I taste just like candy.

Ex did good on the Sundance swag. He even set up a little spread for me when I came by to collect. Of course my favorite thing wasn't even an intended gift. At a party he'd picked up an Entertainment Weekly reusable grocery bag and of course did not mind parting with it, since the bags really just served as a container for the actual goods. But as I'm mentioning more times than I'd ever planned, EW makes me giddy. (I even broke down and got a subscription this year and agreed to stop purloining Ex's.)

And without further ado, here's an assemblage of visual confection to boost you out of those mid-week doldrums. If these images do not fill you with delight, then I can assure you that we have little to nothing in common.













And to all you people out there taking pictures of crucified/stabbed/mutilated gummi bears and posting them on the interweb, you are really effing sick.

WWUD? (What would a unicorn do?)

I haven't been funny lately, people. I know. I have been so busy with life that anything requiring written cleverness has to be reserved for TVgasm. Plus, I am sad. So, so sad. A person I care for deeply 86-ed me from their life this weekend for reasons I still find unmerited. My heart just hurts. It's not quite the feeling of a break, but more like it's been squeezed really really hard and now it's bruised and ache-y and needs some healing salve.


You can't put neosporin and a band-aid on your heart and expect to make it better, but I still am putting a unicorn band-aid over my heart (pictured above) because it reminds me to be kind and gentle to myself and that it's okay to feel awful that someone was so inexplicably hurtful to me. And everything will be okay soon. I'm really busy after all, if nothing else. But if I sound like I'm phoning it in in the meantime, I probably am.

Something about seeing the unicorn bandage over my heart makes me feel like I'm doing something good for it. And it reminds me to keep my head up and my heart open. And regardless of the weekend's proceedings, I can never be reminded of that too many times.

Happy Anniversary, Mr. Kilgore.

Exactly a year ago today, the handsome, clever rescuer of damsels in distress, John Kilgore, came into my life. I adore him, and I celebrate the day that brought us together. Mostly because that day was pretty effing funny. In retrospect.

So, it all began with a little phase of career experimentation and a big phase of unemployment. Career du jour was assisting a prop/set designer on a Self magazine shoot. I was trying to decide if I wanted to get into art direction at that point. (Don't.)   

So I was going into the shoot pretty blind. The guy I was assisting called me late the night before to ask me if I would do it, and once I got to the shoot the next day I would get all the vitals. He would be driving the cube truck to the shoot in Malibu and I would meet him there. So the next day, like I do for everything, I arrive ten minutes early and sit in my car. I wait for his arrival, but instead I receive a call from him telling me he'd gotten in an accident. He'd like me to come take some of the props to the shoot while he dealt with the police report. So far it seemed like a minor hiccup. He'd hit a parked car on the PCH (not terribly uncommon) and the weather was rather inclement, so I didn't feel terribly stressed about the situation. But this was just the beginning. I arrive on the scene to discover that my boss is getting arrested.  Arrested!  Apparently, he didn't have his driver's license on him and admitted to drinking late the night before...so now he was getting intercepted and arrested for being (potentially?) under the influence and driving without a license.  He would be in holding in Calabasas for the rest of the day and would not be in contact with anyone. In fact, the police would not even let me talk to him about anything logistical.  The only thing they let me do was get a phone number to the production studio off of his cell phone so I could get phone numbers of the people at the shoot.

So there I was with a cube truck full of things I couldn't drive (I wasn't on the rental agreement so the police ix-nayed that.) and had to unload the truck full of beach props and tools and paint and a 9'x9' wall he'd built the night before onto the sidewalk of the PCH and waited for someone to get me.   So I just waited on the PCH in the cold and rain and sort of reflected that I had not anticipated the day to unfold in this fashion.

And then came the knights in shining armor.  First Zach and then John.  The two of them saved the day doing all the heavy lifting and warning me about the hell pit I was about to walk into once we got there, as I would be taking flack for the arrested prop designer.  Like a good helper, I stood and watched and pointed out things like, hey, when strapping walls to the top of the car, you should strap it from the sidewalk, not the PCH.  The sort of foundation that builds life-long friendships.

When I finally arrive at the shoot, two or three hours later, it's pouring rain and freezing and the Self editor pulls a total Devil Wears Prada number on me.  Every single thing he pulled was god awful.  She couldn't use any of it.  Why wasn't the wall painted?  Why didn't I know more?  Where was he anyway?  (Because for a while everyone was trying to hide the fact that he'd been arrested.  That didn't go over so well before or after they found out.)  I got a hot steaming silver platter of shit handed to me.  And I think I would have lost my mind had it not been for John.  He made me laugh, he was my co-conspirator, he gave me his jacket to wear.  At some points I even enjoyed myself.  And at the end of the shoot, the editor did apologize to me.  Sometimes I still can't believe that happened to me, but then again, that's the sort of thing that totally happens to me.

But the real bright side is that I made double pay!  So don't forget: when you want to get paid more, cross your fingers your boss gets arrested on the way to work!

Oh, JK, I love remembering that special day.  The day that set off a chain of events including, but not limited to, interoffice gossip, trips to Claremont and a fateful slumber party.  I miss you so much and I am so excited for your wedding.  I can't wait to meet your beautiful Danyel. I know that I will love her as much as I love you.

And read his blog, gang. He's a regular smarty pants.

The Threat of Procreation

My Fair Brady is up at TVgasm.  I'm not threatening to procreate myself, but Adrienne Curry is.   Forewarned is forearmed. 

A tale of two holidays

I know things seem uneventful around here after the exciting and fun(ny) tailspin my life was in for the majority of January, but I sure did need this hibernation week to glue myself back together.  I am hiding out by the beach again, which will come as a surprise to no one, dividing my time between my ex's house and his sister's. My ex is off taking Sundance by storm and his sister went to join him so I am alternating my days between bunny/tv watching and nephew watching.   They are all highly satisfying experiences in and of themselves, but after the beat down I got this month, I really need the respite.  Very little driving, very little mayhem.  It's healing my soul.

Anyway, Ex is doing well out there.  He told me MTV said his is their favorite movie of the festival and the review is here.  I suppose I should have realized this before, but now I am fully comprehending that he will be in Entertainment Weekly before me and it makes me jealous.  My media whore side is a late bloomer, and I'm kicking myself for dismissing her for so long.

I asked him to bring me back something good from the swag orgies.  We'll see.

Cashmere Mafia Episode Two: Electric Boogaloo

My latest Cashmere Mafia recap is up at TVgasm, so kick back with a glass of kombucha and enjoy.  Also, I'll be adding to my list of recapping duties the latest entry into the Adrienne Curry/Christopher Knight canon, My Fair Brady: Maybe Baby.  Adrienne Curry moves me, so it should be an inspired piece.  Look for that later this week.  

"The Hills" are alive with the sound of dimestore wisdom

I'm slow these days, y'all.  I've had that awful in-your-lungs cold that's been going around for over a week.  Each day I've thought I would wake up to find it in some lessened form, but it doesn't seem to be happening.  It's dampening my rallied spirits from last week and I might have to go on an antibiotics hunt tomorrow because I don't have time for this anymore.   I've realized that hacking coughing fits in public are the adult version of a crying baby.  I've had to exit several places, choking purple-faced, to make people feel safer about their shopping experiences.

So, I spent some sick time curled up in front of On Demand exploring a few episodes from the last season of The Hills.  This is the only season I've seen episodes from and I can see why people get into the show.  Lauren Conrad is an adorable little cat-eyed doll if there ever was one, and waiting for her to move the story along with one slight sideways glance to a friend across the room can be addicting.  Every now and again she'll say something kind of bright and I get all excited.  She's the smarter friend and doles out insightful comments into life and love, and okay, they're really not that insightful, I think I'm just never expecting anything halfway intelligent to come out of her mouth.  But either way, I definitely think she's way too sparky for those Hollywood dumb-dumbs she surrounds herself with.  But maybe that's her handle: big fish, little pond.

While I was at it, I scrolled through my gmail archives and found some very interesting evidence that my ex-boyfriend and I used to be passionate about being a couple.  It didn't make me sad that this person and I no longer share this sort of enthusiasm to be together, but it made me sad that that time seems so foreign to me.  The time when I felt this hope and openness towards him.  I didn't remember so much of our apparently prolific early correspondence.  And if I don't remember, he sure as hell doesn't.

It actually made me so happy that at one point I wrote sweet things like this:

several times on the plane i laughed out loud thinking of something we said and did. i wish now that instead of emailing you before i fall asleep i was curled up in your manfreunde arms, staring at you, marveling together over our desire and affection.

i even thought of a song i will sing to you.

i miss you. i miss ritter sport (i have none.) i hated realizing that while i was crawling into lax you were eating our quark breakfast alone among the sea of vests. i wanted to be there finding the pure assam special tag in front of my plate, while i perfected my posture, and sat up straight.

And got back things like this:

i was so sad in bed last night i couldn't sleep.

i was so sad at breakfast too, but then i pulled the tab off the tea
and placed it on your side of the table and i smiled.

i too have been reflecting and laughing out loud.

today is tuesday. i'm going to see you thursday. 

these thoughts keep me going.

 Sage Lauren today said, "Sometimes no matter how much you love a guy, they're just not right for you."  And that seems to hit the nail on the head.  And then it made me wonder why I'm not loving the right guys.  I used to think I did.  I think tomorrow while I'm out trawling for antibiotics, I will also start trawling for Lauren Conrad.  We clearly have a lot to talk about.  And I could use a friend that still goes out. 

This one's a bodice ripper

Today my parents suggested I start writing romance novels under a pseudonym for steady income. (This might give you an idea of how "steady" my "income" is at the moment.) Now granted, there is something inherently funny about one's parents suggesting their child write disposable, erotically charged, cheese fiction, and if you know my parents then it gets bumped up to hilarious, but it's still a solid idea and one I'm now contemplating. Apparently, my mom has a friend or acquaintance whose daughter does this out of San Francisco and makes bank. I feel like I even heard something about going on a cruise to "pound one out" and that just made my heart race in anticipation. (I'm built for this.)


My favorite part is that the last novel idea I had several years ago, which I had 100 %, completely forgotten about, revolved around a protagonist who was a female in her twenties that had a wildly successful career as a romance novelist that she couldn't seem to get out of. (I think I wanted her to be a little bit me, a little bit Joan Wilder.) I even had a really good romance novel alias for her, too, which I can't remember either. It made me feel like life could possibly imitate possible art. And I live for that kind of thing! So maybe this is my calling. Maybe I'm going to chuck it all and write tawdry romantic fiction while sailing on the high seas of the Mediterranean and the South Pacific, meeting handsome strangers (or just old people and honeymooners) and singing endless karaoke at the bar each night. The prospect is genuinely thrilling to me.


And while on the subject of sexy written material, I heard Peter Gabriel's Sledgehammer on the radio this evening and, holy god, is that song about sex? I remember Sledgehammer as this funny song about hammers with the crazy video from when I was a kid. In fact, I am pretty sure that's when I learned the difference between a regular hammer and a sledgehammer. But, today. Today was different. I listened to the lyrics and I was scandalized:


You could have a big dipper
Going up and down, all around the bends
You could have a bumper car, bumping
This amusement never ends


I want to be your sledgehammer
Why don't you call my name
Oh let me be your sledgehammer?
This will be my testimony


Show me round your fruitcage
cause I will be your honey bee
Open up your fruitcage
Where the fruit is as sweet as can be


This HAS to be about sex, right?  But how could I have never noticed this. Because I had to have heard this since I was five.  The music even sounded sexier to me. And yet, I still feel like someone has to say to me, "Gina, I hate to break it you, but this is totally about doing it." Because there is a part of me that still believes this song is just a quirky extension of a quirky man, who would not make sexy songs that young children hear and mistake as an ode to useful household tools. How could you do this to me, Peter? Because if it is about sex, then you totally just violated my childhood.

Are you there, God? It's me, motherless goat.

I wrote this email to my editrix (it's just hotter that way) at TVgasm, so while crafted for private use, I've now decided it will double as an update for the blog and a press release to Life/The Universe.

Also, my piece on Cashmere Mafia is up, so go on, girl, go 'head, get down. Enjoy.

jesus h,

i still haven't gotten on any of the tvgasm stuff because getting in an accident and then dealing with my ex's jeep breaking on me wasn't enough. i decided it was high time i lose my wallet with everything ever in it. so, i spent the day retracing my steps like some maniac bobsey twin and when all hope was lost (i really did think the chevron on lincoln blvd would have it), i spent the latter half of the day crying at the bank canceling debit cards and getting a hot mess of a new picture at the dmv.

and just for metaphorical kicks, i broke a mirror today too! good times.

if this streak doesn't end soon, i'll start filming my retarded sitcom of a life and you better believe you're writing the recaps.

so, if you could make my link appear since it's still not, it might just distract me from sobbing uncontrollably that i also lost a free pass to disneyland that was in my wallet, a retail value of $63.

TVgasm is seriously a ray of sunshine in my world gone mad.

thank you,g

I learned the link does not go up, by the way. Luckily, I am not beaten easily. It's gonna happen.

Silver Lining

I called my mentor and sometime boss this afternoon, the incomparable Mrs. Blum, for some catching up and morale boosting.  (I try to not act like her fourth child, but sometimes I want to.)  She had a quote that she had written down to share with me:  We write to make meaning out of chaos.  She didn't even know that this was sort of my MO this weekend.  Things devolved into chaos for me this weekend and I wrote my ass off in a desperate attempt to cope.  I didn't write about what was going on, nor did I even write about anything remotely serious or high brow.  But, it did result in something positive.  I'm now officially a writer for the esteemed, hilarious TVgasm and my first piece should be up in the next few days. The more the world beats me down, the funnier I seem to get. I'll let you know when it goes live and y'all best be reading. In the meantime, I'd like to tweak the quote: We write to make it through the chaos.

Take note:  Call this girl the next time you find yourself weeping over the steering wheel of a dead, former West German Military Border Patrol Jeep.

RIP Nibbler McGillicuddy

"We raise our glasses to a fabulous, beautiful, dominant little bunny who strode the earth on gilded paws and who caused male bunnies to shake in their boots. She was a giant of bunnies. And we are glad to have known her."
-Harijot Khalsa

For my next trick

I replaced one imbroglio for another this afternoon.  In honor of the occasion, I upgraded from saltines to buttery spaghetti noodles, which my friend made for me tonight all nurture-y.

So two of my very  closest friends informed me today that they've been checking ol' blogspot to see how I am, which means that I will never hear from anyone else I know slightly less than them ever again.  I've already been told long before this that I express myself better in writing than in person, so the fact that people are slowly lessening verbal communication with me comes as no surprise.

True story: One time this fall, the guy I was dating refused to have an argument with me in phone/in person and insisted we air all grievances in text messages.  (It should be noted that I am capable of texts worthy of publishing.)  And the result was actually stellar.   Infinitely better than if we had spoken.  Which got me to thinking that maybe I should just conduct all affairs through blogger or, for those very personal matters, via text.  It would save me like a hundred smackers in overage charges on my cell phone every month and I could garner this newfound mystique.  People would all wonder, Who is this girl?  This girl that is only accessible via technological devices, like Dr. Claw or Simone, that CGI lady in the eponymous movie that nobody ever saw?

I'm starting a lineage:

and...Sasha! 

(complete with a little photoshop plastic surgery for those looking carefully)


If there's anything I've learned this week, it's that no matter how much you think you know someone and where you stand with them, they can completely effing blindside you. I got it twice in one week and I'm tired of being the one blindsided. So talk to Sasha because she's a badass.  And if I have to, I'll conduct all my affairs through her.  I've had a rough week and I'm not afraid to go CGI.  Feelings are exhausting.

Leave a little window, Get off of my stack

My friend brought to my attention today that when having a moment of emotional discord between me and someone else, I snap into calm, rational voice-of-reason mode, distancing myself from engaging emotionally with the person.  It is a combination of finding histrionic emotional displays a bit vulgar and having the automatic tendency to try and remain unflappable when faced with an emergency/crisis situation.

But I'm a girl and I have feelings and sometimes people hurt them.  So then this delayed reaction mechanism kicks in a few days later and my emotional response to the incident whacks me like a punch to the gut.  So at the moment I am feeling a bit down and my stomach is in a knot and I've been eating saltine crackers for two days, rendering me incapable of writing anything.  Unlike many creative types, moments of bleakness do not fortify my creativity.  I do best when high off the pixie dust found in the enchanted world I live in.  I'll write again when I get back there.  Until then, I found a commercial done by people who've obviously visited.  In fact, I'm not entirely unconvinced I'm not that girl.

An Open Letter to My Brain

Dear Brain,

We have to talk about last night.  I realize that you have a lot of words in your head and that's not entirely your fault.  I know I read too much Proust during an impressionable time in my life and it sort of warped you irrevocably.  (Though that 2001 trip to South America where we shared The Guermante's Way still stands out as one of the highlights in our relationship.)  

But keeping me up until 2:30 am is completely unacceptable.  Not only was it a complete waste of excellent sleeping hours, but it made me totally useless today.  Calling two different mechanics to compare timing belt prices seemed like an insurmountable challenge.  

I will admit, however, that the love letter I wrote and emailed to Entertainment Weekly around 1 am was a solid use of ten to fifteen minutes.  

But shape up and let me keep my agrarian sleeping habits and then maybe I'll read a book again.

Love,

Gina

Malibou

The intentional misspelling is to demonstrate that you could take the Pixies song "Caribou", leave the lyrics and replace Caribou with Malibu and that would be my ode to Malibu. A place so inexplicably dear to my heart.


Whenever things aren't quite right and nothing will do but a refreshing change of scenery, I go to Malibu. So close, yet so far removed from my frame of reference. First, I always stop at the Malibu Country Mart, a collection of the most obnoxious boutiques and the most expensively and hideously dressed rich people. I don't quite know what it says about me that I feel so at home there.


After an interesting turn of events last night, I woke up this morning with an uncomfortable mixture of sadness and liberation in my soul. I tried to think of somewhere to go in my neighborhood that might set my Saturday straight after becoming so unsettled. Maybe even drive to Santa Monica and sweat it out at the gym where I have three days of membership left. But I just drove until I found myself in Malibu. And after my requisite stop at the Mart for hot tea, I drove out to my favorite beach, a small, residential beach that never has anyone on it. Most of the homeowners don't live there year-round. It rained nonstop yesterday, so the air was still heavy and damp and cold.  The tide was too high to walk along the beach, so I just stood on the rocks for a few minutes and stared out, allowing myself to feel the sensation of being swept away. A part of me always wants to walk into the water and succumb to the ocean's heavy pull, floating out forever and ever into the unknown. I realized that it's the sensation I want to have about my life, too. Swept away by inspiration, swept away by love. I just hope that when the time comes I don't just stand on the rocks and stare out, because I want to go as far as I can go.

Wakarimasen.

I had the good fortune to finally see my former roommate yesterday for the first time since my birthday back in October. She always spends the last part of the year doing her field research in Indonesia and then goes to Japan to see her family, which, on a side note, made me feel really alone and abandoned when I lived with her.


Anyway, she made me a tasty Asian lunch yesterday, just like old times, and she and her boyfriend showed me pictures of their trip. It prompted a long discussion of fashion trends among the youth of Tokyo, which lead to my introduction to the latest trend in the hip neighborhoods, a look her boyfriend refers to as “Showtime!” (In the same tone one might exclaim, “Jazz hands!”) We spent probably far too long scouring the internet for photographic evidence of this trend, finding mostly looks formerly popular among the gyoru and harajuku girls, these being the bizarre and somewhat frightening Lolita-Goth and Asian Blackface looks (Gonguro or Yamanba for Google purposes).
But at last, we found them. And my psyche has been forever changed. The January 2008 issue of the popular Egg Magazine features three of Showtime!’s finest. (Conveniently circled for easy viewing.)





How hot are these girls? Combining the pageantry of huge Southern hair with the glamour of the Farrah Fawcett seventies’ hair, these girls have really brought something wonderful to the Japanese fashion table. And the best part is that they do it daily.





The awesomely titled Celebich magazine even has a how-to diagram.  Totally normal to..."Showtime!"





I especially like when they put the Disney Princess spin on it, adding a sense of whimsy and enchantment I can really get behind.





Does this not make one feel good about life itself? Do you not want to just be one of these enchanted little urchins?? Because I do. Never mind that it probably takes these girls three hours just to do their hair everyday. I want these girls to be walking the streets of my neighborhood. Oh, ladies, why must you be so far away from me?  Yesterday reinvigorated my love for all things Japan. A culture that takes its shoes off before entering a home. A culture with sushi conveyor belts. A culture with an aesthetic that bears no resemblance to any reality known to this planet. These are my people.


My last year of college I took Japanese and it was probably the hardest thing I ever studied. And yet the harder it got, the more everyone in our class seemed to love it and become obsessed with it. It was also when I learned that most people that take Japanese in college are young men with a passion for anime. I will never forget when I was doing a practice dialogue with one of these men and we were utilizing an oft-used phrase in anime film. I mentioned that I didn’t watch anime, so it really meant nothing to me. And then he turned to me with the most incredulous expression and without any trace of irony asked me, “Then why are you taking this course?” I was so taken off guard, the insinuation so strong that anime was the only reason to study Japanese that suddenly I didn’t know why I was taking the course either.  But, these girls remind me. Because even though I remember absolutely nothing from my time as a student of the Japanese language, we clearly speak the same language. Japan, I am coming for you.

Anatomy of a Screen Crush

I brought in the new year today by going to the Arclight to see Paul Thomas Anderson's new film, There Will Be Blood.  Yes, it's getting all that gushy Oscar buzz, but I was drawn primarily because of this hot piece.  

This summer I had the pleasure, while in New York City, to see The Gangs of New York, Scorcese's ambitious, flawed film from, like, ten years ago.  I know, I know.  I'm a little late to the party.  But what a delight it was for me to discover this Bill the Butcher individual, as brought to life by Daniel Day Lewis.  

That style!  That accent!  That brutality!  That eagle eye!  (Literally!)  

Apparently no one did stills on the day he wears the blue suit. Easily the hottest look on a man ever.  I'll settle for this greasy haired portrait. 

(I know the more popular, dough-faced Leonardo should be the more obvious crush choice, but he killed rabbits in that, and anyone that knows me personally can attest to the fact that I don't handle rabbit murder all that well.)

So, to my point, it's a slippery slope, crushing on a movie character.  I wasn't willing to walk down that same path of betrayal when I discovered that Legolas was actually Orlando Bloom.  But, today when I walked into that theatre, I had hope.  DDL is certainly one of cinema's greatest treasures and I felt confident that no matter what troubled, violent man he played, I would surely be willing to take my heart along with me.

But, no.  Hell, no.  A laudable performance by Mr. Lewis to be sure.  And perhaps my disappointment in this not being Bill-the-Butcher-Goes-West colored my viewing.   But without giving any spoilers, I'd like to think my evaluation of the film was fair and impartial.  My shrewd industry companion also left with the same critiques.  And in what seemed like the 7th act, (seriously, that shit would not end) when DDL is soaking in self-pity and bitterness and Paul Dano is overacting and everyone should have gone home forty-five minutes ago, I wanted Bill the Butcher to walk in and kick some ass and give some serious style tips.  So, thank you, There Will Be Blood, for showing me where my heart truly lies and not forcing an unreasonable crush on the actual actor, Daniel Day Lewis.  Although, I could probably just go rent The Age of Innocence and really be done with it.