architectural dreams

I'm not sure why, but whenever I remember a dream of mine, it's invariably situated within a very interestingly-designed space. Perhaps I've missed my calling as a designer of buildings, but I'd much rather be an architect of film than of corporate headquarters. Unless, of course, it could be the headquarters for a supervillain. Talk about artistic license!

So, anyway, here's what I dreamt last night:

I'd heard word around town that one simply had to visit Magic _____. I'm still not sure what "_____" was—Castle? Mountain? Village? Chalet? Overpriced Theme Park? Point is, it's a tourist destination wherein one is dropped off in these very picturesque hills, finds the sprawling estate of said Magic _____ for themselves, far away from the rest of civilization, and by virtue of discovering the various secret passages honeycombed throughout the vast area, one ends up tumbling back along various slides/pneumatic tubes to the original ticket area, which (conveniently enough) is behind the Hotel Cafe in Hollywood.

Yes, you read that right: tickets to this place were only available at the Hotel Cafe, which looked the same as its real self from the outside, but step inside and HOLY COW it looks exactly like a barely-refurbished 1950's-era mental institution! It was all plaster and linoleum and turquoise doors and robin's-egg-blue walls, but the fluorescent fixtures were replaced with halogen lighting, which clearly communicated "Hey—we're being ironically kitschy, as evidenced by the dated, institutional quality of the place as seen under terrific lighting!"

So, the ticket counter (which is where the Hotel Cafe's counter normally is) is also a concession stand. Since it's typical to be stuck at Magic _____ for a long time until you find a passage which will bring you back, they strongly recommend bringing provisions. I notice that they have a "blubber sandwich" on sale, which actually looks like a delicious Moroccan tomato paste on pumpernickel.

"Hey," I ask the ticket guy after buying my ticket, "that's not really blubber, is it?"

He looks at me like I'm nuts, the whole line erupts into laughter behind me, he tells me that I am an idiot, that OF COURSE it's blubber, gee whiz; I shrug my shoulders and buy it. Silly people laughing at me. ME! Hmph.

So. I step out back to the van which awaits us tourists, and I realize I am no longer in Hollywood. No sirree, I have stepped out into WALES. Saw that coming, didn't you? Anyway, the gorgeously verdant hills are unmistakeable. We wind our way through the countryside, and (as part of the adventure) it's up to each rider to decide when to get off, since the van driver isn't allowed to tell us precisely where Magic _____ even is. I get off first, everyone looks at me like I'm nuts, and I spend a day and a half wandering through the countryside, NEVER FINDING THE MAGIC _____. What a waste! The sandwich lasted me the whole time, which was impressive, but I was still peeved when I landed back at the Hotel Cafe. While I was grumbling at the staff, who are impressed that I made it back without any secret passageway help whatsoever, I recognized my friends Matt and Isa (hi, guys!).

So, Matt, true to form, teases me mercilessly for missing Magic _____ completely ("Wow, whatta dumbass," are his exact words, "but we love you anyway"), and then we agree to investigate Magic _____ together, the Hotel Cafe staff grudgingly letting me try all over again. This time, Matt and Isa (being old pros at this) guide me unerringly to the Magic _____. We meander about, oohing and aahing at the very House-of-Usher-meets-La-Dolce-Vita aspects to the estate, and then do some serious investigating, trying to avoid the many kids running around screaming and galumphing about the courtyards and corridors, ripping down the ivy and so forth. I walk into a sumptuous, decaying bathroom straight out of The Shining, and step into the shower stall, Matt and Isa right behind.

"Hey, guys," I say, "do you think this could be a secret passagewaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa" as the bathtub falls away beneath me and WHOOOOOOOOOOSSSHHHHHHH I find myself sliding at an ungodly number of miles per hour down a very zigzaggy tunnel, wide enough for one person, and it's very much like a typical water tunnel at a water-themed amusement park, only there's no water, and it's pitch black, and I'm convinced I'm about to die, when WHAM I spill out into a fountain in a main courtyard, tourists applauding me as I make my splashy appearance, and I see the back of the Hotel Cafe right in front of me.

I later ask people how long it usually takes to find one's way out of Magic _____, and the answer is "about two days," so I didn't feel so bad about making it back within a day and a half, my first time around. It was a lot of fun, and great to hang out with Matt and Isa, but there was a lot to be said, too, for wandering about on my own through the picturesque Welsh hills—just myself, the pretty clouds, the mild sun, a full moon, and a Moroccan tomato paste sandwich on pumpernickel to keep me company.

i hate sheep

Okay, I don't hate actual sheep; actual sheep are quite adorable, really. My problem, to be honest, is with sheeplike people. Take tonight's party...please.

My friend Rebekah brought me along to a party for a friend of hers, which seemed well and good. Rebekah is a fab individual, and it is generally a good idea to get out of your house and have a life every so often. Still, the promise of the evening came to a grinding halt when we were introduced by the hostess, within the first five minutes of our arrival, to a guy who asked us "What do you do?"

GAH.

Rebekah, being superfab, replied calmly, "I'm a contortionist." I immediately burst out laughing, the guy responded with disbelief, I insisted that her five-in-a-row backflips are truly something to behold, and then Rebekah had to ruin it all by confessing that she is, in fact, not a contortionist after all. Damn her honesty.

GAH.

Then more people showed up, most of whom failed to ask me anything about myself. I learned a great deal about them, inquiring into the thrilling details of their lives, but no curiosity on their ends. The brave few who bothered to ask about me had no idea what cinematography is, which is certainly fair enough. I explained it, they nodded politely, and the conversation died—until I asked some more about their lives, and they lit up and just blathered away merrily again.

GAH.

The worst, though—THE ABSOLUTE PITS—were these law students talking about Coachella. They asked me if I planned to go, and I said No Thank You, I am not into Festivals of Trendiness for the Sheeplike Masses (I neglected to further mention that I can't afford the ticket—but even if I could, I seriously doubt I'd go). One of the law students replied, "Astrid, you think too much."

Think too much?

"Gee," I said, "that sure inspires confidence, coming from a law student. Remind me to hire you sometime."

"Seriously, though," he said in a genuinely earnest fashion, "I do very little thinking, and my life is great."

GAH.

Then he asked me what I'm drinking.

"Coke," I replied.

"And what?" he asked.

"Just Coke."

"Why?"

"Why not?"

The poor guy experienced some serious consternation at this point. He studied my face carefully, clearly expecting me to break down and tearfully admit that I am a total loser, and don't know how to party. Little does he know that my brain synthesizes LSD naturally, and I've danced on bars—and gotten chased away by security—completely stone-cold sober. I am perfectly comfortable with having fun on caffeine only, and it freaked him out royally.

"But it's FRIDAY!" he exploded.

"Yes," I said.

"Do you drink at all?"

"Sure."

"But not now."

"Right."

He regarded me some more, shook his head whilst mumbling wonderingly, and backed away into the crowd. He looked a tad frightened, which I found oddly satisfying.

But still: GAH.

I hate sheep. Where O where are the contortionists, the feverish thinkers, the folks who would rather get their fingernails ripped out one by one than ask somebody what they "do"?

rainy fridays

Wouldn't it be cool to have a band called The Rainy Fridays? Well, okay, maybe it just sounds cool to me.

Anyway, I'm really liking this switcheroo in L.A. weather—bring it on, Mother Nature! The main thing I like about rain is how musical it makes my brain; I start thinking endlessly about all the rain-related songs I know, and it makes for an amusing day. My personal favorites are "I Can't Stand the Rain" by Ann Peebles, "November Rain" by Guns & Roses, and "Come Clean" by Hilary Duff. A co-worker also mentioned "Fool in the Rain" by Led Zeppelin, which I've never heard, and I also briefly debated including "No Rain" by Blind Melon, which I think has us covered. (Yeah, yeah, I know the Grateful Dead did their own rain thing, as did Madonna, Neil Young, Mariah Carey, Whitesnake, and other musical luminaries—I've just never heard their particular odes to dampness, excepting Madonna's.)

Totally unrelated: someone said to me last night, "You're doomed to failure, but in a good way." Assuming he was joking, I consider this brilliance. Maybe I need new friends, or at least a lobotomy.

Le fromage bleu

Why do I love bleu cheese so much?  No, really—why?  I don't get it.  I used to think the stuff was nasty, back in the day, but this was also back in the same day when I hated anything made with whole grains.  Taste buds are curious things.

So, for the first time in my life, believe it or not, I have finally tried frozen grapes.  Frozen grapes!  I love how there's that moment when you first bite into a frozen grape and your gums go YOWTCH from the searing cold and then suddenly the grape juices melt and HOORAY it's a party in your mouth and a grape was invited.  Ooee, I just love it.

Can you tell I just went grocery shopping yesterday? Garlic rosemary crackers are FAB.  Pearl tomatoes are fab, and doubly fab when you wrap each tomato in some fresh basil.  Oh, man, I'm hungry...and I didn't really have a proper lunch...gah.  I'd get something now, but I'm going to Ammo tonight, so I need to save room.  Alas, my existence is so difficult.

welcome to the tribe

So I was at Washington Mutual today, waiting in line to deposit a check, when I realized how Christmas-saturated the place was. The railings were bedecked with gold-and-burgundy tinsel, stockings printed with cheery snow tableaus hung in a row along the teller's windows, and Santa beamed down upon us blessed patrons from at least six vantage points.

The line moved, and I ended up with the last teller on the right -- a younger, bespectacled guy who looked bored. "How are you doing today?" he inquired blandly, looking vacantly at my left ear.

"Fine," I said. "So, when are you guys putting up the Hanukkah decorations?"

His eyes slid into contact with mine. "Uh, dunno," he said as he took my paper slips.

"Are you actually planning to put any up?" I tried really hard not to sound snarky, but I don't think it worked. He thought for a moment as he started entering info from my paper slips into his computer.

"Actually, no," he said, attempting to sound apologetic. He glanced up again. "I can talk to my manager, if you like." As the words came out of his mouth, his eyes slid back to the computer. I'd clearly mistaken him for someone who gave a whoop.

"Sure," I said. Try not to whine, try not to whine, try not to whine. "I mean, it's sorta depressing and all, coming in here and not seeing even one chintzy dreidel decal on the wall."

"I'll talk to my manager," he said. Eyes still on computer. "Will that be all?"

"Yup," I said. "Thanks so much, I really appreciate your help."

"Thank you for coming to Washington Mutual, have a nice day," he recited to my left ear. I smiled in what I hoped was an endearing, please-help-the-downtrodden way, realized he had entirely failed to notice, dropped the smile, and trudged back out to my car.

Being Jewish in a Pasadena Washington Mutual sucks donkey balls.

so I took this quiz....

Your Seduction Style: Sweet Talker



Your seduction technique can be summed up with "charm"
You know that if you have the chance to talk to someone...
Well, you won't be talking for long! ;-)

You're great at telling potential lovers what they want to hear.
Partially, because you're a great reflective listener and good at complementing.
The other part of your formula? Focusing your conversation completely on the other person.

Your "sweet talking" ways have taken you far in romance - and in life.
You can finesse your way through any difficult situation, with a smile on your face.
Speeding tickets, job interviews... bring it on! You truly live a *charmed life*

What Kind of Seducer Are You?

I guess Keith will have to confirm this one for me. Personally, I'd much prefer "Sexpot," but I guess they disqualify you from the sexpot club if you want to learn the ukulele.

how to turn on Dan Rather without touching

I discovered the hilarious world of Dan Rather today, and there is no going back. My favorites are "You talk about a ding-dong, knock-down, get-up race," which is just begging to be sampled, and "This race is shakier than cafeteria Jell-O," which is fab imagery. Mmm, Jell-O.

So, I had the weirdest hankering last night for toast and runny eggs, so I did a grocery run for organic eggs, sourdough English muffins, and (gasp!) the latest issue of Cosmo. Should I be worried? I mean, Cosmo? Good lord, what have I done?

So, Cosmo. I freaked out just now when I took it out of my bag, and realized it said "Cosmo Men" on the front, with a pic of Matthew McConaughey. Wha? After a panicked moment wherein I thought I'd blown $3.99 on a mag not meant for my demographic, I then realized that this month's issue is -- wait for this -- TWO IN ONE. Flip it one way, it's two-thirds chick mag. Flip it the other way, it's one third chap mag. I can barely contain myself. At least I now know why sex position no. 77 is as apparently mind-blowing as no. 69, which I feel has now made me a wiser, better person.

I'm steamed about a couple of things, though. First, there's an article called "Bedroom Blog." Um, I thought it had to be online to count as a blog. Otherwise, wouldn't it just be a log? What a bunch of dumbasses. Second, page 54 is supposed to have an article entitled "How to Turn Him On Without Touching" -- I turned to page 54, and found a silly, silly page with pics of celebs kissing! RIPOFF, I say! So, without further ado, here is my own replacement list:

How to Turn Him On Without Touching
1. Take clothes off.
2. Smile. Waving hello in a merry fashion isn't such a bad idea, either.

See? Am I great at this or what?