Wednesday, July 29, 2009

The Hypo-reaction

I have been brainstorming how to start this entry, and i had a couple of idearz. One was:

You know those moments when you remember something you said or did and just cringe?

Then i thought, wow. That would be a impressively douchy "lede">>>as is said in the editorial world PAHA.

Which got me on the train of thinking about hypothetical questions in general, especially that sucker that i may have employed had i left my snark filter in the shower (i just showered, fyi) and OMJWG(oh my jehovas witness' God) hypo questions suuuckkkk.

A hypothetical question (h.q. from this point onward, to lessen the annoyance of repetition) is, by my grade school definition, a question that is not meant to be answered. Then i was like, okay, well what is a question? And to be honest, i was too lazy to drum out an answer, so i'ed it. And for our intents and purposes of talking shitte on the h.q., i learned that:


a sentence in an interrogative form, addressed to someone in order to get information in reply.

Then i thought, well im on the website, why not go crazy. ALSO learning:

hy·po·thet·i·cal question/"hI-p&-'the-ti-k&l/ : a question directed to an expert witness (as a physician) that is based on the existence of facts offered in evidence and the answer to which is an opinion to be considered in light of the evidence NOTE: Modern rules of evidence have lessened the need for a hypothetical question setting forth all of the facts to be assumed in answering the question. An expert witness may state an opinion based on data or facts considered reliable in his or her field even if not already disclosed or not admissible as evidence.


Okay, well, the hq i am thinking of is the one slipped into the middle of a T.S. Eliot essay, "If life is meaningless, then what is death?" or "Have you ever wondered if there was more to life, other than being really, really, ridiculously good looking? " or "So I'm rappelling down Mount Vesuvius when suddenly I slip, and I start to fall. Just falling, ahh ahh, I'll never forget the terror. When suddenly I realize "Holy shit, Hansel, haven't you been smoking Peyote for six straight days, and couldn't some of this maybe be in your head?"

H.q.s are such a vapid, narcissistic excuse for a sentence that could be used to deftly drive the point that all the other previous painstakingly constructed sentences were waiting for. It's like each hopeful, sweating little guy is there, holding his place firmly in the paragraph, waiting for that concluding bit that will make all his multiple, semi-coloned dependent clauses worth it. Whispering feverishly to the brain power that holds his fate in their trembling, overcaffinated fingers...

Oh! Don't muck it up (supporting evidence is English?)

And then, much to the dismay of the poor bastard the "writer" takes a deep inhale of something with tobacco , exhaling an ohhhh, I've got it now, and, believe it or not, at the same time, extolling, with his sudden surge of genius, something akin to the meaningless nature of:

"Did you ever see that "Twilight Zone" where the guy signed a contract and they cut out his tongue and put it in a jar and it wouldn't die, it just grew and pulsated and gave birth to baby tongues?"

NO! i didn't see that one Garth! Because what you're saying or rather NOT SAYING has nothing to do with all the hard work you did the seven sentences before that. Also, its cocky! I'm not going to telll you what i mean, I am just going to let you simmer on that sexy thought-provoking thing i just said...while i go look in the mirror, perhaps ask my reflection the same thing....brb...self...what is Love? Also its lazy! Instead of taking the head hurting time to correctly identify just what should be articulated as the final point, I'm going to throw you a curve ball. Just try and figure out what i mean now, bitch.

NO! we are not your bitches, we are the readers. We are the people YOU are trying to WIN OVER, not piss off. This is not literary I spy, no one is going to play a game because you are too a)stupid b)lazy c)cocky to force your pudgy yet weirdly thin self to write coherently.

So "writers," paper do-ers, readers, philosophical conversationalists, (the only genre of people i shall exclude are those who are 'medicating') bloggers, speakers, PEOPLE OF THE WORLD think twice to thrice times before whipping out an hq. They suck, and your argument or entire being really, will suck so much less if you steer as clear of these affronts to intelligence as fervently as you can.

Monday, July 27, 2009

The Nanny

Launch was fly! i was stressed aboot half the time (fecking sally, not doing her thing) but still, it was viel Spass!


-meeting Trixie and a pretty blonde who told me about daily candy, which sounds fantasically cool. They were like Sacto needs one! I was like, I can't hear you, the blaring electro is taking up my eardrum space!

-Seeing Velvet Leafs darling collection, there was a long sleeved brown hether minidress with a keyhole and cream bow detail that was immaculate. and pretty.

-Talking to fellow fran drescher hair fan/big hair adoree, Nicole Kniss of Van Der Neer. Her funked up kiddie/Alice in wanderlust inspo-ed stuff was a trip down the rabbits butthole that i truly enjoyed. Plus she likes big hair.

-Dancing, more like flinging myself around to ward off any crotches heading towards my backside, to LA Riots and Wallpaper.

-These guys:

-Looking like this:

I can't help it if I'm pretty/slightly angry. The lovely blonde in the back, throwin up the L sign, was on of Van Der Neer' Models (capital M) slash full time catwalk occupier.

As much fun as I managed to have, driving home I felt a familar pang of uncomfortable. I realized, as a usually do when i am on facebook, how much i truly miss those who reside currently in SB or will come September. As i unloaded my tired and sweaty butt into bed at 5 a.m. I allllmosst called a dear freund and released a shitstorm of nostalgia. Guess who saved the day? Not Sally, she sucks for anything personal. This honor of self restraining Sonia goes to none other than Fran Fine.

I am no stranger to the comedy of errors that is The Nanny. Ask those whom i miss so tremendously in SB, I violently defend that Jew's wardrobe and hair like she was an actual person. As my obsession developed, I began to love not only the nanny, but the woman behind her. I read found her bio and read proudly aloud to the rommates how she battled uterine cancer, releasing, upon its defeat, the book "Cancer Schmanzer." I also, to snorted laughter at my insistence to educate everyone on Fran's life, told them how she has been robbed and raped in her LA apartment. womp womp womp.

I am not sure if anyone memorized the Nick at Night schedule like my insomniac self has, but at 3 am there begins an extensive session of Nanny re-runs. As i sat two feet from the television eating nutella out of the jar and drinking milk out of the carton like a heathen, I watched Fran wear tights with shorts and bizarre 60's mod hair; I felt better.

"Who would have guessed that the girl we've described,Was just exactly what the doctor prescribed?"

Saturday, July 25, 2009

Hey Sister, Soul Fister.

Last quarter at my seaside school I took a Pacific Literature course. We read a book about Samoan girlhood, Where We Once Belonged. The authoress, Sia Figel, douses poor Western readers with lots of Samoan words. It was frustrating for many of my classmates; they said things like She is doing it on purpose, It makes me not want to read it, and I'm a bitch. There was a dictionary in the back, and sometimes to understand what the funk was going on, you'd have to leaf through it, return to your spot, and fit the newly defined phrase into your understanding.

Tiring? Yes.
The same shit that any culture had to do once the big bad Western man stepped in to civilize their brown heathen asses? JAVOLL!

Anyway from such a book, I learned that agaga was/is the Samoan word for soul.

And I couldn't help but wonder (holla miss bradshaw) if Lady Gaga is privy to this fact.

Friday, July 24, 2009

Launching Sally

Hi kittens!

So a little less philosophizing and a little more event updation. Not that, like, I am on the Sacto map, But i figure its good practice for when my how-to bj tape releases. la la la.

So Saturday! is tommorrow. And if you are in the 916 arena and care to partake in some certain high waisted, pouty bored, fist pumping hipster harkening 'tivities of festival like proportion, you should swing by the Greens Hotel for Vhcle (only one vowel) Magazine's Launch.

Tickets are an unglorious $20 or for VIP $25 (woof) but there is a shitteload of stuff going on. Fashions from the lovely minds of Van Der Neer, Velvet Leaf, Bows and Arrows, and Cuffs will be vending and showing off while sound makers such as LA Riots, The Robot and jj, Dances With White Girls, Love Like Fire (im already getting sweaty and excited) get groovy and stone-faced, producing madly fun noises. 

Das event spans form 6 p.m. to 2 a.m. (phunk the sacto curfew!) and then there is a wide eyed after party for another two hours. i love the euro rave time tables. Makes you believe we really can all come together. as one. 

On top of it all, the scenery (ahem architecture whatever) is supposed to be spectacular. At the very least, interesting. 

So OMRS (oh my richard simmons) you should get down to the greens and watch me walk around, looking lost, "reporting." Nah, I will do an excellent job. Mostly because I have newly created an alter ego, specifically for interviews or event coverage. I had to mold her up after a few saggy performances in interrogations and "discerning the vibe." Sally Fearless (uch uncreative, i know) is a bad ass. One listen to Earth Wind & Fire's Serpentine Fire, then a flash quick dose of some silly remix then some affirmations in my rearview mirror (You are a good reporter, you are a good reporter) and I'm (halfway) transformed. Ready to ask the questions. Take the notes. Ride my guerilla journalism education all the way to a error free story. gulp.

Aesthetically,  I see her a cross between Wonder Woman, Anna Karina, and Beyonce. Di-VA.

So lots of people should show to Launch, watch the fancy trussed up 20 yr olds prance around and myself as Sally Fearless stalk them. 

Friday, July 10, 2009

Which Wilderness is which?

I was not born into the wilderness.

I screamed my first semi loud roar to the world inside a linolium tiled building, with a scrub encased nurse to take me to another table, another pair of hands, to cut my ties to the wild.

I was raised in a brick house, with cheerios and central heating.

I was moved to a stucco house, with blazing summers and dry winters.

I have been loved and praised, I have graduated, I have handed in nights of miserable, breached thought and meaningless, hopeless prose.

I have rested inside of big airy rooms, with slow turning fans and heavy breathing partners.

I have never killed for my own survival, I have never foraged for a solitary meal.

I have never sustained another individual, I have never changed my own tire.

I have never bled for myself, I have never hurt for another.


I am not sure excatly what is the most meanigful way go about writing stories,talking to people, or (for the larger perspective, mm) LIVE. I hear myself speak on my digital recorder; the sound of my own, slowly articulating voice makes me cringe with hestitation. Hesitation over my own deliberate process; Am I a hack, Or am I really trying?

Prettily enough, I have met the fomer sayers who believe, albeit ungraciously, I am a hack. I sometimes believe it myself. It is only in brief, fleeting moments of mature and diligent reflection that I am thankful such voices exist. Without the loud, tulmutuos roar of accusation (self and non self)I would be stagnant in my principles. I would be too stationary. I am uninvested in the "simple life." Buying organic is about as close as I will get to Into the Wild. However I believe I've found such wilderness in the consistent, blinding self reflections, or the richochets of others'. What is the wilderness if not a check and balance for this life? I find solace in the shade of a tree, but i am challanged to grow while walking concrete groves and diving reluctantly into converstation with individuals smarter and quicker, who have louder voices and longer hair. My wilderness is not a comfort, and its not organic. It is constructed; but it humbles me always.

Nature may provide you with one truth, but my wild forces me to acknowledge there is small truth but my own, and that is faulty. I think i may prefer the ambiguious existence over one as a prolific mountaineer. Perhaps it stems from an obsession with leather, red soled shoes and pillows. Or perhaps i would rather be humbled and loved by rather than lonely and omnisicent.

And here, i defer to those far more brilliant than I.

I know Whitman finds whats good in das hood in nature, but i always thought the infamous first stanza of Song of Myself applied directly to me. I guess thats the point.

"I celebrate myself, and sing myself,

And what I assume you shall assume,

For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you. "

--Walt Whitman, Song of Myself

Monday, July 6, 2009

A Tiny, Insignificant itch

My mother has an acronym for me when i leave for an evening outing. I am notorious for leaving a cheerily lit house, bascially screaming with unwarrented hospitality and no peace of mind for the mistress. It's sort of newly coined, but when I whirlwind around the house, mascara and reeking perfume announcing gala intentions, she'll throw out a few "LLA, Sonia, please"

LLA: Lights, Lock, Alarm. I think she should add a C for curling iron because i often leave it on.

Most of the time she can tell I'm not really listening. She will see the glazed look in my eye which is more indicative of me visualizing how my ratty brown belt would look or if black heels would be too much, rather than repeating the instruction in my head.

"What are you supposed to remember?"

Maybe something more cinchy depending on drinks. Beer will not look good in that skirt, its hard to sit down in. what if the bar is demin flooded. hm. God. late.

"Lights alarm LOCK! i wont forget." already forgotten.

But i did remember that night, about 2 weeks ago. I remember teetering to the hallway and switching off the light, closing the door to my moms room, grabbing my purse and finally, finally making to the kitchen, one step closer to the car, the bar, being on time-ish.

And then one solitary lamp light in the entertainment room. One little fucking switch left unturned. Who even uses that light? Who the FUCK uses that lamp? When was the last time that lamp was even on. What even is a lamp. Dumb, dumb dumb. The entire house is on tracklighting, and we have a gaddamn LAMP IN THE CORNER OF THE ROOM.

Smoldering, i make my way over to the lamp, lean over, and twist its tiny insignificant switch until it blinks off.

I pushed the right button to set the alarm. I dead bolted the door and left the house.

Today I watched my mother sit on a chair in my room and tell me about her friends. I have nice light when i open my curtains and dont sleep till 2, we sat on in clean whitly lit space and she spoke softly and nicely. I was feeling like a bad character in a book. She told me how proud she was when i remember LLA.


"Sure," she said, "I'm very proud you remembered."

My mother said many more important and insightful things this afternoon. Great advice I wish i could pour into mason jars and stack in my closet. And maybe its narcisissm, but i am very proud that i remembered LLA. Because i didn't before, I just left everything on. And not because I wanted the house to be robbed or squatted in. Because i am careless, because i dont like turning the hallway light off, it creeps me out. Beacsue i dont really think about it. beacuse Im focusing on hair height instead of securing my mother's domain. But I am trying to remember LLA. I say it aloud and exhuberantly back to my mother, beaming and satisfied i've remembered. I take delicious comfort in knowing i did it right, that one time. I want to do it again. I want to always remember LLA. I have good confidence that I will from this point on.

I have to commend the acronym, it was almost like an olive branch of nagging, our little bridge by which our various bitchings could cross. Through her acronym I saw how easy it all was. Through the acronym she saw I wasn't hopeless.

Sometimes, you take a beating. And it never feels great, but in the wake of such uncomfortable feeling, I was surprised when LLA popped into my conscience. Its probably not my greatest accomplishment, but It means something to me, and to the woman with the acronym.