Look Book #2: ???

Sunglasses a la VU era Lou Reed, Martin Rev




Billowing tops a la Liz Bougatsos

words are dead to me now

I decided several weeks ago to start listening to jazz. Many months ago—maybe it was during the summer, maybe it was during the spring—I was in an elevator and some music was playing and I realized that all these words, the useless lyrics I memorize almost instantly, probably occupied a large segment of my brainpower. There is a card catalog of songs up there to draw from whenever necessary. The songs are useless, the lyrics are useless, and my brain should be occupied with other things anyway.

I don't know when this started, this lyrical attachment I have. It's really obsessive. I'm pretty sure it has something to do with listening very heavily to Bob Dylan in 7th grade. I believe I saw "Don't Look Back" on A&E, decided Bob Dylan was cool, and found Bob Dylan's Greatest Hits Volume One in my dad's record collection. It was the only Dylan record and was unopened. Every day after school I came home and listened to it several times the whole way through. This went on for months. The record is now worn out. I spent afternoons on end first trying to decipher the lyrics, then thinking about what they might mean. It was a good exercise.

Anyway years and thousands and thousands of songs later I have decided that this has all gone too far.

A few nights ago, my friend R. final delivered me my first jazz mixtape, and I'm impressed. On an unrelated note, he was talking about rock poster collectors and made an astute observation about this group: whereas regular people think about real things, rock poster collectors think thinking about music is thinking about real things. This is a mangled translation. Yet again I realized that I have been allocating too much mental space in this direction for awhile.

I am switching to wordless music for a little while. In the meantime, I will share my final musings on Liz Phair and call it a day.

Printing Out The Internet

http://printingouttheinternet.tumblr.com/

I started working on a new project / blog / eventual publication called Printing Out The Internet. It will get better with your help.

wedding party

It is now Fall and cool and crisp and for no apparent reason I started thinking about weddings. I am lucky enough to have few married or engaged friends so I never go to weddings. But my few memories of weddings are lovely and severe. Every wedding I have ever been to has been held in Pennsylvania. Most every wedding reception has been held in either a fire company or grange - here is a link to what a grange is for those unfamiliar with this terminology. Many of these weddings have a happy / depressing working class Deer Hunter wedding reception vibe (the real fun starts around 3:13 or so):



These weddings generally feature a fuzzy navel fountain, which is a pretty awe-inspiring sight. I remember being very young and being forbidden from drinking fuzzy navels, listening to like Peter Gabriel or Genesis or Huey Lewis and the News or Exposé.

Just now, I was listening to some Tango in the Night-era Fleetwood Mac / late 80's Stevie Nicks and it got me thinking about weddings. Not sure where this association came from. The mind works in mysterious ways.

"Seven Wonders" (Fleetwood Mac)
"Seven Wonders" (dub remix)

Many weddings involve country line dancing, like my cousin's, two summers ago. My cousin and her husband met each other at a country line dancing bar. Their dance-based romance is inspiring.







When I was 13 or so my great-uncle got married in a gazebo on his farm. Since these family members were bluegrass lovers, the wedding processional was fiddled, and the reception featured a pig-roast. Obviously as a young adolescent I was mortified.

The most recent wedding I attended, over a year and a half ago I think, was a friend-of-friend situation. I was a designated emergency date after my friend Daniel's days-fresh breakup. Obviously my date was less than chipper due to his recent heartbreak, but I tried to make the most of it. Since the guy getting married was in a band, his amazing "wedding band" was a real band and they played super-romantic and excellent wedding songs. Everyone danced. The best was when they did "Sea of Love" I thought I was gonna cry. Also the bride / groom dance was to some Van Morrison song, I think off Tupelo Honey. It was right then that I started believing in marriage, maybe for the first time.

side effects of look book making

Aside from the overwhelming desire to not only shop (I have started RSSing the shopping blog Racked) but also read women's magazines like Elle and Glamour, I have discovered an unexpected side effect while attempting to craft my fall look. Everywhere I go, I look at other girls' style and think, oh that girl looks cute. Oh those shoes are hot. Oh that dress is really flattering, etc. I had a fairly insane revelation since I've started checking out girls everywhere:

Male friends of mine talk about how there are cute girls everywhere, how there are an endless supply of attractive and f_able women in NY and they're right. It is really overwhelming. Somehow while performing the most girlish of activities I have finally started to understand some key part of the male psyche. I guess there are cute boys everywhere too but I'd have to say that their fashions are a lot more consistent. And I think that thing about girls dressing for other girls is definitely true.

Back 2 Basics Look Book #1: Long Hair

This season's brand narrative is developing very very slowly. I will have to work it out in installments. It will come together eventually, but for now it's time to revisit some basics: Fall 09 is about long brown hair. But, like, aggressively long, aggressively straight. The hair is brought into the foreground.



Initially I thought that Blue Lagoon-era Brooke Shields would be the bedrock of my summer style if summer 08 could be re-lived. How could this look — tans, long hair, strong brows, white stuff, minimal clothing — possibly transcend summer? After serious discussion, it was decided that the "look" was really just long hair. Everything else was just an accessory crudely used to cover the body. I started looking for other applications of long brown hair as accessory.



In Roman Holiday, Audrey Hepburn pulls back part of the hair to maximum effect. The hair represents her girlhood, and when she cuts it she graduates to young woman.



After watching The Science of Sleep on HBO, I decided that super-straight hair is the way to go. Charlotte Gainsbourg's style is pretty understated. She has a fairly boyish figure, and the straight long brown hair provides a feminine counterpoint.




Sloane Peterson, ultimate babe brunette. Also, note Sloane's white fringe jacket. This may be addressed in a forthcoming installment of this brand narrative.



Obviously, forever and forever.

Fall Preview

Seasons change, people change.



I swear to god, this blog will die soon. It will be replaced by newer, realer, better things that are slightly less vacuous. Until that day comes, Fall 2008 looks like this:

1. "jazz"
2. an extensive analysis of the Scientology-esque Susan Miller talk at the Apple Store
3. fall lookbook
4. an introduction to printing out the internet
5. don't make me over playlist

I can't talk about any of this in detail right now (thanks Caliente Cab Company!) but I figured I'd at least show you the TOC.

This week's Gossip Girl highlights
Apparently this episode is called "Darkness Falls" (it's about a blackout, duh.)
- Chuck, on Serena and Dan getting back together: "Congrats on you and Humphry. Water always finds its own level."
- In the same conversation, Serena to Chuck: “You are not using Blair as sexual Draino.”
- Lastly, the young girls assaulting Dan and Serena in the park, sharing their perspective on the relationship based on the Gossip Girl blog. The girl who's "a Serena". I love this show.

what i've learned from gossip girl season two, so far

After a very long summer, Gossip Girl is back, and my innate need for drama now has an outlet outside of my own life. There was an article in the ny times mag this weekend about Twitter and "ambient awareness" which includes a brief mention of "parasocial" relationships people have with television characters:

"If you’re reading daily updates from hundreds of people about whom they’re dating and whether they’re happy, it might, some critics worry, spread your emotional energy too thin, leaving less for true intimate relationships. Psychologists have long known that people can engage in “parasocial” relationships with fictional characters, like those on TV shows or in books, or with remote celebrities we read about in magazines. Parasocial relationships can use up some of the emotional space in our Dunbar number, crowding out real-life people. "

So, real people, here are my observations of the fictional but strangely pertinent social drama that is Gossip Girl thus far:

- Chuck Bass has a little Christian Slater / "Heathers" in him. They share similarities in facial expressions as well as vocal inflections, if not style choices. J.D.? Are you going to blow up the school this season?

- Also, in episode one, Blair — the fictional Miriam perhaps — unleashes a true girl-to-girl, pep-talk pearl on Serena:
"The only thing lamer than dating Dan Humphrey ... is mourning Dan Humphrey."

Since Gossip Girl became OMFG post-writers strike, Chuck and Blair have morphed from the most despicable to the deepest and most realistic characters. Their love / hate relationship is captivating. We shall see what happens as the lord / dutchess / milf love triangle unfolds.

P.S.: The apology from Blair to the Dutchess: "Dutchess, I'm so sorry about the [insulting] Botox [comment she made]. Your work is flawless."

Also, Astrology Zone live in Soho

Some serious news you can use—
My friend J. R. emailed me this hot tip last night:



Appearance of Susan Miller Next Month: September Apple Store, New York City, SoHo Store Saturday, September 13, 2008 3 PM - 4:30 PM Apple Store in SoHo 103 Prince Street New York City, NY 10012 Apple store in Soho: (212) 226-3126 (ask for Frank)

I will appear in the New York Soho Apple Store with my friend, astrologer / engineer Henry Seltzer who created this superb TimePassages™ astrology software for Mac or PC. This software will allow you to do your natal chart and find out all the planetary positions in place on the date of your birth and what they mean to you. It's fast and easy, written for laymen who are not professional astrologers. No need to look up complicated aspects in astrologic textbooks. Little dialog boxes, balloons, and longer reports pop up to explain all about your chart, as well as about upcoming transits. You can print them out and save them. TimePassages™ Software costs $39 and runs on the Mac (for OS X) and PCs. Join us for a free, interactive session at the Apple Store in SoHo, in New York. We will do the natal charts of those who volunteer in the audience, and even if you don't get chosen to have your chart shown on our big lecture screen, we will take dozens of questions from you. Also, I will stay afterward to say hello to each of you as well. Our appearances are always lively and always more like parties than lectures! For more information on Henry's TimePassages™ software for the Mac or PC, please click on this link: http://www.astrograph.com/purchase/astrologyzone.php

See you all there, seriously.

Notes from Denver, Tuesday

1. Watching the DNC on CSPAN is a totally different experience. You get to see all the speakers, no pundits, the happening tunes. This is serious business: "I'm So Excited" was so breathtaking, all the delegates were really letting loose, lobster hats and all. I really can't recommend this more.

2. Nydia Velazquez (D-NY, Brooklyn 12th District) is awesome—I've never seen her speak before. I am glad I've voted for her in the past few elections.

3. When they introduced Lilly Ledbetter (a plaintiff in a pay equity case in the Supreme Court) from Alabama, the intro was an instrumental version of Madonna's "Lucky Star". Does anyone know why? Following speaker Mark Warner, they played "The Power of Love".

4. Mark Warner is pretty great.

5. I want to go to the Democratic National Convention next year. Without commentary, it's as compelling as, like, the Oscars. I am sad I haven't been paying attention to politics since late in the primaries.

6. I enjoyed Bob Casey Jr.'s Pennsylvania shoutouts (Latrobe, anyone?). I do not enjoy his pro-life politics. He looks exactly like Bob Casey Sr.

7. The caption for Bill Clinton in the lengthy, SNL-referencing, Chelsea Clinton-narrated Hillary intro is "Hillary's Husband".

8. "Are You Gonna Go my Way", "You Really Got Me", "American Girl", "Smooth (Santana and Rob Thomas)".

9. Bill mouthed "he's good" to a neighbor off-screen after Brian Schweitzer's rousing speech. Bill is visibly fired up. Michelle is visibly fired up. Schweitzer may be the next Barack Obama in '12.

10. Deval Patrick strangely reminds me of Mike Bloomberg.

11. This is the best Hillary speech I've ever seen. Bill mouths "I love you" during Hillary's speech. Aw. Oh Hillary, I've missed you. I'm happy to see her again, even though she annoyed me during the last few months of the primaries. Hillary is awesome. I should have voted for her, she is a good leader. She gave the right speech. Finally, a few good McCain take-downs.

12. Do political conventioneers get plus ones?

Daddy's Girl

omfg
this song is really outta control. in preparation for a recent karaoke sessions i randomly downloaded some truck driving music i once heard at my friend j.'s store. check out this serious gem, "daddy's girl" by red sovine.

Basically, it's about a dude wanting a son, but getting a girl instead. but he actually loves her, even though she's a girl! the rousing chorus:

Daddy's Girl, Daddy's Girl,
I'm the center of Daddy's world.
I know I'm Daddy's number one,
For he loves me like I was his son.

He then provides some HILARIOUS anecdotes about tomboyin' with his daddy's girl. fishing! dodgers games! the daughter softens up the dad! finally, the daughter grows up and gets married but will always be a daddy's girl.

DEFINITELY more uplifting than the similar but obviously very different Nirvana classic "Been A Son" ie:
She should have died when she was born
She should have worn the crown of thorns
She should have been a son.

why oh why

- did i dream about buying a Zune at Rite-Aid two nights ago?

- am I unable to stop listening to this amazing and semi-instructional Lil Mo / Lil Kim song from five years ago called "10 Commandments" (link forthcoming here)? In which we get a taste of what "The Rules" would be like if it was written by Lil Kim? Results include "mad trips to Jaca" and your man at home every night, "cooking you a steaka". These are things I never knew I wanted, but I think I clearly do.



- has it taken me so long to realize that watching really good fireworks in a quiet rural place accompanied by the sound of engines revving in the distance is a near-spiritual experience, resulting in a feeling that approximates being touched by god in some way?

Dogs of L.A.

The canyon air is like a breath of fresh L.A.
Liz Phair: "Dogs of L.A."

It is sunny and 77 degrees with 44% humidity. I woke up around 7:15, listened to a few songs from Rumours as I dressed and stretched. I ran along the waterfront in an oversized Harvard t-shirt from a Goodwill in downtown Brooklyn, listening to Lil' Kim sing about Fulton Street. I can now run far, pain-free, with my newfound lung capacity.

I continued my faux L.A. morning post-shower in some weird extreme outfit I decided to inhabit. Black jersey, plunging neckline, strappy sandals, Forever 21 amulet. A red tie-dyed fringed suede bag. Chipped manicured nails, iced coffee, sunglasses. Rachel Zoe Courtney Love Mary-Kate Stevie Nicks Grey Gardens Italian funeral + witchy. I liked it. I looked like I did voodoo or something. For the first time this morning I realized that maybe one day I'll become one of those crazy old Patti Smith type women. There is a certain comfort in looking a little crazy. Based on the looks I was getting, I had to remove most of my accessories by the time I got to my work neighborhood.

In L.A. none of this would seem strange. Hippies, celebrities, Santa Ana winds, Scientologists and cults in general, the piercing sound of perpetual traffic, Chinatown. When I was last there, I saw people walking around Silverlake wearing those hair bands years before they made any appearance whatsoever on our Eastern shores. I once read the book Ask the Dust and I've never thought about L.A. the same way since. A city that had always seemed plastic, past-less, was now grounded in a Depression-era historical reality. It had, in effect, become a real place.

Liz Phair: "Go West"

Liz Phair is from Chicago, but for a period of time she lived in L.A. She won't talk about what she did out there (maybe by now she has). I like the songs on Whip-Smart about L.A. — hazy, sinister, broken, and vaguely lazy-sounding. "Go West" is the best one — about leaving her life and moving to L.A., I think. I highly relate to this song re: my life 2 years ago:

"Take off the parking brake
Go coasting into a different state
And I'm not looking forward to missing you
But I must have something better to do
I've got to tear my life apart
And go west, young man"

When I learned about Manifest Destiny in high school I finally started to understand this song, why people have been starting over ever westward for as long as we can remember. Looking back after my own "Go West" experience — although "west" was just south 2 hours to Philadelphia — I think this is one of my favorite songs of all time. In Escape from New York mode, "Go West," nestled between "Going to California" and "Midnight Train to Georgia," let me believe for a little while that when shit gets rough, maybe fleeing is a viable solution.

Jonasing for a Beating

It's Jonas Bros Week where I work.

Apparently, one should never underestimate the lung capacity of a pre-pubescent female who may, at any minute, catch a glimpse (across the street and through a second-floor window) of her maybe future-husband (at least until the next album). I am on the 37th floor, in the back of the building, and can hear the screaming streaming strong from 10am to 4pm. It's only Day 2 and I am willing to jump off the building if it means they will be silenced.

Also, Jonas Bros (personalities combined) + better haircuts + 10 years in age = my dream man.

Stop Smoking Forever, Week 8

Sunday marks the 8th week of my foray into the nonsmoking lifestyle. A few weeks ago, I went off the patch and it was majorly exciting. These days, quitting smoking has begun to represent not only a physical but also developmental achievement.



My friend F. recently told me that I've always been a "tumultuous" girl, which is hard to argue with. The last few years (actually the last five) have been particularly tumultuous, but things have really quieted down recently. So on some level I've been realizing that perhaps cigarette smoking was one of the few remaining self-destructive behaviors from my youth that I've held onto. There was a time when I was much younger when I didn't associate smoking with recurring financial woes, an accelerated march towards death, poor health and rapid mood swings. As I got older, I realized that I had developed some habits I couldn't control that were acting as a buffer against some of the more positive growth spurts in my life. Maybe, like Ms. Nicks, I have always been a storm, but at some point it becomes an exhausting way to live.

But now this too is under control, one of the last stinging remnants of my formerly messy self. Things are on a seriously positive upswing, and as more and more of the unhealthy thinking and behaviors I've fallen into are eliminated, I am seeing some weird patches of sun through that crazy sky. I think this has been one of the most important decisions I have made, at least in the last year. Overcoming a physical addiction definitely makes most other changes seem more manageable.

Why is Astrology Zone right every time?

How does she know?

"Eclipses open paths, but they also take things away, so if you lost a source of income last February, you may now agree to a new job or deal this month. All eclipses have a second act, and never reveal all at one time. Be patient - something good is coming."

new forms of communication

so that i don't have to repeat myself multiple times a day, i have taken to making little notes that i can use over and over again. one such note that came in quite handy at work today:

you can take me home but i will never be your girl

*Meta-Post Disclaimer: I think I was drunk when I started writing this post two weeks ago on the damaging effects of heavy Liz Phair listening. I no longer have the strength to really get to the point of all this but maybe I'll be inspired later on, after all my tears have dried and my iPod is functional again.*

I may have encountered Liz Phair a little too early on in life. Exile in Guyville came in my BMG mail when I was maybe thirteen, certainly before I had listened to Exile on Main Street and perhaps immediately following the dumping of my first boyfriend ever (who would wtf later date my younger sister for two years). Although kissing with tongue was still somewhat disgusting, I could really get into a song like, say, "Fuck and Run:"

"Whatever happened to a boyfriend
The kind of guy who tries to win you over
and whatever happened to a boyfriend
The kind of guy who makes love cause he's in it
I want a boyfriend
I want all that stupid old shit
Letters and sodas."

At that time I believed, thanks to Liz Phair, 13 or 14 year-old me was wise beyond my years. I could see it pretty clearly: the 14 year old boys were never really going to grow up, and the above scenario laid out my inevitable future. Liz Phair, all monotone and detached, had this cool way of looking at things that bore no resemblance to any of the girls I went to school with. My friend Ryan once compared her to a potato [Note: this was actually Courtney Love, in some random book I read in high school]). She was an uber-girl. She understood things that we didn't.

And so, armed with guitar tab and cassette tapes, Liz Phair became my fucked-up older sister. She sat in the passenger side of my Oldsmobile Cutlass Supreme ("Batmobile," J.D. Salinger style: "Fire up the Batmobile / Cause I gotta get outta here / I don't speak the language / and you gave me no real choice / you made me see that my behavior was an opinion") while I did all the stupid things I did in high school. Consequently, I know every word to every Liz Phair song released before 1999. After remembering my obsession last week, I went on a Juvenilia / Exile / Whip-Smart / Whitechocolatespaceegg bender and realized that the memories of every one of those songs are so wrapped up in being 16 or 17 that it was almost unbearable. [Note: last week I reached my saturation point. I listened all day, cried for like 3 hours, and was eventually cheered up by Billy Joel.]

Oh nostalgia rush 1998 Lilith Fair: my best friend and I lied to my parents about staying with friends on Long Beach Island (where we would sleep in my car in some parking lot), obviously not stopping in Camden for the most ridiculous but secretly great concert featuring not just a rare performance by stage-fright-ridden Liz Phair but also Supa Dupa Fly era Missy Elliott.

The potential outcome of all of this — attending Sarah Lawrence — never materialized thank god, but along with my snail mail Matador Records newsletter came plenty of premature emotional baggage. On some level I feel lucky to have had this kind of amazing progression from these interesting and unique female pop culture voices. Sassy folded circa 1994. I would re-read the vaguely feministic articles in back issues while listening to Ms Phair lull me into the commitment-phobic independent daze that has plagued me throughout most of my adult life, a condition afflicting both genders that I have recently identified as The Dude Factor. Her take on the power dynamics of relationships is vulnerable, political, utterly dysfunctional, highly attuned to the emotional workings of the adolescent girl self. Whip-Smart, Track 3: "I don't need a support system"; Track 6: "I don't crack the door too far for anyone who's pushing too hard on me" followed by the haunting refrain "I won't decorate my love"; Track 11: "Just putting your body wherever it seemed like a good idea" ("Jealousy" also awesomely rhymes "He's got a family who deals heroin" with "and you're on the edge of your chair and").

mega liz phair post tk asap

as in, during the last week or so i realized that many of my major emotional issues were perhaps shaped by wayyyy too heavy listening to liz phair at too young an age.

in the meantime, read this related article. in the meantime, i've made this liz phair mega muxtape to prepare you.

http://hope_chest.muxtape.com/

greenpoint summer rox

The best thing about having a blog that nobody reads, besides documenting boring things such as the slow road to recovery from my battle with nicotine addiction, is sharing NOT boring things that are better left unsaid for strategic purposes. Among these: Pio Pio Riko

Pio Pio (that's what we call it for short) is secretly one of the best things about Greenpoint. You can get half a chicken for $3.25, and it's a fucking amazing chicken. And it comes with this mysterious green sauce — we are guessing the ingredients may include, but are not limited to, avocado, lots of black pepper, garlic, cucumber (?) — that you could easily bottle and sell at the Garden if preservatives were added. Last night, after a long day of beaching, I wanted nothing less than Pio Pio. My $8 order of 1/2 chicken and fried sweet plantains will easily comprise three meals. A key component of the insanely huge $21 family combo meal is salchipapas = french fries with sliced hot dogs.

Despite the fact that the Pio Pio chicken sits in my fridge waiting, I joined friends tonight at the actual Pio Pio restaurant for the first time. I have never ventured inside. Roommate #G once recounted a story in which the back room was filled with Latina strippers, and I'd have to say I was put off. Not after tonight my friends. From now on every function I have will be held at Pio Pio.

Spanish-translating friend Christine noted that the neon posterboard sign on the wall of the air-conditioned backroom announced that dances with the waitstaff would cost $2. The bathroom is stocked with hair gel. The backroom has those amazing lights — you know, the kind that can make any night extraordinary — in addition to plenty of dance space, tables ripe for card games, a separate bar, an interior fake roof which rivals that of the back room bar at West Philly local fave Dahlak. Besides that, you can get a jar of beer for $15, or a half-jar for $9. Our five Coronas totaled $17. More good times to be had every weekend I hope, with or without the strippers.

tv news

we have cable again!

it was busted for a week and things got all weird in the apt: g sat down with me at the dinner table one night and asked (uncomfortably, as if on a first date) what my favorite movie was; monday night, i had a dream where i had become so frustrated with not having tv that i decided to turn my life into a tv show--all my dialogue was scripted and every room i was in only had three walls, but there was never a film crew in sight. i woke up very confused and a little freaked out (and i'm not even on the nic patch). i guess i was super productive. that was good. but me being productive might as well fall into the weird category.

anyway, our house is now back to normal and you can expect h and i to act accordingly. meanwhile, in other tv news...




SPOTTED: C in CHELSEA at a bar on 23rd and 9th. he apparently ALWAYS has this face on--sitting at the bar, walking out of the bathroom, asking for a light, laughing...it was amazing. rumor was that he was in there with blair. that was never confirmed. he is short.














while I'm talking about cw, why are they remaking 90210? and why is it starring aunt becky with a black son?

Crazy Dream Number Three

I was in a strange room—maybe a classroom, maybe a design studio—but it had an attic. Some of my old bosses were there. I think the premise was that we were working late. I think maybe there was a blackout, I'm not too sure. All I know is that everything suddenly got wacky.

This guy who was never my boss but I vaguely know through graphic design was getting something out of the overhead storage / "attic". He knocked something down and this gas overtook the room. I recently watched Legends of the Fall. If you're familiar with that film, there is a scene when the mustard gas spreads out during some WWI battlefield. This was a similar experience. This gas wasn't mustard gas but some sort of drug, perhaps some sort of super strong marijuana or potentially opium smoke. Why this would happen, I have no idea, this dream is hazy and was really weird. This graphic designer dude mentions that in the eighties he did some job for this drug lord from South America or something, which is why he has all these drugs stored in the attic. Apparently the drug lord guy left them behind, and the job got all fucked up and the designer guy never got paid, and so he kept the drugs as some sort of deposit.

Everyone in the room, primarily former coworkers, were a state of super-stoned paralysis. I was thinking I wished I could get out of the room, but I couldn't. Someone's feet smelled really bad and I was afraid they were mine and I vaguely remember apologizing — it was really hot and I was wearing Keds without socks. I think we all had to sleep there overnight.

Crazy Dream Number Two

Last night I dreamt I was wearing the patch on my face, right below my eye. My skin started itching and my eye started burning so I took it off. When I was a kid I was once stung by a hornet in that area under your eye, and that's where I put my patch in my dream.

stop smoking, day 14

I haven't not smoked for this many days since I was 15 years old. It seems like some sort of major feat. It has only happened as a result of the steady, time-released stream of nicotine that continues to course through my body, provoking crazy dreams and making me forget to eat.

That said, I am in the midst of seriously troubling times. The first week of non-smoking was pretty triumphant. I felt totally happy & healthy and optimistic, food tasted amazing (though I was never hungry) and I started smelling layers of smells again. Not so much anymore. For the last 4 or 5 days all day every day there is this really unhappy feeling in my lungs which leads to an internal monologue. My lungs say time for a cigarette, my brain says time for a cigarette, and the other voice says you can't smoke. Then I'm sad, then angry, then eventually I forget. Twenty minutes later it starts again. There seems to be nothing that can satisfy this craving, not alcohol or snacks or coffee or sweets or a walk or a glass of water. Just big sadness. This cycle runs day and night, from the time I wake up until the time I go to bed. It is brutal and I sometimes find myself fills with an unbearable rage.

After that first amazing week, I somehow started to believe I was almost invincible and I was totally winning. I would phase off these patches sooner than suggested and be done with this junk forever. As week two nears its close I realize that isn't going to happen anytime soon. If things are this bad now, god only knows what will happen after I stop with the nicotine forever. I hope that eventually my lungs will stop making this crazy feeling and my fever will break.

Crazy Dream # One

I just had my first crazy dream. I was terrified throughout the whole thing.

I was driving somewhere to visit with my family, but I was with some of my friends from New York, including some of the people I just went on vacation with. We were in my parents' Chevy Blazer, which I drove around last night, and there were almost-empty FunSavers everywhere. Somehow then my parents were driving, and there were children who may or may not have been family members in the car, and me and my friends were in the back. Somehow the car became my childhood best friend's Dodge Caravan.

I thought we were in California. My friend Chris, originally from California, was in the car, and he recommended somewhere that was good to eat. The sky was a crazy red and purple sunset (you will see this on the cover up the upcoming Fleetwood Mac Power Hour, when Chris puts it up on the site), and there were oil mills and windmills and power lines. In general it looked kind of like Kansas from the Wizard of Oz, but also like driving on Interstate 5 in California. I kept falling asleep. When I woke up everyone was at the restaurant. I tried to go to the restaurant to meet them, but you had to travel through this long farmer's market / supermarket / mall structure, and I couldn't find it. I kept crawling under huge plexi sneeze-glass barriers from salad bars. I gave up.

When I woke up again I was at my parents' house. Everyone else was still at the restaurant. I couldn't contact anyone because my phone didn't work, I didn't know where they were or who was coming. I was freaked out. Finally a caravan of cars started driving down the driveway. All of the minivans and SUVs were full of family members and friends, all mixed together in the same cars. It was now dusk. My youngest sister was a young girl again and a bunch of her friends were coming for a crazy costume party, so everyone was dressed up. I wondered who my friends were with. My grandparents were dressed in their Sunday best.

At one point I realized that my friends were all together in the Chevy Blazer, and somehow there was now a parking spot under the front porch that they were pulling into. There was also some sort of retractable net in the front yard, and my brother was playing some sort of trick on them by pulling down the net so that when the car backed up, it would get trapped in the net. Sure enough it happened and I told him to raise the net, this was ridiculous. When the car got out of the net and pulled into the parking spot under the front porch, we discovered some sort of body under the net on a gurney. Apparently this person had been at the restaurant with them, it was one of the celebration party people, but they were all wrapped up like a mummy so I couldn't tell who it was since I'd missed the party. Then a taxi / emergency response unit that was some sort of fuel efficient hybrid vehicle (almost Smart Car-esque) comes barrelling down the driveway and takes the gurney.

There are so many children, playing and dancing everywhere. There's a girl with lime green hair wearing some sort of satin purple dress. It is a party. Me and my friends go into the house. My great-grandparents are still alive, and my great grandmother is still in her usual chair in the kitchen. I give her a kiss on the cheek. Me and my friends go into the basement to explore. My sister is doing some sort of science experiment with her friends and listening to the Buzzcocks. We are walking around and the dirt floor is now concrete, painted and polished. The basement is slightly different and we are walking around with flashlights like explorers. Eventually we reach the other entrance to the basement and leave.

Nic Fit

Last night, I went to a bar with my recently-relocated-to-NY friend Jason. Actually three bars because I had to leave each one after one drink, when I would customarily require a cigarette. Early on in the reunion drinks, I told Jason I had quit smoking. He asked me if I was ok and said it seemed like I needed a cigarette. It's true. I calmed down after a few drinks.

Sonic Youth / Nic Fit

Stop smoking forever, day 2

I read on some internet somewhere that I may have crazy crazy dreams as a result of either the nicotine patch or not using a nicotine patch and just cold turkey-ing it. These dreams may be extremely vivid. I may feel as though cigarette smoke is entering my lungs. Apparently, I may wake up wanting a cigarette in a pool of cold sweat or something along those lines. I am sad to report I have not had any crazier-than-usual dreams, but I look forward to them coming, prophetically. I imagine the floating into the carpet scene from Trainspotting and maybe hope my dream will be like that.

Day 2 of stop smoking was better than Day 1. I didn't feel too sad or overly anxious or freaked out today, only like something was missing. That "missing" feeling is along the lines of, isn't there somewhere I'm supposed to be going or doing right now? Outdoors, for my break? Then I would realize that I don't do that anymore, sigh on the inside, and get back to work. All in all, more ok than I expected. The plus side of using this ridiculous nicotine replacement stuff is that I tell myself that I will die of a nicotine overdose if I smoke a cigarette because of the patch. Whether or not this is true, I don't want to know. As long as I believe it, this theory is an adequate deterrent.

On the positive side, I don't know if today was particularly fragrant, but it definitely smelled better than usual. This may be some sort of placebo effect. One of the non-smoker things that I am looking forward to most is the return of strong smells and tastes.

Goodbye to All That: Day 1

Get ready for some live blogging of my exciting and somewhat terrifying journey into the world of becoming a non-smoker.

DAY ONE
Today is the first day of the rest of my life, or more precisely, the rest of my life without cigarettes. Please forgive my worse-than-usual grammar and comma placement – this is the first time I haven't smoked a cigarette within 2 hours of waking up for the last 700 days or so. This morning around 10:30 or so I strapped on my very first nicotine patch courtesy of the state of New York and have been spending the past 4 hours or so in a state of semi-panic.



In order to understand how major this is, I will share my extensive and uncomplicated history of smoking.

I am probably one of the more hardcore smokers you know. I am the person that "social" smokers bum cigarettes off because I always have them. I'm the kind of smoker who buys an extra pack when they're down to like 2 cigarettes because you don't want to ever run out and suffer the mild discomfort of an hour or so without cigarettes in easy reach.

Around the age of 14 or so I think I decided that I would become a smoker. My parents don't smoke — my dad smokes cigars and pipes but not cigarettes — so I can't blame them. Early on in my irrational teenage logic, I thought perhaps cigarettes would better prepare my virginal lungs for the marijuana smoke that would be entering them soon and that I would definitely cough less. I had to toughen up my lungs like I used to toughen up the soles of my feet in the summer, when I would walk barefoot for a quarter mile or so on my dirt and gravel driveway in order to develop extensive calluses.

I think I smoked my first cigarette when I was 15, with my best friends Kate and Sam. We were in Sam's basement, and her aunt had left a Kool 100 lying around. We went into a basement annex and smoked the cigarette. I'd have to say I didn't dislike it at all, it was minty and delicious. Kate and I went on to be full-fledged smokers, stealing Viceroys and Kents from her Grandma's carton until we had driver's licenses and could buy them at the stores that didn't card. I would smoke a cigarette a day in the woods and sometimes in my dirt basement after school. Eventually after I got a car I started smoking more - it became a primary form of entertainment at the diners (with cigarette machines!) I hung out in every day with my friends. In 12th grade I used to drive around during lunch with one of the hot, younger football players who was on newspaper staff with me to smoke cigarettes. Those were the best days, the high school days, when I pledged I would stop smoking after cigarettes cost more than $3 a pack.

By my freshman year of college I smoked a pack a day. All those cigarettes gave me something to do when I stayed up all night working. They were also cheaper than (and almost as satisfying as) eating, which came in handy since I couldn't afford to eat very much that year. Now that I had my own dorm room, and eventually my own apartment, I could smoke as much as I wanted. I kept this up for several years.

The first time I started thinking about quitting was when returning from studying abroad in Paris. Smoking in Paris was fantastic — you could do it everywhere and it was cheap. They even sold cigarettes in helpful half-pack increments when I was extra broke (only 10 francs!). Sitting in the disgusting smoking lounge in Heathrow on my way home, I realized that in America smoking couldn't possibly be as fun. When I returned I quit for 3 days, then went back to it.

The smoking ban and subsequent extreme taxation of cigarettes started during my last year of college. I joined many others who started rolling their own cigarettes to save money. This was perhaps when I became a much more hardcore smoker. Everyone was quitting. I just replaced Camel Lights with unfiltered cigarettes but smoked just as much. I could roll a cigarette in 10 seconds. I developed a really bad hacking cough, but kept smoking. Eventually after months of unemployment, I was so broke I had to steal my live-in boyfriend's change for potatoes and Bisquick. Some days I didn't have cigarettes or even rolling tobacco. Those were the really really tough days.

Since then I've smoked pretty consistently. There was one other time in the last 11 years I seriously tried to quit smoking. After weeks of hard work, I had reduced my cigarette intake to one or two cigarettes a day. Then I moved to Philadelphia, where the illicit pleasure of indoor smoking was still legal, and I lasted about four or five days before this initiative ended. I told myself I needed to stop smoking by the age of 26 (my ten year anniversary), but it never happened. At some point I realized that cigarettes were possibly the only constant in my life, that maybe smoking was the only thing that consistently brought me joy and peace of mind. Cigarettes were the ultimate frenemy.

Three weeks ago I developed a bad cough. I had trouble sleeping. I thought it was the result of allergies, but realized that I had been smoking about 20 cigarettes a day again. I also learned of the new cigarette tax that would raise prices to approximately $9 a pack. I decided that now was the time, that I couldn't keep trying to cut back anymore. My free patches arrived two Fridays ago.

I've been making mental notes of all the things that can potentially distract me from the physical urge to smoke. So far these things include: drinking coffee, talking on the phone, fixing things, cleaning. This list is small but will hopefully grow longer. So far, I've learned that when you're accustomed to smoking outside – in my case EVERY time I'm outside – it's hard to walk around without smoking. I've always preferred walking to biking since you can smoke much easier while walking, so perhaps this is a good time to switch primary modes of transit? Stay tuned for Day 2, in which I will report on the effectiveness of the nicotine patch, and surviving a poker night without even one cigarette break.

john mccain game

I am watching john mccain give a speech on cnn. Similarly earlier today, via Carl I learned of the Andy Rooney game on Youtube. I never noticed before, but McCain slightly resembles Andy Rooney. Does this mean that I should become a McCain supporter, now that the democratic primaries are all but over?



Every speech he gives could be like 60 minutes. Every night could be Sunday night. Is this some sort of sign? Could somebody start a YouTube John McCain game?

what i learned from hot 97's summer jam 2008

RE: CRED
claim to be the "first," "best," "only" of something and repeat it many, many times. even if no one else does, you will begin to believe you. and having the right attitude is half the battle. also, fireworks help...a lot.

RE: BEING HUSTLED
a) stay away from 3-card monte
b) don't stand near the trash. that's asking for it.
c) nothing is free
d) "show me what you got" = "hand me your money"

RE: LEGAL ADVICE
the smartest lawyers set up booths at summer jam and have raffles where they give away tv sets. you WILL get a steady stream of visitors.

RE: LADIES CLOTHING
they really need to stop making mini-skirts and daisy dukes in plus sizes.

RE: DRINKING
when you see a dude selling something called NUTCRACKERs, for $5, out of a cooler:
a) do not ask what is in it.
b) know that there is no taste-testing
c) accept the fact that you might be drinking cough syrup and/or roofies.

it wasn't until today that i learned this:

THE NUTCRACKER
made popular in 2000 through barbershops and grocery stores in washington heights.

Ingredients:
1 bottle smirnoff watermelon vodka
1 bottle southern comfort (although one guy was real class and substituted with hennessey)
12 oz can pineapple juice
hawaiian punch (add according to taste)
1 bottle each amaretto and grenadine (optional)

Go Your Own Way

MVI_1054, originally uploaded by Finessa!.

Rhiannon

Rhiannon, originally uploaded by Finessa!.

Fleetwood Mac Power Hour.

Blame it on my wild heart

I have slunk back pretty deeply into my F. Mac obsession, obviously.
Endless.




This clip is amazing. This song is amazing. Yesterday we spent about 45 minutes in the office trying to procure the demo mix rather than the studio version. Semi-successful.

Summer Style

The fine fine weather of yesterday inspired A. and I to shop for summer dresses and embark on my favorite annual tradition—the conceptualization of our summer styles.

Mine is a surrealistic character that spans time, logic, and a variety of aesthetics. Scenario: the 1971 version of Stevie Nicks is on a date with the 1971 version of Bruce Springsteen. Perhaps she is his Jersey Girl. Stevie buys a good portion of her wardrobe at Ron Jon Surf Shop. Bruce is still driving around in a van along the NJ and PA turnpike, smoking pot and picking up girls. Bruce prefers to call Stevie Stephanie. But they aren't going to Atlantic City - they're going to see either Dan Deacon, Health, or Lightning Bolt for the first time. At the show they can both really understand what's going on even though it's kind of weird. Stevie immediately gets it; it takes a Bruce a little bit longer. Neither of them has fleshed out their real identities yet, but the roots are there. At a diner afterwards, Stevie explains some of the stuff that's at play to Bruce. This experience changes them both to a not-insubstantial degree. Random mutual acquaintances bump into them at the diner. The acquaintances are wondering why these two are together even though they can kiiinnndd of see it, they're both cute and charming. Their romance lasts a few weeks, maybe a few months, until summer is over when they have a bitter fight and/or sleep with other people and go their separate ways.

What does this style look like? Figuring out that is my summer mission. As far as I can tell, right now it looks like a combination of the following: white gauzy things, tie-dyed things, Indian and Native American prints in very bright colors, chunky sweaters and hooded sweatshirts, light denim, fringe, mesh, madras, fatigue cargo shorts, leather t-strap sandals, tod's driving moccasins, cut-off shorts, jewelry involving shells and hemp, well-considered mini hair braids, and also, irrelevantly, ivy league collegiate gear.

A. can explain her own summer style - a preppy meets TLC kind of crazy sexy cool.

pink collar

I started reading The Beauty Myth last night after the experiencing grave disappointment brought on by the discontinuation of my favorite Lush "temple balm" aromatherapeutic fragrance. As a magazine worker and as a woman, I should have read this book a long time ago. I feel pretty lazy that I never got around to it before.

I was pretty excited that Wolf started out the book by discussing the "Professional Beauty Qualification" — this has plagued me for years — in which " 'beauty' had to be defined as a legitimate and necessary qualification for a woman's rise in power... The working woman was told she had to think about 'beauty' in a way that undermined, step for step, the way she had begun to think as a result of the successes of the women's movement... The closer women come to power, the more physical self-consciousness and sacrifice are asked of them."

While reading this book, I definitely have been thinking about how I got into all this media stuff with the intention of bringing fresh ideas, intelligence, other general goodness, and was stuck just working towards the lowest common denominator as well as buying into the harmful ideas more than I ever have before. I wrote and then deleted a post in Jan in which I detailed the trauma inflicted on my psyche during a week that I tried (and failed) to ban all makeup. I am very much feeling the aspects of this book where she talks about women's magazines as disseminaters of feminist ideas throughout middle and lower classes, and doesn't dismiss them as entirely negative agents. I have really learned to hate all magazines, but there are some things about women's magazine in terms of providing a place — albeit a highly fucked-up one — for female culture to actually exist.

More important, though, it reminds me of the old life I had as a girl before I moved to New York, the epicenter of this crazy beauty shit. In working-class America, beauty is something very different than it is here. My mom and grandmother and great-grandmother didn't wear makeup. People weren't as pretty but they weren't as neurotic about their appearances. There wasn't crazy plastic surgery and trainers and the constant barrage of mani-pedi-wax-threading-locarb-mastercleansefasting. There is no substantial beauty industry in rural pennsylvania.

As I spring cleaned for hours on end today, I thought about how as a teenager I actually cleaned buildings for money. All the women I knew growing up did jobs like this: they sold Avon or Mary Kay; they cleaned houses; they cut hair; they were teachers, day-care workers, school-bus drivers; they worked at restaurants; they worked at banks; they worked at stores. They all worked in highly gendered "pink-collar" jobs, and none of them made very much money. I have done so many jobs that I decided maybe I should try to make a list.

I’ve been a babysitter.
I worked at a gift shop at an amusement park (specifically, in Berenstein Bear Country).
I’ve cleaned banks.
I’ve worked as a dishwasher, line cook, and hostess at Pizza Hut (my first unpleasant experience with sexual harrassment).
I’ve made sandwiches at Subway.
I’ve stuffed envelopes.
I worked at a greenhouse propagating plants.
I convinced people to switch long distance carriers at a Nascar race (my second unpleasant experience with sexual harrassment).
I worked as a waitress and barrista at a deli-style restaurant (my third unpleasant experience with sexual harassment).
I worked at the coffee bar at Borders.
I worked as a waitress at Cracker Barrel (dress code: country fresh).
I mounted slides at a slide library.
I solicited alumni donations.
I dispatched temps and reviewed resumes at a temp agency (my fourth unpleasant experience with sexual harassment).
I interned for a famous designer.
I designed publications for my college.
I interned for a famous artist (where the only women who set foot in the studio were the interns).
I babysat a boy in Tribecca.
I designed various materials for a travel store.
I worked as an administrative assistant at a PR firm.
I designed ads for a record label.
I sold lingerie at Victoria’s Secret.
I made photocopies for a designer.
I art directed a strange video-game oriented magazine.
I interned for a street style magazine.
I worked at a design firm.
I designed stuff for a performing arts center.
I worked at a pastry shop.
I designed a pitch for an amusement park.
I worked at an architecture firm.
I handled the bookkeeping for an art collective.
I worked at another design firm.
I worked at a graphic design magazine.
I’ve worked as an artist.
I’ve worked at a women’s magazine.
I’ve worked at a national newspaper.
I worked at a music magazine.
I’ve worked as an independent graphic designer.

I am happy that I moved out of PA and the pink-collar and joined the "creative class" but I still am always afraid to ask for more money and often fear that I am somehow less competent than my male peers. Additionally, I have to worry about things like how I'm so sad that Lush has discontinued one of the one thousand products I buy, and how I will be potentially less attractive without that product, and that perhaps I should really revisit my whole routine because I haven't been feeling very attractive lately anyway and I AM getting older...

The Panic Years reader roundup

I thought I had definitively decided to retire this short-lived blog forever as of two days ago. But before that can happen, we really need to address this topic that came up approx 4 months ago: a very special book (finally released! I had that advance copy for-fucking-ever!) called The Panic Years. Initially obtained from the free table of my old job, I've been waiting for so long to write about this serious gem of the chick-lit/self-help genre.

The basic premise of The Panic Years — a semi-satire aptly subtitled "A Guide to Surviving Smug Married Friends, Bad Taffeta, and Life on the Wrong Side of 25 Without a Ring" — is that young women are induced into a panic-like hysteria as their friends start getting married and they're still doing stupid shit like hooking up with their friends, focusing on their careers, etc. When I first spotted this book, my boss warned me not to go there but of course I did, and now I'm bringing you down with me.

We're really excited about this book in our apt. This genre of literature is really taking over the way we think about our relationships, mostly for the worse. Look for a The Rules / The Game / The Panic Years mashup roundtable discussion. I've read all three and I've found them to be equally mind-warping, devastating, enthralling and occasionally valuable in their own ways. The possibility of introducing "He's Just Not That Into You" into this discussion is also fairly high. Stay on the edge of your seats. I won't be calling you back for at least three days — make that a week, or even two.

Before and After Fleetwood Mac

As John masterfully blogs Tusk, I am really starting to realize how profoundly it and Fleetwood Mac in general has affected me. At this point, I can see pretty clearly that the discovery, acceptance, obsession, release, and re-evaluation of FM has served as a sort of delineation point between the past and current phase of my life.

It started out pretty innocently. I came into my studio and they were playing Mac. Carl is really into Fleetwood Mac right now, somebody said. And then I got some for myself. Not a lot, a few songs that I voraciously consumed. Then there was that epic trip to Philadelphia in December, an anxious look back in time which was bookended by Fleetwood Mac on the train the whole way down. This was the first time I strongly connected FM to my physical environment and my personal anxieties, and the first but not the last time I wrote about them, in my MS-Word Journal: I think New Jersey is haunting me. I went to Philadelphia on Friday afternoon, and all I am really thinking about is New Jersey: the Meadowlands, frozen, smoking, steaming on a gray Friday afternoon right before dark. On my first Amtrak train, so fancy. New Jersey was so sad and beautiful, and I listened to Fleetwood Mac nonstop—just “Dreams” and “Rhiannon” back to back, over and over again—and watched the frozen ground of the wetlands and all the industrial waste contained within that land dissolve into a more civilized Northern New Jersey landscape.

Upon return to New York, I acquired the full albums of the self-titled album, Rumors and Tusk (and the remastered versions of both), Tango in the Night, Mirage, eventually Buckingham Nicks, even some of Boston Blues. I immersed myself in Fleetwood Mac. All day at work at the magazine, all night at home, on the train, when I walked down the street. I experimented with different ways of listening—an album at a time, an album and its remastered version back to back, single tracks over and over. I researched. My primary concern in life, my most real and serious passion, became Fleetwood Mac.

Lucky for me, I had friends who were loving Fleetwood Mac right then and there, and they definitely enabled this obsession. By Christmas eve, I realized that Fleetwood Mac had indeed become more than just background music, and that I perhaps needed to exorcise it in order to save myself. I decided that this exorcism would take the form of a birthday party that involved only two elements: all of Fleetwood Mac's best work and a lot of drugs. The friends agreed that perhaps this was in order.

I knew this would be a monumental occasion, and everything needed to be just right. I waited several weeks, until all of my closest friends were back from their holiday vacations. There was some talk about procuring the rare making-of-Tusk documentary. This was followed up by phone calls by interested parties and a too-steep $150 price tag. In the meantime, I was growing increasingly distraught. My grasp upon reality was lessening. My thoughts were being replaced with cryptic lyrics, circular song structures, haunting harmonies. The world had grown dark and small and there was only room there for me and Fleetwood Mac. New Year's was a blur: my friend Peter came to visit and I spent all of New Year's Eve day hungover, listening to FM and explaining its brilliance in detail to him. I sat him down by the stereo and made him listen to Tusk with me while I was supposed to be cooking and preparing Jello shots. He said that 'Sara' reminded him of a girl he used to know, and got a little sad.

By the first week of January, I couldn't converse for more than 10 minutes without mentioning Fleetwood Mac. I would slip out of parties to listen to my iPod. Eventually the big day came, and I readied myself: this was the beginning of the end for me and the Mac. This was a dangerous, co-dependent relationship that needed to end. But like anything you love so much that it hurts you, it wasn't easy to let go.

All day, I bought candles and made phone calls to get numbers for drug dealers and actually smoked pot to calm myself down. When enough people arrived we sat together, listening all night— Rumors, Tusk, Fleetwood Mac, Buckingham Nicks, Tusk Remastered, Rumors Remastered... I think maybe Rumors again, "Gypsy" made its way in there at some point. It was perhaps one of the most profound and intense experiences of my life, and it lasted for maybe 9 hours. At 6 or 7am I went to bed with this bittersweet knowledge that it was all over.

After that day everything felt pretty raw and empty. I had thing weird longing that didn't go away for a long time. A week after the party, I permitted myself to listen to two or three songs on a train ride home (Rhiannon, Dreams, Sara) and I had a physical, almost convulsive reaction. By the time I got off the train I felt like a different person. I wasn't ready yet. By the time I went back to my job in February, I was emotionally drained.

Slowly, I've been able to re-introduce some Fleetwood Mac elements into my life again. I can't really listen to, say, "Sara" again like I used to. It's kind of painful. I don't really know how this happened to me. Before FM, I was in a generally optimistic mindset, but I knew winter was coming and it was going to be dark again for a long time. Somehow FM acted as a weird catalyst for a lot of impending badness that had been building up. It's possible that I felt like in the 6 months preceding it, I had changed into a person that I wasn't comfortable being. It's possible that a lot of the things that I had been dreaming about were actually materializing and I couldn't sort out my desires anymore. Post-FM (or, as someone called it, Fleetwood Crack), I am a changed woman. Fleetwood Mac made me see that human beings are flawed in sometimes catastrophic ways that they can't control. There are unpredictable, sometimes dark, sometimes ominous things that motivate them, and there is a certain beauty to that darkness that is rarely captured. These are all good reasons to be afraid, but maybe Fleetwood Mac's music is really about accepting fear and failure and making something good of it, then pressing on.

Some songs relevant to this election cycle

These are from a random old school hip hop compilation. Listen while thinking about the lunch pail Democrats.

"Jesse" - Grandmaster Flash and Melle Mel
Everybody get out and vote!

"Yes We Can-Can" - The Treacherous Three

it's not easy being green

Hey boss editors of mine! Welcome to the year 2004! Great and original concept for the next issue--nobody has ever done a green-theme before.

After this issue, the only tolerated references to "green" in my life will be: al green, green monster, money, and weed.

I am going to go home now so that I can turn all the lights on, plug in all my electronics, run the faucets, and blast the air conditioners before I drive my Hummer to a far-away steak house while tossing paper and plastic bags out the window. Ooh, maybe I'll stop at Sam's Club on the way to pick up an economy-sized pack of Poland Spring and little packets of condiments! The world, and everyone on it, can kiss my ass.

I think I am going to marry Andy Rooney

Thanks for the vid tip Renda. (sorry about the ad, I will fix this asap)
Also, speaking of future husbands, my fav. young Southern soccer player and I are now officially 'pals'!

Fuck

7 new sins. I am now too rich for heaven.

1. "Bioethical" violations such as birth control
2. "Morally dubious'' experiments such as stem cell research
3. Drug abuse
4. Polluting the environment
5. Contributing to widening divide between rich and poor
6. Excessive wealth
7. Creating poverty

It was everything a slumber party could be

Seriously pro slumber party photos by Astrid Stawiarz. Check them out!

Today's Free Shit: Slumber Party Edition

Party favors have arrived by courier: Pomtinis! Wine Spritzers ! Cliff Bars! Peroni!
Tomorrow's slumber party will be sponsored by of one of our fav. employers (Thanks C.)

HOT MAMAH AMAZONSARAH

go ahead, get viral.

Sharing is Caring

Gentle readers,
I really do believe that it is our obligation as human beings to entertain each other.

Here are some new things I will share with you today:
1. Heartbreak / Dancing Soul playlist. I made this playlist in 2005 and found it recently. I was in the midst of heartbreak, and was trying to create an "Ultimate Heartbreak Mixxx" of the saddest possible songs. This was my side project, just other songs. It is much better, and much more heartbreaking because it wasn't trying to be. Download

2. Andy Rooney podcasts. Ever since I realized that the two poles of my personality were Carrie Bradshaw and Andy Rooney, I've grown much fonder of his crankiness. These 2 minute gems are much more entertaining without the visuals. Listen as Andy dissects the uselessness of kitchen gadgets, self-help books, and baseball.

3. Finally, The Supremes' "I'm Living in Shame" (download) is a really sad song about a daughter who is ashamed of her poor mother, and eventually goes off to college and pretends that her mother had died so that her uptown friends will never see her. It talks about upward class mobility in the most tragic way possible. This song bears some resemblance to Alice Walker's "Everyday Use," a short story that is quite good and that I try to keep in the back of my mind as much as possible. Read it here.

On Carole King, and album art in general

When I was growing up, I used to actually play with my dad's records like they were toys. Perhaps the epitome of the fun interactivity of the album jacket was Led Zeppelin’s Physical Graffiti, a packaging masterpiece that utilized the double-album format to its fullest aesthetic potential. On both sides of the album, die-cut windows revealed different ‘scenes’ depending upon the positioning of the 4 total sides of the inner sleeves. This led to hours of awestruck record flipping while listening to the strange music inside: What would appear in the windows of this mysterious building when side B faced front and side C faced back, versus when side A faced back? What was really going on inside that jacket, and why did the band decide to make this crazy object?

In the days of records, enjoying music was a multi-faceted experience that involved the physical object – the packaging – as much as the listening part. It visualized the world of the music, or brought another element to that world. It provided us with something to hold, to look at, lyrics to read. Was this person really climbing the stairway to heaven? Or is this what it looks like on the stairway to heaven? Does this drawing have anything to do with the actual song itself? Was it symbolic in some way? Or did the band just like the way it looked?

I formed endless narratives about the worlds inside those covers while listening to the records. This includes any record cover, not just the brilliant or iconic ones: Like a Prayer is suspiciously similar to Sticky Fingers, but as a young lady I thought that the Madonna cover was perhaps what sluttiness looked like. Of course, this is the result of not just cultural conditioning but also the artfulness (in the case of Sticky Fingers) or lack thereof (in Like a Prayer) of its execution. So many album covers showed me things that the music itself didn't, and exposed me to new ideas that I wouldn't have seen any other way.

About a month ago, a music critic named Jody Rosen spoke at KGB Bar about the digitization of music, and the subsequent loss of the object or image that accompanies the music. He started obsessively collecting vintage sheet music – which he couldn’t read – for the images on the covers. He looked at the images to imagine the songs that would accompany them. I love MP3s as much as anyone else, but I definitely feel like a part of the mystery of music, how it existed in several different spheres, died with iTunes. The physicality of music packaging allows us to engage with music through more of our senses. Our own sets of visual, verbal, and musical associations combine into a comprehensive experience that creates an individualized culture of the music. We have more opportunities to connect to the music on a personal level.

My extra-masculine dad revealed his sensitive side to my siblings and me through his love of 70s-era singer-songwriters, especially Carole King. He used to repeatedly and enthusiastically play the 8-track tape of the children’s musical “Really Rosie” for us, and was so excited when the animated special came on tv. He sat us down and made us watch it. This was, of course, because Carole King wrote the music, and through this animated special he could share this love he had with us.

Consequently, I spent a lot of time as a child thinking about Carole King and what made her great enough to soften up my father. Forever burned into my mind was the cover of ‘Tapestry’. She was a woman in the city (King is from Brooklyn but she moved to LA, so this cover was actually shot at her home in Laurel Canyon), sitting on a windowseat looking out a window, maybe waiting for a guy - perhaps 'so far away' - to come home. It seems like a rainy day, and she is a little bit broken but still relatively optimistic, even cheerful. She seemed to me to be the definition of what a woman was, could be, had to be. I identified with this image, and felt that she was perhaps the woman I was destined to become.

At the same time, Carole King’s actual songs sometimes seemed disheartening. In the ‘Tapestry’ photo, she seemed like a model of strength, but in her lyrics dealing with relationships with men, the female always seemed overly weak and malleable. Some standouts include “Will You Love Me Tomorrow” and “He Hit Me (And It Felt Like a Kiss).” This lyric from “Where You Lead” always particularly bothered me, as the singer seemed to celebrate the relegation of her own dreams:

I always wanted a real home with flowers on the windowsill
But if you want to live in New York City, honey, you know I will

Regardless of my problems with Carole King, the impact of that photo and ‘Tapestry’ in general on my psyche is pretty undisputed in ways I haven’t been able to fully identify.

And so, Carole King and destiny. This is a photo of the living room of my old apartment in Philadelphia. Finally my life-long dream for a window seat was realized here, perhaps my own version of Laurel Canyon. I spent much time listening to records and smoking cigarettes out that window, looking at trees and beautiful though slightly dilapidated row houses. I would spy on the nightly goings-on and potential streetfights in front of the two Ethopian bars on opposite street corners, see bikes get stolen, try to figure out if it was garbage day. In West Philadelphia, everything was so far away, not just Center City but my regular life in New York too, and my weird fantasy had come true.

Afterlife

My special day has finally come. Exactly 13 months ago, I followed my heart to a short and tumultuous career in magazines. Tomorrow, with the same level of excitement and dedication, I am ending my Midtown tenure for the greener pastures of Brooklyn.

Some stats on the year I spent shoulder to shoulder with the media elite:
Number of magazines worked for/with: 6
Number of magazines that folded during this year: 1
Number of reality shows filmed in office: 1
Estimated number of times I cried while in office: 13
Average number of people who need to be consulted to design one element of one page, such as a photo credit: 4
Cups of Flavia brand French Roast consumed: 325
Pounds gained: 15
Average number of days, weekly, spent feeling inadequate about the heel height of my shoes: 2-3
Number of pairs of shoes bought to remedy this situation: 4
Number of times I've actually worn these shoes, total: 7 (including twice, for 20 minutes, before changing into flats)
Ick factor of the tunnel between the G and E at Court Square in Long Island City, on a scale of 1 to 10: 6
Ick factor of the tunnel between 6th and 7th avenue on 14th street: 8
Ick factor of the tunnel between Port Authority and Times Square: 10
Rank of East Midtown, West Midtown, and Chinatown as most unpleasant workplace locations: 2, 1, 3
International corporate publishing headquarters visited: 4
Number of months worked before referring to my employer as "corporate media": 4
Estimated number of conversations I've engaged in about the elevator: 100
Number of times I've heard the phrase "Who are you wearing?" (not about me, obviously): 3
Ratio of time spent fearing I'd be fired to time spent wishing I'd quit: 1:4
Number of times I had to cancel my plans on a weeknight in order to work late before I stopped making them: 10
Number of times I had to cancel my plans on a Friday night in order to work late before I stopped making them: 6
Value of the feeling of seeing 4 people on one F train platform in Brooklyn engrossed in an issue I designed, heads buried in a cover I helped to create (and actually liked), on the day it came out: Priceless!

download:
One More Cup of Coffee