Skip to content

Latest Snickerdoodlin’ Videos!

February 13, 2013

Check us out on our website:
Or on YouTube!:

Last one today, I promise!

February 13, 2013

But we all need to reflect on times like these:

Apparently they only let you post one video at a time

February 13, 2013

Sooo here’s another one!

Snickerdoodlin’ Productions

July 29, 2012

This summer, I’ve had some spare time, and, instead of spending it watching seasons 1-6 of Dawson’s Creek (which was a distinct possibility), I did this (check ’em out!):




On Forth and Back

June 7, 2012

I want to clear something up right now. There are things in this world that go unmentioned because we feeble humans are scared to challenge the status quo. We live our lives under a blanket of conformity, fearing the moment we peek from beneath our covers and feel the sun’s burn against our retinas.

But not I. Nay–though I know the path be jagged, though the waters may be rough, there comes a time when every human has to look at themselves in the mirror and say, “You’ve got to speak up, dammit.” So I will. I will, by God.

FORTH, then back

EVERYONE. The phrase “BACK AND FORTH” is a fraud! It is a lie! It has infiltrated every home, family and short story on God’s green earth, ransacked our libraries and raped our basic understandings of fundamental movement.

How, my friends, if one is, for instance, pacing about, HOW can one pace BACK, before one has paced FORTH? One simply cannot do this, my friends, and it is this critical miscommunication in juxtaposition that is tainting our minds and altering all we know about relativity and space time!

Ladies and gentlemen of the internet–one must, indeed, journey forth before one can even conceive a journey back! It has been this way since the brave William Lewis and Meriwether Clark set a moccasined foot forth in their brave expedition to achieve manifest destiny; since Moses journeyed forth into the sea he so divinely parted; since our all-powerful creator journeyed forthin his quest to create this living, vibrant,

FORTH, but not necessarily back in this case

pulsating universe that, now, risks destruction at the hands of faulty syntax.

But fear not–we can stop this grammatical bullet before it pierces the heart of mankind. If you, and I, and your children, and your grandchildren who are still only a glint in your eyes, can manage to spread the word, to make it known to the world that the only and correct phrase to use in describing one’s travels is “forth and back,” then, by God, the human race still has a chance.

So please, go forth on your mission, and then back to this blog for further updates on the state of humanity.

Book Clubs

June 6, 2012

I recently joined a book club–an all-girl book club, in fact. I wanted to call the club “Chicks Before Dickens” but because a member of the group said the title reminded her too much of chickens (wtf), we went with “Girls Gone Wilde,” which I’m okay with, but still harbor some resentment for my lost cause.

Anyways–right now, I’m excited about this club, though I don’t know why. I’ve always wanted to be in a book club, so much so that I’ve tried in the past to get several book clubs off the ground, but they’ve all burned up on the runway. One would think I’d have learned by now.

I think the problem with creating and maintaining a book club is this: people want to–and think they might be–smarter than they actually are. Too harsh? No. I’ve lived it. Just listen.

Is this concept feasible in today’s society?

An experience I’ve had more than once: I’m at lunch with some friends and we’re talking about The Catcher in the Rye like we’re the first people ever to do so outside of a classroom, and because everyone at the table shares the UNIQUE perspective that The Catcher in the Rye is a “really fascinating book,” we all think (and say out loud), “OMGZ WE SHOULD START A BOOK CLUB,” and then there’s discussion, and some people (me) think we’re serious.

Book clubs are great in theory: you do something smart, meet up with friends to show them how smart you are, and repeat until you die or books become obsolete (I give it 10 years?). It sounds like a fantastic idea, and then a reading list is created and everyone goes, “omg our reading list is soooo cool we’re reading Little Dorrit, have you heard of it? Yeah, it’s one of Dickens’ lesser known books. Yeah, it’s certainly worth a read.” But then people get the book, see that it’s a billion pages long with font the size of our IQs, read the first chapter and go, “Oh look! American Idol’s on!” The book gets set down and a Diet Coke is placed on top of it. Periodically throughout the week, we think, “Hm, I should really read that book–oh but its long and, wait! I need to watch that marathon of Jersey Shore today!” and we hope against hope that everyone has just forgotten about the book club. And no one does. Everyone remembers the club. But they’re also hoping no one will ever bring it up again. And no one does. Because they’re all watching Jersey Shore.

This is obviously a bit exaggerated, but you get the picture. People forget that reading involves using your brain for an extended period of time, and are shocked to realize it only after it’s too late. I was in a book club that decided to read The Omnivore’s Dilemma as the inaugural book on the list, and I was excited (I was naive back then). I read it, though it bored me and was, admittedly tough to get through. I, myself, almost resorted to shitty daytime television–but I didn’t. I maintained my resolve and got all the way through. I sent an e-mail to the others in the club, confirming our first meeting date and got no

Hell, if they can do it…

response for 2 days. I became suspicious and worried. I fretted. I sent another e-mail saying, “Guys?” And they responded like I feared they would: “Can we push it back a week? I’ve been soooo busy” “Yeah! Push it back just oooooone week, definitely”.

But this only prolonged the agony. We were all lying–to ourselves and each other. No one had any intention of reading the book or attending the meeting. And for that next week, I’m sure every member of that club was just waiting it out,hoping no one would say anything, and we’d all just forget about everything that ever happened regarding that club. It was more like Fight Club than a book club–but only in the sense that we never talked about it. It was different in that, with Fight Club, people actually came to the meetings.

But here I am. Months later, I’m a Girl Gone Wilde and I’m hoping that the first book on our list, Catch 22, will be the novel that breaks my losing streak and returns my belief that book clubs aren’t imaginary groups like The Avengers or ping-pong teams (those aren’t real, right?).

The vessel in which all my hopes lie

I’ll believe, once again, that a small contingency of people of differing ages, races and upbringings, can join together, once a month to share their ideas of what George Orwell was really trying to tell us when he made animals speak in Animal Farm, as though they’re uniquely perceptive enough to notice that literary choice. We shall question as though no one has questioned before. We will remark things as though our ideas are groundbreaking. We’ll say things like, “Well, you know, think Death of a Salesman is commenting on the greater idea of the American Dream,” and we shall hear the applause in the back of our own skulls.I’m holding out hope that it will happen. I’m sending the confirmation e-mail now. Maybe this time….maybe this time…



gAy mArRiAgE pAsSeD iN nEw YoRk CiTy!!!

July 5, 2011

I know I’m really late to weigh in on this — but I like to think that it’s never too late to say congrats to my gays. It took a lot of deliberation, a lot of late nights, and a LOT of delays but finally the New York State Legislature passed gay marriage in New York and I’m ecstatic — and then shortly thereafter enraged that California is still lagging behind in it’s intolerance and stupidity. But we’ll get there. Eventually.

In honor of New York’s welcomed step into the 21st century, I took a walk down Christopher Street — the birthplace of the gay rights movement. First off, I’d like to say, New York is the coolest place ever — have I mentioned that yet? New York is the coolest place ever. But as lively and cutting-edge as the Village is now, I can only imagine what it was like in the 50s and

I feel like there are a lot more of these now-a-days than there used to be.

when it was consumed by the beat generation — when people like Allen Ginsburg and Charlie Parker roamed the moonlit streets, strung out on heroin, jazz and the rhythmic vibrations of poetry. The streets probably hummed with the energy of the art created and art that that was only just an idea flung about in a pot circle. I have a feeling that the recession hit the Village hard, because despite all the color and noise you can still see when you walk the streets at 3 am, for every club packed and spilling over, there are two more buildings that are only filled with memories and cardboard boxes.

Don’t get me wrong, though, the place is still awesome. And as I walked down Christopher Street and past the Stonewall Inn, I felt like I was a part of this thing that happened long before I was born. I stood in front of the Stonewall Inn and tried to imagine the energy and the humidity in that packed, little space

It's strange to think that so huge an event occurred in so small a place.

on that early, early June morning in 1969 when homophobic tensions finally reached their zenith and resulted in what will forever be remembered at the Stonewall Riots — the beginning of the gay rights movement. Police barged in that night to arrest all the men dressed as women, but to the policemen’s dismay, the bar’s patrons were not ready to go without a fight. It marked one of the first times gays stood up for their identity, saying enough was enough.

Michael Fader, a bar-goer that night, said, “We all had a collective feeling like we’d had enough of this kind of shit. It wasn’t anything tangible anybody said to anyone else, it was just kind of like everything over the years had come to a head on that one particular night in the one particular place … Everyone in the crowd felt that we were never going to go back. It was like the last straw. It was time to reclaim something that had always been taken from us…. All kinds of people, all different reasons, but mostly it was total outrage, anger, sorrow,everything combined, and everything just kind of ran its course. … And we felt that we had freedom at last, or freedom to at least show that we demanded freedom. We

Sing it loud, and sing it proud!

weren’t going to be walking meekly in the night and letting them shove us around—it’s like standing your ground for the first time and in a really strong way, and that’s what caught the police by surprise. There was something in the air, freedom a long time overdue, and we’re going to fight for it. It took different forms, but the bottom line was, we weren’t going to go away. And we didn’t.”

I know that it is only a matter of time in this country before gay marriage is not only allowed in every single goddamned state, but it is looked upon as no different than any other marriage that has ever occurred. One day, we’ll all look back on this time and think to ourselves, “What were we thinking? What took us so long to come to our senses?” Like slavery, discrimination and segregation, our bans of gay marriage will be looked upon as a dark mark on our  nation’s history, and a tarnish upon our reputation for allowing everyone their basic right to pursue happiness. On July 30, free gay marriages will be performed all day in Central Park, because, legally, that is the first day that they’re allowed to take place. I know I’ll be down there with a camera and a smile, just wanting to be a part of the happiness all around me. Eventually, that kind of happiness will be prevalent all around the country, but until then, I’ll just have to remain content with the fact that New York has finally come to its senses.

The magnificent, otherworldly force of greatness that is Broadway

June 24, 2011

Of all the places in New York City that thrive on the talent and greatness of those that walk its streets, Times Square and Broadway are the places where you can most literally feel the streets pulsing with creativity. You can see the buildings sweating out brilliance, shining their message to the millions of wide-eyed tourists who come to be part of the greatness for a night.

I’ve felt that way ever since I first went to Broadway at age 9. I took a trip to the city with my Mom, Aunt and cousin — en experience that has entirely eluded my memory, except for my memories of Broadway. I was in the city for a week, and the only things I remember are the two Broadway shows I saw: The Lion King and Bring in Da Noise, Bring in Da Funk. That is how powerful Broadway is. It is so penetrating, so vibrant and precise in its excellence, that it even had the ability, all those years ago, to make it into and build a home in

Me capturing the greatness and being amazed by it all at once. Photo cred: Mom

the memory bank of a 9-year-old girl who, admittedly, is quite oblivious and forgetful. I’ll never forget the wild tapping and overpowering coolness that oozed from the dancers in Bring in Da Noise, Bring in Da Funk. The rhythmic tapping, heads bowed, feet furious, souls dancing as wildly as their bodies — at the innocent age of 9, I knew that for that one night, I was a part of something that was greater than anything I’d seen before. It was the same with Lion King. The images created through lights and set decoration that brought to life the moment Simba loses his father in a Wildebeest stampede shook me and moved me in a way that still sends shivers through my fingers even as I type!

Two years ago I saw God of Carnage on Broadway, which was also incredible compelling, raucous and hilarious — everything it was meant to be. But still — for me, there’s something about the Broadway musical that is so inspiring that it eclipses the beauty of the straight play. Maybe it’s the fact that I am in such awe of the talent of the actors in the musicals — the perfection and precision of their voices and movements, the strength of their acting, and their perseverance, endurance and dedication that allows them to perform the same show at top quality 9 times a week for months on end. It’s an incredible feat. Even still, I can’t understand how people can do it. It must be the most physically, mentally and emotionally taxing thing to do, and yet they do it because they love the art of it, they love making the audience laugh, they love how it feels to sing on a stage with the stage lights creating a theatrical halo around their faces as they sing perfectly on pitch with a perfect tone for an audience that loves them as much as they love what they’re doing.

Andrew Rannells as Elder Price

So I don’t think its any surprise to anyone reading this blog that ever since I saw The Book of Mormon on Broadway, I have been able to think of nothing else. I saw The Book of Mormon a week ago today, and there has not been an hour that has gone by since I saw the musical that I have not thought about it, youtubed it, googled it, sang it or spoken about it. That is the honest to God truth. I’ve dreamed about it. I’ve read every article ever written about it. I’ve downloaded the soundtrack and The Book of Mormon playlist is exclusively being played on my iPod. I’m desperately in love with the man who plays the protagonist named Elder Price. The real man’s name is Andrew Rannells, but I prefer to imagine him as Elder Price forever — Elder Price with the smile that reminds me what happiness means and the voice that could postpone the apocalypse — or eliminate it altogether.

The musical was so outrageously good that I am actually at a loss for words when I think of all the ways I want to praise it. For starters, read the New York Times’ review of the musical here. That guy seems pretty damned jazzed about his experience at the Eugene O’Neill theatre seeing that musical, doesn’t he? Well, take the jazzy melody he’s singin’ in his article, multiply it by a thousand, and raise it to the power of the numerical value of the heat of the sun, and then you have HALF of how much I love this musical. I love it so much, I’m not going to go into detail about my love for it. I love it so dearly there are literally no words, and I wouldn’t want to do my love any injustice by placing weak words upon it that don’t convey my true emotions. All I can say is that by some force of nature — either the grace of God or by me breaking the law — I have to see it again. Just one more time. And then another time after that. And possibly again after that. And then more and more and more and more and — okay, fine, I’ll stop after 17. But at least 17 times. Until then, I’ll have to content myself with this YouTube video of the Broadway wonder Rannells singing in a perfect tenor the song “I Believe” at the Tony’s. May Heavenly Father bless you, The Book of Mormon cast and crew. You guys are going to heaven FOR SURE.

More reasons to love this place

June 21, 2011

Today I wandered around the city aimlessly — which I’m actually really good at because I have no sense of direction. When I walk to one

Found it!

place, without fail, the walk back is always longer becuase I will undoubtedly walk in the wrong direction for a fair amount of time, lose myself, and desperately try to find my way back.

ANYWAYS. Today, my walk began with the goal of making it to East 7th and Avenue A — the location of my Dad’s apartment when he lived in New York, and the title of a wonderful song he also wrote about his experience there. On my journey there and back, I came up with 3 more reasons why I love this city.





1) There are cats everywhere. In gardens. On the street. Everywhere. It makes me so very happy. Awesome cats in awesome places. I’m all about it.

Kitty I discovered sleeping in a garden while I was geocaching.

Sighting of a cat in the act of being cute on the street.











2) There is a memorial to Joe Strummer. Yes.

Joe Strummer memorial -- double-take worthy.

3) When they say Chinatown, they ain’t kiddin’. This is the first time I’ve ever been truly happy I got lost on my way home, ’cause it landed me in Chinatown — the greatest unintentional detour of all time. I didn’t get a chance to stop at any restaurants/stores/etc., but when I do, another blog post will be born.

Manhattan: a city of two countries

Second thoughts …

June 21, 2011

Hey guys, remember when I said public transportation wasn’t glorious? Remember when I said it wasn’t cool? And I think I also said something along the lines of: “everywhere I went I was followed by a nagging odor that wreaked of urine, body odor and whatever the dude in front of me had for lunch”? Well … I’ve changed my mind!

Why, you ask? Well, when I wrote that blog post, I had never gotten off at a stop I (and the rest of the world) like to call, “Grand Central Station.” And boy, it is a grand station, let me tell you.

I met up with my friend Mori last night after work and she told me to meet her at the Grand Central Station stop. I thought, “Hmm, I feel like I’ve heard of that place before…” and said, “Alrighty, meet you there.” The ride there was as per usual. Cramped, musty and awkward. I got off at the stop. It was all normal. Whatever. I exited on to 42nd street to get cell service and see try to rendezvous with my friend. Whatever.

And then it happened. I had to get back into the station to meet up with my friend, so I went through this large entrance which seemed too nice to be a part of the subway system I have come to know and dislike. I heaved open the double doors and was met with white marble and high ceilings and gold-painted railings and an engraving over two more double doors at the end of a long hallway. Here’s a picture of it:

I think it bears mentioning that I didn’t even notice how cool it was behind the first set of doors until I was halfway down the walkway because I was so predisposed to believe I was going to walk into another urine-stained, mucus-smelling cement shack that I had my head down and breath held. But as I looked at the ground I noticed it was shinier and whiter than usual … so I looked up. I immediately doubled back to the front doors to enter again and take it all in — the right way. I read the engraving, I pulled multiple 360° turns with my eyes pushed open as far as they’d go. I made it to the end of the walkway after I was satisfied with my appreciation of my surroundings and  opened the second set of double doors and was transported to a white marble wonderland.

Readers, I wasn’t in Kansas anymore. Before then, the only transportation systems I’d become familiar with was the “L” in Chicago — a pathetic, rickety, slow, yet dearly beloved elevated train that gets Chicagoans from place to place at an extremely inefficient pace, and Metro buses in LA — but I won’t insult the L and the NY subways by lumping the LA Metro with them in the same category. Walking into Grand Central Station slapped my theory that public transportation in NY wasn’t glorious DIRECTLY in the face relentlessly. Every time I turned my head, that theory was slapped again, and again, and again until it resembled the Elephant Man.

Grand Central Station is a shining beacon of the beauty and power of public transportation. Over the years, public transportation has come to receive a negative connotation because usually, people just assume that you use public transportation ’cause you’re too poor to afford a car, and therefore you have to travel with hundreds of random people you don’t know in close, unsanitary quarters, just waiting for your ride to be done so you can get where you’re going and be done with the whole experience. But that’s not what public transportation is really about. It’s an amazing, ecological, efficient thing that should be seen as the wonder of human technology and innovation that it is, and not something that has to be endured instead of celebrated. Grand Central Station celebrates the public commuter — it glorifies the art of transportation in the public domain. There is a gigantic clock in the main area that gave me a sense of the vastness of the world — and more specifically the NY transportation system. Green lights all around me flashed times and stops and neighborhoods in New York, and I felt all the excitement and the curiosity that comes along with the desire to travel to places I’ve never been and enjoying the ride along the way. Chandeliers hung proudly from the ceiling, as though they were assuring us that yes, we are in a beautiful, important place, and that we should be careful to take notice and have respect for the ground upon which we travel. When I looked up, I was met with constellations and small lights highlighting their outlines — another symbol of the call to explore those places we’ve never been — no matter how distant or impossible it may seem. Once again, New York has scoreboard over EVERYWHERE ELSE.

And now, I’d like to share something with you out of sheer vanity and pride. You can ignore this if you want, but I really want to put this out there because … well … JUST LISTEN. I’ve kept a running tally of how many times I’ve been mistaken for a New Yorker now, and the number is three. Yes, thrice tourists from lands near and far have all been united under one common characteristic: they assumed I was a native New Yorker. Of

Contellations on the ceiling!

course, not wanting to make them feel awkward about the error of their ways, far be it from me to correct them. Unfotuntately, the first two times I was mistaken for a native and asked for directions, in a pathetic attempt not to blow my cover, I waved my arm in a random direction, smiled and said, “that way a few blocks,” and bustled off in a different direction. I’m not proud of that part of the story, but I would like to inform you all that on the third occasion I was for the location of Bleecker Street, and I am happy to tell you that I was well aware of the whereabouts of that street and informed my inquisitor happily and swiftly and he was on his merry way.

Oh, New York City, I’d love to know you better. If only we could get a little alone time — could you please send all the tourists away (besides me?).