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To get this bad must take a serious imbalance of the humors: I find myself in Mission Beach- like literally in Mission Beach- waking up with half my face in the sand, a gnarly gash on my knee, dry, caked blood all down my shin, missing a flip-flop and old burrito contents all over my shirt and in my beard. How many days have I been on this bender? I know it all started Friday at the Coaster with their $2 drafts. That's it.
Usually when I think about independent films I think low budget, inexperienced, messy and full of dialogue that is questionable, this however just shows how much the big movies can hypnotise and cram us full of nonsense.
I have now watched a multitude of independent films that have surprised and delighted me, with a professional look and the obviously talented contributors having done an amazing job. Though one stand out film for me is Fairview St from Rebel Pictures, it is by far one of the best independent films I have ever had the pleasure of viewing, and that is my honest opinion. I may not have seen many, but easily enough to know when heart and soul have been pumped into the production. Who needs the big budget when you have determination?
"So what do you wanna do?"
"Well, I was figuring we could just go to a diner and talk for a bit."
"Talk?"
"Yes, if that's alright with you."
"I guess so but I just assumed you'd rather fuck me."
"What makes you say that?"
"Considering I'm a prostitute I would say that it just comes with the territory."
"I'm just looking for some companionship, that's all."
Last week I was taking it easy, lounging on my bed and reading a book when my husband Jordan came in. Our conversation went as follows:
Jordan: "What did you say?"
Bre: "I didn't say anything."
Jordan: "Yeah, you did. You said something and then I said 'what?' and then you said 'nothing!'"
Bre: "No, I've been sitting here reading, I haven't said a thing."
The sound of the waterfall, the cool wet darkness behind it, crouching and watching the sheath of water come down like a veil, and the pulsing drip, drip, drip from a spot where the water seeped through a crack in the rocks and pooled at his feet... that was his favorite memory.
I had spent the past six hours driving through the desert darkness, heading east on a whim. Nary the moon or city lights left me to my car headlights for guidance and the landscape of dirt and succulent foliage was left to my imagination. There was light coming out from somewhere, somewhere straight ahead and the tops of mountains could be made out in the distance, flat and carved by dry winds blowing for since a time no man can honestly recall. Dark on even darker and nothing more.
Yesterday, I paid a much needed visit to the orthopedic doctor to get my knees checked. No, it's not because I am getting older (turning thirty does feel fantastic by the way). Thanks to all that hiking and running I did in my twenties, I have a nice bod but weak knees to go with it. I feel awful that I can't even go on a real run with my dog without being in pain. It truly is sad because I love, I mean looove running in the rain with her!
Anyway, back to the doctor's office- dressed in my pretty wavy skirt and knit top, I figured I was dressed appropriately- no need to lift up awfully long pants to my thighs for the exam. Little did I know I had to lift my damn knees for one of the x-rays! Ah ha. Had I not gotten so dark from all that summer sun, the specialist would have seen my embarrassed red face as I tried my hardest not to flash him. Then comes in the doctor. The true professional that he was, he didn't even bat an eye. He did the exam, suggested a bit of physical therapy to ease my pain and said I'd be back to running in no time. Phew.
"Sparky, reload the Big Bertha, now! Two minutes. All hands stand ready! Safety procedure Code Red. 2nd Mate out." I hear 2nd Mate's voice, thick with urgency and desperation, in my earpiece. I shudder. Big Bertha? Suicide. No time for Code Red checklist anyway.
"Yes, Sir! Big Bertha reload. Sparky out." I report back. "Baltu, power to the bleed capacitors, Checklist Procedure Code Red. Now!" I yell to my only remaining crew, the Second Lineman Baltugirbaldorge-and that is just his first name.
It grew
Still she was able to see him
Lying on the other side
Close enough
To sometimes touch
They'd reach across
And hold hands
Till the gusts blew strong
And broke their grip
Each day she'd feel
More rocks crumble beneath her
And fall from the ledge
Filmmaker Gavin White explores the past and present of London's Speakers' Corner, dubbed "the single best known place for free speech on the planet." A native Australian, White has just moved from Melbourne to London to work as a producer on "The Media Report", a show for European Business News when he discovered the Speakers' Corner phenomena. 
“Do you need help?” Eve asked the restaurant manager, her dark-blue eyes glowing with hope that bordered on desperation.
The Ellis Island refugees and the new millennium off-the-Boeings immigrants had one thing in common. They came looking for work. Exploring the labyrinths of New York streets they knocked on the doors of stores and restaurants asking the same question over and over again, in broken English. “Do you need help?” Half the minimum wage would do.
“No,” the manager answered with the same reply. His eyes traveled up and down Eve’s body. “And we have a sign in the window that says so. If you could read English.”
Freaky Friday, Trading Places and the old classic Prince and Pauper get a make-over in Susan Shapiro's Overexposed. Rachel Solomon, an aspiring shutterbug from a Midwestern Jewish doctor's family, escapes suburban paradise for the bohemia of New York City , much to her kin's dismay. She gets a job at Vision magazine, replacing the previous art assistant, Elizabeth Mann, a daughter of a famous photographer. Little does Rachel know, the tall gangly brunette with looks not unlike her own, would replace her in her mother's family album and even in the antique wedding gown that should've been hers. When Elizabeth speed-marries Rachel's brother, she blissfully abandons her high heels for nursing bras - and the Solomons suddenly acquire a daughter they know how to love.
A Michigan girl who had come to New York to get her MFA from NYU, Shapiro wrote for the New York Times, Village Voice, Newsweek, The Forward, People, More, Glamour, and Cosmopolitan. She is a New School journalism professor, who lives in Greenwich Village and an author of five non-fiction books.
From word go Broken Dreams tells you in the title that it's going to be an emotional movie that suggests depressing themes. When I first read the title I was prepared for a film that centralised around a broken home or failed relationship, but these genres are merely background noise to the unexpected darker subjects that are tackled within this beautifully executed production.
Does one ever get to a defining point in their life where they say, "yes I have met and reached the plateau of adulthood?" Thomas Szasz, an insightful psychiatrist and critic of the shortfalls of his own field, once answered: "Adulthood is the ever-shrinking period between childhood and old age. 
The tormented shadows of Madame Butterfly, Tosca, Mimì can still be seen lingering during a full moon night on Lake Massaciuccoli.Their sad melodies can still be heard if you listen carefully. For right in front of this small lake where moonbeams fall silent and high reeds whisper softly stands the elegant villa of the Italian composer, Giacomo Puccini (1858-1924).
The biggest decision of my life thus far was made when I was sixteen years old. The details of the decision, and implications thereof, were these:
"Laura. You know I have coached two other girls to Olympic medals, one gold and one bronze, and I have many other career medals from these two girls, among others. I know you've told me that you want to go to the Olympics yourself. I know that you love fencing. But do you love it enough to sacrifice everything?"
"It's a matter of perspective man," he said to me, lighting up another cigarette and starting his walk across Broad Street. Whether you're a citizen here, or anywhere else, doesn't matter. What does matter is that you are here now."
It was March when I decided to move to Portland, Oregon.
2,685 miles away from my hometown and 2,901 miles from my home, it sounded like a paradise to my coffee-induced anxiety. May 24th, 11:16 AM, and it sounds like a trap.
So, this time last month I was catching an airplane across Pennsylvania, from Pittsburgh to Philadelphia; an almost embarrassingly short flight. After sitting in the Pittsburgh airport for nearly three hours I finally boarded the flight and felt my soul shudder when I noticed the six-month old child seated across from me.
Last weekend I went to Texas Roadhouse with a couple of my family members. They convinced me to try the steak, and I decided to give it a go. To save money, and because neither of us wanted a whole steak, my sister, Britney, and I decided to split one.
The waiter came along and asked for our order, and asked how we'd like it cooked. Britney piped up with "medium rare" as I was about to say "well-done", and I realized that it never occurred to us until the waiter arrived that we'd probably want it cooked differently. But I was outnumbered. The waiter and my family assured me that "medium-rare" was the best way to cook a steak 'cause the meat melts in your mouth. Really, melting meat is the best way you can convince me to try something new? The idea of meat melting in my mouth isn't as appetizing as you might think. I said okay, I'll do it your way, let's go ahead and cook it medium-rare.
