After a horrendous fire season in which my house, along with many others, almost became enveloped in flames, Los Angeles saw its first drops of rain in a while a few weeks ago. That was a clear signal to me to bring out perhaps my favorite item of clothing I own: long johns.

Yes, I really own them and yes, I am going to devote a post to their magical ways because I am not exaggerating when I say that I had a horrible, terrible case of the Mondays, and writing about long johns is sort of refreshing after the soul crushing, depressing day I had. 

Though traditionally this one-piece is known as a “union suit,” it has somehow come to be known, at least in the U.S. as long johns -a term that is usually referred to a type of two-piece long underwear. Originally designed for women, the first union suit was patented in 1868 as “emancipation union under flannel.”

Michael Quinion, who writes about international English from a British viewpoint atWorld Wide Words has dug up a paragraph from the June, 3, 1944 edition of  Wisconsin Rapids Daily Tribune which suggests the origin of at least the “john” in “long john” comes from John L. Sullivan, the famous boxer who allegedly wore the garment. 

Though their popularity has long since tapered off, there are a few places that still carry them - and believe me, I searched far and wide to find the perfect ones that happen to be found at American Apparel. In fact, I have two pairs, one in black and the other in forest green. Don’t judge me. 

Long johns make me feel all warm and tingly. If I could, I would stay in them day in and day out. Yes, they are that comfortable. There’s nothing you can’t do in long johns. You can read, eat, watch television, write, have a phone conversation and even sleep in them, which is what I do any time Los Angeles turns into a normal city and exhibits a bit of seasonality. 

You can even do jumping jacks in them. Seriously. They are THAT cool. 

The only downside to long johns (and for some it might be a big one) is that if you live in colder climates, going to the bathroom might be a chilling feat. But really, this is a small price to pay for such a magnificent piece of clothing. They are so magical, that whenever I put them on, I feel like busting out into a song and dance sequence with “You Make My Dreams Come True” by Hall and Oates, because they really make my dreams come true. 

 

 

 

 

 

This past Sunday, I had the chance of attending, photographing and  writing about a fruit picked put on by Food Forward, an all volunteer grass roots organization that gleans fruit off of the trees of Los Angeles residents and donates 100 percent of the proceeds to food pantries. Although it required waking up pretty early, it was a thrilling experience for me, especially since I pitched the idea myself, and because I am such an advocate for sustainable food. I’ve included some photos here, but you can read the article through this link.

It’s 11:30 p.m. and I have been watching my new favorite show “Parking Wars” for a few more hours than I planned on. In between commercials, it dawned on me that I haven’t written here in close to a month. I feel pretty guilty about it, because I hate wasted space, especially wasted internet space. If you’re going to take the time to occupy a portion of the web, at least have the decency to update and properly run your blog or site. Yes, I know I’m being a Nazi. So sue me.

I’ve been busier than usual lately, trying my best to climb the faltering vines of the journalism industry. I am regularly contributing to the features section of a newspaper here in Los Angeles, running my own news site and focusing on pitching to magazines and other publications, all the while trying to maintain a full-time editing job. 

Let me tell you, it’s not hard out there for a pimp. It’s hard out there for a writer, ok?

There are times when I want to come here and just write in big block letters: “Los Angeles Times, PLEASE hire me. I can do this. I have the passion. I have the skill. I will not let you down.” But I can’t because  journalism is in dire straits right now. Every time I read the tweets of various editors of publications I admire and would die to write for, like the New York Times or Huffington Post or LA Weekly, I just want to send out an SOS. “Look, I know things aren’t looking good for us reporters at the moment. But I have the chops and I have the ideas and I know the web. I live social media. I can even take my own photos!”

But life isn’t that simple, especially when you throw writing into the mix. I consider myself slightly lucky, because I have a job that allows me to be involved in the industry and I’m getting published in print - that’s shocking in 2009. But I want more. I want so much more. I want to be actively involved in investigative journalism and human rights and social causes. Call me naive, but I still think that journalism has the capacity to change the world.

When I was a college student a few years ago, one of my journalism professors told me that to be a journalist, one must be intrepid.

Intrepid.

Characterized by resolute fearlessness, fortitude and endurance.

It’s true. People don’t become journalists (at least the ones that don’t go into broadcast) so that they can be rich. They become journalists because they have the same combination of passion and skill that I do. They’re intrepid. They want to change the world. And no matter how many people lose their jobs or how many publications close their doors, I still believe journalism can and will change this world. 

We just need to find a way to pull it back from its boot straps. And we will, it’s the how and when that are still up for debate.