This has been an intense summer, so I've been slacking here quite a bit with posting. I always seem to have good intentions, but then my charming post ideas/blog photo opportunities/witty headlines get pushed to the wayside while I take care of all the little details of my life as it is right now. I'm beginning my journey from LA to Blacksburg, Virginia on Wednesday morning, so I'm a bit consumed with how I'll be managing to pack my entire existence into my car while also trying to hit all my favorite Los Angeles spots, see all my favorite people, and squeeze the finest quality of quality time with my boyfriend before he leaves me lonely in Virginia (his work is in LA). A lot of emotions here, folks. So, anyway, I'm a posting slacker. I admit it. I'll shape up at some undetermined point in the future, pinky swear! In the meantime, I'll be folding my life into cardboard boxes and eating Trader Joe's egg white salad sandwiches for nourishment.
Something just popped into my head that I haven't thought of in years: a fake book. As in The Broadway Fake Book. A song book. I did a lot of musical theatre as a kid, and so I often found myself looking through fake books for audition songs, competition pieces, etc. Something about the title fake book really appealed to me. The combination of the way the words sounded together and the essence of the word fake, I think. Fake has a negative connotation generally, but there's also a bit of cool sneakiness in there that got me. Plus, what could possibly be too bad about a big, fat binder full of beautiful songs, I ask you?
I came into some money after working a few days in April, but I've since spent most all of it. Once again, I'm broke. FML.
On the plus side, I did buy a rad pair of black suede fringe boots. I love them. I swear they look good with every outfit. I promise to produce a picture. Other worthy ways I spent my money: adorable vintage dress, circa 1970s; many items at the Urban Outfitters $5 sale; way marked-down V's Secret underthings; movie theater popcorn; the haircut; groceries.
I've noticed a few people taking themselves way too seriously as of late, so I was doing a google search for some clever quote I could tweet to make their minds melt. In doing so, I discovered a few ingenious Ralph Waldo Emerson quotes. Not quite what I was looking for, but damn if these aren't good!
"A great part of courage is the courage of having done the thing before."
"As a cure for worrying, work is better than whiskey."
"An ounce of action is worth a ton of theory."
"Beauty without expression is boring."
"Children are all foreigners."
"Don't be too timid and squeamish about your actions. All life is an experiment."
"Enthusiasm is the mother of effort, and without it nothing great ever achieved."
"Every artist was first an amateur."
This Ralph Waldo character might be onto something.
So, I did it. I went to the salon and got a sick, totally cute bob that's a wee bit Katie Holmes, a dash Agyness Deyn. As the scissors went snip snip, I was what P. Diddy would call LOCKED IN--totally brave, man. I don't miss the long hair at all. The only thing I'm looking forward to is the eventual possibility of a tiny ponytail, but I have a feeling that might be overrated. I dunno, we shall see. I think it is a tad Poppy Lifton, no? Shout out to the awesome Thy at Chop Chop Salon in L.A.
I'm feeling confessional, so I'm going to admit something BIG right now...I have a total craving for suede fringed boots!! Am I crazy?? I think 5 months ago I would have done a Summer on the O.C. "ew" about these, but now I think I'm in love. Perhaps the short hair can make a girl more adventurous? I have to say I don't mind.
I am going to chop off all my hair. The result of which will hopefully be something akin to Poppy Lifton's do on Gossip Girl. Or possibly the look currently being rocked by Paris Hilton. Ew, I know--I loathe. But the hair.
Trader Joe's lowfat yogurt is the best yogurt in the world, PERIOD. I endorse Boysenberry. Even better than my old standby Yoplait. And I usually don't even like fruit on the bottom--thanks for nothing, Danon!
Back in my single days, I would just go wherever I wanted whenever I wanted. Now that I'm used to having a dude with me at all times, though, the thought of going someplace alone at night--say, a shopping complex, restaurant, mall, etc.--and navigating a dark, creepy parking garage makes me feel all icky and unsafe. This is why I would rather stay in and write an effing blog than go out on a Friday night (the boyf has a friend's bachelor dinner thingy happening). Is this the end of independence, or am I just succumbing to the warm, comfortable blanket that is my house and CW shows on the DVR?
One thing is for sure: I put makeup on this evening for absolutely no reason whatsoever. Le effing sigh.
First of all, I'm referring to the so-called "Naked Wizard Tasering Incident" that took place at the 'chella. If you haven't seen it, here ya go. Although probably everyone has seen it by now, and I'm just way late to the party.
Now, the way this was filmed seems just a little too professional. I have sort of a disgusting hunch that this was all planned by the Naked Wizard and his pals and filmed for the purpose of Youtube fame. But I just can't get behind the police tasering (this seems to be the common verbage, bizarrely) people. Tasers just seem pointless to me. For anyone who is of real danger, police use guns. This seems to make tasers fall into the category of cruel and unusual. But maybe I'm a closeted hippie or something.
ANYWAY, they tase the dude like ten times! Is this really necessary? Is a naked body really so appalling that our law enforcement feels the need to hurt and humiliate a person to this extent? Honestly, I find it inhumane and unacceptable. I didn't think the "Don't tase me, bro!" guy deserved it, either. Yeah, he was trying to rile people up and went too far. But to hold the kid down and electroshock the hell out of him? Fucked, I say.
I promise my next post will be about something nicer than police brutality.
Got back from Coachella yesterday and I think I'm still recovering. I've been listening to all these crazy stories about Coachellas past from friends and the boyfriend for years now, so I'm glad I'm finally clued in.
Coachella is intense. It's beautiful, insanely hot, massively crowded, inspiring, irritating, and weird. You and hundreds of thousands of others are walking around on the greenest, most pristine fields of grass you've ever seen, constantly trying to ward off impending heat stroke while simultaneously struggling to keep your buzz up with overpriced alcoholic beverages. There are 5 different stages or something plus way too many interactive sculptures to look at and booths to check out and DJs to dance to and bizarro people to look at. It's goddamn overwhelming. I feel like I saw a million things and yet really saw nothing because there was so much I never got around to seeing. Basically, Coachella is a microcosm of the entire world.
In the Coachella microcosm, as in the real world, there is both unity and segregation. People from all over the world and all walks of life come together to see some musical magic live on stage, but these people are not truly together because many are separated into areas reserved for only a special few. There's a hierarchy at play. The Beer Garden, an area surrounded by a chain link fence, is reserved only for those of legal drinking age, which means the food for purchase inside the Beer Garden is only available to those 21 and up. You are not allowed to bring drinks outside the Beer Garden, even if it's only water (One rabid she-security guard barked at me to dump out my water bottle before leaving the restricted area. I drank it defiantly: "Ha! Watch me stay hydrated!").
One step up from the Beer Garden is VIP, which is right next door to the Beer Garden and also surrounded by a chain link fence. Only the "rich" and/or "cool" are allowed into the VIP. This means you're either a celebrity or you paid a shitload more money on top of your already pricey Coachella ticket to get a glittery wristband designating you as one of the chosen elite. VIP means you have a wider variety of food and drinks at your disposal within a smaller radius, you don't have to wait as long for a vodka tonic or the port-a-potty, and you have lovely couches to sit on underneath a breezy tent. Lucky for me, the boyfriend is a sweetie who doesn't enjoy waiting in mile-long bathroom queues. Thus, I became a very important person. Just like the Beer Garden, you are not allowed to take your drinks outside of the VIP.
I'll be the first one to say that this was a pretty posh scenario, but it also left me exposed to the disappointing side effect of the VIP section: horribly bitchy senses of entitlement. In the modestly-sized side stage at the Sahara Tent on one side of the festival, Henry Rollins urged a crowd of liberally minded young people to go out and explore the world, be kind to one another, and stand up for what's right, while on the opposite side of the Empire Polo Field a tiny woman in a floor-length sun dress made the bartender at the VIP bar remake her drink four times. While weaving my way through the VIP crowd to get closer for M.I.A.'s set, I said "Sorry!" after tripping over some guy's foot. The skinny, tanned catalogue model he was with slurred, "You better be fucking sorry, bitch!" without even looking in my direction. Three douchey drunkards knocked over my beer while sharing our table next to the VIP pizza (Spicy Pie, perhaps the greatest pizza of all time) and then stole our $10-official-Coachella-refillable water bottle right from under our noses after not replacing the spilled beverage.
I know, I know--high class problems. I'm not complaining that these bastards ruined my time, just saying that their attitudes were a real downer. In a place so cool and electric and moving, there's just no reason for that kind of selfish jackassery.
So, on a brighter note, my favorite parts of Coachella: The Killers closing their set with "When You Were Young;" dancing to M.I.A.; watching Jared Leto rock out to Lupe Fiasco; spotting Kate Bosworth in line at Spicy Pie while I ate a delicious slice of pepperoni; the way everything looks like a sick, colorful circus all lit up at night; and finally, just hanging out on a grassy knoll with my boyfriend while listening to some great music. If I can, I'll be going back next year.
Today I had a serious hankering to go spend some money on something cute, trendy, and frivolous. Mall-withdrawal mania, seriously. I'm a total child of consumerism. Now, I don't actually condone the culture of consumerism, all excess for the sake of excess and all, but I admit that every now and again I just need to go buy something for myself, dammit! Something cheap but adorable that I will wear into the ground! I blame this need on the fact that my mother often dragged me to the local mall with her when I was a toddler. I have many a memory of sitting on the carpet in The Limited while she tried on floral print skirts or pinstripe vests or something. A well-kept shopping mall is a haven for me. It makes me feel safe. My parents once told me they knew I had acclimated to a place once I had found the nearest mall. All these warm, fuzzy feelings for the modern shopping center take on a new meaning now that I've seen Jody Hill's dark and amazing Observe and Report, but I digress.
If I had money to spend, I would buy these super-cute tie-dye leggings they have over at American Apparel. They could potentially look hideous on me, but how will I know if I don't go try them on in one of those shitty, drafty dressing rooms? And if they happen to actually look appealing on my person, how will I be able to leave the store without charging them to my 'emergency' credit card? Oh, the questions that torment my soul!
Next I would go on a total spree at Old Navy. ON isn't the coolest place to say when people ask where you got your kick-ass shorts, but c'mon--they have cute shit. Behold! Seriously, I love. And these too. Plus, they have the cheeeapest flip-flops in all of creation. From afar they look like they could be Havaianas. I know Havaianas aren't crazy-expensive, but I'm poor, people! Sheesh!
Finally, I would hit up the glory that is Urban Outfitters. I want to live inside you, UO. You look like the chicest, coziest hipster factory of all time, and I love you for it. I want this (in blue), this, and these (oh, god--please those!).
Okay. That's my girly, self-loathing, consumeristic orgasm for the day. Someone please tell me I get a government stimulus direct deposit sometime very, very soon.
I have a special contempt for blogs in general, but then I became addicted to a few and decided to start my own. I'll try not to be overly pretentious or self-absorbed, but I'm not making any promises here. This is the first post, after all.
A lot of things make me happy. These include cupcakes, lovely spring days, mimosas, organized closets, swing sets, inspired storytelling, unexpected fashion choices, cashmere, and David Lynch films.