Double trouble.

November 2, 2009

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It’s strange to think of Nicole Ritchie now having all these babies & chilling out in Glendale when just a few years ago, she was eating a pretzel a day, hanging out with Lindsay & driving on the wrong side of the freeways. I love this bitch in any incarnation. She’s so quick-witted and fiery. I remember this picture, in particular, sent shockwaves through the tabloids. Party girl U.S.A. Too bad Lindsay missed the memo and is still living her life circa 2006.

 

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Um, best movie duo ever basically. Kirsten Dunst & Taryn Manning need to exclusively be in movies together. Crazy/Beautiful is life-altering and also my life story. Malibu brat falls in love with mexican babe? Fact. Also, can I please show up drunk in a bra at a football game like Taryn Manning did? I try to recreate this movie as much as possible in my daily life.

 

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Arguably one of the best movies on planet Earth, Go made me want to party at a rave and hang out with Sarah Polley & Katie Holmes (pre- Scientology life takeover) so bad. These girls were so awesome. Katie Holmes made out with a drug dealer on some stairs, Sarah Polley sold baby asprin disguised as Ecstacy. Bad girls for sure.

 

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I spent middle-school dyeing my hair Lil’ Kim blonde and dragging my mom to repeated screenings of Drive Me Crazy. Not Evan Rachel Wood & Nikki Reed. These girls huffed computer duster together, made out and punched each other and snorted prescription pills all at the tender age of thirteen. I don’t know whether to be jealous or horrified. Probably a mixture of the two.

Lost Anj.

October 20, 2009

LASmog

I went to Los Angeles this weekend under the pretense of  my father’s birthday. But in all honesty, I went because I missed smog, canyons and beaches.

I can’t exactly pinpoint when my fixation with Los Angeles began. I grew up an hour north of L.A. in a sleepy beach town. My parents grew up in the San Fernando Valley and most of my family still lives there. Growing up, the Valley was like my second home but I never thought of it in relation to L.A. It was, and still is,  very much its own entity.  The Valley has always weirded me out. The weather is impossibly hot and it’s littered with disgusting strip malls. Most of our nation’s porn is produced there and it’s not surprising. There’s a seediness to that place. You just know that people aren’t living right.

In the summer of 2007, I moved into an apartment in Westwood. It was my first taste of living in Los Angeles proper. My father moved to Malibu when  I was fourteen but my experiences were very much limited to weekend trips. When I think of my first few months in L.A., I think of traffic, listening to great radio, pools, sunshine, and going out on the Eastside. It was sort of an effortless adjustment. It made sense. Since that summer, I’ve been bi-coastal and have lived in Beverly Hills, West Hollywood & Hollywood. At first, the L.A. lifestyle agreed with me. Everything seemed to move in slow-motion. Days were punctuated by lunches and dinners. They were the only real markers of time. I’d go to the movies a lot or just wander down Sunset. People go to the movies a lot in Los Angeles and they do seem to wander aimlessly.

I began to realize that everything that had been said about Los Angeles was true. It was hazy, dreamy, fake, inconvenient, beautiful, ugly, alienating. People spend their days trapped in their cars. The sidewalks of major streets like Melrose and Sunset are practically desolate. People park their cars and walk the five steps to their destination.

So many people  are self-employed. At 3 P.M. on a workday, coffee shops are filled with people typing on their Mac’s and chatting on their cell phones. Everyone’s always in-between projects and something is always about to happen. People market themselves. Their image is their job. For most, it doesn’t translate to any success. But if you were to become famous for being yourself, L.A. would be the place to go.

There are a lot of things that are inherently wrong with the city. But what draws me back in is the history, the beauty and the sun. Beautiful Malibu beaches, Laurel and Topanga Canyon, the hills of Hollywood.  There’s stunning architecture, stellar parks. The aesthetic of the city is almost unreal. And I guess that’s the point. It’s drenched in an ungodly amount of sun at all times. It makes even all the ugly things look a little pretty.

I always tell people to go to L.A. with little expectations. Finding a substantial human connection can be difficult. But you need to embrace the city for what it is and forget what it’s not. Because it’s an absolutely insane place. When all is said and done, I can’t imagine ending up anywhere else.

Liberal Arts College Homework.

October 15, 2009

90 % 90’s.

October 13, 2009

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This past weekend, I went to Brooklyn to see Hope Sandoval of Mazzy Star perform. It was a monumental event because Sandoval notoriously suffers from fears of stages/people/life. I don’t know how she really survives financially. On average, she releases one song a year. What if she moonlighted as a brilliant financial analyst on Wall Street?

She came on stage shrouded in darkness. You could really only see the outline of her body. And what a body, by the way. At this point, she must be forty but her body appears to have been frozen in ’93. She was wearing this super ugly/amazing floral (maybe it was floral. I couldn’t see shit, remember?) dress and her hair was insane and long and witch-y. She started singing and I immediately got chills/felt like I had been fed four horse tranquilizers. Everyone in the audience was 35 and seemed like they were with their high-school sweethearts. If I had been 16 when “Fade Into You” came out, I would’ve been making out to that song daily. Who am I kidding? It’s 2009, I’m 23 and I’m still managing to make out to “Fade Into You” on a semi-regular basis.  So thanks for that, Hope.

My friend Evan re-ignited my love for this old 90’s club jam. I’m getting flashbacks of myself circa age seven and crying because my parents won’t let me watch Beverly Hills, 90210. I was an “advanced” child and started watching 90210 when I was literally four years old. When I was in Kindergarten, I went over to my teacher’s house to watch the season finale. In hindsight, I guess that seems pretty weird.

My So-Called Gay Life.

October 5, 2009

Sometimes I feel like being gay is a full-time job. Do straight people ever feel straight? There are moments when I feel extra gay (like when I’m connecting to Britney Spears’ Blackout) and I’m not sure what that even fucking means. This goddamn gay media has infiltrated my reality with the Will & Grace’s and Queer Eye’s and it’s complicated my sexual identity. It’s made all the other gays I know go nuts too. We have our own set of pressures  and expectations to deal with. Sometimes I feel weird for not liking Lady Gaga, having 0.5 percent body fat or not wanting to go to gay bars on Santa Monica Blvd. I feel like a traitor to my own culture but then I realize that’s not my culture. The idea of this collective gay culture or universal gay experience isn’t real. The only thing we all share in common is that we like dick. Big fucking deal. It ends there. Then people wander off into their own sub-cultures and ride their bikes, bulk up muscle, grow a moustache, get into a monogamous relationship or do whatever else they want to do to be happy. My sexuality informs everything I do and I feel lucky to live in such a pivotal time for homosexuals. But sometimes I just overdose on gay. I’m here, I’m queer, peace out.

I also loathe the commodification of gay and the trend factor that goes along with it. Hopeless girls want a gay best friend as some accessory like we’re the new Balenciaga motorcycle bag. And they just love us because we’ll go shopping with them, give them blowjob tips and tell them what conditioner to use on their fucked-up hair. Ugh, as if. Like me for me, bitch! 

 

I see a lot of the stereotypical gays trolling about West Hollywood and Chelsea and I can’t help but wonder how much of it is genuine. Do these guys like wearing embroidered jeans and deep V’s  or are they wearing it because it’s a gay uniform?  Are gay people looking to the media as an instructional manual on how to live a gay life? Is there such a thing as a gay lifestyle?

 

Also, please don’t ever re-enact this scenario.

 

You: Oh my god, you’re gay right? Dude, I know this guy I went to high school who was gay and I think you’d like him!

Me: Why? What do we have in common besides that we both like to sleep with men?

You: Oh cause he’s just so crazy and funny. Just like you! Such a riot. And he’s also…(proceeds to list qualities that I don’t possess nor find attractive in anyone)

Me: Oh, sounds like a real fit.

You: Yeah, I’ll send his FB. I already showed him yours and he thinks you’re hot!

Me:  Tight.

 

Yeah, hi. Story of my weird gay life. So insulting. It’s like me stopping every straight person I know and saying, “You like sleeping with the opposite sex? Great, you’d love my other friends that like to do that.”

 

Now, if you’ll excuse me. I have a date with my Bowflex machine and a bag of crystal meth. HAAAAAYYYY.

Luv Goon.

September 30, 2009

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There’s been alot of hype surrounding the season premiere of The Hills because of this crazy bitch. And deservedly so. Since Lauren Conrad spent her last season of the show in a personality coma,  everyone knows that Kristin Cavallari is the kind of the girl that will work for her money. She’s already gotten into an altercation with Audrina and started cozying up to that weird homeless guy, Justin Bobby. At this point, the show is so blatantly fake that you just have to embrace it. I also love that the re-casting of Kristin has made Heidi and Spencer completely irrelevant. Their faux-fights and feeble attempts at stirring up controversy pale in comparison to Kristin’s hijinks. But I have one question. Why is Stacie, the bartender chick MTV hired to create drama, hanging out with the gang?

 

I watched the premiere of The City for 2.5 seconds but then my brain exploded from boredom.  Is that possible?

 

In other news, fall in NYC is magical and all I want  are some more cardigans and a spooning partner.

Lost in a fog of blog.

September 25, 2009

Today I was thinking about all of my old blogs and got really creeped out. I’ve been blogging for eight years, starting when I was a freshman in high-school. This was before blogspots and wordpresses and shit. Back then, the major blogs were either Xanga, SitDiary, Deadjournal or Livejoiurnal. I’ve had three out of the four. In the beginning, my friends and I all had Deadjournals. It basically acted as our middle-class version of Gossip Girl and people would relish in  creating shitstorms of drama. Someone would write an entry bitching about some girl, knowing full well that the girl was on their friends list. That was sort of the point, I guess. You would constantly be testing people to see their reactions. It would eventually cumulate in an epic comment war of all of your friends taking a side and typing evil shit to one another. Then at school, people would just be passive-aggressive and wait till they got home to air their grievances online. People got so socially awkward and weird but everyone loved the voyeurism and having a stupid soapbox to stand on.

I got a Livejournal when I was 16 because I was tired of Deadjournal drama and wanted to go in a more “mature” direction. For awhile, I was friends with only random twenty-somethings from Bullshit, Missouri. Then I found all the journals of these crazy rich LA girls and was in blog heaven. They would post polaroids of them getting drunk in pools or wearing Marc Jacobs dresses and they looked so cute and crazy. They would post things like, “today i got a parking ticket for 200 bucks and it sucked but then we went to cinespace and sarah vomited blood? it was so nuts!” After reading their entries, Livejournal just got so weird and I would mimic them by only posting polaroids of my cute friends and saying stupid shit like, “today was  a big waste & all i did was drink wine and listen to bob dylan.”  Hi, I’m 17. What actually happened was that I drank one glass of wine and listened to one Bob Dylan song and couldn’t wait to blog about it because it seemed alternative.

Eventually, everyone was on Livejournal and it made sense until we all hit 20 and people started getting sick or hurt or developed drug problems. Posting pictures of dance parties doesn’t seem relevant when you just spent your last 20 dollars on weed and your mom hates you and you’ve slept with alot of weirdos and may have gotten an STD.

Livejournal didn’t start to lose its luster for me till I moved to New York. Living in New York is sometimes too surreal to document. And it’s funny because I started this blog because i wanted to take the focus off of me and write about things in the world that I thought were ridiculous, amazing and/or offensive. But sometimes I find myself nostalgic for the way I used to write. Sometimes  all I want to do is blog about boys and weird friendships or a crazy drug experience. Is that too much to ask? Probably. The older I get, the crazier blogs get. And one day I want to make money off of blogging about the girls from The Hills. Because it’s 2009 & I can.

Doing My Chores.

September 21, 2009

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Diablo Cody needs to be deleted from Hollywood. I know I’m not the first person to say such a thing. And I certainly won’t be the last. But her latest film, Jennifer’s Body, reignited my disdain for this walking, talking, pop culture robot/untalented writer. Juno was weird. I liked it best when it was just being honest and sweet and not spouting out awkward catchphrases or cueing up a Moldy Peaches song. But Jennifer’s Body? Dear God. At this point, studio execs would’ve greenlit a film of Amanda Seyfried taking a dump on Megan Fox’s face as long as Diablo Cody was attached and promised to provide a killer soundtrack. Honestly, maybe that film would’ve fared better than Jennifer’s Body. Here’s the deal: it’s a movie that doesn’t know what it wants to be. Is it a horror film with comedic elements? Or is it a comedy with a few scares thrown in? The tone of the film is so uneven that it ends up being not particularly funny or scary. Honest to blog. Or maybe I just resent Diablo Cody for writing films that I, or any other pop-culture enthusiast, could write in their sleep. She’s getting paid millions to present a very specific picture of alternative teen life. None of it ends up being particularly honest or interesting. But oh well. You should go see it anyway for all of the awkward moments that  will cause you and everyone else in the theatre to squirm in their seats.

 

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I’ll admit it. I’m a sucker for easy-to-read angsty books with feminist undertones and tales of drug addiction. I’ll also read anything that boasts an introduction by LITERARY ICON, Chloe Sevigny. So it was inevitable that I was going to read Lesley Arfin’s Dear Diary. The concept is intriguing. A girl prints her old diary entries, writes commentary on them and interviews all of the Susie Q’s and John Blowhards that made her adolescence a living hell. Conveying the right tone is tricky with a book such as this. You don’t want to appear condescending, obnoxious or too bitchy to your readers. But Arfin manages to avoid all those pitfalls by explaining the complexities of teenage emotions in entertaining layman riot grrl terms. What makes this book a success and sellable is that Lesley Arfin’s life was similar to ours. She’s just simply better at articulating these experiences than the average folk. Loves it. Needs it. Read it.

 

In other real-life news, I just ate two Nutella sandwiches and have watched five hours of Beverly Hills, 90210 today. Kelly is going through her coke addiction right now and i just love watching Jennie Garth act high. She literally does a bump of coke from a key and doesn’t sleep for four days and bitches out her roommates. If you could get that high off 1/4 of a line, people would probably stop going broke. On the downside, I guess they could OD after doing only like two lines. Hmmm. That’s problematic. 90210 always raises so many important questions for me.

It’s Sunday.

September 14, 2009

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I stumbled upon this little gem last week in the blogs. Oh. My. God. Washed Out is basically some dude from South Carolina who makes these beautiful electronic tracks in his bedroom. The sounds are so soft and lush, it feels like a mind massage. It’s a very interesting hybrid of delicate lo-fi, dreamy otherwordly vocals and 80’s electronica. The closet comparison I can think of is “West End Girls” by Pet Shop Boys or “I’m Not In Love” by 10cc. This music makes me such a nostalgic little bitch for California. All I wanna do is swim in the ocean, lay on the beach and run around with my best friends. City life can get you down, I suppose.

 

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I watched the season finale of True Blood and found myself, as usual, underwhelmed. I started watching the show this summer out of this bizarre desire to be a part of the conversation at the water coolers. It’s become such a cultural phenomenon and I wanted to experience it for myself. I can’t really pinpoint my major gripe with this show. What I do know is that I’m happy the show is embracing more of its inherent campiness. The acting and the accents are so god-awful but they understand that now. They may have always known, always had a certain level of self-awareness, but now it seeps through every storyline and that makes it so much more fun.

 

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Speaking of things that are in on the joke, I saw Sorority Row opening day this weekend and was pleasantly surprised! Taking a cue from the shitty slasher flicks of the 80’s (Slumber Party Massacre anyone?) Sorority Row continues this trend of the horror film that’s comprised of 50% thrills and 50% gags. How else can you expect the casting of Audrina “it hurts to talk” Patridge, Rumer Willis and that chick from Real World? Believe me, this movie gets it. The characters are morally bankrupt which makes it that much more entertaining. They sleep with their shrinks for OxyContin prescriptions, are shamelessly cruel to each other faces and with the exception o the 2 or 3 girls that survive , the characters seem to have little remorse over accidentally murdering their friend. Not like I’m judging them. It is Audrina, after all.

Sundays Are For Blogging.

September 8, 2009

 

Ian CURTIS.

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The Stone Roses.

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I remember the first time I heard a song by The Smiths. I was twelve years old, cleaning my room and listening to Y107 (805 reference) when “That Joke Isn’t Funny Anymore” came on the radio. It was like a record scratch, in a good way obviously, and I stopped whatever it was that I was doing to sit down and listen. I was in love with the jangly guitars and Morrissey’s sultry croon. At the time, I was still “obsessing” over girls like Sarah Michelle Gellar but after hearing Morrissey, I knew my hetero days were numbered. There’s something about that man that transcends gender and sexual preference. Gay, straight, confused, I feel like every Smiths fan has a hard-on for him. I had the pleasure of seeing him at Carnegie Hall recently wherein I had made the unwise decision to take a Xanax beforehand (I don’t like crowds?) and ended up floating in a haze of memory loss. As I was going in and out of consciousness/reality, I always managed to be momentarily brought back by the sound of his voice.

 

The Stone Roses have often been perceived as resting on the laurels of the Manchester sound that The Smiths had helped create. This perception is largely unfair. To their credit, The Stone Roses crafted pop songs that were centered around a dancey beat. And as we all know, The Smiths were a lot of wonderful things but dancey isn’t the first adjective that springs to mind when describing their soound.

 

Figures like Ian Curtis and Morrissey have since been romanticized and have become the poster children for this amazing time in music. I’m obsessed. Are you obsessed?