Heye Chazak Vetitgaber

I'm kind of having a nervous breakdown. Here are some tidbits from the inside.

I kind of really kind of a little bit want this.

I have not yet started packing for my 4-day weekend dance camp 3,000 miles away, and I am going straight to the airport from work tomorrow. Oh, ha, it's not tomorrow anymore; it's today. Yay me.

It really annoys me that the pilot light on my stove goes out like every 5 minutes. Certainly every time I use the stove, which we all know is not very often (screw you) but it does happen. Like tonight, to boil water to make hot chocolate. That's cooking, right? So what annoys me most is that after I turn off the burner I'm using, I'm tempted to re-light the pilot light at that moment so I won't forget until two days later when my whole house smells like gas. BUT I'VE JUST BEEN USING THE BURNER, SO IT'S HOT. DON'T PICK IT UP TO MOVE IT OUT OF THE WAY TO GET TO THE PILOT LIGHT OR YOU MIGHT BURN YOURSELF. That didn't happen tonight, thanks. But it did happen once. (Apparently, I am still able to learn things.)

It's a good thing I don't do drugs. When I get wacked-out-stressed-out (like right now), I like to go on little self-destructive binges. No, really. The good news (I guess) is that I don't really have any real destructive materials at hand, so a binge for me consists of doing things like *watching four episodes of WEEDS instead of packing* and *eating microwave popcorn AND sugar-free jello AND fat-free yogurt instead of just one of those things*. I might, might, might, have a beer. But not always.

HERE'S THE IMPORTANT BIT:

I really really REALLY need to buy a new sound system, like, right now. Really, like two weeks ago, but my wayback machine isn't working so I'll settle for getting one before Monday. Too bad I go out of town tomorrow and don't get back to L.A. until Monday morning. I need sound advice. On sound. Advice on sound. Sound advice on sound. Get it? Yeah. So, think portable PA system (not Pennsylvania, you dope, public address). I currently have this and I'm trying to decide between something like the Fender Passport, the Peavey Messenger, the Yamaha Stagepass 300, or the JBL Eon System10. I need it to be light enough and small enough that I can carry it up the stairs to my apartment; I need it to be strong enough to play music for a room of 100 dancers for four hours straight every week; I need it to not cost more than I can afford. Do I want powered speakers so I have more power? Or do I just want a powered amp because a) that'll give me more flexibility in speaker positioning, not having to worry about outlets everywhere and b) I already freaking bought 150 feet of speaker cable that carries a charge because my current speakers are not powered.
HOW DO I FIGURE THIS OUT AND GET IT DONE IN THE NEXT TEN SECONDS?

By watching a few more episodes of WEEDS, clearly, and maybe eating (gasp) a granola bar.

One-way mirrors, aka two-way mirrors. (Flammable/inflammable, anyone?)

So, there are things in movies that you wish existed in real life, and there are things in movies that you kinda wish didn't exist. I mean, if you're me. So I've always been a little fascinated (by which I mean terrified) of the one-way mirror. Without getting too deep into the dark recesses of my psyche, let me just say that before undressing in clothing store dressing rooms, I would occasionally (always) check the edges of the mirrors, trying to determine what sort of mirrors they were, and leave it at that. Ok, maybe one more step - I would occasionally address the person supposedly watching from the other side of the one-way mirror to let them know they weren't fooling anyone, even though I had no choice but to go ahead and try on the clothes even though I knew they were there. I had an active imagination (and extreme self-consciousness).

As I was saying, I've always found the one-way mirror thing to be intriguing and a little bit scary, and I'd count it as one of things I'd just as soon not have exist. Are they used outside of psychology experiments and police interrogation rooms? Are they used in actual police interrogation rooms or just in Hollywood ones? I am here to tell that they really exist and they are really out there - just this week in my own small life I've encountered two of them.

I was about to describe each and start out by saying that the first isn't that freaky, but come on. It's a one-way mirror; it's freaky.

So, there is a dance studio in the Valley where my dance company sometimes rehearses (as do some of the contestants on Dancing With The Stars! Yes, I met Mario. Yes, these are the perks of living in Los Angeles.). The large studio at the back has one stretch of mirror that is actually a one-way mirror, and there is a small sitting room on the other side of it. It's great - when you arrive early for your class or rehearsal, you get to sit and watch without disturbing anyone. Except, that whole idea is disturbing!

And just now, I am actually sitting in a cafe (in San Diego today, not LA, more on this later[0] if you care...) with some grad student friends. While they type away at their dissertations, I'm surfing and blogging and being otherwise unproductive, yay me! So I just went to the restroom, and in the space over the sink where a mirror should be, there is a one-way mirror. Ok, to be very clear, it's set in such a way that the pee'er can look through the window side and see the patrons of the cafe at their tables, NOT the other way 'round. But freaaaaaaaky! You walk in there and realize there's a window, and you fight the overwhelming urge to walk right back out and look in the window... and you lose that battle, so you do walk right back out and around the corner and there is the same plant you just saw through the window, but it's in front of a mirror, not a window. Allow me to say it again: Fuh-Reak-EE.
(Click the pic to biggen.)


[0] So, on Thursday afternoon I met someone for ice cream, and from there I met another couple of friends that were out to dinner, and from there we went dancing, and when that ended at midnight I went to another friend's house and played Guitar Hero for four hours (I LOVE Guitar Hero. Make no mistake. If you were in the mood to buy me a little something to brighten my day, that would be an excellent choice. But then, I may never leave my house again). After that, at 4:30am, I drove down to San Diego, I arrived at 6:30 or so and crawled into bed with my bestest friend. You'd think I was trying to get in a whole summer vacation in the three days before I go off to work at sleepaway camp or something. That is how I ended up in this cafe with the one-way mirror in the bathroom, this lovely cafe that has as many laptops in it as people and has free wi-fi and yet apparently no website. It's in South Park and it's called Urban Grind, if you care. The turkey-and-brie panini is fabulous. The grilled veggie sandwich less so (even if you get it with pesto instead of hummus (which, speaking of which, are like the two most anti-social foods ever. Either it's green specks in the teeth or terrible garlic-breath, yeesh. Who invented these things?) but if you're going to try to pick the little green pesto bits out of your teeth, don't use the mirror behind the plant... someone is probably looking right at you from the other side!).


OMG UPDATE: Since not everyone will read the comments or follow links from there, I had to update to include this link to these public toilets with one-way mirrors - I will tell you the truth; I do not think I could do it. Thanks, jjd!

Another day in L.A.

So, this morning I had a gig in Claremont, which is near Pomona, which is where the County Fair is held. I explain it in this way because it is the only way I know how - my internal map has one thing situated in Pomona and that is the fairground, and under "Claremont" the entry in its entirety reads "near Pomona". As for how far away these are, these locations all read "about an hour". Thanks for visiting the inside of RDB's brain.

As I was saying, this morning I had a gig in Claremont, and on my way home I passed signs for the L.A. Arboretum, which signs I have passed before (probably on my way home from the County Fair - which is in Pomona, have I mentioned that? I love County Fairs). I didn't have anywhere to be for a while and I had a book with me, so of course I got off the highway and followed the signs and decided to explore. This is what I do, what I love to do.

I may have snuck in without paying. I say "may have" because I'm not actually sure that's what I did and it's certainly not what I meant to do, but when I got there I reallllly needed to pee, so I sort of ran into the visitor center and asked where the restrooms were, and when the girl pointed the way I just went. I never really stopped to take note of the ticket prices, but it did register that there were ticket prices posted... maybe they were just for tram rides and things. If I accidentally used this ruse to slip in without paying, I hereby apologize. My mistake.

As I was saying, the first view of these unbelievably beautiful grounds (after the restrooms) was breathtaking: a peacock in full spread. Now, I have lived with peacocks for months on end, and either the ones I know are never in the mood or I was never around during the right week or I don't know what, but I have never seen even one tail display like the one that greeted me in the Arboretum today and in fact, as I walked around, I saw peacock after peacock all fully laid out. It was amazing. For example, here is my friend in a little back-side-front action (click to biggen, of course):



This may be my favorite shot of him (pretty good for cellphone pics, no?):



I had a lovely time wandering around and checking out the waterfall, the rose garden, the ponds and trees...



...the sun's rays warming the ducks:



and on my way out, yet another peacock in full regalia, but a mini-version:



Lovely, lovely, lovely.

Weltschmerz

I've just read The Discomfort Zone, a memoir by Jonathan Franzen (previously mentioned on my blog here) that I believed, until page 30 or so, to be a novel. Once the realization hit that it was actually non-fiction, I felt a deep disappointment, though if I had been enjoying the read, and I had, what did it matter? It mattered because I had been expecting all the bits of life I'd been ingesting to ultimately Lead To Something, the way they invariably will in a good piece of genre fiction, narrative fiction. A good Tolstoy, where all those different lives would ultimately been seen to be inextricably intertwined, a good Dickens in which the handsome stranger in part two is later proven to be the son of the widow of the powerful landowner sent to jail in part one, a good John Irving in which the beating begins in the first paragraph and doesn't ease up the slightest bit for the next 250 pages. I'd already read The Corrections, after all; I knew what to expect.
No, it's a memoir, and I still enjoyed it and read it to its finish, but without the expectations of It All Coming Together, and of course, it didn't. It wasn't fiction, it was Life. And the realization that accompanied all of this, that Life is actually life and that my own too, will be a memoir and not a novel, well, out of this hole I have not yet climbed.

Um, open your mail sooner, loser. You almost missed it.

Wasn't I just talking about this? I've been a little overwhelmed with crap to do lately, so today I finally got around to opening the stack of non-urgent mail I had piled up on my desk. Look what was in it:



(And, unrelated to the above and as behind the curve as I may be, you might be interested to know (but why would you?) that I am currently obsessed with this song.)

Just wondering.

If it is true, as it sometimes seems to me to be, that I identify to a ridiculous degree with whatever novel or memoir I am currently reading, that I become so truly lost in a good book that the real emotions of my real life are felt less keenly than those absorbed through the fingertips, if indeed I am what I read, for the duration of the reading it, then why, well why, for what possible reason, do I read so many lonely and depressing books?

Look, up in the sky, it's...

How can you go wrong with an event called "Balloon Fiesta"? I am going to this.


(By the way, why haven't I been to any real fireworks festivals or competitions yet? I love fireworks. And how about that Northern Lights thing? When do I get to see that?)

I am a winner.

No, I mean literally; I win shit. Like, on the radio, in magazine mail-us-a-postcard drawings, all that kind of stuff. Especially on the radio: I've won tickets to see at least four different shows by being the correct caller to KPCC here in LA and Mix98.5 in Boston. Once, after I had been living in LA for a while already, I got a call from Mix that I had won something in a random drawing and I didn't even live in Boston anymore! It was awesome.

In fact, I have seen three shows so far at UCLA's lovely Royce Hall, and for none of them did I pay for a ticket: for two of them I won the tix on KPCC and for the third, my date had won the tix on K-Mozart.

I won a Ben Folds DVD by calling in to the fabulous UCLA radio show "Automatic Stapler". I was caller number one. And two. And three.

Here's the best one: about a month ago, I was at a fundraising event for which Jack FM was a sponsor. They were there with their "Bus-stache" (oh boy) playing host and playing music, and they had a little booth set up too. At one point I wandered over to the booth and overheard the guy there asking the crowd a random question about the station, so I yelled out the answer... and won a Steve Miller double-CD-and-DVD set. I win shit on the radio when it's not even on the radio!

The moral is: call. send the postcard. I think I win because everyone thinks that no one ever wins, so they don't try. Put the damn number in your cellphone and keep hitting Send while you drive.

Or rather, don't, so I can keep winning.

Small Pleasures #5317

Eating outside in the sun.

I love eating outside in the sun.

Happy Birthday G'pa!

So, here's the thing: I have a really cool family. I actually kind of like them, believe it or not - they're smart and funny and, well, loud, but so am I. Occasionally :)

The only real flaw they have is that they all live on the East Coast. And that's about 3,000 miles too far away from me. Ok, maybe it's only 2970 miles too far away.

So, here's an example of how fabulous and smart my family is: my GRANDFATHER is web-savvy enough that he reads my blog. Hi Grandpa!! And really, really, here is the point:

I'm sorry I missed your birthday the other day but I hope it was great and I love you A LOT and I miss you A LOT and I hope I will see you soon.

l,l,l,
me

Let's go to the movies, Annie.

I want to see Then She Found Me because I read the book by Elinor Lipman, who I also met and loved, and because I also love Helen Hunt. But I haven't met her.

Wango?

That College Life

I'm not gonna lie: these are fucking hysterical. Go watch This College Life on [the] facebook or on youtube.


Oh and by the way, walking around downtown yesterday, I kind of turned a corner fast and scraped my arm on some metal something, but I didn't really notice what it was, like a newspaper dispenser thingy or some guy's farmer's market cart or what, exactly... but later I did really notice that I have, like, an actual cut on my arm, like, it broke the skin and there's this like tiny little gash... so, like, I don't actually have to go, like, get, like, a tetanus shot or anything, right?

Right?

Minutes of the Life

A quickie, because I want to get to bed reasonably early tonight (and as I just told a friend moments ago, early ends now, seeing as how it's midnight).

I had a really lovely weekend. For one thing, I got a really odd sunburn on one side of one leg only, and who could argue with the wonderfulness of that?

Also this weekend, I got a lot of sleep AND I got a lot stuff done[0] AND I spent a lot of time outside AND I read a great book[1] AND I spent a lot of time with my boyfriend AND I went to yoga[2] .

[0] Like, my taxes. WHY DO I OWE LIKE $5000 AGAIN??? TAXES SUCK. Also, I choreographed three dances yesterday. In the park. How great are iPods?

[1] Eat, Pray, Love by Elizabeth Gilbert. Of course, since everyone else loves this book, there's a part of me that wanted not to love it, but there is no denying it: it is fabulous. Of course, I am a little cranky that people have begun to think the name of my blog is derivative of this book, as though they have any connection at all, as though I'd ever heard of the book when starting this blog, or even two years earlier when I first used "ReadDanceBliss" as my username on some networking site somewhere. But there is a huge parallel there too; check it out.
Read/Eat? I LOOOOOOVE to do these at the same time, love to lose myself in both. Reading and eating - this is my favorite hedonism.
Dance/Pray? Her "pray" is actually largely yoga, which is not so different from dance. Plus, the particular kind of dance I teach is meant to be a religious practice of sorts, and I am often called up to teach a "Prayer Through Dance" workshop.
Bliss/Love? Clear.
I can't deny it; I loved this book. I read the "Eat" section on Friday, a day I spent largely in bed or at an outdoor cafe. I read the "Pray" section on Saturday, the day I went to yoga and choreographed three dances. I read the "Love" section today (Sunday), the day I spent in lazy comfortable bliss at my boyfriend's place. Ahhhhhhhhhh.

[2] First time with my fabulous new birthday-present yoga mat - thank you D&A!!! It was woooooonderful (except since it's new, it was really slippery and I had to work extra hard to hold on and now I'm extra sore! But I am unbelievably happy to be this sore :)

In other news that you probably already know, I really want to buy a house, like, soon. Like, in 2008. Got advice? Books to recommend? Brokers, agents, lenders, managers, renters to introduce? Hook me up! Tell me what you know or what you wish you had known! HELP!! I am so terrified.

Goodnight!

Made it!

So, I have this friend who says she's had this idea forever that she'll have "made it" when she has the following three items: her own driveway, her own in-house washer and dryer, and her own KitchenAid. She now has those three things, and to tell you the truth, she does kind of feel like she's made it. Of course, she also has a husband, a house with a pool, two dogs, a business, and three children.

It got me thinking about what those magical things are that make you feel you've arrived. Do you know what yours are? It's a little hard for me to separate those particular things I believe I will someday have from those random daydreamy desires one always has... I mean, I love convertible Mustangs. Am I convinced I will one day own one? Nah. And that's ok. But you know what I want? You know when I will have arrived? When I have one of those sandwich presses, those big grills specifically for making hot-pressed panini style sandwiches. I want one of those... and a real kitchen to put it in, and a life in which I'd actually use it. (Yes, I have a George Foreman grill, yes, I can use it nearly the same way, no, please don't buy me anything. Except the Mustang, if you really want to.)

Ok, I don't *really* care about the sandwich press. I'll have made it when I have a big comfortable wonderful hammock in my backyard. I LOVE hammocks. I'll have made it when I have a rocking chair, which chair will live in the baby's room so we can sit in it when we read books before bed. Apparently I'll have arrived when I have particular things to sit on or in.

I once would have said I dreamed of having a house with a separate room for books, like a real library, instead of just shelves-in-the-office or wherever. 'Cept, I've had that once, and I don't anymore, so let's not talk about that or I might cry.

Really, let's be honest. What I want is the house, the husband, the business, the baby (though not three!), AND the chairs. I'll skip the dogs. KThanks.

happy happy happy happy.

So, I know the blog's been a little weird lately and certainly very sporadic, and perhaps we'll get back to the usual thing (whatever that is) again soon, but all I have to say tonight is: I'm really happy. I had a GREAT birthday today and I LOVE seeing the memories you guys are posting and I LOVE all the wall posts and phone calls and emails and I feel so fucking loved. Goddamn that's a nice feeling.

thank you, thank you, thank you.


If you called me today and we didn't get to speak or I haven't called you back yet (which is pretty much everyone besides Debbie!), I WILL call soon, when I have a day less crazy than today.

I love you! Thanks for reading!!



PS We're onto the sixteenth year of it making me cry when someone calls me beautiful. What the fuck is that?

Well, it's my birthday in three days. Humor me.

If you read this, if your eyes are passing over this right now, even if we don't speak often, please post a comment with a memory of you and me. It can be anything you want, either good or bad.

When you're finished, post this little paragraph on your blog and be surprised (or mortified) about what people remember about you.



CWID: I stole this idea from Ultraman.

Go RDB!

Close to home, so to speak.

Sitting in my cafe (admit it it's a bagel place) (but I don't eat bagels) (it's called "NY Bagel & Cafe". It's a cafe! They serve coffee!) (but I don't drink coffee) on Van Nuys Blvd, reading A Year in Van Nuys by Sandra Tsing Loh. I can't get my bluetooth keyboard (hand-me-down) to connect to my fancy Treo (hand-me-down), so I take out my notebook to write in, as usual. I read the following line (p198):

"I am not even packing a (crutch of the literati/crack cocaine of the chronically self-involved) Writing Journal."

Wow. Ouch. Wow.
And this:

"How about your friend Jolene?" Ben shoots back. "The Blocked Novelist/actress/lyricist/playwright/whatever. Maybe she should move to New York."
"Actually," I say, "Jolene originally came from New York--or perhaps the word is fled."
"And now she lives in Santa Monica. Practically rent-free."
"Exactly. A musical based on Los Angeles bohemian life would be called not Rent but Rent Control."

Wait a minute. I originally came from New York. My apartment is under rent control. Wow. Ouch.

Oh God, now this. Page 215. I actually clasp my hand over my mouth when I read this, here in the cafe bagel place on Van Nuys. She rants on and on about the life of a writer and how it is drudgery and not romantic and absolutely soul-sucking and ends with:

"Do you guys hear me? I've had purer 'highs' off paying my bills with Quicken!"
"'Quicken!' they murmur. Apparently they like Quicken too."

WOW. OUCH. RDB, this is your life. A quick look at statistics from the past six months or so of my journal, in which I write nightly (see "chronically self-involved", above) -

Number of instances of the word sex: 2

Number of instances of the word Quicken: 19

Typing With Fingernails; in which RDB Tries to Catch Up

So, due to some strange quirk of the time-space continuum, it appears to be the middle of November. Past that, even, the third week, Erev Thanksgiving. What is strangest about this phenomenon is that RDB appears to have missed the ending of October and the beginning of November all together and is beginning to feel she will never catch up. Perhaps it's because she stayed home from work sick on Halloween, the official demarcation? Perhaps it's because Novembers have not been so good for her in recent years so she hopes to avoid the month altogether, preferring a sort of alternate-reality extra-long October month of denial?

Well. Here we are, Thanksgiving break (thank god) and a few days at home with nearly no plans, after an entirely crazy seven-days of Big Events and Running Around. Last week I was in San Jose for a conference and flew home back home back to LAX on Saturday afternoon, took the shuttle service back to Van Nuys to my car, and went straight to Orange County for rehearsal for a show with my dance company. I drove down with my friend Scot, who drove while I napped. I woke up at some point to say: Where am I, on the plane? No, wait, am I on the bus? No, wait, am I driving? Scot cracked up; I fell immediately back asleep.

That's the sort of November we've had so far, and perhaps that's why we feel the way we do, slightly disconnected from everything. The way insomnia is described in Fight Club which I, appropriately, stayed up until 3:30 this morning to read: the distance, the copy of a copy of a copy that reality somehow becomes sometimes. When you aren't sure where you are, it isn't so hard to become confused about when you are.

Anyway, it does still somehow appear to be the middle of November. I'm not sure when that happened, but it did. Happy Thanksgiving.

Los Angeles, I'm yours.

So, I haven't lived in Los Angeles for even three years yet, but I think I've done pretty well at getting around and doing all the famous LA *stuff*. Let's take an accounting, because Lord knows how much I love lists:

As of last week (thanks, Scot!), I've been to the Hollywood Bowl four times, and I even performed there once (in SummerSounds!). I have not yet been to the Walt Disney Concert Hall.

I've seen one concert at the Kodak Theatre (Shlomo Artzi and Shalom Chanoch) and I'VE PERFORMED THERE YEAHHHHHHHHHHHHHH (with Keshet Chaim, opening the show for the Idan Raichel Project concert.)

I've been to movies at the ArcLight (and Universal CityWalk), but not yet at the Chinese or the El Capitan or the Egyptian or the Silent Movie Theatre...

I've seen three shows at UCLA's Royce Hall, none of which I had to pay for. Twice I won tickets to dance performances (one FANTASTIC flamenco show and one pretty lame fusiony modern thing) from KPCC, and the third time my date had won the tickets on K-Mozart.

I saw Wicked at the Pantages, but so far I haven't been to the Ahmanson, the Ford, the Greek, the Mark Taper Forum or the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion. I *clearly* need to go to more shows. I have been to see the Groundlings.

I've been to Universal Studios, Disneyland, and twice to Magic Mountain. I feel comfortable not even bothering to put California Adventure on my list, from what I've heard. I have fantastic memories of Knott's Berry Farm from when I was a kid, but I haven't been there in over a decade. I've been to the Magic Castle!

I saw Michael Penn and Patton Oswalt at the Largo.

Hell, I was here for hardly a year before I ended up dancing on TV: WEEDS season two, episode six. The creator of the show wrote Israeli dancing into the episode because of me. If that's not a good I-moved-to-LA story, I don't know what is.

I've been to a Dodgers game and a Kings game. I went to a UCLA game at the Rose Bowl (but haven't been to the Tournament of Roses yet). Still to see: Clippers, Angels, Lakers... Galaxy? Sparks?

I've been to the Getty (actually, I did that once before moving here, but also once since. Dying to go to the Getty Villa in Malibu. I've been to the Craft and Folk Art Museum, and I saw the Magritte exhibit at LACMA. Nearly went in to the La Brea Tar Pits, but then didn't. Haven't been to the Autry yet.

I've hiked in Griffith Park and Topanga Canyon, but not nearly enough. I haven't been to the Observatory yet, but I really want to go. Also have not been to the Watts Towers yet.

*I've* spent a day on Catalina; have you? I'VE RIDDEN THE SUBWAY! (Turns out it's not just an urban legend that we have one. Who knew?)

The most true proof that I live here now? I've been a member of Bodies in Motion, World Gym, Barry's Bootcamp, and now, 24 Hour Fitness. Sigh.



I love it here; I'm lonely here.
(And I clearly need to spend more time near CalTech, because MY INNER GEEK IS STARVING FOR COMPANY.)


(Seems only appropriate at this point to give a quick shout-out to MetroBlogging LA.)