An Insomniac's Lullaby

I once drove from LA to San Diego in sixty-eight minutes. To Las Vegas in two hours and forty-three minutes. I can easily arrive in San Francisco in less than five hours. Men have a natural competitive instinct to time everything they do, and try to beat their own personal record. It's been embedded in our minds since the beginning of time; when we were hunting with our bare hands and making fire by striking two stones. We compete amongst ourselves and brag about how fast we got from point A to point B.

Let's open our concluding piece in City of Angels with An Insomniac's Lullaby. Out of the journals spotlighted up until now in our Los Angeles theme, this has to be the most pleasingly readable. The secret is in the pace and the ease of the writing; it's neither forced (strained) nor overly simplistic. There are several styles of writing to document one's life, and it's all too common to see an effective writer "grocery list" their days in search of simplicity and readability. That doesn't happen here, and events that every writer/ reader can relate to are put forth to history and posterity with the greatest of ease and simple elegance.

If you're in doubt, just check it out. Here's a prime example of something we've all done:

'Hi, We'd like to start off with the Vegetable soup for two. Then we'll have shrimp with oyster sauce and broccoli chicken on white wine.'

The waiter writes down our order and nods, 'Dat-all?'

'Oh you know what, we'll have the won-ton soup instead.'

'Ok, so won-ton soup and vegetable soup...' he repeats.

'Wait, no. Just the won-ton soup instead of the vegetable soup,' I interrupt.

'No won-ton just vegetable?' he asks.

Argh! Today's lesson: You're stuck with whatever you order first.

To boot, the design reflects the easy readability and interface of the page. Everything is readily navigable, and there's a neat photo for each page (and every entry); a lot seem 'donated,' but they're a charming piece of almost reminiscent noir, and most of them are somewhat symbolic of the contents of the page or entry.

Second Act

Here's something that is imbued with simplicity, but which still catches the reader with the sincere emotion of the writer who is rapt with the memory:

Before I proceed, I guess I should put a warning here that you shouldn't read any further if talk about same sex relationships bother you.

A few years ago, I had an encounter with a close friend of mine. I didn't suspect Laurie was interested in me in a sexual way until she wrote a note to me expressing her desire for us to get involved. I was sort of shocked because she was married and had children, never before let on that she was bisexual. I wasn't upset but had no intention of following through with anything. Laurie never brought it up again, at least not until we went to a party one night at a mutual friend's house and she offered to drive me home afterwards. Sitting there in the car, she just gave me this look and put her arm on the seat behind me. She lightly caressed my neck with her fingertips and I remember laughing nervously. Next thing I knew, she was leaning towards me. There was a split second in which I could have stopped her and decided not to. Part of it was curiousity, part was because at that moment, I was sincerely attracted to her too. Maybe it was the beer responding, I don't know.

It turned out to be one of the best sexual experiences I've ever had. But the days following that were hard. What had I done? Did this make me a lesbian? I didn't have any regrets about what happened, just the concern that perhaps I needed to rethink who I was. It was stupid, really, because I hadn't changed...I simply discovered another part of myself that I didn't know existed.

While the writing itself is great in its tone, and in what it conveys, we could wish for a little more flash or tomfoolery. Those not wanting loud design or graphics-heavy pageloads will be happy though, as this journal provides hours of satisfying reading and entertainment.

Ms_Understood

This guy told me to get a life. Personally I think he needs to get an online life. He spends so much time in the real world it's appalling), or letters I have sent to myself (I think it's a perfectly sane thing to do, more people should try to communicate with themselves, especially when they find their lives completely devoid of friendship, love, excitement, and a new episode of Will and Grace). And then there is that whole other animal: controversial and self-righteous expounding. It is unlikely I will have many of those because I hate self-righteousness and I'm scared shit of controversy.

First off, Ms_Understood is visually stunning. This is another one of those pages that has hit the ground running, with a design that's both distinctive enough to set it apart and user friendly enough to easily guide and entertain.

The writing, too, is crisp, with enough absurdism and is rough-cut with the slightly vulgar pieces of realism that define our private lives. All of us can write about our lives, but it is refreshing to see someone who doesn't leave the finer and more important points out. Not juvenile bathroom humor, per se, but good honest attention to detail.

Set the scene: I'm listening (unwillingly) to Ricky Martin's La Vida Loca, wishing I were listening to some happy Slow Gherkin brassing. I tried on my prom dress for tomorrow to see if it still fits me after surviving on just McDonald's for an entire week. Since I'm so lazy, I haven't bothered to climb out of my dress and sandals, so I'm lounging vulgarly in front of my computer, dribbling cookie crumbs all over my cleavage. nice...

How about the stats?

Writer's Name: Jean, Isabelle, or Pheobe

As you can see, nothing is ever razor sharp or clear in Ms_Understood. But the writing is thorough and deliberate. Whatever fizzing brown colored delicate uncertainty is present is deliberate. Go and become confused.

Sometimes I feel misunderstood. I guess its more like sometimes I can't relate to the rest of the world. Are my ideas really as bad as everyone thinks, or are they just weird and quirky like my friends say?