It wasn’t on purpose. I’m also fairly certain it wasn’t urged by some subconscious desire to see the bulbous, sweaty human body swaggering down the shoreline. The plan was to visit the beautiful beach under the Golden Gate Bridge and to go get hamburgers at Mel’s Diner (the best diner in the world).
When the first schlong appeared, we thought we were obligated to call the police.
Some drunk dude tanning his personals was passed out near the entrance, and we stood there, huddled in a circle, protecting each other from the scene, trying to figure out what to do with our eyes squeezed shut. After a few seconds of giggling, we dissipated our shock and broke the huddle to continue onward and away from the slowly bronzing man.
As we walked closer and closer to the Golden Gate Bridge, we started noticing some strange things. A girl ripping off her top. A man lying sunny side up. A naked couple dragging seaweed out of the ocean, like Adam and Eve.
We were at a nudist beach. The realization came over us in a wave similar to the one that was knocking over the nude couple onto each other in the water. It was surreal, like looking through a pair of x ray goggles that you never wanted to have on your face. But it was wonderful.
The first thing I learned about nude beaches is that nobody gives a shit. The second thing I learned is that neither did I.
Lesson #1. The man in the birthday suit is not there to be cute. He’s there to be soak in the sunshine of the Golden State, and if you want to soak in the sight of his Golden Unmentionables, he’s fine with it. The people roaming the sand are the very same elderly folk as the ones in the YMCA locker room that let it all hang loose. They demonstrate a beautiful shamelessness and pride that I can’t wait to have once I hit that age. You go, Glen Coco.
The second lesson was more important to me. It’s funny how all judgements people make about people’s bodies when they’re on the street all disappear here in this place where nothing is left to the imagination. This would be an appropriate time to mention the disclaimer that I did not STARE. There was a temptation, trust me. It was like watching a car accident and not being able to look away, except this one was surprisingly less horrifying. But watching this big people, wrinkly people, pasty people, and hairy people participate in their Pants Off Dance Off was really comforting, in a way. Any scrutinizing comments or judgemental thoughts I may have had in my mind about these people’s size, color or shape made way for this unexpected awe about how cute and weird human beings were. The beauty of the the bellies of overweight old people, taut and smooth like watermelons. The fact that everyone has a buttcrack. Everyone. Just hiding like a secret in their pants. All of it seemed completely normal after a few minutes. Almost like this is the way things were meant to look like. Naked bodies swimming in the sun.
Then I thought about how sand gets everywhere and we left to go eat hamburgers.
The last rally of high school is on Friday, and I’m hoping to go out not with a whimper, but a bang.
I’ve always loved dressing up. LIke, really dressing up, in the way that embarrasses your friends and loved ones. More often that not I feel like I’m the only girl that takes “costume” to mean as ” being someone else for a day” instead of “being someone else for a day except for today he is naked.”
Sigh. I can dedicate an entire day towards dissecting this phenomenon, so I’ll save that for another time.
The theme for the Rally is Harry Potter, so the choices are endless. My only restriction as a Senior Slytherin is to make sure the character is not purely Gryffindory. This is unfortunate because my hair makes me the perfect Hermione or Hagrid, depending on if I brush my hair in the morning. Of course, my first thought was to be the basilisk, but after a few minutes of logistical planning, I came up with no ideas on how to make this work. Google was no help either.
That leaves me with Professor Quirrell (too easy), Tom Riddle’s Diary (hard to sit down), a Death Eater, a hippogriff, or Fluffy.
It was perfect. The only obstacles before me are A). How to make two dog heads and B). How to attach them to my face and C). Can I make them drool and bite real people.*
The solution to A. came to me in a dream. A dream I was having in the back of the room while Ms. Konwinski tried to explain the deadweight whatever of a negative exterblahblah. I looked at the counter and like a gift from God, a regular deus ex machina, there it was: a giant, black, paper mache head just staring at me. I got up. “Alya, sit down.” I walked over to her. “Can I have that head?” “No.” I sat back down.
So I would steal it the next day at lunch. It was an abandoned Museum Project that a sophomore left behind, so I know the kid won’t miss it much. As for the other head, Andzu told me they sold foam heads at Daiso.
So there’s A. Part B was the real problem. Currently, my best idea is to just duct tape the two heads around my neck and paint the duct tape into a nice collar, but I don’t know. The final image in my head is just fifty shades of terrifying.
More to come soon.
*I’ve had to toss out Part C. If any drooling is to happen, I guess it will have to come from me.
You’re on the Oregon Trail when you meet a man. He tells you his name is Terry. “That’s a girl’s name!” you exclaim. Terry takes out his gun and shoots you.
You have died of dissin’ Terry.
My favorite joke.
I went to see The Great Gatsby with Jackie on the night it opened. It was to be my First Midnight Premiere Of Anything, and I was excited to prove to the Big Crowd Of Nobody That Cared that the curse of being the #1 fan was that I couldn’t wait a second past the release to watch the glory unfold. Strangely enough, there was a showing at 10 p.m. We went to that one. I fell asleep anyway because, come on, who has time to watch a movie that late?
I came out dazed and softly disappointed. There are certain perks in watching a movie that you can’t have in reading a book for American Lit Honors class. There are colors, more colors and pictures than someone with a physics worksheet still left to do has time to conjure and savor before flipping onto the next page. But those moments where the world spins a little slower, and the lamp light is a perfect gold on the pages that are inked with thoughts so beautiful and miraculous that you have to close your eyes (and sometimes moan in a weird kind of way) before opening them to read and reread are incomparable. Especially when you’re sitting on stale popcorn in a dark room filled with strangers.
The flashing lights and whirring images and vibrant colors set a dreamy tone to the entire movie, and is meant to leave you with a feeling that the events that followed Jay Gatsby were touched with a magic and an air of surrealism. It worked for the parties. It made the parties glow with such amazing motion and action that it took my breath away. And Myrtle’s Death was recreated with as much suspense and horror as I imagined it to look back when I read it last year.
But The Great Gatsby is a book that’s wonderful for its ability to make you feel the aching love and disenchantment that Gatsby and Daisy experience with each other. The narrations of Nick Carraway were meant to speak to you because he was a human and he was in a world of aliens. But even the human moments, the calm and sensible amidst the storm, were filmed with a fast pace and harsh angle and color. The beautiful picture of Daisy in a white roomwas marred with too many flashing frames and too many damn curtains blowing majestically through the wind, underscored by some really cheesy sighs and moans from a lounging Daisy. Partnering these bizarre scenes and images of Gatsby’s (far too tanned) hands reaching to the green light with lines of Fitzgerald’s beautiful writing took away from the honesty of his words. If they could have slowed down the parts that made me stop and shiver, the film would have have some really special moments.
In fairness, the reunion scene in Nick’s house had perfect comedic timing. Lana Del Rey’s Young & Beautiful, both the original and the reprise, were appropriate and beautiful. And Carey Mulligan and Dicaprio both deserve awards for Their Perfect Faces. Also for their performance overall.
… or 8:46 on a Tuesday night.
This has been a long time coming. For months I’ve thought about opening the Pandomar’s Box in my Brain and just letting things slide out like thick pudding. But certainly, I thought, there must be a manner of conduct of going about this on the World Wide Web. Can I be honest? Am I now a target for scary men on the Internet? Am I allowed to write the word boobies?
Most of all I’ve stayed in the comfort of inaction because I figured the other things in my life were more important than taking the time to write about stuff that I was cool. I used to write a lot, actually. I have a Pages document saved in a dark corner of my internal drive with about 90 pages of 12 pt. angst, and I figured by starting fresh I can finally be brave to write about things more interesting than my problems. Also, it beats sitting through another episode of Millionaire Matchmaker with my dad.
This will be a personal blog, one that I will write in until I’m confident enough to start my more “legitimate one” dedicated solely to journalism, current events, and politics. I will write about thinks I am doing, things I think are super rad, and things that I think about now and then.
“There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.” – Ernest Hemingway. Here’s to spending more time bleeding than worrying if it’s the right shade of red.
For now, I feel like a first-rate champ. It’s like looking at a white blank page and standing among boxes of paints, runny Indian food, stickers, glitter, and swords. I have freedom that stretches to infinity.*
* Infinity was cut short when I tried to take advantage of my freedom to change the header image to a picture of a unicycling elephant. That’s not allowed. This isn’t anarchy, apparently.