Saturday, September 23, 2006
Well anyway, it's Saturday night and I'm staying in. I feel as if this need to be in front of my TV with a bottle of champagne on weekends is a symptom of getting older. And I mean getting older in the good sense... (yes, I've chosen to look at it as a positive!) In the sense that I've become more discerning about my time. I much prefer to go out on weeknights when the bars and shows are less crowded and the LA equivalent of the bridge and tunnel brigade (would that be Orange or Riverside counties?) are not out in full force. I actually luxuriate in my Saturday nights at home... everyone else is out, in the pursuit of that proverbial "good time Saturday night," waiting in line for clubs that blare bad music, or paying $15 dollars for a tiny martini, surrounded by girls with back tattoos and guys who wave their keys for their leased BMW at you in hopes of drawing you in... and here I am, with 3 (! I saved them) Netflix movies, Thai takeout, and a bottle of champagne. What sounds better to you?
(And I DO have plans for brunch tomorrow... just in case you were wondering if I actually have friends at all...)
Wednesday, August 30, 2006
To give a bit of history, I've been "dealing" with him for over 2 years now, and we've always been friendly; I make it a point to chat for at least a few minutes before I hightail it out of his place (and "hightail" is the right word - relief doesn't come much sweeter than the relief of a successfully negotiated coke exchange.) But lately, he's been more and more chatty, and just the other night, I got a rambling 2am "what's up" message from him that made me just a tad apprehensive. Is my interest in his coke translating in his mind to an interest in him? I've always paid full price... is there some etiquette here I'm missing? Come on... I'm just a naive white girl from the suburbs. Any help?
Wednesday, August 02, 2006
I soon realized that making the perfect tracklist would not be quite as simple as I had initially thought. As I examined my collection, I found myself considering overall cohesiveness, male/female singer equanimity, variety of genre, and ratio of popular to obscure song choice. At that moment, I embraced my inner music snob. and I have never looked back. This mix was going to be no mere dumping of songs; it would be a work of art.
Anyone who has ever made a "mix-on-tape" (for whatever reason, I feel as if the "phrase deserves quotations marks) knows what I'm talking about. Nowadays, we just load a bunch of songs onto a computer program, hit a key, and 5 minutes later our mix is done. But back then, mixmaking was a labor of love - a multi-hour process of rewinding and fast-forwarding, reworking song order, and pausing at just the right moment. Most importantly, it was a lessson in timing. As any afficiando will tell you, the mark of a superior cassette mix is that thelast song on each side ends mere seconds before the tape runs out.
I still have that first mix, and excepting a fewunfortunate song choices (ie, Aerosmith's "What it Takes," and more than a reasonable amount of selections from the 'Pretty Woman' Soundtrack (Go West, anyone?)) I am actually quite impressed with my fifteen-year-old mixmaking prowess. Come on, how many sophomore girls' high school mixes include ""Oceans" (Pearl Jam), "Black Metallic" (Catherine Wheel) and Simon and Garfunkel's "Cecila" all encapsulated onto one 90 minute piece of Sony plastic??
Here's a bit of a test. If anyone emails me in response to this post I will send them, free of charge, a casettte AND CD copy of the mix in question... come on, 1993 was a really GOOD year for music...
Wednesday, July 26, 2006
I must amend that statement. It's not "news" in that this is obviously not new information to anyone who's been paying attention to the actual "news" (ie, the media.) Yes, temperatures are soaring into the triple digits and rolling blackouts may be imminent and my GOD what to do without central air, but COME ON. This is Southern California. We live in a desert.
I actually find myself enjoying the heat. I can put on my little boy "tightie whities" (sp?) and my wifebeater tank and drink white wine and pat myself down with a towel ala "Cat on a Hot Tin Roof." Doesn't the heat just scream dirty sex and martinis and going without underwear?
Just think of all the sweat glistening off tan, pert thighs... Is it just me?
Monday, July 17, 2006
bloggeron the topic of the so-called "hipster." A hipster in this sense broadly defined to mean any urban twenty or thirtysomething who views themselves as apart from the mainstream (whether it's because they have tattoos/do drugs/listen to indie music/wear ironic bandanas, whatever.) By definition, these people would be called the "counterculture."
So does that mean that the 2006 hipster is our generation's version of the hippie/beatnik/flapper/ of yesteryear? That the guy sauntering down Rivington in his ironic bandana whilst listening to Art Brut on his ipod is in the same league as the civil rights crusaders, suffragettes, and abolitionists - all of whom also spurned the mainstream?
Sure, today's hipsters talk a lot about how they're SO against the Iraq war, and that absolutely gays should be allowed to marry, and how Hurricane Katrina showed just how devastating America's poverty problem really is. But last I checked, most of these people were NOT quitting their jobs to volunteer in New Orleans or petitioning their congressmen or marching on Washington. Hell, they could hardly even be bothered to vote. I mean, come on, there's Sparks to drink, and eyeliner to artfully smudge and music to turn up their noses to. (And what do you mean, they don't care? They just wore their ironic anti-GW tshirt yesterday!)
Thursday, July 13, 2006
There's a kind of strength in anger; a dignity in despair. Sadness always bubbles just under the surface of compassion, often as the flipside to love or joy. But jealousy resides inside the lowest, meanest, dirtiest part of ourselves. As an emotion, it's where we humans become truly hateful.
Because we're only jealous of others when we hate something about ourselves. It's so much easier to turn an envious eye towards others' happiness, success, beauty, etc. than to cast that eye upon ourselves. And who can deny that sometimes it can be fun to revel in jealousy, to let yourself go that dirty place and slide around in the muck? Come on, admit it... we all just need to feel mean sometimes. And jealousy makes it safe; the only person we're being mean to is ourselves.
Monday, July 10, 2006
It was wonderful those first few months. I felt like Annie when she first descended upon Daddy Warbucks' mansion. I ate Thai food almost every day. I did lots of ecstasy and ordered from kosmo.com and was there for the birth of vodka and redbull and when all the cool restaurants were serving nouveau comfort food.
Then I was there when everyone subsequently lost their jobs. The 2000 election debacle. September 11th. Anthrax lurking in every envelope; our receptionist sorting our mail with gloves on. What sounded like fighter jets constantly overhead. Sitting on the subway, heart racing and scared out of my mind because the lights had gone out. Bad coke that tasted like dirt and made my throat hurt for days. Moving to an apartment smaller than my college dorm room and running my credit card bill up past $10k. Getting laid off (and learning that company loyalty is not always rewarded.)
But even when it was raining, my coffee guy was there and he always had my order ready (medium w/ cream and sugar) when he saw me coming. The woman who ran my drycleaner opened her own Chinese bakery and it was my dollar she proudly displayed to represent her first sale (a delicious fig cookie.) And when one evening, I hailed a cabbie to take me back to Brooklyn and subsequently realized I had no money, asked him to take me to an ATM and then found that the citys' ATMs were all inexplicably "down" (blackout preview?), he still took me home and waited while I ran inside for a check - finally telling me in broken English, "If I had a daughter, I'd want someone to do the same for her" - I realized - it's not New York, the city, that creates the magic, it's all these people.
That's what I miss.
Friday, July 07, 2006
But why the fuck can I not buy an 8 ball and an ounce of pot and a few tablets of e instead of this pint of Stoli? No reason. It's all relative. Who decided this?
I live in
Wednesday, June 28, 2006
And though you hate that person, he (or she) is always stronger, funnier, sexier than you. You may try to stake a claim, but he (or she) will win every argument, and leave you slinking away to the corner. It's where you belong, anyway; everyone likes him (or her) better.
At least that's what I think. Who do you like better?
a) I have had to attend too many weddings in states that are not my own, often wearing technicolor bridesmaids gowns in woefully unflattering styles
b) I started a new diet and have been extremely grumpy and uninspired
c) I began to wonder if maybe this whole "blog fad" had run it's course - that my ramblings had become insipid and pedestrian
d) I've been doing too much coke
I'm sure you can all guess the answer:
E) All of the above!
If anyone is out there, thanks for listening... I'll be back...
Tuesday, February 07, 2006
So I, hoping to avoid another Editors' debacle, arrived to last night's free show at the Troubadour at 7:30, only to see Black Wire - a band with arguably enough buzz as Editors and even a touted connection to Kroq staple The Kaiser Chiefs - play to a half-empty LA crowd with nary a hipster among the lot.
I DID see the Editors the night after their Spaceland show. And to be honest, Black Wire was better.
Monday, February 06, 2006
Everything was just brilliant, as the Brits would say, until about 4:30am - what I call the "rock star hour." This is the time when the rookies quit, pop their Tylenol PM and go to bed. Anyone who keeps going past this point knows they're in for the long haul. They have commited to seeing the sun rise. But - there's a difference between continuing to do lines in the still-hazy blue of 6am and hunching beside a coke-laden CD case lit by the full force of the sun. Once you hear your neighbors leaving for work, the alarm bells should be loud and clear. It's quitting time. The time when even the real rock stars know that getting sleep is necessary, if only so that they can be fully rejuvenated to party the next night.
Take my advice. Don't wait until you hear the mailman's keys jingling outside your window.
Sunday, February 05, 2006
Some bitch walked in on me tonight when I was doing coke in one of the bathroom stalls. Spaceland, ground zero of hipster hell. I knew I shouldn't have brought the stuff in the first place; my adored Arctic Monkeys' were making their LA debut and I was missing it because I couldn't stop going to the bathroom. I need to have my trusty baggie at shows, and I hate myself a little for it. I often miss my favorite songs, but I can't imagine a concert without coke. It's my security blanket, my goodtime insurance, even if the music sucks. Which it never does.
So yes, "a coked-up hipster" gives you the general idea of me. But though the "coked-up" part of the moniker is self-explanatory, I'd like to define the word "hipster" insomuch as how it relates to who I am. Based on the dictionary definition of the word, I am not a hipster. I am not "one who is exceptionally aware of or interested in the latest trends and tastes, especially a devotee of modern jazz;" I am a music snob, but my awareness is certainly not exceptional. And of course there's the fact that I never listen to jazz. And although I'm a liberal, the second definition: "someone who rejects the established culture; advocates extreme liberalism in politics and lifestyle" describes someone much more passionate and extreme. The word hipster used to describe the true members of the counterculture; the ones who actually created the trends because they didn't care about trends. But about five years ago, the word had a renaissance in the American language and its conntation has changed.
Shedding it's prior associations with jazz or hippies, the word "hipster" has come to define a particular type of urban twentysomething whose culture of cool revolves around irony and a heightened sense of self-awareness. Hipsters drink at dive bars and live in Williamsburg and wore trucker hats in 2002. They have a penchant for indie rock and vintage clothes and a proud disdain for the mainstream.
Hipsters congregate in major cities. Because I live in Silver Lake, I'm talking in particular about the Los Angeles hipster, though the type is pretty universal. Whetherthey live in the East Village or Austin, hipsters are the ones who consider themselves the trendsetters, the center of the zeitgeist, thumbing their noses at the unitiated masses. That band you're listening to? A hipster had the import a year ago; in fact, they made out with the drummer after their show at Silver Lake Lounge last year. They moved to Echo Park before it was gentrified, and the only place that they'd ever consider living on the Westside is Venice. Black hair dye reigns supreme and even the straight boys wear eyeliner. They are gay and straight, from all races but primarily white and Asian, well-educated, and overwhelmingly liberal.
Their liberalism extends to all aspects of their lives. Their openmindedness, especially towards sex and drugs, is a source of pride. Everyone knows a couple in an open relationship, and of course, it's working out so well for them! Straight boys share the story of their gay experience back in high school without shame; the girls love to kiss each other - though it's not for the benefit of the guys, they just really think other women are beautiful. Hipsters don't judge. They'll try anything. They'll even show you the phone number of their drug dealer programmed into their cell phone, though they probably won't share their coke unless they want to sleep with you. These are the people that truly consider themselves the "cool kids," and like in high school, believing you are cool is often enough to convince everyone else. And I am no exception, for even as I try to keep myself apart, I've found myself lured in by the promise of cool - a follower to the hipster herd. But the more I've seen of this so-called hipster world, I've seen how we're all just feeding off of a sense of smug superiority that only exists in a vaccuum. The bandanas and modified mullet haircuts are no better than the Ugg boots and Gap jeans of the reviled masses.
Lately the word has been thrown around so much it's become a kind of parody of itself. Have you ever noticed that no one who the media might still call a hipster would ever actually use the label for themselves? Nowadays, it's only acceptable to call yourself a hipster if you can be ironic about it - like "yeah, I may be a hipster, but I'm a self-loathing hipster." There are people who spend a lot of time pointing out/laughing at/dissecting the sociology of the "hipster," scoffing at the hipster lemmings, but in my opinion, they're hipsters just like the rest of them.
So in my definition, a hipster = a follower with a raging case of cultural superiority.