fame and pancakes

the other morning i had breakfast with drew carey at bob's big boy in toluca lake.

well, okay, i had breakfast, and he had breakfast, and while we were both in bob's big boy, we were not at the same table. this is actually the second time i've dined with drew, but the first time i had my camera with me.


me, in celeb mode, with drew carey behind me at the counter.


well, pancakes, obviously.

the thing about me, though, is that if i do see a celebrity (and i have that rare happening of matching name-with-face in my scattered head) i never want to approach them. i never want to ask for an autograph, to take my picture with them, of them. sure, i've been part of a crowd trying to get a glimpse of so-and-so--hell, in crowds like that i've elbowed michael stipe, i've trampled ethan hawke--but, not for lack of nerve, i just can't fathom bothering them (for those of you keeping score with the david duchovny story, i would like to submit in my defense that the autograph was not for me, the desire to follow him not mine, but the idea to ask him about mister t i will take credit for). i've been in the bathroom when laura dern's clogged the toilet. ben stiller has called my house. i've helped cybill shepard, katey sagal, debi mazar, michael richards, rayven symone and some zappa kids paint ceramics. i've even sat outside ben affleck's house and watched his brother and some buddies pick him up for a night out on the town. but even in cases of "lightweight stalking" i've kept my distance, heart sometimes pounding, nerves jangling, but vowing to keep it cool. like ashley said to me at breakfast with drew, "it's an issue of respect."

so i left drew to his pancakes. but i wondered, does he mind when people come up to him? and then i thought, were i in his shoes, i'd like to think i'd want people to come up to me, but the reality would most likely be that it would drive me nuts. is the adoration of fans, autograph hounds, papparazzi all part of being a celebrity? what about the celebs who are vehemently anti-media? what about those who are die-hard press whores? when is a fan more than a fan...as in creepy, or dangerous?

it's hard not to think about celebrity in los angeles. so many of the fresh-faced and nubile try-hards are out here in search of their fame, their "in" with the in-crowd. expensive cars cruise sleekly alongside the jalopies on broad boulevards with legendary names like sunset and santa monica. all the bums who call hollywood boulevard home sleep sprawled out on sidewalks that boast glitter and the names of thousands of stars. and isn't everyone--couldn't anyone be--a somebody?

the problem i have is that as much as i hate los angeles--the snobbery, the aesthetic worship, the hot weather, the cost of living--i am still absolutely entranced with celebrity. and, worse, i still want to be "one of them." for, many many years ago, i came down with the crippling affliction of ambition to be famous. and it certainly hasn't gone away; granted, it has ebbed like the tide--a little more, a little less--but when it's on my mind, well, dammit, it's on my mind.

and lately, i'm telling a lot of folks "i'm going to be famous, you know."

i've always believed it. and now... i'm going to make it happen. not overnight, but sooner than later. it's just, well, meant to be for me. how do you like them pancakes?

i bear for me

in keeping with the spirit of rediscovered childhood (or childhood never lost, i leave that call to you), ashley and i rechristened "tuesday" as "build-a-bear day." and build-some-bears we did, indeed, giggling, hooting, whooping and laughing our way through the silly, but altogether deliciously and guiltily thirilling, episode.

we cruised on down to the over-hyped and underwhelming megaplex that is meant to reflect all that is glittery and awe-inspiring about hollywood, otherwise known as the tourist-trap shopping mecca of hollywood and highland. nestled atop one of the many photo-opportunity levels in the open air plaza is the build-a-bear workshop, a happy den of miniature outfits, racks of bear-sized shoes, shades and gear, filled with cheery staff and pumped with peppy music and the air conditioning cranking at full-blast (a delightful haven of cool to save us from the near triple-digit meltdown weather). there in the bins were soulless shells of bears, bunnies, horses and other critters, awaiting the eager hands of a loving adoptive parent to pluck them from the fray and bring them to life. after much deliberation, squeeze-testing and cuteness factor analysis, i chose a more traditional bear, and took her to our charming guide judy, who proceeded to instruct me on how to work the foot pump while she manned the pipe that blasted the stuffing from a giant cart into the frame of my furry friend. i analyzed the fluff content ("i think her nose is a little hollow, judy, let's pump her up some more." "now that's a first," judy laughed, complying happily), and then, satisfied, i selected a tiny heart from another bin--because "if people have hearts, then bears need hearts, too"--made a wish and kissed it, and stuffed it inside. (i'm not telling you my wish, ha ha!) judy's expert hands sewed up the bear, and...voila! a bear is born!



next we had to take our bears and comb and fluff them under these air shower-heads. judy, completely amused by our amusement, made sure we gave her our cameras so she could get shots of us righting the matted fur under the blasts of air. then we were free to dress our bears as we pleased, choosing from among the dozens of separates, costumes and goodies displayed. judy encouraged our demonic inner children; at one point, when she showed me yet another ridiculous option for bear-dressing, i told her, with deadpan sincerity: "judy, i love you. i just straight up love you." knowing my bear was bound for hollywood-style diva alterna-hip glamor, i set about putting together an outrageous outfit (though they were out of tutus, and don't carry a denim jacket, dammit), taking full advantage of the atmosphere judy likened to a "department store." we covered the dressing table in all varieties of shoes, boots, tees, jumpers, and hats, but i finally settled on the combo of khaki cargo skirt over baby blue cotton panties, a groom's dress shirt vest and tie combo, a pair of pink-edged frilly socks peeking over a pair of black rubber rain boots, and, lastly, crowned her adorable face with a pair of tortoise shell reading glasses.






once fully outfitted (not an easy task!), we took our bears in our eager arms, and went to the computers to create their birth certificates. ashley's little cowgirl bear was christened river, and mine, well, with her hommage to annie hall gear, i named her keaton margaret. once we settled up the bills and said our giggly goodbyes to judy, we sauntered out of the store, bopping to the pop hits pumped over the plaza's sound system, our bears snug in their "cub condo" carriers waving in our hands. we mellowed out over some tonic teas at elixir, and braved the heat and the tourist crowds outside grauman's chinese theatre, where my keaton found her name (albeit following the first name micheal, not her namesake) scrawled in the cement, and begged to have her picture taken. since we gals had places to go and grown up things to do, ashley and i dumped the bears in the car, and let them swelter for the rest of the day. i'm thinking this bear is the closest thing to having a kid i'll know. but like a proud mama, i'm gonna show you some pictures. my keaton is one cute bear! and, well, as silly as it was, ashley and i sure had some good, clean fun!

27 going on 13

last night i went to the movies with ashley to see 13 going on 30. giggling like a couple of maniacs, we cracked jokes to the pubescent refreshments counter boy, we posed for a picture next to the giant cardboard cutout ad promoting the olsen twins' movie new york minute, we made obnoxious "shhhhuuuusssh!" sounds after the "please refrain from talking during the movie" annoucement, and everytime mark ruffalo sauntered into frame i leaned over and whispered "oh my god, he is so cute!" still staggering under the sheer force of ruffalo's said cuteness after the movie ended, i felt it necessary to retract a statement i'd made earlier in the day, wherein i said: "i don't get crushes on movie star boys, i get friendship crushes on the women. as in, like, i dream about having lunch with meg ryan and diane keaton." while lunching with those two ladies, or a number of others, is still on my top ten wishes list, mister mark ruffalo has my heart thumping like, well, like a 13-year old girl!

the movie itself is as light and fluffy as a hot-pink feather boa; for as frivolous, impractical and "are you kidding me?" as it is, it still totally makes you smile. the music had most of us dancing in our seats, and the complete and total dork in me was thrilled up and down that during a long sort of bittersweet montage they used billy joel's "vienna." by the end of the movie i was, admittedly, teary-eyed, and also had just a little hope restored in the power of goodness, friendship and love. and i'm also hoping i can find a store that sells some of that totally awesome wishing powder they had in the movie. cause, like, wish number one would be to play "seven minutes in heaven" with mark ruffalo. afterwards, i'd totally do lunch with meg and diane. who says the girl can't have it all?

talk and action

i had to retreat, pull back a little, after the expulsion of my weighty dissertation. "words like weapons" kept running through my head as i steered my '96 jetta down the swooping incline of la brea, the ocean glittering to my right, planes like dragonflies sliding towards the airport. "did i hit my target?" i asked myself, cringing at the implied brutality. "did i achieve the desired effect, affect? is it time to move on?"

yesterday the small compartment of my mailbox held a glossy leaflet bearing the instructions for my impending graduation ceremony. i actually got teary-eyed as i read the printed paragraphs on rehearsal, gap-and-gown procurement, the number of allotted tickets per graduate. "i did it," i whispered to myself, barely audible over the whirr and hum of my car engine in the low-ceiling parking garage and the drone of the newscaster on the public radio station. but i wiped my eyes, careful not to smudge the makeup, and drove out in to the shiny afternoon, and out in to the rest of my life.

like the breathy hours that followed my qualified rant i was left with a sense of "what next? what now?" and worse, "is this it?" i've become enchanted once again with words and pictures, thanks to the unrated version of in the cut, first on my small screen and now, in print, in my eager hands. i've been reading again, reading in hopes that i can remember how to write, how to take my tidepool thoughts and straighten them out into lines and paragraphs and pages, how to sound like myself and no one else whose anectodal life i've envied. and i've been thinking again, feeling again, seeing myself in the world again--dangerously close to understanding the look of hunger, the look of desire, the incredible influences of appetite and want.

my happiest distraction has been in the form of my surrogate twin sister ashley, here on loan from the pacific northwest. she came bearing a striped envelope full of tiny gifts, an enthusiasm for a trip to mon sushi, and the comforting grin and knee slap of someone who understands even the lousiest of my jokes. she reminds me of who and what i want to be, of why i'm happy to do the kind of work i do, of how important it is to work towards what i really want to do. and she makes me laugh.

the weather has shifted here, once more, to the windy heat of early summer. it tastes like days from years ago, it smells, at times, like my grandparents' yard in the augusts of my childhood. it makes me nervous, edgy, hyper-aware of my surroundings, tuning in to my gut to see if i can intercept a signal, to see if i can catch a warning that something is going to blow. but then the moment passes, it's carried away on a strand of moving air, and i exhale, and turn up the stereo, and i sing along.

the craft
what i write, how i write, and why i write it

a reader emailed me a few weeks ago and asked me if i could explain how i approached my writing. i thought about the answer for several days, but, then, as it so often does, life got in the way and i put the subject on the back burner... until an upsetting phone call i took part in this weekend brought the subject back to the foreground, but in an altogether new light. in a familiar route march down memory lane, i was being judged for what i said, or, perhaps, more pointedly, what i hadn't said on my website; it was a line of attack that was angling towards my having to justify my "thoughts and feelings" and how i choose to relay them on the internet. what i've realized is that to anyone not familiar with the role blogging plays in the realm of "new media" (as backed up, to my delight, on this weekend's episode of npr's studio 360 and guest terry teachout) might easily misinterpret what i say here, and how and why i say it. (as a point of reference, here is what i said a year ago about why i blog.)

it might perhaps be simpler for me to explain what i don't write. what i write is not meant to be taken up as legal testimony. it is not a series of facts meant to shed cold light on the specifics of any given situation. were it to read like that it would be free of "creative" language and emotion. had i sat down today to write such a piece it might read as follows:

today i got up and made scrambled egg whites and boca meatless sausages for breakfast. i did not have time to shower, because i was running late for work. so instead i freshened up, got dressed (i'm wearing jeans, a tshirt and a cardigan sweater) and drove to work. on my way to work i listened to cds by nellie mckay and the postal service and i enjoyed them both. i arrived at work at...

ok, you get the point. pretty boring, right? (though i did give "a day in the life" a shot in october...) now, don't get me wrong. many folks run blogs, livejournals or websites with similar diary-esque content. they read their friends' pages, and leave comments like "i like the postal service too." this approach to blogging is perfectly fine for those people. personally, though, i don't write that way (writing that blurb was painful!) and i don't like to read that style of writing. i like to read something with a little bite. something anectodal, something with a resonant theme. take the work of sarah brown, this fish, or le petit hiboux for example. they all have their own signature style and flair, and they tell a damn fine story. but when i read one of their pieces i don't walk away with the belief that they're giving me the quote-un-quote full story--i know they are not including all the details, for whatever reasons they might have. i know they are using their creative skills in tying an episode in the present to an episode in the past, or to a song lyric, or to a painting, to a mood, to a funny one-liner and so on.

it is that creative skill that i consider to be "the craft." and while my writing style is not the same as theirs, it's in the vein of theirs; i--we--write in a genre called "creative non-fiction" (and, no, i did not coin that phrase, it is a legitimate literary term). when i write a piece it has a shape, a tone, a theme, a beginning, a middle and an end. it's not "poetic license" in the lifetime television "this-film-is-based-on-the-life-of-so-and-so" way; i don't lie, i don't 'make things up' and it's not fiction. what i'm writing is true, but it's been crafted.

i have to use a piece called full circle that i published in january as an example, because it was a post named specifically to me over the phone this weekend as a case of my allegedly "not having told the whole story." the caller seemed to take offense or objection as to why i didn't tell what he feels "really happened." he felt there were details i'd left out, and those details happened to have been the ones that related specifically to him. and he's right: those details were left out. not because i wish to deny them as fact, but because those details, and his role in them actually had nothing to do with the story being told. to him i told an incomplete and inaccurate-by-means-of-exclusion story about a week i spent in toronto after being let go from a job. but look closely at my story and its themes: it is about returning to new york. it is about the month of january, and it is about being cold. it is a story about having grown up past the stage of being too naive to know better. and therein lies the craft. am i asking my readers to take what i say here as testimony? no. and bloggers are aware of that delination, while many non-bloggers are not. non-bloggers (or, to be fair, those not familiar with the concept of blogging, as many readers do not themselves blog) perhaps don't realize why blogs are written, for whom they are written, and to what purpose they serve.

so if that's what i don't do, what is it i do? well, most importantly, i write my blog for myself. for me it combines the art of creative writing (meaning the skill of using language, not the skill of inventing fiction) and having a journal. the fact that i have about 250 folks a day who stop by to see what i have to say, well, as a person who wishes for a career in writing, that does nothing but tickle me. and, yes, i look forward to comments, and to emails from readers. yes, i am aware of my audience, and yes, that causes me to censor myself. i don't use real names (with some exceptions: laurie--because she is a blogger who uses her real name, certain ex-boyfriends--because i couldn't think of witty pseudonyms, and celebrities--well, for obvious reasons). i don't name where i work. i don't even use my own real name, though if you tried hard enough you could figure it out. as an aside, a small percentage of you know my real name, a smaller percentage of those people know the last name i use professionally, and the tiniest percentage of those people know my actual real last name. be flattered to be in that last group; not even my last boyfriend--whose real name i never used here--didn't even know my real last name. i don't furnish every piece of information that relates to an event because this isn't necessarily the place for it. i know that some people in my personal life read this, and that is probably my biggest regret, because i do have to watch what i say. but i'm an open and honest person, so that part of me is happy that i have a place, a forum, a platform where i might express my thoughts and feelings.

and that is what they are. they are my thoughts and feelings. they are my stories, and they are, in fact, all entirely true. if you happen to see yourself in one of them and feel misrepresented, i'm sorry. i do my best to limit myself to telling my stories and no one else's. it's not my place to tell you how anyone else feels or thinks or about elements of their life. if you want your story told "right", by all means go to blogger and sign up for an account; it's free and i'm not stopping you.

so i craft what i say. sometimes it comes to me in the shower, or while i'm driving, or while i'm as far away from either a pen and paper of my computer as possible. that's how i end up with sentences scrawled on receipts, envelopes, napkins and magazine pages. usually a theme becomes self-evident, or most often, just the title of a potential post. sometimes they're an obvious play on a movie, book, album title; sassy in the city is clearly a pun on sex and the city. look at my last post: humor me has a double meaning--yes, i'm looking for laughter and positivity, but also humor me meaning understand that there are things going on that have my attention, that have me a little down lately.

it's taken me a couple of sessions to write this particular post; i had to step away from it saturday night, and as i was in the shower sunday morning more thoughts arose, and even more at the end of sunday evening. i know it won't be posted until i've given it several careful re-reads and edits. this is my work, and i stand behind it.

standing behind my work is excruciatingly important for me. it's taken me a lifetime to learn how to be proud of who i am, what i do, and what i represent. at best, i represent myself, and at best, this website represents a portion of myself. those of you who know me in real life know other aspects of myself, some more than others, some surely know different aspects of me just as would anyone who falls into distinct relationship categories: mother, housemate, lover, friend, acquaintance, for example. and i would hope that those of you who know me, the real me, know that our private, off-screen relationship is worth more, and encompasses far more than the confines of this webpage. and that you should know how i feel, or even more specifically, how i feel about you, by how we interact on a one-on-one level. that, readers, is a real relationship. those of you whom this equation leaves behind--you've got your idea of me, and chances are i'll never know you face to face to alter that opinion. and i'm okay with that. it's part of living a (for lack of a better term) public life.

i had a conversation with a boss of mine--it was in late 1997, for those of you on the self-appointed historical accuracy board--where i came to the realization that life was too short to keep things secret, private or to myself. i don't mean that i choose to betray confidences, but that i choose to never hold back telling how i feel, to never lie. and i don't lie. here, and in my life, i tell the truth.

am i perfect? no, far from it. are there parts of my 27 plus year life that i've forgotten or misremembered? sure, and when you mention those moments i tend to laugh and say "really? wow!" and go on with life. do i want to dwell on or live in the past? no. am i honest? some might say to a fault, or that i'm downright blunt. but, yes, i'm honest. but know that though i tell the truth, there will always be that line between us wherein my truth differs from yours. it's called perspective, and it's both a curse and a blessing. know that i write first for myself, and second for you, the collective audience. and most importantly, know that no one, least of all me, is forcing you to read this, is forcing you to agree, concur, validate or vouch for this.

...but you're reading it anyhow.

humor me

i called around seven o'clock on tuesday evening.

"hi," i said in greeting to my step-dad. "how did everything go?" i asked quickly.

"well, it was fine," he answered. "took about two hours."

"two hours. wow. did you get to be with her the whole time?"

"oh, yeah, yeah. i stayed with her. they had your mom sit in this great big chair, it was like something out of pee-wee's playhouse." we both laughed. "then they put the iv in her hand, and just let the stuff drip in. the machine makes this kind of noise the whole time, but i guess it's just doing its thing. so now we're home, and we're going to watch a movie and relax. they say she won't feel any side effects for a couple of days."

"really? well, that's good. i'm just glad you can go in there with her."

"well, at first i think she wanted to give me the bum's rush--i saw her eyeing that star magazine they had in there!" we both laughed again. "but it went well, and now we just let the chemo do its work, and we'll see."

"yeah," i said softly.

"here, let me put your mom on."

"hi mommy!"

"hi tiger!"

i grinned. even at 27 i love that my mom still calls me tiger.

"so you feel okay?" i asked.

"actually, i feel great. besides, they say i probably won't feel anything till thursday, maybe."

"like puking?"

"maybe, i don't know."

"so you could, like, randomly have the runs, or be a puker, or whatever?"

"mmmm, right. i don't know if i'm a puker, or a hair fall-outer, or what. but so far so good. we've rented the pajama game, so now we're going to watch that and really, that's it!"

"okay, mom. i'll talk to you later. i love you."

"i love you, too."

i pressed the end button on my phone, and sat down at my desk chair. i didn't feel as cold or as numb as i'd had after some of our other recent conversations where suddenly our vocabularies added or redefined things like "breast" "lump" "tumor" "tests" "malignant" "cat scan" "liver" "surgery" and "chemotherapy"; in fact, after this conversation, i felt warm and encouraged, and... i was smiling. my mother's positive spirit was contagious. i remembered my housemate angel bunny reminding me softly, "your mom's a survivor." and i realized that she, we, i have choices of how to react. but that for her, us, me the choice has to be positivity, laughter and good spirits.

so, please...humor me.

wastelanded

yesterday the sky was brimming with the monochromatic gloom of hovering smog, and as i drove through the city and over the hills to my workplace my stomach churned with revulsion at the rows of stuccoed houses in pseudo-friendly paint jobs, the sagging palm trees dotting rotten lawns. not even the wittiest of nellie mckay's tunes could properly lift me from my gloomy mood, no sequence of calming breaths could quell the shaking of my hands. to me los angeles has become infectiously toxic, its poison having manifested itself in myself and others in body and spirit. i know i can't allow myself to stay rooted in the dumps; now more than ever my optimism is a key for survival. meanwhile the clutter is suffocating, this zip code brimming with people and places i want to avoid. instead of telling my own stories i spend my lie-awake hours piecing together other people's stories, excuses, reasonings out of the irrational that won't let go of me. they nag like the santa ana winds, they stick out their tongues at me like a room full of insolent teenaged girls with bared midriffs and pointy-toed high-heeled shoes. i don't see myself in a single glossy one-sheet hanging lonely at the bus stops; even in my mind's eye i've stopped seeing myself in the arms of anyone who could keep out the monsters that lurk in my closets. the more i look outside, the more i stay inside. in eliot's "cruellest month" i have to find my strength, my future, my spirit, my self.

photos photos photos photos!

for your viewing pleasure, my photos from last week in new york!

there's a ton (four pages worth!) so scroll down, enjoy, and use the navigation at the bottom of each page to move back and forth through the pages. i had fun taking them, somewhat less fun editing and posting them, but still get a kick out of looking at them. let me know what you think!

sassy's sassy new york city photos!

home, sick, home

yesterday morning i sat in the bathtub listening to the constant stream of traffic on the upper west side, the intermittent bleeps of horns and, the spring-like chirp of the birds. the bathtub was the next best thing to the hot shower i was craving; the plumbing was sadly the poorest example of quality offered at our ocassionally ironically-named hotel. but for as much as i wanted the shower to help ease the telltale signs of an oncoming flu-cold siege, i was also hoping it would help wake me up and instill in me just a modicum of the vigor it would take for me to finish packing and set out via the a train to jfk airport. the trouble was, i didn't want to go home. i already felt, well, home.

i would wager that the sentences i most uttered last week were: "i love new york!" and "i don't want to go home!" friday night, in the fine company of the likes of fish, ari, and dahl, i laughed over a round of drinks and lamented that the only thing i missed about l.a. was my closet full of non-sensible shoes and non-travel-oriented clothes. i voiced a consideration of a career in selling my blood plasma, furniture, ceramics, or my whatever just to get another plane ticket. and then we hugged goodnight, and goodbye and i knew for certain that in just a matter of time i'd be back to stay.

this past week i navigated the streets and the subways like a burgeoning expert on how to get from here to there. i delighted in the discovery that there are more than 10,000 people buried underneath washington square park and that one of the hanging trees still stands at the park's northwest corner. i rode the carousel in central park, ate dim sum in chinatown, tried to understand the absurdity of the cabaret license predicament that bans dancing in bars, and actually heard folks say "how you doin'?" and "forgeddaboutit!" i marvelled that in a city of something like nine million, i actually ran in to blogger joclyn on a b train headed downtown. i took over one hundred pictures, most of which i'm slowly working on editing and posting for your viewing pleasure.

...and i caught a cold.

so, i'm home. and i'm sick. and, really, i'm homesick.

the happiest hour is just before sunset

i'm enjoying the dual pleasure of a delightful two martini buzz and free internet usage courtesy of the fine folks at greenwich village's fat black pussycat. my week to this point has been about good eats and good drinks, great conversation, staggering sights and the worthwhile ache of my arches from miles of city block walking. my camera is full of photos, my belly full of the best food i can remember eating, and my face still a little red and wind-chapped from the ride on the staten island ferry. i heart new york, and i heart this trip. my new favorite bartender is about to pour me another, my pal and surrogate sis l.q.t. is about to make me giggle uncontrollably, and the next couple of days hold the promise of more wonderful times in this wonderful town. my internet postcard reads "wish you were here" and a big ol' xoxoxo from sassy in the city!!!

sassy in the city



...i'll be in new york city monday through saturday!

don't worry, i'll be back. ...and, as always, with plenty to say!

stuttering

this post is about everything it's not about. it's what's going on in my head and heart these days, it's part of longer talks with friends and family members, it's a little this and a little that veiled in outings with school friends, in brownie sundaes, in the lyrics of the songs i've listened to, between the lines of the books i've been reading. it's in how i alternate the inability to sleep with being deeply lost in vivid and absurdist dreams, it's a little fear mixed with a great deal of happy laughter. it's making plans like charcoal sketches, knowing a deft brush of the hand might blur the lines and change the structure, and what results i will have to look at as both happenstance and beauty. it's a measured note of missing people who are no longer in my life, it's looking forward to meeting new people. it's excitement about next week in new york, it's excitement about weeks ahead where some of my favorite people come visit me. it's coffee with cinnamon vanilla creamer, it's the endearing way my cat pats my arm with her paw and dolefully stares me down, begging to be petted. it's clean sheets and their quiet solitude. quite frankly, it's a little bit of indigestion. it's a lot about not understanding the strange way the world works at times. but most of all, i suppose, it's about living.