TheNew30

Living Large: Are You as Embarrassed as I Am?

Yesterday's headline on the front page screamed: "What if Oil Hits $200?" I was so traumatized, I couldn't even blog about it in the moment. But it's the next day and already it feels like old news.

The fact is, we're never going back to "the good old days" where you could do a road trip from L.A. to San Francisco for about 45 bucks. The SUV that I thought was a good buy in 2002 because I worked for GM, is now good for two things only: stashing a ton of Cory's junk and hauling home Christmas trees. I gave her the Envoy last year after I'd bought a Prius and her car, a Ford Focus, was mangled in a terrible (and terribly lucky for her) accident. The car was totaled; she came away without a scratch.

Going from SUV to Prius: how does one make such a sharp left?  I guess you could say I was an optimist trapped in a pessimist's body. After doing evil to our beloved planet for 4 years, I finally saw the light - along with the writing on the wall. Car payments would balance out with the amount of gasoline I'd be saving. But at least, I reasoned, I would be shrinking my footprint. As to the Envoy, my 21-year-old college student would drive it until she got another car that was more gas friendly. Now, it seems, there's no getting rid of it.

And I'm not the only one in SUV hell. I need look no further than out my front door for a harsh illustration of the sharp divide between doing good and doing well. The street is lined with shiny SUVs, the most blatant of which is a champagne-colored Cadillac Escalade. I know that guy must have had pride swell his heart when he bought it. But I can't bear to think what his 3AM thoughts are these days. If it costs me $35 to fill up the Prius, it has to cost nearly $100 for that Caddy. As it does for the rest of the big guzzlers on the street: an Explorer, an Expedition, an Excursion (big enough to carry a week's supply of food for a third world nation), a Tundra. And then there are the wannabe SUVs, a Honda CR-v, a Toyota RAV4, and a Pathfinder. There are a sprinkling of station wagons. Bringing up the rear are something like a half-dozen sedans and coupes.

And then there are the Priuses. Whatever the plural, at last count it was seven. On one block, that's impressive. I know for a fact that at least three of them are owned by previous SUV or mini van owners. Yeah, we carry a lot of weight in the guilt department, us recovering SUV-ers. We know we've done wrong. But, like GM, we haven't a clue where to unload these freighters.

Cory's home until she goes to Ecuador, and I see how the gas prices have affected her. And her friends. Only a year ago, at the drop of a hat they would head out to the beach, over to the valley, up to Big Bear. Now, they decide very carefully on their evenings' entertainment, many times choosing to get a pay-per-view movie, pop their own popcorn and hang here for the night.

The Times article sited other profound changes the oil crisis is having/will have on our national state of mind/body/spirit. More people will telecommute (that would be me and my ilk), while the people whose jobs can't be virtual (think waiters, retailers, and other service related jobs) will suffer because more people will elect not to spend on big ticket items, hit their favorite restaurant, enjoy a play or concert. When the restaurants start fizzling out, the national mood will begin to unravel, dining out being a surprisingly necessary source of bonding.

Southern California, with its legendary long commutes, high cost of living and ever-ready entertainments, will be particularly hit hard. According to the article,  "Throughout our history, we have grown on the assumption that energy costs would be low. Now that those assumptions are shifting, it changes assumptions about housing, cars and how cities grow...[push prices up fast enough and]  it would be the urban-planning equivalent of an earthquake."

The story goes on to talk about how L.A. real estate value will change based on location and relevance. I already see the importance of location - a headhunter called me the other day with a job that paid approximately what I was making four years ago. "But," she said excitedly, "It's in Culver City!"

"What are you waiting for?" I barked, "Submit me!"

Like the rest of us, I don't really know where we'll end up, I only know that Cheney, et al., have driven us up to doom and gloom's doorstep and aren't waiting to see that we get in okay before speeding off into the night.

But I have to take responsibility for my part in it.

The big black Envoy in the driveway chides me each morning. I once loved that car. It was the first new car I'd ever owned and I'd paid for it outright. It was a symbol of my well-being. Now, it's practically an untouchable.I will say this though: it serves as a painful reminder of my careless attitude towards our environment. Cheney and his pals may have built the merry-go-round, but I bought a ticket to ride. That, I don't want to forget.

Life can change in the blink of an eye. And if I don't change with it, it will change me. I'm reminded of the story my daughter told of her first water-skiing adventure. She'd been advised, repeatedly, that if she went down, she was to let go of the rope. About the tenth time she heard it, she snapped back "Alright, already I get it."  She went out, got up on her skis for a thrilling moment and then, down she went. But did she let go of the rope? It seemed like her short term memory had been erased, it was just that counter-intuitive to let go. And so she held fast, the front of her body bashing against the cruel battering waves. Finally, she let go, but the damage was done. She was bruised for weeks.

That's how I see the oil crisis. We're still in the "holding the rope" phase, hoping against hope that things will go back to normal, that we'll regain our balance and the ride will turn out swell. I hope, for all our sakes, that we begin to let go of the rope. In little and big ways. Changing light bulbs to compact fluorescent lamps, using biodegradable poop bags for the dogs, using biodegradable laundry soap, bringing cloth bags to the grocery store, decreasing our intake of bottled water (that one's really hard for me, but I'm getting there).  And letting the SUV do what it does best. Transport Christmas trees, and then sit in the driveway. On "E."

Original Los Angeles Moms Blog post. Lucia Davies can also be seen blogging her ass off at 

I Survived Karaoke Bleu.

My all time biggest fear? No, it's not death.

It's singing in public.

Last night, Cory gave me a birthday party at this dive karaoke bar. I know I know. My birthday was in May, but we couldn't get our shit together to do it until now. I'll have pix later, but in the meantime, may I just say that a small group of influential thought leaders showed up at 8:30, and Cory, God bless her, got the good times rolling by getting up on the stage first and belting out "I Want to Break Free" by Queen. And she was FUCKING AMAZING! Her voice reminds me of Chrissie Hynde; I could have listened for hours, she was that good. And yes, I'm her mother and of course I'm going to be partial, but believe me, even though she kept downplaying it afterwards when everyone was oohing and ahhing over her, she OWNED that song.

Then, I got up with my neighbor, Dana and we sang "Downtown". And then later I sang "I Got You Babe" with my best friend Lisa. Oh my god, you guys. I don't think I've ever sung worse, or had such fun! It was so liberating! Just to throw down and do it. Not to be sitting on the bench, waiting in terror that someone might try and involve me in something that petrifies me.

I read in the new Vogue that Nicole Kidman said something about there being two kinds of people, the participators and the voyeurs. "And," she said, "I'm not a voyeur." I am taking that approach to the mattresses this year. Balls-out-fuck-it-all-I-don't-care-anymore-about-what-people-think-so-stand-back-
because-you-WILL-get-some-of-this-on-you sureness of purpose. 

I'll continue to report, but not from the sidelines anymore.

Who wants to join me on "Strangers in the Night"?

Aww, Do I Have To?

For my birthday this year, my neighbors, who are also my friends, gave me this book. He restores antique furniture, she's a well-read hairdresser. A couple of months ago, I saw this book in her home salon and oohed and ahhed over it. I've been going to her for cuts and highlights but of course, if you've read of my recent mishap you will wonder why I hadn't enlisted her help. That, I'm afraid, was due to a combination of empty bank account, genius marketing and a severe lapse of judgment. Shoulda, woulda, coulda... Nevertheless, even those of us with the lamest brains have birthdays, and Dana and Laurent gave me this for mine. I excitedly began paging through it looking for all the books I could name that I'd already read.

You'd think with 1001 of them, I would have knocked down a few hundred. Right? Wrong. I gave up after a short session and put the book on my nightstand. Beneath three books I have been meaning to read. As soon as I read the backdated New Yorkers it seems one needs a severe case of flu to get to. I swear, me and reading materials. It's like planes stacked up over O'Hare with ATC on strike. This particular pile managed to remain undisturbed since mid-May.

I dusted the other day, and when I did, as I often do in the midst of housecleaning, I got sidetracked. By 1001 BOOKS YOU MUST READ BEFORE YOU DIE. There was something so insistent in its tone. And yes, I'm another year closer to dying, so perhaps, I reasoned, I must obey. I sat down, with a highlighter, and dutifully marked all of the books I had read. Sadly, the number was 82. But with a different color highlighter, I marked all their listed books, read and unread, that I possessed. Well, now we're getting somewhere. Sort of. The number came to 241. I hoped that my marking system would be so indecipherable that anyone looking at this volume, upon my death, would remark with appreciation, "Well, she wasn't completely illiterate."

But then, I got back to dusting. And ventured from bedroom to living room. Where I found, you got it, more piles of books. And what do you know? Here's what I found at
the top of one of them! I remember when I bought this book. I was in an antiques-cum-gift store and had never before encountered the urgency of such a title. "I want to do unforgettable things!" I thought at the time. "And of course, I want to do them before I'm dead!" Once i got it home, however, I got completely depressed after paging through it. Not at the places or things they recommended. Those were great. But, you see, I wanted to know I'd done, well, something unforgettable in my life. But not a single place or thing was somewhere I'd gone or done. Oh, for a moment there was the Eiffel Tower and I thought - Yippee! I have done something unforgettable! But then I saw that it was the Eiffel Tower in Las Vegas under the heading of "Glam and Glitz." Nope. Comin' up empty on that one.

I started to get pissed. Who are these people to decide the number of things you MUST encounter before you gasp your last? And then, they make it really dicey for you by coming up with all this stuff nobody's ever done or read or gone or seen. On the trail of something foul, I went online and Googled "Before You Die" and OMG.


 

And this was just a mere sliver of the meaty meat pie that is "____ YOU MUST ____BEFORE YOU DIE."
WTF? Is it because the Boomers and Gen X'rs are hurtling, even now, towards that final good night? Are we, as a generation, freaking out because we were told we could have it all, and even after trying and failing to do just that for all of our (sometimes miserable, sometimes ecstatic) little lives, we need to have a check list to make ourselves feel better about what we actually have done? That would certainly explain my egoistic treatment of my birthday present. I mean, each time I encountered a book I had read, I felt a small thrill of victory leaping in my veins. I suppose that's what I would have felt with my other DIE book had I  sailed around the Galapagos or climbed Kilimanjaro.

Then, again.  Like all brilliant marketing feats, DO THIS STUFF BEFORE YOU DIE it is the perfect zeitgeist. Praying on the broken hopes and the creeping fears of our deepest subconscious can motivate us to do all sorts of stuff we wouldn't ordinarily think of doing. Like buying more life insurance. And of course, death, with its final, unassailable word? That always packs 'em in. Sounds like a formula for a booming literary success. That apparently everyone is getting in on. Before they die.

Makes me fiend for something really juicy to read. Let's see, Cory just brought home a copy of the latest US Magazine. That oughta do it.

Where the Apple Fell?

I'm just sayin' is all.

Immediate Family

Create your own family sticker graphic at pYzam.com

Let's Play AdWorld!

Collect 'em! Trade 'em! Round 'em up in the main conference room and threaten an agency review!

    game credit: creativebeef.blogspot.com

The Calla Lillies, er, Jacarandas Are in Bloom Again.

What makes having a birthday in May all worthwhile?

Well, if you live in L.A. it's the sudden profusion of purple, lilac, lavender and and even the dreaded mauve that bursts forth seemingly on every street.

Forget for now that blossoms are dropping their tell-tale tar-like juices and petals onto the sidewalks below, making walking in heels a slippery proposition. These trees have Technicolor in their cellular makeup. So it stands to reason that some of the most exuberant displays are here in Culver City, home to David O. Selznick's old studio, MGM, Sony, the Culver Studios and, uh, bunches of others. And just like the throngs of starlets that once flocked here to follow their dreams, these beautiful trees explode on the scene, full of hope and rich pagentry, only to fade after a few weeks. Los Angeles is like that. It expects the very best of you. If you can't sustain it, well, too bad for you.
Those of us who survive here know that when you give your best, L.A. will swallow it up and spit out the seeds. What you must then hope for is that those seeds find purchase.

While this has been a creatively fertile year for me, it has not yielded me financial gain. But, as my father always said, "You've got your health. And when you've got that, nothing else matters." Well, yeah, there's that. And pretty purple trees lining the streets of heartbreak...

How is it From Where You Sit, My Liege?

HRH welcomes visits from his subjects, but don't be asking for a glass of water.
Britta can only do so much.

Oh, natural.

So I was in CVS yesterday afternoon and, passing through the haircolor aisle, I suddenly heard that sound. If you've ever colored your hair on impulse, you know that sound. It's the same one that Odysseus heard as he tried to steer 'round the Island of the Sirens.

"La, la, la, come to me, you know you want to, gaze upon my lifelike hair samples, look at all the pretty colors, don't you want shiny hair like this? La, la, la, Come to me, you know you want to, gaze upon my lifelike..." and so on. Until you can't take it any longer and finally grab the most inappropriate choice. In my case, it was "Cinnaberry". That alone should have tipped me off. But no.

I made my purchases. And hurried home. To permanently stain not only my tresses, but a couple of towels, a denim shirt and parts of my bathroom wall and the white framed bathroom mirror.
(Why do they always show Andy MacDowell and Sarah Jessica Parker with perfect little neatly dyed chignons that have no spillage, no drippage, no splottage?) (I'm in advertising, did I really need to ask that stupid a question?)

Here is the result. Me and Britney. Apparently we have the same idea in mind for what constitutes "the natural look." Just thought you'd like to have a gander before I head off to CVS to purchase a box of nice, calm, BROWN. I better put a step in it, though. Someone just called and I answered the phone with a British accent...



 

ANIMATION OMG

7.5 minutes of check this shit OUT!!!!