Los Angeles for the Lonely Hearts

Hmmm...how to write this without sounding like a total loser...how, how, how...

Nope. No way around it. Last night I went to a concert by myself. I can't be sure, but it certainly looked like I was the only one who traveled solo. (Especially judging by the number of people who made out with each other's faces the whole night long--they either came together, or they're very, very friendly.) I got myself a nice comfy seat in the balcony, and tried to act like I was completely okay with being alone.

(This is Josh Ritter. He played last night. I'd travel to the ends of the earth (alone) to watch him. He's that good.)

Actually, I got very busy with my phone--sending profound emails to my mom ("Hi Mom. I'm at a concert!"), rereading old text messages, reaching out to people I haven't spoken to in years. Just pushing, pushing, pushing the little keyboard letters, to let the other concert-goers, and most importantly myself, know that: I KNOW PEOPLE, people! I've got FRIENDS! Plenty of people would've LOVED to come to this concert WITH ME, but they all live in OTHER STATES.

Then, I got tired of looking at that tiny screen. I put my phone away. I decided to give up the ghost, and own the fact that a) I traveled alone and b) I'm totally new to this town. I also decided a beer would really help my efforts at self-acceptance. So, I began to avail myself of the various venue employees, who were conveniently dressed all in black. (Luckily, this is LA, so all black stands out. In New York, I would've been lost, lost, lost.)

I said to one, "How do I get a drink?" He said, "Go down and get a bracelet." I went downstairs.

I said to another, "I'd like a bracelet so I can drink," and he said, "Ask that woman." I asked that woman, who said, "No, you don't need a bracelet."

I went back inside, and the woman taking tickets said, "No coming and going," and I said, "I just thought I had to get a bracelet." She said, "You do have to get a bracelet, because you look about nineteen." I said, "Thank you. So can I come and go back for my bracelet?" She said, "Okay."

I procured the bracelet! I tried to order a drink downstairs, but the man in black said I had to order upstairs. I went upstairs, but saw no bar. I asked the woman taking balcony tickets, "Is there an invisible bar on this floor?" She said, "No, there's a bar upstairs. Up these stairs." She pointed.

I said, "Can you tell I've never been here before?" She nodded and said, "That's alright."

I was relieved. I ordered my beer. I found my seat. I pretended the open seat on either side of me was just part of my massive throne, and that I, Kendall, did in fact RULE THIS WHOLE TOWN.

Solitarily,

Kendall

Much Ado About Nothing...Redux

(Here are some friends and I, and our interpretation of a Shakespearean comedy of errors.)

You can't see it, friends, but I'm pouring out a little of my ice cold diet cola in honor of two very important people. My parents. Mom and Dad. Oops, careful, trying to keep it off the keyboard.

Why am I pouring some out for my homies (and did we all listen to enough bad rap to get why I would pour diet coke on my desk? I hope so)? Because they're wise. And when I was younger, and people told me that I'd someday realize they were wise, I was like, "What-ever." But today is someday and my parents are a couple of brainiacs. Why? Because (obviously predicting the limits of my adult attention span) they offered me parental advice in bite-size pieces I remember. They offered the Fun Size candy bar equivalent of parental insight. Some examples:

1. You're going to be fine.

2. If you can't sleep, just rest with your eyes closed.

3. Kill them with kindness.

4. They'll get their come-uppance. (This one went with number 3, filled me with an ominous/passive sense of vengeance and was usually in reference to whomever had most recently been mean to me.)

5. Hate is a strong word.

Even though my parents said, "Don't say shut up," or "Don't say butt," (bottom is more gentile), they never said "Don't say hate." Instead, they would say warningly, "Hate's a strong word," and the weird warning tone of it made me so nervous that I would rescind. "I don't hate my brother," I'd say. "I strongly dislike him." And we all seemed to be okay with that.

Then, yesterday, I dropped at least two (TWO) H-bombs in a single post! What came over me? Astute commenters were concerned. And rightfully so. Natalie said, "You HATED it? How is that POSSIBLE?" And Lynn said, "After all, it's Shakespeare." Right! I don't hate Shakespeare. I love Shakespeare.

Here's what I figured out today, in between getting quotes for shipping my mattress to California, canceling my audible.com account, and taking pictures of the furniture I'm trying to hawk (anyone interested??): I dropped the h-bomb, I used the strong word, not because I hated the movie, but because I strongly disliked how it had fallen in my estimation. My vehement reaction was not to the actual film, but rather to how my feelings about it had changed. (Although I still maintain that the Claudio-Hero story really bugs.)

I make my big move to LA in two weeks, and it is terrifying. I have no idea what I'll be doing in three weeks, or one month, or six months. And renting the movie was an attempt to cling to old, familiar memories. Then I was denied the pleasure of the cling! It had me all worked up. Still, I don't need to take my anxiety out on Shakespeare, or Claudio. (Grrrrr, Claudio.) I'd do better to remember Fun-Sized Parental Wisdom #1: You're going to be fine.

So, in conclusion, to end with a bad bit of word-play, my post yesterday was really much ado about nothing. But it was also much ado about something, just a different something than I thought yesterday when I wrote it. You dig?

Clingily,

Kendall

Greetings, Humans.

(Two dog pictures in two days. Suddenly, this Slog is a Dog-Blog.)

Humans. Hello. It is I, Lucy. The world's prettiest dog. Kendall's in the other room, watching some episode of Oprah about John Edwards and the man who lied and said Edwards' baby was his. (And, may I ask that the next time you call a fellow human being a "dog," you consider for a moment just how disrespectful you're being to dogs? Thank you.)

Now, Kendall is operating under the serious misapprehension that she is in charge of me for the next few days. She is my alleged "dog-sitter." To which I say, ha. Ha ha. She's not in charge of anything. And I'm finding all sorts of insidious ways to let her know that the one who makes the decisions in this house has got four legs.

1. Whenever Kendall settles in on the couch, or at her computer, I give her a few minutes to start watching a show or writing an email, and then I decide that is the EXACT moment to have a sudden, undeniable BURST OF ENERGY that she must deal with IMMEDIATELY.

2. During one of these aforementioned bursts of energy, I'll act all excited about her finding a toy, and throwing it for me, and then I won't retrieve it. Ever. I'll just bark at her until she retrieves it. Again, and again.

3. When we're on walks, I'll be perfectly well-behaved and happy smelling stuff and looking around, until there are witnesses. As soon as someone is watching, I totally LOSE MY MIND. Thus, making her look the fool in front of one of her fellow two-leggers.

4. At night, when she is ready to go to sleep, I am...not ready to sleep. To let her know, I jump on the bed, circle around, jump back down, go downstairs, come upstairs, jump on the bed, circle round, jump down, downstairs, upstairs, etc.

5. When I am ready to go to sleep, I make sure to lay on her in the boniest way imaginable: my front legs across her shins. She whines about bruises. I'm like, "oh, grow a pair."

6. (The one I'm most proud of.) Whenever Kendall goes to the bathroom, I barge in. And, when she's about to shoo me out, I give her a doleful look--the very look I give her whenever I have to go to the bathroom in the front yard, under her hawkish supervision--that says, "Hey, girlie, fair is fair." And she loses the nerve to shut me out.

The point, dear homo sapiens, is that there's a new boss in town. A new world order is on the horizon, and if you're all as easily manipulated as Kendall, the human race doesn't stand a chance. You've been warned.

Oh, got to jet. She's coming back into the kitchen for more snacks. Will she never stop eating??

In Dog We Trust,

Lucy.

Vinny and Pauly D are my trip to Nepal.

This morning, I got a text message from a friend that said something like, "Quick! Tell me something funny!"

I knew I had to rise to the challenge. Her text could not go unanswered. So I took a deep breath, and I texted her the deepest, darkest secret that I have never told anyone:

"I have crushes on two of the guys from Jersey Shore," I wrote.

Her: "Are you serious?"

Me: "Totally serious. Vinny and Pauly D."

The thing is, Vinny and Pauly D are not exactly my "type." The men I am drawn to usually look something like this:

Oooh, dreamy Dr. Reid. However, Vinny and Pauly D look like this:

Can you see the difference? Can you? (And do you remember those old HiLite magazines where there would be two pictures, and you were supposed to circle all the differences you could find between them? I am tempted to do that here. Helpful hint: there are one billion differences).

In my defense (because on this issue I know I need a strong defense. Some of you will still say my crushes are indefensible, but...) I know Jersey Shore is bad television. I know! They're terrible to women! They're soooo vain! Pauly D has his you-know-what pierced and a huge Cadillac tattoo, and Vinny still lives at home with his mother and likes it. In the words of Liz Lemon, those facts alone should be deal-breakers. Should be.

But as I texted to my disbelieving friend: "They're really funny, and uber-masculine, and also, I'm CRAZY."

Vinny and Pauly D are really funny, and they seem like they're laughing just as hard as, if not harder than, everyone watching the show, and they've got huge muscles and they're always saying things like, "Don't let the spiked hair fool you. I'm not a bitch."

Had I not been confined, via text, to 140 characters, I would've said something like this in my defense:

Why do I go nuts at the chance to travel to distant countries? Why does a twenty-seven year old woman still totally love dressing up for Halloween? Because traveling, or wearing costumes, provides a brief vacation from my all too ordinary self and my ordinary life! Well, Vinny and Pauly D are my trip to Nepal! They're my slightly off-color Halloween costume that I'd never wear 364 other days of the year! I watch them and I think, "What would it be like? If we went to the club, and we beat the beat, and they got in fights defending my honor, and then we all admired their huge muscles while we ate pickles in the Jacuzzi on our roof? Wouldn't that be something different!" And different is always enticing. For a while. In my defense.

The truth is, I wrote this entire entry about Jersey Shore just so I would have a "reason" to show you this CLIP THAT I LOVE.

My Golden Globes Acceptance Speech

Interior: the Beverly Hilton. Kendall's name is announced. She has just won for best TV show, or best screenplay, or simply "most beautiful all around person, inside and out, who ever entered show business," the latter being a category made up just to honor her myriad contributions.

She covers her face with her hands, tastefully overcome with emotion. Her date, Matt Damon (appropriately, amicably divorced from Luciana Barrosa, they both realized they're better off as friends, no harm done), thinks she is brilliant and the admiration positively shines in his eyes as he watches her leave the table, then wind her way to the front of the room. Oops, she gets held up by Leonardo DiCaprio, who insists on hugging her, then steps on the train of her dress. She smiles demurely and swipes the dress free from his foot. She does not trip up the stairs. She collects her statue.

Pause, for dramatic effect. Maybe holding back a few tears. She smiles bravely.

"Wow. I don't know what to say. I am shocked. I have nothing prepared. (I do have something prepared.) I want to thank the Hollywood Foreign Press (or the Academy, whatever). I also want to thank my agent and manager, that PR bulldog, JLG. I also want to thank KW for watching and critiquing so much bad TV with me, and KP for reminding me that I don't have to watch TV all the time, because people need exercise and socialization. LA, thank you for giving up your cool job in NYC to come design beautiful sets for my TV show. CS and DB, thank you for feeding me. I would have starved without your belk burgers. I am so lucky to have friends who did not tell me I was crazy when I decided to do something totally crazy.

And to my dear family who have seen me through so much, thank you. You did not squash my neuroses out of me, but actually encouraged them in your own, supportive way. Without you, I'd have been too normal to amount to anything. (crowd laughs.) I love you. (I mean it.)

(this would be a big and important award, so even though the speech gets long, they would never dare to cut me off with orchestral music)

Finally, Matt. (camera scans to Matt Damon, catches the reflection from the tears in his eyes.) Ever since I was fourteen, and reading magazine articles about you on the bus ride home from Whitford Middle School, I've known that someday, someday, you'd fall madly in love with me. And I was right. I win! (victorious fist-pump) (crowd is amused) (Matt smiles his million-watt smile) (I leave the podium and exit the stage in the correct fashion, without Miss Golden Globe needing to cattle-herd me back to the press area where I continue to charm the pants off people).

Sounds good, right? I mean, I've still got a few years to hammer out the kinks.

Graciously yours,
Kendall

Platforms Can Kiss My Keester.

Like millions of Americans, I got an iPod for Christmas. Like millions of Americans, I got DVDs and a few gift cards. (I also got this, which I am pretty sure most Americans did NOT get--but most Americans don't have my mom for a mother.) (Aforementioned device has since been returned for cash money, so don't ask to borrow it).

The other gifts I received for Christmas? Self-doubt and confusion.
(Insert joke about how it is unfortunate that someone gave me a gift I already have. Ha.)

These gifts came packaged in two print magazines: Writer's Digest, and Writer's Digest WRITER'S YEARBOOK.

The Writer's Yearbook featured an article titled:

I have a feeling that I am not meant for "building platforms"--I have a hard time building a sandwich--but, I read on, because I am hoping, on some level, to make it as a writer. Plus, this blog is called "I can do lots of things," so it seems like I should at least try to make a platform. Maybe, building a platform is something I can do. Here's how the article starts:

"If you're wondering what the difference is between a completely unknown writer and a well-known writer, I can tell you. The well-known writer has influence. In order for you to build influence, you need to create and launch a platform that communicates your expertise, credibility and integrity..."

To me, this is...terrifying. But not to worry, the article has a numbered list of how to make your platform. It's so easy! Three easy steps!

1. Have a clearly identified body of expertise.

"The first thing you need to know and communicate is what defines you and your expertise. If you don't know who you are and what you uniquely offer, how will anyone else?"

So, just know who you are? I'm twenty-seven and I struggle with that question all day, every day, except when I'm watching TV. Which is why I watch so much TV.

Who I am: I'm Kendall. I'm tallish. I have bangs, three demanding plants, and a gift for finding myself in awkward situations.

Expertise: 1. Finding Hobo Spiders in Showers; 2. Memorizing Celebrity Baby Names; 3. Big-Talking (this term defines someone who staunchly refuses to put her money where her mouth is).

2. Have a Distinct Niche, so you can stand out.

"With your identity in hand, how are you different from all of the other writers out there?...Attention spans are getting shorter, so being able to summarize your strengths concisely is critical."

Hello, and welcome to my distinct niche! I'd like to shake your hand, but as you can see, I've already got my identity in hand. Pay attention! I'm distinct. There is not a single other twenty-seven year old woman, let alone a would-be writer trying to write a blog, anywhere out there. I am the ONLY ONE of my kind.

My distinct blog is called, "I Can Do Lots of Things," because I think, probably, I can do lots of things (although, last night under duress, I admitted that "I can do lots of things. I just don't"). Now, does that set me apart? What did you say? Did you ask what can I do, precisely? Hmm...well...Oh, I don't know. I just needed a title for a blog. Probably, it would be more accurately titled, www.BORINGSTUFFABOUTME.blogspot.com.

This is not going well.

3. An Ongoing Relationship with a Targeted Audience.

"Clarifying who your readers are will bring your platform into perspective...This applies to books, blogs, and everything else you write, no matter the form or genre. Once you identify your audience, and start speaking to it directly, the ongoing dialogue will spark all kinds of ideas, connections and opportunities..."

Audience, Hello. I am addressing you directly. You know, I have a very specific audience-type, and if you are reading this right now, guess what? You're in. You fit the bill. That's right: my targeted audience is anyone who will read what I write.

So, here is my platform: I have an identity (bangs; plants; awkwardness). I have expertise (spiders; celebrity babies; big-talking). I have a distinct niche (vaguely "doing things,"and then only in theory, not in practice). I'm targeting a specific audience (you, you big lug! it's you!).

Is this the sort of platform a person (or a blog) can stand on?

I think it is more like a platform a person (or a blog) falls off of, like a silly grandma-at-the-wedding-reception blooper from America's Funniest Home Videos.

I think my platform, maybe, is just that I'm not one for platforms? Ehhhh?

At least there are people out there trying to help us platform-less people get the notice we desire. (Thanks, CK, for the awesome link.)

Do you have a platform? Do you think you need one? Way more importantly, do I?

Abs. Crunches.

Kendall