released. It was the summer after I graduated from high school, and the album became the soundtrack to my first summer as a legal adult. The obssession began to grow.

Fast forward to 2003. I see the Chili Peppers in concert for the first time. Though I was seated essentially miles away from the stage, I was instantly drawn in by their stage presence and Anthony's undeniable charisma and charm. The concert was a milestone, as it strengthened my love for Anthony and obssession with the band.

For Christmas that year, a friend who had attended the concert with me gave me Anthony's autobiography, Scar Tissue. I read it cover to cover on my flight back to Los Angeles from London (where my family lived). It was a pretty unbelievable tale of Hollywood's golden age, of fate, of karma, of cosmic amazingness. Another momentous thing came from reading that book, though: I realized that Anthony Kiedis and I were soul mates.

Bite your tongue, naysayers. I have done the astrological compatibility tests and let me assure you, we are soul mates. Scorpio (Anthony) and Pisces (me) are one of the best matches on the Zodiac. That was enough for me. It cemented my obssession with Anthony and since then I have pretty much been certifiable. But NO, this is not your average celebrity crush. Why not? Because, duh, we're soul mates.

Which brings me to February of 2005. The sister and brother-in-law of a family I baby-sat for here in Los Angeles called me in a frenzy asking if I could baby-sit for them, as their nanny (excuse me, au pair) was going out of town. Sure, why not? House in Brentwood, I figured it could be a cool gig. That weekend when I was cleaning up the kitchen for these obviously wealthy people I found a backstage badge for the By the Way tour. When the parents got home that evening, I casually mentioned it to them.

"Oh yeah," the mom said. "[He] represents the Red Hot Chili Peppers."

Cue jaw dropping, heart racing, adrenalin pumping. I couldn't believe it. Not only did the stars say we were destined to be together, I was now ONE DEGREE REMOVED FROM THE MAN HIMSELF. I regained my composure, expressed how cool I thought that was, and went on my way, all the while the Crazy Bells in my head banging away to the tune of "YOU'RE GOING TO MARRY ANTHONY! YOU'RE GOING TO MARRY ANTHONY!"

After discussing it thoroughly with my roommate, I decided I should take a chance and see if this guy wouldn't mind getting my copy of his book autographed. In retrospect, that was stupid, because a soul mate wouldn't ever be so pathetic as to ask for her mate's autograph. But I was still young and stupidly in love.

However, that really wasn't the stupid part. The stupid part was allowing myself to be convinced that this might be the only opportunity I would ever have to share my love and knowledge of our soul matedness with Anthony, and, thus, I should write him a letter. So I did.

I wrote a sappy, dramatic, crazy-laced paragraph expressing my deep appreciation for his words, his music, his story, and shared that I was so touched by his work because I felt like I could truly relate to him. I tucked it inside the front cover of the book, and, after getting the go-ahead from the guy's sister-in-law, passed on my book with the aforementioned letter enclosed, though against my better judgment.

I didn't get the book back for nearly a year, but it was autographed--even addressed to me--in his beautiful handwriting. I was so happy. I was also so happy that many many more one degree separation connections between me and Anthony had been made in the interim time.

I only found it slightly strange that I hadn't been asked to baby-sit for this family for months--after all, they did have a full time nanny (excuse me, au pair). However, it wasn't until a few weeks later that I learned why they had stopped calling me to baby-sit.

"Oh, they think you're crazy," his sister-in-law said.

"What?" I asked, confused.

"Yeah, they read your letter to Anthony Kiedis. They think you're a heroin addict."

My stomach dropped. My heart rose to my throat. My vision went all spotty. I couldn't believe it. They READ my LETTER?! Isn't that, like...ILLEGAL?! Opening someone else's mail is against the law, for God's sake! My knees started to knock together and I thought I was going to die. In one second I became thirteen years old again, a silly little girl who wanted to write letters to Prince William and run away with Paul McCartney.

The parents laughed. "Yeah, apparently you said something about being able to relate to him in your letter? They interpreted that as you're a heroin addict. They don't want you around our kids."

"W-what...what? What did you say?!"

"We laughed! I thought it was hysterical! Obviously you're not a heroin addict."

Obviously.

I didn't see the manager father again until a birthday party several months later. I decided I had two options: to be embarrassed and cower away in a corner, hoping he didn't recognize me, or I could face him head on and turn the embarrassment on HIM.

"So!" I said, marching right up to him. "I hear you think I'm crazy."

He was, needless to say, caught off-guard. "N-no, no, of course not, I just..." he stammered.

I smiled. "It's okay. I guess I am a little crazy."

No sooner had I said the words did I realize that they were true. I was finally embracing my craziness, for all that it's done for me.

But still, I wish I'd never sent that love letter to Anthony Kiedis.

Life on the Other Side

2007-02-06T22:52:00.000-08:00

30 March 2005

I did it. I caved. I swore I never would, but I gave in to lust, intrigue, and peer pressure.

I got an iPod.

To be fair, it was a gift--a reminder of which is engraved on the back with the message "Happy 21st, Caroline / Love, Mom and Dad." To continue this theme of fairness, it's what I told my parents I wanted for my birthday.

I tried to fight it--I really did. Everyone else in my six-person family got one and loved it. I saw on average thousands of fellow college students a day on campus, jamming along to their own drummers. I even saw a homeless man with one across the street from a major mall in Los Angeles.

And yet I resisted. I continued to stand as a regressive member of society, lugging my old-fashioned Nike Athletic Discman and CaseLogic book of 500 CDs through airports, used a boom box, and the CD player in my car got tons of exercise. But finally, I gave in.

The simplicity, ingenuity, and rationality of the iPod is undeniable. Thousands of songs on a small, lightweight electronic device the size of an index card (or smaller)? Brilliant! Going to school in LA with my family living in London, I do more traveling than the average Joe--seems the perfect accessory for someone like me.

But those iPod people--they drove me crazy. Bopping through public in their own world, ignoring everything and everyone around them, carrying themselves with that haughty air of technological supremacy. Haven't we as a culture gotten anti-social enough? Dow we really need more to separate us from each other? I guess so.

But you have to admit: it just makes sense. My first day with my iPod was certainly an enlightening one. I felt self-conscious and more acutely aware of my fellow iPod-ers while walking to class, feeling as though I should nod hello to these people, as though we were part of an elite group (nobody returned the nod). But I was one of THOSE. Sadly, though, I was instantly addicted. Listening to my professor all afternoon was out of the question. I did my best to hide the wires coming from my head with my hair; pretended to be intently taking notes while secretly scrolling through half of my music catalogue. The cost of getting caught and singled out in front of the class for listening to my own lecture was high, but a risk I was suddenly willing to take. (Much like the chance of walking into moving traffic because I decided to switch between the first and second discs of the White Album while crossing the street. And they say technology saves lives.)

Suddenly my internal monologue and daydreams had their own soundtracks--how post-modern is that? I was always closed inside my own head; now I'm locked there. I've always felt slightly odd, walking around lost deep in thought (I like to compare myself to Socrates, who supposedly had the same habit, muttering through the streets of Athens), and now I have something to further enable my quirkiness. But now, surrounded by thousands of similar music-obsessed loners, I have to ask: are we ALL freaks?

Who knows, really. Maybe we are, maybe we're all joined by this common denominator of freakiness. Is this a development in humanity or in society? The post-modern answer is that it's a little of both--but it probably is anyway.

Sure, it kind of saddens me that people would rather lock themselves away, cowering from others safely behind their iPods. But honestly, most of them probably weren't all that worth my time anyway. I guess one day I'll get to know some of these iPoders. In the meantime, I'll be perfecting my lip-reading skills, because The Killers are far more entertaining than Hobbes.

The Ins and Outs of a Nobody in a Sea of Somebodies

2007-02-05T21:31:00.000-08:00

3 March 2005

Driving in Los Angeles is one of the most dangerous tasks a man may ever have to undertake. And, in a bizarre twist of irony, it is practically a requirement if one wants to venture out into the City of Angels.

Heading West on Interstate 10 ("the 10," to the locals), blasting CALIFORNICATION in my Iraqi-oil-guzzling Chevy Tahoe, my gaze drifts to the Hollywood sign out my right window, and I can't help but wonder: who might that be in the black-windowed limo next to me?

When you live in LA, you never know who you may have just met, may have just walked past, may have just been within a mile of...it gets under your skin, LA does. You begin looking over your shoulder at every flashbulb (lest it be that of a paparazzo), peering over your steering wheel to see if you can see through the blackened windows, and double-taking everyone wearing sunglasses indoors.

The difficulties of driving in LA are numerous. First, one has to take into account that there are about 5 million LEGAL drivers in LA County, and God knows how many illegal drivers. There are the trucks, the limos, the morons, and the native Angelenos, who are afraid to merge on the freeway. Then there's the fact that there are approximately four left turn lights in the entire county--making turning a near-death experience and a guarantee red light-running maneuver.

Throw in a little weather, and you have the makings of the perfect Hollywood action flick. People in Southern California are physically incapable of handling ANY sort of real weather that isn't sunny and 75 degrees. This has been made all too clear to me this calendar year driving during the torrents of rain we've been receiving as a result of "global climate change."

I love it when it rains in LA, even if that means driving an average of 4 miles per hour and/or watching people lose control of their cars left and right. The clouds over the Hollywood Hills are so symbolic, and are always a welcome respite from the blanket of smog we all know and love. One must, as a driver, be careful of jaywalkers when it rains, though--unfortunately, I know from personal experience that they like to dart out in front of your car, causing you to ruin your brakes and STILL hit them (lucky for me, the law was on my side: pedestrians outside the crosswalks are fair game. God bless the technicalities). You are truly taking your life--and everyone else's, apparently--in your hands when you drive in LA.

And then, the clouds part, the pavement dries up, and the whole city has a glow about it. For a few days, you can see for miles--I can even see the Hollywood sign watching me while I'm on campus. These moments between cloudy and clear are when the magic happens--when you can feel LA breathing in you.

To me, the constant sunshine in LA is symbolic of the mask everyone here wears: everyone is an actor, it's all one big conglomerate of one-man shows. And when it rains, the makeup gets washed away, making everyone tense and uncomfortable. Afterwards, though, the sun shines, and it's beautiful, and you can truly feel the bizarre uniqueness that no other city in the world has.

Behind all of the facades and sunglasses and blacked-out windows, there are real people, real souls, and real lives. They may all be in their own universes, but it's their own, distinct form of reality. If you're not a native, you constantly find yourself between the world everyone else knows and LA--and it's dizzying, upsetting, and confounding. But this city, she loves you, for better or worse. This is celebreality.

It Happened to Me

2007-01-30T12:21:00.001-08:00

It was bound to happen at some point. As a PA (read: slave) on Mr. and Mrs. Smith during its hellish post-production phase, I figured it was certain to happen that I would have a run-in with the man himself. I just didn’t think that it would involve eye contact and, yes, an exchange of words.

I had been slaving away as a second assistant to one of the producers of the film, working directly under the first assistant, who was all too happy to wield power over me, the green college student working illegally for free. (After all, who would pass up an opportunity to possibly come in contact with a living god? Certainly not any breathing, heterosexual female.) It was getting down to the wire, though, looking less likely that I would actually have a brush with A List stardom. Until I heard the good news: we were doing re-shoots.

Re-shoots on a project like Mr. and Mrs. Smith involve a lot of stress, a lot of long hours, and, for me, a lot of running around. Being that I was still in college, I didn’t make it to all of them, but I made it to enough to solidify my desire to be in the film industry. The first day I was up extra-early in order to make the 7 AM call time. But the hour wasn’t on my mind. What was on my mind was looking my very best—on the off chance that the rumors weren’t true and Brad was, in fact, on the market. That first day I did have a brush with him at the craft service table. However, I was too immobilized by his beauty to make anything more than a guttural sound that was enough to send me slinking back to the production trailer for a significant portion of the day.

But the real experience, the real memory that is forever seared in my mind happened on the last day of re-shoots over a month later. After a rushed morning of shopping for “spoiled celebrities,” as my “boss” said, we raced through LA traffic to make it to the tightly-secured location where the final shoot was to take place. Our purchases included several bottles of mid-grade wine for the cast to celebrate the end of the affair. When the day was coming to a close, I ended up ordered to serve the wine.

I watched him like a hawk as he chatted and laughed with his co-stars and the crew (diplomatically, I noticed, avoiding “Angie”), my heart pounding so loudly I feared it would give away my amateur status in regards to being in the presence of such celebrity. He wound his way over to where I was standing, shaking wine glass in hand, waiting to serve. And then, he smiled—at me. Sending my heart straight to my nether regions and causing a lump in my throat so big I thought I would pass out.

“Red or white?” I squeaked, positive that I was giving myself away as a psychopathic fan.

“What are you, the wine girl?”

I giggled—I actually giggled—and said, face flushed, “I guess I am. What’ll it be?” I swallowed the lump and thought, “Be cool, Caroline, be cool.”

“I don’t know, what do you think goes better with a bike?” (He had ridden his motorcycle to set that day.)

“Um, red?”

“Red it is.”

And then with a wink and a smile, he turned away, and our encounter was over. But I will forever be able to say: I served wine to Brad Pitt.

Nantucket: My Love, My Solace

2007-01-30T12:19:00.000-08:00

January 29, 2007

In a life marked with turmoil, sadness, and untold despair, the one thing that remained a constant comfort throughout my childhood was our summer holidays on Nantucket. No matter where we were living (and many moves put us in many different places year to year), no matter what sort of state I was in at the time, one thing was as certain as death and taxes: Nantucket.

Every year as spring rolled around I would eagerly anticipate the long drive to Hyannis from upstate New York, or southern Connecticut, or the drive from Logan Airport when we were living in Texas and had to rent a car. Our annual trips to Nantucket were one thing that seemed to put us all in a good mood; waiting at the loading dock before getting on the Eagle we were filled with the excitement that only pre-adolescent children can possess—but to some degree, we could sense it in our parents, too. Dad always seemed a bit more relaxed as he bought us lobster rolls and clam chowder before driving onto the boat; Mom would happily pull out the cards and Mad Libs for the ferry ride over. And the closer we got to the island, the more intense the feelings became: we could feel the rush of the salt air in our hair, smell the honeysuckle from miles away. As soon as we rounded Brant Point and began the slow ease into the harbor, the grey-shingled houses with their white trim seemed to smile at me and whisper, “Everything will be okay now.”

Clinically depressed since the ripe old age of nine, I had a different sort of childhood than one would have assumed looking from the outside in. We had a nice family, well-off (summers on Nantucket) and non-divorced parents. I was accomplished in school and could hold my own on a sports field. But I struggled in the throes of depression throughout a significant part of my childhood and through my adolescence, and the one thing that always brought me relief was our time on Nantucket.

From the bike riding to the weather (rain or shine) to the cobblestones in town, Nantucket was always there for me, reassuring in its consistency and calming in its relaxed, summer-town atmosphere. I knew I could ride my bike to Nobaside to escape any stress at home and just lying on the beach would bring me peace. I could get up early for breakfast with my dad at Arno’s, and, later on, at the Juice Bar. My siblings and I could sneak away and defy our parents’ reminders not to run down the dunes and do it anyway; we could be freer than we could anywhere else because, after all, Nantucket is the safest place in Christendom; we could test our father’s limits by swimming out “just a little farther” at Surfside. Cliff Road would always take me to Something Natural and riding through the cemetery at night would always be creepy in that way that New England cemeteries are. I could dig for sand crabs and, after a storm, brave the waves at Cisco. And everything, momentarily, was all right.

Many momentous occasions in my life have also occurred on Nantucket: an almost-first kiss; my first step into womanhood; my first sip of alcohol; a brief weekend spent with a friend before she went off to college lying under the stars on Madaket Beach sharing the depths of our souls. For these reasons alone Nantucket will always be special to me, but she is so much more than these incidents; she is a feeling unto herself, a lifestyle not found anywhere else, a calm promise that can never be broken.

During one particularly difficult time during high school—I had suffered a brutal back injury the spring of my junior year and was more or less debilitated for six months—our annual trip to Nantucket was replaced with a trip to Hawaii, instead. As much fun in the sun as Hawaii is, there was something different about this trip—a beach is not just a beach no matter where you are. The clear blue reefs of the tropical paradise were no match for the dark blue-green Atlantic waters; the smell of hibiscus and orchid leis were a weak replacement for hydrangea bushes and walls of honeysuckle. It was then that I realized what an important part of my life Nantucket was, how I had come to count on it as my therapy. My love affair with Nantucket had grown and matured through the years out of an unrealized longing for something to quell the storms raging inside of me; before I could understand it, Nantucket had found a way to ease the pain I felt and despair I could not seem to escape.

Any time I smell honeysuckle, or feel the faint tinge of salt in the air, or pass a weathered shingled house, I am transported back in time to a place where life was simple, where I had a brief respite from my demons. Nantucket has always been, and, I venture to say, always will be, the one place on Earth I truly feel at home. Since I’ve gotten older and have stopped going to the Island every summer, I have felt an emptiness that I know can only be replaced by a winding trip through Seven Seas or a wade through the shallow waters at Steps Beach.

As I’m beginning to enter adulthood—slowly, but determinedly—and attempting to put my past behind me, I’m realizing with greater clarity what it means to have such strong emotions attached to a place. Nantucket is more than just an island, it is an attitude, a state of mind, a haven that I can return to if not in person, then at least in spirit. Whether it be through an Eric Holch painting or a photo album or To Gillian on her 37th Birthday, I have learned to find Nantucket in every day things. It has brought me hope when I thought there was none, happiness when all I could see was sorrow, and bright memories when the present seemed so bleak. Nantucket has proven to me that one thing is certain: you can always go home again.

Why I Hate New York

2007-01-30T11:51:00.000-08:00

January 3, 2007

I find New York City to be such a cliché that anyone who moves there in their twenties immediately loses respect in my eyes. Including my own parents.

To be fair, the allure of Manhattan is understandable. For the average person, who has grown up somewhere in between the two coveted coasts, New York City holds in it the promise of everything that Middle America lacks: fame, fortune, success, love, excitement. New York City is far more accessible than a place like Los Angeles, its loose rival; New York City is, in fact, the historic gateway to America, boasting Ellis Island and a lasting Lady Liberty, her light a beacon to immigrants and college graduates alike. The heartbeat and lifeblood of the city are very real and palpable, which makes it even more appealing to someone just embarking into a brave new world. New York is a cultural, artistic, and business Mecca; none of these things can be denied. But New York is also an excuse; it is the easy out; it is the obvious answer. And for these reasons I find New York to be so despicable and deplorable that any of my peers who eagerly leap towards the city after graduation cause me to shake my head and become embarrassed that I am even acquainted with them.

Part of the reason that I hate New York is because it has lured away many people in my life who I would have rather stayed with me, near me, anywhere but there: the longtime girlfriend wanting to be an actress opting for the stage rather than the screen; the sporadic lover whose attention I could never quite hold; the best friend from college who found the city to offer a life far more simple than Los Angeles. Part of my antagonism towards New York is the result of a defense of Los Angeles, where I have inexplicably (and, admittedly, also somewhat clichéd-ly) found myself at this point in my life. I chose Los Angeles; everyone else apparently chose exactly the opposite, resulting in my need to defend my choice vehemently.

But New York also is a place built upon romance that can not possibly hold true that it disgusts me that I once associated myself with people who fall ignorant to its empty promises. I lived for quite some time during my childhood in upstate New York and consequently visited the city several times before my adolescence; at the time, it was a breathtaking, fascinating, glamorous city; far more interesting, certainly, than Buffalo, where I lived, and Boston, where I spent my summers with my mother’s family. I loved the action, the museums, the liveliness of everything. But then again, I was merely a child; children are easily sucked in by oversized toy stores and gargantuan ice cream sundaes.

The most significant aspect of what I like to call that New York Cliché is that the people in their immediate post-collegiate years who choose to move there somehow think that they are instantly these chic adults by simple virtue of the fact that they live there. You know the type: they cram themselves like sardines, four people to a one-bedroom sixth-story walk-up apartment on the Upper East Side; they read the Village Voice because that instantly conveys a level of coolness otherwise unattainable; they stop at the City Bakery for hot chocolate. The young women picture themselves to be replicas of Carrie/Samantha/Charlotte/Miranda; the young men, Patrick Bateman, in perhaps the most amusing irony of all given the fact that the vast majority of college men don’t realize that American Psycho is a satire.

My first visit to New York City post-childhood came the summer after my sophomore year of college, for fourth of July weekend to visit a friend from university. It was significant because it was my first visit to a 9/11 site; 9/11, having been a particularly traumatizing event for me considering the fact that I did not directly know anybody affected, holds with it a weight all its own that is above New York itself. I had sensed long before the visit that I would not like Manhattan upon my return, but I vowed to look at it with fresh eyes and the vigor only a college coed can have. Unfortunately, I found it to be a city so full of itself and up its own ass that even Ground Zero lacked the emotional meaning I expected it to have for me.

It’s not that I can’t handle the brusqueness New Yorkers pride themselves on; Angelenos can have as much of an attitude as any grouping of people around. It’s not that I don’t find New York to offer a plethora of lifestyle and activity avenues that aren’t found most places; these things, to be certain, are something New York rightfully prides itself on. It’s the significance that people in their 20s give New York; it’s the ignorance that my peer group somehow has come to adopt as a collective whole that has led it to believe that New York is heaven on earth; the most outrageous move a young person can make. New York, in fact, is the Cliché of Clichés.

The most intriguing aspect of all of this anti-New York sentiment to me is the fact that I, too, find myself drawn in by the romance and apparent anything-can-happen feel of the city, and want to live there at some point while I’m still young and single. Of course I want to: who doesn’t want to be a successful young ingénue with her pseudo-boho apartment on her oh-so-perfect block of brownstones, wearing her delightfully charming Jimmy Choos and tapping away on her Mac, dating a string of handsome and eclectic men. This, however, is the myth of New York that still makes it the number one hotspot for post-college children to descend upon. It is a city built upon myths; myths that should be, if not shattered, then at least shaken a little bit.

You see, New York has been reduced to an idea, a concept, a pose; its inhabitants, the ultimate poseurs. It has become a parody of itself, pastiche within post-modern pastiche; it has developed into the exact ridiculous portrait of wannabes and moochers that Ellis started to lay into the chemicals with American Psycho. This is so beyond insane that I am forced, by my own stubbornness and desire to go against the grain, to hate New York.

And so, I hate NY.