Viva Las Vegas?

Today, I walked down the Strip in Las Vegas, a huge area with all of the main tourist traps concentrated, along with gems such as Excalibur, MGM, GameWorks, etc. My family took an after-dinner excursion to M&M World, a tradition for us, and left with out bright yellow bags full of chocolate. My parents wanted to go see the new City Center, and I agreed out of curiosity. It was, to put it bluntly, the most marvelous monstrosity I've ever seen. It was like a small city, with multiple skyscraper-esque buildings towering 50 floors in the air, with glimmering glass and shiny metal. A sleek tram zoomed by on an elevated rail, and a gigantic waterfall cascaded down an outside wall. The inside was beautiful, an architect's fantasy: untainted mosaic tile floors and simple, classy carpeting, antiquated slot machines, arches and treehouse-plant sculptures dotted throughout, high-end stores littered amongst five-star restaurants, and a faint, sweet perfume smell wafting throughout.

Yet all I could think of was, "And there are children in Africa starving, and budget cuts back home for my education, and hell, there's plenty of homeless people just outside the parkway." Impressed as I was by the sheer beauty of it, I couldn't help but be disgusted at the billions of dollars laid to waste so the people with money to burn have yet another place to immolate.

And that's when I realized: I'm tired of Vegas. Viva Las Vegas! to me is just another cliched, ignorant phrase used by those who haven't seen it as well as I have. Maybe I can rediscover it when I'm 21, when there'll be gambling and strippers and alcohol and going to see shows, but right now, I'm 14 and tired. Maybe I'm tired of life, as the saying goes; maybe I'm just hormonal. As someone who lives so close to Vegas, with the opportunity to visit at a moment's notice, I'm no longer entranced by the glittering lights of Sin City. I walk around with a dry throat from inhaling all of the cigarette smoke; I involuntarily shift behind my dad when we pass the pimps and their clients; I look past the sharply dressed men and gorgeous women to their tired faces, hidden behind a facade of foolhardiness; I see the pictures of topless women scatter on the ground (which, I admit, my observing did not help my parents' opinion that I am a lesbian), and all I can think is that I want to go home and lie down and drown my sorrows in Glee.

Maybe this makes me a depressing person, stealing the poetry out of something beautiful because it has a scum-studded underbelly which most others choose to ignore. Maybe I should ignore the sirens, and the flashing-lights police cars I see every day. Maybe I should ignore the homeless men begging for change while scantily-clad women beckon to earn their keep. Or maybe I need to go back down to the pool, put in my iPod headphones, and tan while all hell breaks loose. It's called Sin City for a reason. It's not because you have the opportunity to go out and be sinful; it's because sin throws itself at you and shoves itself down your throat, leaving you wondering where the lost naivete went.

So you know what? Forget Las Vegas. Viva Los Angeles! Viva New York! Viva San Francisco and Memphis and Seattle! Viva la Vida! Anything but another day of watching humanity's inevitable descent in a nutshell, please.

We Be Road Trippin'

A couple of times a year, my brother, parents and I pile into my mom's PathFinder, and we set off on an 8 hour journey from our home in the Bay Area to my grandparent's home in Henderson, just shy of Sin City. In previous years, it's been the bane of my existence, being crammed in the backseat with my hyper younger brother, with my parents singing along to the Mamma Mia! soundtrack (yes, it is genetic) and taking pit stops in run-down little rest areas in the middle of the desert.

But over the years, I've come to appreciate it more. Even though the sounds of I-5 make it too loud to have a decent conversation, I've found that if I lean forward a tad I can hear my parents talking to each other as they do to other adults, with topics that are more interesting than what they normally bring up to me and my brother. I've found that if I lean my head just right, the bumps from the road vibrate my head from the window, and I can make my teeth chatter.

And, of course, as with all trips, there are traditions. Stopping at Wasco, in the same exact store, and eating cheap deli food while beating away the flies. My parents turning on the classic rock station and asking me who the artist is, in a somewhat successful attempt to make me more knowledgable about music. Counting the windmills as we drive by. Inhaling deeply as we pass Gilroy and its abundance of garlic.

But, this year, I made a few new traditions. About three hours in, after our early lunch, I pulled out my laptop and DJed for the next hour or so, merging from rock and pop to showtunes and Glee as time went on, eventually stowing it away for lack of battery power. I made friendship bracelets, practicing my technique. I found a comfortable position to doze off in, with my sweatshirt balled up behind my back, my head resting against the window and the seatbelt strap, one leg curled up on the seat and the other stretched on the floor as far as it will go.

Of course, even my new traditions can't change what makes these trips, well, traditional. As soon as we get in the door, we're attacked by a rabid Shi Tzu, then greeted with hugs from our grandparents. Gramma offers us strawberries and crackers and cheese, then we all sit down for spaghetti and salad and chicken and brisket and all sorts of good things. We all sit contentedly for a while after dinner, chatting, and then we go watch TV, or go on the computer, and relax. In the morning, there are fresh bagels with cream cheese and lox, and Gramma's french toast casserole, and then we all get ready to go swimming.

This is my Las Vegas.

Dihydrogen Monoxide is Going to Kill Us All

Ah, Easter. The holiday on which Jesus' supposed ascension becomes a day about eating chocolate and giant, pedophilic bunnies. The day on which I must get up at 8:50 on a weekend, wear a monkey suit, and go to church, where all of the people too busy to be "Good Christians" every other day of the year show up in hopes of redeeming themselves somewhat. But, despite my somewhat dry view of it, it's not all that bad. My family went out to a brunch buffet, where I had delicious Eggs Benedict and Cheese Blintzes, among other things, and then returned home, where I discarded my dress and heels in favor of pajamas.

But then, after laying in bed near-comatose for a few hours on my laptop, I realized only after seeing it on Facebook(ignore the large window four feet from my back) that it was raining outside. So, I did what any normal teenager would do: I threw on a sweatshirt and jeans, and went for a walk. Yes, I walk barefoot in the rain. No, I'm not trying to get pneumonia and die.

I don't see why people dislike the rain. The sky may become a somewhat dismal white, and dull the other colors, but they're not dulled, you just have to look a little closer. Everything looks fresher, cleaner, and it's quieter out. If one had seen me walking, I might have looked rather sad, trudging in the rain barefoot, but in reality, I was content and lost in thought. Just watching the cars go by brought to mind multiple questions: Who are they? Why are they driving alone, in the rain, on Easter? Do they not celebrate? Do they have nobody to celebrate with? Are they going somewhere? What's their story? People tend to disregard so easily the fact that other cars are not, in fact, mindless entities intent on making their own driving experience worse, but are people with lives and pets and dreams in a vehicle.

Besides my rambling musings, however, I also discovered an interesting new pasttime. If you have not yet observed a snail actually moving, you should. They just inch along, slowly, but they're moving, and it's strange to see such a small creature attempting to cross a gap that would take a human but one stride to traverse. In addition, I managed to rescue three big snails, a baby snail, and a teeny tiny infant snail (or so it appeared) and put them under some leaves, so as not to get pelted with the rain.

I also realized today, as I was walking out the door to church, that in many ways, I have changed since I was a child, some for the better, some for the worse. I still am not fond of going to church, but now instead of throwing tantrums, I go and sit quietly, replaying stories in my head and zoning out for an hour. On Easters past, I would not have hesitated to throw on a parka over my dress if it was windy and cold. Today, I pulled my little sweater tighter around my shoulders and told my mom that it was making the choice between looking nice and being comfortable, a choice she'd told me to choose the former for many, many times.

Now, in not-quite-so-eloquent news, Club n Grub is this week! For you poor, sad souls who don't know what Club n Grub is, it is only the biggest assortment of delicious, inexpensive food that our school gets all year, and I will enjoy it greatly. Porque comida es bien.

Commute

I've come to realize many things over the course of freshman year. One is to look out for Louise, the ninja security guard; another, to avoid Barbecue Days in the quad. However, one of my greatest lessons thus far is perhaps the etiquette of bus commute.

Ah, yes, the public bus. The giant box on wheels that children everywhere dread, and that adults claim "builds character". I sit squarely in the middle, the naive, confused little elementary schooler stuck in a teenager's body, an individual with the need to be places and without the means to get there, stuck purchasing a bus pass on a Tuesday night in order to ensure another month of hassle-free, at least moneywise, bus commuting.

The etiquette of this mammoth public transport vehicle is strange, at best. In the mornings, backpacks sit squarely on the few empty seats available, giving the clear message that companions are unwelcome. A few older people are sprinkled around, grouped together or on their own. Any seats by said older people are also unavailable. Being so blessed as to be on one of the last stops before a clear shot to school, I am often left standing, clutching onto the metal poles for dear life so as to stop myself from shooting through the windshield. Of course, even standing up has its etiquette: if there is room to do so, keep at least a foot between yourself and other standing passengers. Do not, under any circumstances, have any bodily contact whatsoever with anyone. Stepping on shoes is a crime punishable by death.

However, the afternoon commute is a different matter entirely. There is no civility; seniors are crushed amongst freshmen in order to obtain a coveted seat for their ride home. Girls and boys are equal, and elbows tend to come in handy. The unlucky souls who are left seatless are crammed together, and getting to the door is an unfortunate task for those like myself, who get off at one of the earliest stops.

God, I wish I could drive.

But, despite my complaining, the bus does represent more than the irritation that plagues my mornings. It's a safe haven from the rain, cold, and wind. It's abandoning my friends, and being abandoned. It's leaving an upset, vulnerable friend on the bus, because it's my stop. It's a meeting place in the early morning, and a brief resting place on the way home. It's a little battle every day. It's freedom upon escaping, and sadness upon departure. Watching the bus leave me behind is just another symbol for the fleeting days of freshmanhood, of childhood, for my departing comrades, hopes, and notions.

In the end, it just means that things will be different, and things will be the same. Next year, there will be new people on that bus, and many of the veterans will be gone.

But next year, I'll still get off and walk by my old middle school, smiling faintly at the little blue uniforms running the track. I'll crunch the leaves from the expansive hedge, and trace a finger along the calla lillies on the corner. I'll press the button, wait for the walk sign, and walk across, cautious of the traffic. I'll walk down the street, looking up at the sky and remembering when I used to spend my time praying that he would like me back. I'll remember dropping my keys before opening the door to the worst news of my life. I'll remember my childhood. I'll open the door and sleep, or go babysit, or do homework.

I'll laugh at the irony that my parents are suspicious when I eat no dinner, yet I walked around with cuts on my arms and dark circles under my eyes and no one noticed.

And I'll go on living.

Little girl, little girl why are you crying?
Inside your restless soul your heart is dying
Little one, little one your soul is purging
Of love and razor blades your blood is surging

Stargazing

I walk down the suburban street, familiar even in the shadows, with moonlight mixed with streetlight dappled over the sidewalk. It is silent; the nocturnal creatures keep quiet, and the creatures that are so loud and violent during the day hide within their picket-fence burrows.

It is a sudden urge, a whim. I act on it. I look right, I look left, and I step into the street. I sprawl out in the center of the road, the hard concrete soft against my tired back. I look straight up. The sky is a deep navy, sprinkled with bright pinpricks of light, oblivious to the troubles that they are sovereign over.

It is a calming sight in a desperate time. My life is insignificant. I am just another collection of muscles and bones wrapped in skin, and despite the problems that present themselves, the stars will still be blazing, careless and free. They live peacefully, and die without being burdens.

Perhaps, when push comes to shove, the world is in a bad way, we can remedy our hearts' pain by simply laying back and gazing at the stars.

Musical Mayhem

Today, I inadvertently discovered that there are some songs that you literally cannot keep yourself from moving to. Green Day's ¡Viva la Gloria! being one of them (actually, this applies to basically everything in their repertoire, but I digress).This led me to analyze my iPod in search of more dance-worthy songs, but being easily distracted, I found myself musing amusedly (oh boy...) over how people would react to my taste in music. I'll put this out here right now: I was raised on punk, classic, and alternative rock. I was listening to Green Day, U2, and Bruce Springsteen in the car on my way to preschool. It often surprises people that the preppy, babysitter-tutor-good-grades-kid has willingly rocked out at a Green Day concert, to which I reply with nothing, other than humming Good Riddance under my breath.

My obsession with showtunes began to flourish around the 5th grade, after seeing Wicked for the first time. was never aware of how well ensembles could work together, or how so many voices could create such complex pieces, and was instantly taken. Mamma Mia! joined soon after, along with Phantom of the Opera, and, most recently, RENT.

However, what many may not know is that around the seventh grade, on a whim, I decided that I wanted to try something new. Pop was out, as well as techno; I looked upon rap and hip hop with disdain. And so, I entered with apprehension born of public opinion, the world of country music. And, shockingly enough, I enjoyed it. People assume that it's all old men with cowboy hats yodelling about drinking to a fiddle; to some extent, they're right. However, people tend to overlook artists such as Martina McBride and Rascall Flatts, who did Life is a Highway for the Cars movie.

Of course, these are only the three main genres; there is an eclectic dusting of pop, folk, electronica, and even rap residing in my iPod. I wonder endlessly about what other people listen to: Would they like this? Would this be on their iPod? After all, music tells a lot about a person.

It's Been a Long Day

The rain gives everything a cleansed, albeit somewhat dreary look with the huge clouds and the tall trees contrasting against the gray sky. It provides an interesting medium for photography, everything at its freshest and cleanest.

I always walk by my old middle school on the way home, but I've always viewed it as the place that a year ago, was home to my laughter and tears, with fondness and bitterness remaining, but nothing more; perhaps a smile at watching the sixth-graders run around the track, or a laugh as they run from the evil pigeons.

Today, it was empty, lunch hour long gone, and the rain keeping the kids mostly safe and dry inside the gym, damage by basketball not included. It was by no means beautiful; beneath everything, it was still just one more public school education. But, it did have a glamour to it: the frayed basketball nets, the slippery blacktop, the naked tree in the middle of the stark green grass, puddles of water lingering in wavering rivers on the edge of the track.

I managed to get a few good shots, all the while inwardly cursing about my lack of a good camera, and, more importantly, photography know-how. I took a few pictures on my way home, to put in one of my compilations, and upon returning home, promptly fell into bed, fast asleep.

It's been a long day.