LA Bloggers Live! #1
I don’t think anyone would disagree that last night was fun. We had wonderful readers, one of whom worked at the Tangier and signed on at the last minute. The stories varied from relationships to Barbies to early bike riding to recent bike riding and more. It was delightful! There was an abundance of talent in the room and hardly a slow moment.
I spent the last few weeks wondering if I wanted to do a bang-up MC job and go all out with funny quips in between readers or if I should just keep it simple and announce the readers as their turn came up. I couldn’t stomach trying to be the lady in the funny hat so I decided to just stick with announcing their names and URLs, which sometimes I forgot to do. I thought more time for the readers was a better choice since we only had about an hour.
In retrospect, and based on the feedback of some attendees, I think next time I’ll do more of an introduction before each reader. I might even create a list/program so people know the basics of who will be reading when.
Thanks so much to all that came out to listen and those that were brave enough to read. I so appreciate your support! See you all in August. And in the meantime, come to LA Angst on July 11th.
Photabulous, The Recap
I threw clam chowder up once and I couldn’t eat it for about 6 years and that was a onetime vomit deal. Nothing like the incredible amounts of awesome pain I’ve been in with our old friend Blue Cheese. You’d think I got ran over by a truck and then wrung out like an old dishrag. Picture me lying prone, moisture-less and wrinkled up like an old prune, arm extended slightly up and meekly calling for water. Additionally, I’ve had about 10 narcoleptic naps the past few days and as Joe will tell you, normally I can’t fall asleep anywhere except in the bed with about 15 pillows moated around me, the lights out and the fan on low to lull me into unconsciousness. Sometimes there is chanting going on in the background and incense rolling out in tufts over the headboard. If he so much as breaths wrong, I stiffen and have to start the whole relaxation process* over again, starting with my toes. Man, I’m a party in the sack.
The first and only time I ate blue cheese prior to this past weekend was in high school. Someone dared me to taste it so I tongued a chunk, gagged, and then spent my hard-earned 5 dollars on a new Duran Duran cassette tape. I probably had an eating disorder and I threw up on purpose so I could fit into my super tight button fly stonewashed 501s, so I don’t think you can count it as a really sad episode in my life. Plus, Double Duran? I scored. (Simon! I waited for you for so long!)
Joe will routinely get salad with blue cheese. I still kiss him but I have to admit that it’s not high on my list of Things Joe Eats That Make Me Lust. It’s higher than onion and garlic but lower, much lower, than say, strawberries or chocolate.
Last weekend I took Alex to San Diego with me for a get together with the photabulous women I shoot photos with occasionally. (I can say occasionally now that it’s happened twice, right?) Anyhoo, we started the wonderful day eating brunch and then walking downtown looking for things to take photos of. We only annoyed a couple of people. Quite a successful feat for us. I must say that what Ocean Beach was lacking in silicone it more than made up for in body odor. BO in OB. GET IT?? And also? Unfortunate clothing choices.
While we waited for our food at Hodad’s, I heard my name called through the open window. And lo and behold, there was Joe’s Aunt Joan! Fun surprise. We chatted through the window until the angry man (ASShole!) sitting in between us “asked” us to stop.
At the beach we saw a dude with friendly parrots who used a very unique call to get them to come back. I believe it went something like, “Hey! Get back here!! NOW!!” And the weird thing is that they did.
Margot, Susan, Alex and I went to Old Town to the Living Room to eat fish tacos for dinner. And then Margot went home. (sadface)(hello, matt!)
On the way to Susan’s home, we stopped at Aaryn’s home. The minute I walked into the door her husband Sam put me to work folding towels. Just kidding. I love to fold clothes so I pushed my way into the Folding Circle. I just don’t like putting them away or hanging them up. Their home is quite lovely and we had great conversation but we missed seeing Ruby in the flesh. What? Kids don’t stay up past 11?
We finally made it to Susan’s where we found hand written notes scattered along the kitchen counter intermixed with plates and bowls of food. Twas a veritable smörgasbord and all fixed lovingly by Mr. Susan, Doug Myrland. Yes, Doug had given up on us ever really making it to the house and had long since gone to bed, but he left behind him the very best parts of himself and we consumed the delectable chicken wings and veggies and fried zucchini and fried olives. (Olives? Really?? Yes. They were yummy.) And herein is where we meet our old friend Blue Cheese because what would you dip all the wonderful crudités in if not blue cheese dressing? And it wasn’t just an ordinary blue cheese dressing. This was a Doug Myrlandized blue cheese dressing with additions that I can only imagine. Probably magic and fairy dust because it was the most delicious thing I’d ever had on raw carrots and celery sticks.
About a half gallon later, I went straight to bed where my stomach proceeded to not digest a single, solitary iota of any particle of food. One of the fun effects of stupid hypothyroid is slow digestion, which makes me never really feel hungry and I forget to eat because the food just sits there. It also means I’m pooping out chicken and blue cheese today from 3 days ago even though I emptied my stomach through the top vent by throwing up the entire drive home. Yes, I loved the blue cheese the first time but not the next 17 times. But, Doug! Thanks for being so sweet and next time we’ll get there sooner and eat with you. But I’m afraid I must bid the blue cheese adieu.**
I saw my old/new doc the other day and she upped my dose by about a kazzillion percent, was astonished at the lack of care I’d received during the year and a half I had been away from her and was righteously angry on my behalf as I told her all about how ridiculous and obtuse that dumb doctor was. I felt validated and safe. And then I cried real puppy dog tears and thanked her from the bottom of my heart for being so informed and saying all the things I needed to hear. After feeling my throat for what seemed like ages, she determined that the nodules are actually getting smaller. Instead of going crazy with some kind of invasive procedure, we’re going to wait and see. I like that. She even hugged me on the way out and gave me a two-month supply of Synthroid at the new, higher dose to save me money. You can’t beat that. As bad as the old place was, the new/old place is that great in contrast and I’m so glad to be back with them. There is a reason they don’t accept HMOs. It allows them to keep their level of care so much higher.
*My relaxation technique was given to me by one of my therapists where you start with either your head or your toes and consciously think about each body part relaxing while steadying and deepening your breathing. It usually works for me but it takes a dang long time.
**Alex just came home and told me that her stomach feels terrible and that she might start ralphing. I wonder if we caught a bug and that it had nothing to do with blue cheese at all? If that is the case, I’d like to apologize to Doug’s Blue Cheese Dip. Aaryn, did you say you got sick, too?
Whaaas Up?
Guess what tomorrow is? No, forget it. I’ll just tell you. It’s the first ever LA Bloggers Live!
Readers list:
Joe from Artlung
Lynda from One Day at a Time
Deezee from Confessional Highway
Neil from Citizen of the Month
Jenn from Aka Jesais
Abigail from My Life According to Me
Will from Wildbell
Kevin from Kevin Charnas
Peter from The Buddha Diaries
Tim from LA Daddy
Join us tomorrow, Thursday, June 28th at 6:30pm at the Tangier Lounge.($4 cover charge at the door)
In other news, once upon a time, a long, long time ago, Grace and I were talking and she was all ‘You should see if Amy Sedaris would be on your craft panel at Blogher.’ and I was all ‘Oh, ya. Right. Like that would happen.’ and Grace was all ‘No. Seriously. You should because it would be so great.’ and I was all ‘Dude. If I could make that happen I think I might crap my pants.’ and she was all ‘I’m sure you can figure it out. Go forth! Make it happen!’ (Insert pretty illustrations here showing me pounding the pavement.) And so I did. And Amy Sedaris is going to be on my craft panel at Blogher along with Kathy Cano Murillo, Kristin Roach, and the fabulous Natalie Zee Drieu. And then we all lived happily ever after.
Photabulous
Busy.
Weekend.
Travel.
Sick.
Busy again.
Will write more soon. xo
Once Again
Yes. We’ve heard the pitter patter of tiny feet around here for the past few days. Very tiny feet. It was so funny and cute when we thought it was a lizard. OH-ho! Ho! Look! It’s a lizard! Our home is blessed and we’ll have no insects running around willy-nilly! Let’s set up a small bed in an empty matches box! I’ll make him a tiny quilt in case he gets cold! Good times.
Apparently, birdseed attracts rodents. Who knew? And our bird (with no name) is messy. I’ve had birds before that were messy and so I’m not surprised at the end of the day when there is a smattering of seeds and hulls on the carpet underneath the cage waiting for a good dustbustering. But I swear, this bird sticks his beak in the seed dish and just writhes his head back and forth. He looks like a dog exuberantly shaking his fur after a bath. Or me shaking my hair in the wind. He sometimes hits me over 6 feet away! Maybe he’s aiming. (Give me an effin name already, woman!) I’m making him a cage skirt toot sweet. He looks great in green.
In any case, these brazen mice that run the baseboard from the cage to the fireplace and up and out are not lacking for food. They dosey-do, do the soft-shoe and then tip their tiny hats in thanks as they leave. And then they party all night at their secret hangout at the top of the chimney getting drunk on zinfandel out of tiny thimbles and sharing a cheesepuff while talking about what terrible television we watch at our house. We’re completely uncultured.
Call me old or ornery or curmudgeonly (or sad since I wasn’t invited to the party) as you please but I’m sorry – no more mice in the house. Thank you.
But I did cry when the first little guy got stuck on the sticky strips. He squeaked. I cried. I called Joe and he walked me through the steps of putting him in the dumpster. (Which, seriously, I think I could have figured out. I’ve got a few ounces of common sense. But I tend to use My Man for these types of things. Does that make me weak? Look! A spider!)
I realize that the more humane way to deal with the mouse would have been to put him out of his misery, but I could not abide smashing him in any way shape or form. And I didn’t want to let him go because he would most likely just come down the chimney again and back into my rodent-free zone. And I didn’t have enough oil to pour on him anyway to remove him from the sticky strip. And if it’s hot tomorrow, won’t the oil on his fur just get really hot and crispy and make him a tasty fried snack for a bird, cat or snake? And that, in turn, would most likely make those animals ill. I can’t take all that responsibility.
And I am in denial because I’m imagining he found tiny broken toothpicks and was able to extricate himself like we would in quicksand, completely intact but with rumpled clothing and wacky hair. Immediately afterwards, he put on a freshly ironed Hawaiian shirt, wrapped the kerchief around his walking cane and took a train to Philly. He’ll soon be working as a bouncer in a bordello.
But, no! Instead, he is in a box with a bag tied around him in the dumpster. And all I can think about is The Secret of NIMH and how now I’m the really awful People who are evil and kill the mice.
I imagine I’ll get over it. Not going through the couch cushions looking for and vacuuming up tiny mice poopy-pellets every morning is going to help.
Can't Wait For The Movie
My friend Susan and I play this game sometimes. It doesn’t really have a name but the basic rules of the game are – have the worst life/circumstances of everyone around you. But you have to laugh about it. Ya, I think that’s it in a nutshell.
For example, if I got a ticket for illegal parking but she broke her arm, she wins. If she got stung by a bee but I broke the heel on my Manolos, I win. Actually, that might win a lot of stuff. Unless she is allergic to bees and has to go to the emergency room and almost dies, then I guess that would win. Maybe.
In any case, Susan’s mom died recently so she totally won, for like, days and days and maybe weeks. I mean, you can’t really top that, right? The things that could happen to trump the death of a parent are pretty far and few between. Except now. Now I think I might win for a bit.
But the second part of the rules, the laughing at the situation part, I’ve been unable to do until today. Today it just seems hysterical in a sad, yet funny way. I mean, imagine this last chapter of my life as a movie. Mom goes to mental hospital. Kids and father move. Mom spends the next four years job after job and house after house inching closer in a very dramatic and pragmatic fashion, always repeating some mantra like, ‘This will all be worth it someday when my kids are living with me again!’ and throw in some arm shaking and maybe background music. Oh, I think Climb Every Mountain or Ain’t No Mountain High Enough would work great. There would be close-ups of sweat falling from my temples, little ringlets of hairs coming out from my bun all misty and dewy over the kitchen sink.
Hey, I know! Let’s put me in a covered wagon – the preferred mode of transportation of My People. I can wear the Bonprons I made and some bloomers made of scratchy, low-grade cotton so my knees will get irritated as we go along. I’ll walk and walk and walk and walk aaaaaaand walk. I think there better be falling down in crevasses and storms of many kinds.
And then, as the smoke clears and a slight wind rustles my hair, you’ll see the determination set in my jaw line as I go those last few feet on my hands and knees. My fingernails packed with dirt from pulling my limp body (did I forget to say I got paralyzed from the waist down somewhere along the line? Probably a freak accident with an Emu.) along the muddy grassland, clump by clump.
Then let’s fast forward past the part where I built the cabin after wrastlin’ the miners for the plot of land that was my great grandfathers and rightfully mine. And past the part where I spin the wool and make fabric and then sew curtains for every room. And past the part where I planted the garden, toiled in the fields and then bottled 1,364 bottles of corn for the winter. And past the part where I send the telegram to the children and tell them the homestead is finally, FINALLY ready for them.
Let’s just go straight to the part where they get the telegram and go, ‘Meh. No thanks!’ because that, my friends, is comedy gold. And I do believe it’s a comedy. Anything that depressing has to be a comedy just to sit through it.
I know I’m winning more than just Susan. The past few days when people call on the phone I’ll say, ‘Hey – I heard about [whatever-I-heard-here] and how are you doing with that?’ And they’ll say, ‘Oh, Leah, no biggie. We didn’t lose the farm and no one got hurt and my kids still want me to, you know, be their mom…’ at which point their voice kind of trails off.
Thanks for the kind emails you’ve sent. Mostly they were very thoughtful and I appreciate you taking the time to write me. However, I’d like to point out that, as one friend said, teens are in the height of their asshole stage and I have four of them and I know this. I was the Queen of Bitch during my teen years. I realize this and recognize this and being their mom, I’m allowed to say it. But please refrain from expounding on that idea in emails or comments. No matter what they do or say, they are my children and I love them with a fierce passion that will cause me to cut you if you attack them with your words. Personal stories of how YOU were an asshole are fine, though. And, please feel free to send love and candy! I like candy. And yarn. And tiny dogs.
Toss In Your Own
What did Mr Spock say when he looked in the toilet?
Captains Log
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Hello, and welcome to the Psychiatric Hotline. If you are obsessive-compulsive, please press 1 repeatedly. If you are co-dependent, please ask someone to press 2. If you have multiple personalities, please press 3, 4, 5 and 6.
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Confucius says, “A constipated man does not give a crap.”
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How many folk singers does it take to screw in a light bulb?
Two. One to change the bulb, and one to write a song about how good the old light bulb was.
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How many Taoists does it take to change a light bulb?
You cannot change a light bulb. By its nature it will go out again.
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How many Zen masters does it take to screw in a light bulb?
A tree in a golden forest.
Less Time Thinking and More Time Doing
I want to do something and I want to do it well. I need something, anything, to fill this hole in my heart a mile wide.
Excuse me while I wax slightly melodramatic. I’ve spent years of my life with one purpose, my only purpose, a sole purpose, to now find that it’s not needed in the slightest. I am, in fact, unnecessary. Can you imagine? Spending years of your life believing one thing and working towards something with every fiber of your being in every way that you possibly could? To believe something as a solid truth only to find out that you were completely wrong?
I’m crushed. I’m saddened beyond belief. I do not, in fact, even know the words to express my pain. I’m screaming with my hand over my mouth. If only you could hear me! If you were in my head you’d know. You’d feel the reverberations so deep, your bone marrow would vibrate. The tune hasn’t been written, but only touched upon by the dark and soulfullest strains of the blues song you’ve never heard, barely skimming with its tawny, skinny finger along your cheek.
Ah, yes, you think. There she goes again. Going on about the kids and her feelings and the dreadful inadequacy of it all. Believe me when I tell you this is different. At least for me it is. For you, you could be entirely correct. If that is the case, feel free to spend your time accordingly and move on to the next reading spot of your choice.
My husband is going through one of the hardest moments of his life thus far. I support him and love him the same as always and even more because of his deep sadness and fear. He keeps his feelings reigned in, on my behalf, I suppose. He cries by himself, afraid that I’ll come apart at the seams if he isn’t strong and all put together. It hurts me. Oh, how it hurts me to hold him and have him keep his sobs silently inside, with only his shoulders heaving slightly, a smile on his face when we pull away and barely a tear in his eye. Careful not to get any of his sadness on his wife whom he thinks couldn’t handle it. He didn’t ask me if I could take a little of it for him, rest it on my back like a mantle for a bit and give him reprieve. He doesn’t dare. He knows what he knows and he has his tight-knit family for the sad-sharing. They know each other. They take care of each other. I’m glad they do. I’m glad he isn’t worried about how I feel. All their energies have much more important things to do at this moment and I support that 100%. Even more, if it were possible. Even more, if he would let me in. In the meantime, I’ll have to do with the cursory reports of progress.
There is a natural and opposite reaction to every action. The counterpoint for his is mine, namely, my kids. But, really, who’s to say which came first? Perhaps I met him like this. As much as he won’t allow me into his family, I don’t allow him into mine. He can forge relationships with all of the children that will let them, which by my estimation is roughly 2.75 of them collectively. I can try to nurture his attempts but on the outset, it’s his journey, as I have remained a neutral party for my children’s benefit. I’ve been a safe harbor for them to come to at any moment, including a disagreement or confusion with him. And I’ve repeatedly told myself that this was oh-so-very necessary. A duty of love from their mother. My never-ending job, to be there always and unfailingly for them, my beautiful offspring. First and foremost, failing nothing.
So odd when your perception shifts. You’re looking through the lens in one direction and then suddenly you’re off balance and falling to the floor on one ear. The way you’ve seen things suddenly turned 90 degrees and the first thought to your head is – Of course! Why haven’t I seen things this way the whole time? Why didn’t I know this – this – thing? Why? Am I daft?
My children don’t need me. They don’t need me in the way I’ve been projecting for ages to myself and to the world. In fact, they have a mother and a fine one at that. My ex and his wife are entirely the perfect parents. It could be completely true that I need them far more than the other way round. Because without them, who am I? But, without me? They are still themselves in a complete family unit lacking nothing. I, on the other hand, am only part of a half of a relationship where deep feelings are kept to the person who feels them. I can’t say a solid half because no one sees me that way, let alone myself. So, only a part I remain.
I’ve been so stubborn and self-centered. I haven’t listened when they’ve tried to tell me. They are happy the way things are! I’ve been supposing that I had things to offer, things that could be had no where else but I was deluding myself. One of them was finally brave enough to tell me how they all felt.
Oh, the planning I’ve taken. The silly and thorough planning. Working the entire day around one of them popping in for less than five minutes. The miles I’ve traversed to see an hour of a football game or pass off a book left behind. All because I thought in some way I was important in their lives. Well, to be fair, I am important as much as a beloved aunt or friend of the family can be. Just not in the way I thought I was: a Mother.
I think of my attempts at being their mom as so sad. I’m embarrassed. How awkward for them, to have to pretend I was doing somewhat of a good job at it. There were clues along the way. Their reluctance at putting personal items in their rooms here. Their indifference at whether I’m in attendance at a school or sports activity. I thought it might be a way of protecting their feelings. But I was wrong. It was the reality of the situation I was afraid to look at. And now, the Universe has cracked a bit and the sound is hurting my head.
Do I sound bitter? I suppose I am. But not at them. Really, they’ve done the best they could with what they had. When you go through years of hearing that someone is a mental case, it’s hard to see them as anything but. They’ve managed to become a family with close ties to their father and their step-mom, which is so much better for them than the opposite. I suppose I’m just nursing my wounds at being on the outside again and wishing I were on the inside for once with my kids. A family where I’m the mom and they are my children.
At some point I’ll have to figure out what’s next. What is the next step? Certainly less time thinking and more time doing is the order of the day. I want to do something and I want to do it well. I need something, anything, to fill this hole in my heart a mile wide.
The Crushing
“Seven years, Mom! Seven Years! You just haven’t been around. I can’t count on you! I like things the way they are! You can’t just expect me to change at the drop of a hat!”
“Wait a minute. Seven years? How do you get that number? Your dad and I divorced in 2002 while I was in a MENTAL HOSPITAL! I was out of state a total of eight months! And your dad is the one that moved you to a place that I couldn’t afford to live and where I knew no one and couldn’t find a job. Yes, it took me a couple of years to move here. But that doesn’t equal seven years. I don’t think you’re being fair!”
“It doesn’t matter! It doesn’t matter if it was Dad’s fault or your fault. I don’t care if the reason is because he told you not to come and live here or you couldn’t find a job! The end result is that you haven’t been around! So, don’t just all of a sudden decide to change everything around! You call that stability?”
“All I’m asking for is for you to stay over an equal amount of nights during the summer. If it doesn’t work out, then when school starts again, we’ll change it back. That isn’t unstable! That’s an opportunity!”
“I don’t want things to change! I like it how it is! I stay mostly with my dad. He’s the one that makes sure we have cars and money and whatever else we need. You’re my mommy! You’re my best friend. I tell you everything and I know you’ll just love me and accept me. I don’t want you to start telling me what I can and can’t do! I don’t need another mom. I already have one! I want you to stay my best friend.”
“Your best friend that never gets to be your mom because you don’t want me to be that for you? You know, we have cars. We have your room upstairs. We have food and everything your dad has. For the past few years I’ve lived close enough to be a real mom to you but you haven’t let me. From the minute I got out of the hospital, my whole life has been about getting to this place! This spot! Living close enough to you to really be a mom to you. You have no idea what I’ve gone through to get here! And now, just like that, you tell me you don’t want what I have to offer?”
“I do want what you have to offer. I just want you to be my best friend like you have been. Don’t change anything. Please! What difference does it make?”
“You know, while we lived 12 miles away, I could kind of understand because it took about 15 minutes to drive from house to house. But now, we’re just a few blocks away. And it’s like it hasn’t changed anything. It doesn’t matter how close I live, does it? Now I get it. The real truth is that you just don’t want me to be your mom. I never would have guessed that. I was so focused on getting to do all the mom stuff like fixing you breakfast and helping you with your homework and doing your laundry. You know, taking care of you.”
“Mom, no. I want you to be my mommy. The way it’s always been. Just be that. Don’t change anything. Please.”
The Mean and Nasty
I get sick to my stomach every time someone on television says the words, ‘……and Paris Hilton is going to jail/was put in jail/just got out of jail!’ because within a fraction of a second, the air swells with the sounds of cheering and clapping. All those people, cheering together because why? Someone got their due?
I look around at the real problems in the world and wish people would invest a fraction of the energy they put into caring about Paris and Lindsey and Britney into something much more worthy of their time. I know a number of great causes and with the combined strength of a few million people, man we could do some good!
I don’t mean to come across all high-n-mighty. I enjoy a good Go Fug Yourself just like the next person. But where the one seems like a jab at a fashion choice or a bad hair day, this feels like mob mentality when everyone across the country is thinking and feeling ill of a particular person. How can that person ever hope to be able to move past it? Isn’t that energy damaging?
I realize that in this case, Paris has snubbed her nose at the law and conventionality many, many times. I also realize that she is not generally portrayed as a kind person and has made many a public mistake. She may truly be a mean person. But, I doubt it. If you are religious, she’s your sister. If you’re not, she’s still a human being. A very young, sometimes stupid and surely immature human being. And I would tend to blame her permissive parents much harsher than her. But, who can say, really? I don’t know any of them personally.
In my experience with my own life and with my own kids, if a person is continually reminded over and over how they screwed up, they don’t improve very fast. It’s not helpful, is what I’m saying. Now, increase that by the size of America. What kind of chance do these girls have of really turning things around? Would we let them change or take their attempts seriously anyway?
The insatiable thirst we Americans get for the scoop on our celebrities is truly disgusting to me sometimes. We cheer them on, encouraging them to be more bizarre and get more attention, and then we turn on them after we use them up. Like an old tube of toothpaste but with less mint flavor. And then we mock them and jeer at them. It makes me sad.
Ask Leahpeah, A Collaboration Letter
Dear Leah,
Your interviews rock!
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I love your interviews!
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Are you still doing interviews?
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Why aren’t you still doing interviews?
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Will you interview me?
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Why won’t you interview me?
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I know someone that would be a great interviewee!
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If you don’t interview me, I’m going to tell everyone you wet the bed.Sincerely/Best Wishes/Warm Regards/Love/Later,
Your Readers
Dear Ones,
Thank you for your email! Thank you for liking the interviews! I’m sorry, I won’t interview you, even though you are AWESOME and INTERESTING!! This is not because I don’t like you or think you are pretty. Because I do. And I like your brooch.
It’s because I’m not doing the blogger interview series any longer. There may be a few straggler interviews that could possibly come in from last year, but at this point it seems highly unlikely. However, I would certainly post them if they did show up in my inbox because everyone that I asked and emailed questions to, I love and would love to include in the series.
I’m working (and when I say ‘working’ I mean the term very loosely) on the group painting and some video interviews. I’m also working on interviews and articles for print magazines like the ones I recently did for LAB and CRAFT. Also, Alphamom will be posting all the video interviews I did last year on their new website once it launches. Additionally, new projects get posted to my website homepage as they get launched.
Thank you for reading and liking the interviews! I hope you like the next stuff I do, too. If you are an interview-reading craziak, could I suggest two places you could go get your fix? Ransom Note Typography is starting a series and of course, Matthew from In The Air who interviews an awesome variety of people.
xoxo,
lpc
Wherein Katie Plans Her Uganda Trip (and sends me a surprise!)
I have this friend Katie. Katie sent me a present in the mail a few weeks ago. I guess she thought I would like it or something.
It just so happens that Katie is planning a second trip to Uganda. When I went to the fabulous PD weekend, she told me all about what she was trying to accomplish. And far from being the normal, ‘but it’s for the children! The CHILDREN!!‘, she had a very well planned out idea of how things were going to work. Being that this is her second trip, I have no fear that she knows what she’s getting into. Also, the fact that she had to figure out how to send herself shows how committed she is. But, I really felt like she could use some help getting all the components together to make her idea come to life.
I sent an email out to some friends to see what reaction they might have. So far, it’s been resoundingly positive. Heather donated $100, an anonymous donor matched that $100, KristyK sent some really great supplies that she had her kids help decorate (so great!):
And the other day, Tracey called and told me she had lined up a point-n-shoot camera with direct portable printer to be donated to Katie from HP. Such great news!
Here is an excerpt from an email from Katie earlier today:
I had a meeting with the people I’ll be going to Uganda with on Sunday and a group of four of us are in the planning stages for how this will look when we’re there. So now it looks like this will be my main focus while in the country and there are SO many good ideas being tossed around. I can’t wait to see how this will all unfold: 1) being able to tell the story of what’s going over there when we get back, and 2) giving people the chance to express themselves and see a picture (no pun intended) of hope as they realize dreams for the future.
I was talking to one of the counselors who is working there and she said the great thing about this idea is that people don’t often do that where we’ll be going. With what they’ve lived through, seeing so much death, and living in such extreme poverty, they only see what’s right in front of them, not really giving thought to what the future could hold, or even what tomorrow could hold for that matter. So giving them the chance to dream and see the possibility of a better tomorrow and simply express themselves in a way they wouldn’t otherwise is extremely exciting for me.
Katie still needs more donations if you have $$ or Polaroid cameras etc. to donate. Let me know if you want more information. We have about 4 weeks left to get it all to her.
(More Than) Two Things
The latest version of LAB Magazine is up! You can view/download it here. Also, for a beautiful hard copy, order from Lulu here. Joseph Robertson is the bomb and does a really nice job putting it together. Also, my interview with Natalie Zee Drieu is in there!
Speaking of Natalie, she’s coming to Blogher this summer to be on my craft panel. Joining us will be Kristin Roach and Kathy Cano Murillo. Are you going to Blogher this year?
We have a mostly permanent home for LA Angst and LA Bloggers Live! (crowd cheering) I know, I know. It is great because they will be held at the Tangier Lounge, which really rocks and has the perfect ambiance for reading to an audience. So join us for our first Live! on Thursday, June 28th, 6:30pm and the next Angst on Wednesday, July 11th at 6:30pm, won’t you?
The Weekend, She Rocked
On Saturday, Joe and I went to Ariel’s reading at the Tangier Lounge. I took some photos. We laughed and laughed. This was the final book reading of her Offbeat Bride tour and we were lucky to be included. It was a packed house and we had front row seats. Ariel does a mean sock puppet like nobody’s business.
The second half of the night was spent with L.A. Daddy and some other fabulous bloggers at the L.A. Blogger Party. I hope we do that again sometime real soon.
Sunday night was the first LA Angst. There were a few hiccups regarding the venue, but a new birth always comes with a few. (We’ll be meeting somewhere new next time.) We had just under 20 people attend and there was much laughing and cheering in our intimate and dark nook of the bar. (Thank god Ariel happened to have a small flashlight.) The vibe was really great and I can see that group getting crazy large at some point when the word gets out about how fun it is to read old journals and reveal your angsty teenhood. Thanks to Ariel and Andreas for being good sports and putting up with my company two nights in a row. Two, people. Two nights. They are practically saints.
And thanks to Joe for being a wonderful partner for the weekend. His sense of direction will always amaze me.
UPDATED: This is the best replay of the evening. I love Kevin Charnas. And I think Joe is ok with that.
