Video Dollz

So this is what happens when there are pretty leaves, good company and a video camera...

When Inspiration Strikes...

Share.

"Spiritual progress is a spiral advance. We start as infants in the animal eternity of life in the moment, without anxiety for the future or regret for the past; we grow up into the specifically human condition of those who look before and after, who live to a great extent, not in the present but in memory and anticipation, not spontaneously but by rule and with prudence, in repentance and fear and hope; and we can continue, if we so desire, up and on in a returning sweep towards a point corresponding to our starting place in animality, but incommensurably above it. Once more life is lived in the moment -- the life now, not of a sub-human creature, but of a being in whom charity has cast out fear, vision has taken the place of hope, selflessness has put a stop to the positive egotism of complacent reminiscence and the negative egotism of remorse. The present moment is the only aperture through which the soul can pass out of time into eternity, through which grace can pass out of eternity into the soul and through which charity can pass from one soul in time to another soul in time."

- Aldous Huxley, The Perennial Philosophy

M I A

Sometimes life is just like "Hey! You're going to be really busy now and every day the hours are going to fly by and you're not going to have time to process anything that's happening". Maybe it's because I'm 'living life to the fullest' or it could be because I'm dumb and overly ambitious. I spend my sleeping time trying to make sense of the day and my daytime moving, sitting and planning. But that's how it goes and I like it.

So here's a photo of the finally finished Van Gogh sculpture I did:

Citrusy

Sometimes life gives you lemons. Or it gives you oranges. Heck, it could even be limes. But you know, you should just make a t shirt design out of it. My brother and I started a t shirt company The Food Porn T Shirt Co. This is one of my favorite designs. We're taking it to the printers in the next upcoming weeks and will hopefully be able to sell them by the beginning of October. 

La poule mouillée

There's a point in time when it's no longer cool to run away from your problems. Perhaps it's when you're using a walker or maybe it's when you look like a wimp, but there's definitely a time.
Life comes at you. And you better deal. And you better stick up for yourself and heck, you might as well even get what you want.

So remember to cliff jump. And to go to the beach. And do things you like.

This has been a personal pep talk.

Merci pour ta considération.

Criminal

I was in the newspaper. This is how it happened:

The Importance of Being Cool

As I grow older and closer to maturity with my parents, I realize how flippin' cool they are. Not in the like "we still go to hip concerts and buy our kids whiskey on the weekend" way but more so in the actual cool way. As a parent you donate the rest of your life from the moment a six pound screaming bundle of joy is born to slinging diapers, paying for soccer camps and taming raging teenage hormones. And holy shit, that's pretty cool. That commitment to another hungry, and sometimes hangry being is probably the hardest thing one could ever do. So thanks Mom and Dad, for being so cool.

Nite Light Lyfe

This was taken atop Mars Hill looking down at the Flagstaff light life under a full moon.

Senior Home Livin'

You know you work at a retirement home when…

The most action you got was an old man saying “How are you today, besides beautiful”.

You get called ‘cookie’ forty times an hour by a screeching Jewish woman with lipstick on her cheek.

You make a medal for a grouchy woman for being “The best walker and simultaneous ice cream eater” in order to motivate her to take her ice cream to her room so that you can go home on time.

Everyone complains that the coffee is too strong and not hot enough. 

“The chef is so nice! I wonder if he’s got a girlfriend” said woman 1

“ Oh stop it, it’s none of our business”, said woman 2. “I wouldn’t want to crawl in bed with him though, he’d take up the whole thing!”

“ You’re horrible, but I’ve wondered how that’d work...”, said woman 2

You let your farts flow free because there are eighty people who are four times your age you can blame it on.

Look at Them Flippin' Hipsters...

Adult Prom?

Why yes, everybody is required to wear a dress!

Broc Balls

Need to satisfy a craving for meatballs but are feeling vegetarian? 

Here's an option that doesn't taste like meat at all... But they are delicious!

1 head of broccoli

1 cup spinach

1 cup chopped almonds

1 cup parmesan cheese

3 cloves garlic

1/4 cup olive oil

basil, salt and pepper to taste

Preheat oven to 350. Put all the ingredients (broccoli first) together in a food processor and blend until mostly smooth. Add the almonds last so that they don't get too fine. Grease a muffin tin and plop in the broc ball mixture. Bake for about 35 minutes or until they're lightly browned. Serve with spaghetti or on a hoagie with marinara sauce for a vegetarian meatball sandwich!

Jerome

Sometimes all you need is a whirlwind adventure to an abandoned high school and a drive through the Arizona desert.

Jerome 2013!

Oh yeah, and this happened

I fear stopping my education, that I won’t acquire continuous insights, random facts and weird foreign names. What if graduation means I don’t come across new books or pieces of art? I fear not being told stories, I fear not wondering about new things. What if I get stuck in my ways? What if I think I’m always right and there isn’t a professor to tell me I only put in a C-worthy effort? I fear the lack of stimulating conversation and goofing off.

Now my education is up to me. My graduation allows me to choose even more precisely what I want to know. But what if my personal education leads me astray, what if I become irrelevant? What if my personal education leads me to follow intellectual trends too closely and encases me in popular knowledge?

Now my education is up to me. Just as it is not up to me. Life isn’t going to toss me textbooks any longer. Life is going to toss me paying loans, dealing with human relationships and managing my multiple interests. Life is going to challenge me with new jobs and tasks. Life might even challenge me with stagnation and frustration. Life is my professor and I’m going to need a tutor.

Now my education is up to me. I’m pledging as a B.A., B.S. that I will continue to question and wonder about the arts and sciences. I write this with a sense of utopian exploration hoping that my personal education leads me to move forward, seek positive change and look for reasonable solutions. Because now, my education is up to me.

Sculpture Time

These are some projects I had for my sculpture class!

Waterfalls and Red Rocks and Calcium Carbonate

At Havasupai the water is the most crystal blue you could ever imagine. The Grand Canyon explodes with the reddest rock on Earth. The luscious green vegetation envelopes this cliffs and complements the blue and red to van Gogh's artistic satisfaction.

 My weekend spent in the wilderness couldn't have been more serene, more challenging or more glorious with sunlight. The 10 mile hike to the waterfalls of Havasupai not only gives you strong glutes but also rejuvenated my love for the outdoors.

Saturday was spent wading and climbing over the rocks of Beaver Falls.

Did you know? The water is naturally blue because calcium carbonate deposits found in the red rocks.

 The 10 miles back to the car were exhausting, hot and so gratifying once I was greeted with a victory collapse in the shade next to the port-a-potty.

A Little Taste

This weekend I went to Havasupai. Here's a little taste of the waterfall wonderland that's there. 

More to come soon...

Wearing My Red Welly's, Chapter 2

Here's the 2nd chapter of my London adventure.

Chapter 2

Did it start with the Clash? Probably not, they say that the Buzzcocks were the originals anyways. However, I do believe that Joe Strummer was better at proclaiming his love for his beloved city.

My second day in London would have me adventuring into the hip side, east of the river. This Saturday morning in which I woke up to new unknown roommates I realized that I literally could do whatever the fuck I wanted. I would go to this concert I had bought tickets to; that was a no brainer. But as far as the morning went, I didn’t have to show up to the all day festival “on time”. Well, to be honest, I still was slightly on someone else’s hook. Andrew Bird was to take the stage at 3 PM, but I would let him hook me anytime anyways. Other than a famed violinist; heck, I could make my entrance whenever I wanted. 

I looked at my map that was already tragically and heroically creased from my grotesquely long and fulfilling walk from the day before. Where is one to go when they are about to indulge in musical glory? Camden Town Markets, that’s where. Off to the tube I went as it jetted me to the above ground underground punk scene of yester-year. I was less than impressed by the stereotypical Camden Market experience. The long street lined with tacky tattoo shops and tourists finally crossed the river into what I had truly sought out: the rows and narrow passageways of food carts. Indian, Moroccan, African, crepes, American bistros, the largest donuts topped with anything and everything sweet; etc etc… how is a girl to choose what to indulge in?! I must’ve walked and pushed my way through the packed streams for a good thirty minutes. Finally, I settled on Indian grub made my a second generation woman who talked me through how she had made each dish herself. My inner Bourdain was instantly sparked. It’s funny how when you’re traveling by yourself you start to collect your memories as if you’re about to do a television show for all the folks back home.

After a scrumptious meal and dizzying adventure through all the different stalls of handmade goods and tourists traps, I sped off tube-wise to the East side of the river. The concert was being held at Victoria Park; an area claimed by all hipsters. And hipsters I did see; with their ratty hair, bright lipstick and striped shirts. The collection was magnificent and almost obnoxious had I not secretly wished that I had the balls to look and act such a cool fool. I made a pact once again with myself: for one day only, I would do as the hipster does. 

I also had to find a way to make myself feel less awkward about swaying and singing at the concerts throughout the day… Something I usually enjoyed with my best friend standing next to me. Looking around at all the 16-28 year olds I noticed just how Urban Outfitted they were and it got me thinking. What if I posed as an art student? Studying fashion… and music… and duh! how they influence one another. In my solitude I would make myself useful, in a pretend project kind of way. Off I went, the American art student studying music and art. I started approaching people with my point-and-shoot camera and sincerely asked “If you would have to pinpoint what music influenced your style, what would it be? A sound? A band? A frontman/woman?”

I couldn’t have been more thrilled about the emphatic responses. Some people really took the time to detail the artist that influenced while others had no idea but gladly had their photo taken. As I stood next to an Austrian girl and Andrew Bird started spilling his music I began feeling weirdly guilty about duping all those kids, it was just too easy. As he strummed his last note, I decided that I would stop this and become more of a spectator of the festivities. I awkwardly walked around as the hipsters made jokes with each other, laughed and drank too much apple flavored beer (not cider). At one point I must’ve looked vulnerable carrying my huge coat and purse because all of a sudden a shrill British voice yelled at me to take her picture. Of course, I conceded and took a photo of her and her friends.

Like most typical British girls, she had thin blonde hair and a really round forehead on top of bright blue eyes. She must’ve been around 25 but dressed like she was trying to look quite a bit younger. Now, I wish I could describe her as this hippy that was dressed in tie-dye but this was the complete opposite of the truth. Her bright lipstick clashed with her pink shirt and her shorts were slutty-short. This was the London hipster and well, for this one day only I was going to do as they do. She heard my accent and instantly introduced me to all her friends. 

“Are you here alone?” she shrilled.

“Yes, I was supposed to come with a friend but she missed her flight”, I replied.

“Oh well honey, we’re your friends now! That’s right come hang out with us!”

I was a little overwhelmed with their welcoming arms, because I literally was hugged by all of them. An apple flavored beer (not cider) practically flew into my left hand as I sat with them in the sunny grass. We chatted and pretty soon the group of girls and I were comparing concert agendas like we were planning on being BFFs (Best Friends For the rest of the day). We headed over to a punk show that I really wanted see and they gladly followed. I couldn’t figure out why they were so nice. Like, ridiculously nice. Like, really getting to know me nice. It was starting to freak me out. Am I really that cool? No. Are they going to steal me off into the night, rape me and then take all my money? Probably not, they had cute British boyfriends and at least 100 more British Pounds in their wallets than I could ever dream of. So what was their deal?

As we entered the musty smelling tent riddled with black t-shirts and anarchy signs, I could not help but be exhilarated by my situation. it was one of those obnoxiously sentimental flashbacks where I had to laugh at my life. I was in London, with the stereotypical British gaggle at a punk concert. 

There’s this television show that I used to watch with my best friend when we needed to take a break from all things real life. It was called Skins and took place in Bristol, England, for those of you who might have indulged in it as well. The show was basically a teenage soap opera that followed seven lives filled with pre-marital sex, heavy drug use and wrecked home lives. I guess it did kind of paint a picture of typical British teenage realities and well; next thing I knew, I was swallowed up in it. Literally.

They offered me MDMA, or molly. Now I refused about seven times but I had remembered that it was an upper and usually non-habit forming (Mom, don’t worry, I survived). 

“Why don’t you just give it a go, we’ve all been doing it today and well we’re pretty normal”. Well yeah, except that you’ve been tiresomely nice; I thought to myself. I had never succumbed to peer pressure as an awkward high schooler and here I found blonde Brits actually talking me into something not-quite-herbal. One of the girls fished out a little crystal and dropped it into my very sweet apple flavored beer (not cider). With a grin on all of our faces, we cheers-ed and took a sip. 

After the punks were done moshing and I was done chickening out of getting in the middle of it, it was time to go back to the large stage to watch the six-man accordion led indie number, Beirut. The sun was setting which meant that just about every one in the audience was drunk. It was a cathartic moment. By this point, I was literally convinced that this was the only place in the world where I should be. It was about that singular moment, standing amongst so many other trashed people that I thought I had found complete spacial awareness. Now luckily, I had also found this at other points in time before and after, in other places, at events more meaningful and sober; so I can somewhat conclude that this is a recurring phenomenon for me and not just amphetamines. 

However, contrary to my usual state, I was convinced that all the fellow tipsy music sheep were my BFFs. I was so excited to see everyone, and everyone was just that much more exciting as the last. As we waited for the concert to start I talked to a tall guy who was trying to write a book about what life would be like if all appliances were miniatures, got on someone’s shoulders and met The Cheese Farmer.

The Cheese Farmer was a charming Irish man with a funny accent, which should be especially noted because from my point of view everyone in London has an accent. Like all the other people I had met that day, he was hip and friendly and we became instant BFFs. We were standing under the purple lights exuding their grandeur as Beirut’s jumpy accordion and serious ukulele soared through the air. This seemed to serve well as nothing more than elevator music. The Cheese Farmer went into great detail about the recipe he used to make the best French cheese, Tomme and even tried to convince me that it was better than any Tomme originally from France. He specified the different cooking temperatures one has to use to make a nice firm cheese and the grasses he feeds the cows to create that special nutty flavor.

The timing Gods were on both our sides that evening; for I had just recently been taught how to make Tomme at the cheese farm I was WOOFFing at and therefore able to contribute to the conversation while he was getting away with swooning a girl with a cheese recipe. I chimed in with the temperatures I was taught and suggested he try feeding the cow before milking rather than during. The fact that this was scored by Beirut who takes the ukulele and makes it sound serious is simultaneously brilliant, ridiculous and way too cheesy for me (ha). As The Cheese Farmer and I babbled on, nonetheless charmed by each other’s savoir-faire de fromage, we were quietly oo-ing and aw-ing at the music that was trumped by a wheel of cheese. 

After the concert, he suggested another band of which I had never heard of. To be honest (I had to sometimes step out of my pledged ‘hipster mode’), they weren’t that good. But it had started raining outside and it was nice being in a tent surrounded by the best people watching I’d ever witnessed. We quickly pushed our way through the crowd to stand next to a bearded man and a very belligerent 20-something who convinced me to take a picture of them. It might be my favorite picture of the whole trip.

The concert wailed on and soon this would come to a pouring close. All that was left of the festival was the tail end of Franz Ferdinand. By this time it was pouring and The Cheese Farmer quickly grabbed my hand and pulled me running into the rain. As the green lasers finished off with the last drum beat of the final song, he whipped me around and slapped a good ol’ Irish smooch on me. Now, I’ve been a closet sucker for kissing in the rain and with the whirlwind of a day behind me, I could’ve sworn this was as passionate as Allie Hamilton and Noah Calhoun in The Notebook. Reality might say differently, but everyone’s allowed to fib the truth once in a while right?

Soon thereafter we were transported back to the muddy field in London as the police rounded up all the unruly and tattered kids. The Cheese Farmer and I followed the crowd and he continued to tell me about his prized Tomme. However, hearing it the second time wasn’t as cute as the first and soon, I tried to find a way that I could meet up with the rest of the group. The Cheese Farmer had their phone number and I had no phone. I asked him to call them and they instantly invited us to their nearby apartment. Usually, I would be weary but within ten minutes I was on their couch. They had promised The Cheese Farmer and I an after-party at some warehouse but as they laid on the ground too intoxicated to move I realized they weren’t going anywhere. And then it hit me like a brick, I came to and freaked myself out. 

1. I am at some girls’ apartment far from the center of London. I am in London.
2. The Tube is about to shut down and I need to get back to my hostel. There’s no way I can walk back from here.
3. The Cheese Farmer is getting ideas. Not in a creepy way but in a normal guy way. You’re cute but I’m a prude.
4. I went to the bathroom and I had just started my period, sorry The Cheese Farmer! I wouldn’t want to do that with a stranger anyways.
5. I want to be in my hostel bed. Even though I have to sleep surrounded by snoring Australian body builders.

I stood up like Apollo 11 on July 16th, 1969, excused myself and booked it towards The Underground with the rain hitting my face like, you know, those particles that fall off as the rocket ship is breaking gravitational barriers or whatever. 

I was going to get “home”.

Narcissism

Is it self involved to have a post of just pictures of me? 

Probably, but it's not very often that I have nice photos of myself. 

Some friends and I went around Flagstaff and took our very own graduation shots. This is the result. All camera credit goes to Rebecca Rice

Hieroglyphs

Now if I was a snazzy artist I would call this 'Mistress'.

 But I'm not, 

so I'm calling it 'I painted some silhouettes on red rocks'.

Go Home Banana, You're Drunk

A shot for the muffins, a shot for me... A shot for the muffins and a shot for me. These vegan whiskey soaked banana muffins are delicious for a pep-up in the morning or a night cap in the evening. You'll enjoy them anytime, and not just because you're drunk.

2 over ripe bananas
2 shots whiskey (or a little bit more..)
2 cups flour
1/2 cup chopped walnuts
1/4 cup white sugar
1/3 cup brown sugar
2/3 cup soy milk
1 1/2 tsp. baking soda
1/2 tsp cinnamon
1/2 tsp nutmeg
little bit of salt

Yields 12 muffins

Mix all together and put in a greased muffin tin. Bake at 350 for about 35-40 minutes and serve with whiskey and/or coffee.

David Asser, Phoenix food critic: "These muffins are scandalous"

Dear Comedy Writing

Now I'm not quite sure I've made it quite clear enough yet but I will now. Besides being a traveler, student, worker and general person, I'd also like to be a comedy writer. Like, I'd get to hang out with Liz Lemon all day, shoot the shit, be hilarious and then get paid for it. Like, I'd get to drink Snake Juice with Amy Poehler. Normally, I would say this is ridiculous and a compulsive dream dreamt by most awkward college educated women BUT what you don't know is that I have an 'in'. Now is the best time to strike. The time is now for a lady to develop her sense of humor and get rich; look at Girls, zero to going-to-the-Grammy's in one season flat. It's now or never and I'm ready to throw my two cents into the Fountain of Funny...

It's a manila folder containing my most finest jokes and it starts like this:

Dear Kristin Wiig, (editor's note: she seems the most approachable of the contemporary SNL female dynasty but sending the letter to the entire holy trinity of female comedians is a must)
I would be a great addition to your posse. You see, I'm really funny and have a lot of charm. Sometimes my friends pee their pants and I don't even have to open my mouth. I worry about their dysfunctional bladders but Bernie says he's been giving Mildred her kidney medicine so she should be on the up-and-up. Although it can be quite embarrassing to go out with my ol' gal pals and their Poise panty lines, I have learned to take it more of a compliment and testament to my hilarity than anything. Attached is a list of jokes, scene ideas, my resumé and general quips that I think would add a wealth of toot-scootin-to-boot to the comedy writing process.
Just consider instating me, please and thank you.
Love,
Rebecca L. Asser

Now all I've got to do is cross my fingers, toes and legs and wish real hard.
editor's note: shout out to the most greatest Emma Kelly-Knickerbocker for helping conjure up this most finest idea.

Escape to Home

Dear Arizona landscapes,

I never thought I'd say this (especially since I hated you the majority of my time with you) but sometimes you truly are beautiful.

Yours in astonishment,

Rebecca

Kale Flavorful Chicken

I love KFC in all its fried chicken glory. However, I usually really have to weigh my options when deciding to indulge or not in those fatty bowls of grease. Here, I've made a healthy and just as flavorful alternative to a stomach ache and heart attack.

1 sweet potato
1 chicken tenderloin
2 strips of bacon
3 leaves of kale
some frozen or canned corn
about half cup of onions, chopped
olive oil
salt and pepper
BBQ sauce
Total cooking time: about 1 hour.

Start by baking your sweet potato (whole) at 350 degrees by setting it just in a pan with two fork stabs in the top. After about 15 minutes, prepare your bacon. I baked it in the oven on a cookie sheet for about 20 minutes. Optional: put brown sugar on the bacon before baking. After the bacon is done baking, rip the leaves of kale into bite sized pieces. Spread out on another cookie sheet and coat with olive oil, salt and pepper. Pop in the oven for about 10 minutes, or until crispy. Meanwhile, heat up a frying pan for cooking your chicken. Put the tenderloin in some olive oil and add the onions, corn salt and pepper. Cooked until the chicken is done and tender. By this time, the sweet potato should be cooked through. Take out of the oven and chop in half. Pile with the kale, broken pieces of bacon, cut up chicken, corn and onions. Garnish with BBQ sauce.

A Toast!

A toast to those days when nothing quite seems to work out. 

May you rest in peace Mr. Toothbrush.

Sedona's Board of Tourism

I'm starting to think that my day hikes should be more lucrative...

Me-So Pink, Soup

Now, what girl and fem boy doesn't love a pink soup?

About 6 stalks of beet greens and the pink stem part too
half a red onion, chopped
a clove of garlic, chopped
About 3 tbsp miso paste
1 cup vegetarian broth
1 cup water
pinch of cumin seeds
salt, pepper,
1 package Top Ramen noodles, or any other asiatic noodle
(fried tofu would be a good addition)

Caution, make sure to really clean off all the dirt from the beet greens. Chop and sauté all the beet greens and onion in the bottom of a large saucepan with olive oil. It should take about 15 minutes on medium heat for them to soften up. This should also turn your soup pink! Once slightly tender add the broth, spices, garlic and water and let simmer for another 15-20 minutes. Then once the soup is lightly simmering add in the miso paste. Submerge the clumps and stir in for about 5 minutes. Meanwhile, break apart your Ramen noodles in the bottom of a bowl. Once fully satisfied with your soup, pour it over the noodles and cover the bowl with a plate or something until they are softened (like 3 minutes). And voila! A vegetarian, almost vegan, soup that'll make you feel like you just watched a rom-com.

Peepin' Francisco and Coit Tower

Well it's just about San Francisco

Now how is it that on December 30th it could be sunny and about 50 degrees in San Francisco? Bet the Mayans didn't figure that...