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Tuesday , January 26, 2010
nogoodforme Superlative: Brain Crushes
HE'S SMART, AND HE HAS GREAT HAIR, TOO
When I first proposed the idea of writing about our brain crushes, Liz and LJ wanted to know if I meant someone whose intellect is so amazingly sharp and awesome that it incinerates our knickers against any or all resistance--or rather a brainiac type whose physical personhood is also appealingly fetching. Of course I said it was the first one because we're so freakin' deep and we don't objectify human beings, oh no!--but happily in my case, my brain crush fulfills both conditions nicely. Owen Hatherley is an architecture writer and journalist who does a brilliant blog, sit down, man, you're a bloody tragedy. Back in the proverbial day, I once did a "webjournal" (this was well before the word "blog" destroyed our common vernacular) in which I wrote dense, long articles unraveling Jean-Francois Lyotard and dissecting the gender politics of nearly everything under the sun. I threw around words like "heterotopia," "panopticon" and "hegemony" with aplomb; I was about ten times smarter in that blog than I am here, where my voice tends to be a bit "Daria-or-other-sarcastic-teen-girl-archetype ingests uppers with the Valley girl elite while at a crazy slumber party." Nowadays, the idea of writing that kind of a blog is a bit out of the question, since I sadly don't have time to read massive tomes of critical theory and then write about it. (Sorry--I switched my allegiance to movies, and contemporary Romanian cinema awaits!) Hatherley's blog satisfies the part of my brain that could've gone to a proper grad school, gotten a proper Ph.D instead of a M.F.A. (short for "motherfucking asinine") and become a proper professor like my father always wanted for me. I first stumbled upon his blog while looking up something on Fassbinder, but I actually was blown away by his sharp critique of the class politics of certain types of "green urbanism" (which is at his other blog.) Hatherley writes for a broad range of publications, and on an equally wide reach of subjects, ranging from urban space and architecture to good ol' music, film and media. So do a lot of people, but he brings a distinctly fierce, political perspective to his thinking and writing, with a particular sharpness paid to how urban space shapes and reflects class politics. He's also a lanky British dude, and well...I just don't see how that takes away from anything, really. His book, Militant Modernism, gets stellar reviews, but sadly I reside on American soil and haven't read it yet. But I will. After I watch Police, Adjective, of course. (Kat)
SOME UGLY DOCTORS I HAVE KNOWN
I decided to interpret "brain crushes" to mean: dudes who aren't hot, but totally bring it home in the personality department.
ABOVE: Dr. Phillip Calvin McGraw, who is a Virgo; Dr. Peter Mark Roget, who is a Capricorn
1. BEGS LAURA JANE, "DON'T MESS WITH TEXAS!": I don't understand people who "hate" Dr. Phil. WHY???? Do you also hate "logic" and "reason"? Do you hate "the truth"? It seems like you must. That is a firm new opinion I hold: People who hate Dr. Phil are illogical, irrational liars. As far as I'm concerned, Dr. Phil is the smartest man who ever walked the face of the planet in the entire history of mankind. Everything Dr. Phil says is RIGHT. A lot of people claim to be "no bullshit" types of people, but they're wrong about themselves. For one, I'm constantly insisting I'm a "no bullshit" type of person, but, in reality, about 75% of everything I say and/or do is total bullshit. You know why this is true of me? Because I'm too poor to have Dr. Phil be my therapist. But- mark my words- one day, I'm going to be a really famous writer. And then I'm going to develop a whole new set of retarded issues based around my bullshit inability to cope with my own being a famous writer. And then I'm going to call Dr. Phil, and hire him as my therapist. Dr. Phil will tell me the truth, and he will fix me.
I just realized that if you put Dr. Phil's brain in George Harrison's body, HE WOULD BE MY DREAM MAN.
2. WHAT DON'T WE HAVE IN COMMON, DR. PETER MARK ROGET?: Earlier today, I was sitting at my desk, typing furiously about how awesome Dr. Phil is. When I get too aggro and forceful with my typing, things from the top of my desk tend to fall on my head. Earlier today, my Roget's thesaurus fell on my head. Talk about a "brain crush"- literally!!!!
And then I saw- I cannot think of any dude awesome-er than the dude who INVENTED THE THESAURUS. Do you even understand how much I love thesauruses? Thesauri? Holy shit. Words are the best ever! The only thing I love better than words are "sentences," which are just words, really, only more of them. Dr. Peter Mark Roget gets me.
According to Wikipedia, Dr. Roget's "obsession with list-making as a coping mechanism was well established by the time he was eight years old." Don't I know it, Dr. Roget. DON'T I KNOW IT. I also found out that Roget's "work on the thesaurus arose partly from an effort to battle depression." So basically: Roget's Thesaurus is the "Yer Blues" of 1852. If Dr. Roget was my boyfriend, it would be so fun to sit around and talk about words we like! "I'm really into 'edify' and 'codify' right now," I'd say. "Superb!" he'd respond, "Both of those words are exceedingly meritorious."
Then I would sing him his name to the tune of "Dr. Robert" by the Beatles, and he'd say: "Laura Jane, you are truly mellifluous. I fancy, worship, revere, cherish, treasure, prize, adore, and/or love you." And the best part is- Dr. Roget is not even all that ugly! Though he is, unfortunately, dead. (Laura Jane)
Tags: coping mechanisms, Dr. Phil, Dr. Roget, dudes who blog, Fassbinder, hegemony, Owen Hatherley, Roget's thesaurus, therapy
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Tuesday , November 24, 2009
nogoodforme Superlatives: Favorite Comfort Movies
IN TIMES OF HARDSHIP, ALL KAT WANTS IS CUTE JAPANESE ANIMATION AND/OR 18TH CENTURY FRENCH BONBONS
When I turn to films for comfort, it's usually because I've been done wrong by a dude or I'm doing wrong to one and can't help it, so I AVOID AVOID AVOID anything with anything romantic at its center, no matter how comedic or dramatic. I want nothing more than to reinforce a worldview in which love and romance do not exist or are not central concerns of existence. Usually this means either violent action thrillers or animated children's films -- both offer stories in which the turning points revolve around anything but two people meeting cute and making out and making good in the sweepstakes of love. But while I feel like a marathon viewing of the entire Terminator series is sometimes a very worthwhile endeavor (and I think the first Terminator film is one of the most genius B-movies ever made), usually I opt for the charm and innocence of children's films, particularly the ones by the genuinely great Hayao Miyazaki. Who doesn't want to look at adorable, cute Japanese cartoon characters, like a giant cat that turns into a bus or little tree spirits? While I love all the Disney and Pixar classics, Miyazaki's films have such a deep connection to nature and a certain spirituality that it feels like a true balm to a battered spirit to watch them. Even the love stories in Miyazaki films are rooted in the emotions of affection and warmth instead of passion -- the real passion in Miyazaki is for something larger than what exists between two people, whether it's the richly byzantine spirit world (Spirited Away), the alchelmy of self-reliance (Howl's Moving Castle) or the greatness of trees (My Neighbor Totoro). I can't think of anything more comforting sometimes than that kind of perspective-shifting, the ability to reframe "issues" into something bigger than our own sometimes myopic contexts.
BELOW: The opening credits for his totes charming My Neighbor Totoro
There are times, though, when you want the cinematic equivalent of Jalouse, bedroom slippers, champagne and silk pajamas. There is really only one film that fits this bill, and it is Marie Antoinette. I don't pretend Marie Antoinette is a great or even a good movie, but as pure eye and ear candy, it's unparalleled. The story is slight enough that you can paint your nails or clean your room or make collages while it's on, and it's pretty enough to stimulate your appetite for sweets and pastries. It's perfect for those times in life when you want to reify the comforting tropes of girliness into a femininity so monumental that love and romance become only the backdrop opportunities to celebrate your womanitude, instead of being the whole enchilada of existence. It's like escaping into a weird girlfest fantasia, like getting together with your girlfriends over cocktails -- only you don't have to talk about boring boys all the time. You don't have to do anything but lie in bed and watch movies on your laptop computer and forget the beautiful mess you're in.
ALL-TIME TOP FIVE REASONS WHY BUYING A $3 VHS COPY OF SO I MARRIED AN AXE MURDERER IS THE 87th SMARTEST THING LIZ HAS EVER DONE IN HER ENTIRE LIFE
1. LIKE CHARLIE, I'M IN DEEP SMIT WITH HARRIET, that "hard-hearted harbinger of haggis" of the titular role. It's so cool that she's a butcher! It's so cute when she dresses up like a milkmaid! I want to be her, only without all the murdering. Also I get really jealous during the scenes when Mike Myers is working the meat slicer, as slicing deli meat is by far the most grossly awesome fun I ever had at my super-sucky dining-hall work-study gig sophomore year of college. Peeling the shells off eggs at the salad-prep station kind of ruled too, actually.
2. PHIL HARTMAN'S CAMEO AS VICKI, the scary Alcatraz tour guide. And Steven Wright's cameo too! And Alan Arkin as the oppressively nice police chief. Why has Alan Arkin looked the same age for like 30 years?
3. THE BUBBLE BATH SCENE, especially when Mike Myers speaks into the nozzle like it's an intercom and says "Could you bring the car around? Thank you so much" in a stuffy British accent. One time in college my friend performed a little reenactment of that bit for my voice-mail greeting and I only kept it for about a week but it was pretty fantastic.
4. EVERY "ONLY YOU"-RELATED JOKE IN THE WHOLE MOVIE. My fave is when Mike Myers says: "We haven't reached that all-too-crucial 'Do you know the words to "Only You"?' phase in our relationship," or whatever. And it's so sweet when Harriet serenades Charlie at their wedding reception - which, by the way, seems like it was a damn good party. I'd take backyard bagpipers doing "Do Ya Think I'm Sexy" over some mega-pretentious, over-the-top, Rachel Getting Married-esque world-music spectacular any day.
5. HARRIET AND CHARLIE'S RELATIONSHIP IS KIND OF MY DREAM RELATIONSHIP. Their first date is so perfect! I hope my next first date involves walking around eating hot dogs and then heading home for a warm cup of Cubby Wubby Womb Room tea. I'd probably wear my hair exactly like Harriet's, and maybe even the same dress too. Although if the dude started doing fake ballet moves I'd probably be all "Ewww - please stop." But other than that, it's just golden. Watch!
IF MR. HOLLAND WAS MY MUSIC TEACHER, I'D PROBABLY SKIP HIS CLASS
ABOVE: The Douchebag of the Century conducting his Doofusy Orchestra of Lameness
I hate pretty much every single thing about Mr. Holland's Opus, except for 1) the spry gym teacher character, and 2) the experience of watching Mr. Holland's Opus. Mr. Holland's Opus seems to be on television more than any other movie ever made, except maybe The Breakfast Club. And if Mr. Holland's Opus is on TV; y'all better believe I'm watching that shit. And I'm not just saying "shit" in a slang-y way. As I'm sure you've already figured out on your own- Mr. Holland's Opus is a piece of shit. Glen Holland is one of the most unlikable anti-heroes in the entire history of cinema. For one thing, his name is "Glen"- barf!* For a billion others: he's a deadbeat dad, has a creepy affair with his student, named his son "Coltrane", is a failure, tells Zoe from Cybill to "Play the sunset", which is corny, and has an unsubstantiated superiority complex. Fuck that. I'm glad you failed at life, Glen Holland.
The grass is always greener on the other side (of twenty years old). What I wouldn't give for just one more Sunday afternoon at my parents' house: sixteen, lying on the couch, secretly hungover and absolutely filthington, watching MH'sO while rocking a hair-dye stained t-shirt and my panda bear jammer pants (I had to throw them out cuz they were stained with period blood and I got a boyfriend) and emotionally eating crappy My Parents' House food like cottage cheese with pineapple chunks, caffeine-free Diet Coke, and microwavable mini-pizzas. I'd be petting Niblet, the sweetest, coolest, awesome-est miniature apricot poodle in the entire history of all recorded history. He was such a good boy!!! RIP, Nibs. (Laura Jane)
*Sorry to everybody who is reading this and is named Glen. I'm sure you're awesome.
Tags: college, comfort, Cybill, dogs, Hayao Miyazaki, love, Mike Myers, mini-pizzas, movies, panda bears
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Wednesday , November 18, 2009
nogoodforme Superlatives: Our Most Dramatic Shifts in Sex And The City Opinions
I'M NOT A CHARLOTTE BUT I LIKE HER BEST ANYWAY
When "Sex and the City" first started, I liked Carrie and loathed Charlotte. I thought Carrie was free-spirited, whimsical and funny, and Charlotte was uptight, annoying and way too Rules-y for me to enjoy her as a character. By the time the show ended, though, the reverse was true: I adored Charlotte and was rooting for her to have her happy ending, and everytime a Carrie-centric scene popped on, I left the room in a froth of annoyance and waited till my friends told me the Carrieness was over so I could come back in and watch the show. (I kid you not. I did this.) I know I'm supposed to identify with Carrie 'cause I'm Carrie-like in circumstance: I'm swingin' and single, I'm in my 30s, I write, I love clothes and I live in fucking glorious New York City, although NOT in as nice apartment like Carrie had. (How the hell did she swing that? Was she a call girl for a year or something?) But the idea of being remotely Carrie Bradshaw-like fills me with sheer utter existential horror -- I would rather be condemned to a perma-singleness full of cats and striped socks than be anything like the childish, narcissistic exemplar of selfishness and self-centeredness that Carrie turned into at the end. But enough about Carrie, who I really don't care about except when people who barely know me say, "Oh, you're just like Carrie Bradshaw!" and it makes me want to puke my face off into their unimaginative maws. I care about Charlotte! Charlotte's transformation to perky, kinda annoying traditionalist to happy, accepting, fulfilled wife and mother is, to me, is the real miracle of "Sex and the City." (It really is a miracle, 'cause in real life I am generally uninterested in fulfilling those roles for myself in any normal way.) Charlotte had a real hero's journey of "Sex and the City," mirroring a shift in attitude that many women I know in real life need to go through before they find true fulfillment in relationships: the idea that you have this ideal or checklist of a dream partner in life, but have to let that go in order to let real, genuine, lasting love and trust into your life. (Hey, I'm in my 30s, I get to say stentorian older-sister stuff like this because it's been playing out with me and my girlfriends for awhile now.) The high irony is that Charlotte got exactly what she thought she wanted in a partner with her first marriage: she got to marry Special Agent Dale Cooper! Kidding, but she married the handsome, successful, rich dude she'd always envisioned for herself up to that point. And you know what? It totally sucked. It was the entirely wrong thing for her, because she forgot some juicy elements she needed to really make a relationship work: passion, fun, that whole idea of someone being crazy for you and vice versa, and a shared sense of adventure. She had to overcome a lot of her own small-mindedness and received ideas to be able to find love with Harry Goldenblatt, but damn, I'm glad she did, because who didn't cry buckets at the end of the show when she found out they were going to adopt a baby girl from China? (Buckets, I tell you, fucking buckets.) I love how Charlotte never gave up on her vision of fulfillment. The eternal optimist and romantic, she always hoped and dreamed and believed, and she found someone who maybe wasn't a Prince Charming -- but was her true love nonetheless. Oh, fuck, I need to go cry now! Charlotte, I'm so happy for you! (Kat)
CARRIE BRADSHAW SHOULD HAVE THROWN A BIG GULP AT MR. BIG'S FACE
Oh, Big*. He's a strapping stockbroker, a tall drink of water. They share cigarettes after sex. "Abso-fuckin'-lutely" is a magnificent catchphrase, and it was abso-fuckin'-lutely awesome when he punched Aleksandr Petrovksy in the face.
As an impressionable sixteen-year-old irrationally compelled by the pursuit of glamour, a self-identified "Carrie" with an insatiable appetite for self-destruction, I deemed Carrie and Big's epic relationship "the shit." Having never known romantic love, I mistakenly believed that the greatest love stories should be bloody and bombastic; "no pain, no gain." Five years of game-playing and histrionics sounded so "worth it" to me. It worked for Carrie Bradshaw, after all!
I haven't watched Sex and the City in like eight billion years, except for the Jack Berger episodes (because Jack Berger is the only Carrie Bradshaw love interest who doesn't BLOW), but, based on my long-term memory, here is a list of all the assy shit Big did to Carrie over the course of Satc's duration (and movie): he never told her he loved her, was emotionally unavailable, was a dick about it that time she wore Cookie Monster jammies and adorably brought him McDonald's, moved to Paris like a douchebag, married a Normie Bitch in Paris, ruined her functional relationship with Aidan (who was a tool, but nice at least) by bullying her into an affair, showed up at Aidan's idyllic summer home pathetically drunk while mooning over a movie star, annoyingly sang "New York State Of Mind", which was CREEPY, moved to Napa, bullied her into a creepy phone-sex relationship, probably some other fucked-up shit, ABANDONED her at the altar, more fucked-up shit, wasn't that hot, sucked generally, sucked, was an asshole, etc.
Wow, doesn't that sound "fun"? Doesn't that sound like the behavior of the man you should eventually MARRY? No. The Big/Carrie relationship is a fallacy. In real life, he never would have rescued her from spry-yet-evil Aleksandr Petrovsky's Parisian death-grip. He would have stayed an asshole, because you can't teach an old asshole new non-asshole-y tricks. Not that I think Carrie Bradshaw is the greatest person in the world or anything, but she definitely deserves better than some flabby old guy who treats her like a disposable fucking camera.
One of the most annoying cultural ramifications of Sex and the City's massive popularity is that it has ignited a general "Assholes vs. Nice Guys" debate amongst women. Hey, guess what, guys- DON'T PICK THE ASSHOLE. Why are assholes even up for consideration? IT IS NOT OKAY TO FORGIVE A MAN FOR TREATING YOU THE WAY BIG TREATED CARRIE, so don't look to Big and Carrie's relationship as a means of justifying the crappiness of your own Tragical Shitstery Tour.
Instead, throw a Big Gulp at that motherfucker's face. Speaking of throwing Big Gulps at motherfuckers' faces, I personally wish I could throw a Big Gulp at SatC creator Darren "Dumbass" Star's head for propagating this misogynistic bullshit to such a vast female audience. I ain't sixteen anymore, Myutes. (Laura Jane)
*WHY IS HE NAMED THAT???
ROGER STERLING WAS THE BEST CARRIE BOYFRIEND
Hey, I already wrote my heart out about how Sex and The City fucked up my shit, and it was really good and kinda exhaustive, and now I never need to write emotionally about Carrie Bradshaw ever again. Thank heavens for small favors!
But yeah, opinion shifts. Like Kat, I started out on Team Carrie but ended up claiming Charlotte as my fave, which was so smart of me. And like Laura, I used to majorly dig on Big, and whenever the Big Vs. Aidan argument came up in conversation I'd get violently annoyed at anyone who took Aidan's side. Aidan's aggro-whiny as all get-out, and so's Berger, whom I also detest. The only thing good about Berger is he's Ron Livingston. And I hate Aleksandr Petrovsky's stupid boring guts too, but, yeah: Big's the worst of the lot, because of everything I already said, and everything Laura said too. Basically, EVERYONE CARRIE EVER SERIOUSLY DATED WAS SO AWFUL. So here are five (minor) Carrie boyfriends that are comparatively less awful:
ROGER STERLING. The whole "Please pee on me" thing is maybe a little off-putting, I guess, but dude: It's Roger Sterling! How'd he ever end up with Carrie Bradshaw anyway? That's quite a fall from Joan Holloway. Which Mad Man do you think Carrie Bradshaw would actually date, BTW? It's sure not Don Draper; there's no way he'd ever stand for all that yammering. Maybe Ken Cosgrove?
VINCE VAUGHN AS CARRIE FISHER'S PERSONAL ASSISTANT. Because it's Vince Vaughn, and because of when he says "That's such a disconnect." Which is totally how people in L.A. talk, by the way. Also, no one eats their food; we just chew it for a while and then spit it into our napkins.
THE DUDE WHOSE APARTMENT CARRIE RANSACKS WHEN HE LEAVES HER THERE ALONE ONE MORNING. And then he catches her and it turns out she's the freak in the situation - because the episode's titled "Freak Show," and therefore anything that happens to anyone must somehow be freak-related. I don't remember a damn thing about him except he seemed like Carrie Bradshaw's one shot at dating anyone halfway decent, so that's pretty sad for Carrie. Also, I was recently left alone in a dude's flat for a bit and thought to myself: "Wouldn't it be weird if I ransacked his apartment like Carrie Bradshaw did on the 'Freak Show' episode of 'Sex and the City'?" But I didn't, because I'm not a crazy asshole. You would've been so proud!
TIMOTHY OLYPHANT AS SAM THE TWENTYSOMETHING. Oh, Timothy Olyphant is so cute. I miss when he used to do the sports report on Indie 103.1 in the morning, when Indie used to exist. And it's so endearing how he starts to tell Carrie about his dream the morning after their sleepover, especially the part where he goes "I had these BIG HANDS!!" And then Carrie's such a bitch and keeps whining about coffee and then screams because Sam's roommate has long hair. What a judgmental stick-in-the-mud. Here's that scene in Russian:
Oh, gosh, I can't think of a fifth. The sailor from Fleet Week was cool, I guess. I'm also kind of fond of Jon Bon Jovi, as an actor. Everyone else is just the pits. Miranda got all the best ones, except for Harry Goldenblatt, so good for her. (Liz)
Tags: assholes, assholes suck, Big, Carrie Bradshaw, Charlotte York, Don Draper, Los AngeLIES, misogyny, myutes, RIP Indie 103.1, Roger Sterling, Sex and the City
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Wednesday , September 9, 2009
nogoodforme superlatives: Our Celebrity Spirit Animals
Exactly one year ago, it was Spirit Animal House day, and Kat Asharya, Elizabeth Barker, and Laura Jane Faulds were collectively having the nervous breakdown of the century. It rained a bit in the morning, Kat wrote a checklist as long as the Bible, Laura dazedly hung t-shirts on a wall, and Elizabeth Barker mysteriously disappeared for, like, eight hours, prompting Kat & LJ to scream "Bar-KER!!!" to the heavens 'til Liz returned with hundreds of dollars worth of candy, which nobody can say no to. As expected, Spirit Animal House was a smashing success, and we- along with our fabulous guests, of course- lived the Tuesday night to end all Tuesday nights. Kat wowed us with her mad "Making Origami Spirit Animals" skillz, Liz demonstrated what a dashing bracelet a skein of raffle tickets can make, and Laura Jane's drunk raffle-emcee performance ended up being one of the crowning accomplishments of her entire life- particularly when she chewed out the Piano's DJ for playing "Island In The Sun" by Weezer, which was actually "The Passenger" by Iggy Pop. Oopsies!
As much as we can all be safe in knowing that "Spirit Animal House Party 2: Pajama Jammy Jam" will one day go down, and be the actual best party EVER, isn't it so much nicer to be here today, safe at our computers, doin' what we do best? We're not the MisShapes, we're the Beatles of 2009! Kat/George, Liz/Paul, and Laura Jane/John would like to thank all of our readers for your continued acclaim and support; we'll see you all in one years' time at our book launch party, of course. And, until then, here we will be: rockin' the Helter Skelter out of our sexy new re-design, challengin' the notoriously lame Fashion Industrial Complex, smilin' cuz we're stylin', grinnin' cuz we're WINNIN' and writing the words that make the whole blogosphere groove. The nogoodforme troika: the calmest, coolest collective this world has ever known.
In honor of the second annual Spirit Animal Day (now an intergalactic holiday), here's a look at what our spirit animals would be if they were famous people instead of a wolf, a sea turtle, and a scrappy black cat.
TILDA SWINTON IS THE MAGIC UNICORN OF HUMAN BEINGS
Normally I think it would be slightly lame to have some famous actress as your spirit animal, but Tilda is no mere starlet. A maverick and independent spirit, she has a penchant for wearing Viktor & Rolf, dating younger men, saying "dude" in interviews and lives in a faraway place in Scotland called Nairn when she's not brilliantly playing archangels, alcoholics or the White Witch of Narnia in the movies. She's also a genuine cineaste, a true lover and supporter of film who started a film festival in her hometown -- the first year, the price of admission was cupcakes, and this year she and a whole bunch of people created a mobile version of the film festival, where they dragged a movie truck by foot across the Scottish countryside to places that normally don't have access to an arthouse theatre. In the industry she has a rep for being enthusiastic as a collaborator, throwing parties for the crews on film sets and generally going above and beyond to help get a movie made. (Word on the street is she dug up Keanu for Thumbsucker, which is probably my favorite Keanu role of all time -- and, by the way, the New Age orthodontist he plays is the origin of the original nogoodforme obsession with spirit/power animals. Bringing it full circle!) But Tilda is magic not for her doing or having, but for her very being, which is genuine, kind, open, distinctly brainy, nonpretentious, and adventurous as fuck. It's kind of a huge nogoodforme error that she hasn't been mentioned here more often, but there's nothing like a new Spirit Animal Era to make things happen. (Kat)
DEVENDRA BANHART IS SPIRITUAL JELLO
(L to R: My spirit animal guest-blogging for nogoodforme.com; my spirit animal replenishing his fluids; my spirit animal beardless and beautiful.)
The best unpublished nogoodforme.com piece I've ever drafted is titled "Why I'm Giving Up Devendra Banhart and Reclaiming Jack White as My Spirit Guide," or something kinda similar. It wrote it in a Coffee Bean on a really overcast day in Hermosa Beach last summer, and this is probably the most important paragraph:
So Jack came back, and it's right as rain. Jack doesn't make me feel bad about being messy and cranky - I mean, is there any other boy in the universe whose vocals so consistently might be described as "cranky" themselves? I can put feathers in my hair, or maybe ride my bike to the health food store for bulk red rice and dried rose petals and raw honey, then ride home to play Incredible String Band records and drink bottled beer with lime on the front porch while wearing a poncho, and I might even feel completely myself like that. But I will never be some floaty creature or some precious little canyon-frolicking imp. I'm generally a sweet and smiley girl, but I'm also hot-tempered and I don't suffer fools gladly. I know I've got some hippie in my heart, but that's really only one chamber.
So I guess the idea was that I'm too uptight and bitchy to be a Devendra, so I might as well try to be a Jack. Which is so stupid and self-limiting! Jack's a class act and I'll probably need him forever, but there's always room for Devendra. Devendra is spiritual Jello! Devendra gives me joy and can always get me to calm the hell down, and the latter's no small feat. Plus I like that he's lovely-looking and wears feather headdresses a lot, and keeps a tin of stick-on googly eyes in his jewelry-making studio, and made Lindsay Lohan a mix CD to take with her to rehab. Exuberantly stylish, kooky and crafty, and a real good pal to boot? It makes my soul grow just to think his name.
Also, and this is maybe the biggest thing, Devendra's "Long-Haired Child" is the song of my heart, the song I most want life to be like sometimes - my spirit song, if you will. Listen and love. (Liz)
THE WOMEN OF MAD MEN, AND ALL MAD WOMEN EVERYWHERE
I am so sick of having dudes be my muses! The bros may be hot, and occasionally non-creepy, but they don't know shit about shit about being Laura Jane. Ray Davies, Keith Moon, Adam "Ad-Rock" Horovitz, Grigori Rasputin, Robert F. Kennedy, John Kenneth Galbraith- y'all are great guys, but you'll never know how tough this Magical Misogyny Tour we call "womanhood" can sometimes be.
My spirit animals are two fake employees from a fake advertising firm in 1963- Joan Holloway (the hot redhead at right; probably a Leo, with her moon in "fucking hot") and Peggy Olson (the mousy brunette at left; definitely a fellow Cancer) of Mad Men, the greatest non-Friends television program there ever was. Besides being hot babes employed by the same fictional ad agency, Joan and Peggy have nothing in common. But, when you combine the best parts of both of them, you get the perfect person, who, by the end of fiscal 2009, will probably be me. I look to Joan in those trying moments when being a "good person" is not enough, or when I need to justify my own sluttiness. It's not sluttiness, Laura Jane, it's "babe-age." And Peggy? Peggy Olson? Peggy Olson is my hero. Being a babe in a dude's world is tough breaks, but Peggy's a champ about it, through and through. You know that scene from two episodes ago when Peggy gets mondo-baked and tells Olive, "You're worried about me! Don't worry about me. I'll be fiiiine"? I cried at that scene. That Mad Men moment was as much me as is "Maxwell's Silver Hammer" by the Beatles. Oh, and by the by- it's 1963 on MM right now. Season Four? PEGGY AND JOAN DO BEATLEMANIA!!! (LJ)
Tags: astrology, babes, Devendra Banhart, dudes suck, feathers, googly eyes, intergalactic holidays, Jack White, Joan Holloway, Keith Moon, Lindsay Lohan, Mad Men, nostalgia, Peggy Olson, smoking pot, Spirit Animal Day, Spirit Animal House, Spirit Animal House-a-versary, spiritual Jello, The Beatles of 2009, Tilda Swinton, unicorns
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Wednesday , August 26, 2009
nogoodforme Superlatives: Famous Losers We'd Make Out with for Weird Reasons
DON'T ASK 'CAUSE IT CAN'T BE EXPLAINED: TIMOTHY GEITHNER
I actually don't think Timothy Geithner is a loser. I'm sure he's a very smart man and I'm sure he's up to a lot of important things as U.S. Secretary of the Treasury. But one can't deny that he's pretty much the oddest jewel in Kat's collection of hypothetical makeout dudes. I mean, I don't usually go for dudes who 1. are older; 2. wear a suit to work everyday; 3. have curly hair; and 4. are tax evaders. Perhaps it's the fact that his middle name is Franz, which is something I find kind of awesome, and he is kind of nerdy, which is something I really love in a dude. But it's all very inexplicable, really. I mean, what in the world could we possibly have to talk about? Maybe we'd talk about Thailand (where he grew up partly) and maybe we'd rank on Ben Bernanke and maybe we can talk about how TurboTax can suck it? Maybe this is a sign that I read too much of The Economist? (Kat)
SWEET DREAMS (ARE MADE OF MARILYN MANSON IN A VON DUTCH TRUCKER HAT)
(I think he's hotter in the photo on the right, but it's really a toss-up.)
One time my friends and I found this book called Treacherous Love in the free bin at the farmers market. It's a Go Ask Alice-esque "diary of anonymous teenager," about a 14-year-old girl named "Jennie" who falls in love with her substitute math teacher "Mr. Johnstone" (who's "sexier than Ben Affleck," seriously). On the drive home we read the book out loud, and our favorite part was when the narrator-girl exclaims of her pedophiliac paramour: "HIS CONCEPTS ARE SO WONDROUS!"
So, the way I feel about Marilyn Manson is like the exact opposite of how "Jennie" feels about "Mr. Johnstone." I do not find Marilyn Manson's concepts to be so wondrous. In fact, one time in the midst of an MM-focused kitchen-table chat with my ex-roommate, I actually shouted the words "HIS IDEAS ARE SO BORING!", and then my roommate made fun of me a lot, which I deserved.
But, truly: Marilyn Manson is so goddamn boring, in an amazing way. It fascinates me that someone can build their entire persona on Satan-lovin' and sexual deviance and rampant drug use and still come out totally dull. He's written some catchy tunes that are real fun to jog to, but beyond that I have zero use for Marilyn Manson, except for this weird thing of wishing I could tongue-kiss with him for just a little bit. I don't want to spend all night drinking absinthe in his mansion in Chatsworth, blowing lines off of the femur of a human skeleton, shaving his eyebrows while listening to Fiona Apple records. Ideally what would happen is I'd be hanging out somewhere and Marilyn Manson would show up and then we'd suck face for no less than five but no more than ten minutes, and then he'd leave and I'd brush my hands against each other with the sweet satisfaction of having crossed one more item of my lifelong "To Do" list. That's all.
I can't explain it, really. If I think hard, I can intellectually recognize that Marilyn Manson is a very unsavory-looking human, but that's got nothing to do with my wanting badly to swap spit with him. In that feature on Buddyhead LA Weekly ran a while back, Travis Keller told a story about going to hang out at Marilyn Manson's house on Christmas Eve and being so grossed out by MM answering the door in a Von Dutch trucker hat and a stain-covered t-shirt. "That actually sounds kinda hot," I mumbled to myself as I read the article, chewing on the end of my bendy straw and negating everything I believe in. It felt good. Imagine if you only ever wanted to make out with dudes who look like John Krasinski or James Franco in Pineapple Express or James Taylor in 1971? Who'd be the boring one then? (Liz)
WANTING: A ONE-WAY TICKET TO TOMMYLAND
Once, when I was in high school, I fell asleep, and, as I tend to do: I dreamed something. I had a "Tommy Lee dream." Surprisingly, It was not a sex dream. It was a love dream. It was the greatest dream I ever had. I am fully confident that I will never know such love again. I am fully confident that a love so grand, as Tommy Lee and I's in my dream that time, cannot exist in real life. It was the love that dreams are made of.
In my dream, Tommy Lee and I were both cashiers at the supermarket in the strip mall nearest to both of the two houses I grew up in. In my life, that supermarket has been: Miracle Food Mart, Ultra-Mart, one other one, Dominion, and now it is probably "Metro," as all Dominions are. My dream took place during "one other one"-era that supermarket. The plot of the dream was that Tommy Lee and I worked at perpendicular check-out lines, and our respective abilities to hold down our respective "forts" were disrupted by the intensity of our respective love for each respective other.
"I shall NOT ring through your bunches of bananas or your Honey Bunches of Oats, Customers!" thought my teenage dream self. "I must go over to Tommy Lee's cash, where I will be held by him, and where I will whisper sweet nothings into his multiply-pierced ear!" And Tommy Lee reciprocated. So dearly, he loved me too. I arose entirely smitten, and the ferocity of my love has never dimmed nor waned.
Actually, that's a lie. It waned once, in October '07, at St. Mark's Bookshop, where I leafed through his autobiography, Tommyland, and came upon a passage wherein he likened a particular component of the female anatomy to Gummi Bears (YOU DO THE MATH). Gross!!!!!! So gross, in fact, that I vowed, I swore, I would never love Tommy Lee again. But then I woke up the next morning, right back where I started: in love with Tommy Lee. Who woulda thunk it? Tommy Lee is the great love of Laura Jane Faulds' life. I've always wanted to end up with another "artiste," and Tommy Lee's the juice "sexy geniuses" are made of. I am immensely supportive of ALL Tommy's creative endeavors, even Rock Star: Supernova, EVEN Tommy Lee Goes to College. I watched both programs religiously. Semi-religiously.
Oh yeah, and have you heard? Dude's hung like a goddamned horse. (Laura Jane)
Tags: cocaine, dreams, Fiona Apple, Gummi Bears, James Franco, James Taylor, Marilyn Manson, sexier than Ben Affleck, sexy geniuses, skeletons, Tommy Lee, Tommy Lee dreams, Tommy Lee Goes to College, Treacherous Love, wondrous concepts
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Tuesday , August 18, 2009
nogoodforme Superlatives: Our Favorite Candy Bars
BUTTERFINGERS, SINE QUA NON
The thing that intrigues me most about Butterfingers is that it mimics no known canonical flavors found in nature. The chocolate may be chocolate, but the Butterfinger really just tastes like itself and nothing else. While so many candy bars are made up of recognizable elements like peanuts, salt, caramel and so on, a Butterfinger is simply just "Butterfinger," a singular entity unto itself. (Perhaps it's meant to evoke butterscotch crossed with peanut brittle, but no butterscotch or peanut brittle I have ever had in my life has ever tasted like a Butterfinger.) I have super-fond memories of being little and my dad coming home from work with Butterfingers on his person, and my sisters and I would ransack him every afternoon to find them. Now I'm slightly weirded out by the name, but it doesn't stop me from having one every now and then. (Kat)
"I NEVER MET A MARS BAR I DIDN'T LIKE" - ELIZABETH "BLACK EYES" BARKER
This photo is a lie: "Lion" is not my favorite candy bar; I'd never even heard of the damn things before last night's trip to India Sweets and Spices. But I love lions, and sometimes Kat calls me a lion, and I used the word "lion" in the headline of the first post of my L.A. Life Lessons series that I swear I'm gonna finish someday soon, so I really wanted to pose with the packaging. Also, I'm proud to report that Lion bars are grrrrrrrrreat, wafers and caramel enrobed in the milkiest milk chocolate, and now I'm so in love.
But: "Lion" is not my favorite candy bar! I don't actually have a favorite candy bar, because there are so many bars that bring me such joy in all these wonderful ways. Like, Milky Ways are so good for sticking in the freezer and eating with a giant white peach and a glass of pink wine to celebrate your sixth anniversary of living in Los Angeles. And 3 Musketeers rule cuz you can peel off the chocolate, eat it all up, and the nougat-y center leftover is like "second treat" (to semi-quote Pam Beesley). And I love Snickers because they remind me of those commercials in the '80s where someone would have a handful of peanuts, close their palm, then reopen it and the peanuts would have turned into a Snickers bar! Sometimes my cousins and I used to pour peanuts into our hands and then sit around opening and closing our palms, waiting for a Snickers to appear. Such sweethearted fools we were.
So, those are all Mars bars, but I've also got big love for Aero bars, which are made by Nestle and all British and shit. I'll never forget when my exboyfriend first introduced me to the British-candy aisle of the grocery store: It was a starry night at the Star Market in Porter Square, the moon shone like silver. We got an Aero bar, and a Flake bar, and maybe a Crunchie bar too. For a while all I did was eat Aero bars all the time, and it was heaven on earth. Why is British chocolate so much better than American chocolate? Why is my Lion bar already all gone away? (Liz)
CARAMILK BARS- THE OFFICIAL FOOD OF "BEING LAURA JANE FAULDS"
What a wretched fate it would be, to be the type of explainer who can only express the extra-wow!- good things of life by likening them to having an orgasm. Really?!? Does "Helter Skelter" build up to a rollicking sonic climax? NOT AN ORGASM. Oh and was your last week's rich-chick back massage totally relaxing? STILL NOT AN ORGASM. Did you have a great workout? Did you watch a movie with Clive Owen in it? Is cake decadent? THESE THINGS ARE ALSO NOT ORGASMS.
But like yeah OK if there was like one moment I've ever lived that like was totally comparable to &/or good in the same way as &/or physically reminiscent of having an orgasm but, like, wasn't, it would definitely be the moment when I took my first bite of a Caramilk bar after a horrifically depressing minimum seven-year-long "eating Caramilk bars regularly" drought.
Fuck not eating Caramilk bars regularly. Two weeks less one day ago, I ditched veganism forever, and am now on an eating rampage. I have the voracious appetite of Jughead Jones. Every meal is a holiday. It is just so rad not having all these fucking annoying fucking dietary restrictions fucking my shit up! I'm so into being "a vegetarian" and not "an anorexic vegan." A lot of people who ditch veganism (such as Kat Asharya) have their minds blown by cheese. I'm kind of over cheese; I just don't think it's that amazing. What I think is amazing are: Caramilk bars. If I could only eat one food for the rest of my life, it would be: Caramilk bars.
I can still remember the first bite I ever took of a Caramilk bar. I might have described it as "orgasmic," except I was three years old. Some asshole motherfuckers can't "handle" Caramilks, because they're "too sweet." These people are pussies. Suck it up, you babies. Eat Caramilk bars. I do. Eating Caramilk bars is like watching my entire life flash before my eyes; apparently, I have never not been eating a Caramilk bar. Eating Caramilk bars reminds me of the time I listened to "Wherewithall" by Clifford T. Ward on acid and genuinely could not fathom how there was ever a second of my life when "Wherewithall" by Clifford T. Ward was not playing in the background.
I eat a Caramilk bar a day. This has been true of me for six days straight. Once, I even ate two. Today, I may very well eat three. Or maybe I'll get myself one of those Caramilk Klondike cones. Perhaps it will be "better than sex." (Laura Jane)
Tags: being Laura Jane Faulds, candy bars, Caramilk bars, chocolate, Clifford T Ward, Clive Owen, eating disorder recovery, helter Skelter, India Sweets and Spices, lions, pink wine, The Office, things that are not orgasms
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Tuesday , August 4, 2009
nogoodforme Anti-Superlatives: So-Called Beauty Products That Wreak Havoc on Our Pulchritude
SAY NO TO NEUTROGENA (WELL, AT LEAST THIS PRODUCT)
I have really persnickety skin -- it doesn't like heavily perfumed things, it doesn't like expensive French things, it doesn't like pure Icelandic water-based things, it doesn't like organic all-natural products OR it likes something for about three months and then starts hating it with a vengeance. (I'm starting to think my body's largest organ is like a cross between Goldilocks and a relationship commitment-phobe.) And it especially hates the Anti-Wrinkle Anti-Blemish Cleanser by Neutrogena. I picked it up awhile ago while I was traveling and forgot my own cleanser at home. I thought, Hey! It tackles everything! and bought it. Then I used it for two days and my skin freaked the hell out. Anti-blemish, my ass! Of course, did I learn my lesson? NO. Because I hate wasting stuff, the last time I was home I tried to use it again, and again -- BLAMMO! Argh! (Finally now I just use it to shave my legs on a half-hearted, semi-regular basis.) I've since come to the conclusion that it's best for a cleanser to do one thing only, and that is just clean. So now I just use Cetaphil and Jan Marini Bio-Glycolic Cleanser (which is basically Cetaphil with tons of glycolic acid, judging from the ingredient list) and leave the heavy lifting to my moisturizer and cream. (Which are, ironically enough, Neutrogena products...so far so good.) So now I'm curious as to what beauty products provoke distinctly non-beautiful reactions to everyone else. Thoughts? (Kat)
NAIR FROM 1982, IN 1996
One of the great mysteries of my life is how I've made it to being twenty-four without dying somewhere along the way. Not only am I the gnarliest klutz of all time, not only do I have the fine motor skills of a retarded mutt who just smoked crack, but- I have never encountered another human being with such complete disregard for his or her own safety. I narrowly avoid getting hit by a car about twenty times a day. I pay no attention to things like "tables" and "trees" and "mailboxes," and constantly walk straight into them, and hurt myself. I do things like stand precariously on broken ladders and use power tools I don't know how to use. I am incapable of using a knife without cutting myself. I am the stupidest smart person this world has ever known.
I was born this way! My body, like love, is a battlefield. When I was eleven years old, I attempted to shave my legs for the first time, and chaos ensued. It was a dumb idea to begin with- eleven-year-olds should keep their legs hairy; better traction, for climbing trees. Twenty minutes later, the blood was pouring profusely, and I was crying to my Mommy. She was appalled. The ramifications of my razor-oriented carelessness are ingrained into my shins for life. Seriously- I am looking at the scars right now. A couple weeks later, I came to terms with my being too stupid to shave my legs, and so decided to give "Nair-ing it" a go. Great call, you dumb fucking idiot 11-year-old dimwit! The only Nair in my house was a relic leftover from the early 1980s. The rotten chemicals coalesced with my scabby shin skin, and I spent the next fifty thousand trillion weeks walking around with legs that looked both Poison Ivied and axe murdered.
I think the first time I ever shaved my legs without nicking myself was, like, last week? I drop cigarettes on my lap a lot, too. Scrappiness hurts. WILL I EVER LEARN?!?!?! (Laura Jane)
Tags: adolescence, BLAMMO, glycolic acid, klutziness, leg-shaving, Nair, Neutrogena, Scrappiness Hurts
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Tuesday , July 28, 2009
nogoodforme Superlatives: Our Favorite Lame Starbucks Drinks
KAT IS...THE SIMPLICITY OF A COFFEE FRAPPUCINO
I will keep this very, very simple: my favorite lame Starbucks drink is the tall coffee frappucino. I try all the fancy lattes and everything with a fancy faux-Italian name, but I always go back to the plain ol' frappucino. It's like drinking coffee ice cream, the idea of which is just dandy to me. I don't like them premade in the little glass bottles, because to me the real pleasure is that shake-like texture that you get when they grind it down all fresh when you order. I like the autumnal variations of the frappucino (toffee nut and maple being two that I loved) but one of the few things I genuinely love about summer is the part of my brain that lights up and sings, "It's frappucino season! Doo da da doo!" because the frappucino is like the hot weather version of a coffee drink -- it's at its best when it's gross outside and you're inside all happy with your espresso-laced frozen drink. Oooh! I'm going to stop writing and get one RIGHT NOW 'cause it's hot, I already went for a run today and I live in a city where there is a Starbucks on nearly every corner. Life works sometimes. (Kat)
ICED SOY CARAMEL MACCHIATOS ARE BOGUS, LET'S ALL GO TO COLORADO
Ever have one of those luv relapse things, where you somehow end up swapping spit with some wickedly irresistible dude you long ago cast aside for the sake of preserving your then-precarious mental health? Yesterday I drank a Starbucks iced soy caramel macchiato for the first time in at least two years, and it was exactly like that - except way more emotionally scarring. Not really. But it was totally shitty nonetheless. And I promise I'll never do it again.
See, iced soy caramel macchiatos were the first Starbucks drink I ever drunked; the inaugural sip happened on Mt. Auburn Street in Watertown, Massachusetts, probably sometime in the fall of 2001. I sucked up that icey caramel-y espresso-y soymilk from the big green straw, and from that moment on I had to have iced soy caramel macchiatos all the damn time. That's SOOOO STUPID, and here's why: Iced soy caramel macchiatos are basically just a glass of soymilk drizzled with caramel that mostly ends up gobbing up around the edges of the cup; there's also a shot of really subpar espresso dunked in. The best part's those aforementioned caramel gobs, but in order to get at them you have to slurp like hell, and the straw makes that awful sound and you feel so obnoxious and ill-mannered. I slurped my head off yesterday and the caramel wasn't even that satisfying, and the espresso was 87 times more terrible than I remembered. I got a big headache, then prissily marched myself back home, took out a Sharpie and wrote "LAME!" on the cup to express my deep psychic upset. See that face to the left? That is not the face of a girl stoked on her first iced soy caramel macchiato since 2007. That is the face of profound existential turmoil.
Here are some places where the coffee is so much better than any bullshit coffee drink you'll ever buy at Starbucks: Dunkin Donuts, Groundwork, Abbot's Habit in Venice, Coffee Bean, MCDONALD'S, Auntie Em's Kitchen in Eagle Rock, the weird little cafe/home+garden store across the street from my parents' cottage in Maine, the bakery I worked at in high school that doesn't really exist anymore, the coffeehouse in the student union of my college, and the place on Bedford Ave. in Brooklyn that I went to the morning of Spirit Animal House but will probably never remember the name of. And the creme de la creme, if you will, is the soy latte at Dot's Diner in Boulder, Colorado. If you haven't sat at the counter at Dot's with a big steamy cup of soy latte, a plate of hot-saucy eggs and buttery toast, and a copy of Dorothy Allison's Cavedweller on a hotter-than-a-billy-goat-in-a-pepper-patch August morn, then, brother: you haven't lived. (Liz)
LAURA JANE IS... THE SOY ICED LONDON FOG LATTE PRESERVATION SOCIETY
Once upon a time, I used to "hate" "people" who "drank" "lame Starbucks drinks." Then, something monumental occurred: Starbucks debuted a drink called the "London Fog Latte." "Hoppity Skipperloo!" I thought, "London! England! That's so cool! It's like the Beatles, only Starbucks!"
I bought one, because I thought it would make a kicky anti-accessory, gorgeously-suited to the "Anglophilia" component of my aesthetic sensibilities. I found the drink itself merely okay, because I don't like Earl Grey tea, which is what it is, but I really liked how ordering one made me feel: "cool." Another awesome thing about London Fog lattes is that they have the same initials as me. London Jane Fog. If initial-sharing isn't a killer reason to have brand loyalty to a beverage you don't like the taste of, I don't know what is.
Then- tragedy struck! For some unthinkably retarded reason I will never understand, Starbucks changed the name of this drink to the comparatively boring "Earl Grey Tea Latte." "Bonersville, USA!" I thought. Then I started drinking iced soy Chai and/or Green Tea Lattes instead, which I like for real. They are the honest answer to this question. But like whatevs, you know? I'm just biding my time until the day Starbucks busts out the Strawberry Frappuccino Forever. That will be absolutely jackadory! Cheers! Ta! Cheerio! (LJ)
Tags: Anglophilia, Bonersville USA, coffee, frappucino, jackadory, Laura loves the Beatles, Laura loves the Kinks, Starbucks
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Wednesday , June 17, 2009
nogoodforme Superlatives: Our Dream Weddings
Hooray! It's wedding season! The nogoodforme.com troika is proud to invite y'all to all three of our fake weddings, which are a great alternative to real weddings. This betrothal-themed edition of nogoodforme Superlatives is dedicated to longtime ngfm pal and Inner Circle member Teri V, who is getting married in Greece this very weekend! Congratulations, Teri! We wish we could be there! Much love from Kat, Liz & Laura Jane
THE OFFICIAL NOTE OF AMBIVALENCE
Emotionally, I get the idea of weddings and marriage; I love most weddings, in fact, especially the ones that I have been in. I love really personal, intimate ceremonies that really reflect the two people that they're celebrating. But socially, intellectually, politically, just as a human being aware of history, politics and power -- I find the whole kaboodle a bit suspect, especially since marriage is denied as a right to a whole group of our human brothers and sisters here in a country that's supposed to be all about "the land of the free" and "life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness" and all of that. If marriage is about love and commitment, creating a home and/or family and sharing the adventure of life together, then why not let all humans who are so inclined get married? So I want to acknowledge the irony of writing about a dream wedding when the dream is out of a lot of people's reach; it seems like the decent thing to do. (Oh, and California: WHAT GIVES?!!!!) The really ironic thing about it all is that I'm pretty much the most marriage-averse thirtysomething straight girl in America; I have no eagerness to walk down an aisle, unless it's to collect an Oscar or ease on down the yellow brick road or something. (In fact, being the nogoodforme bolshie, I kind of think all marriages should be abolished as a legal status in favor of civil unions for everyone. Either everyone gets marriage or everyone gets civil unions, but everyone gets the same dang thing. Can you tell I come from a many-siblinged family where everything had to be shared equally?) But in the interest of playing along, my DREAM CIVIL UNION CEREMONY would be a very simple, timeless, classic thing. The ingredients: a great dude in a sharp suit, autumn weather, a lovely cream-colored coat (a la Audrey Hepburn below), City Hall ceremony with family and a very few close friends, and then a great decadent dinner at Nobu or Indochine or one of those classically glamorous New York restaurant institutions. If this were really a dream, we'd be off to Iceland to see the Northern lights for a honeymoon. Does such an adventurous soul really exist? Will you marry me? No, wait, on second thought...(Kat)
Hotness from the 60s, left to right: Audrey Hepburn marrying Andrea Dotti wearing my ideal outfit; I think this is Catherine Deneuve marrying photographer David Bailey, but who cares who it is -- I just love this picture.)
IN THE APPLE ORCHARD WITH ELI CASH
I took a MASH-esque approach to divining the two most important elements of my dream wedding: First I listed five dudes I've crushed on at various moments throughout my existence (in chronological order: Han Solo, Andrew McCarthy in Weekend at Bernie's, Keanu Reeves, Eli Cash, and Aziz Ansari), then I ticked off five places at which I'd be down to tie the knot (by the beach in Malibu, the rings of Saturn, an apple orchard, a ranch in Colorado, and by the beach on some tropical island where the air tastes like mango). I ended up with Eli Cash and apple orchard, which is awesome, partly because now I can sing the song that goes: "E my name is Elizabeth, my husband's name is Eli, we live on the EastSideOfLosAngeles and we sell elephants!" Or something. Maybe we sell eggs, or elm trees. Egrets? Emus? Anyway.
(My dapper husband, reflecting on his final moments of singlehood; an apple orchard; the corny dress. And please note that I'd never get married in the snow; there's just a surprising lack of beautiful apple orchard photos available for easy grabbing on the Internet.)
DRESS. Like Heidi Pratt says, every girl should be a Goddess Princess Amazing Person on her wedding day. This Oscar De La Renta gown would so make me feel like a Goddess Princess Amazing Person, and it's made of hemp and corn! What dirty hippies the Barker-Cashes are. And it's tacky to pick your own ring, but I want this one, by Erica Weiner.
MUSIC. Ione Skye will DJ my wedding reception (not the actress, but my iPod, whom the actress is named after). There's a 97 percent chance that "wedding DJ" is my true calling in life; whenever anyone I love gets married I share with them the grand secret of the two songs that must be played at every reception, and they never listen, and it's annoying. (I can't tell you both, but I'll let it slip that one of the songs is "I Only Have Eyes for You" by The Flamingos.)
FORMALITIES. Kris Kristofferson will give me away. Or Barack Obama.
THE WEDDING PARTY. Along with certain family members and friends, my bridesmaids will include late-80s Sarah Jessica Parker, Mindy Kaling, and Anna Faris. Of course Eli gets to pick his groomsmen, but I'm hoping that, in addition to Luke Wilson, Ben Stiller, and Danny Glover, he'll go with the Stella dudes, Charlie Watts, Jack White, The Beastie Boys, Red Hot Chili Peppers, the Zephyr skate team, and Bono. (Actually, it would cool if Eli could turn Bono into his dad, somehow. Wouldn't Bono make such an amazing father-in-law?) And the ring-bearer would be my cat, a la Jinxie in Meet the Parents.
BOOZE + CAKE. Of course, my Eli needs his Bloody Mary bar. And I want ice cream + cake! The ice cream will be provided by Scoops, which is actually gelato, but whatevs: Lavender Avocado for the vegans, and Oreo Marscapone for us heathen dairy-eaters. And for the cake, I want a planet-sized seafoam-green Princess Torte, preferably from one of the bakeries at the 3rd & Fairfax Farmers Market.
EVERYTHING ELSE, SORT OF. Flowers, flowers everywhere! Apple blossoms of course, but maybe bougainvillea too, in tribute to my fair city. Speaking of flowers, I'd love to send all our guests off with bottles of Strange Invisible perfumes, custom-blended on the spot. And I want to honeymoon in Italy, but of course Eli would rather go gold-panning in Deadwood, South Dakota. Oh, and we're registered at Forever 21, Drydale's Western Wear, Restoration Hardware, and Dylan's Candy Bar. Especially Dylan's Candy Bar.
P.S. Dear Aziz Ansari, I was really hoping against hope that you'd end up my groom. If you won't marry me, can we at least be Twitter friends? Sheesh. (I'm @lizzfizz, BTW.)
P.P.S. Actually, never mind: I just rethunk it, and "Lizzie Cash" is the best name ever. Thanks anyway! (Liz)
LAURA JANE FAULDS: SURPRISINGLY A NORMIE WHEN IT COMES TO WEDDINGS
As they say: when in Rome, do as the Normies do. If I'm ever going to make a choice so boldfacedly Normie as becoming some dude's wifey, I might as well just GO FOR IT: hold a big a fussy ceremony, participate in all the dumb weird rituals ("A small child walks down the center of a church holding a band of gold"; "Your friends throw handfuls of dry rice at you"), and do it up right. Before I host my Weddingstravaganza, however, I want to rashly elope (mostly because I think I would derive a lot of satisfaction from saying, "My parents are gonna love this one!") Six months to a year after rashly eloping (it's always smart to give yourself an "annulment window"), it will be time for the elaborate girlhead chickfest wedding I am about to describe.
1. NORMIE IN NATURE, BUT NOT IN NOTION: I will not marry in a church. I will marry in a haunted mansion in Savannah, Georgia. There will be no talk of God, unless Dream Dude says , "Oh my God, Laura Jane, you have such fucking amazing fucking Wedding Style I can't even deal with it." Like Normies, I want to have bridesmaids (Liz, Kat, Emily Richmond, Ally, Jenn, Lexy, LFG); unlike Normies, my Maid of Honor is going to be a dude, since my best friend is a dude, so what else can I do? Like Normies, I will marry. Unlike many Normies, I will be marrying for love. I will get married like how John & Yoko got married, only not in Gibraltar, and with no Peter Brown Involvement.
2. DE-LAME-IFYING THE AISLE WALK: I can't imagine anything in all life stupider or more humiliating than having to uncomfortably walk down an "aisle," at a slow pace, to a corny song played on an organ, linking arms with my Dad (probably the only person in the world who would be more awkwarded out by the Aisle Walk than myself). My strategy for making my Aisle Walk cool is that "Long, Long, Long" by the Beatles will be playing (AW!), I will be drinking a Big Gulp of pink champagne (because everybody looks cooler drinking a Big Gulp, even a bride) while linking arms with The Ghost of John Lennon (I am NOT going to be "given away," because I am NO MAN'S LAURA JANE) and holding a Black Cat, my Spirit Animal (if I don't have one of my own, the cat can be my "Something Borrowed"!) Dream Dude will have his Spirit Animal with him too. In addition to our own wedding ceremony, our Spirit Animals will get mock-married, after us. Life will feel exactly like the His Dark Materials trilogy, only with Big Gulps.
PS: You know that scene in Love, Actually where Keira Knightley is marrying that dude who isn't a famous actor, and dude's best friend pulls that Tricky Dick Nixon shit on him and after they say their "I Do"s, all these flautists and saxophone players and trumpeteers and etc. pop out o' the pews and start playing "All You Need Is Love," and there's even an electric guitarist?
I am terrified that someone is going to do this to me at my wedding. Please don't! DON'T DO IT.
IT IS THE MOST HORRIFICALLY EMBARRASSING AND CRINGE-INDUCING THING I COULD EVER IMAGINE HAPPENING TO ME. IF YOU SPRING THAT GARBAGE ON ME AT MY OWN WEDDING, YOU ARE CUT OUT OF MY LIFE, LIKE, FOREVSKIES.
3. FURTHER WEDDING SPECS: The flowers will be Calla Lilies. The general concept will be "The Magickal Southern Gothickal De-Mystification Tour." It will take place at the end of July, because summer's my season. The reception will be held 'neath the weeping willows in my haunted Savannah garden, and guests will be encouraged to pick flowers and put them in their hair. My bridesmaids can wear whatever cute dresses they want. We will all dance to '60s bubblegum 45s, and that song by Friedberger that goes "I was listening to the radio." The drink menu will be: strawberry slushie margaritas, Sazeracs, Mint Juleps, Big Gulps of Diet Cherry Coke, nice bottles of Sauterne, Bloody Laura Janes, and Fizzy White Sangria. The food menu will be: vegan nachos, sticky rice & peanut sauce, grilled almond butter & jam sandwiches, vegan cinnamon buns, garlicky greens, something that is protein, kimchi sushi, and strawberry wedding cake. There will be free packs of Marlboro Reds and pre-rolled joints (of medicinal quality!) on every table, and also red telephones, so you can drunk dial the table next to you!
4. OH BUT WHAT WILL SHE WEAR???: Well: red patent Brogues, a Thelma Design headpiece, pink lipstick, hella false eyelashes, and Chloe Eau de Parfum. Also: My Wedding Dress! Conveniently for me, I already have my wedding dress. I found it in a Goodwill last summer. It travelled through time to become mine. There is a picture of me wearing it behind the jump, but I need to say:
IF YOU THINK THAT THERE IS EVEN THE TINIEST PERCENT CHANCE THAT YOU MAY PERHAPS ONE DAY MARRY ME, WHATEVER YOU DO, DO NOT CLICK THE LINK BELOW! YOU MAY NOT LOOK AT ME IN MY WEDDING DRESS, OR ELSE WE WILL HAVE BAD LUCK FOREVER & YOU WILL RUIN OUR CHANCES OF EVER HAVING A HAPPY MARRIAGE!!!!!!!
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Tags: Andrew McCarthy, Aziz Ansari, Barack Obama, bougainvillea, civil unions, drunk dialing, Eli Cash, Erica Weiner, Goddess Princess Amazing People, Heidi Montag, His Dark materials, Ione Skye the iPod, John & Yoko, Keira Knightley, Kris Kristofferson, MASH, Normies, Pillz the Cat, Rome, Savannah, Sazeracs, spirit animals, SUPPORT GAY MARRIAGE, Thelma Design, Tricky Dick Nixon, weddings, Weekend at Bernie's
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Tuesday , March 10, 2009
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.)
Tags: Angela Carter, bad books, codename: Pollyanna Jerkface, daisies, dude dealbreakers, Greek mythology, hypothetical dinner dates, Jack Kerouac, Jack Kerouac sucks, Juicy Fruit gum, Laura Jane hates Jack Kerouac, losers, Normies, On the Road, On the Road blows, Sonic Youth's lesser efforts
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