Paris Attacks

In a previous post I wrote about my same-day reaction to the Charlie Hebdo shootings, a jumbled vomit of emotions and questions and critiques comparing it to my feelings on 9/11 back in elementary school. This time is certainly different: Friday’s first incident killed 18 people at a restaurant two blocks from my old apartment and the concert hall is just across the street from my friend’s place where I spent many Friday nights. Even though I’m the farthest from France that I’ve ever been, I felt a much more visceral fear this time for the safety of my friends.  Thanks to social media I could contact those closest to me, and through facebook’s “marked as safe” option got notifications for the well-being of acquaintances, those I’ve lost touch with, and randos I don’t even remember who live in that amazing city I used to call home.

Morning after, courtesy of my old roomie Coban.
Check out his work here.

I realized that I’m a bit too liberal with accepting facebook friend requests but I also saw that my network in France is pretty vast, and the fact that no one I knew was, or had someone close to them (as far as I know of), physically hurt from the attacks is a real blessing. Of course the emotional, psychological trauma some of them experienced, having all public transportation shut down, hearing gunshots and explosions, not knowing where to go, is one that must cling like a virus, one that cannot simply be shaken off. I pray that you can quickly resume living life, not out of fear but with awareness, and go back to devouring all the beauty and culture that Paris has to offer.

It makes me extremely uncomfortable that WW3 seems to be unraveling before our eyes: Terrorist raids being conducted in cities like Toulouse (where I lived for 2 years.) The news (the propaganda?) tells us that one of the attackers snuck in as a refugee through Greece, and borders must be closed off (of course Greece is the Karen of Europe).  Bombing in Syria has moved from aggressive to full on assault, and it all feels wayyyy too politically convenient to be as simple as the dark empire versus the rest of the galaxy.  But the more we nuke the shit out of our enemies the more hate that is unfurled, and it continues on and on exponentially in a downward spiral of revenge and revenge and this is when the line between reality and fiction like a Brave New World gets extremely blurry. History repeats itself. I keep making the same fucking mistakes, like drunk eating cookies every Saturday night. How can I expect the entire world to change, when I can’t even prevent a Sunday morning stomachache?

The best solution I see, a long term one, maybe too long and vast but at least a noble one, is to continue efforts to provide education EVERYWHERE in the world. That means in Somalia, in Pakistan. In Southeast Asia. Africa. Syria. In rural America. In south side Chicago.  In districts that give up on students with special needs, or families that cannot afford school lunches. One of these is IN REACH. Even if we are not the ones to make or take decisions on bombing a nation, sharing the value of education, the ability to think, assess, learn and grow, open opportunities, meet like-minded people, meet those with opposing views, and make judgments based on reason rather than just emotion will all heighten the level of acceptance, or rather tolerance, around the world. I mean isn’t that was “peace” really is? Tolerating those who are different from us? We don’t all need to be friends. I still hold a grudge against that girl from Saturday who stepped on me with her stilettos. But the ability to open our ears and eyes and mind and digesting information and view things from multiple angles is a skill that needs to be learned and developed, AT a young age, and around others. IN SCHOOLS. In extracurricular activities. In communities. With teachers that care, who make enough money to build curriculums and are not in constant fear of losing their jobs, or in certain parts of the world, their lives. The definition of evil is an attack on a school, because that is attacking the right to learn and become a human being with depth, which is fundamental to all religions.

So let us make it a priority to preserve schools, to protect students, and to value education. If these are priorities on our minds, there WILL be a positive shift. Again, it all feels so out of reach, even in my hometown where students are taught first how to fill in multiple choice bubbles before learning how to raise their hands. But affecting change doesn’t always have to be on a global, national, or district level. Find a kid, a peer, a mentor, maybe not a Packers fan but someone to discuss the epidemic of insufficient education. It starts with awareness, a positive outlook, and an extended hand. Let’s value our teachers, and make more of them. And also become students. Schools don’t have to be in classrooms. And tolerance CAN be taught.   

Brangelina!

People keep saying, “just you wait, you’re going to become so LA.” What does that even mean? I’m pretty sure it’s getting my hair cut at an angle, dying the tips blonde, losing a million pounds, starting conversations with cross streets, and ordering avocado toast for every Sunday brunch. Well guess WHAT? I prefer butter, bitches.

But I’m proud to say that I have had my fair share of “sooo LA” moments that only a socal gal could shout “trey!” about:

-  I attended a rooftop movie screening right next to the horrific Scientology building.

-  I spent a Saturday getting paid to bowl as an extra in some reality show.

-  I hiked a bunch of stairs for “fun.”

-  I ordered a $15 whiskey at the Bungalow

-  I was the least attractive person at the Bungalow.

-  I attended a “networking” event. Yikes.

-  I got asked for a business card (what are those?)

-  I went to the beach in November (IS winter coming?)  

-  I rode the bus next to a chihuahua (and he got the damn window seat!)

-  I started a bunch of sentences with the word “I.”

Chinese Theatre 

This past Thursday, though, was the LA-iest moment of all LA moments. No, not tacos (though we’re on the same page, bro)… I witnessed BRANGELINA on a red carpet! That’s right, beautiful Brad, angelic Angie, and I was fortunate enough to shove a phone in front of their beautiful faces and yell at them to look over (just kidding, I respectfully waved).  My lovely Parisian friend who works at the French Consulate had an extra ticket to see Jolie’s film at the AFI (American Film Institute) Festival. Movie screenings in general get me gaga but when it involves big stars and the promise of free snacks at the after party? You bet I’m coming hungry.

What are celebrities like up close? Well with these two… freakin’ flawless. Brad looked so young, as if he traveled back in time to when he couldn’t act. And Angelina… I mean face, legs, hair, lips, arms (and brain of course) but BOOBS! Wow I couldn’t stop staring. I know she had that breast cancer scare not too long ago but I didn’t realize they’d look like THAT as a result. In the end I was a bit disappointed that Brangie didn’t hire me on the spot to babysit their kids, but whatever. It's just a dude and a chick who happen to have perfect bone structure and wear clothes worth more than my parents’ home. NDB.

Look at me!

Angelina’s “By the Sea,” which she wrote, directed and starred in, is something I’d recommend if you’re looking to not have a great time. The story follows a depressed American couple on a trip along the French Riviera… and it follows them for an

excruciatingly long time. It’s a shame that Brad spoke French for half of the film because we couldn't understand a word of it. I wonder if the characters’ unhappiness reflects the couples’ misery in real life. But then there’s the boobs, and boy did they look great, Angie! My friend made me promise never to write anything that dull and I go, “have you read my blog?”

But afterwards we got to cross the street to the Roosevelt Hotel for the after party, and holy moly there was SO MUCH FOOD. I stood in the midst of French conversation and so politely contained myself to nibbling on finger foods but there were people literally piling plates upon plates with pasta, salmon, pot pie, prime rib and swooshing it all down with glasses of fine wine and martinis. I mean we do this kind of stuffing-our-faces ritual in suburban Illinois, but in Hollywood? Shameless! You should have seen the looks on the French people’s faces. If you ask me, though, we don’t discriminate here in America: a buffet is a buffet, no matter the zip code.

get your party pants on

The Frenchies got to talking politics so I moseyed my way over to the dessert table, eyeing the crowds for potential prey to use my flirting skills on. But people just remained huddled in flocks around the big VIP tables labeled “Universal,” “Audi” and repeated this routine I’ve seen quite a bit out here: 1) hand shake, 2) feigned interest, 3) forced laugh, and finally 4) exchanging contact info. I know it because I've done it too. But here, in this hotel... I don’t know what was stronger between the smell of beef stroganoff and the superficiality. But parties mean business, and I suppose each glass of wine can help you get one step closer to your dreams.

I instead found a catering guy with a plate of sliders and we talked about parking, another one of those “so LA” things I can add to my list. I’m glad he didn’t ask me about the movie, or for a business card. Though maybe I should invest in some. What do you think, Trey? 

Hello, La La Land

Check out my new fancy banner for the blog! My lovely friend Sandra made it and I’m just as obsessed with it as I am with her. She’s an incredible artist and hilarious and beautiful and sassy and smart and was also my first friend in Paris. She helped me with directions, the language, to the clubs, etc and in return I would take her e-cigarette, the kind that smells like hazelnut, and hide it in my purse to freak her out. She put up with a lot. Check out her other awesome artwork here.

I hopped on the plane, Miley!

Of course I Frenchify my blog NOW, just as I’ve left France and officially moved to Los Angeles, but let’s just say it’s a part of my past that I ain’t letting go (plus it’s just so darn pretty!). I used to walk those winding cobblestone streets of Le Marais, climb the hill up to the Sacre Coeur, bike my way down le Canal St. Martin and take in the beautiful buildings and people. Now, I live my life in a car.

It’s been just over two weeks now in la la land. I’m still here. I’m still alive. It’s funny, in all of the interviews I’ve had so far (trust me, not THAT many) I keep getting asked, “how long are you planning to stay this time?” And I kind of wanna be like “you don’t know what I’ve been through!!” but it’s nice to be able to honestly answer, “this is where I want to be.”  And then I get the rejection emails or worse, no response, and I cry and think, “why oh why did I leave you, baguette land? You had such delicious baguettes!”

The rain stays mainly off the plain

But it’s been exciting. And HOT. I feel like my sweat glands and B.O. have strengthened since Europe (or maybe with age!) and I need deodorant constantly. Or maybe it’s the nerves that I’ve just bought a car and signed a lease and will soon be lacking health insurance… ALL while being the U word. No, not Uranus, UNEMPLOYED. Shocked emoji!!!

It’s not so bad. I haven’t quite freaked out yet, perhaps because I’ve laid out a general game plan of all the steps I’ll take and how desperate I’m willing to get before I’ve achieved wealth and stardom, and while I won’t bore you with the details it will involve a lot of crying and home cooked pasta. But people smile a lot here, and it’s quite encouraging. I’ve reached out to friends, acquaintances, even strangers and been surprised by just how many strangers are not really strangers at all. As well as how many strangers are on drugs. Speaking of awful things you consume, vegan options are literally everywhere. It’s like Forever 21 for herbivores… there’s almost too many options that you feel nauseous and all you want is a juicy steak but it’s nowhere to be found. Fear not, there’s In & Out around the corner. All life problems solved.

the Mecca

I still get pissed off about some things like increased car insurance or paying double in rent what I did in Paris or $15 dollar parking for my one hour doctor’s appointment and generally all things concerning money, but money can’t buy you love, right? But maybe it can buy me a job with benefits? Or a pool? Honestly, if probably could buy me love if I had enough. It’s fun to dream, ain’t it.

Like I said, I'm excited to be here. I've been a little Dora the Explorer and vamonosing my ass around to the different hoods. Culver. Westwood. Beverly. WeHo. HoWe (it's fun to say!). Spoke a little Francais here, a little Español there (and a little 'konichiwa!' at the ramen shop!) There's tons of diversity if you look for it, not on screen, but in all the little pockets that make up this massive suburbia. And I'm excited to Dora my way around some more. 

I can't wait to share more with mom and Cynthia and whoever else reads this. I’ve already got enough material for many a blog post to come, many a giggle, many a tear. I’ve brought up crying quite a bit in this rather scattered post. It is 2:30 in the morning (PST, biatch!) and I just finished off my roommate's quart of ice cream. I guess you could say I'm on a roll. With my writing. With my move. That ice cream. And with this page: I just scrolled up again to see my friend’s artwork and wow, what a pretty place I called home. So far away now. I feel you, Carole King. But now I'm here. Home is where the heart is. A very hot, expensive home. 

My Kind of Town

Chicago is the city of 20,000 leagues under the C (C=construction) and I’ve played soccer in just about all of them.

Women’s leagues. Men’s leagues. Work leagues. Charity leagues. Gay leagues. Indoor leagues. Beach leagues. Let’s drink and have fun leagues. Win or go home extremely angry leagues. Bitch, you ain’t on the roster leagues. Where is the referee? leagues. Even out of my leagues. Name it, and I’m probably a substitute on at least six of them. It’s an awesome way to meet new people, and if you can actually put the ball in the back of the net, you’d be surprised how many hopefuls start asking for your digits. Or in my case, for money, as I’ve yet to pay my membership fees (>.<).

I started my career in intramural stardom back in college, recognized as that one loud chick at soccer meetups who harassed all the debutants and ball-hogs to GTFO. Through my commitment to mediocre pick-up, consistent presence at the local dive bar and having a cute/equally sporty blond roommate, I got to know the soccer community in and around Chicago pretty well. These connections, plus my unemployment status, have made me the perfect candidate to last minute sub for various teams. I’ve stepped onto the field without knowing a single other player but a competitive spirit plus a common love for sport and beer are enough for high fives and invitations to post-game outings. And that’s where I’ve found myself these past 6 weeks, playing games and celebrating from rooftop to rooftop, soaking in summertime Chi.

Ask anyone from, around, or currently in the city: there’s no better place to be than Chicago in the summer. When those first dandelions burst out from under the snow (around mid-may), it’s off with the NorthFace and hello crop tops. Drinks on the roof, on the terrace, along the river, at the festival… every square inch of this spankin’ city is a reason to celebrate. It’s like one giant block party and everyone’s wearing an “I’m proud to be from the Midwest” pin on their cubs t-shirt. It’s the best of both worlds, right? That small-town feel squeezed in between big freakin’ buildings. Go to any party and you’ll meet someone from a nearby suburb, someone from a nearby state, and some rando from New Jersey who you don’t really need to see again. We like our hip-hop, we dig our jazz, and if you’re country folk we got some overpriced cellars just for you and your white friends who own a boat. Happy hours. Whiskey flights. Honky tonk. Watch me whip. Concerts. Cook offs. God Bless Chicago, my home sweet home.


So here’s a little trivia for the beer pong break: in this same city last Labor Day weekend, 9 people were killed and 46 wounded in shootings. Most of the murders occurred in the south and west sides of Chicago, but one just a block away from my old hood, Evanston (which, like Chicago, is geographically segregated: walk a mile north from high crime rates and you’ll arrive to our beautiful ivy-glazed campus and its surrounding high class establishments). Chicago has now seen over 350 homicides in 2015, likely to exceed 500 by the end of the year. This is the same city, right? The one that I call home? (Technically I’m from the suburbs so if you want to dismiss this entire post then FINE. But good luck surviving without our ikea!).

Pride 2014

So is it fair to call Chicago “home” when the city I know only encompasses certain demographics, certain neighborhoods, certain colors? The Chicago I know is college educated, employed, often involved in charity work for great causes like autism, abandoned animals, cancer research. My Chicago hosts movie screenings, gay pride festivals, free trial yoga classes. My Chicago thinks it’s cute that I’m biracial, but basically white, and invites me after being away to come live in Lincoln Park or Wicker or the loop and enjoy all the wonderful things these neighborhoods have to offer.

This is my Chicago, one I am not ashamed of (actually proud of, I could say) but I know it is not HER Chicago, the mother of one of last weekends’ victims. Not HIS Chicago, a Lawndale resident who feels unsafe in his own city of black-on-black crime. Not THEIR Chicago, the gunshot wounded who walked by the wrong place at the wrong time. I don’t know their city, whether summertime feels anything like paradise, but we do call the same city home, and something about that irks me. In Paris the segregation pushes outward, into the suburbs, the crime rates rising the further out you go. Here it’s based on directions, S, W, ones that I’ve never set foot in. But I come across these heartbreaking stories of crime and death buried between concert schedules and pro-sports gossip and I wonder how many eyes in my bubble of the city actually read them. Ignorance is bliss, but it’ll lead to no progress. How can we, I, you, help Chicago? Maybe all lives will matter more if it wasn’t so easy to circle the ‘no go zones’ on a map. I haven’t the answers, any evidence besides what I’ve read, and with two weeks left I haven’t really the time, though perhaps that’s everyone’s excuse. But I love my Chicago, and I want to share it with the entire city. How can we get more people involved in our 20,000 leagues?

I’ve clearly digressed from my original thesis of “why sports leagues should require attractive men to give out their phone numbers” but I felt a bit ignorant for gloating about this city when my experiences only range between 10-15 neighborhoods out of what, 77? (and the more I dig, the more uninformed I feel). I wish I had more time to discover and learn but I'm taking off, so realistically I’ll only make time for discoveries of the tummy and tastebuds. Those are the best kinds of discoveries, after all. Exploring restaurants, bars, fests... might even be a great way for those staying or stopping by, to step out of your neighborhood, your bubble, and visit more of the 77 than I’ve been able to this summer. Just a thought.

Sick Day

Sorry for the not-topical photo... 
it was this or my bleeding tonsils

I’m at home with strep throat, something I thought only children get but I’m young at heart and at throat apparently, so boo hoo and a whole lot of guck. I took a couple days off to rest and it hurts too much to talk or eat so I try to do a bit of writing, but that’s the thing about being sick: you've got the whole day free but really you’re so weak that just getting up to pee takes up every ounce of energy, forcing you to go back to sleep to conserve enough for the next potty break. So I give up and put the laptop away, cozy into the couch and finally get aboard the Game of Thrones train (better late than never!). I’m nearly done with season 1 but let me guess… EVERYONE DIES.

I started getting symptoms on Sunday at which point I followed my usual “freak-out-when-my-body-does-something-slightly-abnormal” routine: go onto WebMD, search every fatal disease I could possibly have, narrow my diagnosis to either aids, cancer or scarlet fever, write a eulogy for my parents and friends, decide what I’ll do with my remaining money, and end with going through facebook albums to determine whether “I’ve lived life to the fullest.” From there I’ll waste another hour or two online, thinking how lucky these people have it to be alive. And my mother says I need to be more cautious.

this is the waiting room...

I got my actually diagnosis today at my pediatrician’s office. That’s right, pediatrician: doctor for KIDS. His name's Dr. H and he's a pretty cool dude. He’s the same guy I’ve been seeing since elementary school and for some reason I’ve never managed to find or need a doctor after turning 18 or he’s just nice enough to keep me as a patient. So there I am in the waiting room, sitting beside a mother and her five-year old playing with action figures. The only reading material consists of highlights! magazines and picture books (both of which I am a huge fan) so I get down to word play until the doc calls my name. Yada yada symptoms, yada yada tests, yada yada knick knack and he prescribes me the pills. Only this time, assuming that I’m of age to be “off of my parents’ insurance,” he asks me if I’m on a good enough plan to afford the medicine. Excusé-moi?

At times like these I miss the good old days of socialist France. I’d go to the doctor, pay my 23 bucks, get a laundry list of medications, take that to the pharmacy, not pay a cent, then get the 23 bucks reimbursed back within two weeks. Pas mal, pas mal. For specialists like ophthalmologists and coochi clinics I might not get the full refund but still it was a no brainer to pay a visit at the very moment I felt a bit ill.  

Now back home and at the prime age of “almost 26,” I need to pay attention to things like PPO, HMO, HBO and other things that can seriously stack up my bills. At the time Obamacare became a thing I was already abroad, and from an external point of view it’s like “well no shit, Sherlock. Everybody should be able to afford healthcare.” But now as I dive into my new life as a “freelance artist,” picking out plans, determining coverage, and paying for it out of pocket each month directly applies to ME, and I am not at all excited to be dealing with that. Especially coming from a country where month-long (paid) sick days can be issued simply because you’re feeling triste (that, by the way, means "sad," and people use that to get paid to stay home). 

Today's affair was relatively painless, with a co-pay here, and a co-pay there (and a cotton swab all up in there). I won’t be getting that 23 bucks back in the mail this time, and in a few months time when I’m no longer covered by mommy and daddy, it’s gonna be more like “here a Co, there a Pay, everywhere a pay! Pay!” Until then, expect to be seeing a LOT of me, Dr. H!

LESSON LEARNED: Always wash your hands. And don’t kiss strangers. At least not strangers who might have mono. Or if you must, do it while you're properly insured. Or just do it in France.