visits.

My parents and my brother are visiting me this weekend. This is in short, incredibly stressful.

Because, really - I am terrified of not being my parents.

My parents are the model of immigrant success. My father worked for the same company for about 30 years, transfering to multiple countries in the process and ending up in Northern California. He started as a technician, and ended up a vice president of a multinational semiconductor company. My father retired in his early 50's, my parents own their house, and my brother is getting a full ride through college.

My mother is an artist. She has a precise aesthetic, coupled with a constant need to experiment with new mediums and techniques. Her studio at our home is a playground. She handles cauldrons of melting bronze without fear. She welds better than I do. She drafts better than I do.

My parents have always unflinchingly supported my choices - "I'm going to major in Technical Theatre", "I'm going to Vermont for a few months", "I'm going to grad school", "I'm going to move in with two boys", "I'm going to quit grad school", "I'm going to freelance as a theatre technician."

Occasionally, I am jealous of my brother, who is getting the full financial support that I could only have dreamed of. But, at the same time - I never asked. Instead, they taught me financial planning, and I have nearly paid off all my debt. My dad taught me how to solder, my mother taught me how to cook. My dad gave me my first computer, my mother gave me a kiln. They taught me just about everything, really.

"We are proud of you." they said, "We're just really glad that you are doing what makes you happy."

I shouldn't be worried, because they have never doubted my ability to succeed. But, I am terrified that their trust is misplaced. I am scared that I am not as intelligent as my father and not as artistic as my mother.

I am afraid that my brother, who was valedictorian of his class, with his high SAT scores, and agreeable girlfriends and his acceptance to a college known for their engineering program will see that what my years of education, and all my multiple part time jobs in college and that all he respects in me has led me to a small studio and a job I am conflicted about.

I know I shouldn't worry, and yet I do. They have no reason to worry about me at all.

It's just that I know that I'm not the prodigal daughter, at least not compared to my brother, and they love me anyway. I feel like I am very much my parents, and being that mirror, my successes are theirs, and my failures are - well, that is self explanatory. I am really more a reflection of my parents than my brother is. I have their faults. I have their impulses, and their odd neuroses and quirks, and I am afraid that they see those in me.

I am afraid that all I have created is an illusion of confidence and competence and self sufficiency and that it will fall apart when my mother asks me where the salt is. I haven't bought salt. I know it's about ninety seven cents for a pound of Morton's Iodized Salt, but I just haven't bought any.

Maybe I'll just buy salt tomorrow morning.

That might make me less stressed.

harebrained ideas.

When I started this blog, the intention was to write about exactly what the title suggests. The joke was that "Men and whiskey" were two of my favourite things in the world, and the two things that I probably shouldn't constantly rant and write about in my other blogs or journals. I told very few friends about its existence, despite the fact that it is not difficult to hunt down.

As it turns out, the two groups of real life people that read this blog most often fall into the categories of "men" and "whiskey drinking partners," which makes it somewhat difficult to conscientiously write about them.

It makes stories significantly less interesting, especially if you have no idea who I am.

So - maybe it's time this were more of a real blog.

***

I'm 24.

I live in LA, and I feel like a stranger, albeit one that is never bored.

I work a corporate job, and I work as a theatre designer. The combination does work. Somehow.

I am afraid of commitment, failure and spiders.

I dislike cellphones and clowns. Most people just say they dislike clowns. But I really do dislike them.

I've tended to be a jack of all trades, which is often useful, although the "master of none" accompaniment is not.

I believe that fortune favours the brave, and I can only hope that I do not cross the line into foolhardy.

***

Coming soon - posts about first world problems and dinner.

hail mary, full of grace.

Most people who know me, especially those that are aware of the progression from agnostic to Christian to agnostic to athiest, laugh at the fact that I still pray.

The prayers have gotten more ridiculous over the years, and they are often more an exercise in stringing together my thoughts, than they are prayers with any intention, or hope. I have a childhood filled with non intrusive faith, though - and the remnants are difficult to avoid.

Here is a one, although it is more of a statement, and perhaps a reminder that will take hold when I am more sober.

***

Lord.

Give me thicker skin.

Give me the strength to ignore.

Give me the ability to not give a flying fuck.

Give me the sense to suppress my words that need not be said.

And most of all, give me the courage to walk away from those who couldn't care less.

***

Oh, I forgot - I'm supposed to be funny.

Here's a funny story.

Once there was a girl who was reasonably pretty and pretty smart and generally speaking, rather congenial. She didn't know all these things, of course. There were a number of people in her life that she rejected and walked away from; she was rather apathetic towards them due to somewhat mediocre self esteem. She just didn't think that anyone could honestly care about her. And since she thought nobody actually cared, reciprocation was just another thing that wasn't worth her time.

These passing people were just minor characters in her story. They were worth a paragraph, maybe. Perhaps a footnote if they had a couple notable quirks, but they were temporary people.

A couple years later, she grew to realize that she was pretty fucking awesome in many respects. She learned to care about people, and did. She realized that human connections were worth more than flippant paragraphs, and sought them out because she had - finally - begun to appreciate them.

Oh, and here's the funny part - because irony is funny, right?

The people in her life became more and more temporary. Her life began to seem more like a uncomfortable travel slideshow, filled with attempts to capture fleeting moments, albeit never really successful.

Perhaps she might have strove for some greater understanding at some point in her past, but for now, a corrupted and awkward consilience was satisfactory.

And then, she realized that she was merely another character in other people's stories, and at best - perhaps a generously kind sentence.

She just was a temporary sort of girl.

***

Oh wait, that wasn't funny? Sorry, I suppose I'm just not one for levity.

at least the graffiti is pretty.

The problem with putting all these walls up is that when you think it might be nice to have them down for bit, you suddenly realize that you have accidentally constructed a metaphor for the division between East and West Berlin(1961-1989). And then you realize - that wall's not a metaphor. That's actually a fucking wall.

Well, it is a metaphor.

I miss a lot of things, but most of all, I miss the headrush of infatuation without suspicion or cynicism.

Oh well. You can't be 18 forever.

write me a love letter with a heading in mrs. eaves ligatures.

"I don't think I am quite so much enthralled by him, as I am by the fact that he hasn't made any poor typographical choices," I said about a boy.

Mediocre typography is almost a standard found in the men that I date, which is generally surprising because my circle of friends contains a number of type snobs. Aside from a "Ban Comic Sans" flyer pinned to my cubicle wall, I'm reasonably tolerable, although my enchantment with certain men have certainly taken nosedives after witnessing appalling type decisions on their end. My friend Matt, who is certainly more insufferable of a type snob than I am(as I am barely one), once refused to walk into a restaurant after already having walked a couple hungry miles down Melrose Ave. because the menu, and signage were in Comic Sans and Arial. Despite being rather famished myself, I could not disagree with any particular point.

I fall in love with words easily - I obsess over perfect paragraphs and the people who write them. I don't like wasting time trying to think about the perfect man, because those sorts break your heart and leave you slightly different in all the wrong ways, like the relationship between Microsoft and Helvetica, so I divert my attention by lusting after the perfect serif. I don't know what it is yet, but when I meet it, I will know.

I'm not certain what the point of this blog was, except I was thinking about this on the way home from a bar.

conversation, circa 2006

"You are trouble," he said.

"Why?" I replied, even though I knew, but probably not for the same reasons he thought.

"You're a flirt and a tease."

"So are an overwhelmingly large percentage of the girls in this town." A mediocre defense, but one nevertheless.

"No, you make men think that there's a real chance."

"Well, there is."

"No - not the getting laid sort of chance. A real chance," he muttered, cryptically.

"What do you mean?"

"You make men think that they could have some semblance of a life with you. Some sort of real relationship where you would kiss in the rain and go on picnics and talk about marriage and your hopes and dreams. It's this aura about you - you're this stable ambitious artist intelligent thing, and I'm not certain why, but that makes men think they have a real chance at something. And there isn't. There really isn't, is there - because you are afraid of stability and commitment. You are the most independent and most needy person I've met, and I'm not sure I know of a single person can keep up with you." he said.

"Would you date me?" I asked.

"No, but I'd fuck you."


I had no reply.

on rejection.

So I'm listening to angry girl power songs and thinking about what the worst way to get rejected would be. I've decided on Abigail Williams' rejection(from Arthur Miller's The Crucible).

Abigail: And you must. You are no wintry man. I know you, John. I know you. I cannot sleep for dreamin'; I cannot dream but I wake and walk about the house as though I'd find you comin' through some door.

Proctor: Child-

Abigail: How do you call me child!

Proctor: Abby, I may think of you softly from time to time. But I will cut off my hand before I'll ever reach for you again. Wipe it out of mind. We never touched, Abby.

Abigail: Aye, but we did.

Proctor: Aye, but we did not.


I have yet to be blatantly and flatly rejected.

I've been subtly rejected.

I'm not sure which one I really prefer.