October 23, 2012

You know that feeling when you remember something that terrified you as a child and you can’t seem to shake it until you’ve confronted it and realized how ridiculous you’ve been for the past xyz years? I had that feeling the other day. I tried to solve it with Google maps, but I couldn’t remember where I was supposed to go.

When I was growing up, there were a few notable houses in my neighborhood that went above and beyond the call of duty when it came to Christmas decorations. There was a street where every house was covered in a vast array of lights, (Peacock Lane) and another Peacock wannabe that, at the end of a long cul-de-sac had a weird illuminated nativity that freaked the daylights out of me. Why? Hell if I know.

The last house that I was thinking of, used to put a chalkboard sign in their front yard that had an “x days to Christmas” countdown; but the thing that always got me is that they had a life size horse and buggy on their porch. It. Was. FUCKING. TERRIFYING. Like where in the fuck do you keep that shit when it’s not Christmas? In your basement? “Hey, Grandma, you’re going to have to sleep in the buggy tonight…” WHAT. That house has cemented my long-time unease with life sized inanimate objects that are based on animate ones. I was recently able to make progress on this fear when, at my college halloween party at Madame Tussaud’s, a group of my friends and I got really drunk and defaced Jessica Simpson. It was better when I found out another group of my friends was even more drunk and bit of Lindsay Lohan’s nose. #THUGLIFE.

In any case, excuse me while I poop myself thinking about this house.

The other thing I got to thinking about is that I’m also really uncomfortable with Victorian houses. They freak the living daylights out of me; and come to find out, there are like, twenty million different types of victorian architecture so of *course* I just became well versed in the fact that Mansard loft conversions are baller, but the entirety of a Mansard house would keep me awake for a week… (Other notable examples are Queen Annes and Gothic revivals.)

AND: because what good post about me being afraid of things  wouldn’t be complete with pictures, I present…. Shit that is scary. A photo essay, by: Mac R.


Let’s start with the John Mock house. This frightening behemoth is right near my brother’s best friend from highschool’s house. SO I’VE DRIVEN BY THIS SUCKER A LOT. IT IS TERRIFYING.


This one always gets me too. It’s a hotel in Eureka, CA.



You may be thinking to yourself, “My, you are afraid of some strange things…”

…If you think these are strange, I’m also afraid of Doris Day.


stupid good.

October 22, 2012

I don’t think this will be a long post. As IF I had anything interesting to write about! (My life is so boring…LOLERCOASTER.)

Lately I’ve been following prodigal young adult photogs, and I can’t stand them. Not because they’re snotty or anything, they’re all just so fucking good. I don’t understand really how someone can have a clear and tangible artistic statement at such a young age. When I say that, I mean that their artistic theses seem really well defined, and it makes me crazy jealous.  They know who they are, they’ve settled into their bones, and are able to keep expounding on their thematic preferences in an extremely mature way.


I have yet to move past, “This is pretty! I want to take a picture of it!”

Jacqueline Harriet‘s roll of “accidental film” is gorgeous, as is the rest of her work. She has this way about her exposures that allow the colors in her work to just punch you straight in the face. I have a picture of hers from Cafe Lalo on the UWS as my desktop.

Natalie Kucken has a really dreamy quality to her post processing that makes an already well composed image just super super wonderful. There’s something extremely effective in the milkiness of her work for some reason.

Sandy Honig turns every day banality into vignettes that invoke a much deeper response from the viewer. Even when she’s capturing seemingly mundane business, the end result is always fascinating.

Petra Collins has a neat vintage influenced style, and it’s definitely the most pastiche of the afore mentioned artists, but it totally works for her. There’s something about it that’s really entertainingly kitsch.

All of these girls have been published or recognized by a major magazine. (Sandy may not have been, but I think she has?)

I don’t get it.

Clearly they’re exhaustingly talented; but how does one have such a developed eye at such a young age?

…in other news, Hannah and I had a shoot today.


October 5, 2012

I am sick of looking for rooms for rent. I’m sick of emailing people and telling them that, even though I’m a complete stranger, I would make a good roommate because I nanny; I’m debating getting Gilda Radner and Madeline Kahn’s signatures as tattoos; and I can make homemade bubble tea with tapioca pearls. I’m sick of feeling like if I can’t find a room, then I’ll have to make a yearlong commitment to an apartment– that even if I like I’ll be stuck in incase I decide to move to LA-LA land. (Which I’ve been pondering as of late, because I really, and I mean *really* want to join the Groundlings.) The thing is, I’m also sick of living with my parents, which has just been utterly the dumbest shit you could even imagine.

More than anything, I’m sick of not being stationed anywhere. Or, rather, not knowing where I’m going to be sleeping on a day to day basis. This kind of uncertainty is nausea inducing. It’s been irritating my already easy irritable anxiety– and I haven’t been able to put a finger on my most productive next move. Unfortunately, that move has not been “enjoy iced latte after iced latte while doodling Gillian Anderson in your journal”. Had this have been the case, we’d be set to jet. And by set to jet I mean: HOLY SHIT SHE HAS THE MOST PERFECTLY GORGEOUS FACE.

With that said, recently what’s been getting to me is that all of my posters are in a shack in my back yard covered in godknowswhat and they haven’t seen the light of day in almost a year and a half. Carmen Miranda is sandwiched under Dolly Parton’s gigantic rack, I have a cardboard sparkly thing-from-Chinatown that wouldn’t fit in Aleena’s carryon when she came to visit me, a half painting Fif and I did before I left for school, a valentine I made for Gilda, and a giant picture Ella Fitzgerald that’s been a bit bent up. It’s not so much that these things haven’t been put to use lately, it’s more that I don’t have a place to put them that’s really *mine*. Even though I have had a lot of places to sleep, it’s been too long since I’ve had a home, and that fucking sucks. (Both the realization of it, and the fact of it.)

Today I was pedaling home on my Nino-bike and I had a tri-pod jimmied to the back with my bike lock, a Polaroid land camera hanging from the handlebars, my friend’s T2i in the front basket next to my journal, my purse, an unopened package of graham crackers, and an iced latte from Waffle Window. (BECAUSE NOTHING STANDS BETWEEN MAMA AND HER WAFFLE WINDOW. YOU HEAR ME BITCHES? NOTHING.) It felt good. I sped up Burnside, was able to blow through Stark, which I love; but then I started getting really sad. I’m not sure why– maybe it’s because I’ve come to the realization that it’s time for a major restructuring of my life. I’ve hit a point where I need to reevaluate a lot of my close friendships (which is lame) and I have to decide who’s worth it, and who isn’t. I hate making close friends, because it’s really tiresome. I guess not that so much– it just feels like a waste of all the time and effort I’ve put into friendships that seem on the verge of fizzling out.

Maybe I need some newness and freshness. Perhaps a jaunt to California is what I need to get some blood pumping in my veins again. I honestly just want a place to call home right now– and have that place not be a mattress pad in my mom’s basement where my closest friend is a spider I’ve named Ed-Leslie because I don’t know if it’s a dude spider or a lady spider.I would also really like it if the people who energize my spirit the most would be within Nino-biking distance to wherever this mystical “home” place decides to be.

Dear Universe.

I hope this isn’t too tall of an order?



October 3, 2012

I had a much appreciated Simo-ment on my bike the other day– actually, one on bike, one in my mom’s car. First, I was flying down 12th listening to Lemon Jelly’s song Together. It was one of those moments you dream about your whole life, and then when it happens, it’s even better than you’d imagined it ever would be. The sun was out (GASP) and I was en route to meet a boy (DOUBLE GASP) and everything was just perfection. My hair was blowing behind my face, and the wind was very unobtrusive. The guitar made me feel so warm… It was really nice! I realized that I’d been wanting something like this to happen for years. It was easily one of the best moments of my life.I started tearing up, but it knocked me off balance quite a bit so I had to stop deal with the reverend cry-liner situation before causing an accident.

Mission accomplished.

(Fuck yeah.)

The other one, was when I was driving to meet one of my best friends for coffee. First of all, I don’t know if you know this, but No Doubt just put out the first single from their new album and it is fucking amazeballs. I’m a big believer in chord structure, and this one just makes me want to dance around like a fool. (Real talk. It’s happened.) No Doubt has a really consistent track record of songs you have to blast to enjoy to their full capacity. (It’s My Life? Hella Good? Waiting Room?) Their latest track is called Settle Down, which I think is funny, given that this time last year I was obsessed with a song by the same name by Kimbra. I found myself singing along with Gwen in the car, she says:


Now, I’m not one for trite sentiment, but that felt really good to sing at the top of my lungs.

Tonight, I was on the phone with my facebook spouse, and she was helping me come up with ideas for a new lifestyle blog. Not like “lifestyle” like, “this is how you deal with the clusterfuckia of your twenties: FUCK BITCHES, GET MONEY, MOVE OUT OF YOUR PARENTS’ HOUSE” kind of lifestyle. Like, this is me obsessively documenting my life in an interesting to other people kind of way. Basically, shit like this minus the solipsism. I WILL START TALKING IN ‘YOU’ STATEMENTS. The opposite of everything I’ve learned in therapy. Yay! I’ll post a link to it when the layout is finished– I’d love to get some feedback before I start tagging posts and getting the word out.  I don’t know what it’s going to be exactly, but I guess I just have to write things and find out? LA LA NO 1 CURRRR.

How is everyone?

I had an interesting discussion with my kinda-sorta this evening. (First of all, I don’t think he knows he’s my kinda-sorta, but we’ve been chilling like, every. single. day.) Anyway, he was giving me shit for not liking “real” music, because I’m big into sample based electronica and acid jazz. Honestly, we can’t *all* have every Beatles album… I got to thinking though– his argument / position on the subject was that bands should create albums, not songs. On the flip side, I don’t really give a shit WHAT bands do, because the microcosmic elements in specific songs are often enough for me. (IE, his idea is that an album is a piece of art, and my idea is that a song can be a stand alone piece of art and doesn’t need superfluous validation by being a puzzle piece in something bigger than itself; yadda yadda yadda….)

It got me thinking though, because lately my musical obsessions have been groups or singers that are more performance artists than strictly musicians. Maybe not that persay, but their work is very high concept as opposed to *just* being music for music’s sake. Kate Bush, for example, made an entire album about winter recently, and the title track “50 Words for Snow” is literally someone reciting 50 different words for snow, and her singing along, counting down the numbers, and encouraging him to keep going. Janelle Monae’s latest album is supposedly a story about cyborgs. (ALSO, SEGUE: JANIS SIEGEL IS SUPPOSEDLY COVERING SOME OF JANELLE’S WORK ON HER NEXT ALBUM AND I AM V. STOKED.)

In the last few weeks I’ve been really intrigued with a South African group called Die Antwoord. Their beats are really catchy, their lyrics are silly (I fink you’re freaky and I like you A LOT) come to find out, they started out as performance artists! I love this, because I feel like the majority of American bands who write songs that are super outrageous take themselves way too seriously. I mean, there’s no way Ke$ha can wake up every morning feeling like P-Diddy; but I’ll bet she’d do it if it brought in the Benjamins… In any case, I think it’s awesome how much of a mockery Die Antwoord makes of the current state of hip-hop. Don’t get me wrong, the underground scene is b.l.o.w.i.n.g up, (CURREN$Y YES PLEASE) but the majority of rap/hip-hop is really superficial these days.

In any case, I present to you, xp€n$iv $h1t. A song that doesn’t need an entire album to prove its worth.