Life: Myspace

Reasons why I hate myspace:

1. Unless you're going to use it for blogging purposes, then why exactly are you using it?

2. myspace reminds me of our address books in the eighties. Remember how life was, before iphones and emails? Remember how you'd carry around your little address book on the last day of camp and get everyone to fill in those little squares with their info? We spent as much time picking out the perfect address book as we do our cell phones today. (Should I get the one with the Snoopy cover, or the one that has a special line for birth dates? Do I really need metric conversions on my last page? Spiral or lock-and-key combo?). And of course, you never really collected all those addresses for the purposes of actually writing (by hand!) letters to those people... We just wanted to fill the pages. We wanted to be able to say, "Oh, your last name starts with an S? Hmmm, I'm all out of room for people with S names..."

And of course, we wanted BOYS to fill in our address books, and we wanted people to SEE that we had BOYS in our address books (not that we ever intended to call them of course, it was just nice to know that the option was there). And speaking of BOYS, they really didn't have address books, did they? This was really a girl thing, wasn't it? Or, was I just never asked? Hmm.

OK, what was my point? Oh yes, that myspace reminds me of this. This pointless, ridiculous collection of names (aka "friends") that makes a myspace page scroll down, down, down....... We want to say it doesn't matter. But people, if you have a myspace page, you know it matters. I know that you know your "friend" number by heart.

3. Yeah, there's more. Anytime I'm on a friend's myspace page, or worse, a non-friend, I feel compelled to look at the comments people have left them. And it makes me feel icky. It makes me feel like I'm reading someone else's yearbook autographs. Why do people feel compelled to have "actual conversations" on the comment boxes of myspace? Seriously, why can't people just send private messages, or actual emails? Why must they leave actual between-you-and-me messages to each other, which anyone can read? The answer is, because myspace is a competition. It's a way to show people, or appear to show people, that you have more fake friends with more fake inside-jokes than anyone else. The battle of the inside joke, that's what I call it. There is no one quite as cool as the person who has a long list of artsy/indie looking people leaving public commentary like: "Last night was sooo awesome" or... "I luuuuuuvvvvv you and you r SO right about that thing u said the other day at that place we were at" or... "we r totally ON for tomorrow at you know where."

4. You know who I respect? People who actually build blogs of their own. People who actually have an interest in something, and build some sort of online ode to that interest. People who actually care about design and online community and take the time to create something to support that. The easy way out? Build a myspace page.

5. I know this is a rant. But I've got more. I find it quite irritating when people who are MY age build myspace pages for themselves, fill it with inappropriate commentary, and don't realize that when they are GOOGLED by colleagues, it WILL be found! Hello? You're a teacher! And your myspace page is able to be viewed by your students within 2 seconds of typing your name into Ask Jeeves. Which your students will do, by the way. That raunchy photo of your friend referencing your drug history.... yeah, your students can see that.

Thank you. I feel better now.

Show: The Lion King

On a pair of jolly yellow school buses, all 60+ of us drove into the city to see The Lion King on Broadway. Believe it or not, I was one of those few in the caravan who hadn't seen it yet. I was one of the few who hadn't seen it twice. And in some cases, three or four times.

I think I've outgrown Broadway. I know to some people that would be considered sacrilegious. But come on, how many rosy cheeked girls in petticoats can you watch sing to the moonlight for their prince to come? I wasn't exactly thrilled to be going to see yet another sing-along in the bright lights big city. Which, I realize, isn't very gracious of me to say, considering these tickets were a gift.

However, when the lights went out, and the first giraffes (aka: men on stilts) glided across the stage, my mouth dropped to the floor. This was a spectacular performance. It was hardly a "Broadway show"; more like a 2-hour art performance piece and we were the spectators at the gallery. The scenery was utterly memorizing. I spent most of the time trying to figure out, how did they do that??

The show is led by two children mainly, and they carry it well. If you've seen the Disney movie, you'll know the music. And it's tolerable, if not catchy. I really didn't like the movie when I saw it many years ago (also with a big group of kids). I felt like the movie was yet another mother-is-weak, father-is-strong typical Disney cartoon. And I barely like cartoons, regardless of their cliche hero/heroine story lines.

But on Broadway, it was a bit more touching. The animals, the set-design, is just spectacular. Really, spectacular.

Don't turn down tickets.

Book: The History of Love

It's ever so slightly embarrassing to be sitting across from someone (say, on a date or something) and when they ask if you've read anything good lately, you have no choice by to say, "Yes, I'm reading The History of Love." Oh, that's not exactly a loaded statement for a second date now, is it?

But this book is not like that. Not what you're thinking it's about anyhow, considering the title. Yes, it's about love. But more, the search for it, over time, over lands, over generations. It's not a love story like you'd imagine it to be. It's not a jilted affair, or a Romeo/Juliet type showdown.

The story revolves around many people, including a 14-year old girl who is trying to find the story of her name, and an old man who is trying to reconnect with his son, who may or may not know he exists. Everyone is searching for love. Everyone is working against a current that is paralleled to someone else's current, which in the end, enables them to all flow in with the tide at the exact same time. Excuse the metaphor, but it's true.

I began this book with hesitation, because the style of writing is so distinct, it's almost forced. It feels formulaic at the beginning, such "signature writing" that you can't help but wonder if the writer is more concerned that you remember her style than you do the characters.

But, like always, I kept with it. And, like always, a transition happened, and suddenly I realized I was holding in my hands more than a book; it was a true gem. It was magical. The style loosened, the voice developed, the characters became passionate, dedicated, loyal beings with a push and pull I couldn't help but immerse myself in.

It's a magical book.

Book: Eat, Pray, Love

I can't stop reading. As cliche as this sounds, it's truly become the easiest way for me to escape from things. But in a good way. When I'm reading, my mind is quiet, and I'm absorbing new words faster than I can worry about old words.

I also believe that books can come into your life at certain points in a most appropriate way. It's not like it's a psychic thing, or fortuitous premonitions. But often, quite often in fact, I'm reading a book and thinking, how in the world did this book find me at this exact moment?

As I read, Eat Pray Love, I was thinking that thought the whole time. But I'll be honest. It wasn't love at first sight. Well, I loved the cover at first sight. But the author, not so much. I was equally irritated and intrigued in the first few chapters. I was transfixed by the story line, by the things she was writing about, by the events surrounding her. But she, the actual woman living this life, was not someone I was dreaming of meeting.

I read it at the yoga retreat I was on, and there is probably no place better to read this book than on a yoga retreat. It looked as though they were handing this out at the door, because there were quite a number of women walking around with this book in one hand, and their yoga mat in the other. We should have started a book club right there and then.

I told a few people my frustrations with it. I said, "She's irritating me. She's trying to be funny when it's not necessary. She's writing whimsically about things I wish she'd be more serious about. She's making excuses for things that I don't think she should have to excuse." The women smiled and said, "Keep reading." They said, "Yeah, she has a tendency to do that. But keep reading."

They'd ask me as we passed each other in the hall, "What are you up to?"

I'd say, "We just finished Italy. And now we're flying to India."

They'd say, "Good, keep reading."

It struck me around that time, how I kept saying, "we". And I began to realize, that it felt like I was on this journey with this woman. The way she wrote about it all, made me feel like I was already traveling with her. That she and I, we, were eating pasta in Italy. We were planning our voyage to the ashram. We, were about to mediate together.

That's when I started to accept the book, and let go. And I forgave her for her shortcomings (now, what author is really perfect anyway?) and appreciated the story for what it was.

And then strange things began to happen. It was like paragraphs in the book were being written for me. To me. Names of characters and everything were identically paralleled to things happening, or things that had happened, in my life.

I read this straight for 4 days. I did nothing but read this book. The other day I was sitting at the coffee house, reading the book, and I laughed out loud. Right there. Heartily. A man walked by me a few minutes later and said, "Enjoying that book?" I smiled back, "It's amazing!" I said. "Have you read it?" He just smiled and shook his head. And I realized, he didn't even know what book I was reading. But he must have seen me laugh out loud.

I can see why some people would be agitated with this book. After I finished it (at 4am last night) I made a point to read the negative reviews first. And I get what they are saying. I really do.

But at the end of the day, who cares. This book is so full of so many things, that if there is only one thing you want to take from it, it's there. If it finds it's way into your hands, chances are, there's something in it for you. And I hope, by the end, you've found what you were looking for.

Music: Amy Winehouse

What's up with me and British hiphop/R&B girls? Whatever. I'm rolling with it, cause it's working.

People need to start talking more about Amy Winehouse. This girl is amazing. This girl is cracked out, broken in, wigged out, dressed up, too big, too little. This girl will start singing through your speakers and you won't know what to do with yourself.

She looks kind of scary. Only in her twenties, she already sings like Etta James meets Joan Jett. This album, Back To Black, begins with a bang and then continues to flip out on you every couple of songs. It's got vibe, and intensity, and you'll never forget it.

Travel: Kripalu

Seriously? Again?
Yes, again.

It's spring break, and where else can two teachers go, when they have no expandable cash flow, but very over-extended minds that need reprieve.

They go to Kripalu. And get their yoga on.

This time, as always, the trip was different. It's always different, each time I go. That's why I keep going back. Disney world, it ain't.

But here's the thing about me. For some odd reason, I don't like yoga. But I like yoga retreats. Funny, huh? I like the setting, the food, the environment. I like the intentions of the yoga mindset. I like the outfits and I like hearing people talk about the results it's had on their lives. But what I don't like? The boringness of it. I get BORED in yoga class. I get all, "how many minutes do I have to hold this and pretend I'm into this?" in yoga class. That bothers me. So I don't go to yoga. Except when I'm on retreats.

But this week, my dear friend pointed something out to me. Something along the lines of, "Why do you keep taking beginner's classes?" Huh? I don't know. 'Cause I assumed that's where I belonged, I guess.

So this week, my friend, she showed me the light. "We're taking the vigorous classes," she said. And so there I soon found myself, in a room full of intense, sweaty, upside down, inside out, hot, way into it, yoga people. Woah. Now this is where it's at.

I'm no advanced yoga person. I tried a headstand in yoga class once. Years ago. And yes, it was fun. And yes, I added it to my list of "things I've accomplished in my life just for fun". But for some reason, I didn't get the sense that I would do it again.

But this time, years later, older and wiser, I found it was SO much more fun being around people who were doing headstands again than it has been just exhaling for an hour or so, as I'd been doing in various attempt-to-like-it-one-more-time yoga classes. I got into it. I liked "vigorous". I liked this form of movement that was faster and tougher than the thoughts in my head could keep up with. In other words, I didn't have time to look at the clock; I was too busy doing a side plank for the tenth time off my left arm. I found myself balancing on limbs that aren't meant to be balanced on. I found I can bend in ways that should be illegal. And... I can hold still while doing so.

I was into this.
And so, potentially, hopefully, begins a new chapter in my life.

I'll keep you posted.

But right now, my abs are still hurting. From yoga!

Book: In Exchange For A Homeland

It's interesting, to read a book of poetry. It's such a different experience than a regular book of fiction. The path that you'll take as a reader is more unpredictable. The path that the author takes, less presumable. The whole thing could make it or break it for you in one stanza.

This book was beautiful. It's poem after poem, each one weaving together a fabulous life story. A collection of musical notes composing a song about a girl looking for her home. A home between two countries, between lovers, between parents, between her own inward voices.

It read like the fluid motion of a sigh. Breathe in, breathe out.

She is a writer who knows her words, knows where to find them, knows how to share them back with her readers. She puts them together on the page like a puzzle. First the sky, then the ground.

Music: Lily Allen

Lily Allen would not have played with me in the school yard, I'm bold enough to predict. She was probably the girl pummeling the boys in dodge ball while I hid in the corner. That is, if she decided to show up to school that day. Or managed to put down her cigarette for a moment.

But we're older now. And wiser. So we can all be friends again. And I think it's safe to say I've listened to this new album, Alright, Still, by this British hip hop star about 100 times in a row. Give or take a dozen.

This album utterly rocks. It's a dance party in my car every time I play it. I first learned about Lily during her premiere performance on Saturday Night Live. And as I listened, transfixed, I thought, "Who is this girl?"

She looks about 16, but sings like she'll kick your ass for saying that. She's pissed off at men, but takes them home nonetheless. She sings like she's whispering a lullaby, but her lyrics are raunchy as hell. She wears puffy school girl dresses, with sneakers. She's worth buying a plane ticket to London for just to see her perform.

Just go, go, go get this album. You cannot, I repeat, cannot, not trust me on this one.