There is nothing worse than a creative void. You know, that place where even a three-line haiku seems monumental? Save few exceptions, I’ve been dwelling (dwindling?) in that place of worse-than-nothingness for almost this entire year, which is like almost five months if you count them out. The worst part about creative voids is that they’re motherscratchers to shake because you basically feel like doing nothing but eating really good nachos and reading Huff Post.
So I decided to do something about it. Actually, I was inspired to do something about it by some good ole fashioned competition. I was telling someone I work with about my “3 for 30″ campaign – this thing I made up a couple of years ago in which I do three things a day for thirty days: one nice thing, one active thing, one creative thing — when he unexpectedly bit. I wasn’t trying to sell him anything but he decided he wanted to try it. And then I decided to do it again too, on account of refusing to be outdone by someone fresh out of college . Come to think of it, that happens all of the time. Whatever.
Anyway, the last few days have been really fun. Here is a partial list of the things I’ve done on this endeavor:
* Crashed my bike (err, my bestie’s bike) riding around the neighborhood.
* Happened upon a jazz concert at LACMA in which I pretended to work at registration so I could sit up close.
* Let someone cut in front of me in line. Wait, no I didn’t.
* Gave my friend one of my airline upgrades. This may also be why she got sick this weekend. Whoopsie.
* Practiced yoga in my hotel room after eating my weight in fried pickles for dinner. I did lots of twists until I got bored and drifted to hip openers. That always happens.
Already I see the fog lifting. I can’t wait for what’s in store for the rest of the month.
Much to my delight, at least one airline in the world has come to their senses and is now offering child-free zones, something I have been setting my intentions on the New Moon and Full Moon for, for like, ever. Unfortunately, that airline is Malaysian Airlines, which I’m not even sure is real. It may be some time before my weekly flights on American or its partners are no longer dotted with ear-splitting whines. Regardless, I take this recent development as a glimmer of hope signifying meaningful evolution for airline travel. Moreover, if it’s possible to establish child-free zones, then maybe the sky (ha!) really is the limit!
Today, shackled into 21F for almost five hours on the way to EWR, I came up with a couple of more offerings using a simple stick-or-carrot model. I have also outlined viable implementation plans, which, along with the models, might just be the ticket (ahem) to revitalizing the entire airline industry.
1. Gas-free zones
Although I would be the first to fork over cash to never have to bury my head in my shirt because the guy sitting in 22F eats too much dairy, this genius idea requires no increase in ticket prices. Between the stick and the carrot, this one’s the stick.
Remember when you were a little kid and adults or at least older kids would say that if you peed in the pool your pee would turn green or something and everyone would know? It could be like that but on planes. The flight attendant call button could be MacGyvered to activate upon the detection of sulfuric elements. Everyone would instinctively turn around to get a good hard look at the person who couldn’t just get up, for crissakes, and go to the bathroom. But shame is a lonely motivator. The offending party would then be charged a $1500 infringement fee upon deplaning, payable to the airline (administrative fees) and to the passengers of the three rows surrounding him/her.
2. No talking flights
I have nearly perfected the in-flight Heisman of chitchatting by immediately donning an eyemask, and yet, for at least forty minutes on every flight while electronics are embargoed, I am held captive while those around me drone on as if rows in airplanes were somehow magical, invisible soundproof chambers. They are not.
I would gladly pay a premium to travel in the equivalent of a flying library. Because I am egalitarian, I believe that every person, regardless of income, should have access to no-talking flights. To support this, the fee could be a sliding scale model or even a work-for-service model where those who can’t afford the extra cost could simply help to refuel the plane or hand out peanuts.
I have other business ideas, mostly addressing those people who use the bathroom and don’t wash their hands, for example, but this seems like a good place start. Baby steps.
Well here’s a funny bit of introspection: I still manage to work into many professional meetings that I was a yoga teacher for seven years. Despite the fact that I haven’t taught yoga in over a year and a half and also, yoga teachers bore me.
#THATWASPROBABLYATWEET
Today is the last day of my small stones exercise. As I typed that, I mistyped “scones” for “stones” and realized it’d been a lot harder if the exercise was to make scones for 31 days. As it stands, I only had to write. I made it 29 out of 31. Not bad, but I wish I would’ve made the whole.
Here is my farewell haiku:
Scribbles on a page
Turning into poetry
Meaningful small stones
See this card? This card is the type of thing you get in place of a ticket for going to Sleep No More, an interactive-ish play, loosely based on Macbeth, if Macbeth were steampunk meets Eyes Wide Shut with way less nudity in a garish hotel. (And thank god, because the one chest shot I saw was just awkward.)

On my way home from yoga tonight, two significant things happened. I can’t tell you exactly what makes them significant, whatever.
First, I used a homeless man as a breadcrumb. I am not proud of this. But it was a new studio and on the way there I wasn’t sure if I was heading the right direction and I noticed him looking dead lying over a grate around 5th and University Place and I remember thinking Ugh, he looks dead.
I am not really callous. I fake like I am (shhh) when I am in New York City, and only as an act of basic survival: I heard that weak people are sentenced to Midtown in perpetuity.
Unfortunately/fortunately, dead looking homeless men turn out to be useful landmarks on account of no one wanting to touch them.
On my way home from class he hadn’t moved, and that is how I knew I was headed back in the same direction I came. Oh joy!
Second, a couple of blocks later I spotted THIS little gem in the trash. If I were not afraid of rat diseases and looking weird and also if I weren’t trying to be more of a minimalist, I would have taken it home with me. I know, totally frivolous, but I pictured having a cocktail party and sitting him at the dinner table just to the left of the chips and queso.

This is my savings plan right now. Not really (’cause I don’t do pennies), but that’s how it feels. The extravagance of Brazil and Christmas and shopping-to-cure-depression finally caught up with me so now I’m being the responsible person I’m supposed to be. And that’s pretty boring.

Maybe the best written music review ever written, “Stephen’s music is a blend of blankety-blank, blank, blank.”
This is my view from my hotel in Nashville, where I am working. I also work in NY. And in Hoboken, which is almost like NY.
The goalposts are Vanderbilt University’s, where, as a friend says, “So much glory never happened.” That is unfortunate. They seem like nice enough goalposts.

Because I am a social media girl through and through, and also because I hate to be an asshole commenter, I am taking to my blog to wuss out on an issue I have a very strong opinion on. See this image?

I screen-capped this from Facebook, where it’s been making its rounds with significant support. Notice that the poster said, “Strange how I was blocked from sharing this…”
To which I would like to say: PEOPLE, WHY DO YOU THINK FACEBOOK IS “FREE?” Are we so arrogant as a society that we believe Facebook should be a public service? You opt in to use it. There is no money exchanged for it. How do you think companies who charge no money from their user base make money? By selling ad space alone?
With Facebook or Google or any other company to whom you pay ZERO currency to use their services a) you can go ahead and assume they’re selling your data and b) you have the right to stop using their services. Just don’t get mad at them for developing a sustainable business model in which you knowingly partake.
/rant.
Some days this placeholder for an anticipated blog sums up the story of my life. Enter title here. I’m waiting for the perfect little quippy phrase which will make all of the workdays turn worknights + bi-coastal-where-am-I + half-businessperson / half-artist / full identity crisis + Recovering Yogi-ist + last minute, trans-Atlantic weekend trips + mental orphan + but-wait-I-want-to-do-it-all make sense.

I am back from the quickest weekend trip ever. My co-worker and I went to London to meet up with Dre, my ex-roommate. From NYC, everything is just closer. Except Hawaii.
Anyway, we had a good time. I met a swan hanging out near the Princess Diana Memorial (which is stunning, btw). Here is the swan. We got each other.
These shoes, in their gilded perfectness, made the disappointment of Iceland all better.
These socks and this candy are from Virgin Atlantic. I think they are both cute, but the socks smell like petroleum, which is funny considering “the most sustainable airline on Earth.” When the flight attendant added on Earth, I stopped my life momentarily. Would any other planet be an option?
Maybe someday I will eat the candy.
The third heart from the left reads BLUE EYES. These are Love Hearts. I am guessing there is not a HAZEL EYES. I know for certain that people with hazel eyes love too.
Perhaps the third heart from the left is a secret love letter. A tiny, hidden message inscribed with his nickname for her, in an inconspicuous place where tens of thousands — millions maybe — would see.
She knows that when he goes to work every day he writes things. He is a copywriter, and sometimes he writes ad copy describing YOUR PERFECT LIFE perched high above the bustle, offering the perfect balance of all the city you want with all of the quiet you need.
But on that particular May evening, over their nightly glass of Pinot Noir, he told her he had written sayings, words really, for candy hearts. He showed her the mockup with the words “Blue Eyes” typed across a pink background.
And she smiled as she imagined a woman she had never met, sitting on a Virgin Atlantic flight to London — a last minute substitute for Iceland — opening a candy wrapper, and pulling out the hearts one by one, and pausing upon reaching one inscribed BLUE EYES.
I know that if I was making something that I knew a notable portion of the world would see, I would hide a love letter too.
I am on a plane to Iceland. It is supposed to be a 4.5 hour flight but we are grounded for an indeterminable amount of time. Recently, like five minutes ago, this blonde waif wearing illegal amounts of perfume, switched from her middle seat to the open one next to me. Just ’cause. I reason that God must hate me. I know I hate her. (The blonde, I mean.)
My friends and I booked the trip a couple of months ago and then basically forgot about it. Actually, I forgot about it. They did not, as evidenced by the countless email reminders they sent asking for a copy of our hotel arrangements. I don’t blame them for asking. I get busy; sometimes I forget things. They know this.
When I finally went to search for the reservation today, the day of our departure, I couldn’t find the confirmation. I panicked. I booked us an alternate plan at the Hilton while I frantically tried to remember where I could have booked. I sent off a hurried correspondence and crossed my fingers.
Then, in a time before God hated me, the hotel miraculously emailed me back just as I arrived at the airport. It was what one might call a miracle. And by “one” I mean the same people who call things like having babies miracles.
So now I’m on this plane next to the girl with too much perfume, watching The Beginners on my iPad, and praying that Xanax wields its lovely power soon, and I find myself awake in a foreign country of volcanoes and grey wool sweaters that I never dreamed I’d visit.
At a work dinner in TriBeCa tonight, sheltered from outside temperatures well beyond civilized, I ate a steak. It was the kind of steak, with its trailing pool of blood orphaned on my plate, that made me want to be a vegetarian again.
This is a picture of The Freedom Tower, captured at 11:30 pm on a Tuesday night, which is precisely the time that I left the office before heading home to work a little bit more.
Some parts of the world look like this today. It’s times like this when I realize how fortunate I am to live in Los Angeles.
Tomorrow is the end of an era. An era I like to call The Dre Era, after my roommate for the last five and a half years, Dre. We are going our separate ways. Venice calls.
We’ve had the best of times and we’ve had less, and in the end I can say we’ll always be close.
The boxes and disarray prepare me for a life unsettled, at least for a little while,
I don’t often complain about work — at least not publicly. But this is serious, folks.
I have to take a Code of Ethics class. It’s an online course. I am not opposed to taking it, save for two factors: First, it is designed for a totally different type of worker so that some of the “right” answers are completely antithetical to the way my job is structured. I’m a One in the Enneagram world which means that I actually care about things like right ways and wrong ways and making points on principle. In this case, it’s not that I’m worried about being wrong, it’s that I have no one to appeal to that the class is not really a test of one’s ethics because ethics, by definition, aren’t relative.
Second, I suppose more important than things like understanding what a word actually means, for example, is the fact that I actually can’t take the test unless I borrow someone else’s laptop. (Ironically, I think this qualifies as unethical under the grounds of the test.) I have a Mac, which okay, I begged for, and the test only works on IE in a native Windows environment. VM Ware doesn’t cut it. The rub is that I don’t want to complain because I really love my Mac.
So it’s for those reasons that I’ve made the following appeal on Facebook:
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