Whoops...

You already know how I feel about the Time Magazine Person of the Year. What you may not know is how Chrysler, the company who shed pretty big bucks to be this year's sole sponsor of the feature, feels. [hat tip to radosh.net]

I can only imagine the sinking feeling the adman (adlady) who came up with the following tagline must have felt when the "name" was announced:


"You might not be Time Person of the Year. But you can drive like you are."

Oh, but I am, Chrysler. But I am...

Good for you...

I don't usually like to poke fun at my readers, but occasionally I'll come across a search term so odd that I can't help but share. This morning, as I went over my site stats, I came across someone who found my blog while running a Google search for the phrase:

"I love living alone with my teddy bears."

At least she (he?) knows what she (he?) loves... And that there is way more than some of us can say.

Creepy cute

I came across this on Boing Boing and couldn't resist reposting it. His name is Mr. Blobby, and he's a blobfish or "fathead." I am completely amazed by the fact that this thing actually exists in nature (and not just in a Shop-Rite vending machine between the Koosh balls and the sour apple Jawbreakers.)

I also can't decide if I think it's absolutely disgusting or incredibly cute. Actually, I'm leaning towards cute... I showed this to Sara aka Fiorella earlier today and she wisely noted that: "the ocean is really not a place where we are supposed to be."

He kind of looks like this doll that my brother got for Christmas one year. It was called FROYD (For Reality of Your Dreams) and my brother and I used to fight over it, even though it didn't really do anything particularly exciting. It didn't do anything at all actually. (Besides make our dreams come true...)

Now that I think about it, this may explain my attraction to men with large noses (especially those that promise to make my dreams come true).

It also reminds me of the things I used to find in the back of my AP Biology textbook in high school. I would spend most of class ignoring my teacher and instead looking for creepy/interesting pictures that I would then cut out and paste on my binders.

Yeah...I was that girl.



UPDATE: I sent this link to my friend Jeremy who is busy studying for his law school finals and the following conversation ensued:

Jeremy: Creepy.
But possibly tasty...
Me: right?
Jeremy: but creepy
Me: like a giant scallop or something
mmmm...
Jeremy: Seared
Me: It'd be good seared. With a little garlic butter. And marinated asparagus.
Jeremy: freaks
Me: You and I? Yes.

The definition of the word cop-out

The cover announcing this made me groan (audibly) as I stood in line at the CVS this morning. A large man in a Tiki Barber jersey snorted in disgusted agreement. And the stringy-haired 17-year-old girl ringing up my purchase nodded when she saw me staring at the magazine rack. "I know, right? It's like, what the ef?"

I'd like to kick the genius who came up with that snazzy idea. And the hardcover version even has a bit of Mylar on the cover so you can look at your pretty person of the year mug all day long. I had gone into the store to buy body wash, but I somehow left feeling like I needed it more than ever.

I guess I should just be glad that it wasn't Tom from MySpace...

A case of writer's block

I'm not usually one for quotations. [And yes, it's "quotation," not "quote." The latter is a verb; the former is the noun.] They're the province of Page-a-Day calendars, Trapper Keepers, and pink MySpace pages. Occasionally I'll see something clever and pass it along, but I am--by no means--a collector. This however, seems to fit today:

I write entirely to find out what I'm thinking, what I'm looking at, what I see and what it means. What I want and what I fear. -Joan Didion

I'm supposed to be writing. Not this, but something else. Something important. I'm being vague, I know, but bare with me. This post is more for me than it is for you.

I'm supposed to be writing, but all I can do is think. It's always most difficult when it matters. The more pressure I place on myself, the harder it becomes. I shut down.

I am, quite simply, afraid.

All I have right now are fragments. Disjointed sentences, which I've scattered about the page so that I don't forget them. I have ideas. I have memories. What I don't have, is a story.

When I can't write, I read. Essays, reviews, articles. I go from link to link. I pick up books I put down half-way through three years ago. I rediscover favorites. I encounter new ones. Twenty minutes ago I fell in love with Joan Didion. "Can I write like this?" I ask myself. I wonder how many times she felt what I'm feeling now.

“…quite simply, I was in love with New York. I do not mean “love” in any colloquial way, I mean that I was in love with the city, the way you love the first person that ever touches you and never love anyone quite that way again. I remember walking across Sixty-second Street one twilight that first spring, or the second spring, they were all alike for a while. I was late to meet someone but I stopped at Lexington Avenue and bought a peach and stood on the corner eating it and knew that I had come out of the West and reached the mirage. I could taste the peach and feel the soft air blowing from a subway grating on my legs and I could smell lilac and garbage and expensive perfume and I knew that it would cost something sooner or later—because I did not belong there, did not come from there—but when you are twenty-two or twenty-three, you figure that later you will have a high emotional balance, and be able to pay whatever it costs. I still believed in possibilities then, still had the sense, so peculiar to New York, that something extraordinary would happen any minute, any day, any
month.”

I want this. I want this more than anything, and for the first time it seems possible. I can touch it. I can taste it. I can bite into it. It's there. It's real. I know it's not my only chance, but I don't want to have to wait for a second (or third) opportunity.

I want it now.

Just Another Day in Union Square

“Does anyone want coffee? Or an apple? I’m going down to the market for coffee and apples,” my coworker cheerfully announced as she wrapped her thick knitted scarf around her neck.

“I’ll take an apple,” one of the guys cried out. “Me too,” said another.

“I once accepted an apple a woman offered me,” said my boss. “I realize now it may have been a mistake.”

His clever remark sent a chuckle around the office.

It was a little before four and it was quiet in the office, save for the hum of the computers and occasional street sounds flowing in through the open window. Car horns, brake squeals, children playing. The farmers market was in full effect. NYU students leaning against the wall smoking cigarettes. Homeless men begging for change. Promoters pressing fliers into tourists’ hands. Just another day in Union Square.

“Is she back with the coffee yet?” someone murmured a half hour later.

“I don’t think so,” someone else replied. We continued working.

Finally, she appeared.

Crying, shaking, clutching a cup of coffee in her hands she walked into my office and up to my window. The other girls gathered around her.

“There was a fight in the market. A big gang fight. A kid got stabbed,” the words tumbled out nervously. We all rushed up to the window to look at the crowd gathered right outside our office. Police lights swirled and cops had swarmed the area. She explained how it broke out suddenly. How the kids rushed in from out of nowhere. How she was pushed and had to hide until it died down.

We watched for awhile before drifting back to our desks. Nobody said anything. The typing resumed.

A few hours later I walked across the square where the fight had been. There was an NBC news truck parked on the corner and yellow police tape cordoned off a portion of the area. A few police officers still milled about. My usual subway entrance was blocked off so I crossed through to the entrance on the north side of the park and made my way home.

This morning there was an article in the New York Post about the stabbing. “Union Sq. Horror” it read, in typical Post style. It described the scene where nearly 50 teenagers charged the market. There was a high school basketball rivalry and two boys were stabbed. One, a 17-year-old high school basketball star, died last night from the injuries. The second is in stable condition. A third was bashed in the head with a brick.

Last night, a 17-year-old boy was killed a few steps from my office. Today, things have gone back to normal. Students smoke cigarettes. Homeless men beg for change. Promoters press fliers into tourists’ hands. Just another day in Union Square.

Last night, a boy was killed. Today, life has resumed. Life has resumed, minus one 17-year-old boy.

Genuinely Human

News stories don't usually tug at my heart. I've been watching local news since I was a baby, staying up late to watch my dad read the eleven o'clock news. I've grown up as part of the "And now this..." generation, where my eyes and ears flip through stories about a murder in Queens, a new vaccine, and a high school spelling bee winner with the same level of interest and detachment. Even the big stories rarely catch my eye for very long--the Jon Benets and Scott Petersens.

But for some reason, the James Kim story has struck a bit of a chord. I found myself tearing up the first time I read about the missing family. It was so mundane, so ordinary. Getting lost on a family road trip is something that could happen to anyone of us. And there was the techy aspect. I read Wired and visit CNET just about every day. I've watched his videos. I've read his articles. He genuinely seemed like a cool guy. Like a sweet guy. Like someone I'd want to be friends with.

"It's such a sad story," I told my friend in an IM the other night.

"Yeah, but they already found the wife and kids," he replied. "He's not dead, he's just lost. They'll find him soon."

"You're right," I replied.

And I really believed it too. Of course they would find him soon. He was just lost. It's 2006, you can't really get "lost" in 2006, I thought. They'd use whatever gadgets and radars and helicopters and other things they have and they would find him.

And they did find him. But it was too late.

Tonight, as I read the stories and saw the pictures of him playing with his daughters and excitedly fiddling with gadgets, I suddenly realized that I was crying.

The irony of it struck me hard. Here was a man who loved technology. Who was excited by and believed in the power of it. But at the end of his life, it was just him, stripped of all gadgets, able to rely on nothing but his own strength and will, fighting a losing battle against nature in a desperate attempt to save the family that he loved. They say that the fact that he was able to travel so far under such difficult conditions is unbelievable. Some of the articles even describe his efforts as "superhuman." But I disagree. I think that if anything, his strength was incredibly, truly, and genuinely human.

Update: I saw that Applebox posted a beautiful post about this story this morning. Do check it out.

Slutty Bears

I've always thought of Koala bears as the sorority girls of the Outback. While decidedly cute and appealing to the eye, they will not hesitate to tear you up if crossed. Which is why I was particularly amused when I came across this story in this morning's headlines. Particularly the following quote:

"Koala numbers in recent years have been hit hard by disease, especially chlamydia, as well loss of habitat through logging and attacks by introduced feral animals."

Seems that my analogy is even more accurate...

On an unrelated note, I noticed that CNN has recently started providing "Story Highlights," which list the important points in the story. So, not only do we not have to worry about chewing our pre-digested news, now swallowing isn't even a problem. It's kind of like borrowing the smart kid's notes in your chemistry class, and then asking him to please highlight the "important stuff."

One final thing. Today I return to full-time work for the first time in two months. Waking up this morning was a bitch as I've become a bit of a nocturnal creature these past few weeks and couldn't fall asleep before 4am last night. (No thanks to a certain someone. You know who you are...) I've got a bit of a commute ahead of me...

Wish me luck and I'll report back with full details (or perhaps just the pre-chewed highlights).

My Google Resume

Inspired by the brilliance that is my virtual friend Mike’s web log, I’ve decided to create my own Google Resume. A Google Resume is essentially what my potential employers would find out about “my” history if they were to search for my name on Google.

[Please note that I omitted all actual references to me as they were boring and really only revealed that I like to write, I frequent nerdy web forums, I participate in a couple multi-player alternate reality and role-playing games, and am available for babysitting on nights and weekends (Se Habla Espanol) (E Italiano).]

Education

-In June 2001, when I was a university student in Santiago, Chile, I posted an open notice on the International Jesuit Alumni Society indicating that I was interested in studying abroad during something called “pregrade” and looking for a “friend in Europe with an e-mail address.” I apparently don’t have very high standards when it comes to new friends. Especially European ones…

-I graduated from Chaffey High School in 2001 and am currently attending UC Riverside.

Hobbies and Extra-Curricular Activities

- For the past year I’ve dedicated myself to the art of photography. I photograph mostly cats and shadows, and occasionally I’ll combine the two (as demonstrated in my series “Cat Shadows”). I find cats and shadows mysterious and suggestive…much like myself. I’m very deep and brooding. I probably like to hang out in cafes.

-An active member of the San Pasqual High School chapter of Students Against Destructive Decisions, or SADD, I participated in a march to City Hall on Wednesday. I’m trying to motivate other kids to make good decisions and stay away from drugs. I have very few friends and am rarely invited to the “cool” parties.

-I have been modeling since the age of 10 and recently appeared on the cover of the book, titled: “How to Realize your True Beauty in just Ten Easy Minutes of Make-Up Application.” I am currently writing my own book, titled: “Why is the Title of this Book so Freaking Long?”

Honors and Publications

-Between 1983 and 1990, I represented Chile at the Ibero American Championships, a biennial track and field event for "Spain, Portugal, and Spanish or Portuguese speaking nations in the Americas." During this time I won 3 silver medals and 2 gold medals in the 1500 meter dash. Sometimes, I like to wear them all at the same time for added “bling” factor as I roam the streets of my native Chile.

-In early 2006, I published a paper titled, “Medicinal chemistry applied to a synthetic protein: Development of highly potent HIV entry inhibitors.” I’m fairly certain that nobody actually ever read it.

International Experience

-I was born 19 years ago in Lima, Peru.

-On November 26, 1979, when I was still a minor, I was hospitalized in Venezuela with serious lesions and other grave injuries, the cause of which remain unknown.

-I am an actress, director, and acting coach at the Espacio Pata de Ganso in Buenos Aires, Argentina. I have starred in a number of theater productions including Chekhov’s The Three Sisters, Hamlet, Romeo and Juliet, and Antigone. (Espacio Pata de Ganso means “Goose Leg Theater” in Spanish.)

Family Connections and Background

-When I was 14, my wealthy, traditional Mexican parents hired a very non-traditional Colombian drag queen to choreograph my Quinceanera and teach my baggy-pant-wearing friends how to waltz. He encouraged me to act “feminine,” with such helpful tips as “spit out that gum” and “stick your tits out.”

-I am the daughter of the first female Chief Justice of the Nicaraguan Supreme Court.


Overall, I'd say that according to Google I'm a pretty good hire. I'm beautiful, athletic, artistic, and socially conscious. I have a mind for science, a strong command of the Spanish language, and my parents are pretty well-connected. Oh...and I'm drug free!

What does your Google Resume reveal about you?