nogoodforme superlatives: Most Sartorially Inspiring Works of Fiction

Girl by Blake Nelson

Oh, how I love Girl! I can't even tell you how many times I've read this book; I could probably quote whole passages completely perfectly at this point in my life. It's got everything you'd want in a Young Adult novel: high school angst, minor drug usage, losing of virginities, breathless sentence construction and confusing identity crises, all set amidst a local music scene that smacks of the intersection of grunge and riot grrrl in the early 1990s. I find Girl sartorially inspiring less for its grunge aesthetic and more for its musings on fashion itself, delivered mostly through the main character of Andrea Marr, who finds herself navigating complicated friendships and high school loyalties, not to mention a wickedly fierce crush and affair with local rocker Todd Sparrow. (Todd Sparrow! How I wish you were real, because you are incredibly hot and Sean Patrick Flannery's portrayal of you in the iffy movie adaptation does not come close to rendering that at all!) In a quest to beef up her college app, Andrea starts working on the school newspaper, where she manages to write a fashion column that mostly documents her musings on style and the style of her best friend, the mysterious, enigmatic Cybil, the lead singer of local band Sins of Our Fathers. (I always envisioned Cybil a bit like Tobi Vail of Bikini Kill, actually.) There's tons of fun little fashion details, like how cool girl Carla wears saddle shoes, and Andrea's cow dress, and discussing the "cycles of cool," and going to the "right" vintage stores as opposed to the wrong ones. (It's those kind of details that make me marvel that Girl was written by a boy and not a girl.) The long and the short of it, though, is that I read something in Girl that encapsulates my entire understanding of fashion, which I always draw upon to explain the intensity of fashion to straight indie rock dudes, and which is this: And I realized the whole thing about fashion or writing about fashion or even thinking about fashion was confidence. You had to be confident and other people had to have confidence in you. Because it was all about intimidation and having the nerve to pull things off and daring to say, "This is cool and this is not." Fashion was sports for girls and that's why Cybil was so good at it because she was always confident and she always wanted to compete and she always won. It's enough to make me wonder if I'm channelling the voice of Andrea Marr when I'm writing this blog. Which I probably am. Her and Chuck Klosterman. (Kat)








The Dangerous Angels books by Francesca Lia Block

Yesterday at a newsstand by the beach I was reading Rolling Stone's review of a record you really need to buy right now, and the first line said something about how Los Angeles is supposedly the "center of plastic glamour." (This from a magazine with Heidi "Poster Girl for Natural Beauty" Montag on the cover - what hogwash!) Hackneyed though it may be, that shit always takes me aback - partly because I live in a part of town that's not so very plastic, and partly because some of my earliest and most enduring perceptions of L.A. glamour were largely informed by the books of Miss Francesca Lia Block.

In my late teens/early 20s I ate up Weetzie Bat and Witch Baby and imagined Los Angeles to be this magical land crawling with beach hippies and surf rats and old-school punks and Sunset Strip rock-and-rollers and "Lankas in spandy wear," all existing in the same space and getting their beautiful freakishness all mixed up together. I fell for it so hard, in fact, I ended up moving here from all the way across the country. (And I know I credit my L.A. move to someone different practically every week on this blog, but if I were actually capable of computer-generating a pie chart, the breakdown of cultural influences on the relocation of my life would probably go something like this: 66 percent to various testosterone-abundant rock bands fronted by surfers, 30 percent to Francesca Lia Block, and 4 percent to - of course - the movie Point Break.) Having lived here almost five years now and consumed at least one pastrami burrito at Oki Dog, I'm happy to report that, even though that plastic glamour is very much alive and kicking, so is that crazy mish-mash of beautiful freakishness. Sometimes you've got to look real close to pick up on it, but that just makes it all the more special for me. And so I'd never ever trade it for some other far less plastically glamorous city, or even for all the world.

And I was just about to clarify that FLB's no longer much of a straight-up influence on my personal fashion sense, but then I looked down and realized I'm wearing a half-grunge/half-garish green-striped hooded sweater over a Billabong tank top, with seriously beat-up secondhand jeans and glitter-covered Converse slip-on sneakers - so nevermind to that. I did give up wearing Crayola glitter glue on my eyelids sometime in 1997, however. (Liz)

The Group by Mary McCarthy

I devoured this 500-pager in a week last week; by the time I'd finished the first page, I was spellbound- hook, line and sinker. What a grand feeling it is! To read but one page of a novel and know, already, that you're reading one of your favorite things you've ever read. I recommend The Group to everyone in the world. This novel candidly discusses "things that happen to women" with a stark but objective accuracy and complete lack of pretense. I wish somebody had told me to read The Group when I was twelve or thirteen; it would've made the past ten years of my life considerably less stressful. Mary McCarthy's voice and style reminds me of a sassier J.D Salinger: her ability to capture the idiosyncratic beauty of daily minutae definitely parallels, say, Raise High the Roof Beams, Carpenters, but without the bitter, melancholic undertones that plague old Jerome David Sal. McCarthy's prose and narratives are celebratory. Her writing is light as bubbles blown from soap, buzzing along and off the page, like a flute of the rose champagne her "girls" would down at one of Libby MacAusland's famous soirees. There is no plot-driving device more appealing to me than "a bunch of women with constrasting personalities doing things": it's like a cerebral/feminist version of the Babysitters Club or Sex and the City. That sounds terrible, but really- the fact that I love Elinor "Lakey" Eastlake the best of all The Group is driven by the same part of me that encouraged my childhood adoration of Claudia Kishi and/or my teenage preoccupation with transforming myself into a regular Carrie Bradshaw (ew, barf- I can't believe I just owned up to that in a public forum).

The Group has taken over nearly every aspect of my life in this latter half of April 2008. Over the course of my reading it, the following has happened:

1) I've decided to put out a zine called Group Reduxion, which will be a collection of short stories loosely based on the members of McCarthy's Group, only based upon experiences from mine and all my best friends' lives.

2) I wrote a song completely ripped from The Group's dialogue; it's a Village Green-y ode to Depression-era New York, chock-full of references to the Astors and Rockefellers, The Boston School Cookbook and Lucy Stonerism.

3) I have successfully incorporated the phrase "Like it or lump it" into my vocabulary.

4) I've decided that if I ever get married in New York City, the whole wedding party is boarding the F-train to Coney Island in celebration, just like Kay Strong and Harald Peterson. Except for that in crappy 2000-and-whenever-the-hell, Coney Island is gone daddy gone for the most part, but whatever, so long as I've got the Wonder Wheel, I can cope. But seriously: an impromptu post-espousal jaunt to Coney? Could anything be more charming?

5) I watched Sidney Lumet's 1966 film adaptation of the novel:

It was pretty great, though I was pretty miffed by how Candice Bergen played Lakey, but they DIDN'T DYE HER HAIR BROWN. Now, Candice Bergen circa 1966 is, no exaggerations, the most beautiful woman in the world to me. I am 100% in support of her being cast as Lakey: nobody does East Coast upper-coast ice queen quite like the young Murphy Brown. But OKAY: Lakey is a BRUNETTE. That is SO IMPORTANT. Actually, she's not even a brunette; she's the brunette. Casting a blonde as Elinor "Lakey" Eastlike is about as dumb as casting a blonde as Veronica Lodge. NOT COOL.

6) Luckily for the world, I re-cast myself as Lakey about a week ago. I star in my own little adaptation of The Group every single day: smoking 100s, bothering to put lipstick on, forgoing Diet Coke in favor of soda water cut with vanilla syrup, which seems like something a Group member would drink. Doesn't it? In fact, I am so committed to looking like a legitimate member of Vassar's Class of '33 that a couple days ago, I actually TRAVELLED BACK IN TIME to 1934. The proof's in the pudding:

I bought my jaunty little beret, seen at left, at Mr. Macy's after a lovely tea service with Dottie Renfrew over at the Plaza. At right, I am sporting a genuine letterman sweater, which can barely be seen, because, I'll have you know, these photographs were taken long before the days of Photoshop contrast adjustments. My letter is "L," as in Lakey. And you will also notice the presence of my locket, which holds a picture of my beau, a fair-haired Nick Carraway type.

Time Travel-- if that's not devotion, I don't know what is. (Laura)

nogoodforme superlatives: Weirdest Wardrobe Staples

Sworn Virgins bamboo leggings

I really have to eat my words when it comes to leggings: when they got popular again, I swore up and down I would never be down with them. But then, of course, I discovered that they are ten million times better than tights for the winter, and then I was hooked. But it's been an odyssey to find just the right ones, and I spent much of my 2007 trying to find a pair that fit well and didn't piss me off in some way or another. Like many people, I first went with American Apparel, who probably helped to spearhead the leggings revival with their annoying and ubiquitous advertising -- you know, all those ads with the chicks splayed out so suggestively you kind of forget they were advertising clothes, not phone sex. But like so much else of American Apparel, those leggings wore out fast, getting all holey and stretched out and basically untenable, no matter how many times I darned the damned things. Annoyed and refusing to give any more money to them, I went the old-school route and finally got Danskin leggings, which was like being in ballet class all over again. They were way more durable than American Apparel (since you know, actual dancers have to wear them, and not just phone sex models.) The only issue I had with them was that they were just a tad too short. (I like a longer leg.) This sent me on an odyssey to basically every mall chain that was selling leggings, ever -- only, you know, I'd find myself handling really cheap-o cloth and realizing I was this close to the dark side. But then, finally, like a light at the end of the tunnel, I discovered my perfect legging: super-soft, eco-friendly, and gloriously long, these Sworn Virgins leggings are so my favorite these days. Known for eco-friendly basics, I should've known the California-based company would come through in my Great Leggings Crisis of Late 2007. We've been good so far, these leggings and I -- no weird stretchiness at the knees, a nice retaining of fit, incredible softness and they haven't worn out yet. It's so funny -- I hated the idea of leggings so intensely at first, and now I just love these. Life is so strange. (Kat)

Zany J.Crew Cardies

In my opinion, if something is a) a cardigan, and/or b) manufactured by J.Crew, it counts as a neutral. These sweaters are my neutral. J.Crew makes the exact same cardigan over and over again in different colors and textiles every season; my wont is to purchase as many variations of said cardigan as possible, and to always opt for the wackiest available print. I have learned from leafing through enough waiting room copies of Glamour or whatever that a woman is supposed to choose basic, neutral pieces to spike her wardrobe with class and timelessness- I tend to do the exact opposite. It makes a lot more sense in the context of how I want to present myself to begin an outfit with something outlandish, then deduce how I can dress it down, sparing myself a potentially fatal overdose of loony-bin chic. I have no earthly desire to resemble Grace Kelly or Nan Kempner in any way; I strive for classicism in my personal style about as much as I strive for classicism in anything else I do, that is to say: not at all. If capturing some essence of "personal style" is your goal, banality is the ultimate mark of failure. No matter what the situation is, I don't want to be boring. Conversely, I'm also an incredibly lazy person, and five out of seven days, I lack the drive to construct any sort of "look" stretching beyond jeans and a t-shirt. And such is the crux of my dependence on the J.Crew cardigan: nothing can un-boring up darkwash skinny jeans and a navy Mets t-shirt like a generous dose of lemon yellow zebra print. Let's just pray that next season they come out with a Revolver-print variant: although I do get more compliments on my Soiree cardi (far right) than anything else I've ever owned, let's face it: I ain't no Uptown Girl. (Laura)

Wicked-old concert t-shirts my parents bought me when I was a little kid

At the risk of totally doing this entry wrong, I'm gonna be real loose with my interpretation of the word "weird" here and let it stand as a synonym for "different" and "unique" and "extra extra special." The thing is, I'm not creative enough, fashion-wise, to make fantastic wardrobe staples out of the most unlikely garments/accessories/what-have-you's (and I'm not trying to be self-effacing here - just speaking my truth). So the stuff in my closet that's most apt to make you go, "Whoa, really?" would be my small-ish but impressve collection of concert tees, all bought for me by my parents at various points throughout the 1980s. The oldest is a David Bowie one my mom got when she went to see him on the Serious Moonlight tour in '83. Then there's a Madonna shirt from the Who's That Girl tour, which I love even more than the tee I bought myself when I went to see her on Blonde Ambition. And lastly but not leastly, a U2 t-shirt circa The Joshua Tree, faded-black with lovely gold lettering. (A funny story about this one is that, sometime in college when I was home for the summer, I went to a party and ran into a boy from grade school - the first thing he said was, "Hey, you're that girl that used to wear a U2 shirt in fourth grade!" See, age-inappropriate music nerdiness = eventual legendary status.) And yes, they all still fit, because apparently when I was wee I liked to wear my t-shirts big enough to fall somewhere around my knees. The Bowie shirt's my favorite, though it makes me super-nostalgic for another first-grade prized possession: my beautiful metal Empire Strikes Back lunchbox. God, what a tomboy freak I was. (Liz)

nogoodforme superlatives: Longest-Running Rock-Star Crushes

Jim O'Rourke

I challenged myself by renaming this week's superlative "Longest-Running Rock-Star Crush NOT in the Beatles, Rolling Stones, Kinks, Who, or any 60s-era beat or psych group" in an effort not to rehash the same points I always make about how boys look best in long hair, skintight trousers, Spanish-heeled boots and a fog of pot smoke. Truth be told, once my core demographic had been eliminated, the pickings were slim- i'm fickle and lose interest fast, even when it comes to rock stars. Alex James? Nikolai Fraiture? The keyboardist of the Coral? For a while there, I was convinced I was going to marry him. Now I don't even remember his name. Or his band.

I think Tom Verlaine might have an extra three-odd months on Jim O'Rourke, but I don't care. Tom Verlaine is an old man now. I saw him at a record store in Brooklyn a year ago, and it wasn't very hot. Jim O'Rourke is a fun rock star crush because I can convince myself that, if I work it just right, I might actually have a shot in hell at dating him! I even stole his phone number from the database at my old work; I called him, but the number was out of date, and I only ended up talking to his old roommate. He was in Japan, immersing himself in contemporary Japanese cinema, which is cool and made me love him more. Everything Jim O'Rourke ever does makes me love him more: contribute my second-favorite piece to two years ago's Whitney Biennial; wear striped trousers the way other people wear jeans; quit Sonic Youth. Fantasy is only ever fun when it has some basis in everyday experience. I've accepted the very harsh reality that I'm never going to cuddle up on the couch with George Harrison and watch episodes of "America's Next Top Model." But Jim? I just want to buy him coffee and a bagel. (Laura)

Red Hot Chili Peppers (the whole damn band)

Let's keep this simple: I first started loving the Chili Peppers to death when I was 14, and today they remain my most very favorite people who I don't actually know. According to my nogoodforme bio, I moved to L.A. because of Jane's Addiction, but that's not completely true: I moved here mostly to breathe the same air as the Red Hot Chili Peppers, and for stuff like sitting one seat away from the singer at a Farmers Market communal table while he eats gumbo with his babymama on a Sunday morning. It mostly has to do with that joie de vivre I find unparalleled in most other members of the human race. Oh, and their songs make me so happy, and if I ever had to pick one record to bring with me to the desert island, I'd just hide their entire catalogue inside the case for Stadium Arcadium. And though I no longer have any YM pinups of Anthony taped to my bedroom wall, I do still turn into a squealing giddy weirdo whenevs I see stuff like this video, a perfect example of the intra-band lovey-doveyness I find so relentlessly disarming. (Liz)

Aurelio Valle

I was really gung ho about doing this topic for this week's Superlatives, mostly because I think crushing hard is nogoodforme.com's standard approach of all things life and style and this would be a cinch for all of us. But then I realized how hard this would be for me, for a variety of reasons. First of all, like Laura, I'm incredibly fickle about many musical crushes. I mean, I've gone through the whole cycle of standard indie rock musician and crushed on many a dude in a band, but it honestly has never lasted more than one or two performances. Secondly, there was a point in my professional life when I did get to meet many of my potential music crushes, and sometimes meeting the objects of your intense mental desire often has a way of bursting that blissful crush bubble -- especially once you realize that they're either a) really boring or b) incredible jerks. And thirdly, I tend to keep my crushes close to my chest and be really secretive about them -- to the point where even in real life I'll pretend they're not there! (Yes, I know, it's counter-productive, but that's just me.) So, really, this whole thing is just so anathema to my nature! But in the interest of making this blog work, I'll tell you all my longest-running music crush and just run and hide for a week.

Technically speaking, I've had my longest-running crush on Einsturzende Neubauten evil genius Blixa Bargeld for a bit, and it has ebbed and flowed over a span of years. I've gone on about Nick Cave in the past, but to be honest it could never work with me and Nick because I'd be too busy fancying Blixa -- because there is nothing I love more than guitarists, and Bargeld is a fine one at that, with his "icy sheets of noise" approach to the instrument. But the truth is, I loved him most when he was a Bad Seed with Nick, and since he's stopped doing that, things just haven't been the same. And, curiously enough, once I started playing guitar myself, most of my guitar-centric crushes have melted away to a curious, removed feeling of comradeship instead -- which is great, but just not the blinding, runaway fun of a crush, which is all about giggling, blushes, and swooning.

And so I leave you with probably my most genuine music crush ever, which began, like the best epic stories, unbidden and unexpectedly. If you live in New York, you probably know Calla as one of those bands that have been around for ages. They never quite caught the fire that their scene compatriots in Interpol or the Yeah Yeah Yeahs did, mostly due to the type of music they make. Their whole musical approach is less about grabbing you with garage rock hooks or recycled 80s-gloom melodies and more about rewarding patient listening with a concern for texture, sound and a sort of delicacy of emotion -- one in which a great deal wants to be expressed, but the tension in holding back and keeping it close make it all the more seductive. They're capable of a million moods and all their records have been radically different from one another, but their primary modus operandi is a type of brooding romanticism that is almost old-fashioned these days. (Oh, and the music is dead sexy. That helps.) Plus, their live shows are unexpectedly dynamic and intense, and who doesn't love that? They're kind of like the ultimate secret cult, occupying the same position as, say, Luna, or even Television back in the day: they're sort of too arty and a bit underappreciated, but still manage to endure and command respect from their peers. But lately I've come to love them for how they soldier on, especially in a scene that rewards fashion and style over subtlety and a genuine approach to songcraft. I mean, these are pretty handsome men -- I'm sure that they could hire a stylist or something and get a piece of the fashion/music gravy train, but something about them is too honorable and proud to do that. Because they are about songs and music, and that's what I love most about Calla, still and above all, probably best expressed in the sensuous intensity of "Fear of Fireflies," probably one of my most favorite songs of all time. (I say this about a lot of songs, yes, but this time I mean it!) Sometimes I think I only want to make movies to be able to put Calla songs on the soundtrack, and if that isn't a testament to my enduring love and passion, I don't know what is.

The second thing I love about Calla is their lead singer and guitarist, Aurelio Valle, who is the real object of my crush energy. Not only has "Johnny Depp" been invoked alongside his name (by no less than the dudes at Pitchfork), but he's got an appealing sense of modesty and shyness to go with his prodigious skills as a guitar player. (And he plays one of my most favorite guitars ever -- a gorgeous, gorgeous Gretsch.) I always thought he was beautiful, but I think lots of fellows are beautiful, and he's talented -- but so are many people, and they certainly don't make me blush when they're in near proximity. In all honesty, he could have been one of those brief music crushes I am prone to and pass away with the night. But he's not, mostly due to the role he plays in one of the great anecdotes of my life, which I won't go into here. (But if you sit down with me and have drinks, I would gladly spill it, fluttering hands and breathless voice and all!) It involves a late night, a heroically drunk and mischievous best friend, the Bowery Ballroom, an irate-yet-friendly bouncer, way too much Jack Daniels and then me being pushed into a dark room and in the direct line of fire, which of course made me go mind-blank and totally stupid. Suffice it to say, Mr. Valle acquitted himself with such humor, kindness and grace that I practically melted, because nothing is better (or worse) for a crush than actually meeting that person and finding out they are a genuinely nice, decent human being. And you know, just writing this makes me totally blush, so I'm going to go run and hide now and pretend none of you have read this. (Kat)

nogoodforme superlatives: Favorite Ways To Pretty Up Our Eyes

This is kind of rip-off-ish of Sassy's "Beauty Product I Cannot Live Without" feature - we're all about grabbing that torch and running with it.

NARS Single Eyeshadow in Nightclubbing
I consider myself at the intermediate level in terms of eye makeup, mostly 'cause I'm Asian and everytime I tried to follow the eye makeup instructions in 'TEEN or YM, I'd freak out whenever they'd say "Apply this color to the eyelid" and I was all like, "WHAT EYELID?!!" Way to make me feel like an alien, 'TEEN and YM. But luckily I've learned to work around the lack of discernible, hooded eyelids and have crafted a whole eye makeup concept that has taken me far in life, or at least to nearly every rock show I've gone to since 2005. The center of the shebang is actually not an eyeliner, but the use of a dark shadow to create the mythic smoky-eye effect -- and the most genius dark shadow to use is NARS in Nightclubbing. (And yes, it is way advisable to use a proper eye makeup brush with this -- it helps you control the application a lot more precisely.) Not only is Nightclubbing named after an Iggy Pop song, but it also has small flecks of gold to pretty up your peepers with. You can get very Cleopatra-like with it, or go for a lighter touch. Be careful with storage, though, 'cause it can get everywhere -- but really, if your eye shadow ain't gonna get around, are you? (Kat)

Fresh Supernova Mascara
As much as Fresh Cosmetics is on my shit list right now for discontinuing Tobacco Caramel (my fragrance!) and thus condemning me to become one of those scorned women who spend all their free time searching eBay for old perfume samples, the existence of their Supernova mascara has increased the quality of my daily life infinity-fold since I discovered it about a year ago. I have a really good relationship with this one employee at the Union Square Fresh store, even though I'm angry at her right now for trying to convince me that I'll like Cannabis Rose as much as good old T.C. when I know full-well I WON'T. Anyway, it was she who turned me on to the near-mystical properties of Supernova one fateful afternoon: I walked into the store, and she hollered, "Oh my God, you're a big-eyelashes person, aren't you!?" I said "Yes," because I am. I bought two tubes that day and there was no going back. Fresh Supernova is not for the faint of heart. If you don't want your hardcore faux sixties-style lashes to be visible to an old lady with cataracts standing ten miles away, you should probably avoid this product at all costs. Fresh Supernova mascara and a little bit of concealer are the only make-up I ever bother wearing at all- there are very few arenas in which I qualify as being low-maintenance, so I'm proud of that. Thanks for listening. (Laura)

L'Oreal Voluminous Mascara (in Blackest Black)
Man, I really wish I could tell you about some supersexy eyeliner, but sadly I'm totally dumb about eyeliner. So instead I give you this old drugstore standby, one of the few makeup goods I've long been fanatically brand-loyal about. The deal with me is that leaving my lashes bare tends to make me look soooo sleeeeepy, for some reason. But Voluminous sort of makes my eyes come alive, and no other more glamorous/exciting alternative has ever been able to compare. I'm in it for life. (Liz)

nogoodforme superlatives: Movies We'd Most Like to Live in

We had so much fun doing our end-of-year superlatives last December, we decided to make a regular thing out of sharing all our "best"s and "most"s and "number-one"s with you. This week's topic: Movies We'd Most Like to Live in. Let's hit it.

Kat: It's always been my dream to be an animated cartoon. So I would most like to live in a Hayao Miyazaki movie, probably Howl's Moving Castle. Dudes, Howl's a total hottie and would literally sweep you off your feet, being a wizard and all. He's like the David Bowie of cartoon characters, with his little earrings and his total awesome devotion to his hair:

But in all seriousness, the movie I most want to live in is Laurel Canyon. Any movie that has a super-sexy over-40 female record producer (played by the bad-ass Frances McDormand) living in the most amazing house and who gets to bed someone like Alessandro Nivola --- well, golly, that's a no-brainer! Plus it features songs by Sparklehorse, like "Shade and Honey," which you can listen to here:

Laura: I visited London this past summer and was really surprised/disappointed to find that it did not look exactly like the sketchy, scrappy tree-lined streets depicted in 101 Dalmatians, the coolest movie of the whole damned Disney "vaults" (close second: The Aristocats, duh). It's really tragic when you realize that your life-long dream of moving to London was based on fantasies of heavily-stylized imagery ripped off from an animated film and entirely removed from reality. If urban landscapes were one-tenth as charming as 101's London, we'd all have it made in the shade- literally! It would also be really fabulous to have 101 dalmatian puppies to call my own. Think of how many awesome names you would get to come up with! For instance: Dandelion, Juniper, Mashipots, John, Paul, George, Ringo, Lucifer, Pepper, Brownie, Groucho, Macadamia, Radio Rahim, Beatricci, Johnny Drama, Gershwin, Mikhail, Cannabis, Thoreau, Bungalow Bill... the list goes on. But to give credit where credit is due, at very least I do get to date a lanky, scatterbrained musician with a particularly charming Germanic nose. Things aren't so bad.

Liz: I just realized that I pretty much want to live in about 99 percent of the movies I really love, so this is basically the hardest thing I've ever had to write. I guess if it really came down to it I'd pick Return of the Jedi so I could ride around Endor on my speeder bike and become princess of the Ewoks and make out with Han Solo. But if that option weren't available, I'd probably go for something from what I'm going to classify as the "Lost Boy genre" - those movies that revolve around packs of wayward ruffians who live and die to make crazy trouble, and who may or may not have secret hearts of gold. The Outsiders is number-one of course, but I'd also include, umm, The Lost Boys, along with Lords of Dogtown, and maybe even Point Break. Let me clarify that I'd never want to be one of the girls (Cherry Valance = such a pill, if you ask me) - I'd be a tough, mean, wrangle-gangle boy, most preferably Matt Dillon from 3:50 to 4:00 of this clip here. Maybe the one exception would be Jami Gertz's character in The Lost Boys, since she gets the groovy name ("Starrrr..."), the glam-hippie wardrobe, and the distinction of being the one vampire in the movie who apparently never turns gross and tries to eat people.

The downside to all this is shit usually has to end in tragedy/bloodbath/self-destruction of some sort. So I guess my dream would be to be an Outsider before the knife-fight on the playground, an Ex-President before Keanu Reeves cracks the case with his supersleuth FBI skills, a Z-Boy before fame and fortune rear their ugly heads, and a Lost Boy before Corey Feldman drives a stake through my heart. And then it would be all hell-raising, all the time, and maybe some cliffside motorcycle-racing and pool skating too.

(P.S. All that hot rabble-rousing, and what do we girls get? Some totally lame-o adaptation of Foxfire? BOO.)