Along Those Lines

Moving On

2008-11-24T18:23:00.003-05:00

Sorry, blahg, I've found a new format. For all two of my readers, please feel free to check the Tumblr from now on.

All I Need

2008-08-26T17:15:00.002-04:00

About four months ago, I sat at my computer, strategically double clicking a Ticketmaster link for Radiohead tickets. Radiohead is the greatest band of the past twenty years, and everybody knows it. So getting your hands on tickets is no small feat, but it happened. And for the past four months, every time something I cared about was pulled out from under me, my heart left feeling like egg on bibimbap, I reminded myself that there was an event to look forward to: Radiohead at the Hollywood Bowl.

The Hollywood Bowl has a grandeur that is unrivaled by any venue I’ve ever seen. Basically, it’s a colossal oasis of trees planted in Hollywood, with a picnic area for pre-show wine and baguette-brie-turkey sandwiches. The sound was so good that I honestly really did hear lyrics I never even knew existed. Thom Yorke danced around on stage in bright red pants, playing every song I wanted to hear that night. Set list here.

And even the haters, those who claim that Radiohead has become too big, had to admit that the show was just right. But I like for a rock band to be bigger than life, despite the high cost of tickets. Plus, the audience was so appreciative, since we all knew that it's survival of the fittest on who gets to see a Radiohead show. Every seat was filled, nobody talked during the slow songs, and we were all on the same page, trying to wrap our brains around how incredible it is to know that Radiohead lives on the same planet that we do. It was that good.

Too Too Too Fast

2008-08-18T16:43:00.002-04:00

Putting Los Angeles on hold, I went to New York last weekend to celebrate the union of two dear old friends, Shaw and Celeste. Their wedding was held in upstate Sleepy Hollow territory, about 30 minutes outside of Albany. I’m talking real country here, and the wedding followed as suit.

The altar was set up in front of a rolling meadow, with cows and llamas waltzing around in the background, underneath a blue sky with cartoon-perfect clouds. The guests sat on hay bails and the party was held in a tent where we danced so hard that the ground quickly turned to mud. I think I only had about two hours of sleep the entire weekend. Now, I’m not ready for that kind of ending yet, but I hope all of my close ones marry soon because weddings serve as the ideal reunion of dear friends.

My Friend Goo

2008-08-08T18:20:00.004-04:00

There’s an art collective within walking distance from my house called The Machine Project, and once a year they hold a Fallen Fruits jam-making party. The deal is: you bring your own fruit, brew it all together, jar it, and then trade off with other jam makers. The only question is how experimental you want to get with the flavor. We went with strawberry-mint, winsome on the palette and just untried enough to pass.

When we arrived, there was a long row of tables set up on the sidewalk and the jam-making had already commenced. People were using all kinds of wacked out combinations, like lemon-fig-pepper and nectarine-kumquat-lavender-basil, so we sat down to cook. Making jam from scratch is a pretty sloppy process, but it actually takes no time at all. And there was the chance to mingle with neighbors, get involved in the community and whatnot.

One jam master in particular asked if we grew our own fruit. Typical Californian question. Like it’s not enough to be out there in the middle of the street, with the sun stabbing through you, making your own jam -- you have to grow your own fruit, too. No, I answered defensively, but was quick to tell her that we bought it at the local farmers market the day before.

Since then, I’ve been eating PB&J all week, which never really gets old, I think. And I have to admit, quite frankly, that our jam is the best. The consistency, the simplicity, the taste, no doubt about it.

All Alright

2008-07-06T17:42:00.005-04:00

photo

After awaking from a jet lag-fueled summer afternoon nap, we met up with friends and friends of friends at a ghetto-looking (and tasting) Mexican restaurant in the USC area. From there, we received word of a party of friends of the friends of the friends. So we split up into two cars and followed the party informant up through the Hollywood Hills. And the higher we reached, the faster the girl in front of us started to drive, threateningly close to flying off a curve and into the dusty Hollywood foliage.

We would’ve been lost without our maniac guide, so we had no choice but to follow her break-neck speed. Steeper and steeper, as the houses became more decadent and the view more luxurious, it soon turned into a high risk/high reward situation. Thankfully, I was not driving. When we finally reached the peak, it was time to park. We split with the plucky leader to find a spot of our own, climbed another hill, and reached the party.

People were out front, music was blaring, the door was wide open, and we entered. The house was built of modest size, flawless in light and space. The view was equally spectacular, probably used in one of the scenes where the dweebs of Entourage look out, throw their hands up in the air, and exclaim, “Now, boys, we’ve finally made it!”

Except we hadn’t made it. Two minutes after we arrived, Ms. Led Foot called, telling us that we were at the wrong party. We were intruders in the lives of the infinitely cool. But we stayed anyway; drank some fancy tequila and awkwardly mingled for a bit, pretending to know the host, whose name I discovered is Drew. I wanted to go home that very instant, put all my belongings in a cab, kick Drew out and take shelter in his glorious quarters. The only fault, I found, was that Drew did not seem to own any books, but I could easily supply my own. I'll let Drew keep his house, though, because I have time.

Sun it Rises

2008-07-03T19:47:00.001-04:00

I rode a camel in Israel a couple weeks ago, and it was awesome. Camels have very long eyelashes and permanently puckered lips -- quite stunning -- but the rest of the body looks like it’s been smushed together from other animal parts. When approached, the camel is sitting down, and we were given strict instructions not to kick or pet it.

Soon after we were situated on our respective humps (two to a camel, I sat in front and Chelsea in back), the camel started to rise. First, the camel sticks its behind up, placing all of its weight on the knees, then the back legs follow, and finally the front legs. It’s a peculiar process to observe and even stranger to experience: the same sort of sensation as riding a rollercoaster. The actual journey is extremely slow, probably because of insurance purposes, but once we were used to the altering hip swags, it was a very leisurely ride.

Looking back on the caravan of 40 American kids -- a steady stream of digital cameras detonating at once -- it was hard to imagine our ancestors riding these great mammals through the desert to safety so many years ago. Because it seems to me that if you get a bunch of Jews out in the desert, all they’re going to be doing is complaining.

I’m still just in the process of digesting it all, but there were other parts to the trip, of course. A Birthright trip is like boot camp, with early morning wake up calls and horrible food (schnitzel cuisine three nights in a row), and every day was chalk full of activities. We stayed at Kibbutz’s, went cave spelunking and digging at Beit Gurvin National Park, met with Bedouins, did a sunrise ascent to Masada, swam in the Dead Sea, hiked Mt. Arbel, toured a Kabbalah gallery in Tsfat, hiked in the Golan Heights, went rafting on the Jordan River, saw the borders of Syria and Lebanon, went wine tasting at the Galilee Winery, toured Jaffa, Independence Hall, Rabin Square, and Jerusalem, volunteered at a soup kitchen, City of David, the Wall, Mt. Herzl, etc.

The best part of the trip, however, was spending five days with seven Israeli soldiers, because those are by far the coolest kids I’ve ever met. Each conversation with them was like a tutorial on the confusing mess of the beautiful country. And the trip itself was more like a gigantic history lesson rather than a religious awakening. So while I’m not going to start lighting the Shabbat candles every Friday night, I’m not going to skip over the Middle East section of the paper anymore.

After the trip, I met the boyf in Tel Aviv where we spent an amazing four days exploring and eating delicious food. That’s my new favorite city; imagine SoHo before it turned into a shopping mall, then add a beach. Unfortunately, though, I did not have the chance to meet the other Toby Shuster, or see her Bed and Breakfast. I’ll probably regret this for the rest of my life, but I guess it’s a good incentive to go back. And that’s the only downside to traveling: it always leaves you wanting more.

Candy Jail

2008-06-16T11:25:00.000-04:00

There's no better cure for a Vegas hangover than watching the newly edited HBO Roman Polanski doc on a Sunday night with a carton of Thai take-out. The film, which takes the tone of a courtroom drama, is certainly riveting, since I never realized the full story behind Polanski's exile. But mostly it's just heartbreaking, Polanski's life that is. His beautiful wife was brutally murdered, he slept with a 13-year-old girl, and he couldn't even accept his Oscar in person.

And then I remembered a Craigslist ad that caught my eye when I first moved to LA. It's for a narrative feature that some sad-sack is trying to make, but the call-out captures the melancholy cast of Polanski's life.

------------------------------------------

Roman Polanski's Life Story
Looking for look alike actors:
Roman Polanski (Close to 40 yrs old & play youger and older roll) Sharon Tate Mia Farrow John Cassadetes Anton Lavey Angelica Houston (When she was young)
Also looking for 18 or 19 year old girl who can play a 13 year old look!
Must be non-union min $100 a day Must send picture and phone number

Modern Guilt

2008-06-16T11:10:00.003-04:00

One boon to being all smitten with a film producer is getting to be a plus one at film festivals. Most recently, the boyf's movie, VISIONEERS, premiered at the Seattle Film Festival, and went on to show at Cinevegas. The film, starring Zach Galifianakis and Judy Greer, is a dark comedy about a world in which people are so unhappy that they start exploding. The story is a dystopian satire that's a cross between George Orwell and George Saunders, scored by the Polyphonic Spree and Tim DeLaughter. It's an awesome movie, and I'm not just saying that.

Seattle went well, despite the sub zero weather, and both screenings at the Egyptian sold out right away. It was also lovely catching up with long time friends and eating delicious homemade food. Vegas, on the other hand, was much jazzier. The opening night gala was held pool side, and everybody was abuzz when Britney Spears appeared. Although I'm not sure if she even knew she was there, as her eyes were glazed over and she moved at a snail's pace.

A better sighting, though, was when I talked to Dennis Hopper while we were waiting in line for coffee. He is very distinguished, slightly dismissive, and appreciated my suggestion of getting the blueberry muffin instead of the bear claw. Gotta hand it to him, since he's the only star I've heard of who gets his own coffee. The real highlight, however, was when I made $150 at Black Jack (after only putting down $10). It's all about knowing how to stop while you're ahead.

Small Town Talk

2008-05-16T18:22:00.004-04:00

photo

Well, blahg, I finally finished the LZ gig, and I’m here to report that it’s not always glitz and glam in Hollywood. For instance, there was one day when I was sent to pick up a lunch in Santa Monica, from a personal chef, and drive it to a restaurant in Beverly Hills. That’s right. And another time, I was in trouble for not keeping the office fridge stocked with the appropriate sized water bottles. All of this for someone who does not even know my name.

When I relay such anecdotes to friends and family, nobody believes it. But these acts no longer faze me, as I’ve come to realize that the people who run the film industry are a different species altogether. It’s fascinating that someone who can connect to the masses with a politician’s ease, with major Blockbuster pictures, doesn’t necessarily know how to relate to the low-lifes on an individual or day-to-day basis. Somewhere along the road to success, luxury becomes a necessity, and people here accept it. But I’m putting in my dues and the beat goes on.

The Waterline

2008-05-05T19:16:00.002-04:00

photo

Gawd I love this state. I honestly believe that it’s an uninformed decision to live anywhere besides California. Most recently, I took a lovely little jaunt to Santa Barbara, which although only two hours away, feels like a whole other planet. Or no, not really, more like a less stodgy Hamptons. Driving through the countryside of Santa Ynez Valley, on the way to the wineries, though, is kinda how I expect Tuscany to be for those on a tighter budget.

And even if I am usually hard pressed to discern between a bottle of two buck chuck and a 1982 Lafite-Roshschild Bordeaux, once you have a taste of the real stuff, the contrast is harshly apparent. And the pairing, now that’s a real luxury. The only problem is, when you leave the realm of fine dining, you expect everything to be paired for you. When stopping at a roadside diner on the way home, for example, I was a little more than disappointed when the 16-year-old cash register attendant did not know if I should have lemonade or soda with my tuna melt.

Siriustar

2008-05-02T19:17:00.007-04:00

Had the good luck of happening upon a focus group screening for the new Rian Johnson film, The Brothers Bloom. And I have to say, hands down, that it is already my favorite movie of 2008. The premise – a pair of con men brothers orchestrate a high jinks heist that sends them on an international escapade – is beatific in its old school approach to story writing. It also helps that I’m a sucker for anything that’s even remotely stylized, so every single luxuriant set piece and costume really hit the spot.

I must admit, as well, that I’m a sap for Adrian Brody and Mark Ruffalo, aka the Brothers Bloom. Even Rachel Weisz is much more loaded with humor than I thought, perfectly highlighted in one particular scene where she demonstrates her multitude of shut-in hobbies. And Bang Bang (pictured above) is the most bad-ass female character to walk the screen since Beatrix Kiddo. So the film is kinda how it’d be if the Coen Bros and Wes Anderson teamed up to make The Sting or Dirty Rotten Scoundrels. But the rest of you have to wait until the fall to see this piece of brilliance, solly cholly.

Time is Tight

2008-04-14T18:47:00.007-04:00

photo

Even though I still feel like an asshole every time I go to Trader Joes and forget my cloth shopping bags, I think I’m really starting to assimilate to LA culture. I was involved in my first fender bender (total bummer), got hooked on Pinkberry (heaven in a paper cup), and gave it my all in yoga (whatta drag). I’ve also grown to appreciate, and love, avocados and Fleetwood Mac, two things I never used to tolerate before my move. And I still find myself defending the city on a daily basis to friends who do not understand the capriciousness of living here.

Ice cream trucks and candy vehicles circulate daily, no matter the time of year. Most of the cars are shiny, and people drive manically, like they’re operating bumper mobiles at the local carnival. It rarely ever rains and, when it does, the palm trees sag down resembling sheep dogs. You have to pay very close attention or you'll miss the change of seasons, but for the most part it’s always summer. Each neighborhood is its own little world, and the highway system has no designated rhyme or reason to its pattern. The bulk of the people you meet are working on their own little make believe project, or movie, and they all get really excited when talking about it. Women are not afraid to wear pink, birthdays are celebrated with great reverence, and entire errands are centered on the retrieval of cupcakes.

It’s kinda like living in a city that was designed by a troop of 10-year-olds.

Nothing Hides

2008-04-07T18:47:00.002-04:00

Last Saturday, I had the good fortune of attending Laura Ziskin’s Black and White Ball, which was modeled after Truman Capote’s 1966 party of the same name. All of the guests were required to wear either black and white, topped off with a mask to hide their identity. To be fair, I wasn’t actually a guest, but rather an employee, assigned the duty of manning the mask table. So I stood at the entrance to the party, handing out masks to the movie stars, agents, studio execs, and other varied celebrities.

Ziskin’s Santa Monica backyard was lavishly made up in dreamscape form, with ornate floral decorations, old Hollywood furniture that could’ve been lifted off a 1939 MGM lot, a stage for the bands, and a dance floor covering the pool. But even behind the masks, some icons were easily recognizable. Cameron Diaz arrived, friendly and literally sparkling, teetering over everybody else in attendance (she must be at least 8-feet tall). Diane Keaton was there, with Nancy Meyers, in a black tuxedo suit with a top hat to boot. Brian Grazer, Lance Armstrong, Will Ferrell, Patrick Dempsy (!), and Ron Howard, among others, were also in attendance.

Toward the end of the night, I was allowed to leave my post and mingle with the higher ups, a reward for my long hours of standing a considerable distance away from the heat lamps. I've never been much of a mingler, but I did happen to run into Tobey Maguire, who engaged with me in a ten minute conversation about the various spellings of our name. A feather in my cap for sure.

Heard Them Stirring

2008-03-31T18:42:00.000-04:00

Listening to monologist Mike Daisey feels like sitting in on an evangelist sermon, circa 1964 — except that instead of preaching about heaven and sin, Daisey aims his fire-and-brimstone discourse at corporate rule, capitalism, the covert history behind the Monopoly board game, and his childhood experience of visiting a slaughterhouse in Maine. The stage set is nothing fancy — just Daisey sitting at a table with a glass of water — but his repertoire of razor-sharp observations is all he needs to keep your attention.

She Brakes for Rainbows

2008-03-24T18:18:00.002-04:00

Photo

Luke is the blond, 3-year-old boy who lives in the house in front of mine. He is so unbelievably beyond cute he should be manufactured by Sanrio. Of course I said yes when he asked me to go Easter egg hunting with him. First thing Sunday morning, I told him, since I had never been hunting for eggs and he seemed to like it alright. Sure enough, the little literalist took me to task and came knocking on my door at seven ayem the following morning. So I dragged myself out of bed to help him find some eggs.

Sometimes I think Luke is drunk, since his motor and verbal skills haven’t quite learned to keep up with his accelerated energy level. But when I see him that early in the morning, the whites of his eyes the color of egg shells, I know he’s never seen a late night in his entire life. Truth be told, he makes me nervous. He seems great, but I never know what I’m supposed to say to the fellow, or his 6-year-old brother, whose communication skills are only slightly more advanced. I guess we could talk about insects or dinos, but I’m always worried it’ll be obvious that I would rather be reveling in the glittered, feathered, plastic rhinestoned world of girlhood, discussing the merits of Ariel versus Jasmine.

Turns out there’s not much talking involved in hunting for Easter eggs. I poked around in the yard with him for a while, ate some chocolate, and went back to bed, not to be seen again for several more hours.

Don't Ignore the Potential

2008-03-08T17:26:00.003-05:00

Spazz-punk band the Mae Shi follow in the footsteps of LA faves No Age, building their fan base through unremittingly energetic shows at the Smell. Their latest album, HILLYH (released by UK label Moshi Moshi), includes the killer single "I Get (Almost) Anything I Want" and a host of bible-inspired, lampoon-y lyrics spit with maniacal conviction. The raw enthusiasm of the Mae Shi's live shows leaves both minds and eardrums blown.

Nylon Smile

2008-03-05T16:39:00.005-05:00

photo

I welcomed my parents into my new city with one goal in mind: to make them like Los Angeles. I have that goal with all visitors, but it’s especially important with them, since they’re my parents and all. Over the course of three days they would grow to love Los Angeles, hate it, then love it again, as is the usual course for visitors and dwellers alike.

Upon their arrival, I took them on an accidental tour of east LA, but skillfully managed to navigate out of there before they were able to gauge the sketchiness of the situation. Moving through other activities with similar pluck, I even agreed to go on a tour of the movie star homes. We saw a lot of celebrities’ property that we could never, not in a trillion years, afford, but it was relaxing to be driven around by someone else for a change. Especially after being the chauffer to not one but two backseat drivers, their caring suggestions and lovable observations flowing in stereo for three whole days.

The Glory

2008-03-03T18:21:00.003-05:00

photo

Together for over a year now, the boyf and I have a ridiculous amount of common interests. I guess that makes for high compatibility, like-minded companions or however you want to put it. Off the top of my head, I can think of only two activities the boyf thrives on that I just can’t get into: public speaking and competitive running. That is not to say I can’t get into him doing those things.

So over the past year, I have helped him train for the Los Angeles marathon. Not that there’s much I could do, since he’s the one running 26 miles, but I supported and advised. And wouldn’t you know the machine of a man crossed the finish line in 2 hours and 57 minutes, coming in at number 75, out of 22,000 other people. There’s no way I can describe with accuracy the emotions that spew forward when seeing someone you care about accomplish something that major, so just insert about 22,000 explanation points after that last sentence.

Ramblin' (Wo)man

2008-03-02T16:25:00.003-05:00

It’s widely known among Cat Power’s fans that her live shows are hit or miss. She’s often prone to fits of stage fright, mostly due to her soft spot for the bottle. At Friday night’s Wiltern show, however, she was surprisingly playful, engaging with the audience and backup band for almost two hours. I had expected onstage brooding and intermittent swaying, but she is a fine dancer, blending old school go-go moves with the occasional break to fidget with her army green button down shirt. The only downside is that she relied too heavily on her covers material, probably in promotion of her latest album, and only played a few of her older songs. Either way, I could listen to her well-worn voice recite the backs of cereal boxes for two hours.

Don’t Cry Baby…It’s Only a Movie

2008-02-25T14:54:00.006-05:00

I take the Oscars very seriously. Watching the ceremony with a large crowd is insufferable, except that’s what people do in this town. So I was not about to turn down an invite to the Away from Her party. Hosted at the Spark Woodfire Grill in Beverly Hills, with three full floors of TVs, a buffet dinner, and several open bars, it was not too shabby. In fact, it was refreshing to watch the show with “industry” folks because everybody in that crowd watches the show with full hearted commitment.

The disappointment was felt when Julie Christie didn’t take the statue, yet the party continued. There was a dessert reception immediately following the show, where we were free to do all the requisite networking mumbo jumbo. For dessert there was tiramisu served in mini chocolate cups. With a meager attempt at responsibility, we left at a reasonable hour, only to find out later that Julie Christie and Sarah Polley showed up only an hour after our departure. Yes, it’s exceptionally lame that a 67-year-old stayed out later than we did, but ships in the night and all that.

Broken Hearted Hoover Fixer Sucker Guy

2008-02-24T14:33:00.000-05:00

My 2007 Oscar Predictions:

Best Pic: No Country for Old Men
Best Director: Coen Bros
Best Actor: Daniel Day-Lewis
Best Actress: Julie Christie
Best Supporting Actor: Javier Bardem
Best Supporting Actress: Cate Blanchett
Best Original Screenplay: Juno/ Michael Clayton
Best Adapted Screenplay: No Country for Old Men
Cinematography: No Country for Old Men
Editing: No Country for Old Men
Art Direction: Sweeney Todd
Costume: La Vie en Rose / Atonement
Original Score: Atonement
Original Song: Once
Makeup: La Vie en Rose
Sound: No Country for Old Men
Visual: TransformersForeign Language: The Counterfeiters
Documentary: No End in Sight
Animated: Ratatouille

Senses Working Overtime

2008-02-20T18:31:00.004-05:00

photo

Things are going well with my new gig so far, although I can’t exactly say I’m running the company yet or cutting deals with Amy Pascal. I am picking up a lot, though, mostly about how to swallow my pride and learn to wait my turn. Some days are more humbling than others, especially when I’m left standing around like Anne Hathaway. Sometimes, I get to ride a golf cart around the Sony lot, and it doesn’t really get more exciting than that*. If I’m going to do the office bit, I prefer to do it on a lot, which feels at times like wandering around on a college campus. I’m still astounded by the names that fly around the office, some of them ripped directly from the pages of Variety. I’m talking big, powerful people here. But, dear blahg, I’m going to be a Private Benjamin from now on, no hard feelings.

*Fun: When you're riding as a golf cart passenger, passing a tour group, hold a file folder up to your head and turn the other way. Then the group of tourists will assume you're somebody famous, and their digital cameras will flash.

And Don't the Kids Just Love It

2008-02-15T18:04:00.002-05:00

My fourth annual Hearts in the Beerlight Valentine party last night was met with a pleasingly big turnout. It was held at The Bar on Sunset, which is a lounge-type of dive bar that only starts to fill up around midnight. Chocolate-dipped strawberries and heart-shaped cookies were served. Ex-boyfriends went home with ex- girlfriends, one peer shocked the crowd with the introduction of a 49-year-old British beau, and the singles didn’t seem too bitter. As I defended the holiday in my invitation: In a 1381 poem honoring the engagement of Richard II, Geoffrey Chaucer was the first person to associate love with Valentine’s Day. But I don’t really care about all of that. I like Valentine’s Day because it’s an excuse to get together with friends and wear pink. I forgot to wear pink, but nobody seemed to mind.

Run Down the Stairs

2008-02-13T18:03:00.002-05:00

Went to a screening last night at ICM for Beaufort, the 2007 Israeli Oscar-nominated film. Beaufort tells the story of a young group of troops holding down fort during the Israeli withdrawal from Lebanon in 2000. I don’t normally get into war movies, but the acting in this film is particularly moving, probably because all of the Israeli actors were once in the army. And the action is intense, too, with explosions, gun-fueled warfare, and grenades flying every which way. It was pretty good but, like so many other films, could’ve been better if they just shaved off about fifteen minutes.

Smiley Smile

2008-01-31T18:57:00.000-05:00

So Destinee, my roommate, has decided to move in with her boyfriend. Except, her boyfriend doesn’t have a place of his own, so she’s staying at his family’s apartment. And her boyfriend's little sister is pregnant, so Destinee has to sleep on the floor. Aside from all of that, I have no idea why she would want to leave our little guest house. Not only is it in the perfect neighborhood, but it also looks like something Hansel and Gretel would’ve known about.

Since I’ve had problems with roommates in the past, I took it upon myself to conduct a vigorous Craigslist search. I would like to take this moment to thank James Tan, who graciously volunteered to stalk countless girls on Myspace, just so I could find the least psycho roommate that Craigslist had to offer. Finally, I came up with this chick named Christina. She knows gymnastics and Russian and has been to all four continents. So even if she does turn out to be a little screwy, at least I can learn a thing or two from her.

Finest Worksong

2008-01-30T18:29:00.000-05:00

Holy crap, I just landed a gig with Laura Ziskin. Laura Ziskin. Laura Ziskin who produced Pretty Woman, Hero, The Eyes of Laura Mars, and As Good As It Gets, just to name a few. Laura Ziskin who wrote the comedic masterpiece, What about Bob? Sure, so what if it’s just two days a week? I’ll keep doing the script reading on the side to earn some extra cash. And so what if I’m just going to be getting her coffee and doing other mundane errands, like feeding parking meters. I have to do that for someone in this town to get my foot in the door, and although I’m no hero worshipper, I can think of no one else I'd rather get coffee for than Laura Ziskin.

Your Party Will be a Success

2008-01-28T20:27:00.000-05:00

People in LA really seem to like birthday parties. The 1920’s-themed birthday party I went to on Friday, featuring a $700 cake and 17-piece orchestra, felt more like a wedding than a 25th birthday. And I passed up a party a couple of weeks ago with an Evite that boasted a $2,500 tab in Santa Monica and a guest list of 300 people. Who even knows 300 people? But then again, I guess if I opened up that kind of tab somewhere, I would have 300 new friends, too.

So it was very refreshing to do a complete 360 and attend a 6-year-old’s birthday party on Saturday afternoon in Atwater Village. In fact, I’ve never had so much fun in my entire life. The backyard was turned into a total dreamscape, with a tent, cookie decorating table, fake tattoo parlor, piñata, Mystery Machine moon walk, and even a chicken coop. Most surprising, to me, is how practiced these California kids are at the art of the piñata. As soon as it was hung, without instruction, they all lined up in perfect order, and knew how far away to stay from the line of fire. From there, it was straight out action. One kid was scolded for throwing a rock at the pinata, the little sniper; the father took a knife to the piñata when no one was looking; the birthday girl puked just before it was struck, and then, with the resilience that only a 6-year-old can muster, managed to eat a piece of her birthday cake ten minutes later. And even though there were only about 20 kids there, it felt like 50 because they just kept running around and around and around.

Shared Islands

2008-01-26T20:18:00.000-05:00

Brooklyn's High Places play lighthearted melodies with a concentrated blend of tropical percussion and laptop beats. Mary Pearson's cooing and Rob Barber's synths make a combo that sounds like the Books crossed with the Blow. Tonight, LA's Lucky Dragons join High Places with a whirl of appropriated folk samples and electro-acoustic interplays. Performing at the Smell, a venue that is equally as DIY as both bands, the show is guaranteed to be as intimate as Pearson's vocals.

-TS

Double Death

2008-01-24T17:16:00.000-05:00

I went to two pretty lousy movie screenings this week. The first was Michel Gondry’s Be Kind Rewind. I really wanted to like this one, if only for Michel Gondry’s future as a director. But the movie sucked pretty hard. It’s about these two dudes in New Jersey who work in a video store where all of the tapes are accidentally erased, and so they recreate all of the movies themselves. First of all, the premise is just stupid; who watches VHS anymore? But mostly, Jack Black single-handedly brings down the entire movie by monopolizing every scene. That guy has always annoyed me. There were, however, about twenty minutes of good film making when Gondry did what he does best: visual effects. I wish, though, that he would just stick to making music videos.

The second screening was a Hallmark Hall of Fame TV movie called The Russell Girl, which was not nearly as bad. Still, within the first five minutes of the movie, the audience finds out that a young girl has Leukemia. And then we sit and watch as she tries to hide it from her family and high school boyfriend for the next two hours. Hallmark is quite cunning, actually, and knows how to hijack its viewers’ emotions. Even though the screening did not have commercials, it was explained to me at the reception beforehand that when Hallmark shows the movie on TV, they only use Hallmark commercials. Each commercial is strategically placed at specific points in the film to provoke certain emotions. Even without the commercials, though, I still found myself crying at the end of the movie. I don’t know why. I felt no attachment to the characters or the story; I just couldn’t help but cry.

Out on the Weekend

2008-01-22T18:36:00.000-05:00

Last weekend, we drove only two hours away from Los Angeles to reach Joshua Tree National Park, one of the most drop dead gorgeous places I’ve ever seen in the U.S. It’s pure desert out there. Joshua trees are grotesquely shaped hybrids of palms and cacti that you would not be surprised to see in a Dr. Seuss illustration.

And the rock formations, too, are out of this world. Hundreds and hundreds and hundreds of years of earthquakes, erosion, molten liquid, and whatever else, makes for a very fascinating geologic landscape. But the highlight of the trip was a horseback riding tour we took with a cowboy named Dan. Dan regaled us with tales of his teenage years – when he would get so bored, that he'd climb a mountain with no shoes on – and his time as a front man in a Doors tribute band. That’s Dan’s one true passion: the Doors. Dan had a lot of stories to tell about the crazy 90’s and the dueling Doors acts in Yucca Valley, California. Sometimes Dan’s passions trailed off to rattlesnake hunting for his taxidermist friend, or pool and spa supplies, but he always came back to the Doors. We even got our own private concert when Dan sang “Five to One” and “Strange Days” for us out there in the middle of the desert.

What a Day for a Night

2008-01-18T18:12:00.000-05:00

Frank Gehry’s Walt Disney Concert Hall is the sexiest building in all of Los Angeles. I finally had the chance to check out the insides of this beauty at last night’s Concrete Frequency concert featuring Cornelius and Plaid, two highly experimental art-rock groups. On the escalator up to the concert hall, however, just as I was about to say, “You look like Diablo Cody,” I was introduced to Diablo Cody herself. The lady is very friendly and sharp-looking in a leopard skin coat, an inspiring celebrity sighting if ever I saw one.

Anyway, back to the event. The acoustics in the hall are positively first-class and the seats, no matter how far away, are plush. First up was Plaid, a British techno duo with a set of turntables and a backdrop of digital abstract art. Next, Tokyo’s Cornelius delivered a sonic performance of electronic psychedelic rock in front of a gigantic screen of futuristic visuals. Experiencing the images in perfect synch with the music produced a truly dramatic effect, especially when sitting in the concert hall felt like watching a show from the inside of a whale’s stomach.

Sleeping with the Television On

2008-01-08T16:54:00.000-05:00

I know it’s not right to wish away an entire year of life, especially in your 20’s, yet I can’t help but long for 2009. With that glorious year, we’ll see not only a new president, but also Spike Jonze’s Where the Wild Things Are. Okay, I’m done. Happy 2008.

Paper Planes

2007-12-21T11:58:00.000-05:00

I always thought end of the year lists seemed stale. But I was stuck on the 101 North the other day and, after disagreeing with a radio DJ’s top picks of the year, decided to come up with my own. Then I thought I should record it somewhere, so here it goes. Slashes indicate cases where I could not make up my mind.

Best album of the year: Untrue/In Rainbows ---- Best discovery of an old album: McCartney --- Best show: Panda Bear @ the Bowery/ Sonic Youth, Daydream Nation @ McCarren Pool ---- Best movie: Lars and the Real Girl / There Will be Blood --- Best discovery of an old movie: A Night at the Opera / The Conversation --- Best book: The Road / The Mystery Guest --- Best discovery of an old book: The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay --- Best presidential candidate: Obama ---Best gadget: the TomTom 150 --- Best play: Talk Radio --- Best art exhibit: 1960’s @ Whitney/ Murakami @ MoCA --- Best TV show: Pushing Daisies / It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia

Compiling inventories like this take my mind off more pressing issues. Like the fact that I’ve accrued up to $90 in parking tickets in the past month. In case you’re keeping count, that’s only two tickets, but still nothing to take too lightly. The first one (my very first parking ticket ever) happened only one block away from my apartment and the last one was because I naturally assumed that parking meters take the weekends off.

Lifetime Piling Up

2007-12-14T17:20:00.000-05:00

image

I was leaving the office today when I happened to strike up a conversation with the parking lot attendant. “What are you always doing with all of those books?” he asked me. I told him that it’s my job to read. “Wow, don’t you get bored reading all day? I think I’d fall asleep!”

I looked at this man who spends eight hours a day in a parking booth, and I tried to see things from his perspective. He was wearing heavy, fleece gloves (50 degrees out here today), with the same slapdash grin that's plastered to his face every time I see him. I told him I drink a lot of Diet Coke to keep me awake and left it at that.

Little Fury

2007-12-11T18:47:00.000-05:00

In case you were ever wondering what happened to Ian Ziering, I saw him sitting in the corner last night in the green room at the taping of American Gladiators, the Next Generation. His foot was all bandaged up like a cotton ball, propped on a scooter for extra elevation.

I didn't tell him that he was always my least favorite of the hunky Beverly Hills 90210 boys (Steve was the one who got Brandon to try coke in the bathroom). But I did offer my condolences for his injury and brought down his washed-up ego by having no apparent knowledge of his Dancing with the Stars stint. Sorry, Ian Ziering.

Yes, even though I do not have the connections necessary to find a job right off the bat in this town, I can secure backstage Gladiators passes when need be. Growing up with two older brothers, I used to watch that show religiously, mostly in preparation for how to defend myself when they took it upon themselves to dog pile me at the end of each episode. So I jumped at the chance when an invitation was extended to watch the show being taped.

From what I could see, the new American Gladiators is revamped to excess for the 21st Century, with a multimillion dollar set that stretches out on top of a 20-foot deep pool. But, most importantly, Hulk Hogan (also a recurring character in my childhood) is hosting the show, and you could not ask for a more charismatic muscle man.

The Gladiators, on the other hand, seem more revved up than the stars of the first generation. One Gladiator in particular looked like he busted out of the womb popping steroids and listening to Motorhead. To me, though, they just look like juiced up circus freaks. It was pretty awesome.

Ready for the Floor

2007-12-07T15:23:00.000-05:00

Invitation Songs

2007-12-06T19:38:00.000-05:00

The best band coming out of Seattle right now is the Cave Singers, which I finally had the pleasure of seeing the other night at the Echo. They play folksy-type rock in the same vein as Band of Horses, but with more of a bent toward the lullaby, a la Iron & Wine. And, oddly enough, it features one of the dudes from Pretty Girls Make Graves, arriving to a total 360. The best part, though, is that the lead guy's voice crackles like that of an 88-year-old, tobacco pipe smoking old man, when really, he's probably just pushing 28. And it doesn't hurt that he adds extra charm by playing a melodica and pounding on a washboard with a maraca.

The Flying Club Cup

2007-11-30T17:51:00.000-05:00

image

So I finally did it: found a job I can call my own. I might’ve hit my ass on every step of schlock the film industry has to offer in order to reach this point, but I did it.

In a marketplace where new media is reportedly replacing film – the most successful people in town think of at least six webisodes before breakfast – I’ve somehow managed to snag a job that seems refreshingly old school. I’m reading actual books all day and getting paid for it. Because the company I’m working for is a production machine, I’ll learn a thing or two about development in the middle of all that reading.

And the best part about it, really, is that I did it all on my own. Everybody kept saying, “It’s all about who you know, you won’t find a job without connections, blah blah blah.” But I applied online, nailed the interviews and writing samples, and made that job mine.

Ta da.

Love Song of the Buzzard

2007-11-28T18:26:00.000-05:00

There are few things at this point in my little life that intimidate me more than the parking lot at LAX. To abandon your car in the swallows of the lot for a long term amount of time requires a drop-off at Lot C, an endless abyss of slots that stretches on for miles upon miles. From there, you take two shuttles to the flight terminal, check in, finagle through the wearisome process of airport security, and board your plane.

It all seems simple enough, unless you’re like me: exceedingly paranoid about forgetting where you left your car. My only precaution against such an oversight is to write the parking space down in three different locations, and then repeat the space as a mantra until I am positive it is tattooed in my memory. Lot C – C18, Lot C – C18, Lot C-C18, Lot C-C18.

This chant was repeated throughout my entire Thanksgiving break, always in the background of my mind as I flew 3,000 miles home to greet my family and carried on with the rest of my vacation. Thankfully, it stuck, as I was able to retrieve my car several days later from Lot C, space C-18.

But as I drove out of the lot, I was forced to confront my fears when I saw a family of four whose car had obviously been misplaced. The parents were screaming at each other, using their hands as visors as they looked in opposite directions, and the two young daughters were trailing behind, struggling with their rolling suitcases under the beams of the afternoon sun. My heart went out to them, it really did, and I even considered for a split second offering my services in their search.

I wonder now how long it took them to recover their car and if maybe they’re still trailing through Lot C, trudging up and down the labyrinthine (a nice word) aisles, screaming at each other.

Faded Picture, A

2007-11-17T18:11:00.000-05:00

There were two quintessential LA shows this week at the Echoplex, a concert venue within walking distance to my house that could easily double as a roller skating rink. The first show, on Tuesday night, featured Mika Miko and No Age, a couple of bands that I’ve wanted to check out for a while, neither of which disappoint.

The next time, we went back to see Entrance, the Seeds, and Ya Ho Wa 13. Everybody was dressed in costume, the beards and dresses equally as flowy, for the main attraction: Ya Ho Wa 13, a legendary psych rock band from the 60’s that used to be a cult. It was quite the spectacle, even though it looked like they just went down the street to the park and gave a couple of homeless people some beer to stand on stage and play the tambourine.

Just as equally tactile, but in the worse way possible, was a 3-D viewing of Beowulf. The first half hour was all right, if only to see what 3-D film involves. But then I realized I hadn't blinked in thirty minutes. From there, I took off my 3-D goggles, shut my eyes completely, and settled into a one and a half hour nap.

Mine Mine Mind

2007-11-15T18:26:00.000-05:00

Some people have been asking me lately, “Why don’t you go to grad school? You’d have no trouble finding a job if you went to grad school.”
Well, the thought of grad school gives me the shakes. Shelling out an ungodly amount of money, putting real life on hold, studying who knows what, with no definite guarantee of finding a job on the other end, who needs it? Yet when my half hearted attempt at freelancing started to grow old, I decided I could use a little more order in my day-to-day life. But I don't necessarily think the world needs another Urban Planner.

So with that, I finally sucked it up and went to an employment agency. Nothing seems more worthwhile to me at this point than finding someone else to find me a job. After a rigorous computer test (I can type 75 wpm, but my Excel skills are lacking), I met with a fast-talking New Yorker who told me she’s going to amend my resume then send me on my way. What I once thought looked like an “eclectic” background, evidently makes me seem like I have no “focus,” with a little bit of music here, some publishing and film there.

Fortunately enough, I am able to turn down jobs at this point in my life, something I’ve already done a couple of times in the hopes of finding the one. By my own accord, I went to a few more interviews this week, some Canadian TV here, animation there, and, finally, one gig that I’m crossing my fingers and toes for: Someone would actually pay me to read novels all day and say, “Hey, this should be a movie.”

And if that doesn’t pan out, I’ll try temping, which will at least give me the opportunity to shove my little foot in the door somewhere. Then maybe my elbow will follow, shoulder, hands, the rest of it.

Puddle City Racing Lights

2007-11-13T19:36:00.000-05:00

image

Because it’s mandatory that I have a California drivers license, I carved out an entire afternoon for the DMV today. With me, I brought two scripts, a magazine, and a novel -- that’s how much time I thought I would have. Wasting away at the LA DMV is apparently a myth, however, seeing as I was in and out of there in less than an hour, with hardly any time at all to crack a script. I probably could’ve made it out of there faster, too, if I didn’t have to concentrate so hard on the written driving test.

Example:
You are going to make a left turn from a dedicated left-turn lane when a yellow arrow appears for your lane. You should:
a) Speed up to get through the intersection
b) Stop and not turn under any circumstance
c) Be prepared to obey the next signal that appears

Questions like these made my palms sweat and my mind clash. What makes a left-turn lane dedicated? In LA it seems illegal not to speed up for the left turn once that light hits yellow, but to not turn any under circumstance seems a bit extreme, and the third option just seems like filler.

So that was the sixth question I missed. The state only allows you to answer six questions incorrectly, which means I just barely scraped by, which is good enough for me. And, of course, during the height of rush hour, I almost spent more time in traffic on my way home than I did at the DMV.

Rough Stabs

2007-11-12T11:08:00.000-05:00

Either/Or

2007-11-07T18:42:00.000-05:00

This week, due to the WGA strike, Los Angeles is in a greater turmoil than when half of the homes in Malibu were covered in ashes. I have yet to encounter a single person who is unaffected by the strike, which is only going to get worse. What on the surface seems like such a frivolous remonstration – miners, nurses, cab drivers go on strike, not bourgeois writers – is in fact completely warranted. The writers should get paid for their work, all of it; to me it’s that simple. And every time I pass by Paramount on Melrose, I honk to the picketers to show my support, simultaneously kicking myself for picking the crummiest possible time to move to Hollywood.

Bridges and Balloons

2007-11-05T18:34:00.000-05:00

Yeah, after living in Los Angeles for only a little over a month, I'd forgotten that the rest of the country is experiencing actual seasons. So it was with great pleasure that I felt leaves crush underneath my boots in Seattle last weekend. Other notable satisfactions include: catching up with old/close friends, making apple crisp, drinking real coffee, late night lemon drops, joint haircuts, Pho, local oysters, book dissection, and basically reliving a town that I once thought I had memorized.

The Opposite of Hallelujah

2007-11-01T18:18:00.000-04:00

image

After a month, I feel like I’m really starting to ease into my Los Angeles lifestyle. Driving, keeping order on directions, and the freeways’ concrete tentacles, is a little less intimidating. With every week, I’m a little closer to not crashing my car.

Unemployment – also a lifestyle in itself – is bearable so long as you find creative ways to spend your time. There’s always the random PA gig and it seems like every schmo in this town has a script that needs “fresh eyes,” which is easy money. As the initial shock of not getting what I want has worn off, I’ve grown slightly more used to rejection on the job front. I guess that’s what I signed up for when I decided to enter the most competitive industry in the goddamn country.

In all honesty, though, it seems like it’d be awfully challenging to truly have a bad day here. The Los Angelinos are a determinedly happy group and the scenery does not allow for it to be otherwise.

Over the Ice

2007-10-29T18:29:00.000-04:00

Friday night was a birthday party at Liberace's old penthouse in West Hollywood. Hollywood birthday parties are funny because it's hard to believe that someone could really have over 400 friends, but apparently there are friends and then there are "industry friends." Either way, I could get used to going to parties where old celebrities used to reside. The penthouse offered a sweeping view of the city, a lima bean-shaped pool with an entwining bird fountain, and a gigantic fireplace. But the best part was walking into the flamboyant entertainer's old bathroom, where you're greeted with five million reflections of yourself, as every inch of the room is mirrored.

Saturday, dressed as the Sun-Maid, I co-hosted a Halloween party that was a little more down to earth, but just as much fun. People in Los Angeles really know how to do Halloween, since the combination of actors, makeup artists, etc. guarantee for an eye catching costume selection. What I like best about these fetes, though, is that with all the craftspeople on the guest list, there's the knowledge that at any given moment, a movie could be thrown together. Also, there was a pinata, which made me decide that I can only co-host a party if a pinata is involved.

Real Gone

2007-10-23T18:12:00.000-04:00

I recently saw two dynamite movies back-to-back: Lars and the Real Girl & Wristcutters: A Love Story. Both films have unbelievably twisted plots that would seem ridiculous on first read. But with incredible acting and a suspension of disbelief, these stories are well executed. There’s an alternate world in each film. In Lars, an entire town is deluded into falling in love with a mannequin, while in Wristcutters, two people actually find love in a land of suicides. Wristcutters made do with a much smaller budget, somehow producing really cool set pieces, while Lars would’ve fallen completely on its face had it not been for Ryan Gosling (my new favorite, move over Jake Gyllenhaal), and both have an awesome score. And, naturally, they made me even more excited to be changing career paths.

Smokey Rolls Down Thunder Canyon

2007-10-22T17:44:00.000-04:00

Kat, one of my three friends in this city, called me at 8:21 on Sunday night. I didn’t have my phone on me and so it went to voicemail, where she asked if she could stay at my place because the fire was creeping dangerously close to her apartment. I didn’t get the message until two hours later, making me feel like a horrible friend.

Up Around the Bend

2007-10-15T15:31:00.000-04:00

A couple nights ago, I was reunited with my personal music gurus, Zach+Jed. They were DJing this party I'd been looking forward to for a while now, hyped up for being in the Hollywood Hills, the house where both Fred Astaire and Einstein used to live (at separate times, of course).

I have to admit I was a little disappointed upon arrival, unfortunately. The location isn't so much in the Hollywood Hills, as the Hollywood foothills. And the house itself isn't as grandiose as I expected. Sure, it held 500 people, but there was no pool or sweeping view of the Hollywood sign.

I'm sure Astaire and Einstein lived there at one point, before their careers really took off. But to be honest, Astaire probably never took Ginger back to that little hovel, and Einstein maybe practiced his math there, but it was definitely not fit for his physics exercises.

Nonetheless, Zach and Jed spun a good set, especially since they're the only DJ's I know who aren't afraid to put on some Waylon Jennings every once in a while. And the crowd was certainly easy on the eyes, suitable enough for a first Hollywood party.

In Rainbows

2007-10-12T17:34:00.000-04:00

image

Oh and my apartment itself is also lovely. Using trusty old Craigslist led me to a place that's month-to-month, fully furnished -- just the way I like it. I'm living in the back house that belongs to a funky little hippie family. I share the house with a girl named Destinee, and the rest of the family is always floating around. There are two small blond Californian boys who run around all afternoon without shoes on, a dog on his last leg that's comparable in size to a cow, and a cat that respects my space. The downtown view from my bedroom window is only slightly obscured by a giagantic cactus. To add to the country house flavor, there's also an orange tree, a grapevine, and a bush of Hell's Bells, which is some kind of hallucinatory plant. I'm not making any of this up.

Good Bad Not Evil

2007-10-11T17:27:00.000-04:00

image

I’m pretty happy with my chosen neighborhood, Echo Park. Out of all the neighborhoods in LA, this one makes the most sense to me because, uh, it’s the coolest. This district is a bit rougher around the edges than the others, kinda like the LA equivalent to Brooklyn’s Bushwick.

Just on the tip of gentrification, Echo Park features block-by-block perimeters of progress. For instance, there are chunks of coffee shops and concert venues in one area, and then you drive six blocks south and it’s like Guatemala City circa 1994. But that’s what makes it so cool – you never know what you’re going to get. Yes, some parts are slightly…sketchy (broken down meth houses, etc.), but those areas are just as easy to avoid.

Sometimes, when I’m hanging out around the lake, I feel like the only white person in the entire park. I love it. The park itself is already lively enough, with ducks, birds, geese, and when you throw in the street vendors, the fishers (catch & release), and the family picnics, the Saturday Quinceaneras, the nappers and the joggers, you have a real sense of community that’s pulling together after a patch of rough luck.

It’s like I was just saying the other day: After a while, when you look out the kitchen window, you don’t really notice the bars anymore. They just blend right in, adding a second frame to the scenery.

The Village Green Preservation Society

2007-10-09T14:08:00.000-04:00

Grow Grow Grow

2007-10-05T16:09:00.000-04:00

image

Is it sick that I actually get a thrill from going on job interviews? Because I’ve been going on quite a lot lately and I just can’t seem to get enough. And since I’ve been blindly sending my resume out to anybody I can get my hands on, the results have been varied.

Sometimes, I get called in to interview for a job that I have no recollection of applying to, and therefore no idea of what I am actually interviewing for, which makes for a delicate meeting. That’s usually when I spend the first ten minutes tap dancing around questions, before figuring out that I have no need whatsoever for the job. At which point, it’s time for me to finagle my way out of the interview.

Or, just for kicks, I sat through 45 minutes of an informational interview, before realizing I was in Pierce Brosman’s office, movie star not present.

And then there are interviews for jobs that I never knew I wanted, until it becomes the sole basis of my desire for an entire week.

That’s when I end up sitting in the Hitchcock theatre on the Universal Studios lot with a big-deal producer/director who is too distracted by the sound mixing board to really focus on the interview, except when he points out that if I am to work for him, I should know that he’s a low maintenance guy with high maintenance needs.

Or I find myself in a shi-shi West Hollywood coffee shop, with a successful Creative Executive, carrying on what I perceive to be a solid conversation about our respective hobbies and families. That is, until we are parting ways and she lets this bomb drop: “Well, good luck in LA, keep your chin up.”

Good luck in LA. Keep your chin up. Really? Because my chin is already up and it’s been that way for a couple of weeks now. And I wanted to tell her that. I also wanted to tell her that she’s making a huge mistake in not hiring me based on my lack of “industry” experience.

But I didn’t tell her any of those things. Instead, I took my overpriced Moroccan mint iced tea, and drove away, after inserting this new device I bought that allows me to talk while I drive. That’s when I call my best friend and tell her all of the things I wanted to tell the Executive.

Song for a Future Generation

2007-10-04T18:51:00.000-04:00

My good buddy, Bree, was in town from Seattle for a couple of days with her ramshackle pop band, Tacocat. Sadly enough, their LA show fell through, but we did get to catch up over pizza for a couple of hours before they headed off to their next show in Davis. Here's a little account of life on the road with Tacocat:

I had spent the afternoon silk screening our band t-shirts with Megan from Don’t Stop Believin’ Records. It has a dolphin on a walker, but the dolphin isn’t crippled. It’s just the only way it can walk on land. I also make several dozen pairs of cat ears as a cheap, gimmicky way to make some gas money since we don’t have a record to sell yet. Ears sell like hotcakes.

Watching You Well

2007-10-03T20:05:00.000-04:00

With nothing to do today, I responded to a Craigslist ad, volunteering as a PA (Production Assistant) on a music video shoot for the band Vagabond Opera. I'd never actually been on a set before, and it was probably the most fun work I've ever done. As a PA, I ran all kinds of random errands (snack run for the crew, quarters for the parking meters), did makeup for the band, a little bit of Art Department work, and was just a general right hand gal for the director.

Shooting a music video is hard work and can be tedious at times. There's a lot of waiting around, waiting for the techies to do their thing. In the movies, when they're making a movie, and there's 'Lights! Camera! Action!', what they really mean is 'Lights!'. It's astounding to me how much time is devoted to perfecting the lighting in every single shot.

Of course, it really helps that the band actually plays pretty decent music -- kind of a mix between Morphine and Squirrel Nut Zippers, with two saxophones, a stand up bass, drums, and cello -- and they were extremely genuine and low maintenance (as most people from Portland usually are).

Since the video was done with such a low budget (or "Micro Budget"), there were only 15 people in total on the crew, making for fast camaraderie on set. The video was so low budge, however, that when the backup dancers failed to show, I was called on as a replacement. First as a blonde German school teacher, then as a kielbasa-slinging cabaret girl, and, finally, as Greta Garbo.

Start to Dreaming

2007-10-02T22:01:00.000-04:00

image

In between all this driving, I've been exploring. Since I'm still looking for a job, I've found that Los Angeles is a really great town to be unemployed in, the distractions unlimited. There was an Air show at the Greek Theatre, a night out in Venice, trips to Culver City, Santa Monica, and Studio City, Downtown, Los Feliz, Silver Lake, Echo Park, and Eagle Rock, not to mention Hollywood & West Hollywood.

There was also a day hike in Elysian Park, with half a view of the city and the other half offering desert, and the National concert, when an old NY pal hooked us up with backstage passes, a job interview on the Fox lot (!), and on average, I eat Mexican food about once a day, don't think I'll ever get sick of that.

I haven't really been stuck in serious traffic yet, although I do welcome little spurts of it because it gives me time to reflect (i.e: get my act together and figure out where I'm going). And U-turns seem to be totally legal here, which is pretty convenient.

Cease to Begin

2007-10-01T18:55:00.000-04:00

image

I arrived in LA one week & three days ago and, since then, I've been doing a lot of driving. This whole driving bit is new to me, considering I hadn't really driven a car in about six years. But I'm getting the hang of it. Sometimes it's cool -- it almost feels like a video game -- and sometimes it's not. I get lost, a lot.

And no matter that I learned how to parallel park prior to moving here, I still need tons of practice in that arena. People love to honk at me when I'm parking! Not that I care, although I have decided that I don't really mind walking fifteen minutes from my parking space to my destination, so long as it means I don't have to parallel park.

At times, though, driving for me is downright terrifying. The 110 at night, for instance, seems to stretch into thirty different lanes, with cars zooming by at over 80mph, the "eye-in-the-sky" helicopter looming above, looking for whatever outlaw is on the lose.

And, this one time, I almost killed a man (pedestrian). Damn near drove right into him, giving him quite the scare, poor guy. I was making a right turn and I guess I didn't check right one more time, like you're supposed to, and whoops. But I was quick on the brakes, he was spry, and I probably would've only broken his legs anyway.

Yes, some days are better than others.

Dusty Skies

2007-09-21T12:29:00.000-04:00

My dad taught me how to parallel park yesterday, which was like getting driving instructions from Groucho Marx. And even though I'm leaving for Los Angeles today, without a job or apartment lined up, at least I can parallel park a car. Not that I have a car yet to parallel park, but I'll figure that out once I'm there. Or a parking space for the car, don't have that yet. But these are just minor details.

Heart Food

2007-09-14T15:55:00.000-04:00

It's not all relaxation on the homestead, though, especially when following my dad's motto, "You don't work, you don't eat." Lamps, that's how we make a living around here. For 30 years now, my parents have been running the most expansive lamp store in the Southeast, one of the last tried and true Mom & Pop stores of its kind. And when I'm home, I work. It's not always so glamorous, helping Southern housewives with too much time on their hands find the lamps of their dreams. But all those lamps put me and my two older brothers through college, as well as instill in me a heightened appreciation for light fixtures that goes beyond the average human's basic understanding of light.

Bringing It All Back Home

2007-09-12T16:56:00.000-04:00

But before moving to Los Angeles, I am taking a pit stop in Nashville for a couple of weeks to catch up with my family. After falling into a grilled cheese rut back in New York, it feels good to have access to a real kitchen and nothing, absolutely nothing, beats sitting around the dinner table with my family. The first weekend I was home, I experimented with different cocktails of relaxation cocktails: sleeping in, catching up on TV (my grandmother's endless loop of Law and Order and Turner Classic Movies), reading, and movies. It's pretty easy to fully appreciate all the amenities of home, from my mom's old collection of vinyl she's been carting around since the '60's, to this one drawer she has that contains about eight kinds of scotch tape.

Off Night Backstreet

2007-09-06T14:22:00.000-04:00

For my final night in New York, Tina and I ordered up some street meat from the best vendor in town and positioned ourselves on a bench in Tompkins Square Park, where we were entertained by rats and drug deals. Then we headed over to 11th & A for a little going away party, where I managed to wrangle together as many of my local dears as possible for a bittersweet farewell.

And now, New York, it's time for Los Angeles. I've been plotting this move for quite some time, ever since I decided that I want to make movies, not websites, and I definitely do not want to face another New York winter. And, fine, maybe I have a boyf out there who I'm a little wild about but, ultimately, I just get a really big high off moving to new cities.

Every Artist Needs a Tragedy

2007-08-28T12:38:00.000-04:00

This image was e-mailed to me this morning by a dear old pal with the instructions to "enjoy the last few weeks of summer." I haven't yet heard the album, bc it's a bitch to find, but I think it's the most perfect piece of cover art I've ever seen.

Off the Wall

2007-08-27T18:02:00.000-04:00

photo

When stepping outside felt like entering a sauna last weekend, we took another trip to the South Bronx for a 30th birthday party. There’s nothing like cramming into a house party with no A/C and about 50 other people on one of the most humid nights of the year. At one point, it was so hot that we stood by the open fridge, using frozen peas as a cold compress. Maybe I’m looking forward to 30 now, since it seems like an excuse to have a banging party with drag queens and belly dancers. At one point, I found myself dancing with a crowd of Dominicans, Indians, and whatever else, which is definitely more diverse than another Saturday night on the Lower East Side. Gotta love the melting pot, especially when it's boiling.

All Day and All of the Night

2007-08-24T18:35:00.000-04:00

Last night’s performance of A Midsummer Night’s Dream, in Central Park, was thankfully uninterrupted by rain. Again, the set was well utilized; sharing center stage with the actors was a giant tree laying way for the faeries’ athletic acrobats and Titania’s dotage. Of course, Bottom and his fellow craftsmen steal the show (within the show, I guess), leading the play into a more whimsical element, although I could’ve done without the musical number at the end. Following the show, we filed into the quad of Belvedere Castle for the after party. There was food, dancing, Raul Julia’s son, Raul Julia Jr., who is incredibly charming, and Jeff Goldblum, who is freakishly tall but approachable (although we didn’t have much to say to each other).

Rain in Numbers

2007-08-23T18:40:00.000-04:00

Beach House play hazy, organ-saturated pop that evokes more autumnal environs than the summer coastal outing their name implies. Papercuts specialize in layered, lo-fi narratives, while Tiny Vipers feature perfectly placed guitar echoes and the dramatically lilting vocals of Jesy Fortino, who sounds like Joanna Newsom covering Björk.
- TS

Dance This Mess Around

2007-08-20T19:03:00.000-04:00

A great portion of last weekend was spent looking up at the sky. With weather permitting, it began with a trip back to PS1 at dusk to check out the James Turrell piece, Meeting. Walking into a white, rectangular room, we were greeted with an open roof and a row of benches, the ceiling working as a frame for the sky’s canvas. So we sat down and watched the sky change colors for about twenty minutes, which seemed like twenty hours, while listening to the erratic thumping of the DJ below us. The exhibit is pretty spectacular, but I probably would’ve liked it more under calmer circumstances.

Then there was a vat of mussels in SoHo, a dark, crowded dance floor on the LES, a NY Pickabagel, delicious, the Summer of Love psychedelic exhibit at the Whitney, also spectacular in its own way, and a Tibetan meal.

All I wanted to do on Sunday night was go to the top of the Empire State Building because I hadn’t made that trek yet, even though I look at it every day from my fire escape. As luck would have it, the best way to bypass the lines for that tourist trap is to go at 9pm on a Sunday evening, when it’s raining. At every stop in that building, a different attendant would warn us, “Zero visibility. There is zero visibility tonight; you will not be able to see anything. Zero visibility.”

But what did I care? After hearing “Zero visibility” over thirty times, I became stubborn. There was no way we weren’t going to the top of that building. I never get to summit an 86-floor elevation and, well, maybe I like clouds. I appreciate a good vapor, who doesn’t? When we finally reached the top, we saw what I would estimate to be a ten visibility, at least. Maybe 8.5. And it was awesome, with only a handful of people up there, and a noir view of the city, we could see all the major buildings. What the hell else can you see on a 100 visibility night in New York anyway?

Human Highway

2007-08-17T17:29:00.000-04:00

Lately, my esteemed colleague Andy and I have been devoting every Thursday to an entire band's discography. This involves listening to only one band from first thing in the morning until we are ready to leave for the day. Last week, we covered Can, which I was really into at first. But by hour five, I almost went out of my mind. Yesterday, we tackled Neil Young: After the Gold Rush, Comes a Time, Everybody Knows, Freedom, Live at Massey, On the Beach, Rust Never Sleep, Tonight’s the Night. Unlike an entire day of Can, listening to nine hours of Neil Young is pretty sweet and highly suggested.

Permanent Smile

2007-08-15T18:20:00.000-04:00

photo

The other day, I went to Philly to see my great aunt on the eve of her 92nd birthday. 92 years old, I can’t even imagine what that’s like. Everything seems to be okay with Aunt Bea and her wit is still sharper than most people I know. Her health, too, is in good form, so at least I have solid genes backing up my cause.

Actually, the only ailment she really suffers from is chronic complaint. She’s very good at complaining and has taken years, decades even, to master the form. Her timing is impeccable, her acuity spot-on. For instance, she took me out to eat in the diner in her building, after insisting that the place is not fit for humans. When the waitress asked for my order, I said I would like an omelet.

“Why would you get an omelet here,” my Aunt Bea chimed in, “do you want to eat a brick for breakfast? They don’t cook omelets here like your grandmothers; they’re not light and fluffy. We know how to cook in my family, but they don’t know how to cook here.”

Yet I insisted, partly because when you’re in the mood for an omelet, nothing else will do, but mostly because I felt bad for the waitress, who tried to defend the restaurant’s omelets against my great aunt’s tirade.

When my omelet arrived, Aunt Bea admitted that it didn’t look so bad. I informed her that it’s because I ordered it with egg whites.

“What are you messing around with egg whites for? You’re 25 years old, you don’t even know what cholesterol is, and I know a million girls who’d kill for your figure. People ask me how I got to be 92 years old and I tell them, it’s because I eat whatever the hell I want!”

So there you have it: if you want to live to be 92 years old, just eat whatever the hell you want.

Outside Chance

2007-08-14T18:40:00.000-04:00

Rocket Science, directed & written by Jeffrey Blitz, is the best little indie movie I’ve seen in a long while. Everything about this film, centered on a stuttering high school debate candidate, is ideal in my opinion: the plot, the acting (especially the acting), the dialogue, score, and pacing. Even the ending, which could’ve been really sappy, is the perfect final touch. Yep, it’s kinda like if Wes Anderson had directed Napoleon Dynamite. Go see it! Now.

Weatherbees

2007-08-13T18:59:00.000-04:00

photo

The highlight of last weekend was a trip out to P.S.1 in Queens, whatta cool space. The galleries, presented by MoMA, feature photo collages, skeletal installations, neon abstractions, and narrative linocuts. We missed the James Turrell exhibit, unfortunately, because it’s only open for a short time right at sunset. And the music was okay, but the dancing was even better, with hundreds and hundreds of people crowded into a single courtyard.

At one point, I felt a shower of water and looked up, expecting rain. But the sky was cloudless and the water was only falling on a select group of people. Turns out that we were standing directly under a collection of water buckets and, while my first inclination was to move to another location, I decided that the mini showers were refreshing. So we stayed in that spot. It was quite a natural thing to do, although it seems a little strange now in the telling.

Mango Pickle Down the River

2007-08-08T19:12:00.000-04:00

photo

Torrential downpour causes severe train delays in the morning and, even though I talked to her on my walk to work, I still receive a slightly frantic voicemail from my mother in the afternoon. She knows I was screening her call and so she sends an e-mail peppered with capital letters, “BE CAREFUL.”

In my Internet frenzy, I ignore the e-mail because even when a bridge collapses in Minneapolis, I still receive the same instructions. National news makes people nervous.

I suspected this last Tuesday when we stood on the banks of the Hudson (coast of the West Village) at night and my brain was passively parading in front of me, kind of like if the New Jersey party boat gliding past us were in fact a Mississippi riverboat circa Mark Twain.

On an unrelated note, I think it’s important to my sanity to keep close two friends whose work is completely unrelated to mine. Meeting up with a social worker and a law student at least once a weeks helps me set things in perspective, feel more grounded at least. No matter what, the social worker’s day is ten times heavier than mine could ever be, and it's just fun to argue with the law student.

Take the 'A' Train

2007-08-05T18:47:00.000-04:00

Ever since I moved here, about two years ago, all I’ve wanted to do is take a tap dancing class. I hadn’t participated in one since the 8th grade and what better place to pick up this hobby again than New York? So I motivated my old partner, Ms. Howell, and we found a studio that allows you to drop by for an hour and a half class at only $14. But would you believe that there is not a single place in this entire goddamn city that rents tap shoes?

So we showed up to the studio on West 38th at 11:30 on Saturday morning in the best substitute we could find: high heels. When she noticed, the teacher gave us a good-luck-you’ll-need-it look. I didn’t care, though, since the studio was exactly what I had in mind for my New York tap dancing session: it’s open and airy, with hard wood floors, one wall of mirrors, and another wall of windows looking out onto the city. Also, when you consider the location of the studio, and use a slight stretch of imagination, we were practically dancing on Broadway.

Of course, once we started, I realized that I just don’t have it anymore, the tap dancing skills. I was a little rusty, I must admit, not that this stopped me from enjoying the class. After each routine, the teacher, an animated woman with melting makeup, would offer advice, critiques, and high fives. Ms. Howell and I both received a number of high fives, and the teacher even told me that I have “spirit.”

But tap dancing is really hard, dear blahg, and it’s not enough just to keep up. You have to have grace and timing, since it’s all about anticipating the perfect place to shift your weight. Mostly, though, it’s about moves, and I have no moves. While the teacher was happy to have us, I got the feeling the rest of the class was a little resentful towards our dropping in on a whim.

I had hoped for a class full of washed up Broadway starlets. Instead, it was an odd mix of people who took the class a little too seriously for my taste. You will never see these people again, I told myself as Ms. Howell and I flap ball-changed across the floor in a pair exercise, the entire class watching our fumbled steps and listening to our hollow taps.

Now that was a little awkward. But I still have the digs and cramp rolls down and no matter how sloppy your feet look, as long as you keep the arms going, with a smile plastered to the face, you’re fine. Right in the thick of the shuffle exercises, with twenty minutes left, I glanced over at Ms. Howell, in heels at least two inches higher than mine, and we exchanged a look of pure pain. I could no longer feel my feet but at least I could check this off on my list of things to do.

Into the Groove

2007-08-02T18:23:00.000-04:00

I don't know why I'd never been to Monkey Town, a cool little space in Williamsburg that's so far over, it's practically by the water. When you walk past the first half of the restaurant, through a starkly lit hallway, you enter a giant room lined with low white couches and projection screens, one for each of the four walls. But I finally went last night when my coworker, Zolton Zavos (whatta name, he's Australian) was hosting a movie party.

The movie of choice was Desperately Seeking Susan, starring none other than Madonna, along with Rosanna Arquette and Aidan Quinn, in a madcap set of coincidences and mistaken identity. The greatest thing about the movie, of course, is Madonna. Here's Madonna when she was still Madonna, before she glazed the cover of Redbook, and actually had star persona. Her grifter character steals every scene, always punctuated by her distinctive style and smug smile.

Clothing, too, plays a large role in this one. As Roberta (Arquette), the New Jersey housewife, covets the romantic life of Susan (Madonna), setting the plot into motion by coveting her denim, pyramid-bejewelled jacket, each scene centers around a different commodity or costume signifier. Finally, when the duo returns a priceless pair of Egyptian earrings, which Susan stole at the beginning of the film, they become heroes.

But you can't forget the city. Desperately Seeking Susan takes place in a pre-Giuliani New York, where Aidan Quinn works as a projectionist, yet manages to live in giant Chinatown loft; the parties in Chelsea still had edge, and the Lower East Side was actually dangerous. It scared the crap out of me when I was little, but now I appreciate it as a strange, welcoming fossil from 1985. And, I tell you, it's held up through the years.

'Cross the Breeze

2007-07-30T18:42:00.000-04:00

To see Sonic Youth perform Daydream Nation at McCarren Pool is a concert I'd been looking forward to for a long time. Or, to be more specific, I guess you could say I'd been waiting for it my entire life. One of the most prolific, long-lasting rock bands of its kind, Sonic Youth should be regarded as a national treasure. The set list came as no surprise, since they were playing directly from their 1988 groundbreaking album, but it still brought on a slightly euphoric feeling when hearing the first few riffs of "Teen Age Riot."

I guess enough pent up anticipation will do that to you. After finishing the album, they came back for an encore with a bunch of songs from Rather Ripped, "bringing it back to the 21st Century," as Thurston Moore put it, allowing Kim Gordon to focus only on the vocals and swinging dance moves. There really is nothing like seeing a couple of 50-somethings get guitarded on stage while you stand below in an emptied out, Olympic size pool with hundreds of other dedicated listeners.

Oblivion with Bells

2007-07-27T18:25:00.000-04:00

Even though it's a dimly lit camera phone pic, I decided that is my favorite view of the city. Taken from the 22nd floor of an office building in Tribeca, during an art opening for photographers who would shun my amateur use of a picture-taking device, the above photo shows Manhattan just after sunset, where Chinatown leaves way for an unobstructed view of Midtown.

Since it's the most desired, and therefore expensive, neighborhood in the entire city, I am obviously not the only one who thinks Tribeca has the best views of the town. The art opening itself was decent enough, even though I felt like the shortest person in the room, with everybody else looking like something really good off a '93 Calvin Klein runway.

A lot of the art was just silly (images of Mickey and Minnie Mouse humping) or irrelevant (pics that looked like they were ripped from a Victoria's Secret catalogue), but we were there for Adam's cousin, who had the best collection in the entire show. Based in LA, Chris places models in hyper realistic backgrounds, allowing the human and landscape beauty to compete freely with one another.

Take, for instance, this pic, of a girl standing in NYC, the action of the city enveloping her while she gives in, wearing sensible shoes, high heels in hand. In contrast, there is this LA woman. Chris said that he chose this model from her Internet submissions because she had a stunning portfolio. But when she showed up for the shoot, she was washed out, faded, pale with acne. So he set the photo in black and white, focusing more on the smog-engulfed hills.

But lesson learned: nothing ever transmits fully over the Internet. Like my camera phone pic, the image of the girl with the hose is much more captivating when seen in full view.

Here Comes the Nice

2007-07-23T18:30:00.000-04:00

Summer weekends have a tricky way of rolling into one, drawn out affair. Or maybe this just occurs in New York, where the fluidity of the city only truly takes effect in the summer months. There’s always some kind of outdoor festival, concert, or rooftop gathering, and you have no other choice but to go with it.

In the couple of weekends, there was the slightly claustrophobic Richard Serra exhibit, the One Night of Fire event, a sprawling assembly of tweaked out urban hippies on the Brooklyn Bridge, an informal rooftop voyeurism festival on the Lower East Side, a French Toast and rhubarb extravaganza in Greenpoint, an art opening in SoHo, a near encounter with food poisoning in Union Square (take note: avoid Zen Palate at all costs), some kind of multimedia thing in Chelsea that my brain is still grappling with, two summer blockbusters, and to-go margs at every opportunity.

Most recently, we all headed to Coney Island for the Siren Festival, which is widely rumored to be the last. Faced with the interminable crowds and bellies full of Nathan’s hot dogs, we decided that the best escape from the mayhem would be to take a spin on the Cyclone. So with the Black Lips playing in the background, we boarded the rickety, 70-year-old wooden roller coaster and held on for dear lives.

Only I was with two couples, so my partner for the ride was a sugary little ten year old girl named Katie. Katie is now my personal hero, because at every turn of impending death, I would catch a glimpse of her, cool as a cucumber, calmly enjoying the ride, whereas I was the exact opposite: tears streaming down my face, screaming at the top of my lungs one long exclamation, “FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCKKKKKKKKK.”

Look Through Any Window

2007-07-12T18:35:00.000-04:00

It was pretty late at work the other night, when a song came on the server that grabbed my attention. It's the kind of 70's pop ballad that's always refreshing to hear after listening to what feels like an endless loop of Chromeo or whatever else the flavor of the month is in our office. I didn't think much of it, but my esteemed colleague, Andy aka the Beard, jumped up to investigate.

To an avid record collector like Andy, listening to a song without knowing the artist is sacrilegious. And to be fair, this really isn’t just any song. It’s eerie and catchy, a hard combination to master. When he came back to the editorial corner, he had the name of the band and song, along with a wild look in his eye. The band is old, but new.

A Raincoat, It Came in the Night.

We set out to do some quick research on the web, yielding sparse results in terms of Google hits, which deems the band obscure in my book. See this article, by a dude who spent seven years tracking down the unreleased single. To spend seven years looking for a song is a little much in my opinion, but I can sort of see what motivated the guy. It’s pretty tragic that a band that good could so easily float off into obscurity like that, especially when there is so much mediocre music/art that is so easily being released today.

Regatta de Blanc

2007-07-09T18:46:00.000-04:00

The point of any successful vacay should be to lead a life that is completely opposite from your normal day-to-day routine, and in Jamaica we managed to do just that. Some fools brought Blackberries and laptops, which seemed hideously out of place in the Caribbean paradise, but I was perfectly content not to stare at a single screen for five days.

Instead, my hours were spent in a consistent state of active relaxation, swimming, eating, kayaking, snorkeling, eating, mingling with locals, dancing, napping, and beaching. One afternoon, when we were holed up in a Rasta hut after getting caught in a torrential downpour – it happens every afternoon in the tropics, they call it liquid sunshine, when the rain shoots directly through the sun – I learned the real way to eat a mango. Apparently, the trick is to peel each strip of skin back with your teeth and then bite into in a rotating fashion, using the cluster of skins for leverage, similar to eating corn on the cob. From then on, while some guests were hooked on the ganja, I was addicted to the fruit, both of which were available in equal abundance.

Negril, the area we were staying in, is about an hour from Montego Bay and full of gringo tourist traps that you have to navigate through in order to find the true destinations of the locals. Some of our best meals were had in shacks, and I went on an all seafood kick, only breaking from it when tasting the occasional jerk chicken plate.

When the Jamaicans are comfortable in your presence, though, they let their real accents out in a slow rhythmic mix of slang, and it becomes hard to believe that we’re all speaking the same language. The only other base of comparison I have to this language barrier is drinking pints in the UK with a couple of old Irish villagers. Or, stateside, it’s kind of similar to trying to differentiate between a Boston and Maine dialect.

The wedding itself was lovely, with less than 40 people in the ceremony, and directly on the beach, sunset in the background. In the company of such a small amount of spectators, it seemed almost like we were spying on a couple’s elopement. My favorite part of the ceremony, though, is that for some reason we ate the cake before dinner, which is how I think every meal should be fulfilled.

Indeed, it was a life of fantasy, the best kind really. And now I’m back in the daily grind, thinking about how I’d give anything to trade my job tasks with the stress of deciding how much SPF to use or whether to order a Pina Colada or Daiquiri.

Outsideinside

2007-07-03T16:31:00.001-04:00

photo

Well, blahg, I'm off to Jamaica now for some weddingry. That's Jamaica, the island, not Jamaica, Queens. I know, my life is really hard.

Kissability

2007-07-02T18:50:00.000-04:00

Last night at Craft (three point five stars, one of the best meals I’ve had in NYC), I was appalled by the behavior of the group sitting next to us. They were dressed in blue jeans and baseball caps, and they weren’t even talking, as they were too busy playing with their new iPhones. “They’re trying not to be recognized,” our waiter informed us.

Upon closer inspection, I was sitting five feet away from Leonardo DiCaprio, who was eating dinner with Q-Tip, which almost caused the beet risotto to jump from my stomach. Leonardo DiCaprio, the sole recipient of my desire as a 15-year-old! His image used to be plastered all over the walls of my bedroom, not to mention my heart.

And what a useful infatuation to have at fifteen years old, since it also served as my alibi. When Titanic came out, it’s true I saw it once and loved every minute. But then every Friday for an entire month, I told my parents I was going to dinner with friends and seeing Titanic, yet again. That gave me a five hour time slot to ride around in cars with boys and do other harmless acts that were strictly banned from my 8th grade repertoire, only feeling slightly guilty when my grandmother presented to me a Leonardo DiCaprio fan book on my birthday.

Yet now we’ve both aged a bit, Leo and me, and that spark is gone. How Leo managed to make me swoon so hard, I no longer know. Maybe it was his crude table manners – he actually used his knife as a fork – or maybe I am just jealous of his iPhone. But, really, idolized screen stars are not meant to be seen in real life.

The real is always weak; the imagination is by nature platonic. It concentrates and fills in the missing parts, making everything, everybody better looking. So that even when I saw his version of Romeo, along with every other lovesick teenybopper, we were all filling in what was not there on the screen. And it’s the filling that first falls apart against the sight of the real.

Oh Leo, you hurt me so.

Happydaystoytown

2007-06-25T19:31:00.000-04:00

Everything was in full color last weekend. There was a rooftop soiree alongside a gray wolf mural, a psychedelic (but not overly so) Panda Bear show at the Bowery, and an overwhelmingly bright Pride parade on Sunday afternoon. And there you have it: New York has officially reached summer.

After the Gold Rush

2007-06-20T18:24:00.000-04:00

The difference between a gala and a party, I found out, is that you pay something like $2,500 a plate at a gala. At least that's what patrons were doing at the opening of Romeo and Juliet in Central Park last night. No thanks (impossible). But I did get dressed up -- although no matter what you wear in that kind of crowd, it never feels like enough -- and joined in on the celebrity gazing and lemonade-vodka cocktails.

The play itself is dazzling, with a rotating, bare-bones set featuring a shallow moat which every character at one point dips into, their waterlogged actions reflecting the sentiment of the moment. The trees provide a fitting canopy to the setting and the moon works well with Shakespeare's words. The acting is topnotch; the rollie-smoking, raw-mannered nurse standing out in particular. It's hard to pinpoint exactly what time period the production is going for, since Romeo has a surf dude slacker act going on, the pair meets at a flamenco-styled party, and all the costumes are a mishmash of period pieces.

But then, just as Juliet had taken the potion and the nurse came in to wake her, it started to rain. It was not just drizzling, it was pouring. They say that people watched the Globe performances rain or shine -- the show must go on -- but this is not the case in Central Park, as there was a mild tint of hysteria when the crowd bolted from its seats. Yet a group that pays $2,500 a plate is slow moving and it took a while for everybody to shuffle out of the theatre into the park. It didn't really bother me, though. The rain being the only true tragedy of the evening, I like leaving Romeo and Juliet in bliss.

No Shouts No Calls

2007-06-19T18:33:00.000-04:00

For the record, I don't like Michael Moore. But I do think his new film, Sicko, is definitely worth checking out, even if you have to make the slow Q train commute to Prospect Heights to watch the pirated version on a laptop while crammed onto a couch with three other people. A trip like that is worth it because his new film isn't as polarizing as the others; it's more cut and dry, less looped out liberal. The American healthcare system actually hires people whose sole purpose is to screw you over. Everybody can relate to this film because everybody knows somebody who's been there. Of course there's more to it than that, just as his argument, like everything else he touches, has ample room for flaws (would he choose to have a tumor treated in Canada or Cuba instead of the US? nope.). I'm just saying that it's easier to watch than his other films, no matter how many people are crammed onto the couch alongside you.

The Greater Times

2007-06-18T18:22:00.000-04:00

Hanging around my girlfriends is like huffing compressed joy. These days, however, I have to make a trip all the way to Chicago to do so. Chicago is like a flat wasteland of fat people, only on their way to getting fatter, a sad excuse for a city. Other than that, we had a great time. Because it's the company you keep, see, not where you're keeping it. Although I can't think of a single thing we did over the course of two days, I know for a fact that it was fun. But damnit, I wish my friends weren't so dissipated.

Comfy in Nautica

2007-06-11T18:33:00.000-04:00

Image

Last weekend, four of us rented a car, ditched our routines, and took off for Wolfeboro Falls, New Hampshire. After spending almost an hour stuck in Manhattan's Friday evening rush hour traffic, driving through Connecticut (the most nondescript state I've ever seen) and Massachusetts took us about five hours, with a couple stops here and there. Adam is a tall guy and so, naturally, his entire family is tall and they live in a gigantic house, on an expansive slab of land, overlooking a gigantic lake surrounded by gigantic trees. As soon as we arrived, his parents started feeding us and then they never stopped.

And in the morning, the strangest thing happened: nothing woke me up. I could feel at ease in all that quietude, even when we spotted bats playing in front of the porch one night. I'd much rather go rural than deal with a trifling city. But all that space in between sounds, all that driving along empty strips in a car just made everything I arrived back to on Sunday night -- my smelly city, dumpy apartment, fire escape perch, sliver of a view -- seem oddly refreshing.

Vicious Traditions

2007-06-11T16:31:00.000-04:00

Even though I've only seen a total of three Sopranos episodes, and this superbly edited little clip, I had to watch the finale last night. I wanted to feel a small part of the phenomenon and, well, I'm a sucker. Having felt no connection to any of the characters, least of all Tony, I wanted somebody big to die last night and I was disappointed when that didn't happen. Actually, I was pissed off. Today, however, I couldn't get Journey out of my head. I also hunted down the poem that the little turd A.J. referenced and it all makes sense. The entire episode plays out like Yeats says, and now I think David Chase is kind of brilliant. Nonetheless, I don't think I am going to spend two months of my life watching the entire show.

Young Team

2007-06-01T20:44:00.000-04:00

photo

I decided I would never want to be a kid in this city. Not that I've ever personally met any city kids, but I can imagine. I see them in the parks, on the streets, everywhere. Just the other day, I sat across from one on the train ride home after work. He appeared to be about 8 and as though he was unceremoniously placed on Ritalin a few weeks ago. I guess the drug wears off in the early evening and the kid begins an hour-long phase of manic, uninhibited hyperactivity. His eyes were like a plastic googly set, the pupils just constantly, rapidly, arbitrarily rattling around in psychotic-looking orbits. Everybody was staring.

I think the issue is that these kids are never allowed simply to sit and be bored. Everything in a small town/suburban childhood is insulated by stasis. I remember sitting with Kelley Anne - and all of my other little double-named friends - for eight hours on a summer day, selling over sweetened lemonade to anybody who would pay attention to us. But it seems like each 15-minute interval of these Manhattan kids' lives is scheduled. Left without a clear destination or goal for more than ten minutes, they lose their heads. The fuckers don't need another school activity, they need some boredom.

File Under: Easy Listening

2007-05-31T20:33:00.000-04:00

It was 7:30 in the ayem when I heard a piercing beeping sound coming from the living room/dining room/kitchen/office. My roommate, MJ, was already up, inspecting the source of the noise. It wasn't the smoke detector, which she discovered only after she hoisted herself up on a ladder to check the battery status (yes, even though we are lacking in a vacuum cleaner, we do have a step ladder). The sound was coming from the carbon monoxide detector.

Okay. MJ asks me what to do. I dunno, I just woke up. MJ calls 311 and asks them what to do. 311 goes into emergency mode and calls the fire department over to our apartment. At 7:40, approximately, I hear sirens approaching the block. I went down the five flights of stairs to greet the firemen. Several of them stay behind in the truck and three of them follow me up the stairs, emergency gear in tote.

"What floor do you live on?" One of them asked me after we climbed three flights.

"The fifth."

"See, Larry, it's always the fifth floor. Even though her apartment number is 27, she lives on da fifth floor."

When we finally reached the apartment, the men crowded into the multipurpose room, panting as they set down their gear. With all of their tanks and life ropes and bags, the apartment felt very cramped. MJ was sitting with the beeping detector.

"That's beeping, not buzzing," the lead fireman informed us, "you just need a new battery that's all."

Okay.

I escorted the men out of the building, offering an apology at every floor, even though they assured me that it was 311's fault, not ours. And yeah, that little stunt probably cost all New York tax payers about $100, apologies.

Continued Story

2007-05-29T20:11:00.000-04:00

photo

Well, blahg, it's been awhile, huh? First there was Memorial Day weekend, out of the city for a few days, and then there was a new job opp at work, then I was just busy, and then lazy.

When The Alarm Clock Rings

2007-05-18T18:30:00.000-04:00

chop chop chop chop

photo

Overheard in New York

2007-05-17T14:13:00.000-04:00

While passing the Sunshine theater on Houston Street...

Woman: Hello, we'd like two senior tickets for the movie.

Ticket Agent: Yes, which movie?

Woman: Um...I forgot the name!

Ticket Agent: Away from Her?

Woman: Yes, that's it!

Watch the Tapes

2007-05-15T14:29:00.000-04:00

The first time I saw LCD Soundsystem, it was in a small venue in Seattle after the release of the first album. Everybody in the room was dancing. You could feel the floorboards shaking underneath your feet, that's how excited the crowd was to finally have a new band that knows how to combine rock and dance music. Last night, I saw LCD again and the crowd at Webster Hall wasn't quite as responsive, either because New Yorkers are too cool to really dance -- or, rather, not cool enough -- or the novelty of the band had died down a notch.

But LCD's second album was just as good as, if not better, than the first. And the show was riveting. Because it was the last night of tour, James Murphey exclaimed that he didn't care about his vocal cords and was ready to let it rip. Even though they didn't play Losing My Edge, I heard everything else I wanted. Thankfully, their lineup included a gorgeous encore of New York I Love You, a sardonic, slow paced valentine to the city, the only song in LCD's repertoire that is virtually impossible to dance to.

Dump the Body in Rikki Lake

2007-05-14T15:24:00.000-04:00

photo

Just as I predicted: I turn 25 and the malfunctions start rolling in. I lost my voice for approximately three full days this week, think less Kathleen Turner and more Yoda. I never realized what a paraylsis it is to have no voice. All dramatics aside, I think it was a delayed hangover from the winter. My body is simply not conditioned to deal with this subarctic weather.Thankfully, though, I tend to keep company with people who talk a lot. Plus, I felt more like a true New Yorker than I ever have; when tourists stopped me on the street to ask for directions, I would huff right past them, completely ignoring their idiotic queries. I have noticed, however, that with the loss of voice, the inner monologue multiplies and I started to feel that rapid decline into my frumpiest middle age self (frazzled gray roots, my mother's dopey nightgowns).

Seagreen Serenades

2007-05-14T13:56:00.000-04:00

A museum visit is a wholesome way to top off a weekend. So we headed to MOMA on the latter half of Sunday afternoon to see what all the hype is over this Jeff Wall guy. There's something about the institution of MOMA that makes it very difficult for me to take anything seriously, unlike when I am inside the Guggenheim, the Met, or even a 7pm Thursday cheese fest on W. 25th.

In any event, it was pretty easy for me to accept Jeff Wall's work even though I was not immediately WOWed. I hear it takes Wall an entire year to craft one of his glossy light box/back lit color transparencies, which is not at all surprising given there is nothing improvised in his photos. In some of his staged photos, it's almost as though he made his subjects pose for an entire year. However, I do like the sociological slant he lends to his subjects and the magic realism of his imagery. Also, the over sized proportions of his pieces give a cinematic flavor to his themes that you definitely don't receive two floors down when viewing a Dorothea Lange portrait.

Shapes of Things

2007-05-09T16:22:00.000-04:00

Paris Je T'Aime is a film I could really get into, a collection of shorts by various directors offering their views on the city of Paris and the topic of love. But there is by no means a lovey-dovey film in the series. I'd never seen so many shorts lined up in a row like that and there were a few that I wish lasted a bit longer, some a bit shorter. I could have had less of Elijah Wood as a vampire, and more of Gus Van Sant's studly actor, more of the Coen Bros' befuddled Steve Buscemi, and less of the wacky hair product salesman, more of Juliette Binoche as a grieving *, and less of Wes Craven's take on Oscar Wilde. Almost all of the films have a melancholy hint of loss, adding to the beauty of the series, and vividly capture the chance encounters of life in a city.

*when typing this, i could not find a word for a mother who has lost her child, which strikes me as odd bc we have 'orphan' and 'widow' but nothing else.

The Train Kept A-Rollin'

2007-05-07T18:11:00.000-04:00

photo

Then! We were already in the Bronx, so we decided to stick around and watch the De La Hoya/ Mayweather fight because, honestly, what better place to watch a boxing match than the Bronx? We got some Cuban sandwiches to-go and headed to a buddie's bar, where they ordered me a Bronx Bomber, a blue concoction with about seven different types of alcohol. Again, I'd never watched a boxing match all the way through, but I have to say, it's ten times more exciting than baseball. Bing-Bang, it's over, none of this waiting around for five hours to get the final score. Thankfully, I'd seen Chavez the week before, so I knew where to place my bets. After the match, the bar immediately turned into a Spanish karaoke lounge, which was fine by us. Only in the Bronx, only in the Bronx.

Hyperballad

2007-05-07T17:36:00.000-04:00

I'd been waiting to see Bjork for at least ten years now. She's been the one contemporary artist in my rotation that I haven't gotten sick of over the years, probably because she's brilliant. And weird and beautiful and innovative and, fine, I have a crush. The ticket was last minute and very much appreciated. The venue was all the way up on 178th Street in an old, gilded church that is very beautiful, yet slightly lacking in acoustics. She had loads of people on stage with her (a backup orchestra/chorus, dressed in neon ensembles), including a couple of guest appearances (Antony), playing a solid mix of old (Pagan Poetry, Army of Me, Hunter, Immature, Bachelorette) and new (Earth Intruders, Wanderlust, Dull Flame of Desire), ending with an encore of Declare Independence, and dancing around the entire stage like a tie dyed, kimono-sleeved balloon, finishing each song with, "Thank Yooo!"

Inside and Out

2007-04-30T17:12:00.000-04:00

Sure, spending a springtime afternoon watching a baseball game in a dimly lit bar on the Upper East Side is fun and all, but nothing beats taking a trip out to the Bronx to see the Yankees live in action. Sunday’s game was apparently historic, it being the Yankees versus the Red Sox. I wouldn’t really know anything about that, but I can say that for the first time ever, I actually enjoyed watching a game.

We were perched behind home plate -- way, way behind home plate -- which gave the players a clay figure effect. And I have to admit, I might've been more entertained by the drama in the stands than the drama on the field. Those baseball fans have more passion spewing out of them than anything you'll ever witness at a Joan Didion play.

We saw a fight erupt, and the cops threaten, "Yo, who wants to watch the rest of da the game in Queens?" My personal favorite, though, are the peanut vendors who chuck bags at customers in distances that double those between bases. And the hecklers! Bless the hecklers who think their voices register above all of that.

The Diamond Sea

2007-04-26T16:55:00.000-04:00

It’s Tribeca Film Fest week, which means sneaking into as many glam parties and overpriced Indie flicks as possible. There’s nothing like watching a pal try to finagle his way into some hoity-toity night club by saying, "Look, you might have heard of my film. It’s about a horse and it’s going to Cannes!" Alas, we never made it in, because it’s the newest club and we weren’t on the list. This being New York, only a bunch of nimrods would stand in line, fighting for a chance to get into a place that is actually called the Box. So we split. Later, we ended up talking to Julie Delpy, who is very tall, very French, and very charming, dressed in all black w/ red, patent leather high heels.