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!!!!!!!

+ Continue reading "nogoodforme Superlatives: Our Dream Weddings"

nogoodforme Superlatives: Beloved Books We Totally Loathe

LAURA JANE: "IF I WERE SET UP ON A BLIND DATE WITH JACK KEROUAC, I WOULD FEIGN ILLNESS"

Seen above is a composite image of what it would look like if Jack "Whiny-Baby-Crappy-Writer" Kerouac and I went out for dinner. He would be bored, disinterested and too cool (read: too LAME) for me; I'd be grimacing and giving him the thumbs down sign, though I'm sure he'd be too caught up in the complexities of his distress/malaise/childishness to even notice the cute babe sneering and snarling at his losery self across the table.

The only thing worse than getting stuck on a date with Actual Jack Kerouac would be getting stuck on a date with a Jack Kerouac Wannabe. There are tons of them; they are everywhere; I hate them all. Before today, my only two dude dealbreakers were 1) I don't date Virgos, and 2) I probably wouldn't date a huge Bob Marley fan. Now there are 3. I'm serious, G: if a dude claims that On the Road is his favourite novel in my presence, I will be on the road.

The real kicker of "loving On the Road" is that it is a logistic impossibility. Nobody actually loves On the Road. People just pretend to because they think it's cool to like, thus proving that they are even more of a loser than they would be if they loved this novel genuinely, which they wouldn't, because, as I stated earlier, such a condition does not exist.

To further validate my claim that On the Road is a bad book whose extreme badness has confused Normies into thinking that Bad=Cool (because they can't wrap their poor little Normie heads around how anything so bad could actually get published; for once, Normies are right), I am now going to open my copy of On the Road (a remnant from when 14-year-old Laura pretended to like On the Road to be cool) to a random page and sentence:

Heeby-jeebies, I'm classification three-A, jazz-hounded Moriarty has a sore butt, his wife gives him daily injections of penicillin for his thumb, which produces hives, for he's allergic.

Yeah. That's definitely "great writing" right there. Seriously radical, genius stuff. Yowza. Mind officially blown- NOT!!!!!!! A word to the wise: if you truly feel like you cannot exist in this world without naming a Beat classic as your #1 novel, trash On the Road and at very least pretend to love Naked Lunch in its place. The ladies can't resist a William S. Burroughs fan. Comparatively. (LJ)

KAT NEVER GOT THE BIG DEAL ABOUT DAVE EGGERS' FIRST BOOK

I have made myself read A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius by Dave Eggers two and a half times, and you know what? I don't get it. The first time I felt it was nice enough of a book but could not suss out why people loved it so much, so I made myself read it again. The second time I started to really get irked by the book and really pick it apart in a super English major/book editor way, noting the boring rambling, the smug tone, the irritating attempts at "wit." The second-and-a-half time, I wanted to torture the book with fire and a barbed wire noose because I despised it with the intensity of all my being; instead, I gave it to a homeless guy on the train, telling him, "It sucked for me, maybe it'll be better for you." I'm sure Dave Eggers is a nice enough fellow: he seems really community-minded and philanthropically-oriented, and he's married to a cool novelist whose books are way more elegant and fun to read than his. He kind of represents the best of San Francisco white dudehood in those ways. But this book also represents the worst of San Francisco white dudehood as well: overtly clever, preoccupied with post-adolescent stupidity and way too impressed with himself and his aforementioned dudeness. People always talk about his clever use of form and what not, but whatever, man -- Sir Laurence Sterne was doing this shit in Tristram Shandy in, like, 1759. (The third time I looked at that famous "Here is a stapler" drawing, I wanted to scream, "God, I want to fucking staple your ass, motherfucker!") People also like to point out this book is supposed to be funny, but reading it was like being on a bad blind date and I was just rolling my eyes the entire time, being completely unamused. "Don't you find their predictament moving? Don't you love its honesty?" is always the last entreaty I get from the book's fans. Here are my thoughts: I do find the central situation of the book moving when I think of it in abstract terms, but the book had the weird, alienating effect of making me not give two shits as I read it. If the author can't seem to take it seriously enough to be sincere and honest in a way not masked by relentless self-absorbed "cleverness," whining-disguised-as-"emotion" and smirking allusions to pop culture, then why should I? When I read a book about death, family and other such weighty situations, I want to feel a little wiser at its end. Even the slightest, most comic novel has a bit of a pearl at the end of it, you know? Instead, I felt upon finishing this book twice that I wasted two weeks of my life that could have been spent reading something genuinely beautiful and aspiring to something other than being a showcase for someone's narcissism. Reading this book was like being at a party with that annoyingly smirky dude who talks about himself all the time, never lets you finish a sentence and generally is so attention-seeking and whiny that it's completely unattractive to even get through a polite conversation with them. There's no doubt that Dave Eggers can be a fine writer; when he's not being himself, he's great, which is why I like his What is the What about ten times more. Please, someone bring me that barbed-wire noose RIGHT NOW, I'd rather hang myself with that than spend another word trying to figure out why I think A Heartbreaking Work sucks the most tedious balls ever. This book is just so stupid, really. I hate it more and more as I write about it! (Kat)

LIZ: I'LL TAKE ANGELA CARTER OVER KATHERINE DUNN ANY DAY OF THE WEEK AND TWICE 8 ZILLION TIMES ON SUNDAY

First off: Katherine Dunn is a real crackerjack writer; bully for her. That said, I fucking hate Geek Love so much, and I desperately want to get back all the pukey hours I wasted forcing myself through it, especially those that passed on a hotter-than-hell summer Saturday afternoon in 2004 when I was very hungover and playing Sonic Youth's ickily subpar A Thousand Leaves on repeat. Of all the stupid ways my 26-year-old self chose to spend her time, that was STUPIDEST.

Let it be known: I like twisted, I like grotesque, I like fucked-up. Dude, Angela Carter is my favorite writer, and she's not exactly a ray of wholesome smiley sunshine. But I don't like hating the world - in fact, I hate hating the world! Probably this is because I'm a total Pollyanna Jerkface, which is awesome. Like, I just checked my Netflix and found out that Happy-Go-Lucky is shipping to me today, and then I did a cartwheel and an electric-purple daisy sprouted from my head like Athena springing from her dad's skull. Now I'm gonna go try to sell my copy of Geek Love on Half.com; maybe it'll get me enough to buy half a pack of Juicy Fruit gum. That would be beautiful! (Liz)

(Above: Instead of reading Geek Love, read these.)

nogoodforme Superlatives: Best Best Pictures

LAURA JANE IS GRUMPY; AMADEUS IS PRETTY GOOD, SHE GUESSES

I am in no way a cinemaphile. Actually, I am a cinema-philistine, which always surprises people, since my taste in other things can be kind of refined sometimes. But, when it comes to the silver screen, I like stoner movies and romantic comedies and kids movies and Beatles movies- definitely nothing French or smart. Amadeus, Dog Day Afternoon and Papillon are some of the only "good" movies that I genuinely love. Of these movies, Amadeus is the only one that won an Oscar for Best Picture. It is also the only Best Picture (besides Gigi, Rain Man and West Side Story) that I like at all. I even thought Oliver! sucked, which is weird, since I usually love orphans.

It is apt that I am writing about Amadeus today because Amadeus is the story of how Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart died a penniless failure, just like Van Gogh and all those other poor people who lived miserable lives and attained fame and notoriety posthumously. It is apt because I am presently terrified that I am going to die a penniless failure with an annoying laugh, just like Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart. I hate my job and don't understand why I can't do whatever I want whenever I want. I feel misunderstood. I am paranoid that everybody in my life is a snot-nosed Salieri and are collectively scheming to ensure my demise. I also really hate my job. This is not a very good review of Amadeus. It is mostly just me talking about how much I hate my job. I'm sorry, Amadeus. Amadeus is a great film and deserves better. I wish Smiley Face had won Best Picture. (LJ)

Because Amadeus is not exactly the type of film whose brilliance could best be expressed via a Youtube clip, here is the music video for "Rock Me Amadeus" by Falco (which, for the record, is NOTHING compared to "Puttin' on the Ritz" by Taco):

And, as a bonus treat, here is a semi-funny video of two brothers spoiling the ending of every Best Picture winner in Oscar history (WARNING! CONTAINS SPOILERS!):

TITANIC + THE SOUND OF MUSIC + ANNIE HALL (AN EXCUSE TO TALK ABOUT DUDES SOME STUFF I REALLY HATE)

First off, isn't it weird how American Beauty actually isn't very awesome after all? When it came out I saw it like 85 times in the theater, and then a couple Octobers ago I was watching it in a hotel room in Denver and realized, "Wow, a lot of this movie is really boring and annoying." The whole thing should just be the dinner-table scenes and Kevin Spacey getting stoned in his car. Then it would be my favorite film of all time.
Anyway, these are my three most adored Best Pictures:

1. TITANIC. One of the things I hate most in the world is when people are all attitudey about Titanic. If I've ever told you, "I love Titanic!" and you replied, "Eww, really?", rest assured I've never forgotten it and will probably hold it against you forever. (Soooooorry!) If you legitimately hate this movie and can't find anything to enjoy about it, I guess I can kinda deal. But if you hated it before you saw it, or you hate it even though you've never seen it, or you hate it because it made 80 gazillion trillion dollars at the box office and was in the theater for like nine years, then that's just unforgivably lame.

Also, one of my favorite impressions to do is Kate Winslet calling out to the lifeboats in her creeky frozen voice. It's so good.

2. THE SOUND OF MUSIC. Another thing I hate is when people ask me to explain why The Sound of Music is my favorite movie ever made. It's like asking, "Why do you love Christmas, or sunshine, or homemade strawberry shortcake with real whipped cream, made-from-scratch biscuits, and farm-fresh strawberries?" I LOVE IT BECAUSE I LOVE LOVE. And the part when the nuns fuck up the Nazis' car? Gives me the chills, everytime. I just got the chills typing those two sentences, even.

3. ANNIE HALL. A couple years ago there was this Monday morning when I'd just had a really killer first date with the smokingest-hottest surfer guy the night before, and instead of working I chose to bask in post-date awesomeness by eating strawberry pancakes in bed while watching Annie Hall. Then later in the day I went to pre-shark-jumping Downbeat Cafe and ate the best peanut butter cookie, and it was TRANSPLENDENT. By the way, Annie Hall is so not my favorite Woody Allen movie: That's either Hannah and Her Sisters or Manhattan. (Liz)

NOGOODFORME'S RESIDENT CINEPHILE/BRINGER OF DARKNESS LOVES "IT HAPPENED ONE NIGHT," ACTUALLY

I love movies, dudes. It's what I do for a living and with the vast majority of my time, and I wouldn't have it any other way. I honestly like everything, from the cheesiest romantic comedy to the most austere, intellectual French movie ever to the scrappiest, most awesome Slavic gangster comedy. (Such a movie does exist, and it's called Black Cat, White Cat, directed by the awesome Emir Kusturica.) Maybe you'd expect me to pick one of the more artier Best Pictures as my Best Best Picture, and I'm actually sorely tempted to pick The Silence of the Lambs because I do think it's a great piece of filmmaking and utterly riveting every time I see it, and it's kind of the most perverse thing to pick. But actually, out of that great, vast list of Best Pictures, the film I have the most affection for is the 1934 screwball comedy It Happened One Night, directed by Frank Capra and starring Clark Gable and Claudette Colbert. These days romantic comedies are, for the most part, sexist, classist pieces of cinematic excrement with no soul or genuine wit, but in the 1930s they were often great, full of beautiful clothes, dashing dudes, rat-a-tat dialogue and spirited heroines who had other things going on inside of them besides a desperate desire to be in a relationship. I saw It Happened One Night when I was six on a day I was home sick from school, and it totally charmed and entertained me. I've seen about a million movies in my life since then (including most of the Best Picture winners, actually) but I always go back to It Happened One Night for its knowing yet innocent charm. (And just for the record, I was also thinking of picking Annie Hall, The Deer Hunter or Midnight Cowboy because I effin' love those films pieces to pieces, but when else am I going to be able to write about 1930s screwball comedies except in class? And I also think most of the Best Pictures since the 1990s are travesties. Who the hell watches Braveheart anymore? Gag!) (Kat)

nogoodforme Superlatives: Most Epic Bromances Ever

JOHN WINSTON ONO LENNON & SIR JAMES PAUL MCCARTNEY'S "ANTI-BROMANCE" BROMANCE: SOME SERIOUSLY SERIOUS BEATLES-DRAMZ PSYCHOANALYSIS FROM LAURA JANE

Like many women, I get along better with dudes than I do with girls/chicks/babes/broads/dolls. This is because dudes are chill. Don't get me wrong- dudes are mad flawed, and I often hate them, but they generally shun cattiness, dramz, resentment, competition, and other such negativity (which rules). I have observed many a bromance in my time, and they're always so sweet! Bromances remind me of the lyric "I wanna play cricket on the green/Ride my bike across the street/Cut myself and see my blood/I wanna come home all covered in mud" from "I'm A Boy" by The Who- when two cute dudes who love each other unite, they turn into scrappy, impish lil' men-children, like a double dose of Dennis the Menace, only with beer.

The legendary and complex Lennon/McCartney bromance is exciting to me because it was SO not like that. Obvsduh John & Paul loved each other madly, but, as bros' respective egos quadrupled in size and the Beatles were forced to spend appalling amounts of time together, their bromance rotted and soured, ultimately becoming what will heretofore be known as "The Anti-Bromance Bromance".

(I was going to preface all this by stating that I could devote my entire life to psychoanalyzing John Lennon & Paul McCartney's relationship, then realized that I actually have and am. This shit is merely the tip of the LJ ON JL & PMcC iceberg.)

I often wonder how much of my schtick has been crafted in subconscious mimicry of John's; similarly, I wonder if Paul McCartney ended up the way he did (I would mostly characterize '67-'70-era Paul as a man obsessed with being objectively right, whereas JL was more into being objectively wrong and owning it) because of an intrinsic urge to oppose John's brash, aggressive and antagonistic take on pretty much everything.

I relate to John Lennon a lot. He is my Yang, and Paul is my Yin (hence the underlying meaning of my Lennon/McCartney tattoos). Not that I know John Lennon personally (I'm sure I would if he were alive, though), but I feel our most fundamental similarity is that we are both people who our friends need to talk to their therapists about. Because I totally get why my own actions irritate/confuse the Helter Skelter out of my inner circle, I'm pretty highly attuned to how annoying late-sixties John must have been to poor Macca. From Paul's perspective, JOHN GOT WEIRD. But, from John's perspective, PAUL GOT LAME. Each argument is equally valid.

Both of them are right; both of them are wrong. John's weird; Paul's lame. John was a genius and a great songwriter; surprise surprise- so was Paul! When it comes to rocky relationships, equality is the gateway to toxicity. It's no wonder J&P were total bitches to each other. Can you imagine how damaging it would be to write "Strawberry Fields Forever", then only be allowed to feel good about it for, like, ten seconds because you were one-upped by HEY FREAKING JUDE? Ouch. Just as I am Laura Jane: The Dude of Chicks, John and Paul's intense/fractured/intensely fractured relationship was the Girl-Dramz Shitfest of Bromances. Don't worry, lads- I'll never get over it either!

PS: This entry is dedicated to Jackson McIntosh and Trevor Stark, two really fantaberrific dudes whose nontoxic, "I'm A Boy"-style bromance is one of the cutest I've ever encountered. I miss observing it on a semi-regular basis: one day, Boys, one day! (LJ)

NATE ARCHIBALD + CHUCK BASS, "GOSSIP GIRL"

I will do my best not to spoil those who haven't caught up with this season of "Gossip Girl" by writing anything specific in white so you can't read it. But it must be said: WTF is going on with this season of GG? I know GG is a soap opera at its core, but the whiplash, slapdash, utterly pointless storylines have got to go -- it's like GG is suffering from narrative ADD or something. There are some cool stories going on that are always enjoyable to see (Chuck-and-Blair, Blair-and-Chuck, and of course, the upped Dorota factor.) But one severely lamentable thing is the lack of the Nate Archibald/Chuck Bass bromance. (As well as more Dan/Serena action -- please, spare us any more of this pointless relationship!) I think it's always fascinating to watch the very beginning of television series, just to see what the creators' original intent for characters and storylines were -- there's always a bit of a warm-up feeling before the writers and producers realize what kind of actors they have and what they're capable of. In the case of one Chuck Bass, who originally was an irredeemable villain of sorts, they probably thought, "Holy hell, this actor's pretty good!" (Well, outside of the constant tripping during his season 2 breakdown after his dad died. Most drunk people I know just stay tripped, you know?) And of course, the one thing that redeemed Chuck Bass at the very beginning was his unquestioned loyalty and love for his best friend, the good-looking but perpetually vaguely confused Nate Archibald -- the only times C.Bass revealed his rare humanity were the times he bailed out his dude-in-distress. You can imagine these two sharing both doobies and hair products -- if that's not bromantic, I have no idea what is. And aren't they just so pretty together? It's kind of insane. Writing up my portion of Superlative this week was worth it just to be able to post this picture. (Kat)

FLEA & ANTHONY: THE PIGGYBACK CHAMPIONS OF L.A. COUNTY

When I was 13 or 14 and first started getting heavy into my Chili Peppers obsession, there was a moment when I was sure they had to all be secret boyfriends or something - no other boys in the world ever exhibited such unabashed bro-on-bro love, forever kissin' on each other, sometimes with tongue. It was real eye-opening to realize they truly were/are just hyperaffectionate besties, but there's some disappointment lingering from the discovery that not all grown dudes go around giving each other piggyback rides while wearing weird clothes and listening to Bad Brains and/or Fela Kuti all the livelong day. Oh wellskis; it's still fun to watch Flea and Anthony in cute little videos like this one from 23 years ago - the insane hats and hand-on-the-thigh thing just kill me everytime. Happy Heart Day, buddies! I hope you're together surfing and/or eating RFD takeout and/or giving each other piggyback rides all over Malibu right this very second. (Liz)

nogoodforme Superlatives: Dream Musical Collaborations

BLASPHEMOUS RUMOURS, THE MUSICAL: FEATURING THE MUSIC OF DEPECHE MODE

If anyone has been privileged (or cursed) enough to have conversations about music with me on a regular basis, they'll probably have heard me advocate a Depeche Mode musical at least once. The idea is rather hilarious at first glance, but actually it's so genius that I'm surprised some asshole Broadway producer hasn't thought of it earlier: DM are bombastic, grandiose and infinitely melodic, and their songs have an innate sense of narrative and character that would make adapting their oeuvre into a Broadway musical so frickin' easy. It's so utterly logical that it kills me! My take would be to call the thing "Blasphemous Rumours," it would star the kid who played Silas in "Weeds" and completely bowled everyone when he starred in "Spring Awakening," and the big moment where everyone sings along at the end in a big old kumbaya of a song-and-dance would be to "Never Let Me Down Again" and the whole cast would pile into a car and drive off into the sunset to the big city. That's all I have so far, but I can tell you that it's already beyond awesome. (Kat)

THE ARCHIES: THE 2009 EDITION

There are not enough fake bands in 2009, and this is not okay. I am so over real bands; they're chock-full of unlovable, egotistical jerkoffs, and seem more focused on perpetuating the flawed myth of the artistic temperament than writing songs as good as "Sugar, Sugar" by The Archies. Which brings me to the crux of my argument: The Archies are the greatest fake band of all time. They fake-wrote the best fake songs, and looked fake-great doing it. Since no fake band could ever surpass the fake brilliance of The Archies, we might as well just consider all bets off and reform The Archies! They, I mean, we, can be called The Archies: The 2009 Edition. Because I moonlight as Simon Fuller and/or Cowell, I have taken the liberty of casting an updated Archies lineup that I feel does justice to The Archies' storied and portentous legacy.

Starring THE DUDE FROM FRANZ FERDINAND as ARCHIE ANDREWS: I don't really know why I picked him. It just seems like (with the help of a little ginger hair-dye) he could be a proper Archie. Plus, he's a charismatic frontman, and I want The Archies: The 2009 Edition to be ace, because a) it's a killer concept and b) I'm in The Archies: The 2009 Edition, and I want to get really famous.

Starring MATTHEW FRIEDBERGER as REGGIE MANTLE: Unlike Reggie Mantle, Matthew Friedberger is neither moderately sociopathic nor problematically obsessed with capital acquisition. Matthew Friedberger is, however, a gifted songwriter- but that ain't really gonna fly in this context, since The Archies: The 2009 Edition's entire recorded output will consist of note-for-note covers of original Archies songs. Nevertheless, Matthew Friedberger does have brown hair, making him an ideal candidate to take over Reggie's fake bass-playing duties.

Starring MARY TIMONY as BETTY COOPER: Betty Cooper sucks. She is an entirely inadequate female role model; excepting the fact that her character is an accomplished auto mechanic, Betty exemplifies the mid-20th-century archetype of Happy Housewife (or, Happy Housewife: The Teenage Edition) Betty is a total pushover for Archie, always there to fix up his stupid jalopy so he can take Veronica out on a hot date. Mary Timony is nothing like Betty Cooper, but she is a female vocalist who I like and would be honored to back-up vox-collabo with in The Archies: The 2009 Edition. And, if it so happens that history repeats itself and Franz Ferdinand Dude falls in love with both of us, she can have him; he's not my type. No girl-dramz here!

Starring LAURA JANE FAULDS as VERONICA LODGE: Sure, my hair may be blonde right now, but that doesn't mean I'm not still a brunette. Actually, I am more than just a brunette, I am An Ultimate Brunette. Veronica Lodge, howevs, is The Ultimate Brunette. Maybe once I become the Veronica Lodge of The Archies: The 2009 Edition, then 'llI be The Ultimate Brunette!

Starring JUSTINE FRISCHMANN as JUGHEAD JONES: Jughead is The Archies' drummer, and Justine Frischmann is not a drummer. But that's okay! Justine Frischmann is the ideal neo-Jughead because she is lanky, black-haired, and regularly consumes twenty-five Pop Tate's cheeseburgers in one sitting. Plus, there is already an Archies song called "Justine", so that's really convenient. Franz Ferdinand Dude can serenade her onstage!

In the oh-so-succinct words of our predecessors: Bang Shang A Lang, Bang Bang! (LJ)

BIRDS OF A FEATHER: MARY TIMONY & JOHN FRUSCIANTE

For a long time I was really stoked on the idea of Mary Timony joining forces with John Frusciante - not just to make a song or record or rock opera, but maybe to fall in love and get married and live happily ever after. "Think what weird babies they'd have!" I'd exclaim to anyone who might halfway give a damn. But the dream eventually faded, which might've had something to do with my finally meeting John Frusciante and finding out he's so not nice enough for our Mary (who's never been anything but sweet as pie every time I've fawned all over her at a merch table post-show). Nonetheless, I'll allow that maybe Old John was just in a cranky-pants mood that day and he's actually quite worthy of the Timonyster's charms. And if we ever happen to all be at the same Fugazi Fan Club ice cream social some night, I'll be sure to introduce them to each other and say something like, "You're both totally nutso for Joy Division!" so they'll have something to awkwardly chat about before I slyly slink away and help myself to more Heavenly Hash.

Anyway, if those two weirdos every made a song or record or rock opera together, I'm certain it'd be the most soul-ruling thing I'd ever heard in my life, and I'd go so crazy for it I'd probably end up absentmindedly driving my car off the PCH and into the beautiful briny sea, which would only make it sound even more epic. They're my number-one guitar gods of all time, and right now I'm kinda relieved that my lack of knowledge of Mary Timony's birthday is keeping me from devoting way too much of my precious time today to figuring out their astrological compatibility (both onstage and beyond). (Liz)

nogoodforme Superlatives: Stuff We're Most Psyched About For 2009

PJ HARVEY & JOHN PARISH DO NOT SIT IN A TREE, K-I-S-S-I-N-G -- BUT THEY MAKE AWESOME RECORDS TOGETHER

A good while ago, PJ Harvey put out a sort of quasi side-project record with her mentor and friend John Parish called Dance Hall at Louse Point. It was hot on the heels of her masterwork To Bring You My Love, and it couldn't have been more different. That's kind of when I realized that she was a true artist and a real bona-fide genius, because she was willing to throw off the things that brought her such acclaim and really challenge herself and her audience. Now it's thirteen years later, and Harvey/Parish are putting out a new record, A Woman A Man Walked By, on March 30, 2009. (Don't you love that title? Isn't it mysterious and alluring?) I'm sure it will be awesome and slightly weird and a bit difficult and sometimes even super-rollicking, since it promises to be more rocking guitar-based stuff, in stark contrast to the piano-based ghost ballads of White Chalk. Finally there is something right in the world.

And in non-music news, I am also looking forward to screening my non-thesis short here in NYC in May 2009. Of course, you are all invited and I'm sure someone will make me tell you all the details when the time is right. But, yes, if you are in NYC in late April/early May, you should totally come and I will buy you a cookie. (Kat)

2009 IS THE NEW 2004, ONLY 8 MILLION TIMES MORE AWESOME

2004 was a beast of a year, quite possibly the beastliest in all my life. But musically it kind of ruled: John Frusciante (aka My Favorite Human Who Doesn't Like Me) and Courtney Love (aka My Favorite Human Whom No One Else Likes) both put out records in the first two months of '04, and Auf Der Maur (aka The Band I'd Most Likely Be If I Were Band Instead Of A Girl) had an album come out sometime in the summer. And guess what's happening in '09? J.F. and C.L. are putting out new records this month and next, and Auf Der Maur's due to give us something hot and gorgeous a few months down the road. It'll be like 2004 all over again, only without all the rotten lousy wickedness (please!). Here's how I predict it'll all go down:

+ JOHN FRUSCIANTE'S THE EMPYREAN comes out on January 27, lays claim to my soul, and then all I ever wanna talk or think about is John Frusciante and his "awesome mind puzzles" (^TM George Michael Bluth) but no one UNDERSTANDS. So now suddenly I'm an angsty 16-year-old all over again, and it's sort of maddening but at the same time so good to reclaim my charmedly wacky youth. Oh, dear horrible John: You make worm's meat of me.

+ It's due to come out February 9 but COURTNEY LOVE'S NOBODY'S DAUGHTER doesn't have an Amazon page yet, which makes me slightly nervous and also hinders my psychic powers. So let me just say that CLove's first solo record (America's Sweetheart) certainly makes my top 20 albums of this crazy decade of ours - it's a mess but a gem of a mess, or a mess of a gem, or whatever in god's name you damn well feel like calling it. Just don't call it late to dinner!

+ As of now there's no release date set for AUF DER MAUR'S OUT OF OUR MINDS, which is also nervous-making, but I'm trying not to fret about things beyond my control in the new year. It's pretty likely that I'll almost-love about half the album, halfheartedly listen to the rest, and think many more thoughts about horses and heavy metal than I usually do for at least three weeks after the record drops. Mostly I hope Miss Melissa plays some shows in support of the album; her gig at Spaceland after Auf Der Maur's release was a magical beam of pixie-dusty light in the Dark Depths of Dreary 2004.

Oh, and I'm also so much looking forward to the movie of Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince. That one totally made me cry in the middle of a coffee shop and I couldn't even help myself. (Liz)

nogoodforme Superlatives: New Year's Resolutions

CAR-SURF MORE, SELF-GOVERN LESS

"Surfin' USA" revealed itself as my 2009 theme song at around 10:30 Pacific Standard Time last Friday night; it popped up on my iPod shuffle right as I was deplaning my JetBlue flight back to Cali, and I decided then and there that this would be the year I'd start car-surfing like Stiles in Teen Wolf. METAPHORICALLY, of course: In reality I don't actually have a car right now, and I'd way rather learn to surf on a surfboard in the ocean (which was my number-one goal for 2008, but that didn't happen, so it's at the top of the to-do list again for '09).

To elaborate: metaphorically car-surfing like Stiles in Teen Wolf (i.e., fully engaging in joyful craziness) is probably the most appropes way to counteract my possibly soul-killing tendency to incessantly make up weird rules for how I conduct myself, this stupidly rigid self-governance that dictates how I set every scene not just in LIFE and LOVE and other heavy stuff, but also bears down on all the little tiny details as well. Like, for instance, I'll no longer force myself to listen to "Tumbling Dice" by the Rolling Stones in its entirety when it comes up on my iPod just because it seems like the ideal soundtrack for riding up the 105 on the way home from the airport the day after New Year's. Listening to a song just because you feel like you should is SO DUMB. In fact, doing anything just because you feel like you should is so dumb! It's way better to do stuff because you want to do it, and because you trust yourself enough to know that - if it feels good in the first place - it's probably going to be awesome.

So: death to contrived living in 2009! More gut and instinct, less weirdo obsesso calculation. More car-surfing, less self-governance. And then someday when I look back on '09 I'll totally say, "It was the year I decided to be free of all rules!" sort of like Billy Crudup's girlfriend in Almost Famous and then I'll say "IT'S ALL HAPPENING!" exactly like Rodney Bingenheimer in real life. (Liz)

THE ZEN OF DITA VON TEESE

It's somehow indicative of a certain strain of masochism in Western societies that someone decided to put New Year's Day in the middle of winter and impose this weird tradition of making "resolutions" during the darkest, coldest weeks of the year. You'd think that as NGFM's resident Bringer of Darkness I'd be cackling with amusement -- but I'm also a practical Midwesterner at heart and therefore think that whoever did this was just plain stupid and/or mean. It makes no sense -- you're practically doomed to fail, especially if your resolutions involve anything to do with smoking, losing weight or any of the other puritanical business that people try to get up to. You start out all optimistic and energetic about your self-renewal, but then the cold, dark winter gets to you and of course you're going to eat heavy, fried, utterly comforting food and of course you're going to drink and smoke and of course you're going to spend more money than you want -- what else are you going to do? It's still the middle of winter, it's dark and cold, and you're probably broke and slightly depressed! So by the time spring rolls around (an infinitely more energetic time of year when you should be feeling all happy and ready to tackle anything), there are little chinks of doubt in your firmament of self-esteem -- all because some cabal of nasty, sadistic old Roman dudes decided to make New Year's on January 1 a long time ago.

This is not a personal apologia, by the way -- I've got a will of iron and steely fortitude, and when I declare something, it generally fucking happens, even if I have to kill myself to do it. The trick is to declare the right thing, to think about what you're really after and be a little wise and strategic about it. I'm not anti-resolution, exactly. (I'm New Age-y enough to love Oprah, for Chrissakes.) I think the problem with most "resolutions" is that people approach them like a laundry list, and the result is that 1. you take on too many and 2. they aren't linked to a larger purpose or context. It feels like another To-Do list, which completely and stupidly sucks and only causes more stress. Instead, I like to think about 2 or 3 larger values to bring into fuller fruition. Not things (like money), not people (like a "special friend" or what-the-fuck-ever), not objects (like, um, a private jet?), but the values that those things represent to you. If it's money, perhaps you want a general feeling of prosperity. More exercise -- maybe you're looking for more energy and vitality or maybe you just want to beatically radiate peaceful well-being. And the private jet? Maybe you're looking for connection to your loved ones, or perhaps you want more adventure and exploration in your life. Whatever, dudes -- you're all smart and self-aware enough to figure it out. But the nice thing about connecting to a larger purpose is that there are a million approaches to achieve these larger values. You can check in through the year and pick a new "resolution" when the old one starts to stuck, get really boring or, most likely, stops working -- but because they're connected to a larger value, you're still continuously working towards something, which is healthier and saner and way more effective.

With all that hoo-ha said, I'm all about a lot of things for my own private 2009, but the most fashion blog-appropriate is simplicity and clarity of all sorts -- and specifically, just being mindful about production/consumption and the business of making and spending money and other earthly resources in general. You can imagine the relevance this can have on my fashion life, and honestly, I am still mulling it over in my mind as a point of inquiry rather than a set of discrete resolutions at this point, although it'd be easy to say, "Buy fewer clothes!" or "Stop shopping!" The truth is, I like clothes and I do buy them for pleasure, and nothing is going to change that. However, there's no reason not to be thoughtful about it. The idea of paring things down and being super-selective really appeals to me, as is the idea of completely being in love with EVERYTHING in my closet. I'm over fickleness, junkiness, momentariness -- I want sartorial true love and I want it to last forever. I'm also way into the idea of being able to pass my clothes onto my little niece Mimi when she gets old enough to realize how awesome a Balenciaga dress is. She's only two now, so her idea of fashion is anything with pink, sparkles and cartoon mascots, but I like the idea of passing cool things to her as the "crazy auntie" when she's ready. So, outside of replacing basics like the tanks, jeans and long t-shirts that I always wear when they all wrong and grotty, I don't want to buy anything that isn't awesome and heirloom-y enough to pass onto my niece when she gets older. I don't know how this is going to dovetail with my other fashion-related intention, which is to explore what I call the Dita Von Teese side of me this year. Right now I just have this thing about loving red lipgloss and high heels and really awesome lingerie (and all things dove grey for some odd reason, but I don't think that's very Dita Von Teese-y.) I think this all means that I should only buy Christian Louboutins or something, but I'll get back to you on how this affair between luxurious simplicity and my inner vamp works out. (Kat)

BE A PLAYA, EVERY DAY, FOR 365 DAYS STRAIGHT

For a while there, I thought that talking about being a playa was kinda over. I am now rethinking that opinion. Perhaps talking about being a playa is over, but actually being a playa is timeless. In 2009, I am spearheading a Playa Renaissance. So, World: GET READY TO GET PLAYED. BY ME. ALL THE TIME.

I already know who I'm going to marry, possibly, so that takes muchos pressure off dating and love and romance and Liebe und Romanze and all that jazz. In 2009, I don't have to care about any of that stressful junk. Alls I gots to do is PLAY.

I am generally NOT of the opinion that what you do on New Year's Eve has anything to do with what your year is going to be like, but there is an exception to every rule. I was a PLAYA on NYE, and I'm going to be a PLAYA for all of 2009. In conclusion:

Watch out, dudes- I'm one of you now. I am Laura Jane, the Dude of Chicks. Be wary of me. Keep me at bay. This year, I will play every last one of you like a damned harmonica. (LJ)

Seen above: Playa Street, Laura Jane's new home (metaphorically)

nogoodforme Superlatives: All We Want For Christmas

A LEGENDARY NINE-DAY JAUNT TO THE CITY OF ANGELS

I have been obsessed with visiting Los Angeles this holiday season since I decided last holiday season that it was beyond imperative. There are really no words to explain how insanely stoked I am for the next week to pass. Come Tuesday the 30th, I will board a plane, probably have an annoying customs experience, get drunk on the plane, and then show up in The City of Eternal Summertime with a goofy grin and an ashen winter-y complexion just a-waitin' to get all tanned and stuff.

I've never been to Los Angeles before in my life, and it is so exciting to know that so soon, something completely different than anything I've ever experienced is going to be happening for me. I know I'm going to return from Shangri-L.A. a changed man, and that is way better than any weird bag or dumb t-shiirt or whatevs. Here are some things I hope to do once I arrive:

1. Shopping in LA: This is an open letter to myself saying, "BE FISCALLY RESPONSIBLE IN LOS ANGELES, LAURA JANE!"- I'm sure I'll do the exact opposite; I'm mostly stoked to check out Show Pony and the Laurel Canyon Country Store, hopefully with Barker in tow. It will be like an Imaginary Shopping Spree come true!
2. Beatles-ing Out in LA: There is no point in going anywhere the Beatles ever were without checking out the things the Beatles did there. The only ones I can think of are The REAL Blue Jay Way, and maybe I could find out the name of the bar where John Lennon got really wasted with Harry Nilsson and stuck a maxipad to his forehead.
3. Exploring Nature in LA: Laurel Canyon! Topanga Canyon! Venice Beach! The Ocean! Palm Trees! All of these options are highly preferable to Exploring Nature in Toronto, because, right now, all Toronto-centric nature is covered in approx. fifty trillion feet of snow.
4. Getting Drunked in LA:Hey Elizabeth Barker, let's wear pretty dresses, get stoned, and then go drink champagne at the Chateau Marmont bar.
5. Being an Idiot in LA: I cannot resist a good theme park, and Disneyland is quite obviously the Best of the Best. I can't wait to steal Emily and go ride rides, get sunburnt, and eat Mickey Mouse-shaped baked goods!
6. Eating in LA: Liz Barker likes Real Food Daily the best; Emily champions Green Leaves, but, based on five minutes of slack research, I vote for Native Foods. I want Chocolate Tofu Love Pie. I also want to eat Los Angeles Mexican food, and those infamous west coast avocados that people from the west coast always brag about.

ALSO, IF YOU, DEAR READERS, HAVE ANY MORE SUGGESTIONS FOR COOL THINGS I CAN DO IN LOS ANGELES, PLEASE LET ME KNOW! (Laura Jane)

CARS + COLOGNE: EMBRACING MY INNER DUDE

I'm at the stupid airport and I was just reading the new British Elle in which cover girl Courtney Love says: "Women don't buy records. They save up for a Louis Vuitton bag instead." UGGGHHHH, Courtney: Shut up! I can totally overlook your most recent assault charge, your unnervingly bananas Letterman appearance from a few years back, and even all the bad plastic surgery, but perpetuating the girls-don't-give-a-damn-about records myth is just UNFORGIVABLE. Shame on you.

So anyway: I'm a lady creature and I want everyone to know that I'm most definitely not saving up for a Louis Vuitton bag, or any kind of bag at all. I want for no bags. Instead I'm wishing upon the Christmas star for a 2009 Honda Civic Hybrid to replace the 1997 Honda Civic DX that some assholes stole from me last month - and maybe, because I've been so good this year, a bottle of Calvin Klein ck one cutely hidden in the glove box. I'd splash on some of the cologne, hop into my cute little Honda, turn up the Van Halen real loud on my stereo, and then go speeding up the PCH with windows down and the salty breeze whipping through my severely color-treated hair. It'd so fulfill my months-long dream of becoming the Bret Michaels of Echo Park.

I can't completely pinpoint when I started lusting after the ck one, by the way. But for the past few months I've been intermittently nostalgic for the bottle I had back in the day, for those high-school Friday nights when I'd dab some on my wrists and behind my ears and listen to the first Oasis record and do my eye makeup and get ready to go out with a boy who was just BAD NEWS but pretty damn exciting. And oh god, all this perfumey nostalgia is making me go all fluttery and dizzy now: I'M SUCH A GIRL. (Liz)

I'M SUCH A FUCKING BUDDHIST...WELL, ACTUALLY, I AM

Lately I have been very content with life, and honestly, the only things I want (besides a magic sleeping pill that makes my insomnia disappear) are the things I always want: a trip to Antarctica, a Rick Owens jacket, a magic eco-correct private jet that lets me see my friends in far-flung places more easily and for gorgeous angels to fund my thesis film, which I'm shooting next year in Bangkok. But otherwise, I'm all good: I have love, passion, health, great family and friends, music, fashion, adventure, yummy food, good opportunities to make the most of, New York City and Obama's our president. I'm pretty stoked about these things and more; the rest of this is all just icing on the cake. If none of this stuff showed up under the Christmas tree, I'd still be really cool. What can I say, man? I'm lucky and I'm blessed. In the middle of all the crazy holiday stress, it's truly nice to realize how much you have.

1. The Nina Simone box set, To Be Free: The Nina Simone Story. The woman sang everything from Kurt Weill to torch songs to blues to jazz to rock 'n roll. I think it can be so easy to overlook her genuine genius as an interpreter and a composer because she's so well-known and not obscure in any way. Anyway, in light of all the economic and social turmoil of recent years, it's interesting to revisit an artist who emerged during a similarly chaotic time.

2. A Blackberry Curve. I'm such a late-adopter when it comes to gadgets, and especially when it comes to cell phones -- I didn't even have a color screen on my cellie till two years after everyone else had them. I recently upgraded to a Motorola MotoQ, so now I can get all email-y on the go (which became kind of a necessity after realizing I get hundreds of non-spam emails a day), but it's got its issues and now I want a new phone. I know I should be all "iPhone! iPhone!" but I hate Apple with such an irrational passion that I can't even bear the idea of owning anything by them. Besides, I like pressing real buttons. At any rate -- everyone I know with a Blackberry Curve seems to like it for the ease of email usage, the long battery life and, hey, it actually makes and receives phone calls like it's supposed to! I think it's as cute as a phone can be, but I'll probably wait till next year to get it. In that case, I think I just want a Nintendo DS Lite for the holidays, just 'cause I miss playing Animal Crossing, my favorite video game of all time.

3. All the Jacques Tati films on DVD. Jacques Tati was a filmmaker of unparalleled, genuine wit and charm; his work has a lovely playfulness that nevertheless has an acerbic take on class, social ritual, modernity and consumerism of post-war France. There are more legendary bits, but this little clip from his masterpiece Playtime illustrates the charming, pointed simplicity of his brand of humor:

Anyway, these would all be lovely Kat gifties, just in case anyone's reading and really dying to get me something. But whatever, man -- I'll settle for oodles of cookies and a day without Internet. Happy Holidays! (Kat)

nogoodforme Superlatives: Dopest Shit We'll Wear This Winter

"MERMAID IN THE SNOW" IS THE NEW "COWGIRL IN THE SAND"

Ever since buying my new favorite scarf (that gigantic lovely thing to your above right), I've had ideas that winter 2008/09 would be the Season of Snow Queen Chic. I'd wear my gigantic lovely scarf all the time, which would somehow make me look exactly like the dame on the cover of Girlfriend by Matthew Sweet. Chris Martin would decide to re-shoot the "Violet Hill" video to include lots of footage of me and him dramatically traipsing across big snowy windswept mountains, but not until after going back in time and marrying me instead of Gwynnie. I'd write "FAIR TRADE" across the knuckles of my ridiculous new gloves, then most likely spill my Starbucks salty caramel hot chocolate all over them. Our kids would probably still have stupid names.

But then! On Saturday I got an early birthday gift: Converse's sequined low-tops, in royal blue. The nu shooz have already turned my world inside out, and now I'm pre-divorcing the Coldplay bloke and recasting this winter as the SEASON OF SNOW MERMAID CHIC. (A "snow mermaid," by the way, is like if the title character in Faerie Tale Theatre's adaptation of The Little Mermaid were crossed with the title character in Faerie Tale Theatre's adaptation of The Snow Queen and the resulting role were played by, I don't know, Kate Winslet circa Eternal Sunshine or something.) I'm wearing the sneakers with my new Velvet brocade coat, some little black knit hat I bought my first winter in L.A., my favorite blue jeans and sometimes also my Rolling Stones hoodie if it's chilly out (you know, like less than 63 degrees). The rosy cheeks are courtesy of Stript's mineral blush in Devine, with a little help from my Irish heritage. And the lips are frosted with Alba's Dawn TerraGloss - it makes my mouth both shimmery-snowy and slightly bluish like I've been swimming at the bottom of the sea too long.

Oh, and "Violet Hill" has been ousted as my winter theme song in favor of "Cowgirl in the Sand" by Neil Young and Crazy Horse. That's basically my theme song for every winter, but this year I'm pretending Neiler's singing "Hello, mermaid in the snow" instead. I'm pretty sure those were the original lyrics anyway. (Liz)

HAUTE FOURTEEN-YEAR-OLD STONER BOY

1. SPRITE-FLAVOURED GLASS CANDY TOQUE: A fourteen-year-old stoner boy without a toque is like a Siberian winter with no snow. This toque is stupidly huge and slouchy; I barely even like it. But fourteen-year-old stoner boys don't care if they like something or not, they just wear it because it's around. Plus, it keeps me warm. Plus, just because you don't like something doesn't mean it's not awesome. It is. This toque reminded me a piece of glass candy, then somebody told me it reminded her of Sprite. So now it is both.

2. CHAMPAGNE PUFFA JACKET: This is my winter coat. I found it at GapKids last year (it's a girls' XXL). By the way, this coat isn't gold. It's champagne.

3. TIE-DYED KILL CITY JEANS: These are what the fourteen-year-old stoner boy whose personal style I'm aping would wear to his junior prom, with Converse All-Stars and a tuxedo t-shirt. These jeans are one of the coolest items of clothing I've ever owned; on the wrong person, they might look kinda nu-goth, but at the same time, there's no such thing as nu-goth, so they wouldn't, I guess.

4. SAILOR HAT: I like my sailor hat because it looks like you just decided to throw it on as a joke to entertain people, because you're the class clown, the life of the party, the most lovable fourteen-year-old stoner boy this world ever knew.

5. "HIP HOP IS DEAD" T-SHIRT: Is hip hop really dead? Apparently I think it is- so adamantly, in fact, that I feel the need to wear a t-shirt proclaiming it to the world. This t-shirt is my roommate's and I've adopted it; it's the perfect amount of oversized on me, and rules because it can turn a nice pair of jeans and expensive sweater from chic to scrappy, sober to stoned, CLASS TO CRASS. Which is all I want. Actually, now that I think about it, all I really want is a Crass t-shirt.

6. SKINNY JEANS ARE LAURA JANE-ENDORSED ONCE AGAIN: For a while there, I was really into championing The Death Of Skinny Jeans, but I've since changed my mind. They're not going anywhere, and hey- if you can't beat 'em, join 'em! Skinny jeans are an integral part of HAUTE FOURTEEN-YEAR-OLD STONER BOY because they do a good job of showing off my...

7. GENTLE SOULS BOOTS: These boots put the HAUTE in HAUTE FOURTEEN-YEAR-OLD STONER BOY. My orthopedic stacked-heel ankle boots epitomize the notion of Wardrobe Staple; I have to force myself not to wear them, and when I'm not, I always wish I was. H14YOSB is the most brilliant fashion concept I've ever brainiacked up because, I don't know if you've noticed, but really it's just looking like shit, only with high heels. It takes me two minutes to get ready in the morning, just like if I were a real 14-year-old stoner boy! But I'm not- I'm an haute one. By the way, my best H14YOSB accessory is not pictured: it's my housekey strung on a shoelace and worn as a necklace. Also, I think I need to invest in a wallet chain. (LJ)

Kat is too busy yelling at people, noshing on craft services and dealing with stupid HD video cameras to do a proper Superlative, but says that her winter wardrobe concept is "dark but sweet" and involves the highest-heeled boots she can find, skinny jeans, oddly ladylike cropped jackets, and any accessory with studs and chains. Not so different from her fall concept, but with heavier fabrics. Most of her sartorial strategy lately is about finding awesome lingerie from The Lake and Stars. Oh, and she loves her new winter coat: a black wool trench with a huge funnel collar from Helmut Lang. HELMUT LANG ROCKS.

nogoodforme Superlatives: Favorite Fictional Crushes

Todd Sparrow in Girl

At first I wanted to put Han Solo as my favorite fictional crush because I basically just finished watching The Empire Strikes Back on cable and was all "OMG I totally FORGOT how much I looooovvvvveeeeeddddd Han Solo as a kid! SOLO! SOLO!" But then I realized that we're actually talking about crushes that exist in the imaginative literary realm, and I got kind of bummed out that I wouldn't have to opportunity to get all Han-rhapsodic on you. But that's okay, because now I can wax eloquent on the beauty that is imaginary rock boys and discourse upon what the Platonic ideal of such a dude should be. I can tell you for sure: it is NOT Sean Patrick Flannery, who played Todd Sparrow in the rather botched movie adaptation of the YA cult novel Girl that I wrote about ages ago. (You should probably read that link first and then come back here for a continuation.) Hollywood actors are pretty much the complete opposite of hot rock musicians, which is why cinematic attempts to portray Todd Sparrow will pretty much always fail and which is also why most actors are in bands that kind of suck. (Also: I'm talking about rock like ROCK, not like indie rock, which is basically so sexually neutered of a genre that my loins fall asleep at a Shins show.) Todd Sparrow is designed pretty much to embody the archetypal Dionysian rock dude, the main channel through which our main character discovers her libido and sexuality: he's possessed of instinctual wisdom, he's kind of gritty and ungroomed yet charismatic, he's totally unreliable, he's got a sexy, scratchy voice and he's great in bed. What's not to like, really? In the book, he's a tragic figure in the sense that he becomes consumed by the rock machine, sort of some lost angel half-asleep in the hell he's found himself in. But in a way he has served his purpose in Andrea's life, which was basically a gateway to a world outside of suburban confines and expectations. In a way, the best crushes of our lives do this: they allow us to dream of something larger than ourselves, to enlarge the sense of who we could be. Actually, now that I think about it, I always think most crushes are best left in the realm of the imagination, since their function is to entertain and embody our deepest longings. (Which is why Todd Sparrow is just SO WRONG in the movie. Witness this clip from Girl below.)

I mean, really...what self-respecting rock dude would have such nice highlights in his hair? Also: I really want a cow-print dress now. (Kat)

Zooey Glass of Franny and Zooey

Like John McEnroe, Zooey Glass is a sexy asshole. Unlike John McEnroe, Zooey Glass is a chill sexy asshole (John McEnroe, on the other hand, is an aggro sexy asshole, which makes him more tryst-material rather than the kind of dude you wouldn't mind sharing a toothbrush with). I definitely wouldn't mind sharing a toothbrush with Zooey Glass, who is probably a Scorpio, although my mouth-germs might gross him out.

Zooey, despite being a total asshole, is one hell of a CLASS ACT. He is also a genius, which is appreciated. As such, Zooey's asshole-ish-ness is generally confined to snide remarks and icy-cool banter; dude might hurt your feelings, but at least he'd be funny about it. He's also really hot, I hear. His sister Boo Boo describes him as "the blue-eyed Jewish-Irish Mohican scout who died in your arms at the roulette table at Monte Carlo." You know, that sounds really good to me.

Growing up, Buddy Glass was always the Glass Family-brother I most wanted to share a toothbrush with. He's a sweet teddybear of a dude, lives in a log cabin, and narrated Raise High the Roofbeam, Carpenters, my favorite book by JD Salinger as well as my second- or third-favourite book (I mean, novella) of all time. But, as I've grown older, I've realized that nice guys are boring, and manipulatively use their niceness against you in arguments. I need a sharp-nosed, sharkskin-trousered, Sazerac-drinking Jewish-Irish Mohican scout who'll snap back at me when I'm being a crab.

Also, it would be really hot to have a boyfriend named Zooey. "What's your boyfriend's name, Laura Jane?" people would ask. "Zooey," I'd say, "Et vous?" And then those losers would go on and on about their Mikes and Chrises and Daves, and I'd trot on over to my chill sexy asshole BF's place, and we'd stay up all night talking about how God is dead. (LJ)

l to r: Franny and Zooey; Seth Meyers/Viggo Mortensen/Michael Vartan- if you put 'em all together, you totes get Laura Jane's mental picture of Zooey Glass

Practically Every Lead Dude in Alice Hoffman's Early Novels

I read a lot of Alice Hoffman in high school; she's got this dreamy-trashy aesthetic that's total literary catnip for CLove-loving girls like me. This is what happens in a lot of her stories: Girl meets brooding, bad-news boy. Girl falls head-over-boots for boy; boy hotly and wickedly refuses to fall back. Girl wrecks life for boy but ultimately puts it back together, leaving now-broken-and-regretful boy in the dust. The end!

Last winter I re-read all three of my favorite Alice Hoffman books and they're still as catnippy as ever, even if my 30-year-old self finds the brooding/bad-news thing slightly less appealing than my 15-year-old self once did. Here's a little look at the torturously crushworthy love interest at the center of each story:

McKay from Property Of: Dude's so hot, all the girls "out on the Avenue" switchblade-carve his initials into their thighs. The story's set in the '70s (I think?), and McKay's the leader of an Outsiders-y gang called The Orphans (based in New York City, not Oklahoma). Wears "long dark hair" and motorcycle goggles (even when not riding a motorcycle), sips his whiskey from a crystal wine glass (SWOON). Then: turns junkie, kills a guy, ends up in Rikers (SIGH).

Silver from White Horses: Another leather-boot-wearing, chain-smoking, hot-to-trot criminal, only this one's in love with his little sister. The incest thing seems to eek a lotta readers out, but I think the story's really lovely in a high-drama sort of way. It also goes so perfectly with "Metal Heart" by Cat Power - the dark-and-dusty Moon Pix version, not that shiny Jukebox remake.

Andre from Illumination Night: Actually not a criminal, and not even 100 percent bad news. (When he cheats on his wife by doing it with the 16-year-old girl next door in a shed, he totally feels bad about it after.) Andre's a motorcycle mechanic who lives with his potter wife and little son on Martha's Vineyard; he doesn't say much but the tension between him and the neighbor-girl is pretty damn steamy. Plus, one of the lead characters is an honest-to-goodness giant, and the book's really fantastic for reading under the covers in midwinter while listening to WMVY online and pretending you're going to live in a dilapidated little cottage on Martha's Vineyard someday too. (Liz)

nogoodforme Superlatives: Insanely Cute Kitten YouTube Cinema

We're having a bit of a rough week at nogoodforme and are hella stressed out on the Kat/Liz/Laura Jane front. Which is why you have to make do with only me for this week's "installment" of Superlatives; I'm basically holding down the fort. What do I do when left to my own devices and totally effin' stressed out like everyone else? LOOK AT KITTEN VIDEOS ON YOUTUBE. Welcome to the gloriously dorky stupidity that is kitten YouTube cinema.

1. KITTENS AT LUNCH
The best part of this video is the absolutely stupid music playing against the oddly dynamic editing. The aerial shot reminds me of those Busby Berkeley musicals.

2. SWEET TIRED KITTEN
A minimalist one-shot masterpiece. Robert Bresson would be proud.

3. I ARE CUTE KITTEN
With LOLcat intertitles, lots of shots and lots of locations, this has relatively high production values for a kitten video. I only hope they got this critter a SAG card.

4. MAMA CAT COMES TO RESCUE HER LITTLE KITTEN
Featuring a superb performance by a mama cat. I like when the baby kitten takes shelter underneath the mommy cat's neck. It's a moment that make you go, "Awwwww....."

5. NAMENEKO JAPANESE PUNK ROCK KITTENS
Don't ask me, I don't know. I have no idea if any kittens were harmed in the making of this video. They seem mega-irked at being made to wear stupid costumes, though. I would recommend they talk to their agents.

6. SUPER CUTE WHITE KITTY
8 seconds of intense kitten-osity. Riveting and unflinching in its look into unvarnished cat emotion.

7. SCOTTISH FOLD
This is like the Chantal Akerman of kitten videos: mundane yet fascinating.

8. ??????
I have no idea what this video is called, but it's of a really fat, fluffy cat that reminds me oddly of Marlon Brando or someone like that. My friend Cathy sent this to me, and I was basically, "WTF!!!!!!"

nogoodforme Superlatives: Our Favorite Hangover Cures

Today is Election Day, and whether or not you party it up in a victory celebration or drink away your woes tonight, this is nogoodforme's little guide to avoiding feeling beastly the next morning.

THE 3 Bs: BREAKFAST BURRITOS, BROMELAIN & BENEFICIAL BACTERIA

Remember when we were young, and all those nights of screwdriver-and-ice-beer binges went entirely unpunished by the body the following morning? I so vividly recall the mid-college end of that happy era: I woke up in my junior-year beach house feeling like death warmed up; noted the dry mouth, throbbing skull, fever-hot skin, and utter inability to drag my sorry ass outta bed; then asked myself, "Could this be what they call...a hangover?" I was mostly horrified, but maybe a little bit pleased to finally discover what these infamous hangover deals were all about. I also knew that all I wanted in the world was an Egg McMuffin and a big icy Coke.

And I got it, and it was good. And from then on, for so many years, McDonald's was my number-one hangover go-to place, but now that's no longer. Because the problem with getting even older than 19 is I've acquired some major philosophical issues with consuming anything sourced from McDonald's (except maybe the caramel sundaes, once in a blue moon). Plus, eating McDonald's makes me so sick, as if I've coated my insides with greasy plastic.

So what I'd suggest these days is heading to Whole Foods and grabbing yourself a breakfast burrito, a piece of pineapple, and bottle of Gingerade kombucha. The pineapple is absolutely essential: I don't know if it's the bromelain or whatever, but that one little slice is 99 percent guaranteed to make you feel like a new man. Or, if you're not down with Whole Paycheck, and you dig on animal products of some sorts, I'd definitely recommend cooking up some of barKER's magic egg surprise, only with a little bit of cheddar cheese melted in, tomatoes instead of broccoli, no mushrooms, and maybe a Vitamin Water on the side. (And I know Vitamin Water's so fucking ridiculous, but it kinda gets the job done in these situations.) Once you've digested, gulp a lot of coffee and go for a big old jog. Hungover jogging may sound like hell, but if you can push on it'll work crazy magic; I swear.

And for the record, I've actually only ever gone on one screwdriver-and-ice-beer binge in my life. It was the first time I ever got sick off alcohol, and I couldn't drink orange juice for so many months afterward. Gross. (Liz)

LAURA JANE'S TRIED, TESTED & TRUE "FIVE Ws FOR A PLEASANT TOMORROW"

WHITE WINE: This superlative marks the first time I've ever bothered to do any preliminary research for a nogoodforme.com article, not counting the time I Wikipedia-ed Matthew Friedberger's birthday. The extensive research I conducted for this feature (Googling "hangover cures") taught me that I rarely get hangovers because I usually stick to white wine, and alcohols that are lighter in colour have less of the toxin that makes you get hangovers than darker alcohols (bourbon being the worst). White wine and vodka are supposedly your best bets, though I think anyone who's ever overdone it on the vodka (AKA everyone, at some point or another) would venture to disagree. Either way, I always feel peppy as a Jack Russell terrier the morning after I get drunked, so there you go. Drink white wine.

WATER: Well, obviously. If you seriously need Laura Jane of nogoodforme.com to tell you it's a good idea to drink water when you're drinking alcohol, you are either a) a feral child, b) an ex-feral child, or c) even more irresponsible than I am. That's weird. Since when do feral children read fashion blogs? Since when are there people in the world more irresponsible than I am? Is that a double negative? I digress. Water helps. (Oh, and unlike, Barker, I don't believe in Vitamin Water)

WHITE RICE: Isn't it weird how little kids get the stomach flu, like, constantly? I feel like I spent most of my childhood lying on the couch watching The Flintstones with my family's designated red plastic "for puking only" bucket at my side. Whenever I was fluey, my mom would make me white rice mixed with milk and white sugar, and it is still my Ultimate Comfort Food. There is nothing easier on an upset tummy than a great big bowl of this sticky, glutinous, overly-sweet white mush. Nowadays, I substitute soymilk for the real deal, but I really need to stress that YOU CAN'T USE BROWN RICE in this "dish". Why would you? People who say they prefer brown rice to white are lying. Oh yeah, another thing I learned while e-researching hangover cures is that bananas are awesome for hangovers. I would totally add sliced bananas (and maybe cinnamon) to my lump of milky rice-sugar. Yum! That sounds so delish, I'm going to go pound a mickey of SoCo just so I can reap the benefits of ricey banana mush tomorrow morning.

WEED: No matter how you actually feel, whenever you smoke weed, you always just feel stoned. I love it for that. If your post-drunk daily agenda revolves around idling and DVR-ing Dr. Phil eps all day, you may as well call a spade a spade and take a couple hundred bong rips while you're at it. That way, at least you'll have way funnier opinions as to why Dr. Phil is such a bafflingly worthless individual/the hugest genius of all time.

WEALTH DEPLETION: When all else fails, just go shopping and blow a lot of money on DVDs, Japanese stationery, and ugly H&M crap you won't wear. It will make you feel better. Nothing fixes a problem like the almightly Band-aid Solution that is fiscal irresponsiblity! And, if you're bed-ridden, who cares? Even better! That's why they invented eBay. So ailing drunks can have nicer days.

KAT SAYS PREVENTION IS THE KEY

I'm a nerd. Despite nights where I've put away my share and more of Jack Daniels (and more), I've actually never gotten a hangover. And I'm the one who made us do this topic! I'm horrible. And special. No, not really, but when I looked into this topic some more, I realized there were a few things I do when I drink that keep me from feeling all grodey the next day:

1. DRINK SLOWLY. REAL SLOWLY. This is a joke with my friends, because it takes me forever to consume any food and drink and I'm always the last one trying to finish and everyone's looking at me and I'm going, "I'm sorry! I'm sorry!" But I swear to God, it keeps you from flooding your system too quickly with alcohol. The whole key to hangover prevention and cure is to keep the alcohol demons from rioting like a Brazilian soccer stadium in your bloodstream. You want to allow them to come in, single file in two lines, holding hands like well-behaved little Swiss schoolchildren. Or something like that.

2. I ALWAYS GET IN THE MOOD TO GORGE ON FRIES IN BARS. Fats and carbs keep alcohol from absorbing into your system, so keep eating as you throw back a few. Some people say sugar is good, but I think sugar actually facilitates the rapid absorption of alcohol into the bloodstream. How else do you explain how all those sorority girls get so terribly shit-faced on such girly drinks? Oh my god, I'm sooooooooooooo drunk!!!!

3. DRINK LOADS OF WATER BEFORE YOU PASS OUT. If I'm at this point, I usually don't remember why I do this, but it seems to work. Supposedly you shouldn't drink anything with caffeine, though, because it will dehydrate you more. I also think I eat some more food before I get to bed, because inevitably I wake up in the morning and there are empty bags of food everywhere. It's very odd and disconcerting.

4. MAKE SURE TO GET SOME SLEEP.This is not scientifically proven, but I have this theory that people are so chronically and severely sleep-deprived that drinking accelerates and exacerbates the effects of this upon your body. Either way, if you were on the verge of sleep-related gnarliness before, you'll be way gnarly if you don't get enough sleep during that critical post-alcoholic consumption period. Being a chronic insomniac (totally unrelated to drinking), I think sleep works wonders for anything, and I'm really convinced that you can sleep almost anything off. So if you have the presence of mind, take a nice shower, snuggle under the covers and get some zzzzzzzs. You're pretty much guaranteed to snore, though -- funny how alcohol will do that to lots of people.

What a nice little assemblage of libertine wisdom! I propose that tonight we all put these ideas and approaches to the test, and you can tell us all about how they worked tomorrow morning. (Kat)

nogoodforme Superlatives: Best Makeout Records (and a few anti-makeout ones, too)

The Stooges, Funhouse

Crazy shit tends to happen when Funhouse plays in a public setting. I don't know why, but the brutal, grimy noise of this record makes everyone think they are bad asses. (It also tends to make babies cry, so you know, don't play it at a Sunday afternoon picnic or something.) Everybody gets that bit of swagger going as opener "Down on the Street" raves up, giving ladies and gents an excuse to throw their weight around and be all cool and flirty-confrontational. Sooner or later, though, somewhere around "L.A. Blues," people get all for-real confrontational because everyone wants to be their idea of frontman Iggy Pop at that point, all wiry and nutso and humping amplifiers. This leads to sexual harassment and barfights and other forms of beer-soused craziness. And that's just when the record plays in public. Imagine the mayhem in a more private setting. The mind reels. (By the way, I did put "Dirt" from Funhouse as one of my Heavy Rotation selections awhile ago. A few weeks later I got a weird email from a dude saying he "tested" it and it "worked." Okay, dude. HAVE FUN WITH THAT.)

My anti-makeout record: The Shins or Death Cab for Cutie or any music like that. Are you kidding me? Stop that shit. Leave it for your high school dance, okay? Those kind of bands are the anti-libido, and that is a cease-and-desist for any memorably hot makeout opportunity. (Kat)

HOW TO MAKE OUT WITH LAURA JANE FAULDS TO "RHAPSODY IN BLUE" BY GEORGE GERSHWIN, BY LAURA JANE FAULDS

(Click HERE to download your very own mp3 of "Rhapsody in Blue"; that way you can have the intended "engaging with this post" experience. Feel free to fantasize about me while you listen, especially if you're a hot dude.)

0:00- 0:43: The glorious opening notes of the only piece of music surpassing the extreme excellence of "Hey Jude" play, and we gaze into one another's eyes. We flash them (our eyes). We both know: it's going to be a damn grand evening.This forty-three second segment of "Rhapsody in Blue," while indeed rhapsodic, is kind of playful and coy, so our eye-gazing should be compounded with some sassy half-grinning, lip-biting, eyelash-batting, and hair-twirling. At approximately 25 seconds into "RiB," feel free to take my hand in yours. Stroke it. Stare at me. Bite your lip. Be the hot dude you are. You're playing me "Rhapsody in Blue," Bro! You get me. Let's get married.

0:44- 1:44: This is the schmaltzy, crappy-compared-to-the-rest-of-"Rhapsody in Blue" part of "Rhapsody in Blue", so therefore it is a perfect opportunity for you to make me itch, delaying satisfaction by mixing yourself another Sazerac (that is SO classy of you! A dude who makes his own Sazeracs? HUSBAND MATERIAL) and grabbing me another Spumante Bambino from the fridge. Let's drink our drinks fast so we can maximize our "making out to Rhapsody in Blue" time. LET'S GET BAMBINOED, HOT GEORGE GERSHWIN FAN!

1:45- 2:26: This is the period of time before you kiss me. Use it wisely, my beloved. Reap the benefits of that liquid confidence you just consumed. Gaze at me- though not coyly anymore; the coy part is over. Dude: pretty much leer at me. Classily, though. Leer classily. Then tuck some strands of hair behind my ear for no reason and pay me a compliment, something along the lines of, "Laura Jane Faulds, you are the Sazerac of girls."

2:27: OMG HE KISSED ME!!!! HE TOTALLY JUST KISSED ME!!!!!!!

2:28- 3:45: This is the easy part. All you have to do is make out with me, which you are. God! You are SO in love with me, aren't you? I can tell. This is great! I'm in love with you too, Michael Showalter! The best part of making out to "Rhapsody in Blue" by George Gershwin is that 90% of the work is done for us by a dead Jewish composer who was extraordinarily gifted at employing the musical power of "crescendoes" and "building up to a sonic climax". How convenient. How lovely! Doesn't it sound like the angels are singing down upon us as we share this beautiful night together? I love you.

3:46: Probably a good time to throw some tongue into the mix.

3:47- 4:05: Perfect! You're a really good kisser, Michael Showalter. (Thanks, Laura Jane! You're a really good kisser too! In fact, you're the BEST kisser EVER!)

4:06- 4:35: This is the part of "Rhapsody in Blue" where there is a dramatic pause for a second, and then "Rhapsody in Blue" RULES SO HARD and is so insanely rhapsodic that I want to kill myself and die because music is the best thing in the world (next to making out with you). Pull away from me and smile self-satisfiedly but also lovingly for the dramatic pause, then swig your Sazerac and make out with me some more for the most rhapsodically brilliant thirty seconds of all music history. Spice it up a little for these thirty seconds. I mean, do whatever you want; you're capable. Just make sure it's spicy.

4:36- 5:00: This is the fun part of "Rhapsody in Blue"! It's so catchy! It's like the Beatles, before there was the Beatles! Let's not make out for a second. Let's dance around like idiots for a bit. Or, you could always just sit there and watch me dance like an idiot for a bit. That's a better idea, actually. Sit back and watch your cute new girlfriend jitterbug to the fun part of "RiB". What a lucky man you are.

5:01- 5:30: Oh, Lordy! It's the sweeping ending! Stand the Helter Skelter up, grab me semi-forcefully by the shoulders, then kiss me as theatrically as you possibly can. Here is a tip: while kissing me, pretend that you are Cary Grant.

Wow, Michael Showalter! That was the best making out experience of my life! I need a cigarette.

PS: You know how the Spice Girls are like "If you wannabe my lover, you gotta get with my friends?" Well, my version of that sentiment goes: "If you wannabe LJ's lover, you gotta a) not be a Virgo, and b) NEVER PLAY HER BOB MARLEY." So there.

Liz's Top Six Makeout Musics of All-Time

(LEFT TO RIGHT: YES, YES, NO)

Once upon a time when I was very young, I happened upon a very hot Texan Taurus I liked enough to lend my advance copy of The Namesake by Jhumpa Lahiri. There was a marathon makeout session but I forgot to check the CDs in my three-disc CD carousel prior to commencement, so we ended up with: Turn on the Bright Lights by Interpol, Lost Souls by Doves, and You Are Free by Cat Power.

The first one worked out all right, even if a lot of the time the Interpol dude sounds like he's meant to be singing showtunes (and showtunes = opposite of hot). The Doves record, however, was purrrrfection, earning its rank among my Top Six Makeout Musics of All-Time: Most of Lost Souls sounds like floating around an enchanted sea cave that's the exact warmth as your body temperature and glows with the light of some magical underwater moon (which is generally the sort of experience I like to psychically replicate whilst making out).

But You Are Free was just all kinds of wrong. Songs like "Werewolf" are sexy, but "Free" makes me think of robots, "Good Woman" makes me sad about everything, and "Names" - when heard accidentally in the midst of making out - makes me want to die, and not in a good way. In fact, I had to shut it off at "Names." Nowadays I don't even allow for You Are Free to be within 10 miles of the premises when making out's on the menu. I'll advise you to take the same precaution.

In case you're curious, the other items on the Top Six Makeout Musics of All-Time are as follows:

-The Stooges, Funhouse. (So hot it's probably illegal in at least three states.)

-Spoon, "Paper Tiger". (For when you're all in love and stuff.)

-Sonic Youth, Washing Machine. (Having tested this one out at 17, 30, and probably a few ages in between, I can safely deem it uber-dependable, especially if you're into the dreamy Doves-y thing when it comes to makeout music.)

-Queens of the Stone Age, Songs for the Deaf. (Especially "Song for the Dead." Don't even get me started on "Song for the Dead.")

-Nirvana's version of "Heartbreaker" by Led Zeppelin. (This one's kind of a goof, probably most appropriate for blasting superloud when you want to weird out your roommates with your makeout-music selection, or if you happen to have found that rare breed of boy who can look totally adorable while briefing interrupt the making-out for a few notes of air guitar. P.S. There are probably only three such boys in existence in the entire galaxy, FYI.)

nogoodforme superlatives: Favorite Lame Romantic Comedy That In Fact May Not Be So Lame

The Truth About Cats and Dogs

My knee-jerk reaction to most romantic comedies is to hate them, but sometimes I wonder if rom-coms (as they are so lamely nicknamed) get short shrift because their audience (and makers) are predominantly female. Sure, most of them are bad beyond belief -- but then again, so is your average stupid action movie, and those don't get saddled with such loaded, pejorative nomenclature like "chick flicks" or what have you. Bad action flicks don't get weighed down with this gender representation baggage in the same way -- they just get to be plain old bad and make lots of money. Where does all this leave your average feminist-minded film lover? Confused! The truth is, I do hate most romantic comedies because I'm really a film snob at heart -- but I also know that there's nothing worse to watch on a plane or in bed when you're sick than an Ingmar Bergman movie. Really, you kind of want to kill yourself in the worst way possible. Don't try it at home, kids.

Ultimately the search for a transcendent romantic comedy is like looking for leprechauns at a gay pride parade -- it is a search full of dissimulations and mirages, but ultimately a fruitless one. No one looks for aesthetic greatness, spiritual transformation or emotional revelations in a romantic comedy; they just want to be intelligently and adroitly entertained and leave with the gossamer hope that romantic foibles can iron themselves out into a narrative of charm and fortuitous folly. In a world where courtship is a dirty word, some dudes act like puritanical 1950s virgins and many ladies sleep their way through entire zip codes while blogging about it on MySpace, romantic comedies affirm a (perhaps false) comfort in the old-fashioned codes of romance or, perhaps more broadly, offer the beautiful illusion that the messiness of human relations can be streamlined and tamed. It is outside the scope of this blog to dismantle such longings, so I'll just skip ahead to The Truth About Cats and Dogs, a modern-day Cyrano de Bergerac story starring Janeane Garofolo as an "average girl" and Uma Thurman as her supermodel neighbor who both try to win the heart of a rumpled, cute British photographer. This movie is both lame and awesome. It is lame because:

1. Uma Thurman is only intermittently funny in it (and I generally am an Uma fan, so it pains me to say this.)
2. It uses a dog as a key plot point and exploits the cuteness factor shamelessly
3. It uses a tortoise as a key plot point and exploits the ick factor shamelessly
4. There's a "inadvertently seductive eating" scene set to a song by Suzanne effin' Vega called "Caramel"
5. You don't really buy Uma Thurman and Janeane Garofolo being friends often enough -- which is kind of a key premise of the film's plot.

That said, I do enjoy The Truth About Cats and Dogs for the following reasons:

1. Janeane Garofolo is pretty adorable in it, and totally cute.
2. Ben Chaplin's accent as the cute photographer is adorable, and so is he.
3. This is the first film that ever made me want to move to L.A. -- because everyone lives in such cute apartments! (I think vicarious apartment dwelling and vicarious wardrobe wearing is a huge reason why people go see these movies, actually. I mean, I watched Music and Lyrics and thought it was really dumb in the least fun way possible, but I thought Drew was dressed adorably, which made it semi-watchable.)
4. The dog stuff is actually kinda cute, and so is that tortoise scene, so I totally fell for that trick 'cause I'm a sucker.
5. The film has this horrid department store shopping scene that totally nails why it sucks to buy makeup at those stores.
6. Yay to any film that advocates incorporating the reality principle in contemporary femininity, even in a trite, glossy way!

It's interesting to think that this film was made in 1996; I highly doubt that this script, however witty and smart and light-footed, would be made now, because there's probably some lame-ass Hollywood exec who would change the movie into a BFF/frenemy story about two socialites who bond through breast augmentation and armpit Botox. (Wait, isn't that a reality tv show?) The sad fact is that it is rare for Hollywood to make films about women and their emotional states; this theme mostly assumes any centrality in romantic comedies, which is ultimately why they matter, as lightweight and insignificant as they seem as cinematic products. You know that moment when your "boyfriend" belittles your feelings and reframes your emotional experience to make you look crazy? And it takes awhile, but you finally realize they're kind of lame? That's Hollywood -- an emotionally condescending jerkface who doesn't take love seriously enough to craft stories that do its complexity justice with any semblance of wit, charm and intelligence. Dear Hollywood, that's why I'm breaking up with you. I'm going out with France now -- he's kind of hard to understand, but way sexier. Love, Kat. P.S. - I'm giving back your mix tapes. They are really bad. (Kat)

You've Got Mail

Of all the 9 million movies Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan have made together, the best is obviously Joe Versus the Volcano. But that's not really a rom-com, so instead let's review the top ten reasons why I almost-love You've Got Mail:

1. I like how it feels like a Christmas movie even though it's not actually a Christmas movie. Beautiful Girls is the same way, but I'm saving all Beautiful Girls-related content till we do a "Favorite Bromantic Comedy" superlative.

2. Excepting the aforementioned Joe Versus the Volcano, this is by far the most endearing I've found Tom Hanks since the part in The Money Pit when the bathtub falls through the floor.

3. Dave Chappelle! Especially when says "piazza" twice in a row.

4. Parker Posey! Especially when she makes that asinine/bizarro comment about the Julius and Ethel Rosenberg, and Meg Ryan gives Tom Hanks that totally priceless look and it's just so adorable (for real)!

5. Greg Kinnear! I always forget that I really like Greg Kinnear. Dude gets the job done like nobody's business.

6. The girl who plays the girl who works in the bookstore. I have no idea what the name of the actress might be, and I'm too lazy/apathetic to look it up, but I'm endlessly tickled by how she speaks with no affect whatsoever. In fact, I'm going to start talking like that on every nogoodforme.com conference call from now to eternity. Quelle nightmare, say Kat and Laura Jane.

7. If memory serves, one of the earliest scenes shows Meg Ryan bouncily walking to work, clutching a pumpkin in one arm and a cup of coffee in the opposite hand. Sometimes I kind of wish my entire life had that bouncily-walking-while-carrying-a-pumpkin-and-a-cup-of-coffee kind of feel. It would always be early-autumn and I'd be perpetually rosy-cheeked. I'd wear kneesocks every day! But not jumpsuits. While I support jumpsuit-wearing among other girls, you wouldn't catch me dead in a jumpsuit.

8. I like bookstores. More movies should be set in bookstores.

9. I like the stuff about Meg Ryan's character and her mom; that always gets to me the most. And, as with Tom Hanks, this is almost the most endearing I've ever found Meg Ryan. (When Harry Met Sally is maybe a runner-up, but we've all seen that fake-orgasm bit way too many times on Oscar montages and those "Aah...the magic of movies!"-type ad things that come on before the trailers on certain DVDs. It's just so totally played out.)

10. Lastly, even though "Don't cry, Shopgirl" is the dumbest line in the history of cinema, I generally think You've Got Mail is so sweet in a really inoffensive way. The day I saw it in the theater, I was all frowny-faced over a boy, and that whole thing about there being "the dream of someone else" just warmed my bitter collegiate heart. So, You've Got Mail completely serves its purpose. Now here's a scene from Joe Versus the Volcano:

(Liz)

ALL THE ONES WITH HUGH GRANT

Part One: Love, Actually

When Love, Actually came out in theaters, the tagline on all the posters read: THE ULTIMATE ROMANTIC COMEDY. This could not be more true! I "actually love" (not funny) this movie more than, well, pretty much any other movie I've ever seen. So, there you go, World: Laura Jane Faulds' favorite movie of all time is Love, Actually. As a matter of fact, I feel almost guilty writing about Love, Actually from a strictly Hugh-oriented P.O.V, since every storyline in the whole film (except for the dumb crap where Colin Frizzle moves to Wisconsin and has sex with Shannon Elizabeth) is heartwarming and brilliant. The scene where that dude who's never been in another movie holds up the sign that says "TO ME, YOU ARE PERFECT" for Keira Knightly has never failed to make me cry. Dear Dudes Reading This Who Might Want Me To Fall In Love With Them: Just do that. And then take me apple-picking.

Nevertheless, Hugh's Love, Actually plotline does indeed take the Love, Actually-plotline (tea)cake. Here are some reasons why:

1. He plays the prime minister of England. Can you imagine what a beautiful world it would be if the prime minister of England was as drop-dead gorgeous as Hugh Grant? It would be like JFK meets Nicolas Sarkozy meets, well, Hugh Grant's character in Love, Actually. There would be no wars, people would smile all the time, and I get the distinct feeling that The Twist would come back into vogue. I nominate the actual Hugh Grant to run for prime minister of England- who cares if he's unqualified? It's so worth it. I'm sure he could pull it together.

2. Martine McCutcheon is adorable like nobody's business and is the only Hugh Grant love interest in the history of Hugh Grant romantic comedies who I feel is "actually" (still not funny) worthy of Hugh Grant's love. I think she is just the sweetest little banoffee pie in the whole bakery! Her chirpy little voice, her inability to refrain from saying "fuck" (I particularly love when she asks, "Where the fuck is my fucking coat?"- THAT'S HOW I TALK!), her Veronica Lodge-esque good looks, everything, etc. Fuck. I fucking wish I was Martine McFuckingCutcheon.

3. When he says, "Who do you have to screw around here to get a cup of tea and a chocolate biscuit?"- I ASK MYSELF THAT EVERY DAY.

4. You really just can't beat a good "silly dancing" scene, can you?

FEAST YOUR EYES ON THIS MAX ADORABILITY:

Part Two: About a Boy

About a Boy is in no way lame. I like it a smidgen less than I like Love, Actually, but just so y'all know, it is about ten trillion smidgens cooler. Coolness, however, can not triumph over Thee Ultimate Romantick Comedy, so there you go. What I love most about About a Boy (besides "every single thing about it") is that Hughie plays moderately against type, which makes a lot more sense than usual.

The thing about Hugh Grant's fame is that he's carved out this awesome little niche for himself where he only ever plays foppish, awkward, nervous, bumbling nerds with mondo girl issues - it's extraordinarily charming and entertaining to watch, but leads me to what I like to call The Great Hugh Grant Paradox. The Paradox lies in how the potential success of these roles rests on the assumption that the film's audience will suspend its collective disbelief and pretend not to notice that Hugh Grant is totally sexy and charming and that it is literally impossible to imagine any single woman in the world not being interested in Hugh Grant. THAT MAKES NO SENSE. HE IS SO HOT.

In About a Boy, Hugh plays a suave playa-y douchebag named Will with too much money, a really sick apartment, the hottest personal style I've ever seen on a dude kind of (that scene where he's walking across the Millenium Bridge wearing a camo-print parka will never fail to send the ol' ticker into arrhythmia-palpitation overdrive), and a heart of whatever-the-opposite-of-gold is. IT MAKES PERFECT SENSE. HE IS SO HOT. I wish Hugh Grant would seduce me and then never call me back. THAT WOULD BE SO HOT.

Hugh Grant's sucky love interest in About a Boy is played by Rachel Weisz, who, along with Jennifer Connelly and Audrey Tautou, I wholeheartedly wish I could eradicate from the face of the planet, because every dude I ever love will think that whole damned troika of vaguely-nontraditional beauties are more beautiful than me. Go to Hell, Rachel Weisz/Jennifer Connelly/Audrey Tautou and the Drells.

Part Three: The Best of the Rest

a) Four Weddings and a Funeral: This is the one that started it all, "it" being the whole Hugh Grant bumbling bookish Brit archetype. Personally, my favorite element of 4W&aF is the extremity of Hugh's hair-floppiness. I also really thrive upon how he begins (and/or ends) 9 out of every 10 sentences he speaks with the words "I'm afraid..."

I'm afraid Andie MacDowell is my second least-favorite Hugh Grant sucky love interest of all time. I find it really difficult to believe that someone as hot/awesome as Hugh Grant could ever fall for someone as sucky/not hot/not awesome as Andie MacDowell, I'm afraid.

b) Notting Hill: Well, obviously Julia Roberts wins Laura Jane's prize for Most Annoying Sucky Hugh Grant Love Interest of All Cinematic History. I hate her stupid mouth; I wish I could punch it. I also wish I could remake this movie starring either myself or Sienna Miller in Julia Roberts' role; preferably myself (though, now that I mention it, I am mad curious to see what Hugh and Sisi's onscreen chemistry would be like. Hot, I bet).

The scene where "William Thacker" and "Anna Scott" are climbing over a fence and William Thacker keeps saying "Whoopsie Daisies!" is, well: it's a beautiful thing.

c) The Englishman who Went Up a Hill but Came Down a Mountain: I don't know. I've never seen it. I've started watching it about sixty trillion times, but always get bored five minutes in and go watch Best of Ari Gold Youtube videos or listen to the Kinks or something.

d) Nine Months: I have this frighteningly clear memory of watching this movie when it first came out (I was ten), and being completely terrified/disgusted/creeped-out by the scene where Hugh Grant and hella-preggers Julianne Moore attempt to have creepy pregnant sex. "EWWW!!!! THAT'S WHAT GROWN-UPS DO???" thought baby Laura Jane.

e) American Dreamz: This is literally one of the worst movies I've ever seen in my life. However, Hugh Grant and Mandy Moore's sexual chemistry is kind of off-the-charts, and totally hot.

f) Music & Lyrics: Alls I have to say is, POP GOES MY HEART:

Hugh Grant: to me, you are gold and silver, I'm afraid. Much love, (Laura Jane)

nogoodforme superlatives: Dream "Blank-for-Blank" Designer Collabo

Flea for Puma (or Saucony, or Adidas, or whatever) + Mary Timony for some big company that makes teapots (except Crate & Barrel, 'cause I don't really care for Crate & Barrel)

When I'm not on vacay at my parents' house and spending many hours a day watching cable while drinking Dunkin Donuts caramel coffee in a big cushiony chair, I'm a bit of a gym rat (or at least a jog-around-the-Silverlake-Reservoir-at-dusk rat). And yet, I somehow never have hot running shoes, mostly because I don't care all that much about my feet looking amazing while I'm working out. But if Flea designed sneakers, my feet would look amazing all the time: I'd wear said sneakers not only to 24 Hour Fitness and the Silverlake Reservoir, but to coffee shops and bars and dinner parties and beaches, and probably even to sleep. I'm guessing he'd want his sneaker line to be basketball shoes, and that works, because basketball is basically the same as running (in my head). It would be rad if he took his inspiration from that outer-space-superhero costume/unitard thing shown above (designed by Els Beusen during an internship for Susan Cianciolo), but I'd also be into basketball shoes made of stuffed animals (like the pants Flea wore in the videos for "Higher Ground" and "Bust a Move" by Young MC). I'm sure they'd give me superhuman strength, and then I'd run all the way up the Pacific Coast Highway and challenge Flea to a game of pick-up basketball and then we'd go surfing and afterward I'd treat his whole family to dinner at the vegan restaurant of their choice. Oh what a grand day that would be.

And when I'm not playing basketball at Flea's house, I like to drink a wicked lot of tea. In the past few months I've figured out the secret formula for making the best cup ever; it involves Choice Organic Earl Grey and unsweetened soymilk and this slightly malty raw honey I get by the gallon at Nature Mart. I drink it from a big pink mug with a ceramic baby cupcake protruding from the handle, and the only thing that could make the whole ritual more perfect would be if I had a really gorgeous teapot. I'm imagining that a Mary Timony-designed teapot would look something like the beauteous Demakersvan Lucky Charms pot shown above, but instead of the bone-whiteness there'd be really intricate illustrations of her song lyrics. Like, the "Musik and Charming Melodee" teapot would be handpainted with pretty little peacocks and tigers and lambs and monkeys and lions and ocelots, while the "Sharpshooter" teapot could show various woodland creatures murdering Ted Nugent. The entire collection would be way appropes for Spirit Animal House Party 2: The Pajama Jam, when we all drink our Cubby Wubby Womb Room Tea and curl up in our sleeping bags and tell sexy ghost stories till the campfire goes out.

BTW, here's what else I'd like Mary Timony to design:

-packaging for Vosges chocolate bars
-the cover for my second novel
-a quilt for my bed
-satin ballet flats
-the house I'll buy someday when I become a grown-up
-the treehouse I'll move into someday in case I never quite become a grown-up

(Liz)

Rick Owens for the Whitney Museum or Chateau Marmont or something like that

I only suggest Rick Owens because he's only my favorite designer on the planet, and I have as much of a chance of owning one of his superbly expensive jackets as I do trying to get monkeys to fly out of my butt. But am I a jerk for thinking that him doing a just slightly more accessible line for some place just slightly more accessible but still kinda skewed would be the bomb? Like, the atomic bomb? He could do a line of handbags and messenger bags for an art museum or a slightly bondage-y lamp for a hotel and I'd probably go out and get it. Yeah, I know he does Lilies and DRKSHDW, but it's just not the same! (Insert foot stomping noise here.) In the meantime, I'll just go to his Hudson Street boutique and stare at that awesome fog thingie in the wall, chat with the incongrously friendly staff there and salivate over the clothes. Oh, Rick, why you gotta treat a girl so bad? (Kat)

Vito Acconci/Acconci Studio for the nogoodforme.com HQ

Once nogoodforme.com fully attains its (her? Is nogoodforme.com as a thing female, like a ship?) goal of Total Media Domination, it/she will definitely need an HQ to base its quadrillions of mind-blowingly revolutionary and/or straight-up killer enterprises out of. This is something I often fantasize about: showing up for work every morning at the world's avant-wackiest office environment wearing vintage Schiaparelli and a ruby headdress. The Urinals will be blaring on the jukebox, and I'll knock back cans of Diet Vanilla Coke and pummel Elizabeth Barker with a nerf gun when she spills her frozen lychee/goji berry margarita all over the Fender Rhodes I'm noodling around on as Kat teleconferences with Richard Branson about the new nogoodforme boutique hotel we're opening up on Jupiter.

Clearly, the only designer anywhere near Hella Conceptual enough to provide Kat, Liz & I with the workspace we deserve is Vito Acconci of Acconci Studio, an ex-performance artist (most notorious for Seedbed, a piece wherein he hid beneath a ramp in an art gallery and masturbated while delivering his sexual fantasies about the visitors walking above him through a loudspeaker) turned industrial/interior/product/whatevy designer who I wholeheartedly believe is the most innovative practicing anybody existing on Planet Earth in fiscal 2008 (except for nogoodforme.com, obvs). Vito Acconci is a Capricorn/Aquarius cusp, which is a weird and unfathomable thing to be, and totally explains why he has become the Mad Scientist of Architecture. Seen below are some of Acconci Studio's most insane and exciting creations:

(from left: the Cymatic Car, the engineering of which I don't understand and therefore cannot explain to you; interior of the United Bamboo flagship in Tokyo; the Mobius seating unit)

Obviously awesome. Now, Vito, here you will see the rough prototype I have cooked up for the nogoodforme.com HQ, accompanied by some notes and specifications:

MUST-HAVES (as seen in image):

1. Totally fly and ergonomic desk units; I used the Eames unit and Magis Julian chair to get my point across, but I know we can do a lot better.
2. Some sort of Habitrail-inspired network of secret and/or non-secret passageways.
3. Many swings.
4. A jukebox.
5. A frozen margarita machine.
6. A Diet Coke-centric soda machine (Diet Coke, Coca-Cola Zero, Diet Vanilla Coke, Diet Cherry Coke, Diet Coke with Lime, etc.) for Liz & I. A soda fountain is also acceptable.
7. A bouncy castle.

MUST-HAVES, CONTINUED (not pictured in image, but equally necessary):

1. A bookcase with a rolling ladder.
2. A recessed bed a la John Lennon's in HELP!
3. A dumbwaiter.
4. A statue of our spirit animals executed in the Greco-Roman style.
5. Eco-friendly and all that.
6. A chalkboard wall.
7. A weeping willow tree must be growing in the centre of the space. Possibly, one of the many swings we require can hang from its branches.
8. The bathroom should look pretty much exactly like something by Yayoi Kusama, but preferably cooler and way more Acconci'd out.

I'll follow up with further details and suggestions once I've made my first billion. See you around, Vito Acconci! (Laura)

nogoodforme Superlatives: Favorite Record Covers

Sonic Youth, Goo / Joy Division, Unknown Pleasures / Merzbow, Dolphin Sonar

These are my three favorite record covers of all time, conveniently broken down for your perusal:

Sonic Youth, Goo: I'm one of those people who prefer it when Sonic Youth slums it as pop musicians as opposed to being all noise-y and art-damaged and intellectual or whatever. They write really great pop songs when they want to, and I wish they would write more. Goo is them at their most sell-outist, pop-ist, fun-ist and trash-ist, and I have always loved this record for using this kind of tawdry Raymond Pettibon drawing, which epitomizes what I wanted out of love when I was a young adolescent: deadpan desperation and aloof cool. Now I want things to be more like the cover of Mary Timony's Mountains or Joanna Newsom's Ys (another one of my favorite record covers, actually), but we won't talk about that here.
Joy Division, Unknown Pleasures: I think this is just a triumph of perfect design. This record cover absolutely fits the music: minimal, dark, cold, mysterious and forbidding. It is absolutely iconic: its central motif has not only been reggaefied for a Delia's t-shirt, but it has also made it onto the sole of a sneaker. There are very few record covers that can say that. I pretty much admire nearly everything Factory Records ever designed and almost every record they released, but I think this is a masterpiece of minimalism, both in sound and design.
Merzbow, Dolphin Sonar: This record just came out today and already the cover is a favorite. I mean, really, look at it. It's genius! It is so cute. Don't you love dolphins? They look like really friendly aliens with little radio waves coming out of their brains. It's cuter than most babies! The music, however, is not cute: Merzbow is just brutal, but a very innovative, very idiosyncratic brutal, using elements of psychedelia, free jazz, experimental and straight up loud noise to make some of the nuttiest music ever. This record is actually an angry call against dolphin slaughtering in Japan and is consequently a bit scary to listen to -- it makes you want your mommy by about the third "track." That's okay. Just hold onto the record and keep your eyes on the cute dolphins. They'll pull you through. They have sonar, after all. (Kat)

Practically every Sonic Youth record ever

My favorite album cover is Blood Sugar Sex Magik by Red Hot Chili Peppers: It's black and white and roses all over, and the photography's by Gus Van Sant, and even the parental advisory looks good on John Frusciante's chin. The tongues tweak me out a little but that's all part of the fun. I love it above all else and that's all there is to say. The End.

So the runner-up prize goes to "Sonic Youth album covers in general," or, more specifically: any Sonic Youth recording that was not put out on Sonic Youth Recordings ('cause that SYR ish gives me hives and makes me hate Sonic Youth like I fleetingly tend to do once every six years or so). The coolest/uncanniest thing is how they always look exactly how the record sounds: Bad Moon Rising sounds exactly like a creepy scarecrow with its head on fire, Confusion is Sex sounds exactly like a bad squiggly drawing of Thurston Moore, Evol sounds exactly like a creepy still from a Richard Kern movie. Maybe those guys missed their calling as art directors.

Speaking of which: Whenever I get around to actually making a book, I want the cover designed by some really ace Sonic Youth ripoff artist. A few years ago I was trying to put together this comp zine with a working title of "Cars & Songs Project," and all I knew about the cover was I needed it to be a total copycat of the Goo art. And let me take this opportunity to formally apologize to all the writers who submitted their gorgeous stories to that project, only to have them languish away in my old iBook. I'm sorry, everyone! I'm sorry, Kat! Yours was one of my favorites. Maybe someday when we're not in the middle of throwing a party or curating a photo show or making cupcakes or engineering interplanetary spacecraft or inventing a new species of equine animal, nogoodforme.com can move on into the fiction-publishing racket. We'll see. (Liz)

The Who Sell Out, and Laura Jane sells out the Beatles

My actual favorite record cover is Revolver (aren't you glad I included a link to what the cover of Revolver looks like? I'm sure nobody would have any idea what I was talking about if I hadn't). This is because the cover of Revolver is objectively the best record cover of all time. I think that on some level, everybody in the Universe's favorite record cover is Revolver (except for boring Normies, who would probably choose Abbey Road instead). Nobody, least of all me, needs to hear some girl on some blog explain why Revolver is a great record cover. If you can't figure out for yourself why Revolver is a great record cover, you are either a toddler or stupid. So that's that.

There are a lot of great record covers in this world. A lot of them are swirly and tacky and psychedelic. A lot of them are muted and simple and subdued. And one of them is The Who Sell Out by the Who, which is obnoxious and sort of dumb, totally hilar, a really flawless representation of "who" (HA HA) the people in that band are, hot dude-erific, nauseatingly gross, vaguely annoying, ugly, mad cool, sexy, unsexy, puerile, and, above all else, totally genius.

I don't like the Who as much as a) a lot of people like the Who like the Who, b) Matthew Friedberger likes the Who, c) the Who like the Who (I think), or d) I probably should like the Who based on the bulk of my musical taste. But I do, of course, like the Who, and if there's one thing I like about the Who more than all the other things I like about the Who, it's that the Who are never sad. They're never whiny or self-pitying or bored or upset. They're a really positive band. They smile a lot, and they like fun. They love fun! Even Keith Moon was somehow able to manage a raging substance abuse problem with maintaining a totally great attitude and never, like, coming down or whatever.

Maybe this album was supposed to make some sort of high-concept political statement about the ideological strengths and/or weaknesses of "selling out", but if that's the case, it definitely fails. Mostly it's just kind of funny and cute, and it reminds me of why I think dudes are so cool and hot and great. Even though the picture of Pete Townshend applying a mammoth-sized tube of deodorant (for the record: I WILL NEVER FIGURE OUT HOW TO SPELL THE WORD "deodorant"; I had to Google it!) to his nasty stinky Pete Townshend armpit will never cease to trigger the ole gag reflex, that's A-OK. I love him for looking so ugly and lame and creepy on the cover of his own album. Can you imagine that doofus Keith Richards doing the same? As if. Even the Beatles are too cool for deodorant application pix.

In short: this album cover is cool, the Who are chill people (I guess), and Revolver is the greatest record cover of all time. Pardon me while I go fantasize about making out with John Entwistle in matching animal-print. Hot. (Laura)

nogoodforme Superlatives: Last Meals Before Shuffling Off the Mortal Coil

The question of what I would eat as my last meal EVER before EXPIRING has actually never occurred to me, so it has been quite fascinating and slightly morbid to research into this topic. Who knew that breakfast food would be so popular? And that the logistics of it could be so complicated? (I'm limited to food in the prison system? Sucks!) Interestingly, my initial instinct was breakfast food, since brunches of all sorts are pretty much my favorite meals of all time. Perhaps one would derive a weird comfort from pancakes, waffles, omelets and the like, not to mention an equally odd sense of starting anew with a set of foods usually consumed at the top of one's day. But then again, who wants to face the grim reaper with a serious case of food coma? So, actually, taking liberties with the question and assuming I can have ANYTHING, my official answer to the last meal conundrum would be something sentimental: my mom's incredible Thai noodle soup, made with thin rice noodles perfectly prepared in delicious broth, with some leafy green vegetables, spring onions, perhaps some shrimp or even some barbequed duck (sorry, vegetarians), and bean sprouts. Asian all the way, dudes, even riding into the eternal sunset. (Kat)

Let us now be piggy-wigs:

El aperitivo: There is a certain kind of egg roll - often found at Chinese restaurants likely to earn about two-and-a-half stars in your local paper - in which the cabbage possesses a nearly hot-pink hue and the shell is the most beautifully crispy/golden/borderline-greasy thing you will ever know if your life. I would like many of those. Maybe with some wonton soup.

Main course: Just lots of rice, please. I'm mad for rice; it's totally the food I would choose if ever forced to choose a food I'd need to eat for all eternity. In high school I waited till I got home from school to eat lunch, just so's I could have a big bowl of Minute white rice with some really sub-par salsa. THAT IS SO GROSS, but I miss it. Anyway, my last meal rices of choice would be: (1) veggie fried rice from the same Chinese restaurant where I got the egg rolls; (2) rice pilaf homemade by one of my aunts on the Armenian side of the fam, preferably with lots of onions and green peppers mixed in; (3) and maybe that purple rice they've got at Toi, with some yummy garlicky pumpkin. (But that last one might just be because a little while ago I was watching The Hills scene parodied in the James Franco video I recently posted, and they're eating at Toi, and I generally want to be like Justin Bobby in every way possible. He's so mysterious!)

Le dessert: Please bring me a big silver platter piled with the following: cannoli from the Italian bakery where I worked in high school; a really giant hostess cupcake (as seen below); a few Cadbury Creme Eggs; brown-bread gelato from Scoops; a bunch of Sprinkles cupcakes, including the Cinnamon Sugar and Chocolate Coconut flavors; rose-petal macarons from Boule; marzipan from somewhere in the North End in Boston; burnt sugar ice cream from Christina's in Cambridge; and some chocolate trifle made by my mom.

Oh, and I'd also like a neverending glass of crushed-icy Coke, served in one of those curvy Coca-Cola glasses and maybe with a shot of cherry and/or vanilla. And some fine red wine! (Liz)

CUPCAKES TIL I PUKE

I really do hope that I am to some extent able to control the circumstances of my death. There is nothing in the world more terrifying to me than the prospect of dying without ever having time to process it; that's creepy as hell and definitely contradicts my whole "total design" agenda. Ideally, I would like to "totally design" my exit from this cruel, cruel world, though I suppose in this scenario I am being executed for some totally heinous crime and therefore may be limited in my fantasy-death options. However, you gotta do what what you can, Man, so here goes:

I am being executed for murdering a decidedly evil villain in a really cool and creative way (I'm a big fan of "smothering said villain in honey, tying him/her to a rooftop, and leaving him/her for the vultures"). There was tremendous media hoopla surrounding this murder, since the fictional jerk-off who I killed was such a horrific human being that 75% of Americans actually consider me a hero. As I am lead into the death-prison by a sexy prison guard, protestors (including but not limited to Michael Showalter, the Friedbergers, Hugh Grant (who gives me a big sloppy farewell kiss), Sir Paul McCartney, Kat, and Liz) chant anthems of support and encouragement in my honor- "SAVE LAURA JANE," or "LAURA JANE SAVES" and all that. I grin at them and flash the peace sign. Tears run down their faces. I am wearing false eyelashes, a really killer feathered headdress, and this exact Rodarte dress.

Sexy Prison Guard leads me into what I'll call my "Farewell Cell". "Yer Blues" by the Beatles and "Rest in Peace" by Curt Boettcher are playing on a loop over the P.A. system. I sit down at a prison-grade Formica table. To my left is a Super Big Gulp of Diet Coke with tons of ice. To my right is a pitcher of white wine sangria with peaches, pineapple, lychees and maraschino cherries, a pack of Marlboro Reds, and a hot lighter. Directly in front of me are 100 cupcakes. For once in my life, I don't have to humor anybody by choking down "real food" in order to justify my intense desire to eat 100 cupcakes. Death is sweet. "Bon appetit, Laura Jane!" I say to myself. And then I dig in.

CUPCAKE BREAKDOWN:

- Twenty (20) vanilla spelt cupcakes from Babycakes NYC
-Five (5) carrot spelt cupcakes from Babycakes
-Ten (10) chocolate spelt cupcakes from Babycakes
-Ten (10) red velvet spelt cupcakes from Babycakes
-Twenty (20) caramel cupcakes with peanut butter buttercream filled with caramel and peanuts
-Five (5) pineapple right-side-up cupcakes
-Five (5) cookies and cream cupcakes
-Five (5) pistachio rosewater cardamom cupcakes
-Ten (5) raspberry lemonade cupcakes
- Fifteen (15) strawberry jam filled cupcakes

Then I would chainsmoke three cigarettes, swig one last gulp of wine, pet a puppy (if possible), and die with a smile on my face and seventeen newly-acquired cavities. (Laura)

nogoodforme superlatives: Favorite Children's Books

The Little Prince by Antoine de Saint-Exupery / Little Women by Louisa May Alcott

I am torn between The Little Prince and Little Women being my favorite children's book of all time, so I'm just going to give them both accolades and love here because choosing between them is too much like deciding who I think is hotter: Viktor or Rolf? Gael Garcia Bernal or Diego Luna? Chuck Bass or Nate Archibald? Why choose? I refuse to fall into false dichotomies! The Little Prince has my heart because it's one of the most heart-felt books of all time. It is intensely philosophical, decidedly melancholy and has taught me more about life and people and shaped my worldview, politically, emotionally and spiritually. It may be one of the most spiritual books I've ever read, teaching everyone the wisdom of seeing with the heart and not just with the eyes and the importance of relationships and love and constancy. Every time I lose sight of what's important in life, I read this and put myself on the right path. Plus, the Little Prince himself is kind of a fashion icon, no? He was a dapper little dude, with his scarf and his rose and his fear of baobab trees. No wonder I went through a metrosexual phase a few years ago.

Little Women is nearly not so sophisticatedly existential and sometimes it's drearily Victorian, but the story of four sisters is ultimately girl culture at its best. One of the most resonant statements in the book happens early on, when oldest sister Meg declares, "We make our own fun." (If that's not nogoodforme.com, I don't know what is!) I've written whole papers in college on Little Women where I deconstructed Jo March's sexuality or the gift economies circulating within the story -- but everyt ime I read it, I still get caught up in the March sisters' little triumphs and woes on a visceral emotional level. Plus, very few books get the complexities, rivalries and intense love between sisters, right, and it's a sentimental favorite of mine for this reason. (I have three sisters myself and there is definitely a Meg, an Amy, a Jo and a Beth in our little dynamic. I'll leave you to guess who is who.) Even the preachiness touches me because Little Women, besides being pro-girl in its way and intensely democratic and American in character, wants you to be a good person -- to work hard, enjoy life, love your friends and family, find meaning and a place in the world and contribute to your community. Maybe that's the appeal of reading children's books as an adult -- sometimes life gets so confusing and complex and overwhelming, but then you read a book like Little Women or The Little Prince and it all becomes so much simpler and true. (Kat)

Selected Works by E.L. Konigsburg

E.L. Konigsburg is such a fricking-fracking genius; it is complete and utter nuttiness. From the Mixed-Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler (or, The Ultimate Art History Mystery) has long since been my favorite book of all-time; whenever I tell people this, they always freak out and claim that it's their favorite book of all-time too, when it quite obviously isn't. Yes, I get it: it's amazing, cool, classic, charming, perfect and basically a really killer favorite book to have, but before you go and run all over town hollering about how it's your number one fave, I have some questions to ask you:

1. Is your love for this book so intense that you have read every single book E.L. Konigsburg ever wrote, hoping and often succeeding in re-capturing its literary magic?
2. Are you planning to name your first-born daughter Claudia Kincaid Faulds-Showalter?
3. Have you seriously grappled with whether or not you should get an upper-arm tattoo of the scratchy cover drawing of Claudia & Jamie Kincaid standing out front of the Met?

No, no, and no, I'm sure. But that's fine. I just get a little defensive about this subject. From FTMUFOMBEF's very first sentence, quite possibly the best stringing-together of fifteen words there ever was ("Claudia knew that she could never pull off the old-fashioned kind of running away"), this book shaped about 80% of my entire identity as a scrappy little seven-year-old Laura, forever implanting in me the desire to rebel, hide, seek, scheme, caper, and escape (but with sense, sensibility and tact, no less). Some of my favorite memories from all life happened during my freshman year of college, when my roommates and I would get stoned out of a gimcrack "gravity bong" fashioned from a Tupperware trashcan and two-liter soda bottle, and I would read chapters aloud to them from this book while listening to Forever Changes by Love. That's the life, yo.

Since I have at this point consumed the entirety of E.L. Konigsburg's catalogue, I will take this opportunity to recommend two lesser-known works of hers:

1. Jennifer, Hecate, Macbeth, William McKinley and Me, Elizabeth:

Jennifer is one of the most tragic and hilarious literary heroines I've ever had the pleasure to meet. She's a flawlessly-crafted fourth-grade weirdo type- frankly, the similarities between brazen, space cadettish Jennifer and nine-year-old LJ hit a little too close to home when I re-read this book last year after a ten-odd year gap. Jennifer is the only fictional character I relate to more than Chandler Bing, or maybe they're tied. Maybe when people ask me to describe myself from now on I'll just say, "Jennifer meets Chandler," and if they don't know what I mean, that's their own stupid fault. I especially love how Jennifer compulsively lies to her new friend Elizabeth (who narrates the book) about how she is a real live witch. When I was nine, I would sit at back of my classroom with my friend Felicity, scribble frantically in my notebook, and tell her that I was transmitting messages from aliens in outer-space who used me as a medium to communicate with Earthlings.

2. My Father's Arcane Daughter:

For some stupid reason, the recent reissue of this novel has been renamed My Father's Daughter, perhaps because the word "arcane" is simply too arcane of a vocab word for bratty, hyper-stimulated 2008-brand loser-kids to digest. I hate them all. This book is poignant and elegantly written; I read the whole thing in one afternoon last winter and pretty much had my mind blown. My favorite thing about E.L. Konigsburg is how she never dumbs down her prose for a grade-school audience: she uses two-dollar adjectives, hella metaphors, and nontraditional sentence-structure as she pleases, never condescending to her single-digit reader. The balance between the necessary simplicity of kid-lit and Konigsburg's ability to write creatively within those limitations is what makes her work so endlessly striking.

And some other Konigsburg Killers for the road:
(George) (this one's about LSD! And schizophrenia!)
Altogether, One at a Time (short stories to cry by)
The Second Mrs. Giocanda (like the The DaVinci Code if it wasn't totally lame and lowest common denominator; actually, I barely even know if this is true, since I've never read The DaVinci Code. Alls I mean is that this book is a fictionalized account of some stuff that happened to Leonardo DaVinci)
The Outcasts of 19 Schuyler Place (I will spend the rest of my life trying to figure out if Margaret Rose's "uncles" are actually "lovers"; this novel also features an Airedale terrier named Tartufo, which is THE CUTEST DOG NAME EVER!!!) (Laura)

Bread and Jam for Frances by Russell & Lillian Hoban

Here's a fun little fact about Liz Barker: Unless I'm on holiday or dining out, I eat the same stuff every single day. Like, every morning I eat the same breakfast, every afternoon I eat the same lunch, and every night I eat the same dinner. Which maybe makes me sound either insane or insanely boring, but I'm completely comfortable with being a creature of foodie habit.

You know who else is a creature of foodie habit? Frances, the bibbed-dress-wearing badger created by Russell and Lillian Hoban, whose books include A Bargain for Frances, Bedtime for Frances, and - my favorite of all favorites - Bread and Jam for Frances. But while my big weird eating-the-same-stuff-all-the-time involves lots of good things like kale and Greek yogurt and chili garlic sauce and farmers market nectarines, all Frances wants to eat is bread and jam, meal after meal after meal. Not very health-smart, Frances! I hope at least Mother's giving you whole-grain bread and a jam made without high-fructose corn syrup!

Although I adore Frances, especially when she makes up funny little fashion-oriented songs about veal cutlets ("What do cutlets wear before they're breaded? / Flannel nightgowns? Cowboy boots? / Furry jackets? Sailor suits?"), my favorite character in Bread and Jam has to be Albert, Frances's schoolmate, best friend, and daily lunch partner. Albert's a man (or man-badger) who's totally passionate about food, as evidenced by his borderline-obsessive approach to lunch preparation:

Albert took two napkins from his lunch box.
He tucked one napkin under his chin.
He spread the other one on his desk like a tablecloth.
He arranged his lunch neatly on the napkin.
With his spoon he cracked the shell of the hard-boiled egg.
He peeled away the shell and bit off the end of the egg.
He sprinkled salt on the yolk and set the egg down again.
He unscrewed his thermos-bottle cup and filled it with milk.
Then he was ready to eat his lunch.
He took a bite of sandwich, a bite of pickle, a bite of hard-boiled egg, and a drink of milk.
Then he sprinkled more salt on the egg and went around again.
Albert made the sandwich, the pickle, the egg, and the milk come out even.

Seriously, dudes, when it gets to the part with Albert tucking his napkin under his chin, I practically start sobbing from the over-the-top cuteness. I mean, look at him, for Pete's sake!

Not to give away the ending or anything, but you'll be relieved to know that ultimately Frances does come around to trying other foods:

The next day when the bell rang for lunch, Albert said, "What do you have today?"
"Well," said Frances, laying a paper doily on her desk and setting a tiny vase of violets in the middle of it, "let me see." She arranged her lunch on the doily.
"I have a thermos bottle with cream of tomato soup," she said.
"And a lobster-salad sandwich on thin slices of white bread.
I have celery, carrot sticks, and black olives, and a little cardboard shaker of salt for the celery.
And two plums and a tiny basket of cherries.
And vanilla pudding with chocolate sprinkles and a spoon to eat it with."
"That's a good lunch," said Albert. "I think it's nice that there are all different kinds of lunches and breakfasts and dinners and snacks. I think eating is nice."

I think eating is nice too, Albert! God, we're so psychically in tune. And I appreciate Frances's attention to detail in her lunch set-up, with that sweet little vase of violets and all. (Was that a tip from Real Simple, Frances?) But even more than that, I love Albert's purple plaid pants and matching cup, which I bet he totally planned the night before. (Liz)

nogoodforme superlatives: Favorite Secrets to Lovely Skin

American Beauty Beauty Boost Overnight Radiance cream, kohls.com

Outside of perfume and eyebrows, skincare is pretty much the only genuine beauty interest I have -- otherwise I am the laziest human on earth when it comes to grooming. (I barely brush my hair once a day.) I have ventured far and wide in my quest for that ultimate transformative product/treatment -- obscure, expensive Japanese lines, totally organic and natural ones, super-luxe European-only ones, high-end dermatologist-created ones, weird treatments utilizing the enzymes gathered from the internal organs of small farm creatures. (You think I'm joking on that last one, don't you?) Strangely, though, the ultimate best product that I absolutely could not live without comes from a humble Midwestern mid-range department store chain whose only location in the NYC area requires me to travel using the PATH train into the glorious wilds of New Jersey. And PATH train-travel I do, because in the strangest alchemy of alchemies, my skin absolutely adores American Beauty's Beauty Boost Overnight Radiance cream, which is sold at Kohls. It's supposed to "soothe, firm and brighten." I suppose it does those things, but what it really does is keep me from breaking out, ever, and keeps my skin smooth and happy as a clam. (And when I go without it, my skin goes berserk in a bad way, like today on this vacation when I stupidly forgot my jar of it and now I'm like, "MOM, I NEED TO GO TO KOHL'S NOW!!!!!!") Plus, it seems to keep me looking fairly youthful at my advanced age, because a few days ago I went to my local equestrian center for a riding lesson and the other girls asked me what college I went to and what my major was. I love that. My braids might have had something to do with it, though, and I'm sure being Asian contributes in some way. (Kat)

St. Ives Apricot Scrub: The "The Beatles" of Skincare

(It's the latest and the greatest of them all, I'll have you know.)

(from left to right: St. Ives Apricot Scrub; actual apricots)

If you've ever had a zit in your life, you probably shouldn't read what I'm about to write because you might start resenting me a little. I do understand: I feel the exact same way about all the people in the world who have never had insomnia or a headache or pulsatile tinnitus. We all have our sore spots, and mine sure ain't on my face! I'm seriously blessed, having been borne from a long line of flawlessly-complexioned, wrinkle-free Southern European babes who swear by, um, nothing. What's your secret?, people occasionally ask me, and I feel guilty about admitting that I don't even wash my face, which I never-ever did, until about three weeks ago.

Three weeks ago, I took action, got some initiative together, and did something for my skin. I mean, it couldn't hurt, right? I decided to find out what all the St. Ives Apricot Scrub-related fuss is all about- said inexpensive sandy scrapey goonk is the O.G "guaranteed to make your skin awesome!" product, lauded by Allure magazine and approximately 86% of Americans as the official best thing ever forever. You have to start somewhere.

The first time I put this weird cement-mix on my face, it hurt me, and a few hours later, I looked at my face in the mirror and my skin looked WORSE THAN IT HAD EVER LOOKED IN MY LIFE. In the space of three-odd hours, I'd developed the same amount of blemishes that I've had in the past seven years. Plus I had some super-sexy red splotches splattered here and there. I was the Jackson Pollock of faces. I learned quickly, however, that this is just what happens with exfoliation: first it makes your skin nasty, because it brings all the crap that has been lurking beneath it since you were five years old to the surface. But it all pays off in the end- you just gotta believe!

My skin looks better than ever, and it feels really nice to the touch. As soft as an apricot, I guess you could say. Now when people inquire about my skincare regimen, I can say "I exfoliate tri-weekly," and they'll won't get all snarky with me anymore.

PS: My goal is to graduate to Kiehl's Pineapple Papaya Face Care Scrub in due time, but I'm still so new to the whole skincare game that twenty-five bucks for face stuff seems like highway robbery! (Laura)

The Skin-Care Products Liz Can't Live Without

My biggest skin problem is that breaking-out-around-the-chin thing that I know taunts and torments many other ladies around my age. It's gotten waaaay better over the last couple of years, and for that I would like to thank: (1) switching from super-harsh facial cleansers to gentler/milder stuff, and (2) switching from creamy foundation to marvelous mineral makeup (I use Bare Escentuals; I love it). Also, sometime last year I started drinking coffee again for the first time since college, and my skin got noticeably clearer. I have no explanation for that, but it's kinda interesting, no?

So, these are the five skin-care products I swear by. Oh, and a couple years ago I went through a big phase of drinking that Get Gorgeous tea from Republic of Tea, and it seemed to help a lot, but at some point I fell out the habit and totally forgot about it. I'd say it's worth giving a whirl, though.

1. Cetaphil. This is that gentler/milder stuff I was speaking of. Pre-Cetaphil (but post-rip-your-face-off astringents & scrubs), I used some really nice cleansing milk stuff from Phytomer, but I'm convinced Cetaphil gets the job done just as well, at about a tenth of the price. I don't even buy actual Cetaphil; I just get a big huge tub of the generic Safeway version and it lasts like a year. Cetaphil = love.

2. Lush's Angels on Bare Skin (not shown above, 'cause it's just so weird-looking). I wrote about this stuff before, and here's what I said: "It's made from ground almonds and rose and lavender - with a bunch of fat little dried lavender buds right in the jar - and it's got a really fun spongy consistency that feels so nice on your skin. The product's not supersmooth, so I like to put a dab on my palm and then swirl it around with a few drops of warm water before smearing it on. It makes your face feel so soft and fresh and most likely won't irritate even the most irritable of skin (such as mine)." STILL ALL TRUE.

3. Aubrey Organics Green Tea Rejuvenating Mask. I use this probably twice a week to miraculously draw away all those evil impurities that beautiful/toxic Los Angeles likes to soak into my skin. It's also good to use as a spot treatment when you're breaking out. And Aubrey's a great company that does lots of great things for this great planet of ours. Buy the mask here.

4. Skin Amnesty Restore/Protect Serum. Apparently I'm getting to that age where it's a smart idea to start using skin-care products that promise to "restore the skin's youthful appearance." (How'd that happen? I thought I was 12!) This stuff's real nice but a little pricey ($80 for 1.67 ounces), and I might soon be ditching it for my recently discovered Kiehl's Abyssine Serum, which costs about half as much and seems to serve the same purpose.

5. Caudalie Grape Water. I first heard about the magical grape water when Misha mentioned it in their nogoodforme interview a little while back. Now I'm addicted and want to spray it on my face 8 million times a day. I usually use it to help my makeup set, but it's also purrrrrfect when it's about a thousand degrees out and you need a shot of something cool and hydrating and delightfully raisin-scented. Keep it in the fridge!

nogoodforme superlatives: TV characters we most relate to

Buffy, c'est moi

Let me make it clear that I do not relate to Buffy because I am blonde and have special Slayer skills and fight vampires when I'm not blogging. I clearly am neither of those things. I related to the Buffster because of the following reasons:

1. She was petite and constantly underestimated because of it.
2. She had a penchant for stylish yet affordable boots.
3. She was a former cheerleader.
4. She had a thing for dudes with a dark side.
5. She had a stuffed pig named Mr. Gordo and I had a stuffed dog named Bocker.
6. She never met a quip she didn't like.
7. She was burdened with great responsibility and sometimes felt kind of isolated because of it.
8. Ever since she used the phrase "a world of no" in the Spike flashback episode (probably my third or fourth favorite episode ever), I haven't been able to stop with it since.
9. She hates driving.

I just realized my part of this entry will make no sense unless you are somehow a Buffyphile. Which is okay -- to start from the beginning of my Buffy journey would just be too intense and would probably make your RSS reader explode. Buffy rules for so many reasons -- the feminist reasons, the awesome action reasons, the epic romance reasons, the high school alienation reasons, the fantastically witty dialogue reasons -- but the show itself is a meta-lesson for never judging a book by its cover. Who knew that a blonde Valley girl could develop such reserves of character, fortitude and a genuine reckoning with power and leadership? Who knows what's hiding in your stylish and affordable boots? (Kat)

Laura Jane Faulds: the Chandler Bing of every group of six she's ever been in

A few weeks ago, I invented a really cool game called "Decide what zodiac signs the Friends characters would be." It was really fun, but sadly, it's the kind of game you can only play once. And you poor unfortunate souls out there can't even play it all, because I already figured out the definitive list, and it goes like this:

Joey Tribbiani: Leo
Phoebe Buffay: Aquarius
Monica Geller: (the world's most obvious) Capricorn
Rachel Green: Taurus
Ross Geller: Libra
Chandler Bing: Cancer

Once I figured out that Chandler Bing was a Cancer (as am I), all the puzzle pieces of my life came together in an instant: Chandler Bing is me. Or maybe: I am Chandler Bing.

My realization that Chandler Bing is a Cancer could potentially be dispelled by some Friends episode out there that explicitly states when Chandler Bing's birthday falls and therefore proves that he isn't a Cancer at all, but if this happens to be the case, all it really reflects is a major error in judgment on behalf of the Friends writing team.

Chandler Bing and Laura Jane Faulds: in the vernacular of the man himself, what don't we have in common? For one thing, we're totally not even the tiniest bit sarcastic at all. For another: nothing ever works out for us! It's a tough life, always getting stuck being the Comic Relief. We're both well-liked, often loved, even, but nobody really wants to be us. In fact, they're actively happy that they aren't! They can tell how insanely difficult it is to be a moody, volatile Cancerian class clown, and are grateful that the burden has been placed upon us and not them. They float through their easy little Earth sign lives, laughing at our jokes, but never really getting it. Chandler Bing is so misunderstood.

(Also: we're both self-deprecating.)

Something I really love about Chandler Bing is how he hates dogs; personally, I love dogs, but I GET IT. I always have some unpopular opinion about something that people absolutely live to pick on me for. One that comes to mind is a severe loathing of tomatoes, which people love to tell me I actually like, but look: they're gross, I'm sorry, I hate them. I also wear a lot more vests than the average person, and the parallels between Chandler's quitting smoking against his will and the hellish experience I anticipate having when the time comes for me to toss out my Benson & Hedges are just too damned striking for comfort.

The upside of being A Chandler, however, is that in the end, his story wraps up more sweetly than anyone's. It was a difficult journey, but in the end: Chandler Bing wins big. This gives me hope. Some Chandler Bing psychoanalysis: I think that from Chandler's perspective, Monica Geller is the girl of his dreams because she is the only human being on the planet more neurotic than he, which gives him a sense of purpose, value and serenity. Chandler & Monica's romance is heart-stabbingly beautiful; I actually cried at the moment when he proposed to her. I pray that one day, like Chandler, I will quit my job as a data processor to pursue my lifelong dream of working for an advertising firm and marry an obsessive-compulsive chef with a lovable older sibling. And if not, whatever. At least I have my funny bone to fall back on.

I'm really glad there are total losers in the world who spend their time doing things like compiling "Best of Chandler Bing" videos which they post to Youtube:

Liz Barker & Liz Lemon: Basically the same person

Actually, nevermind. I haven't even started this post yet and already I'm bored with trying to explain how I'm so much like Tina Fey on 30 Rock. (Although I will tell you that, if I weren't super-cheap, I'd totally buy all the hot dogs.) So instead of Liz-apalooza, I give you this little round-up of my most personally relatable characters from all the greatest shows in the history of television (excepting Taxi, The Love Boat, and Little House, each excluded here for various philosophical reasons).

Freaks and Geeks: Lindsay Weir. (Duh.)
My So-Called Life: Angela Chase. (Duh squared.)
Welcome Back, Kotter: Freddie "Boom Boom" Washington.
Six Feet Under: Federico, the conscientious & terminally cranky family man. Or maybe I'm the wacky hippie aunt who lives in Topanga Canyon and hangs out with Susie Bright. (These be the wild contradictions that dwell within my soul.)
Arrested Development: Michael Bluth. Incompetence exasperates me!
Weeds: More than most things in life, I want to be Gangsta Nancy Botwin a la Weeds S3, but probably I'm more like Celia's husband (post-firing but pre-softail-accident).
Veronica Mars: N/A, or maybe Mac. (Nerd alert!)
Rags to Riches: The overaccessorized, boy-crazy blonde one who loves Elvis too much.
Entourage: Val Kilmer as the pot-dealing sherpa.
The Office: Kelly Kapoor! I love you, Kelly Kapoor! And I love your blog too! Let's be blog friends! Fashion show at lunch!

Kelly Kapoor's Greatest Hits:

nogoodforme superlatives: Most Beloved Baubles

Laura Jane: She can't quite figure jewelry out

I'm really not much of an accessories fiend by nature. Jewelry makes me feel physically uncomfortable; I'm always hyper-conscious of how some weird piece of metal is hanging around my neck and, like, that's weird. Also, a lot of jewelry looks just plain dumb on me, especially earrings. My ears aren't pierced, but on the rare occasions that I do experiment with clip-ons, the results are ghastly. Anyone who can pull off short hair and earrings without looking like a second grade teacher is seriously a genius.

Anyway, despite my innate antipathy towards self-adornment, I have of course accumulated a semi-gargantuan collection of tacky baubles that I am constantly intimidated and confused by:

1. Panther Necklace: This looks really fly with my vintage Nike tank top when I want to do an East L.A thing. I wore it every day for the entire summer of 2006 because I was so excited to finally have found a piece of jewelry I could get on board with.

2. Weird coral chunky thing: This ginormous beaded extravaganza looks really killer with all black and my grey cotton Uniqlo romper, but totally revolting with anything else.

3. Dancing People pin: By some illustrator who probably deserves more credit than this; the only thing I could afford at the entire Dover Street Market.

4. Stars-and-stripes bangles: I brattily wore these on Canada Day; antagonism never goes out of style.

5. Spirit Animal pin: My spirit animal is not actually a hedgehog/wombat/mongoose/guinea pig, okay???

6. Heart-print bangle: Not counting my "Laura" nameplate necklace, this is by far and away my most worn piece of jewelry. It's sweet and girly, but in an understated way.

Kat: Horses, horses, horses

Okay, so it's not quite horse frenzy when it comes to my jewelry selections, but I never met an equine motif that I didn't like. Like Laura, I'm not much of a jewelry person, but the things I do wear are either 1. given to me by people I love or 2. have some sort of personal connection to my imaginative whimsies, and things like horses and leaves fall right into that because they remind me of growing up near farms in Illinois. I rarely wear something to "spruce up an outfit" -- I'm of the school that lets a boring outfit be boring, mostly because I'm lazy. Instead I think my relationship to jewelry borders on the superstitious -- my decisions to wear things are based more on weird inner workings than fashion, like, "Oh, I miss the trees in my backyard" so I wear the leaf necklace, or "I feel down," and then I wear something that makes a pretty noise. It leads to some aesthetic chaos, but I never feel that is a bad thing when it comes to fashion.

1. Silver cuff: This is the thing I wear pretty much all the time; I got it in Bangkok after a fierce round of bargaining with a very scrappy young lady. You can't really tell from the picture, but I love the pebbled texture. I like cuffs a lot in general -- they speak to my childhood affection for Wonder Woman and are kind of tough. Plus, my wrists are tiny and most bangles slip off too easily, but a cuff nicely hugs my wrists and stay on. Practicality rules!

2. Lots 'o leaves necklace from Forever 21: I don't care if this is Forever 21, this is pretty much my favorite necklace in the world. The leaves remind me of my favorite tree in my parents' backyard. It makes a cool noise when you shake it, too.

3. Charm bracelet: I got this from Target mostly because I love the picture of the horses on one of the charms. I had this kind of amazing dream with two horses in it once, and since then I've been in love with dual horse images and kind of want them on everything. Fashion-speaking, this bracelet has an old-school quality that I like, too. This also makes a cool noise when you shake it.

4. Skull-y bracelet: The truth is I'm such a goth at heart that I will always love things with skulls and skeletons on them, long before and after Hot Topic polluted the earth. I don't know where this came from because an ex-boyfriend gave it to me. It's got teeny skulls that kind of look like teeth from far away. Some people think that is gross, but whatever.

5. Art Deco earrings: I got these in like 1999 from the Chelsea flea market in New York or the antique market in my hometown -- I can't remember which. I can't believe I've had these for nine years!

6. Horses pin: One of my favorite things when I competed as an equestrian when I was young was all the little horse jewelry you get to wear. This sadly is not from that far back -- I am so not that cool at all -- but I picked this up from some country market back at home and wear it all the time as a brooch in unexpected places.

7. Mismatched earrings: These were my two favorite earrings. I used to have proper pairs of both, but I am a dolt and lost them. Orphaned earrings really make me sad and inadequate-feeling. I am putting a prayer in the universe that I find their twins soon.

8. Python skin cuff: Another cuff! Told you I loved them. I have two or three others, but the silver one and this one are my favorites.

Liz loves the little birdies (and wolves too)

(Let's do clockwise starting from the upper left corner, shall we?)

1. Okay, see that big gaudy piece of faux-gold that vaguely resembles the weird eye thing living in Kim Basinger's purse in My Stepmother is an Alien? That's actually a cuff. Like Kat, I'm crazy for cuffs and wish I had many more of them, preferably a little less garish than this one.

2. The cuff's sitting on a pile of bangles that I found in a bathroom cabinet in my second L.A. apartment. I have no idea who their rightful owner might be. If you can claim them, leave a comment here and I'll see if we can't work something out.

3. And then sneaking out from underneath the bangles is my Erica Weiner wolf tooth necklace that I bought from Bona Drag last year. (Go here to see a much more detailed shot.) This is probably my favorite piece of jewelry, though sometimes I'll be absentmindedly playing with it and get really freaked out that I'm touching a tooth that once lived inside a real animal's mouth.

4. I have no idea where I bought that little blue ring and I hardly ever wear it anymore, but I still dig on its glitteriness.

5. I hardly ever wear this sparkly-flower bracelet anymore either. I don't really like wearing bracelets. (Or earrings, for that matter, which is why you'll see none here. And I'm not too keen on rings either. I guess I'm just a necklace-and-cuff girl all the way.)

6. This shell-encrusted heart-shaped box isn't a piece of jewelry, but it's kind of bauble-like, no? I got it at an antique shop in Shell Beach last winter, and I keep all my bobby pins inside. I love Shell Beach and very intensely wish I were there right now.

7. I wear my golden dove necklace whenever I want to feel like Mary Timony's second solo record (The Golden Dove, duh), which is fairly often. It's probably her most California album, and on my second-ever visit to L.A. I made myself a tape that had that on one side and Cat Power's You Are Free on the other, and I labeled the case as You Are A Free & Golden Dove. I'm still pretty impressed with myself on that one.

8. The heart-shaped owl necklace is from Frozen Peas, whom we love so much. I bought my little sister the same one a few Christmases ago, but hers is white.

9. My "L" bracelet. I never wear it. (Apparently I'm neglecting the "Most Beloved" aspect of this whole post theme, for some reason. I'm bad at rules today.)

10. And this is the latest addition to my collection of baubles, a long-chained charm necklace purchased at a really stupid mall store. I wear it all the time, especially since my lovely silver-angel-wings-charm necklace has very recently bit the dust. I'm still mourning that one; we were so good together and I was really into how it looked a lot like the Aerosmith logo. In some ways I'm totally passionate about Aerosmith, in case you didn't know. I might even go unearth my Aerosmith shirt from the back of my closet right this very second.

nogoodforme superlatives: Best Live Shows Ever

PJ Harvey, the Beacon Theatre, October 10, 2007

This one's a cinch for me -- the only hard part was figuring which PJ Harvey performance I was going to pick. And then I realized even that was easy, because even though I've seen her about a million times live (lucky me!), there was only one time that I (and pretty much the entire row I sat in) was genuinely moved to tears during a show. She performed at the Beacon Theatre in New York last October supporting her last record, White Chalk. It was only one of two U.S. dates she did, so there was the air in the room of everyone feeling incredibly fortunate. And with all that anticipation, Polly did not disappoint, opening with a heart-rending "To Bring You My Love," not letting up on any intensity, emotion or focus till she finished with the sacred hush of "Desperate Kingdom of Love." It was the type of show that makes you so glad to be alive, and one of the few times I could say that the music was a genuinely transcendent experience. Not even the total douchebag sitting behind me yelling stupid things all night could disturb the thrall. (Kat)

(You can download her rendition of "To Bring You My Love" from the show here.)

Television (and some opener I now forget), Irving Plaza, at some point or another during the spring of 2004

Poor, poor, poor Laura Jane. I swear it: you could not even begin to imagine how difficult it is to live the cursed life of a sixties fanatic. I never get to see any of my favorite bands play live, because they are all disbanded, terminally ill, dead, crappy, or exist solely in some bastardized mutation of the original line-up that serves only to depress the hell outta me. Case in point: the time I saw the Hollies, and, uh, Graham Nash was definitely not there. And even if he had been, he just would have been gnarly and old, and I would have felt sad, angry, or more likely some complex combination of the two, plus a trillion other emotions.

The spring of my freshman year, however, luck finally struck for me, and I got to go see old-men Television play at Irving Plaza, which was convenient because it means I probably ate Yummy House beforehand. The audience of this show was mainly composed of me, my friends, and ten hundred thousand trillion 45-year-old baldies. At one point, one of the baldies hollered to Tom Verlaine between songs: "Play Yonki Time!" which is The Embarrassing Song on TV's self-titled debut solo album, and I felt cool to myself for being in on such a subtle Tom Verlaine joke.

Anyway, as much as Television were ashen, rotting and unsexy old men by the time I ever got to see them, that show was mind-blowingly good, and I was jammed far enough into the back of the venue that Tom Verlaine's middle-aging was not as apparent as it could or should have been. I don't care about intellectualizing the goings-on of dudes playing guitars, and therefore cannot be bothered to discuss Verlaine and Richard Lloyd's axe-man virtuosity- I'm not a dude, RIGHT? I'm sure you can assume that they did a good job of guitar-playing. All I know is that I stood stone-still with my eyes closed (you can't exactly dance to most Television songs) for one hour and forty-five minutes feeling sparkling, disassociated and euphoric- yet totally sober! Apparently live music can do that to you.

The highlight of this show/my entire life was when they covered Count Five's "Psychotic Reaction," which everybody in the world knows is my favorite non-Beatles song of all time. And if you didn't know that, now you do, so file it away in your cognitive databank, because one day you could be a contestant on Who Wants to Be A Millionaire?, and Meredith Vieira might ask you it. Anyhow, hearing some of the most gloriously proficient rock musicians of our time re- and/or de-construct the shoddiest, trashiest punk song there is- well, it ruled, and somewhat justified my moving to New York City at such a stupidly young age. After the show, I said "I can die happy now" about a billion times for the rest of the evening, which was true.

The low point of this concert was witnessing the grand tragedy of TV's once Egon Schiele-y-looking guitarist Richard Lloyd's having turned into a balding, liver-spotted, paunchy old man, which should motivate us all to stay off drugs. It should also motivate us not to marry a dude for his looks, because you never know, THIS could happen: (Laura)

Here is Television performing "Foxhole" in 1978, back when Tom Verlaine was actually the sexiest man to ever grace our fair planet Earth. I was not in the audience at this show, because I was negative-seven years old at the time:

Let's do "Best Three," 'cause I really can't narrow it down to one. Here we go:

Nirvana (Wallace Civic Center in Fitchburg, Mass., November 12, 1993). I was 15, I still had my braces. After the Breeders' set my friends wanted to go in the slamming pit and I was too scared, so I stayed behind with this supernice couple (Joanne and Dave from Boston, aged 28) and a pair of adorable hesher boys several years my senior. Cutely, they all ushered me to the front of the stage and formed a wall around me so I wouldn't get smooshed against the barricade. I stood right in front of Krist and nearish to my new farmers-market friend Pat Smear.

My favorite part was between songs in the middle of the show, when Krist screamed like a big lunatic at this dirtbag boy in the crowd who was getting all grabby with the girls. And Kurt just coolly/calmly smoked his cigarette and said something about how if they caught anybody messing with the girls in the crowd, they'd have their goons drag them outside and beat the hell out of them. My second favorite part was when Kurt chastised Dave Grohl for saying something mean about the Buzzcocks.

I can't remember what they opened with (probably "Serve the Servants") but I do know the encore was about 15 minutes of feedback and smashing, and it was the best thing ever. And for real the best thing ever - not like when I say "'Charlie Bit My Finger' is the best thing ever" or "The chocolate rugelach at Canter's is the best thing ever." FOR REAL THE BEST THING EVER.

John Frusciante (Angel Orensanz Foundation in NYC, March 15, 2001). I made my ex-boyfriend drive with me four hours to go to this show, because I'm a fangirl freak and John Frusciante is my favorite human who I don't actually know. The venue's an old cathedral or something and that's a really choice way to see your most beloved rock star play a two-hour set of David Bowie and Nico covers and whatever anyone in the audience shouts out for him to play. You have never seen a gathering of people this excited about anything in all your life! And I've hardly ever been so excited about anything either, and I'm someone who's irrationally excited about everything all the time.

(An aside: A little while after I moved to Los Angeles, John played five Knitting Factory shows in about two months, and I went to ALL of them. Basically, John Frusciante could announce, "For one year I'm going to do a nightly performance in which I randomly push buttons on a Speak and Spell for nine hours," and I'd be like, "Sounds great, John, do you need me to bring anything?")

So, this is John singing "Country Feedback" by R.E.M. in Amsterdam a few weeks before my special NYC show. I got a bootleg of Amsterdam and a couple months later learned to play guitar by listening to this track 9 million times in a row while studying a stupid little chord book and tabs pulled off the Internet. That was a really happy/fulfilling time.

Every Patti Smith show I've ever been to, all rolled into one. I've seen Patti Smith seven times and it's always nothing short of devastating - in a good way, in the best way! (And I don't even know if "devastating" can ever not have a negative connotation, but let's give it a shot. ) Probably the craziest/amazingest was when I saw her open for R.E.M. in Saratoga in 1999, and at the beginning of her set not many people were paying attention, and by the end everyone was just screaming their lungs out and jumping out of their skin and bugging the hell out all over the place. I totally cried a little.

A few runners-up: Jane's Addiction, Madonna on the "Blonde Ambition" tour, the time I saw Trail of Dead and they bashed a hole through T.T.'s ceiling, PJ Harvey at the Paradise in 2000, U2 in Providence in October 2001, Iggy Pop at Lupo's in November 2001.

And a few honorable mentions:

Awesomest lineup: Jon Spencer Blues Explosion/The Roots/The Beastie Boys.

Most ideal show situation: the time I saw Belly play in front of a castle by the ocean in the middle of a thunderstorm.

Most brilliant double-booking on my part: the time I saw Bjork at the Wang Center (and she wore the swan dress!), and then later in the evening saw Mary Timony at the Middle East.

Best show by a band I don't actually like: either Sleater-Kinney at the Warfield in S.F./the Henry Fonda in L.A. (May 2005) or Flaming Lips at All Tomorrow's Parties 2004.

Weirdest: when I saw Porno for Pyros and one of their dancers caught fire. (Liz)

nogoodforme Superlatives: Favorite fashion-centric videos

Madonna, "Justify My Love" / PJ Harvey, "A Perfect Day Elise"

My favorite fashion-centric videos center around a sub-genre of YouTube that I henceforth christen "ladies going kind of batshit in strange hotels." It's proof that the perfect setting can elevate the most mundane outfit into something iconic, and what can be more perfect than a hotel room as a backdrop? It speaks of intrigue, sexuality, mystery, solitude and private indiscretion all at once. Plus, the second-best accessory for a lady of independence and singularity is a suitcase. (The first would be a guitar or camera or some other sturdy instrument of creativity.)

To this end, I therefore pick two genuine icons occupying different poles of the music spectrum to represent my favorite fashion-inspiration vids: PJ Harvey's "A Perfect Day Elise" (1998) and Madonna's "Justify My Love" (1990). The differences between the two women and videos are easy to parse and I leave that work up to you, dear reader. But I love how the two videos bookend the 1990s: there's the Fellini-couture influence of Dolce & Gabbana in the Madonna video (not to mention a spot-on "Night Porter" reference), which segues nicely into the vintage-flavored shapes and dilapidated grunge touches in "Perfect Day" that remind me so much of the heyday of such labels as Voyage and Blumarine. (This video is one of my favorite Polly looks, by the way. No one really talks about Peej as a style chameleon, don't you think? Someone should get on that. Perhaps I will...) Either way you have it, both videos make me want to pack all my best clothes into a battered suitcase and stay in some grandly disintegrating hotel where weird people float around and involve you in vaguely suggestive exploits. (And both videos feature really cool necklaces.) And yes, every time I watch the Madonna video, I still hear Garth's voice from "Wayne's World" in my head exclaiming, "Look at the unit on that guy!" Because, yeah: LOOK AT THE UNIT ON THAT GUY! (Kat)

Highlights from The Rolling Stones' Rock and Roll Circus:

According to pop folklore, the Rolling Stones vaulted the madcap festivities of their 1968 psychedelistravaganza,The Rolling Stones' Rock and Roll Circus, for forty long, cold and torturous years because their performances were so lackluster that they felt like losers about it (for freaking once in their dandy, fabulous little Rolling Stoner lives!) I have watched The Rolling Stones' Rock and Roll Circus enough times to have officially deduced that this is most likely true. The Rolling Stones are upstaged by absolutely everyone else involved, including the Druid-costumed audience, and Jethro freaking Tull for crying out loud.

Oh well, Mick- at least you looked sexy. You'll always have sexiness.

Here are three mind-blowingly good videos from the Circus. And when I say "good," I mean, " decidedly better than the Rolling Stones."

1. Marianne Faithfull, "Something Better" (than the Rolling Stones)

It's rare that you get to see footage of somebody this totally messed up on heroin, but let's be honest and/or vapid for a second here- Marianne totally works it. I tend to really feel Marianne Faithfull, and no, it's not because we're both abnormally breathtakingly gorgeous human beings. It's because we're both often misconstrued as being frail little angels when really we are gritty old souls deep down. Poor us. The low point of this video is that they don't show enough of Marianne Faithfull's outfit, but she's doing a pretty fabulous pre-Klute, vaguely Liza Minnelli cabaret-prostitute-chic thing, and her necklace looks like Christopher Kane for Swarovski.

2. The Dirty Mac, "Whole Lotta Yoko"

At least Keith Richards got to weasel his dirty little junkie-monkey paws into this filthy explosion of extreme awesome. "The Dirty Mac," a band name which may or not be an ill-intentioned dig at Paul McCartney, was a one-night-only supergroup consisting of John Lennon, Yoko Ono, Keith, Eric Clapton, some unfamous drummer named Mitch Mitchell (okay, whatevs, he was Jimi Hendrix's drummer, but I live on a sunshiney Anglo-centric cloud where Jimi never existed, so that's fine), and Ivry Gitlis, apparently the punkest violinist who ever lived. Sometimes I am at a loss for words when it comes to explaining the arrant coolness of John & Yoko to the world; this is one of those times. Just watch it, and then spend the rest of your day mooning over how you'll never be cool like them, which you won't. I promise. Not even close.

3. The Who, "A Quick One (While He's Away)"

Well, really, all I have to say about this bad boy is that it is the best live performance of any song ever, ever, forever, and that watching it is exactly equivalent to snorting fifty-five lines of cocaine, freebasing thirteen pounds of speed, shooting Jolt cola into your eyeballs, and then shotgunning a can of sugar-free Red Bull, just for fun. And also, I think that if I had a twin brother, he would be Keith Moon. We'd run our wee impish selves around the world, engaging in screwball antics such as tying one another to train tracks and seeing who'd wet him or herself first and/or ingesting boxes of sugarcubes and then racing homemade go-karts. And then the Universe would explode from the sheer damn scrappiness of it all, but it would have been worth it. (Laura)

ZZ Top, "Legs"

This came out when I was about six; I remember watching it afterschool in my grandparents' living room and thinking that adulthood meant getting to hang around the heavily biker-populated strip-mall burger joint all day everyday. If only! I'd love to spend my weekdays at the biker burger joint, even with the rampant harassment. Anyway, the fashion here is mostly bad/dated as all get-out, but I'm a sucker for a shopping spree. Especially when it's all about empowerment! Those magical strutty/bouncy girls in the red car really know how to get shit done. Maybe that's what happens when you walk around with your hands on your hips all the time.

So, while I don't really lust after any of the Strip-Mall Cinderella Girl's stuff - especially those god-awful widdle-gurl ruffly ankle socks - I do really dig the white-fur-covered guitars and maybe also the mean girl's sleeveless sweatshirt and scarf. But really the look I'm most into is the proto-grunge dreamboat fry boy's: He's so my type. I'm on the fence about that sweatshirt hoodie vest thing, but I think he makes it work with the plaid button-down and blue jeans. If we were going out I'd borrow the shirt all the time, roll up the sleeves to the elbows, and we'd be good to go. (Liz)

nogoodforme superlatives: Favorite Beach Reads

The Beatles, by Bob Spitz

First of all, it is important to me that I let all the readers of nogoodforme.com know that my dedication to this blog is so passionate and true that I am actually writing this entry whilst drinking a glass of wine at my 23rd birthday party. To be honest, I really want to go be eating vegan tamales and, like, not updating my blog at my own birthday party, so let's keep this short and sweet. What can I say? I'm predictable. Bob Spitz' definitive Beatles biog, aptly entitled The Beatles, is about the most absorbing book that exists on the planet. It's like a soap opera, only the soap opera stars the four coolest dudes of all time instead of dumb bitches who look like (or are) Eva Longoria. It's about time I re-read this 800-page behemoth of fabulosity (times four, of course). The best part is when you find out that John Lennon was really obsessive and competitive about playing Monopoly. If I could have one birthday wish right now, it would be that John Lennon would show up at my shindig and we'd tag-team all these poor fools into bankruptcy until the sun rose. So yeah, you should totally read this book, maybe even on the Boardwalk. (Laura)


Summer Sisters by Judy Blume

Toward the end of summer vacation when I was nine or ten, my mother gave me a copy of Are You There, God? It's Me, Margaret and told me, "Read this, and when you're done we'll talk about it." Which was probably one of the most mortifying sentences ever spoken to me at that point in my life: I'd already read the book when my friends and I swapped it around school earlier in the year, and I knew what The Talk was going to be about, and I wanted no part of it whatsoevs. So for the next week or so I re-read Are You There, God?, then probably re-read it again, pretending to take forever so as to delay the inevitable crushing awkwardness as long as I possibly could. Of course, my mom was totally on to me, but I remember thinking at the time I was so clever with my trickery. And finally the jig was up, The Talk went down, and, to quote Angela Chase, "I'm not sure either of us has fully recovered." (Mostly kidding; it was actually relatively painless, I think.)

So, many years later, Judy Blume put out the far less stress-inducing Summer Sisters. It's such a page-turner, trashy and over-the-top yet intermittently lovely, full of teen-girl angst and lust and all that other fiery stuff - which is to say it fulfills virtually all my requirements for the ideal beach read. But maybe my favorite thing about Summer Sisters is that it's set on Martha's Vineyard, a place I used to visit every summer when I was a kid and I'm sort of neverendingly nostalgic for these days. I loved that the hot boy worked at the Flying Horses carousel; if I had my druthers, the Flying Horses would somehow make its way into practically every other story ever written. The other book I almost chose for this entry (Alice Hoffman's gorgeously sad Illumination Night) is set on the Vineyard as well, but that one ultimately lacks the juicy shallowness and big drama of Summer Sisters, and anyway I'm too precious about it to risk getting it all sandy and salty. But when we do "Hiding-under-the-covers-on-the-darkest-of-winter-nights reads" later this year, I'm picking Illumination Night for sure. (Liz)

Less Than Zero by Bret Easton Ellis / The Garden of Eden by Ernest Hemingway / Play It As It Lays by Joan Didion

I am sometimes a very literal person. When the weather is hot and the sun is relentless and I'm hanging out poolside or at the beach in an almost desertlike or tropical clime, I like to read stories where other people are doing the same. The only difference, though, is that while I'm dozing off or fiddling with my iPod-like device or being a nerd and trying to plan out the next screenplay I have to write, the people in my favorite beach reads are indulging in amorality and aberrant sexual behavior. Somehow I find reading about such antics way more easy to take when my brain is being fried by the total and absolute blaring sunshine. I call this my favorite trio of pretty bad behavior: everyone knows Less Than Zero as a story about 80s yuppie disaffection and malaise, but it goes a little further than that, and is really scary and unpalatable in parts. But something about its apocalyptic depiction of its time and setting is so hypnotic, even in its total trashiness, and it's way better than the unfortunate movie adaptation. (I'm kind of hoping they decide to retackle it and get someone like Francois Ozon to direct.) The Garden of Eden is about a married couple, David and Catherine, who both get involved with a local girl while being glamorous and fascinating in places like the Cote d'Azur and Spain. It always gets ranked on by Hemingway-o-philes because it was published posthumously, but whatever -- those dudes are so busy affirming their manhood they don't realize that it's one of Hemingway's most interesting premises and that Catherine is one of Hem's strongest, spirited female characters. (She's the type of character that would have been played by Angelina Jolie back in the day -- before Jolie became a cross between Beryl Markham and Mother Teresa.) If you're into novels about European expats and love triangles, I'd pick this up. And finally, Play It As It Lays, which deserves so much more than a fleeting mention as a beach read -- it's actually probably one of my most favorite novels ever, a fascinating, chilling story about a failed Hollywood actress essentially having a very slow nervous breakdown. It could be either laborious or soap opera-like, but Didion's bone-clean, elegant prose renders it evocative and even beautiful at times, depicting the decadent corruption of the rich and the shimmering miasmas of material reality. I love this book to pieces, even though I met Joan Didion once and she was really not nice. (Kat)

nogoodforme superlatives: Stuff We're Most Likely to Wear All the Time This Summer

DVD piraters, Crystal meth lab proprietors, shorts, shoes, etc.

Once upon a time, Lou Reed rhetorically asked the world: "Who loves the sun?"

I do, Lou. It's me. I love the sun.

Some notes on my clothes:

1. White little boys' "wifebeaters": I think it's time that we come up with a new name for "wifebeaters." I suppose there's always "tank tops" or "sleeveless t-shirts" or the simplified variation "beaters," but I'm thinking that we take an entirely different route from here on in. There are plenty of non-sexist crimes that can be undertaken while wearing a white sleeveless t-shirt. I propose either a) "yellow schoolbus hijackers," b) "crystal meth lab proprietors" or c) "DVD piraters." Anyway, I buy approximately one (1) pack of three (3) little boys' crystal meth lab proprietors per week. They cost about $3.33 per shirt, so you don't have to worry about spilling things on them. I guess you can if you want, but I don't, and it's really freeing to finally be able to eat my dinner without bothering not to dribble peanut sauce all over myself. White little boys' DVD piraters totally go with everything, and if you are a nutcase like I am, you can accessorize with a black Sharpie and write ANYTHING YOU WANT across the front. That way, you no longer have to pity yourself for inhabiting a cruel, desolate planet where you will never, ever, no matter how hard you look, find an Idle Race t-shirt. Yellow schoolbus hijackers forever!

2. High-waisted shorts: I bought these shorts when I was on my Non-imaginary Imaginary Shopping Spree at Old Gold, which was really intelligent of me, considering they are one of my favorite pieces of clothing I've ever owned in my life. I love these shorts because they are as comfortable as my paint-stained American Apparel joggers, but look disproportionately classy. They definitely project a "large and in charge" kind of vibe, and always make me look like I have better style than I actually do, which is really convenient. These shorts look super-cas paired with a ripped-up t-shirt, crystal meth lab proprietor, or some other scrappy top; conversely, if you want to look like Humphrey Bogart in The African Queen meets Isak Dineson when she lived in Africa meets, I don't know, some girl with good style in 2008, these babies go mind-blowingly great with a tucked-in button-up and a belt.

3. Jakarta bag:: This bag rules, yo. I have inexplicably named it "my Jakarta bag" to myself- I have this weird subconscious habit of naming items of clothing (for instance, my pink, red and green color-blocked belt is my "Albers belt"; my zippered denim Zara shorts are my "ZZ shorts"; my white little boys' wifebeater is my "DVD pirater"; etc)- I'm kind of weird, okay? I love this bag because it looks like the wonky lovechild of an As Four circle bag and something you would find at an outdoor market in Jakarta, Indonesia (apparently), therefore embodying pretty much every fashion concept I am in any way intrigued by. Oh yeah, and it cost three bucks at Value Village. Ohhh, the never-ending fashion guerrilla challenge that is my meaningless life.

4. Keep Company African-print Junipers: Life really sucked when I bought these flats in December and wanted to kill myself every time I looked at them because they served as an incredibly torturous reminder of the fact that it was winter and I only had one shoe option ever, and they were these hideous and disgusting loser-shoes. Now that it's lovely June, however, I could not be more enthralled by my owning them, because 1) they are the most comfortable shoes I've ever had, 2) Keep Company rules and we should all support them always, 3) they are the best, and 4) this particular model is no longer offered on the Keep website, and I can't imagine how heartbroken I would have been if I'd missed my chance to snatch up these flats-o'-my-dreams. The inside lining of these shoes is made of mesh, kind of like water shoes, if water shoes weren't quite so ugly. Avant-wack, scrappy-chic, AND vegan. What more could I ever ask for? Honestly: nothing. I've got it all. (Laura)

Cheap but not so cheerful

In the summer I like things that remind me of thunderstorms. As such, I like grey. (And that's grey, not gray!) This dress is from H&M (which I like to call Hoochie Mart in my head, because my head is always making a joke.) I love it, from the sort of tulip-y shape in the skirt to the weirdo sweetheart neckline faux-layered over a grey tank. The dress is a mess of contradictions, and that's why it works for me. The shoes are studded gladiator-type sandals from Old Navy. (Aside: what is going on at Old Navy? Is it really new creative director Todd Oldham? Suddenly SO MUCH in there looks awesome.) I will always love a gladiator sandal, and I will always love studs. Voila: a shoe I will always like. And finally, though you can't see it, my standard silver cuff from a street market in Bangkok, which truthfully I wore all through winter. I can't foresee dropping it come high summer, though -- it's just too simple and lovely to not wear. It makes me feel like a superhero, like a half-assed Wonder Woman. You see the appeal? So, yes, here it is: the things I predict I'll be sick of come the end of the season!

Assumption of Christ lighting and pose not included. (Kat)

Cowgirl/Country Girl/Bobbie Sue shirt

(head cut off on account of this being a Very Bad Hair Day)

When I first wrote about this shirt four days ago, I was all, "La la la, I'm gonna stick straw in my hair and pretend to be the girl from 'Country Girl' by CSNY!" But then I was driving down Sunset and "Take the Money and Run" by the Steve Miller Band came on KLOS, and I realized the shirt is so something Bobbie Sue would wear. This is important, because in some ways I like to imagine "Take the Money and Run" as the dark psychic anthem of my post-20s years - but we don't really need to get into all that right now.

So: the shirt. I bought it while home in Massachusetts last Thanksgiving; it cost me something like $3 at Salvation Army. I liked its cowgirlness but got bored after a while and pushed it to the back of my closet, till one morning two weekends ago when I realized it could definitely look cute with the sleeves rolled up. I'll probably always wear it with my jean cutoffs and that dumb charm necklace I love, and I'll probably never wear it with my cowboy boots. That's just overkill. Besides, I bet Bobbie Sue totally wears her shirt with dirty old scruffed-up tennis shoes. Isn't that right, Bobbie Sue? (Liz)

nogoodforme superlatives: Best Band Names

Kat's Top Five Band Names of Doom

1. Wizard Prison - I wrote about Wizard Prison before, but really for me this is the best band name eveerrrrrrrrrrrr. They sound almost exactly how they sound -- kind of eerie, but if you catch their live show you know it can be a little goofy as well. Every time you say "Wizard Prison," people will look at you like "Are you for real?" And you can always give them a look back of "Who knows?" and it will mystify everyone!

2. Pop Will Eat Itself - My friends and I used to drive around and listen to "Can U Dig It?" really loud in a Volkswagon Jetta way back in 1992 or something. No, we weren't in a commercial or anything, but everytime I listen to this 1990s British band, I still get the urge to yell "Loserville!" when a carload of skinny boys pulls up next to me. Natural reflex, natch.

3. My Life With the Thrill Kill Kult - I think this is an instance of a band living up to their moniker. They started off making this sort of house-ish music, but instead of sampling soul divas and the like, they brought in b-movie horror clips and sound bites from 50s exploitation films. They got progressively glammier and trashy as their career progressed, to the point where they were a living art experiment and homage to Russ Meyers camp.

4. Low - I can't believe it took until 1993 for a band to call themselves Low. It was probably because until Low, no band existed that demonstrated its unwavering commitment to minor-scale, down-tempo, determinedly downcast indie rock. A perfect example of when a sound is perfectly encapsulated by one word.

5. Universal Order of Armageddon - There is this whole cult that surrounds Tonie Joy, who also played in bands like Born Against, The Convocation Of and Moss Icon. A genuinely seminal band in the history of American hardcore -- I guarantee you some kid will shit bricks at some Bushwick loft party if you drop this name somewhere in the conversation. I personally like the totality of the name -- how can you doubt the band's intention to pummel you with sound with such a moniker?

"Sex on Wheelz" by My Life with the Thrill Kill Kult

Liz's Magic List of Funk and Evil

1. Weirdo/Begeirdo - "Weirdo" is probably one of my top five favorite words in the world, as evidenced by my tendency to use it at least once per nogoodforme post. I can never remember if the "g" in Begeirdo is hard or soft, but it doesn't really matter anyway, since Weirdo/Begeirdo broke up a while back. Now one of the band members is in Pocahaunted, which I would've included on this list if we'd gone all the way up to 10.

2. The Evil Queens - I'm a big fan of evil queens in general; sometimes I kinda even wish I were goth so I could get in on that whole Goth Day at Disneyland thing. I'm not so wild about The Evil Queens as a band, but I'm always amused at how they've titled one of their songs "If I Knew Any German, I Would Start Shouting." And my favorite evil queen, FYI, is either Maleficent from Sleeping Beauty or Snow White's stepmom.

3. Luscious Jackson - It's just so awesome that their name is a nod to a 60s/70s pro basketball player (that player being Lucious Jackson from the Philadelphia 76ers). Girl bands should show off their basketball love more often; it automatically increases your coolness quotient tenfold, in my book. (Speaking of which, if you come across any vintage Kevin McHale jerseys anytime soon, totally let me know.)

4. Trulio Disgracias - I love made-up words, especially if they're sorta Spanish-sounding. And I've never actually heard/seen Trulio Disgracias, even though its ever-revolving lineup includes lots of people I love (Flea, everybody in Fishbone, and about 8 million other dudes from horn-friendly L.A. bands). It's one of those things I've been meaning to get around to ever since I moved to Los Angeles, right up there with getting hot dogs at Pink's.

5. Metallic Falcons - Actually, let's just include practically every band in the freak-folk/"new folk" genre on this one: Animal Collective, Wooden Wand and the Vanishing Voice, White Magic, Lavender Diamond, Hecuba, and all the rest of that whole big lot of weirdos. (See?!) I'm even charmed that Devendra Banhart named his backing group The Spiritual Bonerz, and doubly charmed that Joanna Newsom titled her most recent EP Joanna Newsom and the Ys Street Band.

Probably my second-favorite Animal Collective song:

Laura Jane's Top Five Band Names that aren't The Beatles or Ver Sacrum

1. The Kinks - Obviously, the best band names are band names that begin with the word "The" and then follow up with a pluralized noun. It's a pretty unbeatable recipe. In this day and age, it is quite a feat to think of an acceptable or never-before-seen "The Blanks"-style of band name. Whenever a new "The Blanks"-band comes out, I always imagine that the band just sat around trying to think of a noun that hadn't been used before, and aren't particularly thrilled by it- a good example of this would be "The Virgins," which is a really dumb band name (I hate how it annoyingly forces you to reflect upon the fact that the band members obviously are not virginal; they're big, bad sex machines- BARF). Anyway, out of all the "The Blanks" band names there ever were, The Kinks just hits it: it's concise, punchy, fun to say, invites a whole bevy of alliterative titles, implies the perfect amount of sadomasochistic tendency, and somehow gets the whole point of rock music across in two short syllables. As pretty much everyone in the world, including Ray Davies, would agree: the Kinks were worse than the Beatles in almost every single way. But at least they beat them in the band name race! Konsider yourself the Kings of Koining NomenKlatures, the Kinks.

2. George Harrasment - A misspelled Beatles pun? Are you kidding me? Ten out of ten; one hundred percent; two thumbs up; the gold medal (well, the silver I guess); etc. Mostly I am just maddeningly jealous that Anton from The Homosexuals thought of this jocular little quibble before I did. The most accurate method for gaugeing the goodness of a given band name is by seeing how cool the words of it look written down when you skim over a mix CD/tape tracklist- the aesthetic splendor of how the words "George Harrasment- Yoghurt" read in this context, I mean- WHOA. That shit turns a crappy old burned CD-R into the Ulysses of DIY.

3. ? and the Mysterians - I was just going to write that I think using punctuation marks as a key component of your band name is a guaranteed way to rock the best band name sweepstakes really hard, but then I realized that !!! and Sunn O))) are two of the most obnoxious band names I've ever heard, so I guess I actually think the exact opposite, and ? and the Mysterians are just an exception. Maybe I'd like !!! and Sunn O))) better if you were supposed to pronounce them as "Exclamation Point Exclamation Point Exclamation Point" and "Sunn O End Bracket End Bracket End Bracket"; that way there would be a lot less cause for confusion. ? and the Mysterians is particularly awesome because its obvious that you're supposed to say Question Mark and the Mysterians, not, say, "Chik" and the Mysterians. Extra points for consistency: ? (Question Mark) himself has never confirmed his true identity, claims that he is an alien and lived with dinosaurs in a past life, and has never been seen without his trademark shades. Boy- he really is mysterious, that ? - (I wanted to end that sentence with an exclamation point, I mean "chik," but it's just too confusing).

4. Interpol - Interpol sounds dark, sleek, moody and New York-y, but that's not why I'm putting it on my list. Interpol, a band I don't really like or care about, is one of the most brilliant band names I've ever heard mostly because of the warning that comes up anytime you watch a movie- you know, when Father Corporation reminds you that if you bootleg it, the real Interpol are going to come to your house and beat you up. I am 100% incapable of watching said warning without thinking of Carlos D. and that smarmy-looking singer; great job of forcing people to think about you on a daily basis, Interpol! Seriously- every single time somebody who has heard of Interpol the band watches a DVD, or even a VHS, or even a damned Laserdisc for that matter, Interpol get free publicity. So smart! Plus, it's funny to imagine how if you illegally burned a movie and the feds found out, Interpol the band would show up at your front door in their skinny suits looking all pouty, and then arrest you.

5. Reagan Youth/Ciccone Youth (tie) - Whoa! Do you realize that these band names are comparing Madonna and the Gipper to Adolf Hitler??? OMG, that is SO punk rock, I think I'm going to go give myself fifty billion Germs burns. Seriously. I think Anything Youth is a pretty failsafe strategy for above-average appellating; I'm trying to figure out if I think Sonic Youth is a great band name, but I've heard it so many times at this point in my life, I can't even figure it out. It's sort of like trying to figure out if you think "Aspirin" or "McDonalds" is a good name for a softcore painkiller or nasty hamburger joint. Also, are they comparing "Sonic" to Hitler? If so, who is this evil "Sonic"? Wow, so many questions. Anyway, in the grand tradition of killing yr (my) idols, I think I'm going to call my next Ver Sacrum side project Thurston Moore Youth. GET IT???

"Addicted to Love" by Ciccone Youth:

nogoodforme superlatives: Cheesiest perfumes we secretly love

Intimately Beckham by Victoria Beckham

I'm not sure if Victoria Beckham is "cheesy." I mean, yeah, sometimes in my mind I call her Poshbot and she does seem to love a spray tan, but despite her unsmilingness, I'm starting to come around to her in this really weird way, mostly because I always appreciate someone who seems to have a sense of humor about herself. (I mean, have you seen those Marc Jacobs ads she did? They're kind of genius. I couldn't even concentrate on the clothes, I was so freaked out.) But one can't deny the cheesy provenance of the celebrity perfume in general -- most are overly sweet, synthetic messes that smell gross to the max. You want to smell like a corpse rotting in a bubble bath? Spray on some Paris Hilton Heiress, my friends. But honestly, Intimately Beckham perfume is really pretty, and subtle in a way that Ms. Beckham is not, with bergamot, rose petals, orange blossom, Casablanca lilies, sandalwood and musk. It's certainly not a Serge Lutens fragrance, whose stuff continually blows my mind and budget with well-crafted, beautifully unexpected scents. (I really go nuts over his Miel Du Bois, Ambre Sultan and Fleurs d'Oranger. Really, I do, to the point where I'll bid on Ebay for little vials of them because spending $100+ on a bottle is not really part of my plan right now.) But Intimately Beckham is nice for when you just want to smell feminine without being super-girly, and elegant without being overbearing; it's crowd-pleasing without being perky. It's also one of those things where both girls and guys seem to like it, which I find never happens. The scent itself stays pretty close to the skin and doesn't hit people like Naomi Campbell on an airplane, but it also lasts a nice long time, which is always my bugaboo when it comes to any scent. (It's my biggest gripe with Stella McCartney's perfumes -- they last, like, an hour on my skin! I'm sorry, but if I'm paying a nice penny for scented liquid, I really want it to last!) I had to get over the pinkness of the juice itself, but the bottle is really nice and elegant, and sometimes I like to pretend that it's a bottle of Gucci II. If you were really insane, you could peel off the Intimately Beckham sticker and put something else on, but you know what? Who cares! If anyone's gonna give you strife about wearing a perfume from a cheesy celeb or a store, for reals, they super need a life. (Kat)

Strawberries & Champagne by Victoria's Secret

Doesn't "strawberries and champagne" make you think of Pretty Woman? Me too! And I don't think I've ever actually had the two together, but I fully trust Edward Lewis's assertion that the strawberries bring out the flavor of the champagne. Groovy.

Moving on: I don't know when I first found this scent, but I'm guessing it must've been on a big mall adventure sometime in college. I hardly wear it at all anymore, since I've got a mega thing for Pacifica's perfumes, especially the Malibu Lemon Blossom and Waikiki Pikake and French Lilac (all = HEAVEN). But every now and then, when I'm feeling ridiculously girly and in a pink kind of mood, I like a little splash of the Victoria's Secret poison. And I recently discovered it blends really nicely with TerraNova's Red Tea and Cocoa Blossom Perfume Essence, which is some seriously yummy stuff if you don't mind being vaguely chocolate-scented all night. (I don't.) Oh, and dudes always dig the Strawberries & Champagne, for some weird reason. Just so you know.

And in case you were wondering, the cheesy perfume I'd most like to see make a big huge comeback would definitely be Exclamation, because I'm really into making a statement without saying a word. Also: Electric Youth! And now I have the Debbie Gibson song in my head! (Liz)

Evian Mineral Water Spray

I have always been a very fragrance-oriented person, I really like the idea of having a "signature scent." That way, even blind people can collapse in excitement when your charming self walks into a room. I wore Lolita Lempicka all through high school, Stella McCartney for my first two years of college, and then finally found the scent of my dreams with Fresh's Tobacco Caramel, which I faithfully reeked of from junior year straight up until it was discontinued earlier this year. As heartbreaking as its disappearance was, it couldn't have hit at a better time- sometime over the course of 2008, I have developed a really extreme allergy to all perfumes, even the kind that aren't alcohol-based. Maybe my broken heart is as obstinate as my brain, deciding that if I can't smell like cigarettes and melted sugar anymore, I'm not allowed to smell like anything. So dramatic! Walking around with a terrible sinus headache is absolutely never worth it, so I have resigned myself to the fact that I will just have to make do with smelling like skin or soap for the rest of my life. At this point, the only thing I spray myself with is Evian Mineral Water Spray, which smells like nothing, because it is water. As far as I'm concerned, there is nothing chic-er than being the type of Catherine Deneuve-esque babe who always keeps a bottle of Evian spray in her purse. While it does come in handy on super-hot days, Evian spray is pretty much redundant; I mean, why not just splash tap water on your face? Well: because. Having Evian spray around is obviously nothing more than one hell of a frivolous luxury, and if there were no frivolous luxuries in this life, we'd all go nuts and kill ourselves from boredom. Evian spray is only ten bucks, which I've always thought was a really good deal until I just typed that sentence and realized that I'm the world's biggest sucker for spending any money at all on water in a spray bottle. (Laura)

nogoodforme superlatives: Best Way to Survive Air-Travel Hell

Bret Michaels, burritos, and B vitamins

(Above: your ideal travel companions)

Seriously, I think the best thing you can do is always fly JetBlue, and try to schedule your flight so that it coincides with a Rock of Love marathon. And if you're not into Rock of Love, then try for The Hills. And if you care about neither Rock of Love nor The Hills, then we'll probably never understand each other and I can't help you out at all anyway. But in general I think numbing your brain as best you can is a way better strategy than going with some more highbrow form of distraction. Also, try to work it so your seatmate is one of the dudes from Suicidal Tendencies: That happened to me once a few years ago; it was pretty awesome.

And food! It's always a bad day when I forget to stop by Trader Joe's or Whole Foods before a flight and end up buying a bag of Snak Club trail mix or whatevs in the terminal. I like getting those little pre-packaged veggie burritos at Whole Foods, though one time that resulted in my getting a bag check at the security gate. Because burritos do look a lot like deadly weapons, I guess. Anyway, I think a good overall policy would be to stay away from anything too sugary and stick with something proteiny/complex-carby. And lots of water with Emergen-C is real smart too. I used to bring a nice Snapple grape bottle filled with red wine whenever I had a red eye, but sadly that's no longer an option. Vitamin-infused H20 is so much better for me anyway.

Speaking of liquid restrictions: T'is a shame I can't take along my precious Jurlique Rosewater Freshener anymore either. And I used to have this really lovely lavender-stuffed neck pillow thing, but I put it in my freezer last summer during a heat wave and then the freezer became chaotic and now the pillow's sort of welded to a bottle of organic vodka. I guess I could get creative and, like, put chamomile tea bags over my eyes, but I think I'll just stick with Bret and the girls for now. (Liz)

Caudalie Beauty Elixir, Airborne, Nintendo DS and Animal Crossing

I'm probably actually flying the friendly skies as you read this. How's that for reality blogging? This means I'm probably going through hell at the moment, unless I take my own friendly advice and manage to have the awesomest flight ever. (I'll report later.)

For me, the key to a non-hellish flight is all about preparation and forethought. (How nerdy of me, I know. It's not for nothing that my talents for over-active imagination and catastrophic thinking have propelled me towards film production.) I used to be a cheap-o and book myself one of the first flights out because they're the least expensive, till I realized there is nothing fun or glamorous about dragging thy ass out of bed before dawn to get to the airport. So do yourself a favor, spend an extra $30 and book yourself an afternoon flight if you can swing it. Further on the anticipation front, I find it's nice to have a bit of a leisurely day on Travel Day, so I do try to get everything done the day before to be able to have a really good breakfast or lunch or even run in the park before I leave. But it's a fine balance, because you really don't want to stay up all night the day before a flight -- because getting a good night's sleep the day before will help you withstand the indignities of airports with a bit of patience.

Nerdiness aside, I'm with Liz on the nonhighbrow tip. I like to "save up" something for a flight -- like listening to a new record, re-watching "Gossip Girl" on my laptop or, for this flight, reading The Diana Chronicles. (Sorry, gotta be done.) I'm also one of those people who like to get up and stretch during a flight, so I try to book an aisle seat so I don't drive my neighbor crazy. My one product recommendation is Caudalie's Beauty Elixir. I have no idea if it really works or not, but it smells really pretty, makes your face feel divine and it comes in a travel-handy 1oz container. Airplanes make me feel gross, and it's pretty guaranteed that anything gross you put in your body will just come out even grosser, so I try to drink a lot of water with Airborne and bring along some really good yogurt and decent nuts. Sometimes someone will be really mean and take these things away from you, though. (I'm outing you, mean people at O'Hare's American Airlines terminal -- everything was clearly under 4 friggin' ounces, jerks!) On the flight itself, I'm all about distraction, like the aforementioned media, but also my real favorite -- Nintendo DS! Really, nothing makes me happier than 2-6 unadulterated hours of Animal Crossing. Further proof that I'm a eight-year old boy in a grown woman's body. Which is why my nephew and I get along like houses on fire.

And finally, the best way to get through air travel hell is to get a massage after your flight. Even if it's one of those stern Chinese masseuses at the mall and only for 10 minutes -- nothing rocks more than someone literally kneading the stress out of your muscles. (Kat)

Cinnamon Nicorette, Simon & Schuster Crossword Anthologies, and Marks & Sparks' Edamame Bean Salad

Wow, Nicorette really needs to get on a mondo package redesign, like, STAT. Maybe more people would quit smoking if the box wasn't such an eyesore. So long as I'm talking about smoking, I really think that the government or Father Corporation or whatever should just straight-up ban all tobacco products. All the world's smokers would just be grumpy for a month, and then move on with their lives. The whole shebang, over and done with, just like that. I really should have majored in economic policy; I know this.

Cinnamon Nicorette + trans-Atlantic flights= The almond butter & strawberry jam sandwich of inconveniences. I'm a terrible, neurotic and terrified flyer- I spend the majority of plane rides visualizing my own impending death. If there's turbulence, you better believe I'm scrawling down a makeshift will on my barf bag. I also consistently overpack and am late for flights, which adds to the inescapably unpleasant cognitive hyperactivity that I have to deal with once cruising. Lastly, I am also the most orally-fixated human being on Planet Earth and probably all the other planets, too. Cinnamon Nicorette addresses all my airplane problems in one fell swoop: calming anxiety, preventing new, cigarette-related anxieties from rearing their snarky little heads, and also giving my ADHD mouth something to focus its constant flow of energy upon. Nicorette has a weird, more rubbery consistency than normal gum, and makes your mouth tingle. It also gives you a really killer head rush and makes you get high a little bit. Before discovering the healing properties of cinnamon Nicorette, I would spend flights sobbing and screaming. Now I just lay back, enjoy the ride, and get down to business on...

A Simon & Schuster Crossword Puzzle Book! I am a serious/seriously lame crossword fanatic. Sudoko is for twerps, bro. S&S anthologies are my number one pick in the gridded lingo-puzzle department, primarily because the crosswords are all brand-new and therefore chock-a-block with mega-lowbrow pop culture references that don't make me feel as dumb as do Times clues like "Port of Brazil"- how the hell am I supposed to know??? Seriously, the other day I did a crossword with the clue "Suri's Mom" in it. Suri's Mom! K-A-T-I-E. It also rules when your flight conveniently coincides with this month's round of what I like to call the "Vogue trio" (American, British and Teen). Trashy tabloids are good too, but if you buy more than one, you become all too aware of the content overlap, and feel like you're going to die if you have to see that picture of Marcia Cross and her stupid investment banker husband pushing a shopping cart outside of Whole Foods one more time.

Like Liz, I am a major advocate of bringing your own food onto your plane. I'm surprised that mega-airlines allow you do this; for all they know, you could have spiked your raspberry panda licorice with anthrax or roofies or daggers or something. I'm vegan, and, as I'm sure you can imagine, vegan in-flight meals tend to be simultaneously nauseating and cardboard-esque. It's a really delicate balance, but those airlines hit it every time. Last time I flew across the ocean, I stopped into the Marks & Spencer at Gatwick Airport (for some reason, life has decided that I shalt never fly out of good airports. I've never been to Heathrow, Orly or JFK, but I've been to Gatwick, Beauvais Tille and LaGuardia more times than I'd like to recount) and bought myself Edamame Bean Salad and some breadsticks and hummus. Eating edamame dressed in a light mint vinaigrette while everybody else was choking down gloppy macaroni casserole made me feel self-satisfied, and sort of like a modern-day Cary Grant.

Really, though, I might as well just come out and say what I know everyone else is thinking: the best way to survive air-travel hell is to SCORE SOME VALIUM. Like I said, I'm an anxious flyer. Once I had to fly in the middle of Hurricane Katrina, but since I was lucky enough to pill-pop that day, I just closed my eyes and smiled beatifically as the plane shook, rattled and rolled through the heavens. (Laura)

nogoodforme superlatives: Most Bizarro Health-Food Addiction

Emergen-C & burdock root (but not all at once)

Um, I am not sure if this counts as health food, so to speak, but I do get loads and loads of Emergen-C from the health food store so I suppose it vaguely counts. I really am truly addicted to this stuff, and it kind of grosses everyone around me out. I'll be at a nice restaurant or something with my family or my beau or whoever, and I'll just dump some of this powder into whatever drinking water is there, and people will get embarrassed and I'm like, But I need the boost for my immune system! I swear, though, it works. Social mortification of my loved ones is a fine price to pay for being flu-free for years. And as far as burdock root goes, it's supposedly some kind of purifier or detoxifier or something like that; I ate pretty macrobiotically for a few years and had loads of it without any hardship. You can make some sort of tea out of it, but I actually like it the way they serve it in Japanese restaurants: soaked in water, julienned, and braised with soy sauce and sesame oil. Yum! (Kat)

Raw cacao nibs

There was this one night when I flew from Boston to L.A. (and boy were my arms tired!), arriving very, very late and feeling like I'd been murdered many times. This happens a lot when I come back home after visiting my other home: I land at my doorstep at some ungodly hour looking every bit, as my mother would say, the wreck of the Hesperus: jet-lagged, joints achy, muscles stiff, brain fuzzy, sinuses stuffy, head throbbing, occasionally capable of hearing only out of one ear. Anyway, so, I got in real late, woke up the next morning still feeling half-dead, but there were all these crazy deadlines and I needed to get cracking but both cupboards and fridge were oh-so-bare and I was a hungry hungry girl. And then I opened up this package that'd arrived while I was away, and inside were product samples from a lovely PR firm: wild jungle peanuts and goji berries and, yes, double-yummers RAW CACAO NIBS from Navitas Naturals. So I mixed the three magic things up and then, as Uncle Jesse would say, Lord have mercy! I went from feeling half-dead to feeling ALIVE x 8 million. I credit the raw cacao nibs, with their subtly chocolatey bittersweetness and caffeine-like compounds. That's all I ate all day, and maybe the next day too, and I sort of felt invincible. And then eventually I finally went to the grocery store and started eating other foods again, but I still used the cacao nibs in my pancake batter, which was pretty awesome. I bet you could have some serious granola-y fun with them too. And I think Pinkberry should get with the program and add cacao nibs to their toppings selection, and then I could maybe stop being seduced by their secret hidden mochi all the damn time. (Liz)

Raw, Unadulterated (and entirely cruelty-free!) Decadence:

To the vast majority of the Western world, my nutritional intake in its entirety would qualify as bizarro/gonzo/nutjobby/wack-attack health food fare of the most extreme and unappetizing ilk. And to all you naysayers, I do declare: don't knock it 'til you've tried it, Losers! Since my Earthly existence as a whole can be defined a limitless and unbounded extravaganza of raw, vegan, organic, healthy and DANK indulgences (or non-indulgences, I guess), I have found it impossible to pick but one winner. Everything is always best expressed in the format of a Top Ten list; so, for once and for all, from the world's foremost appreciator and afficionado of dankity-dank-dank-dankers-McDankerson vegan sweetin':

Laura Jane's Top Ten Healthy Sweets:

1. Macrobiotic scones from Souen (the best flavors are double carob cashew and strawberry walnut. They offer a different flavor every day, which adds an element of surprise to the experience)
2. Dried pineapple rings (why eat nasty candy made out of horse hooves when you have these sugary little babies?)
3. Rice Dream Mocha Pies from Caravan of Dreams (as decadent as decadent can be)
4. Heavenly Chai Raweos (they kind of taste like basil, but in a good way)
5. Mostly everything at Babycakes NYC (I'm not a huge cupcake person, but the cinnamon toasties are to die for)
6. Goji jelly cups from Empowered Foods (try one of these and I swear you'll never want a Reese's peanut butter cup again)
7. Energy Explosion cookes from Circle of Life Bakery (in the world of vegan sweetin', there are sweets that are good-good and sweets that are healthy-good. These are healthy-good, packed full of a million different kinds of seeds and roots and grains and things. Also a nice big jam drop in the middle)
8. Raw ice cream from One Lucky Duck (I'm partial to strawberry, but I definitely wouldn't turn down a pint of vanilla raw cacao mint or almond butter cup)
9. Date squares from Aux Vivres (topped with crystallized turbinado sugar, and about as big as your face)
10. Anything and everything from my favorite place on Earth, Lifethyme Natural Market (this is the mecca of vegan desserts- the storefront looks unassuming, but venture to the grocery's back to find the vegan bakery case of your dreams. Try the raw Spirulina Earth Pie, choco-banana bars, and raw raspberry cheesecake) (Laura)

nogoodforme superlatives: TV's most endearing assholes

Gossip Girl's Chuck Bass

In truth, there is nothing "endearing" about Gossip Girl's resident bad boy and king of smarm Chuck Bass, the good-for-nothing heir apparent to some corporate fortune and budding burlesque club impresario. He's just a plain old asshole. And there's nothing that really redeems him as a character; he's practically a date-rapist, for God's sake, and he boned his best friend's girlfriend after watching her do some sexy dance on a stage! He's also petulant, egotistical, conniving, bratty, slutty, greedy, venal and so many things that I'd find absolutely horrifying and puke-inducing if he were a real human being. Luckily, though, he's played by a preternaturally hot British actor with mystifyingly awesome hair, and he exists in stories so wonderfully, addictively trashy, dramatic and straight up fun that you can't help but be excited when he pops up -- because you pretty much know the party's about to start, and you know he'll get the best lines in the scene, which Ed Westwick delivers with such heavy-lidded flair you kind of can't help but swoon. But the best thing about Chuck Bass is obviously his fashion sense -- it's a real testament to your talent and style when you can wear such mind-alteringly bright clothes and such preppy bowties and seersucker and not seem like a marshmallow. He's on his way to icon status with such bold choices, and you know what else? He's only a junior!

The real question is -- when is he going to get back with Blair?!!!!!! Who cares about Dan and Serena?! SO OVER IT!!!

Entourage's Ari Gold

Ari Gold.

Are there any two more delectable words in the entire English language? I honestly doubt it. My love for Ari Gold is so deep, so true, so passionate, unending, and at times unnerving, that even just hearing his name makes me smile as wild as the man himself. If I could choose a song to sing to Ari Gold as a tool for communicating my adoration, it would be "Wild Thing" by the Troggs. Ari Gold, you make everything... groovy.

I barely even think its fair to call Ari Gold an asshole. Yes, it's true: Ari is brash, insensitive, offensive, shallow and obnoxious. But just because somebody's a loudmouth, it doesn't mean they're a bad person. I wish I could holler that exact statement to the world while wearing aviator sunglasses and a skintight black leather catsuit, standing upon an elevated podium a la Geri Halliwell in the video for "Spice Up Your Life" (if you want to know exactly what I mean, fast-forward two minutes and fifty seconds into this totally bone-chilling vid).

Just like Ari Gold, I have been forced to endure massive amounts of criticism and subsequent suffering in my life because the vast majority of the world's boring Normie population can't handle a little type A to "spice up their lives" (as it were). Well, they can all go to hell, Archie Bell & the Drells. If it weren't for termagant but pragmatic scoundrels like Ari and I running loose, there would be no world at all. Ari is the kind of a man who gets shit done. He makes it happen. And then, after he's done doing shit and having it happen, he hugs it out. Would an asshole ever want to hug something out? Obviously not. Assholes punch people in the face. Follow my train of thought? Ari Gold is a good, good man.

The captivating effervescence and appeal of Ari Gold mostly stems from the complex junction between good and evil that so defines his character. Ari Gold never bullshits. Ari Gold is the most honest man there ever was. He says exactly what he means: sometimes it's kind of nice, often it's mind-blowingly rude. But I'd rather be rude and trustworthy than sweet and phony. Which leads me to the crux of my pro-Ari argument:

Ari Gold and I belong together.

Don't worry, it's as surprising to me as I'm sure it is to you. But maybe you should stop being so surface for a second! Ari may not be fey or meta- or chiseled or play the bass in an obscure late-sixties baroque-psych band, but I know so deeply in my heart that our relationship would be as functional as either of we two firecrackers could ever manage. While I do think his relationship with Mrs. Ari is very cute, she just isn't enough for him. Ari needs somebody who'll respond to his verbal abuse with eloquently delivered Simone de Beauvoir quotes, throw a tin can at his head, or give him an Indian sunburn. Ari needs to meet his match. Ari needs me.

Ari Gold is the John Lennon of Entourage (in case you're wondering: Eric is Paul, Turtle is George, Vincent Chase is Ringo, and Johnny Drama is, I don't know, Neil Aspinall or Jane Asher or the Maharishi or something). Season Five should be all about his falling in love with a scrappy, whimsically-minded fashion blogger/conceptual artist, starring me as Yoko Ono/myself. Together, we would stroll seaside in matching all-white (as he so suavely wore in Season Four's Cannes episodes). Let's storm this beach like it's fuckin' Normandy, Laura Jane, Ari would say.

And then we would hug it out.

Thankfully for me, you, and everyone else on the planet, some genius made this ten-minute "Best of Ari Gold" video and posted it to Youtube for all the world to see. Check it out, and then pack that bitch, Chop Suey!

PS: What do you think Ari Gold's zodiac sign is? I kind of suspect he's a Scorpio, but that may just be wishful thinking on my part. (Laura)

Veronica Mars's Logan Echolls

I'm having a really hard time with this one. At one point I was gonna give up and write about Jack Donaghy instead of Logan Echolls, but then I realized that Jack's softened up so much over the course of 30 Rock This Town, Rock It Inside Out, he hardly even fits into the "asshole" category at all anymore. (Saint Jackie Boy? Seems probable.) It's all very odd, since endearing-assholeness is chief among my most valued personality traits: In fact, if I ever end up telling you, "You're such an asshole - but in an endearing way!", it definitely means I've fallen in love with you (whoops!).

What's the problem, then? The problem is NO ONE ON YOUTUBE posts Veronica Mars videos that appropriately honor the glory of Logan Echolls's psychotic jackassery. It's all these weird slo-mo montages of Logan and Veronica making out in the bathroom, set to wretched emo-pop or sometimes even George Michael's "Careless Whisper." And while I'll readily admit to actually gasping out loud the first time Logan and Veronica finally sucked face, I'm much more interested in watching him attack her Chrysler LeBaron with a crowbar. 'Cause without all that crazy violence peppered with the constant spitting-out of smart-ass one-liners, you're kind of left going, "Wait, why do I love this yellow-Hummer-driving almost-frat-boy in the puka-shell necklace?", and it just gets real confusing.

So here's the evidenced-nowhere-on-YouTube genius of Logan Echolls: Unlike all those teen dramas in which the bad boy ultimately reveals his heart of gold and finds redemption, this kid just kind of keeps fucking up over and over. He does some truly vile things (ringleading homeless-boxing matches, dating Paris Hilton), then later proves his valor (and, yes, utter gold-heartedness), only to turn bad again - then good, then bad, so pretty soon you figure out good and bad are inextricably, fantastically, and maybe tragically tangled up when it comes to this tortured little rich boy. That's we love our dearly departed VM - it's so slickly dark that you might not even realize how bleak the subtext is till you're writing a mini-treatise about Logan Echolls for your style blog. God, why'd it have to end??

Anyway, since you're not going to find the true spirit of Logan Echolls anywhere inside your magic computer, better just Netflix the whole damn series. At first you'll be like, "Dude, this guy sucks!" But at some point on the second disc of season one you'll learn what made Logan the irresistibly awful boy he is today, and from then on every time "Ventura Highway" by America comes on the classic-rock or oldies station your heart will just ache and ache. It's 9,000% worth it. (Liz)

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.)