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Tuesday , January 27, 2009

RIP John Updike: A Heartfelt Goodbye to a Hero

At six-o-clock this evening, while taking an unnecessarily long cigarette break from work, I received a text message from my friend Amy B that read, "RIP John Updike." I put two and two together, then started to cry. I'm crying right now; it is important for me to tell you all that. I am terrified of death (not that anyone isn't, but it seems to be particularly debilitating for me). My terror leads to obsession and preoccupation; as such, I often channel heaps of mental energy into contemplating what I will "feel like" on the day certain celebrities I love die. Lately, I have been stressing like crazy about the impending death of George Martin, which really freaks me the hell out and I can't deal with it.

I only wish I'd thought to dwell on what John Updike's eventual death would mean to me. It punched me in the stomach. I am sad.

To be a writer of fiction is to be invisible. Successful writers occasionally attain a moderate level of fame, but, in almost every case except for that of Truman Capote, who is special, that fame has little to do with them, him, or her. To be a famous writer is to be the name who wrote the books. That is elegant, and perfect. I want it too. As a twenty-three year old fashion blogger, I am cool with making a big showy deal out of my three names and weird clothes. But one of these days, I plan on growing up, and when I do, I want that- I want to disappear behind all the best words, arranged in all the best ways. I want them to be more than me.

John Updike's relevance and excellence are most frequently attributed to his gift for hyper-realistically capturing the sordid underbelly of (often painfully) average American life. I disagree with this. To me, John Updike's talent is for the polar opposite: for making disgusting nothing into brilliant something. I've always guessed that Updike immersed himself into the mind of the common man because he himself was something so separate from that; isn't it so like a Pisces (which he was) to transform revulsion into reverence?

Oh, and will his words live on? I don't know, whatever. I am not okay about John Updike's death yet. I have nothing clever to say. I want to be a writer forever.

PS: Here is the Guardian's Updike eulogy.

Tags: death, dying, George Martin, In Memoriam, John Updike, writers, writing

Monday , December 8, 2008

RIP JOHN LENNON FOREVER AND EVER

It's Beatle Death Season. Shit's rough.

28 years ago today, John Lennon was shot to death by a deranged nerd who I wholeheartedly wish I could beat to a bloody pulp every night for the rest of my life. It's the least I could do.

Basically, my entire identity- both on and off nogoodforme.com- revolves primarily around my intense love/obsession/intensely obsessive love with/for JOHN WINSTON ONO LENNON.

I've said it all, a million times. Just search "John Lennon" in our search thing, and you'll figure it out. I don't know who is reading this, and I don't know who even cares one bit. All I know is that my name is Laura Jane, and, for the first time in my entire life, I have an audience, and I am beyond grateful for it. My name is Laura Jane, I have an audience, and John Lennon is dead. I am Laura Jane, and I have an audience, and, My Dear Audience, I just wanna tell you:

John Lennon was killed 28 years ago today. John Lennon changed the world more than anybody else, ever (kind of), and I think that the very least we can all do is remember that today is the day that that terrible thing happened, and reflect upon it.

REST IN PEACE, HOT STUFF:

Seen above is a video from Ready, Steady, Go! of JL meeting Penny Rimbaud of Crass. Which is pretty cool in itself, but my actual favourite part has nothing to do with Crass, and everything to do with John Lennon scrawling "BUY MY BOOK" on the RSG! wall in permanent marker.

Tags: all my heroes are dead, In Memoriam, John Lennon, Laura Jane Faulds, Laura Jane's Dirty December, Laura loves The Beatles, Yoko Ono

Saturday , September 27, 2008

R.I.P. Paul Newman

For his obvious beauty as a human being, his understated lifestyle, his humanitarian work and his coolness in general.

(With wife Joanne Woodward, reading a script together)

Tags: Joanne Woodward, Paul Newman, TOO DUDE FOR YOU

Thursday , July 3, 2008

In Memoriam: Mark Sandman

Mark Sandman, who's probably best known as the frontman for Boston band Morphine, died nine years ago today after having a heart attack onstage in Italy (he was 46). I remember hearing about it on the news in my BFF's living room while we were getting ready to hit the town for Fourth of July; it was just a couple weeks after I started working reception at the Boston alternative newsweekly that published this really sweet tribute to Mr. Sandman. I only ever got to see Morphine once, but I always had very fond feelings for Mark, mostly having to do with his belonging to a certain breed of rock star that possesses a charmingly avuncular kind of quality. Like, for instance, I often think of Bono as "Uncle Paul": He says and does some pretty cringe-worthy stuff sometimes, and he probably thinks he's way cooler than he truly is, but at the end of the day you're way happy to have him around.

In real life, as opposed to Liz's Rock-Star-Populated Make-Believe Fairy Magic Land, I've got this warm/fuzzy memory of sitting around my aunt's smoky kitchen sometime in 1987 while my actual Uncle Paul sang along to a really perfect song called "I Think She Likes Me" by Mark's pre-Morphine band Treat Her Right. As far as avuncular rock stars ago, Mark Sandman definitely outcools Bono any day of the week and twice on Sunday: He'd totally be the uncle to let you bum a cigarette when your mom's not around and give you your first swig of whiskey when you're, like, eight or something. It's pretty heartbreaking that he didn't get to live many more years and make lots more records, but here's a little sample of the lovely stuff he left behind:

Morphine, "Honey White" (You know this one, right?)

Treat Her Right, "I Think She Likes Me"

Tanya Donelly, "Moonbeam Monkey" (Mr. Sandman sings back-up. This is probably my favorite Tanya solo song.)

(P.S. I'm really sorry if your download link has naked girls in it. Apparently it's nearly impossible in this day and age to share music without getting naked girls involved.)

Tags: avuncular rock stars, Boston, Mark Sandman, Morphine, music

Sunday , June 1, 2008

RIP YSL

As much as I love fashion, I tend to dislike most fashion designers as people. This is generally a knee-jerk reaction on my part; it just irritates me that certain designers (KARL LAGERFELD) use their creative genius primarily as a tool for oppressing women, perpetuating eating disorders, and indulging the shallow desires of a privileged class. I'm not much of a fashion historian or theorist, but I am a dyed-in-the-wool aesthete and lifelong devotee of experimentalism. As such, it has always been clear to me that Yves Saint Laurent exists in a Universe light years away from the jerk-off misogynists (KARL LAGERFELD) that I hate. Beatnik-couture? Mondrian-chic? Le smoking? Loulou de la Falaise? Yes! I mean- mais oui!

YSL took risks, designed hard, made people look cool, championed women wearing trousers (THANK YOU), and wore the hottest spectacles ever. You can tell just by looking at him that he was a really kind-hearted human being, a total sweetheart. I am genuinely sorry and sad that he ended up dying at a relatively young age (71). But at the same time, I know that his passing will encourage and ignite gobs of retrospection and appreciation of his work, which I am personally looking quite forward to.

Yves Saint Laurent devoted his life to making the world more beautiful, and there is absolutely nothing more admirable than that. We will all miss you and your incomparable elan very, very much.

+ Posted by Laurain In Memoriam | Permalink | Stumble This! | Digg This! |

Wednesday , May 14, 2008

RIP Robert Rauschenberg

Last night, I was in a really rotten mood and watching a twenty-four hour news channel. I find that when I am feeling intensely angry at life for being so consistently unfair, the most reasonable coping tactic is to channel my rage into an over-the-top parody of spite and indignation. On this particular occasion, I did so by feigning profound horror and revulsion at every single item that popped up on the news ticker. Actor James Garner suffers minor stroke, a headline read. "OH MY GOD," I yelled, "THAT IS SO HORRIBLY TRAGIC. WHAT THE HELL. LIFE IS EVIL THIS IS A TRAVESTY!" punctuating my routine with some fake sobs.

After ten or twelve rounds of unsubtle though hilarious pantomime, good old life threw me quite the case of "Boy Who Cried Wolf" syndrome when the crawler announced, "Artist Robert Rauschenberg dies at age 82," and I gasped, genuinely upset by that slice of news. In actuality, it is in no way tragic or even sad that Robert Rauschenberg died. Eighty-two is a pretty respectable age to live to, and he certainly aced life compared to the vast majority of human beings. But Rauschie and I go back a long way, so it hit harder than it might've otherwise.

I spent three years of my life interning and/or working at a nonprofit arts organization that Rauschie founded in 1963 with two other mid-century art world heavy-hitters, Jasper Johns and John Cage. The absolute best part of that legendarily killer job was the fact that the door to our office was not only a functioning door, but also a Rauschenberg sculpture constructed from cardboard boxes and mailers. It was beautiful, and scrappily so. Opening a door that was also a one of a kind Rauscenberg certainly added an element of flutter and intrigue to one of the most boring and unexceptional actions of all life. It was hard not to think about what a very lucky girl I was when opening the Rauschie door, even though I lived in constant fear of tripping into it, ruining it forever and being $500,000 in debt to Jasper Johns.

Anyway, everybody and their brother loves Robert Rauschenberg. He's a real artist's artist- you could never look at a Rauschenberg and boringly ask, "Why is this art?"; more than most, it just obviously is. His work is aesthetically awesome in a way that would be as appealing to a four-year-old as it would be to a gutter-punk or my grandmother, but simultaneously cerebral enough to get Clement Greenberg all in a dither over it. He'll be remembered forever, so goody goodbye to you, sweet Rauschie.

Oh, and look what a darling little chicken wing he was in his youth!

+ Posted by Laurain In Memoriam | Permalink | Stumble This! | Digg This! |

Monday , March 24, 2008

RIP Neil Aspinall

Neil Aspinall died. I don't know very much about Neil Aspinall as a person. All I really know about him is that he was buddy-buddy with the Beatles since they were practically babies, hung around in their inner circle for years, ran Apple Records, and has a strong fondness for berets. I know this last detail because he is one of the commentators on The Beatles Anthology and is wearing a beret in almost every single scene except for one, where he is wearing a fedora. This is depressing news for Beatles fans across the world because it reminds us that the Beatles are not immortal, as they should be, and that one day even Sir Paul will die! Which seems hard to believe, but logic dictates that it must be true.

One of my favorite things I've ever read is this telegram that the Beatles' press officer, Derek Taylor, wrote to Neil Aspinall at some point during the late sixties:

I found some lost marijuana and mixed it with Nepalese hashish, I then rolled a joint and smoked it and went into the garden and put up 50 yards of fencing and acquired a headache which took over the entire front half of my head. I took two codeine and rolled another joint and smoked it. At that point Joan reminded me that you called to find out what was happening. After giving the matter some thought I decided I didn't know what was happening, so i didn't call you. I know will you
understand.

And I'm sure he did.

+ Posted by Laurain In Memoriam | Permalink | Stumble This! | Digg This! |

Tuesday , January 22, 2008

R.I.P. Heath Ledger

I'm really sad about Heath Ledger: He's become one of my favorites over the last year or so, partly because of his performances in I'm Not There and the little-seen Candy. But my most adored of his movies will always be Catherine Hardwicke's Lords of Dogtown, something I got super-obsessed with a little while back because I'm secretly 14-years-old. I love it for the skating and surfing and the Stooges/Deep Purple/Cher soundtrack, and for Venice and all the Z-Boy cameos and Emile Hirsch's dreamy hair, but Heath as Skip Engblom is really the heart and soul of the movie. He's got that mouth full of false teeth and the stoner-surfer wardrobe, always smoking and drinking gooey blender drinks and spouting weirdo street poetry. And he also looks great on a skateboard, as evidenced below. I wanted to post either the part when Heath is singing "Maggie May" at the back of the Zephyr shop or the party scene when he's dancing around to Funkadelic's "Super Stupid," but this (slightly out-of-sync) clip also nicely showcases his irresistibly goofball role in the film:

+ Posted by Lizin In Memoriam | Permalink | Stumble This! | Digg This! |