Snapshot: Listening, Watching, Reading, Wearing, Wanting
+ Kat
Listening: Polvo, the Scorpions, Black Sabbath, Madonna. One of these things does not belong with the others.
Watching: I recently saw Summer Hours, the Olivier Assayas film, and I thought it was just wonderful. I was sort of over family dramas, but he's such a good filmmaker that the film managed to be both light on its feet and incredibly intelligent. I'm also still making my way through "South Park."
Reading: Chuck Klosterman IV: A Decade of Curious People and Dangerous Ideas, which is sort of my subway reading. For my real-reading, I decided to shelve I Am Charlotte Simmons for a moment and read instead Barbara Kingsolver's Prodigal Summer, which seems more seasonally-appropriate. But I might shelve that because I got a copy of Muriel Barbery's The Elegance of the Hedgehog waiting in the wings and I'm very excited to read it!
Wearing: A pair of skinny jeans, a tank top, a scarf, some beat-up Minnetonka moccasins. I need shoes I can kick off super-easily.
Wanting: This week it got hot, and coincidentally I started thinking about what I would like for fall.
+ Liz
Listening: I met Sir Star Child walking down Vine yesterday and he freestyled something about me shopping at Forever 21 in my cowboy boots. I am "Miss Red-Hot Liz." Also: a lotta Michael Jackson still, a lotta Bruce Springsteen still.
Watching: I'm way late on the Keyboard Cat uptake and have been trying to catch up. (BTW: I can't believe the Keyboard Cat is no longer with us! How sad!) And last weekend I saw Year One, which was so fucking terrible I can't even talk about it. It's cool that Felicia from the "Girlfriends" episode of Flight of the Conchords was in it, though, I guess.
Reading: Rapt by Winifred Gallagher
Wearing: As I Twittered at 10:48 a.m. on June 30, "this $23 forevs21 sundress is really working out for me so far: mega-comfy + makes strangers in cafes say nice things." ALL STILL TRUE.
Wanting: to try Ben & Jerry's horribly elusive Mission to Marzipan (sweet cream ice cream with almond cookies & a marzipan swirl!)
Helen Hunt does coke, then jumps out the window, then the Keyboard Cat shows up in a Hall & Oates video:
+ Laura Jane
Listening: The Small Faces; Muswell Hillbillies by the Kinks; Wings; Blueberry Boat by the Fiery Furnaces.
Watching: I watched 40 minutes of The Hangover and then walked out of the theater; all six installments of The Kinks on At the Rainbow, from 1972 (I think they might have been "At the Rainbow" again, in 1977? For Christmas?)
Reading: Pretty much nothing. I'm a stoner now, so I mostly just listen to music. Reading makes me sleepy.
Wearing: My shower is broken right now. My stance on it is "Awesome! Dirty hair is sexy! I wouldn't be caught dead with clean hair!" I'm a stoner now, so I mostly don't give a shit what I wear. I wear stoner clothes, and they look awesome. I love that black t-shirt dress thing in the picture below; I'm wearing it right now. It's convenient. I wear it every day. I like wearing yeller jumpers, too.
Wanting: Several billion dollars
I MEANT TO WRITE "SHIRT," BUT "SHIT" WORKS TOO:
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Random Video Entry: More Boys Should Dress Like Michael Jackson at "Thriller" Dance Rehearsal
Even though I tend to talk like early-'70s Kris Kristofferson, some hotly troublesome scamp from a Bruce Springsteen song, and any given bank-robber from Point Break are the only dudes I'd ever consider shacking up with, my number-one imaginary dream boy is actually way more of charmingly bumbling, less blatantly bad-ass egghead-type. He's so gangly and much too tall, hyperactive, messy-haired and big-eyed and full-lipped, multiply-intelligenced to a freakish degree, and - most important - casually awesome at both chess and basketball. His facial structure somewhat resembles that of the kid who played Pickford in Dazed and Confused, and he dresses pretty much exactly like Michael Jackson at dance rehearsal for "Thriller" (as seen in the clip below): Hot-pink Mickey Mouse sweatshirt over plaid button-down + skinny trousers is a winning combination if I've ever seen one, though I'd definitely swap out those shoes for a sharp pair of Vans slip-ons.
One neat thing about this vid is how MJ captures not only the style but also the spirit of my dream dude - he's such a spazzy bratface but in a really endearing, good-natured way (especially from about 1:30 - 2:10, and especially when he's slip-sliding all around the studio floor). Oh to be Ola Ray in 1983! I'd so wear that exact same Adidas tee to rehearsal too.
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Laura Jane's Addiction: The Great Wolf Lodge, it seems
Note: Niagara "Laura Jane" Falls refers to how, for approx. one week when I was in second grade, some long-forgotten dipshit ruined my good vibes by trying to get the mean nickname "Niagara Faulds" to catch on, but it never did, because it is neither mean nor funny.
I have been aching to check out the Great Wolf Lodge for about six months now. The "GWL," located in Niagara Falls, Ontario, Canada, is the indoor water park of my, or anybody's, dreams. There is an ad for it in the eighty-billion mile long underground pathway between the Northbound and Eastbound trains in the Spadina subway station. It taunts you as you traipse, with its idyllic imagery of ugly seven-year-olds freaking out with stokeditude inside inner tubes and windy slides.
Two evenings ago, I had the pleasure of watching a television commercial for the Great Wolf Lodge. It worked on me. As of two evenings ago, my only goal in life is to visit the Great Wolf Lodge- STAT, ASAP, PDQ, or any of the above. Are you one of my best friends? Are you a dude who is secretly in love with me? Are you my Mother or Father? If you answered "yes" to any of the above, I highly recommend that, this July, you make all my dreams come true and whisk me away to the Great Wolf Lodge.
HERE IS WHAT WE WILL DO THERE:
1. DRINK STRAWBERRY DAIQUIRIS THE SIZE OF OUR HEADS: If there is one thing about gaudy resorts you can always bank on, it is that you will be able to get your dirty paws all over sugary slushy girl-drinks served in tropically-embellished neon plastic cups. Is there anything in this life more thrilling than the mixing of waterslides and extreme drunkenness?
2. RIDE THE "CANADA VORTEX": The Vortex is the twisty stripey slide. It looks terrifying, because I don't like being in enclosed spaces, but I'm sure if I'd just drunked thirteen Texas-sized mango-ritas, it would just seem relaxing or something.
3. CHILLAX IN THE "CRYSTAL RIVER": Remember how I said my optimal state of existence is walking around listening to headphones, and then I changed my mind and said that my optimal state of existence is having sex with George Harrison? I lied, twice. My optimal state of existence is "let[ting] the current sweep [me] along the endless, winding 500,000 litre lazy [Crystal] river." It's not really endless, is it? False advertising.
4. ENJOY THE LONG & WINDING "NIAGARA RAPIDS RUN": Do you ever think about how you would most ideally like to die? I do, constantly. I've decided that "drunken waterslide accident" is my personal preference; way better than "hanging myself and making a video of it and getting Emily Richmond to edit it and put it on Youtube and then making Liz Barker post it to nogoodforme," which is what I may be forced to do if I don't make it out to GWL this summer. Eek!
PS: Have you ever been to the Great Wolf Lodge?!? If yes, please tell me everything!
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Blink of An Eye: The Photography of Tim Walker
A few weeks ago, a reader wrote in asking who the photographer was for the Juicy Couture ads I dug way back in 2006. I honestly had no idea, so I dug around a bit and discovered it was Tim Walker, who shoots mainly for the European editions of Vogue and those super-arty fashion mags that all kind of resemble one another. I dug around a bit more (oh, Internet!) and promptly went even more gaga for this British dude's stuff: often compared to Cecil Beaton, it's fanciful, visually baroque, sometimes cheeky and yet oddly serene, with a core of innocence to his work. With his sense of whimsy, I could see him shooting a Francesca Lia Block movie. (With me as the director, of course; we'd work on the Weetzie Bat stories, and maybe The Hanged Man.) He's got a massive photo book called Tim Walker Pictures that I really want, but sadly I can't spend $120 on a book anymore. Or even $80. Oh well. (Kat)
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The Young Person's Guide to the Beatles: Some Notes on the Beatles' Respective "Sexinesses"
One day, I will run out of things to say about The Beatles.
On that day, I will begin writing down everything I could possibly have to say about The Kinks. I will write feverishly and desperately. I will be scared for the well-being of my Future Self. I will use "writing about the Kinks" as a coping mechanism for "Having nothing to say about the Beatles anymore. Who am I?!?!?!"
Three weeks later, I will run out of things to say about The Kinks. I will have an intense emotional breakdown. I will feel purposeless. Then I'll get over it, learn a valuable lesson, grow as a person, and do one of two things:
1) Start writing about the Fiery Furnaces* a lot, or;
2) Become a novelist.
* You may remember that, at a point in time, I only liked four bands: The Beatles, The Kinks, Faust, and the Fiery Furnaces. Then, a few weeks ago, I'm Going Away by the Fiery Furnaces came out. No it didn't. Liz Barker e-mailed me some weird code, and then I typed the code into a website, and it gave me I'm Going Away. Now I'm hot property, and all these people in my life are like always harassing me to e-mail them Fiery Furnaces mp3s and I'm like "Yo! Chill out! I can't be everything to everyone, okay? You only even care about the Fiery Furnaces at all because I forced you listen to them in the first place!" and then I lose track in my head of what FFs mp3s I've sent to who and stress out about it and like my life's really hard okay? Anyroad, my point is- I'm Going Away by the Fiery Furnaces is really good. So good that Faust seem comparatively "not good at all," and, subsequently, have been knocked off the list.
__
I remembered something today. It is that I have been writing about The Beatles for a long, long, long time.
When I was sixteen years old, I wrote a short story about what life would have been like if I had been born forty years earlier. According to my 16-year-old self, had I been born 40 years earlier, I would have moved to London in 1967, where I would "refuse to love boys, even the ones that [I] think are so drop dead thin amazing gorgeous," "feed stray cats soy milk," "take long walks at night and buy pot from young men with junked eyes on street corners and smoke joints as the sun comes up," "go to bars and drink amaretto sours and watch the corners of [my] eyes turn red," and, inevitably, have all three non-Ringo Beatles fall in love with me! (Actually, not counting the Beatles and stray cats parts, I was right on the money about who I'd be in my early twenties.)
At the time, it counted as my "best writing to date." Earlier this evening, I unearthed it. It was in a box.
This installment of The Young Person's Guide to the Beatles, focusing on my opinions toward each individual Beatle's respective "sexiness," will be written in collaboration with "16-Year-Old Laura's Short Story About the Beatles Falling in Love with Her."
The Beatles are the perfect band because they are composed of: one (1) sexy genius, one (1) sexy non-genius, one (1) non-sexy genius, and one (1) non-sexy non-genius. This piece is subtitled, "Everything You Always Wanted to Know About Having Sex with the Beatles, but Were Afraid to Ask."
PART I. I WANT TO HAVE SEX WITH GEORGE HARRISON, AND FEEL GUILTY ABOUT IT
Oh, to be Laura "The Posterchild for Celibacy" Jane Faulds in this prodigious, lyrical summer of 2009! Feel flows, but does anything else?
Not really. I write a lot, and prefer my own company to yeah like anybody's. I make nonstop fun of my sexual inactivity, but would literally (and by "literally," I mean "literally") rather commit painful, barbaric suicide than subject myself to a "one night stand" with any last one of those nasty, perverted creeps called "dudes." Just as I saw with such stunning clarity that night a few weeks ago when I got too drunk at the Black Dice show and got lost stumbling home in the pouring rain: I'm just, like, this person, who, like, so, like, badly.... um, needs to be, like, LOVED?
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HOW TO DRESS YOURSELF: The nogoodforme Guide to Red Lipstick
I've been pretty much a makeup minimalist for much of my life, both out of temperament and general laziness. I have had periods of experimentation, including an intense eyeliner phase and a weird urge to "grow up" via finding my perfect mascara, which seemed like a grown-up lady thing to do at the time. But I've never been a girl who felt like I couldn't leave the house without putting a face on, preferring that whole fresh-faced natural thing both on myself and other people. (I just think people look more gorgeous as they are. I also have this weird innate belief that you can get away with wearing more fashion-y clothing without looking like a mega-narcissistic jerk if you have laidback hair and makeup. I'm not sure where that comes from, but I ain't gonna let that go.) So it's kind of weird that my latest thing in terms of style-style is red lipstick, which is like makeup for makeup's sake, the ultimate in straight-up decoration. It's not makeup pretending to be natural, it's not "healthy beachy sheen" or whatever. Red lipstick is all about "Yes, I am wearing makeup and you will fear/covet/desire/bow down to me in all its hauteur and artifice." Red is the bon vivant, libertine and mega-slut of lipstick colors.
So how does a lazy makeup girl like me become the ultimate red lipstick fiend? I blame my whole "exploring my inner Dita Von Teese" New Year's resolution, which got me buying some awesomely hot lingerie and, yes, trying red lipstick. This is what I've discovered so far in the course of doing this: hot lingerie works, and I LOVE RED LIPSTICK. I think it can change your life, or at the very least make you feel really, really happy and awesome and sassy and bold for a few hours or something. (Plus, it is generally affordable, even at the most designer-y levels, which is more than what I can say about any pair of Eres knickers.) I'm all about the lipstick-inclined trying it 'cause it's just a lot of fun and you should just go for it. Do I really think anyone need a "guide" to red lipstick? Of course not - in principle, makeup anarchy rocks, and I think it should be nothing to be anxious or driven crazy about. (The stuff rubs off, for God's sake -- so why take it too seriously?) Still, it's fun to pretend that red lipstick is like the ne plus ultra of makeup gestures that you have to work up to, like running a marathon or climbing Mount Everest, only about ten times more instantly gratifying. So here it is, the notes and observations gleaned from my own personal red lipstick journey so far. This is by no means an exhaustive list, but feel free to pipe in the comments about your favorite reds. Sharing is caring!
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Too June For You: Our Fave Posts From the Past Month
+ The best thing about the seasons changing is that your favourite trio of Anti-Fashion Industrial Complexicators finally get to unveil their long-awaited seasonal fashion concepts! A Day In The Life: Dopest Shit We'll Wear This Summer effectively prepared the world for three sweltering months of Kat and Laura Jane eschewing all-black and all-scrappy (respectively) in the name of sweetie-pie summer dresses, and Liz abandoning sweetie-pie summer dresses to channel the inner bad-ass-ness of zebras on a daily basis. We're hot.
+ LJ's "Let It Beat" post proved that writing honestly about anorexia need not be an after-school special full of special-effects hysterics and fake resolution. What's amazing (besides the huge deal about approaching the topic with ongoing candour, openness and bravery, especially in the fashion blogosphere) is that LJ's unmistakable, unique.voice still shines through -- the same wit, passion and feistiness that asserts the far reaches of Beatlesology plants you just a bit in the shoes of what's it like to live present-tense with a disease that a lot of us who dig fashion and style feel the shadows of, however obliquely. If you take one thing away from reading "Let It Beat," it's that anorexia sucks, but the people we love who suffer from it (and there are more than you think) are still who they are: immutably brave, unexpectedly winsome, wickedly smart -- and it's that part of them that deserves to win, flourish and be held accountable to living life large and keeping their game tight.
+ The worst thing about celebrity deaths is the amount of shit writing you have to read about said celebrity's life, and the meaning it now takes on. We all did a damned good job of writing up some characteristically non-trad Michael Jackson obits, but Kat Asharya really brought it home on this one- her stoic yet sentimental ode to aging, nostalgia and the sobering reality of how you'll never be a kid again will bring tears to your eyes, even if you never moonwalked across your basement carpet.
+ June was an emotional month for all of us over at nogoodforme.com- must be all the Cancemini energy in the air! Soundtracked by Bruce Springsteen's "Spirit in the Night," The Most Romantic Summer Song (Or: Why Bedroom Dancing Is Better Than Time Machines by Elizabeth Barker is a stunning tale- no, movement- about sex, summer, rock-and-roll, pink wine, dudes, (i.e. all the best things there are!) and the myriad meanings behind them. Featuring the showstopper of a sentence, "From what I can tell, bedroom dancing is way better than time travel, because you're simultaneously living in another generation and claiming that generation for yourself," this piece is a must-read for anybody who likes music, or great writing.
+ If LJ can be said to be the Andy Samberg of Fashion Bloggers (which she can't, since she's already The James Joyce of Fashion Bloggers), and her epic dance-a-thon was the "Lazy Sunday" of 2007, then this month's "Laura Jane For Sale" is certainly her "Mark Wahlberg Talks to Animals". In a dream world, this majorly LOLZ-inducing masterpiece is the kinda shit that goes crazy-viral instead of that total yawnfest "I'm on a Boat." HELP US BUILD THAT DREAM WORLD.
+ The only dumb thing about the inaugural entry for our new LIZ & LJ ON column is how Liz totally forgot to scan and post this exciting Beastie Boys photo from the June 1994 issue of Details. Even without that killer shot, "The Beastie Boys Through the Ages" is probably definitely the most gripping tete-a-tete on Mike & Adam & Adam's varying states of flyness you'll ever read anywhere.
+ We don't know when they'll be, but you are all invited to the nogoodforme nuptials! Go to City Hall with Kat, watch Kris Kristofferson walk Liz down the aisle, and drink fizzy white sangria at LJ's reception. Knowing the karmic connectedness of the troika, this will all happen in the space of ONE MOON.
+ While naming your most beloved Beatles record is maybe totally easy, trying to pick this month's most boss installment of LJ's "Young Person's Guide to The Beatles" column is supertricky. Still, we're gonna go with "Firing Off on Revolver" (aka "The Favorite Beatles Record of Neither LJ Nor Kat Nor Liz"), partly because the intro encourages all of us get slightly more vulgar (in an adorable way) on this here blog. P.S. If you can correctly guess each nogoodforme.com member's favorite Beatles record, then we will give you a million dollars, with which you can start up a publishing company and then put out The Young Person's Guide to The Beatles in book form. Go to it!
+ Liz went into the heart of darkness and confronted her inner Rufus Humphrey. It wasn't pretty, but she discovered ultimately that We are all Rufus Humphrey. Okay, not really, but it sounds wise, doesn't it?
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Imaginary Shopping Spree: Dror for Target
DROR FOR TARGET BOOKSHELVES
I'm very much a home furnishings neophyte and could never profess to know more than the usual heavy-hitters in that field. (My brain can only hold so much, and for better or worse, the frivolity portion of it goes to fashion.) But it doesn't mean that I don't like sofas, cushions, beds, duvet covers, chairs and the like. Unfortunately (or fortunately, depending on how you want to look at my bank account balance), I live in a fifth-floor walkup with no elevator, which means my indulgence for furniture is strictly theoretical. Still, I've been bellyaching for new shelves, and I dig the clever, modular nature of these ones from Dror Benshetrit from his Target collaboration. Are they worth a trek out to my nearest Target and then a mega-schlep up those heinous five flights of stairs? Is anything? (Kat)
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The Young Person's Guide to the Beatles: The Young Person's Guide to the Kinks
Really, this article should be named "The Young Person's Guide to the Kinks: Opinions on 5 Kinks Songs I Have Yet to Opine About." However, I feel guilty enough as it is about clogging up poor Kat Asharya's fashion blog with all my weird Beatles worship business, and consequently, feel as though I should probably make the effort to keep my Kinks-opining to a minimum- until we get a book deal, at least.
The Kinks are my second-favourite band. I love them for a lot of reasons- mostly, because their songs are great. But when you're talking about your #2 band of all the bands there ever were, it must come down to more than songs. It comes down to emotional attachment, and one's ability to intellectualize said emotional attachment. I love the Kinks because they're nerdy, and always miss the mark- I relate to that. The Kinks had no chance at ever being the Beatles, the Stones, or the Who. You don't have to be mind-numbingly cool to be a great rock band, but you probably shouldn't be lame. The Kinks are lame, but it's a secret. People who don't know anything about the Kinks think they are like the Who- raucous and slutty: flaming, gnarly, proto-punk.
This is because: Dave Davies was kind of a skeeze, the name Kinks sounds like "kinky," and "You Really Got Me" is the jam of the century. But that's it. The rest of the Kinks is kinda drippy. Raymond "The Seventh Son of a Seventh Son" Davies writes music about Donald Duck, song publishers, and the colonization of Australia, then delivers his lyrics in a frilly, overly affected English accent. It is some of the best music in the world, but it's not for everybody, and I don't want it to be.
I listen to the Kinks a lot, but I'd never play the Kinks for anybody who didn't already like the Kinks of their own accord. Nothing brings out my Cancerian maternal instinct like the music of Ray Davies. I just want so badly to protect him! I am scared that I will play "Plastic Man" or "Do You Remember Walter?" or "Mr. Pleasant," and somebody will speak a word against him, and I will have to end the friendship over it. Doesn't really seem worth it, you know?
The Kinks' brilliance is unexpected. I used to think Ray Davies was not a genius; I was wrong. Of course Ray Davies is a genius! He's just a genius in the opposite way you'd expect him to be. He is a true sweetheart, and there are not enough sweethearts in rock music. I love that he is good. It is so much better to be sad and good than it is to be happy and bad.
Luckily for Ray Davies, I will one day become his concubine, and he will be happy and good! "Shangri-Laura Jane," he'll call me.
I. YOU REALLY GOT ME
Walking down the street listening to music too loud on headphones is my optimal state of existence. I love it so much that I have, at age twenty-four, accepted defeat, and fully succumbed to a life plagued by pulsatile tinnitus. There are many different ilks of "walking down the street listening to music too loud on headphones," but my favourite is definitely the "strutting" option. In this life, you have to strut. If you don't, you will never feel good about yourself. Never ever. I don't want your life to be like that. You need to listen to "You Really Got Me" too loud on headphones, and strut.
"You Really Got Me" is one of those tricky, fake-cool Kinks songs that confuses people into thinking the Kinks are raucous, drug-addicted rapists. But all you have to do to dispel that myth forever is watch Ray Davies perform it in the Youtube video embedded above. Have you ever seen a performer look more uncomfortable in your life? I haven't. He looks like he is mid-root canal. He looks like he is getting his front-teeth-gap fixed, with zero anaesthetic.
One my favourite boring, pointless thoughts to think about is how, in "You Really Got Me," Ray Davies sings, "See, don't ever set me free"; then, nine months later, he wrote a song called "Set Me Free." Was "Set Me Free" a conscious response to the lyric from "You Really Got Me," or does it merely serve as evidence of mid-sixties Ray Davies' limited vocabulary? I don't know. I just half-assedly leafed through X-Ray, which I read a year ago, in an attempt to find out, but then I finished my cigarette. Now I am writing this sentence. I suppose it is just one of those grand, unknowable mysteries of the Universe.
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A Day in the Life: Where We Were When We Found Out Michael Jackson Died
WE ARE THE WORLD, AND THE WORLD IS MORTAL
I'm on this web development job that basically is taking over my waking hours for the past and next few weeks, so I was sitting in an office in DUMBO in front a computer, coding like a fiend and thinking about whether or not I was going to walk over to the Brooklyn Bridge and throw myself off. I think I was listening to the "South Park" episode, "Timmy 2000," and suppressing the urge to shout "Livin' a lie!" really loudly in the middle of the office. (You won't get that reference unless you watch "South Park" on a semi-regular basis. And if you do, God bless you!) Suddenly the woman next to me tapped me on the shoulder. I looked up at her, thinking it was something about our work and getting ready to feel annoyed and frustrated. Instead, she said, "Michael Jackson died." I kind of blinked for a moment, then said, "What? Are you for real?" She looked at me and nodded, and I looked further down the aisle and other people were nodding at me. I was kind of stunned. "Michael Jackson? The Michael Jackson?" More nods. The office was filled with streaming bright late afternoon sunshine, I was just starting to get hungry for some dark chocolate and I had another two hours to go before I went home.
But of course I went on the Internet and checked the LA Times but it was down, and then I went on Twitter, which was down. Then I sent a text to my Twitter, asking if he really did die. And then I went back to my work, trying to remember where I left off in my code. But I couldn't concentrate at all -- suddenly I got hit with one of those visceral memories you have of childhood, of a summer afternoon I spent with my sisters trying to figure out how to moonwalk like Michael Jackson. It was the 80s, we had a crappy little tape recorder with a Play button that fell off all the time, we had a vinyl copy of Thriller , we had just seen him on some tv show where he debuted the moonwalk and IT WAS THE COOLEST THING ON THE PLANET. We were in the pre-cool awareness phase of childhood, but we all knew something about the awesomeness of MJ's music and dancing. My little sisters and I were determined to master the moonwalk, so we played "Billie Jean" over and over again and tried to moonwalk all over our yellow shag carpet. It didn't work, but we spent ages trying and inventing other dances, like "The Fish" and "The Soda Pop." This whole memory had always felt so joyous and light before, but suddenly it had this strange weight, due to the fact that the person who inspired it was now irrevocably gone.
There are personal and political tragedies that happen everyday and there will be lots said about his personal eccentricities, peccadilloes and troubles, as well as his real importance as a music icon. But Michael Jackson dying feels like the first movement in the inevitable fading of my childhood, in which all of my memories of being young become more and more ghostlike in their re-experience. When we look back at the past and connect it to the present and future, we take for granted the feeling of continuation between these aspects of time. We know somehow that your third-grade crush grew up and is living a life, removed from yours but still flowing. We know that dude who wore the trench coat in 9th grade became uber-hot and lives in some big city and rides a motorcycle. The cool girl from 8th grade is a housewife who lives on a farm. The boy with a thorn in his side writes for a newspaper in Chicago. That girl from "The Wonder Years" went on to become some kind of math genius, and Blossom grew up, had kids and got a makeover. All this happened while you were swimming through time in your own way. There's something comforting and fascinating about believing that no matter how disparate our experiences, we all move through time together, even if some may be no more than peripheral figures to one another in our actual lives. To get all hippie, "We're all on the same journey, man." But that's not true, because some journeys end before others. Michael Jackson died, and when you think back on your years of bike rides, inflatable swimming pools and jump rope--and listening to Thriller and Off the Wall through it all--you know someone with a dear spot in that set of memories has reached the end of their movement through time. You think back on trying to learn how to moonwalk and suddenly the memory acquires the weight of sadness: the song has stopped and the music has comes to an end. Which it does for all of us, of course.
Once, when my nephew was very small, he asked me not to have my 30th birthday and "stop where I was." I asked him why, and he very charmingly and naively explained, in that way that small children have, that he wanted me to wait for him to turn 30, and together we would be 30 together, all at the same time, and then go forward at the same pace. I think he liked the idea of all the people who made him happy marching together towards some destination and ending up there at the same time. In a primitive way, no one wants to go ahead alone, and no one wants to be left behind. We all march towards the unknown, and it is so comforting to imagine us all getting there at the same time, finding out what really lies beyond together and, I don't know, high-fiving or something. (My nephew seemed to think heaven involved lots of cake and flowers; if there's a heaven, I hope there are french fries, horses and bowling.) I'm really kind of bummed that Michael Jackson isn't sharing my movement through time anymore in a strange, strange way. It just makes me sad in that primal child-nephew way that someone who made songs I loved as a kid won't be able to high-five me as we cross the great existential finishing line. I want everyone to get there all together, holding hands like in "We Are the World." (Kat)
ELIZARDBREATH: Yesterday was one of those days when everything made me excessively sad - like, I was sitting in a cafe when I found out Farrah Fawcett died, and I almost started crying into my coffee. Then, while making my lunch I listened to an NPR story on Yonlu and got so worked up, I practically sobbed all over my tofu salad. Then "Kodachrome" came on the radio and I went "Gah, Kodachrome's dead too! Everything is dead!" but somehow managed to hold myself back from what my mom would describe as "weeping copiously." And then I checked Twitter, and everyone was Tweeting about Michael Jackson having had a heart attack. I typed "Don't die, Michael!" and some other stuff, and then I left to go get a surfboard at Emily Richmond's houseboat.
Halfway down the 10, I got a text from my buddy that read: "Omg! Michael Jackson!" and, like a very bad motorist, I texted back: "Did he die?" and she said yes. Then I turned off the stereo for a while and drove and drove with no sound. Then I turned it back on, to the radio, and the classic rock station and "Beat It" was playing the CD started to skip and they cut it off early and went to "Jamie's Cryin'" by Van Halen, which I found crass. Then I went to Emily Richmond's houseboat, got the surfboard, and drove to Venice Beach for an MJ Memorial Solo Sunset Surf Sesh, and the water was rough but the waves were good. After surfing I drove home, listening to Michael Jackson and Jackson 5 songs on the radio, then went to a birthday party on a pretty patio and talked about Michael Jackson a lot. On the way to the party I got a gross veggie burger and Diet Coke at Burger King; on the way home I got a caramel sundae at McDonald's. WHEN MICHAEL JACKSON DIES, I GET TO HAVE BURGER KING AND MCDONALD'S is something I could've probably Twittered at the end of the night.
So, yeah, like a million girls, Michael Jackson was the first pop star I was ever in love with; I wanted to marry him but figured he'd probably end up marrying Madonna. I also really wanted to go see him in concert, but I had this idea that at all concerts, everyone headbanged the whole time, did lots of drugs, threw up all over each other, and lit each other's hair on fire. How sad that that's not actually true.
I think maybe Thriller was my first record but I'm not entirely sure, because in my memory Thriller and Like a Virgin and Purple Rain and She's So Unusual all came into my life at the same time, and they were all I ever cared about, apart from Return of the Jedi. Somewhere around then, my dad taped a special for me about the making of the "Thriller" video, and I watched it at least 1,001 times. I was really scared of the actual video, so whenever that part came on I'd either make my dad watch it with me or - not understanding how to use the fast-forward button - just leave the room until I knew it was over. (God! Could I have been any dumber when I was six? Cripes.) Anyway, the best part of the special was this clip below, which I've played 87 kajillion times between last night and this morning. This is my very favorite Michael Jackson, shy and giggly and little-kid-like. I'll never not be in love with that Michael, and I'm so happy I got to have him.
LAURA JANE: On the evening of June 25th, 2009, I was semi-stoned at the Hazelton Lanes Whole Foods. It was the day after my 24th birthday, and I was in an unstoppably great mood. The "5 Items or Less" cashier's diamond earrings were beautiful. So was his face. He asked me how my day'd been; I said "Amazing!" I told him that yesterday was my birthday (he wished me a Happy Belated, being a perfect gentleman and all) and that I'd been celebrating for the past nine days straight, was kind of "birthdayed out," and was planning on staying in tonight and making myself the rice-cream sundae of my dreams, which I was presently buying ingredients for. He told me I'm allowed one more weekend of celebration, and I said "Saturday, Dude!" and he warned me not to party too hard.
Next thing I knew, a mousy cashier ran up to our checkout and hollered "Michael Jackson died!," then ran away screaming "It's true! It's true!" to everybody, or nobody. What a legendary moment. There I stood, shocked, elated, grinning dumbly, my eyes darting back and forth between Diamond Earrings and the wispy blonde in line behind me. I loved this moment because it seemed as though all three of us were attempting to cultivate a deep significance within it, and were succeeding. We were all intensely aware of each other's presence, our now lifelong intertwined-ness, adapted as a unit to the understanding that, now, this day would always be this day. We were in it together. We loved each other. I loved them, at least. The blonde and I traded off on saying "Whoa!" She had a cherubic face, red lipstick, a messy bun I found darling. I made sure to stare directly into her eyes, to impress my countenance upon her memory forever, taking extra precaution to make sure that, when she recalled the moment over and over again for as long as she lived, she would not remember some faceless girl there at Whole Foods, but would remember me, as I will her.
Honestly, I could not have asked for a more epic conclusion to my epic 24th birthday festivities. I have close to no attachment to Michael Jackson as an icon, musician, or anything, except for I really like "Ben" and "The Love You Save" (and "Dancing Machine" and "I Want You Back," obvs). I have been thinking for months now that the world is long overdue for some sort of earthquaking "John Lennon's death/JFK's death/Princess Diana's death" celebrity tragedy; this one's more fantastic than I ever could have imagined! Michael Jackson lived a cool life. I honor its weirdness. It was an exuberantly grotesque escapade from beginning to end- stay tuned for 45-year-old Laura "James Joyce" Jane's tetralogy of novels about my imagined version of MJ's fascinating existence. They'll be so epic, they'll make yesterday seem like the day nothing happened and nobody died.
PS: After exiting Whole Foods, I immediately twittered that "Farrah fawcett is the darby crash of today," which is the smartest thing I ever thought of. RIP Everybody.
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Anna Sui's Gossip Girl-Themed Target Collection: I'm a Jenny-Serena-Vanessa Hybrid
So New York mag's fashion blog just posted something on Anna Sui's upcoming Gossip Girl-inspired Target collection, which'll be in stores and online September 13 to October 17. Target's styled each of the look-book looks based on one of the lead girls, thus revealing that I'm a Jenny-Serena-Vanessa hybrid and not at all a Blair. I was really hoping to be a Nate Archibald, but apparently that's not an option.
Anyway, the clothes:
(My faves, left to right: Jenny, Serena, Vanessa. And I actually really hate the Vanessa dress, but I'd so wear that vest.)
(These are all Blair. I sort of dig the dress to the right, but I'm pretty sure it wouldn't work out for me.)
(Jenny, Jenny, and Serena. These all kinda make me go "blecccchhhh" all over the place, so maybe I'm not a Jenny-Serena-Vanessa hybrid after all. Maybe I truly am Rufus Humphrey, just like my little sister said. Liz Barker: The "Lame '90s Dad" of nogoodforme.com.)
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Snapshot: Listening, Watching, Reading, Wearing, Wanting
+ Kat
Listening: Michael Jackson, obviously. Also, Crystal Antlers, Magnetic Fields, Company Flow, Swell Maps, an Ethiopian 60s blues compilations.
Watching: The thoughts flitting across the absorbed face of a young Berliner. And "South Park," season four.
Reading: I have been reading Housekeeping by Marilynne Robinson, which I admired but did not enjoy. It is rather strange -- on the page, you would think I'd like this, but I found myself oddly distant from the book. I felt like I were reading about a landscape with people moving through it, rather than people moving a landscape. This is theoretically interesting, but it makes for a book in which the characters barely registered with me. Now I'm reading parts of Chuck Klosterman IV on the subway, and I just started I Am Charlotte Simmons, which I read ages ago and am re-reading again. I am also reading the new manual for my new Blackberry, which I had to get because my last phone got smashed. I think this device is really changing my life, and for that I'm grateful.
Wearing: The Seattle-esque weather that graced New York City these past few weeks is sadly coming to an end, so now I'm just wearing a super-old Vanessa Bruno dress I got at Beacon's ages ago and a cardigan, because super-cold air conditioning is making me feel icky.
Wanting: Mit der wahren Liebe ist's wie mit den Geistererscheinungen: alle Welt spricht darüber, aber wenige haben etwas davon gesehen.
Inmates in a Filipino prison performing the dance from "Thriller" -- a YouTube classic:
+ Liz
Listening: First Bruce Springsteen's Greetings from Asbury Park, N.J. all the time, then all kinds of Michael Jackson all the time.
Watching: Recently finished up Weeds season 4, which rattled my nerves but mostly in an exciting way.
Reading: L.A. Candy by Lauren Conrad. I like a challenge.
Wearing: Lately I'm into wearing these halfway ratty cutoffs with my plaid flannel and Vans and really big hair piled on top of my head and white-framed cheap sunglasses and very red lipstick. It feels good.
Wanting: I want to read some really crackerjack commentary on season 4 Weeds that does not involve the writer unironically addressing Nancy Botwin as a "dirty whore," as Salon's Heather Havrilesky did in her really irritating finale wrap-up.
+ Laura Jane
Listening: The Beatles Anthology
Watching: Last Saturday, I discovered that there was an entire disc of Season One of Mad Men I hadn't seen yet! Which is annoying in the "late fees" department, but cool in every other way. My favorite Mad Men scene of all is when Don Draper gets stoned with his Greenwich Village Bohemian friends, and Don Draper gets up to leave, and the Beat poet dude says "No! You can't leave! The cops are outside!" and Don Draper says "You can't, but I can," and then tips his hat at the coppers and says "Good Evening, Gentlemen," and he is SUCH A CLASS ACT!
Reading: My own Twitter; other people's Twitters
Wearing: I accidentally did this sort of Farrah Fawcett/roller derby tribute look today, it was hot.
Wanting: How could I want anything in the world? Yesterday was the best day I have ever lived! Hella THX to everybody who in indulged me in drawing out my 24th birthday festivities for two weeks (It'll never happen again! I promise!), and my most sincerest THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU goes out to everybody who read what I wrote yesterday, and wrote me a kind and supportive comment or e-mail (or txt, or Twitter @ message). I have spent my entire life making up stories in my head about having that kind of thing happen to me, and yesterday, it did! In the future, I will remember these days, and I will wish that today could be yesterday.
Oh, "George Harrison's sitar-lesson with Ravi Shankar"- will I ever tire of boredly watching you while bumming around on the Internet?
Heavy Rotation: Bruce Springsteen, Nirvana, The Beatles, and more!
The Birthday Party, "Cry"
It's my birthday on Saturday! To celebrate, I'm going the way obvs route and putting a song by the Birthday Party (har har) as one of my HR contributions this week. Luckily the Birthday Party kick would kick major ass no matter what, even if it wasn't my birthday. But it is, and I can't think of a better present than Nick Cave. (Kat)
Nirvana, "Scoff"
I actually don't like having parties for myself, but if I did, my favorite moment would be when someone takes over the iPod at 3am and plays this song and everyone sings "GIMME BACK MY ALCOHOL, GIMME BACK MY GIMME BACK MY GIMME BAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!" real, real loud. Life may be the melody, but love is the volume. You don't get to be my age without learning a thing or two. (Kat)
Bruce Springsteen and The E Street Band, "Growin' Up" & "Does This Bus Stop at 82nd Street?"
It's really brilliant of me to have accidentally grabbed my copy of Greetings From Asbury Park, N.J. before heading out for a rush-hour ride to Malibu a few months ago - otherwise it might never've become my Summer 2009 Signature Record, and I might never've written my mini-magnum-opus on the best bedroom-dancing song ever sung*, and life in general would be about 37 times less beautiful. The song that got me in the summertime way on that springtime eve was "Growin' Up," which starts with piano that's the exact sonic equivalent of golden/orangey sunshine just before dusk on a fantastically cloudless day. The guitar on "Does This Bus Stop at 82nd Street?" sounds like orangey pre-dusk sunshine too; it's jangly in a way that post-GFAPNJ Bruce is hardly ever jangly. That jangliness is probably what's sold me on GFAPNJ in its entirety - that, and the fact that Bruce is so "cosmically surfeiting is his words," as Lester Bangs wrote in his way exciting review of the record. (Lester also compares the album's "passel o' verbiage" to that of "Along Comes Mary," which is neat, since I've been listening to that song nonstop ever since LJ jukeboxed it last month.) But yeah, words. I love words; I love it when there's lots of them all smooshed together in a near-chaotic and goosebump-giving kind of way. One of my favorite lyrics on the album is the part from "Does This Bus Stop at 82nd Street?" that goes: "And Mary Lou she found out how to cope, she rides to heaven on a gyroscope." And then when The Daily News asks Mary Lou for the dope, she says: "Man, the dope's that there's still hope." Mary Lou and I totally get each other, I'm pretty sure. I also get Bruce - more than ever before, maybe - when he sings "I hid in the clouded warmth of the crowd, but when they said, 'Calm down,' I threw up" in the middle of "Growin' Up."** One time a few years ago, I liked a boy so much that I threw up upon unexpectedly running into him in a bar. Seriously. And apparently Bruce also throws up when he's trying to be calm, so that's cool. Me and Bruce Springsteen: basically exactly the same as Stan from South Park whenever Wendy Testaburger tries to kiss him. That's so great. (Liz)
* Actually, I got the idea for my mini-magnum-opus when my 17-year-old sister turned to me and asked, "Don't you love that song 'Spirit in the Night'?" in the car on the way to the airport earlier this month. Let's give credit where credit is due.
** Actually, the lyric is "When they said 'come down,' I threw up," I just found out. Sorry, Internet.
*** Actually, even though I'm the only nogoodforme.com member not celebrating a birthday this week, I'd like yall to know that Saturday's my half-birthday - and there's really no better way to honor that than to share with you a couple songs by a dude I've known just as long as all the dudes I'm related to. (Spiritually, I mean. Bruce and I know each other spiritually.)
"Growin' Up"
"Does This Bus Stop at 82nd Street?"
The Beatles, "Junk"
While struck the highest morning of June 25th, 2009, I attained inner peace. I am now a complete compleat person. Inner peace feels exactly like how it sounds when Paul McCartney pronounces the word "junk" as "joonk" in "Junk" by the Beatles; that is to say, delicious. Speaking of literal "junk," there is presently a garbage strike taking place in Toronto, Ontario, which is so horrific that there is nothing to do but laugh. (Laura Jane)
Curt Boettcher, "Tumbling Tumbleweeds"
At first, I thought, "Only one thing is the sky: The Sky," before realizing that there is no sky, only the Universe. That Universe contains so many things: one of them is tumbleweeds, another is "songs about tumbleweeds." This song is a magnificent Magnum Opus; if this shit doesn't blow your mind, your sorry mind is unblowable. If you want to find me this summer, I'll be stoned on my patio at three in the afternoon, listening to it, drifting along, with the tumbling tumbleweeds. (Laura Jane)
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A NOGOODFORME MAGNUM OPUS: "Let It Beat," by Laura Jane Faulds
"Let It Beat" by Laura Jane Faulds is dedicated to everybody in my life who loves me, including myself. I love you too.
The photograph of me seen at left was taken in June of 2006, two months before I got sick. The photograph of me seen at right was taken seven months later.
I was initially hesitant to post these photographs, mostly because I consider it "beneath me" to use such a hackneyed, emotionally manipulative device as "the before and after photo." And it's true- I don't need these photos to make my point. But I want you to look at them.
Not because of the obvious; yes, I get it, we all do- it's shocking. It's jarring; revolting, even. My face got gaunt. Anorexia is sad.
But what I really want you to look at- to see- is my eyes. My eyes say everything. It is a blessing and a curse if I ever knew one.
Look at the girl on the left. Look at those eyes! Look at them!!!
She is alive. She is hopeful, focused, expectant. She is a ferocious little scamp, I remember being her: bong hits and booze runs and Brooklyn. I was a jerk, a card. I was angry at the world every day; I felt it missed the point. I was less loud, shyer, but was still- just the same- loud and shy; loud but shy. Look at that girl. That girl was going places, and everybody knew it.
Instead, two months later, I got sick. Five months after that, I turned into the girl on the right. I don't need to tell you what is in that girl's eyes. You can see it for yourself, clear like a windowpane. There is nothing to explain; no words but that, but nothing. When you look into that girl's eyes, you see nothing, because there is nothing inside her.
She's not dead, but she isn't alive, either. She's just, kind of, nothing.
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The Most Romantic Summer Song (Or: Why Bedroom Dancing Is Better Than Time Machines)
I've never not known "Spirit in the Night," the third track on side two of Greetings from Asbury Park, N.J. by Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band. I was born three days after Christmas sometime in the late 1970s, and then my parents brought me home from the hospital and started playing Bruce Springsteen records over and over and over till I grew up and moved out and had to go buy all my own copies of Bruce Springsteen records - kind of like having to buy your own frying pan or bath mat for the first time, except that Bruce Springsteen records are so much better than frying pans and bath mats. This is the song:
When I was a little girl, I was always scared of "Spirit in the Night." Mostly it had to do with the part when it slows down toward the end and it's just piano and Bruce singing: "Hazy Davey got really hurt, he ran into the lake in just his socks and a shirt. Me and Crazy Janey was makin' love in the dirt, singin' our birthday songs." That first part creeped me out like nothing else - like, why was Davey wearing just socks and a shirt? He must've been insane, or on drugs - probably drugs, and really bad ones too. Drugs terrified me when I was a kid; they still do now. I didn't know what kind of stuff the "Spirit in the Night" kids would be into, but it had to be something evil as whatever it was in Go Ask Alice that made the narrator-girl think she was being eaten alive by worms. (Listening today, I guess "Spirit in the Night" is about angel dust. I will probably never understand anything about angel dust, or why anyone would ever want to do it. This is narrow-minded of me, possibly.)
But the "makin' love in the dirt" lyric got to me more than the drugs - something about how Bruce's voice was so tired and heartsick, or the fact that they were in the dirt, singing, sounded so much more like real sex than any of sex I'd ever seen on cable TV or read about in my mom's issues of Cosmo. More than anything it sounded desperate, and that's what I couldn't understand at all: You don't know what "desperate" means when you're a kid, and you certainly don't know how it figures into sex.
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nogoodforme IX: Best Movie Soundtracks Ever
Grease
Probably doesn't count, cuz all the songs were written for the musical, but I don't care! Grease has "Greased Lightning," and therefore is the greatest soundtrack in motion-picture history. That's song's #5 or #6 on my list of Stuff I'm Always Psyched to Hear; when LJ referenced it in her hydromatic post on Revolver last week, it was enough for me to jump up on the hood of my Honda Civic, do some karate moves, and then light my cigarette with a blow torch. It's weird that they don't bleep out "pussy wagon" when Grease plays on TNT. (Liz)
Dear Kenickie: Stop being so hot, you're destroying me. xo Liz
Lost Highway
I love David Lynch more than I do coffee, pie, or saddle shoes, but it was David Lynch that made me love these things in the first place. David Lynch movies are so singular and otherworldly; what I love about them is that they're about the strange miasmas lurking underneath placid surfaces. That, and they're bat-shit crazy, outrageously loony and audaciously, uniquely bizarre. Lost Highway is not my favorite film by Lynch. (I think Mulholland Drive might be my favorite, Blue Velvet his greatest and I have a special place in my heart for, um, Wild At Heart, which is my idea of a real relationship movie.) But for any card-carrying Bringer of Darkness, the goth/punk industrial soundtrack of Lost Highway is ten kinds of genius. Of course, Lynch always works with composer Angelo Badalamenti; the Lynch/Badalamenti collabo is genuinely one of the greatest in cinema. But in Lost Highway, the soundscape opens up to include selections from the usual suspects of a certain darkly glam-influenced ilk: David Bowie, Nine Inch Nails, Rammstein, Barry Adamson, etc. Normally most of these people are bands that I am indifferent towards (with the exception of Trent Reznor's Twitter.) But put together on one soundtrack to one hella fucked-up movie - it totally works, especially when next to the gorgeous transports of Badalamenti's work and one beautiful Antonio Carlos Jobim track. This soundtrack is the one time I ever really understood Marilyn Manson musically (he does a pretty wicked cover of Screamin' Jay Hawkins' "I Put a Spell On You.") I still don't fully get the movie, but you don't "get" Lynch - you kind of just go with it. (Except with Inland Empire...I have to admit that film eluded me.) (Kat)
This whole of Lost Highway is an extended OMG/WTF, and Robert Blake FREAKS me the fuck out (he makes his appearance about 1:30 minutes in and it's all "!!!!!!!!"):
Morvern Callar
This is my favorite movie that no one else has really seen, directed by the brilliant, genius Scottish filmmaker Lynne Ramsay, who also did the equally amazing Ratcatcher. Starring Samantha Morton as the titular supermarket clerk living in the isolated Scottish highlands, Morvern discovers her boyfriend has committed suicide on Christmas Eve, leaving her with the world's least insightful suicide note, a mixtape, money for his funeral, his unpublished novel and instructions on what to do with it. What she does after all this is not really the point--the film is less about plot and more about grief, isolation and a strange sort of spiritual transcendence, which takes Morvern from the drunken bars of Scotland to the Ecstasy-fueled club culture in Ibiza to the countryside of Spain in a visual tour-de-force. Throughout all the drugs, sex and near hallucinogenic experiences, Morvern obsessively listens to her boyfriend's mix tapes, which are a keen, canny mix of Can, Velvet Underground, Broadcast, Aphex Twin, Lee "Scratch" Perry and other leftfield musos. I left the theatre after seeing Morvern Callar pretty stunned by the combination of such awesome music paired with Ramsay's searing images, and the result is the highest compliment I could give a filmmaker: I can't hear some of these songs without seeing the scenes from Morvern Callar in my head, so intertwined they are now in my imagination. In my case this is a good thing, Morvern Callar being one of the most mysteriously beautiful, mystical, soulful movies about a girl that has ever existed. (Kat)
The final scene of Morvern Callar, set to the Mamas and Papas:
Natural Born Killers
Oh, Reznorface, you really outdid yourself on this one. I don't even like half the tracks on this record, but Natural Born Killers still wins because: (a) it was the first album to let 16-year-old me know that there's a world of Patti Smith beyond "Because the Night," (b) "Sex Is Violent" is maybe the first-ever mash-up, made from the scariest pieces of "Ted, Just Admit It" by Jane's Addiction and Diamanda Galas's cover of "I Put a Spell on You," and (c) even though that pasting-snippets-of-film-dialogue-throughout-the-soundtrack thing started a kinda-annoying trend, it's done really brilliantly here. (Liz)
I also think it's cool that the soundtrack's got this scene with Juliette Lewis singing "Born Bad":
Pretty in Pink
To be clear: I've been sick of OMD's "If You Leave" for about 20 years now, and if I never hear it again, it'll be too soon. Also: "Please Please Please Let Me Get What I Want" was used so much more geniusly in Ferris Bueller's Day Off. That only leaves eight songs, but one of them's that Psychedelic Furs jam, which counts two dozens times over cuz it's so damn perfect. But I still wish the soundtrack were a bit longer, mostly so I could have that fantastic New Order song that plays while Molly Ringwald's making her terrible, horrible, no-good, very bad prom dress. When I went home for Easter this year, that track ("Thieves Like Us") played on the airport P.A. right before I boarded my flight, and then my plane's name was "Blue Monday." It was New Order day! Why don't I own any New Order records? (Liz)
Another song I wish was on the PIP soundtrack is "Positively Lost Me" by The Rave-Ups:
Purple Rain
Purple Rain is kind of the insane movie that only the 80s could have produced: it's pretty sexist and trashy, and yet kind of amazing in its audacious Prince-ness. I can't quite articulate what Prince-ness is; I can only tell you that it involves being kind of an innovative egomaniac genius that nevertheless gets away with it because he's pervy and fun at the same time. Prince always means well, even if you don't understand him, which is why you kind of get over Apollonia being such a lame character in Purple Rain. I mean, how can you take any movie seriously that has Morris Day and the Time as your main antagonist? For reals! It is SO FUN to get trashed and sing along to this movie, and if you ever, ever get a chance to see Purple Rain at a midnight screening, do it. It will kind of change your life. This soundtrack has my third-favorite and fourth-favorite Prince songs of all time, "Take Me With U" and "Darling Nikki" respectively. In a bit of nogoodforme trivia, Purple Rain was the first tape I ever bought on my own, and I still think it's one of the greatest albums in rock history. (Kat)
Can you take these dudes seriously as an antagonist? I think not:
Singles
I kind of was banking on Liz doing the Singles soundtrack so I could put down The Umbrellas of Cherbourg, which are two radically different soundtracks for two radically different films. Directed by Jacques Demy, The Umbrellas of Cherbourg is a melancholy musical starring Catherine Deneuve in which every single line is sung; the movie looks like a candy confection but its heart is sad and blue. Singles, of course, is the total Seattle grungefest, so epochal in its snapshot of a musical culture that I would daresay that the soundtrack has probably outlived the film in terms of greatness; the only thing missing on it is Nirvana, but other than that, it's almost a historical document. I'm sure there are more sophisticated uses of Screaming Trees and Pearl Jam found on film soundtracks, but there were none that were ever so zeitgeist-y or "all killer, no filler"--there's not a bum cut on here. You could put this in a time capsule and have aliens listen to it four eons later, and they would totally get what grunge was about. And then they would be perpetually humming "Dyslexic Heart" in whatever alien dialect they spoke in for about a year till they drove themselves crazy. (Kat)
The video for Alice in Chains' "Would?":
And just for fun, the opening credits to The Umbrellas of Cherbourg, one of my favorite movies ever:
Velvet Goldmine
It's so hard to keep track of all the many phases my undying David Bowie obsession's gone through: First there was the "My Mom Bought Me a Serious Moonlight Tour T-Shirt; As Such, I Am Way Cooler Than Everyone Else" (age five), and most recently we had "Oh My Gosh, David Bowie Was So Funny on Extras, Let's Watch the YouTube clip 87 Times in a Row" (age 29). But probably the most all-consuming, brain-invading, soul-melting, life-changing Bowie phase coincided with the VHS release of Velvet Goldmine, which I maybe viewed thrice-weekly from the summer of '99 to the following springtime. Of course, there's no Bowie on the soundtrack, but there's my favorite Lou Reed song, my second favorite Brian Eno song, my third favorite Roxy Music song, my fourth favorite T. Rex song, and lots of sexy covers by the Venus in Furs (a stupidly named supergroup starring Thom Yorke). For more foxy Bowie-related soundtrackage, see Labyrinth and the "Bowie" episode of Flight of the Conchords. (Liz)
Jonathan Rhys Meyers, video star:
Wings of Desire
I actually think that the Ry Cooder soundtrack to Paris, Texas wins the "Most Amazing Score of a Wim Wenders Film" award, but I'm putting Wings of Desire down here, simply because it has such sentimental value for me, a value so strong that not even making a lame Nicholas Cage version of it would spoil things. I saw Wings of Desire at a time in my life when I started realizing films could do more than just record stories for entertainment - that film could be about poetry, rock, and sex, that it could be as intellectual or visceral as you wanted it to be. Seeing Wings of Desire (along with Breathless and La Jetee) as a seventeen-year old was kind of important to me in becoming a filmmaker and deciding to eschew normal adult life in order to pursue it. It also was responsible for me listening to "From Her to Eternity" for the first time and thus beginning a Nick Cave obsession that has lasted me for decades. (He is so beautiful in this movie, it's unreal.) There's a visceral version of it here, alongside Cave's "The Carny," as well as a stunning track from Crime and the City Solution. It sits next to Bruno Ganz's lovely readings of the Peter Handke poem that figures heavily in the film, as well as the beautiful strings-dominated instrumentation of Jurgen Kneiper. This is a genuine film score, one that evokes the somber, melancholy beauty of the film and yet manages to shimmer well on its own. (Kat)
Nick Cave in "Wings of Desire" (check out those beautiful camera movements at the beginning of the scene):
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STOP THE PRESSES: Kat Gives the Lowdown on Her 'Hood at neighborbee!
I love to big up my beloved neighborhood, so of course I was totally psyched to hold forth for Serena, one of the super-super people over at neighborbee, a blog devoted to NYC city life. Not only do I get to blab about my favorite slice of pizza, my affection for the Studio Museum of Harlem and my love for Hungarian Pastry Shop, but I also get to blab about movies (my own and others!) And naturally, I get to talk about nogoodforme.com and fashion. Everyone wins! Anyway, check it out, and mega-thanks to Serena again for the interview! Oh, and if there are any other Morningsiders reading, please let me know where you get a good cup of coffee around here, because my answer is kinda lame and embarrassing.
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FOR A DATE WITH: The Resort 2010 Edition
A new opinion I have is that wearing designer clothing is actually pretty gauche. It's so tacky, to flaunt your wealth like that! Get some class, Rich People!
But all that aside, some designer clothing is cool and beautiful, definitely preferable to Zara. Resort collections are always interesting to me, because shit's kickier, and there are less pieces to look at, so I get less bored clicking through endless parades of nothingness on style.com. I have already explained this twice, since I always post about resort collections, since they are interesting to me (because shit's kickier, less clothes, less bored, etc.)
As we all know, I'm off the market right now (LYING), because I am in a committed long-term relationship with Laura "The Dude Of My Dreams" Jane Faulds. I chose some fake date outfits for a date with her, too, but really, the best part of being in a relationship as serious as this one is that fantasies about other relationships become richer. Oh God. Just take me to "a resort," Don Draper of Mad Men.
+ Continue reading "FOR A DATE WITH: The Resort 2010 Edition"
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Imaginary Shopping Spree: Ecstatic Peace!, Fieldguided
A SKATE DECK WITH A THREE-EYED CAT, WHO IS NOT NAMED MERZBOW
In one of the 8 million (or, two) "At Home with Kim Gordon & Thurston Moore" articles that've run in major magazines over the past month, there's a shot of this supersick skate deck designed by Dennis Tyfus, about whom I know exactly zero. I want it cuz it's got lots of distressed-looking ghosts, plus a big adorable three-eyed cat! I guess you could say that my skateboard's also got a cat on it, considering that I haven't used it in a thousand months and it's now smothered in Pillz's hair. And speaking of pets, Spin's story on the Gordon-Moores reveals that they've got a dog named Merzbow (as well as a dog named Syd Barrett). Do you think that, upon getting the first dog, Kim and Thurston sat around for five seconds and went, "What's the most obvious fucking thing we could name this doggone dog? Oh yeah: Merzbow!" Good grief. But, Thurston: I still 99% love you. And, Kim, I still 83% think you're mostly all right. (Liz)
SUPER-QUIRKY TIES FOR LADS AND LADIES ALIKE
This installment of my ISS portion is for those sartorially adventurous dudes out there, or for those ladies who enjoy wearing ties and want to rock some super-quirky ones. Fieldguided is an Etsy shop run by the lovely Anabela and Geoff. Anabela, who also writes an equally lovely blog, once made me a kick-ass mix CD that I still have and cherish, so I know her all-round good taste extends to nearly all areas in which it is possible to cultivate taste in. I love this May 4 tie so much that it almost makes me wish that I were an Annie Hall type who wore ties all the time. I am not, so I will have to settle for pretend-buying it for my pretend-ideal dude of the week, who is a punk rock dandy graduate student/librarian from Berlin who lives in a ramshackle 2-flat with a ton of books, records and a serious Fall addiction. He'd wear it to take me out for my upcoming birthday at Verbena, a lovely, serene Gramercy Park restaurant that is no longer open (boo!), and then take me up to the Cloisters, where the beautiful herb gardens would no doubt match his tie. Isn't it great when all of life aligns into one lovely melody? (Kat)
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Happy Birthday, Ray Davies!
Oh My God! It's Ray Davies' birthday today! CANCEMINI FORTNIGHT 2009 is in full effect!
In both theory and practice, Raymond Douglas Davies is the Ultimate Cancemini. In terms of actual birthdates, you can't be more Cancer/Gemini cusp-y than June 21st. In terms of actual Cancemini behaviors, you can't be more Cancer/Gemini cusp-y than Ray Davies. Homeboy's particularly erratic brand of emotional instability just screams Cancemini. Compared to Ray Davies, I am barely even Cancemini-esque at all. Compared to Ray Davies, I'm a Virgo.
I racked my brain all morning trying to figure out what my birthday present for Ray Davies could be. I listened to "Autumn Almanac" really loud and danced cool-ly in my bedroom to it, but that didn't seem good enough. I already wrote him the best thing I've ever written and think about him constantly; that doesn't really require any special birthday effort on my end. And then I realized:
Ray Davies, my birthday gift to you is myself. I have offered myself to you on nogoodforme.com before, but to no avail. Why? Why, Ray Davies? Why do you not want a kicky twenty-four year old concubine who will worship you, inspire you, and make you tea? Are you secretly gay or something? That seems like the only explanation.
Sorry, Ray Davies, I don't mean to clog up your birthday tribute post with petty allegations about your sexuality. I just really want to be your younger lover! I would do such a good job at it! I would call you "Dude," and it would make you feel young again. I can make you happy, Ray Davies. Why are you so blind to this? Why am I only attracted to unavailable men? Why am I only attracted to unavailable men who are sixty-five and the lead singer of the Kinks? Why do I never get what I want? Why is this dweeby message board debate about "Arthur" vs. the Beatles so cool to me? How much is a shilling worth? What time is it? What is a birthday?
So many questions, but only one solution- becoming Ray Davies' concubine.
Now, let us all watch "Apeman," and swoon.
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Happy Birthday, Brian Wilson!
Today's "Musical Genius of the 1960s" celebrating a birthday within the confines of sweet, emotionally-charged, very-intense-for-me CANCEMINI FORTNIGHT 2009 is Brian Douglas Wilson of the Beach Boys. He turns sixty-seven years old today, just like Paul McCartney did two days ago. Spooky!
Although Brian's sexier, less-talented cousin, I mean brother, Denny Wilson is the Official Beach Boy of nogoodforme.com, Brian Wilson is still aces in my books, even though I think "California Girls" is a really mean and hurtful song, if you are a girl who is not from California. Brian Wilson has done some great things over the course of the past sixty-seven years. Namely, he wrote "Sloop John B," (by wrote I mean "wrote"), "Heroes & Villains," "Be True To Your School," and "Little Saint Nick." I have weird taste in Beach Boys songs. I think "God Only Knows" is hokey.
My favourite thing that Brian Wilson ever did, however, is something that Brian Wilson may never have done, because it is something that the heart-throbby, mis-cast actor who played Brian Wilson in a made-for-TV movie about the Beach Boys I watched in high school did, which was ask his future wife if he could buy her a hot cocoa after a Beach Boys concert. I think that is so sweet, and I really hope it happened. If a dude ever nervously asked me if he could buy me a hot cocoa, I would be a goner. A GONER, I tell you!
My birthday present to Brian Wilson is that, earlier today, I listened to "Sloop John B" on my iPod shuffle and visualized myself punching that motherfucker who ate up all Brian Wilson's corn in the face. I can't really do any better than that, Brian Wilson. I hope you have a nice day. I hope your birthday doesn't totally depress you, though I feel like it would.
Lastly, here is the music video for Don't Go Near The Water, from 1971's Surf's Up. This song was written by Mike Love and Al Jardine, and has nothing to do with Brian Wilson. I can't even tell if Brian Wilson is in this video at all. But suck it, Hypothetical Beach Boys Purist Who Is Questioning My Choice Of Including This Vid In My Brian's B-day Tribute Post- it's (almost) my birthday, and I'll post it if I want to.
PS: ISN'T AL JARDINE THE LEAST ATTRACTIVE DUDE YOU'VE EVER SEEN IN YOUR LIFE? In my opinion, yes.
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Snapshot: Listening, Watching, Reading, Wearing, Wanting
+ Kat
Listening: Nirvana, whatever's on WFMU, a ton of other stuff that I can't think of right now.
Watching: "South Park," really, usually 1-2 eps late at night on my laptop. I haven't had time to watch a lot lately!
Reading: The Man Who Mistook His Wife for a Hat by Oliver Sachs, which is a fascinating group of character sketches of people living with various neuropsychological disorders... some of the fastest non-fiction I've read through in recent weeks; the Sienna Miller issue of Vogue, which makes me wonder why they keep persisting in putting her on the cover. It's been like three times and she's still a B-list actress! Come on, folks, it's beating a dead fashionista horse!
Wearing: Grey v-neck t-shirt, jeans, black Chucks, basic.
Wanting: To figure out why I hit a great wall of tired at the 20-minute mark on my 5K runs in the morning.
+ Laura Jane
Listening: I've been listening to the new Fiery Furnaces a lot, and the Beatles, and the Kinks, and I am going to spare myself the trouble of making up a lie about other music I've been listening to, since it doesn't exist
Watching: Since last Snapshot Day, I have watched every episode of Mad Men: Season One. It is my favourite thing in the world. Just like everybody, I am deeply, deeply in love with Don Draper.
Reading: The same Carson McCullers book I was reading last week. I also read the issue of Harper's Bazaar with Jolie on the cover and the Sisi Vogue. They both sucked, especially Bazaar.
Wearing: A bunch of dirty crap; Mad Men-colored lipstick; my stupid "Ringo Starr in HELP! haircut
Wanting: It is going to be SO NASTY HOT OUT on my birthday! That is so perfect! I wish it was that day.
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Happy Birthday, Sir Paul McCartney!
Whoop-a-lye Scooby doo wop Shooweeee!!!!! It's CANCEMINI FORTNIGHT!!!! For two weeks out of every year, us crazies come out to play! Ahhh, the comfort and solace of these magical two weeks that fall at the end of June, like Father's Day, when all us manically-depressed (and/or manically-repressed, in the case of Sir Paul McCartney) Gemicancers finally have a chance at enjoying emotional stability and- dare I say???- happiness!! We are in our creepy dualistic lunar element! Enjoy it, Canceminis! You will be crying once more, come July.
Let us kick off the CANCEMINI FORTNIGHT festivities by taking a moment out of our busy lives to celebrate the accomplishments and awesomeness of today's birthday boy, one Sir James Paul McCartney. Because nobody ever does that. Poor Paul McCartney- such an undervalued individual! Paul turns SIXTY-SEVEN today, which is a really sketchily old age for Paul McCartney to be turning. Don't die, Paul McCartney!
Luckily for me, who is lazy right now, everything I could ever say in honor of Sir Paul's legacy has already been succinctly expressed by the geniuses over at Fidelity Investments, or whatever advertising firm is responsible for creating this ever-entertaining slice of Grade-A Paul McCartney Propaganda/commercial for Fidelity Investments:
Happy Birthday, Paul McCartney! My gift to you is not eating meat, and being obsessed with you.
Signed,
Your fellow Cancemini,
Laura Jane
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Heavy Rotation: The Horrors, The Hobbits, The White Stripes, and more!
The Horrors, "Scarlet Fields"
I kind of wrote off the Horrors as part of that whole electroclash bullcrap from a few years ago, although I thought their Chris Cunningham-directed vid for "Sheena Was a Parasite" was frightfully, awesomely wicked and riveting. I just assumed they were fashion before passion, an attitude which I'm amused by but easily forget about after about a week. But their latest record Primary Colours came out, and like a lot of other people, I was super-floored by how rich, beautiful and amazing it is. It is full of epic shoegaze-y sound, expansive emotion and song structure to match, drugtastic mood and a sheen of dark glamour that warms the cockles of this Goth heart. This is not tame pop music -- this is big in every way, with a genuine artistic ambition and a kind of emotional decadence that is way more Symbolist than the stupidity that passes for decadence these days. If you loved the great British rock bands of the late 80s and early 90s, if you ever loved Peter Murphy, Bauhaus, Joy Division, Ride, Chapterhouse, early Verve, Swervedriver, Slowdive, all of that: THIS WHOLE RECORD IS SO UP YOUR ALLEY AND YOU NEED TO EMAIL ME TO LET ME KNOW YOU EXIST SO I CAN LOVE YOU FROM AFAR. (Kat)
Peter Murphy, "Cuts You Up"
Speaking of Peter Murphy, this song always makes me think of eighth grade biology class and sitting with my friends writing Cure lyrics on our folders instead of learning about progesterone or frog innards or whatever. It was in eighth grade bio where the coolest girl in my junior high dubbed me a tape of Peter Murphy's solo record Deep, from which "Cuts You Up" comes from. I'm ashamed to say that I got into Peter Murphy before I discovered he used to sing in a band called Bauhaus, but cut me some slack, dudes -- I was only 12. We all have to begin somewhere. (Kat)
Radiohead, "Nobody Does It Better" (Live)
I think it's a grand idea to set the last dance at your wedding reception to a song that's ostensibly sweet but actually totally dirty. I've just got the track for that, and I'm not going to tell you what it is, but the runner-up would definitely be this Radiohead cover of the theme to The Spy Who Loved Me. Thom Yorke does a halfway decent Carly Simon; it's probably the only time Radiohead's ever given me the chills. (Liz)
The White Stripes, "Party of Special Things to Do"
You know how some weddings have an after-party, a superchill friends-and-cool-family-members-only kinda hang that's about 87 times more party than the actual reception? I want my wedding to have not only an after-party, but an after-after-party. And at the after-after-after-party, we'll probably just play The White Stripes' cover of "Party of Special Things to Do" by Captain Beefheart over and over and try to dance on the couch, which never works cuz you usually just sink into the cushions or fall over onto the floor. So Much Fun! (Liz)
The Hobbits, "Daffodil Days"
What a terrible song this is. Songs so staggeringly embarrassing as this one really help debunk the myth that everything was perfect in the 1960s, which is a myth worth debunking indeed. Remembering that the 1960s weren't just a perfect John Lennon Utopia helps me navigate my way through trashy Two Thousand "The Shittiest Year Yet!" And Nine with a bit less of a grudge. The hilarious thing about "Daffodil Days" is that it is on an LP called Down to Middle Earth (COOL, HUH!?!?!) that is very rare and kind of pricey. Therefore, Dudes Who Care About Rekkids project value onto the music of the Hobbits, and actually bother sitting around listening to this garbage. Actions so embarrassing as that one really help debunk the myth that 99% of dudes aren't idiots 99% of the time, which is a myth worth debunking indeed. (Laura Jane)
Lee Mallory, "The Love Song"
I am a really big fan of empty, unromantic love songs. This one is particularly cool to me because the title positions it as being the love song: the Ultimate. Thought Lee Mallory, once, maybe: "You did it, Lee (Mallory)! You wrote the superlative love song! There has never been, and never will be, a love song that is more of a love song than this song! I shall call it, 'The Love Song.'" Poor, dumb Lee Mallory. If I were ever to actually fall in love, the last song I would ever want to listen to as an expression of my bliss would be "The Love Song" by Lee Mallory. So there is one good thing about not being in love- I listen to "The Love Song" by Lee Mallory every day! It's great listening for when you are walking down the street, not thinking about love at all. (Laura Jane)
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nogoodforme Superlatives: Our Dream Weddings
Hooray! It's wedding season! The nogoodforme.com troika is proud to invite y'all to all three of our fake weddings, which are a great alternative to real weddings. This betrothal-themed edition of nogoodforme Superlatives is dedicated to longtime ngfm pal and Inner Circle member Teri V, who is getting married in Greece this very weekend! Congratulations, Teri! We wish we could be there! Much love from Kat, Liz & Laura Jane
THE OFFICIAL NOTE OF AMBIVALENCE
Emotionally, I get the idea of weddings and marriage; I love most weddings, in fact, especially the ones that I have been in. I love really personal, intimate ceremonies that really reflect the two people that they're celebrating. But socially, intellectually, politically, just as a human being aware of history, politics and power -- I find the whole kaboodle a bit suspect, especially since marriage is denied as a right to a whole group of our human brothers and sisters here in a country that's supposed to be all about "the land of the free" and "life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness" and all of that. If marriage is about love and commitment, creating a home and/or family and sharing the adventure of life together, then why not let all humans who are so inclined get married? So I want to acknowledge the irony of writing about a dream wedding when the dream is out of a lot of people's reach; it seems like the decent thing to do. (Oh, and California: WHAT GIVES?!!!!) The really ironic thing about it all is that I'm pretty much the most marriage-averse thirtysomething straight girl in America; I have no eagerness to walk down an aisle, unless it's to collect an Oscar or ease on down the yellow brick road or something. (In fact, being the nogoodforme bolshie, I kind of think all marriages should be abolished as a legal status in favor of civil unions for everyone. Either everyone gets marriage or everyone gets civil unions, but everyone gets the same dang thing. Can you tell I come from a many-siblinged family where everything had to be shared equally?) But in the interest of playing along, my DREAM CIVIL UNION CEREMONY would be a very simple, timeless, classic thing. The ingredients: a great dude in a sharp suit, autumn weather, a lovely cream-colored coat (a la Audrey Hepburn below), City Hall ceremony with family and a very few close friends, and then a great decadent dinner at Nobu or Indochine or one of those classically glamorous New York restaurant institutions. If this were really a dream, we'd be off to Iceland to see the Northern lights for a honeymoon. Does such an adventurous soul really exist? Will you marry me? No, wait, on second thought...(Kat)
Hotness from the 60s, left to right: Audrey Hepburn marrying Andrea Dotti wearing my ideal outfit; I think this is Catherine Deneuve marrying photographer David Bailey, but who cares who it is -- I just love this picture.)
IN THE APPLE ORCHARD WITH ELI CASH
I took a MASH-esque approach to divining the two most important elements of my dream wedding: First I listed five dudes I've crushed on at various moments throughout my existence (in chronological order: Han Solo, Andrew McCarthy in Weekend at Bernie's, Keanu Reeves, Eli Cash, and Aziz Ansari), then I ticked off five places at which I'd be down to tie the knot (by the beach in Malibu, the rings of Saturn, an apple orchard, a ranch in Colorado, and by the beach on some tropical island where the air tastes like mango). I ended up with Eli Cash and apple orchard, which is awesome, partly because now I can sing the song that goes: "E my name is Elizabeth, my husband's name is Eli, we live on the EastSideOfLosAngeles and we sell elephants!" Or something. Maybe we sell eggs, or elm trees. Egrets? Emus? Anyway.
(My dapper husband, reflecting on his final moments of singlehood; an apple orchard; the corny dress. And please note that I'd never get married in the snow; there's just a surprising lack of beautiful apple orchard photos available for easy grabbing on the Internet.)
DRESS. Like Heidi Pratt says, every girl should be a Goddess Princess Amazing Person on her wedding day. This Oscar De La Renta gown would so make me feel like a Goddess Princess Amazing Person, and it's made of hemp and corn! What dirty hippies the Barker-Cashes are. And it's tacky to pick your own ring, but I want this one, by Erica Weiner.
MUSIC. Ione Skye will DJ my wedding reception (not the actress, but my iPod, whom the actress is named after). There's a 97 percent chance that "wedding DJ" is my true calling in life; whenever anyone I love gets married I share with them the grand secret of the two songs that must be played at every reception, and they never listen, and it's annoying. (I can't tell you both, but I'll let it slip that one of the songs is "I Only Have Eyes for You" by The Flamingos.)
FORMALITIES. Kris Kristofferson will give me away. Or Barack Obama.
THE WEDDING PARTY. Along with certain family members and friends, my bridesmaids will include late-80s Sarah Jessica Parker, Mindy Kaling, and Anna Faris. Of course Eli gets to pick his groomsmen, but I'm hoping that, in addition to Luke Wilson, Ben Stiller, and Danny Glover, he'll go with the Stella dudes, Charlie Watts, Jack White, The Beastie Boys, Red Hot Chili Peppers, the Zephyr skate team, and Bono. (Actually, it would cool if Eli could turn Bono into his dad, somehow. Wouldn't Bono make such an amazing father-in-law?) And the ring-bearer would be my cat, a la Jinxie in Meet the Parents.
BOOZE + CAKE. Of course, my Eli needs his Bloody Mary bar. And I want ice cream + cake! The ice cream will be provided by Scoops, which is actually gelato, but whatevs: Lavender Avocado for the vegans, and Oreo Marscapone for us heathen dairy-eaters. And for the cake, I want a planet-sized seafoam-green Princess Torte, preferably from one of the bakeries at the 3rd & Fairfax Farmers Market.
EVERYTHING ELSE, SORT OF. Flowers, flowers everywhere! Apple blossoms of course, but maybe bougainvillea too, in tribute to my fair city. Speaking of flowers, I'd love to send all our guests off with bottles of Strange Invisible perfumes, custom-blended on the spot. And I want to honeymoon in Italy, but of course Eli would rather go gold-panning in Deadwood, South Dakota. Oh, and we're registered at Forever 21, Drydale's Western Wear, Restoration Hardware, and Dylan's Candy Bar. Especially Dylan's Candy Bar.
P.S. Dear Aziz Ansari, I was really hoping against hope that you'd end up my groom. If you won't marry me, can we at least be Twitter friends? Sheesh. (I'm @lizzfizz, BTW.)
P.P.S. Actually, never mind: I just rethunk it, and "Lizzie Cash" is the best name ever. Thanks anyway! (Liz)
LAURA JANE FAULDS: SURPRISINGLY A NORMIE WHEN IT COMES TO WEDDINGS
As they say: when in Rome, do as the Normies do. If I'm ever going to make a choice so boldfacedly Normie as becoming some dude's wifey, I might as well just GO FOR IT: hold a big a fussy ceremony, participate in all the dumb weird rituals ("A small child walks down the center of a church holding a band of gold"; "Your friends throw handfuls of dry rice at you"), and do it up right. Before I host my Weddingstravaganza, however, I want to rashly elope (mostly because I think I would derive a lot of satisfaction from saying, "My parents are gonna love this one!") Six months to a year after rashly eloping (it's always smart to give yourself an "annulment window"), it will be time for the elaborate girlhead chickfest wedding I am about to describe.
1. NORMIE IN NATURE, BUT NOT IN NOTION: I will not marry in a church. I will marry in a haunted mansion in Savannah, Georgia. There will be no talk of God, unless Dream Dude says , "Oh my God, Laura Jane, you have such fucking amazing fucking Wedding Style I can't even deal with it." Like Normies, I want to have bridesmaids (Liz, Kat, Emily Richmond, Ally, Jenn, Lexy, LFG); unlike Normies, my Maid of Honor is going to be a dude, since my best friend is a dude, so what else can I do? Like Normies, I will marry. Unlike many Normies, I will be marrying for love. I will get married like how John & Yoko got married, only not in Gibraltar, and with no Peter Brown Involvement.
2. DE-LAME-IFYING THE AISLE WALK: I can't imagine anything in all life stupider or more humiliating than having to uncomfortably walk down an "aisle," at a slow pace, to a corny song played on an organ, linking arms with my Dad (probably the only person in the world who would be more awkwarded out by the Aisle Walk than myself). My strategy for making my Aisle Walk cool is that "Long, Long, Long" by the Beatles will be playing (AW!), I will be drinking a Big Gulp of pink champagne (because everybody looks cooler drinking a Big Gulp, even a bride) while linking arms with The Ghost of John Lennon (I am NOT going to be "given away," because I am NO MAN'S LAURA JANE) and holding a Black Cat, my Spirit Animal (if I don't have one of my own, the cat can be my "Something Borrowed"!) Dream Dude will have his Spirit Animal with him too. In addition to our own wedding ceremony, our Spirit Animals will get mock-married, after us. Life will feel exactly like the His Dark Materials trilogy, only with Big Gulps.
PS: You know that scene in Love, Actually where Keira Knightley is marrying that dude who isn't a famous actor, and dude's best friend pulls that Tricky Dick Nixon shit on him and after they say their "I Do"s, all these flautists and saxophone players and trumpeteers and etc. pop out o' the pews and start playing "All You Need Is Love," and there's even an electric guitarist?
I am terrified that someone is going to do this to me at my wedding. Please don't! DON'T DO IT.
IT IS THE MOST HORRIFICALLY EMBARRASSING AND CRINGE-INDUCING THING I COULD EVER IMAGINE HAPPENING TO ME. IF YOU SPRING THAT GARBAGE ON ME AT MY OWN WEDDING, YOU ARE CUT OUT OF MY LIFE, LIKE, FOREVSKIES.
3. FURTHER WEDDING SPECS: The flowers will be Calla Lilies. The general concept will be "The Magickal Southern Gothickal De-Mystification Tour." It will take place at the end of July, because summer's my season. The reception will be held 'neath the weeping willows in my haunted Savannah garden, and guests will be encouraged to pick flowers and put them in their hair. My bridesmaids can wear whatever cute dresses they want. We will all dance to '60s bubblegum 45s, and that song by Friedberger that goes "I was listening to the radio." The drink menu will be: strawberry slushie margaritas, Sazeracs, Mint Juleps, Big Gulps of Diet Cherry Coke, nice bottles of Sauterne, Bloody Laura Janes, and Fizzy White Sangria. The food menu will be: vegan nachos, sticky rice & peanut sauce, grilled almond butter & jam sandwiches, vegan cinnamon buns, garlicky greens, something that is protein, kimchi sushi, and strawberry wedding cake. There will be free packs of Marlboro Reds and pre-rolled joints (of medicinal quality!) on every table, and also red telephones, so you can drunk dial the table next to you!
4. OH BUT WHAT WILL SHE WEAR???: Well: red patent Brogues, a Thelma Design headpiece, pink lipstick, hella false eyelashes, and Chloe Eau de Parfum. Also: My Wedding Dress! Conveniently for me, I already have my wedding dress. I found it in a Goodwill last summer. It travelled through time to become mine. There is a picture of me wearing it behind the jump, but I need to say:
IF YOU THINK THAT THERE IS EVEN THE TINIEST PERCENT CHANCE THAT YOU MAY PERHAPS ONE DAY MARRY ME, WHATEVER YOU DO, DO NOT CLICK THE LINK BELOW! YOU MAY NOT LOOK AT ME IN MY WEDDING DRESS, OR ELSE WE WILL HAVE BAD LUCK FOREVER & YOU WILL RUIN OUR CHANCES OF EVER HAVING A HAPPY MARRIAGE!!!!!!!
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+ Interviews (35)
+ Jewelry (13)
+ Laura Jane Campaigns (1)
+ Laura Jane Gives Back (3)
+ Laura Jane Investigates (3)
+ Laura Jane's Addiction (9)
+ Liz & LJ on (1)
+ LJ ON JL (3)
+ Love (52)
+ Love Yr Blog (12)
+ Magazines (3)
+ Magnum Opus (6)
+ Music (44)
+ nogoodforme IX (25)
+ nogoodforme.tv (19)
+ Nostalgia (2)
+ Open Letters (2)
+ Other (8)
+ Photography (5)
+ Pop Culture (36)
+ Puppy Love (1)
+ Random Picture Entry (60)
+ Seminal Fashion Moments (2)
+ Shoes (10)
+ Shopping (39)
+ Snapshot (99)
+ Some Things I Hate (2)
+ Soundtracks (63)
+ Spirit Animal House (36)
+ Spotted (26)
+ Stop the Presses! (9)
+ Street Style (3)
+ Style Profiles (1)
+ Super Hot Girls (8)
+ Superlatives (35)
+ The Young Person's Guide to the Beatles (7)
+ Thrift Scores (6)
+ TOO DUDE FOR YOU (24)
+ TOO NOGOODFORME FOR YOU (6)
+ Ultimate Fashion Challenge (14)
+ Videos (10)
+ We're Obsessed (40)
+ Who Brought the Awesome (1)
+ Why Don't You? (2)
+ WTF/OMG (8)
Recent past.
+ Laura Jane's Addiction: EPIC DATES
+ Imaginary Shopping Spree: Tulle, Emma Cook
+ The Young Person's Guide to the Beatles: Firing Off on Revolver
+ Love Yr Blog: Jessica Goldfond of Shiny Squirrel
+ Snapshot: Listening, Watching, Reading, Wearing, Wanting
+ bits & pieces: the etsy edition
+ A Day In The Life: Dopest Shit We'll Wear This Summer
+ Laura Jane Gives Back: FIVE DAYS LEFT TO ERADICATE ANOREXIA FOREVER!
+ Heavy Rotation: The Phenomenal Handclap Band, Black Flag, Del Shannon, and more!
+ Laura Jane's Addiction: Bloody Marys, THE OFFICIAL DRINK OF SUMMER 2009
+ LIZ & LJ ON: The Beastie Boys Through the Ages
+ Imaginary Shopping Spree: Vivienne Westwood for Melissa + Anzevino and Florence = Kat's alter ego
+ The Young Person's Guide to the Beatles: Laura Jane Opines About Five More Beatles Songs
+ To Go: Point Break screening Sunday night in L.A.
+ Laura Jane Campaigns: MY QUEST FOR A DREAM JOB/"LAURA JANE FOR SALE"
Old school.
+ Listing of
all entries
+ Read entries from May 19 - June
13, 2003
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