100

This is my 100th post. Obviously I do this only for me, because only maybe 4 or 5 people read this. I certainly don't think random people are reading my blog. Theres not much to enjoy, aesthetically speaking.

If you like reading you might enjoy it. But only if you like to read what I write. Which is amazing, btw.

I only post about things that matter to me. Even politically, its really all about me.

I think blogging is a totally narcissistic endeavor. It is perfect for me.

I changed my layout in honor of this momentous occasion. Yay.

Meanwhile I am watching "Where the Wild Things Are" and having a glass of wine. Excellent Thursday plans!

When I am king I will wear a wolf suit and declare rumpus.

But to be totally honest this movie is kind of disappointing me.

My mom used to read me this book over and over when I was little. I loved it.

My parents were super into the arts, and were totally set on giving their daughter an artistic education, probably because they themselves had not been exposed to artistic pursuits as children. I took art lessons at age 3 at LACMA (LA county museum of art). AND I went to my first opera at the age of 3 as well.

But its not like my parents were humorless. My first opera was "Where the Wild Things Are," part of a childrens' opera series. I still remember it. It was at Dorothy Chandler Pavilion in Los Angeles.

I remember the art lessons too. It was kind of neat. Each week the teacher would take us to a different wing and we would learn about a new genre of art. After we learned we got to draw/fingerpaint/glue our own masterpiece sort of in the "style" we had learned about. I remember feeling younger than everyone in the class. They all sat still, while I turned cartwheels down the hallway and generally raised hell. My mother had scrimped and saved to buy those classes, and after the first week the teacher suggested that maybe I shouldn't come back. "Like hell," my mom said. I was there every week.

About 3 years ago I asked my mom why she had put me in this class so young, with children who were so obviously older. I felt so inadequate, even as a toddler!

--What are you talking about? she said

--Well, I was only 3. Everyone else was 5 or 6 right?

--No sweetie, they were all 3. They were also Beverly Hills Stepford-children who couldn't have fun. When the teacher told me you were too rambunctious I told her you were 3, and as such you were permitted to act like a 3 year old. So you turned your cartwheels. And learned about art.

Yay mom!!

But the best part of my art lessons? After we would walk to the La Brea Tar Pits (next door) and have a picnic lunch. We couldn't afford to go in the museum, but most of the interesting stuff is outside anyway.

Whenever my mom and I are in LA together we get sandwiches and lay out on the lawn at La Brea. It is wonderful.