Thursday, March 29, 2007

Rat-a-Tat-Tat

Went and got my first tattoo today. It was my 21st birthday present to myself. (Though, 2 weeks early.) No more spending money for me.

I was honestly worried that I wouldn't end up getting it. Something always seems to happen in my brain that makes me not do things with this kind of permanency. Also, when I made the appointment at Energy Tattoo yesterday, I was starting to feel like I just couldn't get what I wanted across. I wasn't have second-thoughts about getting a tattoo, just a general nervousness about whether or not it would turn out the way I wanted.

The idea for the tattoo was a sweet pea blossom -- two to be precise. One for my grandma and one for my grandpa. They grew sweet peas in their massive garden in San Jose when I was young, and there were also potted plants of them inside. They were their favorite flowers, or at least one of them. I wanted to get something for them, not "in memory" but rather as a reminder to myself of what happened with them (and is currently happening, in my grandmother's case) and how I want to avoid.... well.... I'm not going to go into it. I'll just leave it at "It's for my grandparents."

I sketched the tattoo myself, a very artistic rendering of what I thought the sweet pea looked like (much less girlie and "flowery"), though PJ Ferrante (the artist) re-finished it to a more proper tattoo style:


I'm in love with it. And I was so nervous that I wouldn't be. I don't even have to try and convince myself, I genuinely am perfectly satisfied with it. The one con I will say is this: If anyone ever came to me and said "I'm thinking of getting a tattoo on the top of my foot," I would say "Go for it, but only if you're prepared for 1 hr. of the worst pain of your life."

I thought my foot was being ripped apart. As I told Cassie, I'm just going to attribute it to, what I assume might be, the feeling of giving birth: Thinking I was dying, but being so very grateful, nonetheless, when it's over and at the final product.

Seriously though. Pain. Like whoa.

I'm gonna be wearing the same pair of black shoes for... the rest of my life.

Thursday, March 22, 2007

The Play's the Thing

After almost three anxious weeks of waiting, I learned today that my play wasn't picked for the New Plays Festival. I'm definitely disappointed, though not as upset as I expected to be. Can't say I know what to think about most of the plays that were picked, but I'm sure they'll all be good. At least I hope so. No hard feelings.

Much of the reason I'm not feeling very upset is because I know that not getting chosen doesn't mean my play isn't good. In fact, I know it's good, and I'm never that confident in my work.

The idea of getting into NPF meant a lot to me because I'm feeling the need for some self-validation. Something that is going to keep me reassured that I'm not wasting my time writing, trying to be a playwright, or whatever it is writing-wise I want to be. I have to stay focused on not taking this whole not-getting-chosen thing as a sign that I shouldn't be doing this.

My friend Shannon and I have talked a lot about how much we wanted this. (Her play, Antibiosis, which is far superior to mine and utterly brilliant, wasn't picked either.) I'm sad for her, and sad for me. But my first thought after finding out about what did get picked for NPF was not how disappointed I was, but rather "How can I get my play done?" I think she and I are going to discuss renting out a space, getting directors and casting our work to be done sometime. Both of our plays are good enough, I think, and there is no reason on earth why we shouldn't try and bring our stuff to life; our ability to showcase our work shouldn't depend on what Naomi Iizuka deems suitable for Main Stage acclaim.

So that's the plan, at least in my head. We have directors, actors, designers galore, always looking for something to do in order to showcase their work. So I'm actually feeling pretty good. With this idea in mind, as well as knowing how awesome working on Angels in America is going to be, I'm feeling remarkably good.

Friday, March 16, 2007

"Charms to Soothe the Savage Beast"

Nothing seems more inappropriate to me than the "labeling" of music—branding it with some kind of genre, as if a title of rock or alternative or emo really tells you anything about what kind of music it is.

I'll be the first to admit that I don't know anything about music. All I know is how I feel when I listen to a certain thing, and I just don't care about all the useless, snobby information associated with it, like the year it came out or if it's actually the 10th remake of some long-lost soul song from the 50's. I just couldn't give less of a fuck.

But I do care about my response. That's how we all gauge our appreciation of music, isn't it? By our initial gut reactions to the sounds, because that's what music is: an audible, semi-tangible, emotional response. It's built on moods, not on logic or information.

So for as long as I can remember, I have thought about my favorite music according to my moods, because I just don't understand the significance of genres. No one really uses them anyway, not really. There are so many different types of music, these hybrid fusions, and a single word just doesn't cut it anymore. What does it encompass? "Sub-pop-emo-rock"? What the hell is that? I don't want you to pitch your music to me, for Christ's sake! I don't want to hear shit like "It's The Beatles meets Justin Timberlake," 'cause that bullshit is just gonna make me have an aneurism.

Music isn't supposed to make my fuckin' brain hurt. Either I'm gonna like your music, or I'm not. Get over it. So if you're around me, and we're listening to music, there's one thing you should know: If I ask you about what type of music you want to listen to, I expect you to answer with a mood or a season. That's r
ight. A season. Moods are so varied, so I usually put my favorite music into a particular season. Granted, I haven't "categorized" everything this way, particularly stuff I never listen to, like hard-core country and rap—what the hell is that stuff? It's not even music to me. But the main stuff I listen to is associated with seasons, and while that may seem weird, I say: Fuck you. It makes a painful amount of sense.

Brief example:

Winter (ie. mellow, sleepy music)
Rufus Wainwright
Norah Jones
Josh Groban
Damien Rice

End-of-Winter (ie. relaxed but semi-lively music)
Amos Lee
Teddy Thompson
Joshua Radin

Spring/End-of-Spring (ie. upbeat, general driving music)
Guster
Incubus
Bon Jovi

Summer (day) (ie. very lively, energetic, fun music)
Panic! at the Disco
The All-American Rejects
Christina Aguilera

Summer (night) (ie. smooth, meditative music)
The Smiths
Smashing Pumpkins
Nick Drake
Iron & Wine
The Weepies

End-of-Summer/Fall (ie. bouncy but chill music)
Jason Mraz
Savage Garden
The Ditty Bops
John Mayer

All of this music is my favorite, but I will want to listen to one over the other depending on what I feel like that day. The weather plays a part, my feelings play a part. What I'm doing that day plays a part.

Music is so complicated, it's designed to affect us so deeply and fully, and I don't understand why anyone tries to make people like their type of music. That can't happen—it's impossible.

I'm happy to be blissfully ignorant of the technicalities of music. I couldn't live with my love for it if I didn't have this childish, overly-simplified approach to describing what it is for me.

Thursday, March 15, 2007

An Open Letter to the Jolie-Pitts

Well, you did it again. It's bad enough that you are already the world's most perfect "modern" family, with your diverse-happy children and your we're-not-gonna-get-married-'til-everyone-can mentality, but now you've gone and adopted another kid. As if your family wasn't beautiful enough before, you have to go and get yourselves another Asian boy.
Adding this 3-year-old bundle of cute to your ever-increasing family, I know, it's still only the beginning. You’re not going to stop, and you know what? I hope you don’t. I hope that you continue to adopt a child from every country (except the US, because let’s be honest: Shiloh is “American,” and you only need one of those damned spoiled, almighty "I'm from the best country in the world" children to make you wanna regret it for life), just like you promised you would years and years ago after adopting Maddox: “I want my house to look like the UN.” You said that. And it’s clear that you fucking meant it.

And Brad. Seriously. You sure know how to pick a family. Good work, seriously, because if I could leave my wife for someone else, it would be Angelina Jolie. It’s evident that you don’t feel guilty, and why would you? You’ve got babies galore, and what does Jennifer Aniston have? Well, unless you count Vince Vaughn, she’s got zero babies. None at all.

I’ll be honest, Ange: I love you. I respect you and I wish I could be you. More than is healthy.

Pax Thien. That is an amazing name. Leave it to you to really know how to name your kids so that none of them have a "country of origin," but rather a worldly name that pretty much will give them claim to any area of the world they choose. PAX means "peaceful" in Latin, and THIEN means "sky" in Vietnamese. Wow. That is skill beyond anything I can grasp, and you deserve a big fat snap.

I just realized how sarcastic this letter sounds, and I'm going to take a moment to amend that: I have so much respect for you, it's painful. I'm sad that I'm not rich and famous and more giving and more loving of children, or I would be out there myself picking up kids from all over the world so that my family photos will looks like beautiful canvases of splatter paint.

I see where this is going. So, because I love you, and because I pride myself on having an eye for continuity and an overall sense of evenness, I have decided to help with your Campaign For Family Diversity by giving you these suggestions for where to go from here:

Next time you adopt a kid, it needs to be a BOY from RUSSIA. You heard me. A toe-head kid from somewhere that reaches temperatures below 50° in the winter time. And he needs to have a crazy white person's name that no one can pronounce because those letters don't exist in the English language.

And when you decide to go and get a sixth kid, I'm thinking a GIRL from INDIA. One that would otherwise get sold into prostitution. Preferably from some poor, destitute village in the north, near a dangerous mountain range. And talk about making your family even more beautiful: there are no women more beautiful than Indian women.

Now, I'm aware that you aren't doing this for the fame, and you're not doing for the attention. You love these kids and you love these countries. But it's important to be inclusive, and not pick and choose so much. Maybe in 10 years when you start to increase past 6 kids ('cause let me tell ya: these kids need to grow up a bit; stop adopting so freakin' quickly! Shiloh is still a "blob," no?), maybe South America would be a good way to bring your Circus to the Americas.

From a fan who wishes she were as rich and loving as you are, I hope that Pax rounds out this family tree perfectly... until the next Jolie-Pitt comes along.

Jealously yours,
Stacy

Wednesday, March 14, 2007

Time For A Change


"Water never accomplishes the end, no matter how much you cry. Flood's not the answer, people just float." — Harper, Angels in America, Part II: Perestroika by Tony Kushner
Another quarter comes to an end and I can't help feeling in a funk. This "blog" thing has been a procrastination staple in my life for almost four years. Pathetic. But even more pathetic is the fact that nothing productive, profound or meaningful has really come out of them. I've attempted to "rebuild" my LifeJournal a hundred times, and almost 900 entries later, it all still seems trivial. So rather than continuing to embark on another superfluous rant about how incapable I am of being interesting to readers, I've abandoned LiveJournal and am really starting afresh here on blogspot.

I'm not profound. I don't have an impressive vocabulary. I don't write subtle things that sound at all creative. But I need some kind of writing outlet, for whatever comes through me. Travel experiences. Important thoughts. Open letters. Reviews. Scene excerpts. Maybe some poems, which—lets be honest
would suck.

I feel lighter; without that ranting, bitching, girlie train of entries attached to my ass, I finally feel as though I'm letting all that shit go.

Good riddance. And hello.