who's a chump now?

dear deacs,

don't make come back out there and make you cry like the little girl we all know you are. and that "self-portrait" doesn't even look like me. I cut my hair, like, months ago. der.

also, where's the $350 you owe me? pay up.

love,
*s!

ps: and yeah, that's right. I do like cake. so suck it.

things I need less of in my life

again, in no obviously particular order:

1. when your coffee person doesn't fill up the cup all the way
2. pony people
3. puddles of ralf in the elevator
4. the feeling you get after you eat 18 mini candy bars in one sitting
5. hearing any of the following words in everyday conversation: retarded, gypped, pussy, actionable
6. gene simmons
7. this feeling in the pit of my stomach


* * later * * *
8. oysters, totally.

anxious, anyone?

sometimes when I'm nervous, I get this uncontrollable craving for bad sugar. the gritty kind that coats your tongue and leaves your mouth all filmy with corn syrup. I just ate NINE mini almond joys, 3 mini hershey bars, 3 full sized reese's peanut butter cups, 7 or 8 mini reese's cups, a bag of m&ms, and a take5 bar. I'm not even going to count the cadbury bar, since that's practically high quality. o, but let's also throw in 2 bags of famous amos chocolate chip cookies and a handful or two of starbursts. and the swedish fish.

there's the entire rest of the night ahead. I'm just getting started.

I'm not ashamed

so, that's right. I've got rod stewart on my ipod. and not the faces rod stewart, either. or even early solo stewart, à la maggie may. I'm talking downtrain train, reason to believe, gag-me stewart. and while we're on that, I've also got the carpenter's superstar on my ipod. not the transcendent sonic youth version (which merits its own posting, btw), but the original, in all its lo-fi warbly am radio glory. what else? let's rip off that bandaid while we have our fingers gripping plastic. also hidden, and not so hidden, on my ipod playlist one can find: whitesnake, matchbox twenty--a lot of matchbox twenty, tons of christmas music, and 11 versions of nessun dorma. I know.



I guess what I'm trying to say is that if you're going to try and insult me, you're going to really have to dig deep. pictures of me from the 8th grade attest to the fact that I don't humiliate easily. a 4-inch wall of aquanetted bangs hovering over thick smears of kohl liner and the reddest lipstick ever seen on a teenage hooker? check. and memories of me from my senior year attest to the fact that I really can't be shamed. white patent minidress with matching platform gogo boots and granny purse? with white lipstick and nails? to class? check and mate.



so go ahead. sling your worst. especially if you can come up with something I haven't already. I'd love to hear it.

déjà vu

it's the overabundance, I think, that always did me in. skies, sunshine, entertainment, warmth, love. endless and overwhelming. I'm basking in it but at the same time choking from the excess.

I remembered this as I sat down looking at the table set with alverta osetra caviar, lobster, and two kinds of foie gras. if food is the way to your heart, I can feel mine being blocked off by impenetrable plaques built up by extravagances.


poops, you should've traded places with me these past few meals. you know I'd be just as happy with a stack of naan and a cadbury milk tray. but for future reference:

valentino: I'm not so in love with italian restaurants, although, there's something to be said about a place that says, "if you don't see your favorite dish, ask for it and we will produce it for you. if you don't have a favorite dish, tell us and we will create one for you." I now have a favorite dish.
urasawa: sushi is as sushi does, unless it's so overwhelming that you can only sit there and tell the waiter, whatever. just bring me whatever.
providence: the 8-course dessert tasting menu was worth everything. how else can you explain being compelled to put something described as just "bacon, peanut butter and banana" in your mouth?

*sigh*

it's been raining and grey this whole time, and as much as I'd like to think it's not, I can't help but feel like it's a sign.

la dolce vita

is there any designer, or man for that matter, who understood so well what it means to be the ultimate feminine as Valentino Garavani? the first time I ever saw a Valentino dress was the spring collection of 1988. he sent down a dress made of chiffon and crepe that was fitted so close to the body that it made the model look as if she had a cloud wrapped tightly around her.


instantly, I wanted to be that--lean and lithe and fierce. a floating mist of wispy chiffon draped around a core of steel. living in a world of acid-washed denim and silver chains, I had a glimpse of what I could make myself out to be: coolly luxuriant, nonchalant, sublimely elegant; a woman.


I'm still aiming for that, even if right now it's mainly a core of flab encased in polyblend wool and microfiber. one dares to dream.


I'm sad to know he's retiring, sadder to imagine the summer shows without his ribbons and twirls, and saddest to think I will never walk by the Valentino window and gasp at the sight of seeing something like this ever again:

pherein

the boy sitting across from me in the library smells like something I want to lean over and sniff.

do you think he'll notice?

thomas jerome newton

one of the best 10-minute opening sequences to any film ever made.

if I could have or be anyone ever, it would be david bowie in the beginning of this film.

Dedication

Well you can stay all night if you want to
You can hang out with all of his friends
You can go and meet his mother and father
Mmmm, you better make sure that's where it ends
'Cos baby, there's one thing that you gotta know:

Let him read your palm and guess your sign
Let him take you home and treat you fine
But baby, don't let him waste your time.
Don't let him waste your time

'Cos the years fly by in an instant
And you wonder what he's waiting for...
...So tell him that it's now or never
And then go go go go go

He can have his space and he can take his time
He can kiss you where the sun don't shine
But baby, don't let him waste your time.

Just don't let him waste your time.

--Jarvis Cocker, Don't let him waste your time

Back to the Future

When I was about 11, I began a series of letters to myself, to be opened in the future. This came about because of a dispute I'd had with my parents during which I challenged their parenting skills, calling into question their ability to successfully raise another human being and underscoring this with the vow that were I ever to find myself in the position of raising an 11 year old human. I would never, ever, ever be like them.

"Ha," they laughed, proving their own ineptitude. "You think that now, but one day you'll wake up and you'll be us." They winked wearily at each other as I stomped off, seething.

But lying there on my bed, I worried. It somehow made sense. The inevitability of becoming what you didn't want to. After all, before they'd grown old and lost their minds, my parents must've been sane, right? I mean, I'd seen pictures of them at my age, and they looked normal, intelligent, lucid. But it was clear they now couldn't even grasp a rational argument if it stood right in front of them, kicking its feet and yelling. So how to stave off the forgetting?

It was then I decided the only way to do this was to write myself reminders. Sent now and to be opened by my future selves, at crucial moments: "When I'm 16", "When I'm 18", "Christmas when I'm 21", and so on. Looking back, it was a brilliant idea, if defeated by the fact that I couldn't conceive of myself possibly living past 27 (an age after which I really could've used some friendly advice, by the by).

At any rate, I just came across one I'd written to myself at 25. A ripe old age, I'd thought back then. There were inquiries about boyfriends, clothes, the length of my hair and whether I had a dog and a garden full of rabbits, just like I'd planned. But the most important issue came at the bottom of the page, underlined in green marker and in all caps:

Do you remember what it's like to be 11 years old? Answer now! I hope you do. If you don't, you are a total barf bag.

Pretty much says it all, doesn't it?

overheard in the elevator this morning

Girl: Ew! Ew! O my god! I just stepped in throw up! Somebody threw up in here! I'm going to throw up! O my god! Ewww! And I stepped in it! With my shoes!

Boy: I don't think it's vomit, actually.

Girl: Huh?

Boy: Well, it doesn't have a splash pattern, the puddle is a fairly regular circle, and the edges are even. There's no splatter anywhere. For someone to have been able to throw up like that, their face would have had to have been pretty close to the floor, and the bars here make that impossible. Also, we've been in here a few minutes, and all you can smell is a faintly sweet odor. It doesn't smell like bile, or anything like that. It's probably just a drink that someone spilled. Your shoes are okay.

Girl: Whoa...

Boy: Hey, I've had a lot of experience with vomit.

introducing jonnybunny

ter-dah!

wednesday morning, 2:36am

boys on film

john taylor still has the ability to reduce me to that sort of girl. and if you don't know what I mean, it really isn't worth the time in explaining. I won't get it right and you won't understand.

let's just contemplate this picture instead:




things I love:
boys who can wear white pants
rolled up shirtsleeves
bare ankles, wrists & collarbones
the pulling off of casual
treehouses
hair that makes you want to pull
seersucker

jims

there's a huddle of concerned students gathering, as they've just witnessed a body flying through the air and skid to a stop nearly 10 feet away from where the bike it was riding a moment ago has fallen.

"are you okay?"

"god, there's blood!"

"hey, it's going to be okay..."

"maybe we should get him to a hospital. hey, we should get you to a hospital. sew that up."

but he stares down, in disbelief. shock holding his eyes to the large rent in his sleeve, disclosing an even larger one in his arm. "o, my god. o my god. o my god" he whispers.

the crowd sighs with relief. he can speak. "no man, it'll be okay. they'll fix you up at the hospital."

he's confused by this. hospital?? he holds up his sleeve, "how are they going to fix this at the hospital?? it's cashmere!"

"dude. forget your sweater. you're arm's got a hole in it!"

his head whips up, frustration and disdain tightening the lines on his face as he holds up his arm and hisses, "skin grows back. cashmere doesn't!"



this is by far my favorite story about my friend jims, who taught me it was okay to place the important things high up on the list, even if everyone else says you shouldn't.

jims, I miss you.

a sure bet

$20 to the first person who can make me laugh.

any takers? anyone? anyone?

grow up

I remember it so clearly: it was the fifth grade, we were on the upper playground, whiling away the noontime recess after lunch. It was warm out, late spring, maybe, and I was sitting with the other girls when Kevin came up to me and asked to speak with me away from the others. He was with Mookie, two of the more popular boys in the class, and good friends of mine, so it didn’t seem odd or suspicious in any way. I left the other girls and followed them out about 20 feet or so, away from anyone who could hear us. A huddle of girls on one side of the yard, another of boys on the other.

Kevin cleared his throat. Looked down for a second and then straight at me. Mookie was fidgeting with some kind of anticipation as I waited for one of them to say something. “We just wanted to tell you, that all the boys were talking, and we decided that you were one of the nicest girls. And the coolest.”

“Yeah, you’re really bitchin’”, that would be Mookie, who had decided “bitchin’” was the word of the month.

So far, nothing out of the ordinary. I mean, it’s nothing I’d ever really considered before, but I was cool. Or at least an approximation of that in a way that was acceptable in my eyes. I went to all the same parties, hung out with the same people, did all the same things afterschool. I didn’t really care or think about what I looked like, but never questioned whether anyone else did.

“But, none of us will ever go out with you because you’re too ugly.” Okay, so maybe that’s not what he said, exactly. But it’s close enough, and that’s definitely what I heard.

It didn’t hurt. When you’re 10, you don’t really have the resources to feel pain or indignation at judgment that’s being passed at you. After all, they’d had a conference, and it was decided. I was too ugly ever to be considered. But I was nice. I think I thanked them. I’m sure I did. And then I walked back over to the girls and sat down, continuing our conversation where we’d left off, and shelving this somewhere in the back of my mind. Where it would sit and slowly ferment until it pushed itself back into the front.

I didn’t actually remember this until years and years later. Somewhere in college, as I was telling Idaho a story about something, this popped into my head, and I remembered. And in that instance, nearly a decade after it happened, everything I hadn’t felt before flooded me unawares: hurt, anger, shame, sadness, betrayal.

Do we ever escape our fifth grade selves, in the end?

I ♥ California

A Love Letter

This morning, I got up after another fitful night of missing you. Even after all this time, I still reach out for you in my half-sleep, pulling awake with the realization that I’m here and you’re there.

I know I’m the one who walked away, not giving us a fair chance, leaving when the faint promise of something more exciting, more inviting, or just different called. I know that every time I did walk away, it made it that much easier for me to leave the next time. I know you think I turned my back on us and you. But that doesn’t mean I didn’t love you or that I don’t cherish every one of the moments we had together.

I loved the quiet moments we shared, hiking through unexpected labyrinth of mountain trail overlooking your backyard on one side and the ocean on the other. I can still feel the way you’d kiss my eyelids, so gently, as I’d while away my Sundays on the stretches of hidden beaches. The burn that would travel down the exposed parts of my body, leaving me smarting for days afterwards. I loved the way you’d undo my hair as we drove down stretches of the PCH with the top rolled down, teasing and tangling it so that by the time we arrived, I looked like I’d already had a good time. I even loved your rare moodiness; the way you’d sometimes turn cool, especially after a stretch of the sunniest times, and I’d be left, unprepared for it every time, trying to wrap myself up in my own arms for warmth.

That I still think about you like this, after all this time apart, doesn’t it say something? I miss you. I’m sick with wanting to be with you. I’ve been in love all this time and didn’t recognize it for what it was. You’ve always been there for me, and I’m asking for you to be there for me one more time. Let me come back home. In return, I will promise you everything you asked of me and I couldn’t before. I’ll do it without any sense of sacrifice. Only love. And the faith that this time, I can uphold my end of the relationship.

I promise not to be emotionally unavailable, picking on your tiniest faults as an entryway to entertaining my own weaknesses. I will not storm off in front of Spaceland, shouting that only “fucking lame-ass hipster wannabes from the fucking OC” would still be hanging out in Silver Lake. I will not throw a temper tantrum, tearing flesh as we sit stalled on the 405 for an hour, trying to edge off onto the Sunset exit. I promise I will stop openly and loudly disparaging the company you sometimes keep—the girls with the disturbingly umber tans and painfully stretched breasts and the slack-jawed boys with the empty eyes and twitching fingers you keep inviting over. I know they’re part of the image you’re forced to portray, your industry; I swear that I will not bait them, openly mock them or discreetly aim the car at them. I also swear that I will not take you for granted, taking more and more without showing any gratitude, expecting our lives to be an unending expanse of blue skies and sunshine. I will tell you every day that I appreciate you. That I love you. And finally, I promise I will not walk away when our relationship gets rocky I will not leave you for days, weeks, months at a time, coming back only to take advantage of the comfort you offer me.

This time, I’ll make it work.

gimme gimme

Things I need more of in my life (in no particular order. or rather, in a highly particular order, but not the one you will think):

1. sticky toffee pudding
2. the ocean--preferably the pacific. or the indian. but I'll take the atlantic.
3. things that taste of citrus
4. salted pistachios, the unstained sort
5. pinstripes
6. things that buckle. tightly
7. warm, slightly woody smelling things
8. shiny hardwood
9. boxes. and things that come in boxes
10. reallly good coffee, served up in white mugs
11. padded socks
12. people who say things like, "I sowrrit"

my newest obsession

I don't remember exactly how I came across this, but I can't take my eyes off him. I'm assuming this is just a passing phase, but fairly consuming for the time.

this looks like a high school classroom. for the record, I am totally anti-pedophilia:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TsFUKnDfF44&feature=related

aphex twin makes almost anything better. okay, completely untrue statement, but still a compelling clip:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bVU2EmnTyj4&feature=related

and his audition for that television dance show. 1:14 is where I fell in love:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=d_9x_TSZeGQ&feature=related

break in the clouds

I think it's a sign. I'm pretty sure. Although, to be fair, I've been pretty poor at reading signs of late. And I'm not so certain I know what it means.



[Update: it turned out not to be a sign after all. just a mildly hallucinogenic allergic reaction.]

nightmare at the landmark sunshine

last weekend, I went to see el orfanato at the landmark sunshine, and haven't slept through the night since. it's the kind of sleeplessness, though, that you savor, as you lie curled up under the covers: was that shadow there a blink ago? did the room just get colder? is someone breathing?

there's little else as deliciously gratifying as a good horror film. the kind that leaves fingernail crescents on your palms by the end, and tendrils of nightmarescapes reaching deep into the waiting nights ahead.

the start itself was in perfect pitch: a richly romantic palette draping the screen with the smeariness of hazy unreality--all greenish greys and mossy browns--a crumbling grotto opening up into the rising sea where a forgotten lighthouse flickers in and out of sight, boulders piled high on cliffs, and accusingly piercing the low clouds, the orphanage, holding its breath and lying in wait.

I'm fairly easily seduced with a particularized mise en scène. but.

the image of the dark-panelled hallway, with that slack-limbed child shuffling forward, wet snuffling sounds leaking out from inside the grotesque sackcloth tied over his head is the most profoundly unsettling thing I have ever experienced on film.

other portents of cinematic cringe-induced finger-biting to come:
* echoey nursery chants from children whose faces you can't see clearly
* entire handfuls of milk teeth
* grinning, lopsided scarecrows
* black prams lying in the road with one wheel slowly coming to a stop
* black orthopedic shoes, and the crazy-eyed wrinkled ladies shuffling away in them

okay, so the ending was bathed in a warm, slightly sugary bath. but I can forgive it for everything that it gave me leading to it. and love it for everything it didn't.

I plan on being awake most of tonight, too.


* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

somewhere between the wet snuffling and the orthopedic shoes, I turned around and caught a picture of TC and an ewok enjoying the show:

also, Stattler, I owe you an apology for gouging out those flesh divots in your upper arm during the "1,2,3 pica la pared!" sequence in the basement. sorry.

happy birthday, jubs

this morning, jubs woke up with a sense of tingling anticipation. something was going to happen today. for a moment, he couldn't remember what. but then he remembered: today, jubs was turning old. old. the kind of old that can only properly be celebrated with a sackful of donuts and a meander through the inexplicably puddly streets of the lower east side. that's old, you know? but lucky for jubs, he knew just the right people to help him do it.


this is what today looked like:


first, jubs called. we decided to meet down at the donut plant for a birthday sack of donuts.



but first, we stopped at kossars for bialys. jubs went for the jubblesized special.



then it was jubs' gift time. some spectacular wrapping by the chiikster.



donerts!



old friends. sit on their park bench like bookends.
donut crumbs blown through the grass
fall on the round toes
of the high shoes
of the old friends.

that kind of girl

him: you know one of things that always puzzled me about you--one of an infinite number--was the fact that you never wore a watch. never carried around anything with a timepiece on it. and yet you were always so obsessed, so compulsive about the time.

her: I wasn't so obsessed. I wasn't compulsive.

him: you bought clocks all the time. in fact, I ended up with at least two in every room, sometimes 4 or 5(and then you'd set them ahead in bizarre increments of time, by the way). there were clocks in the closet. whenever someone around us asked for the time, I could see you lean in to hear the answer, even if you'd just heard the time.

her: well, I don't like being late.

him: to say the least. I remember we were stuck on Wilshire on our way to [semi-important event produced by semi-close friend] and you actually got out of the car and started trying to walk there. in those heels.

her: so, I don't like being late. that doesn't mean I'm obsessed.

him: darling, the only reason you let me hold your hand was so that you could control the direction my watch was facing.

her: ...

him: I thought it was charming, actually.

her: this conversation has gone on for too long. what time is it?




Resolution #4: I will be the kind of girl who wears a watch.

ghastly city sleep

in the summer of 2007, I heard about a band in greenpoint, brooklyn who were made up of the old members of city of caterpillar, gregor samsa and kayo dot. they were doing a show, but for some reason (crap job!) I wasn’t able to make it. months later, I saw this album in the bin at amoeba, and bought it. mostly for its cover:

GCS’s debut album, released on robotic empire in October 2007:

9.06 ice creaks
5.41 hushing weight
8.55 suchness
5.44 subtle disaster

the first track, ice creaks, plays like a lullaby, with such a slow start that it’s a minute in before you realize what’s going on. but it builds, and at 7.15, there is an instrumental break where you are forced to realize the fever and pitch it’s climbed to. the interval from 7.29 through 8.24 alone makes the album worthwhile—you can really hear kayo dot in there.

from then on, it’s mostly pretty sounds broken apart at sleepy intervals. although suchness showcases a simply entry that is pitch perfect, and sustained for almost a full minute without losing interest. it’s unfortunate that the rest of the 9 minutes can’t say the same, but that’s a lot to ask, in the end.

this is the kind of album that people will love to call “haunting” but that’s a meaningless descriptor slapped on to anything with a hint of non-melody. it’s a good cd to fall asleep to, though, sort of white noise with less ordered regularity. slightly assonant turns of sound, like raindrops on a skin drum; hollow and thinly percussive. sigur rós with slightly more bite. it’s the darker elements what define it—rich bass drums and echo chambers. the word “oceanic” is used a lot too, but that applies, because it does sound like an ocean of noise. each of the four members of gcs sing and play several instruments throughout the tracks, and it is this non-focus on any one element for very long that allows the thoughts to stream on for so long.

so, I guess what I'm saying is, it's good. but no need to buy it. ask me and I'll burn you a copy. or, maybe, buy it, because they are a local band and need you to buy things from them. but really, don't buy it and they will be forced to produce better music which you should really be spending your money on.

too late

today I came across a letter written me by M, during a time when I thought my promises would take hold and melt away the endless calvary of tomorrows marching over the horizon, aiming themselves directly at me. it was a time when I thought I was strong enough to fight for ideas like forever, and that my intentions were pure enough to bind me to the future when they'd be cashed in.



it exhausts me to read it now. all that expectation. I want to climb into my bed and go to sleep, breathing in the warmth of yesterday's sunshine, thick and heavy and tasting of the ocean. I almost picked up the telephone.



instead, I folded it and tucked it away, between pages 121 and 122. I'll take it out again when I'm a better person.

fantom brooser

when I was younger, I bruised so easily that people were always afraid of being accused of hitting me (as if I would let them). some days, I'd just wake up in the morning looking like I'd taken a vicious kick in the arm or ribs. I would tell everyone I had a phantom bruiser. he never hurt me, just left me with a dotted break of broken blood vessels, floating up like one of those mystery pictures coming out of a dot matrix printer. a lite-brite pixelation of purples of greens.

look who paid me a visit last week:

Another year, another date

A retrospective picture essay on the standouts of the 2007 crop:


"Samuel"

Referred by: Suellen

Rationale: "He's pretty tall, how tall are you? He's not seeing anyone!"

Memorable quotes:
"Whoa. You're ahh..ah..you're so...ahhh, I mean...you're..
stunning. I just never expected that you'd look...you'd..ahh...you seemed so..ahh..intelligent..."

"So, do you believe that the Bible is the one and only true word of God, perfect in every way?"

"I'm sorry, I've been talking for 45 minutes straight. It's your turn now. Talk."

Verdict: Suellen is no longer on my contacts list.

"Marc"

Referred by: Tom & Allen

Rationale: Tom: You both have similar senses of humor. I never get either of you.

Allen: I just love the idea of the two of you walking around together. Fuck, hilarious.

Memorable Quotes:

"Yeah, I dripped pus for, like, weeks."

"Am I disgusting you?"

"So, I got these tattoos so, like, I could tell people to fuck off without having to open my mouth"

Verdict: On reserve

"Shane"


Referred by: Jane

Rationale: "I've heard he's cute! And nice! Everyone has a crush on him! He's really cute!"

Memorable Quotes:

"...um..."

" . . . "

"so..."

Verdict: Great in the case I ever go deaf and don't want to miss much.





"Stefan"

Referred by: Jonathan

Rationale: "Everybody loves Stefan. He's too good to be true. Besides, he drives that car you like."

Memorable Quotes:

"I brought these for you because I heard they were your favorite flower."

"I helped my brother finance that theater a couple years ago, so I was able to get box seats for tonight."

"I decided to get rid of the boat. It just doesn't seem conscionable in this day and age."

Verdict: I'm sure he can do better.

placeholder

My New Year's Resolutions:

10.
9.
8.
7.
6.
5.
4.
3.
2.
1.

I'll fill them in as I think of them.

С Новым годом

I'm wishing myself a happy new year.

The kind that's capped on either end with endless blue skies, and just absolutely bursting with sunshine. The glittering amber-golden kind that you usually only find in 70s vitamin commercials.

And I'm wishing all of you some of the same.

Hooray, 2008.