You know you're a hipster when

you go to a cool kid party on Saturday night and around 2 am you decide to get a hipster haircut from a hipster girl in a hipster house in the epicenter of Silverlake, the hipsteriest of hipster hoods, and then post noir self-portraits of your new hipster bangs on your blog all pouty and moody looking like you're damn Jenny Lewis.

Baby you're bad news.

Knee High Friday: Three-for-one knee highs, crazy people, tiredness

I went and visited my stuff in Studio City today, where I have lovingly abandoned it in a Public Storage unit. Beforehand I stopped at a nearby bagel shop, where two highly dysfunctional individuals also decided to stop by this morning.

This girl came in first, and I immediately thought something was wrong with her because she appeared to have no control over the volume of her voice nor any awareness of said volume. She was whining about the everything bagel and bending over to inspect the everything bagel bin in a manner that gave me an up-close-and-personal view of the lacy panties halfway out of her bedazzled BeBe jeans. I could have done without it.

Then the guy came in and saw her bent over, ass in my face, laughed at her and told her to stop. She gave me a vague sorry, which bolstered my confidence she was not drunk and/or nuts. They had some difficulties ordering, which I tried to ignore until her boyfriend jokingly stepped on her boots. Now this was not a large establishment by any means and when he stepped on her shoes, she screamed at him like he was perhaps a football field away. And like she was in the privacy of her own home, not in a space the size of a living room with eight strangers.

And the shoes in question: baby blue Uggs. Really.

Now despite the fact that these two were a little loose, no one saw the spectacle that ensued coming. She began screaming, MOTHERF*CKER THESE SHOES WERE THREE HUNDRED DOLLARS THESE COST MORE THAN YOUR LIFE I'LL F*CKING KILL YOU. Variations of this message continued to blare on for a few minutes. I blatantly stared at her trying to figure out if she was on drugs. And if so, what the possible substance could be. But she appeared sober and just dead serious about her Uggs. It was like I was living in 2002. That's the valley for ya.

And three hundred dollars? Ha.

So she continued to order but her boyfriend exited the bagel shop, which I figured meant he didn't want to continue causing a scene in public. Baby blue uggs knew better though. She started muttering about how that motherf*cker better not leave and sure enough, thirty seconds later she was sprinting across the parking lot screaming at him. The six odd patrons (including myself) all audibly snickered and moved to the windows to watch. One woman was leaving and turned around to report, "He did drive off." (beat) "In his Camry." We were all enjoying their delusions of fabulousness. No offense to regular Camry owners.

I hope she had to chase him all the way to Burbank. I also highly doubt that is the first time or the last time they will play out that scene.

Anyway, back to the stuff I was there to visit, I spent only fifteen minutes in the storage unit digging and sorting, and when I came out, I swear my eyes were itching and beginning to get red. Is it possible that the toxic mold spores have spored all over my belongings and contaminated them? I'd rather not contemplate that right now.

Because I'm tired. So tired. I stopped at the market in Laurel Canyon and got myself a rare latte in the hopes of rallying my adrenals, but no luck. I try not to leave Leah's living room. I try to consume as much television as possible.

So here are three screengrabs of my life this week, otherwise known as Adventures in Quality Programming:

The Real Housewives of Atlanta

Paris Hilton's My New BFF

Flight of the Navigator

While I have to somehow snap out of it, I'd prefer not to move till the Pick Up Artist finale party Sunday night.

Oh, and happy birthday to Ex! The mixed CD I made you was one of the few things that energized me this week. That and getting to see Bolt in 3D at El Capitan Theater with my most favorite Pick Up Artist. I am not too tired to be grateful for the people in my life.

We both used to be vegetarians.

Happy Thanksgiving, Internet!

Eat meat and get stuffed.

Meat. Gratitude.

See you tomorrow for Knee High Friday. Really!

Suck it, DMV.

I am now in possession of the World's Most Expensive Sticker.

We made out till Blue 2009 Tag got embarrassed and asked to just be put on the plate already.

Alas, I believe this is what they call a pyrrhic victory. The amount of money that was thrown at the DMV could have been used for a down payment on a house in a third world country. Or a really lavish spa day for me and ten friends. But still, I am thrilled. An end to my sleepless nights! And here you all thought I stayed up because my life is so fun.

Party Artist

Hey look! I have one of those blog thingies. Who knew?

Okay, okay. I've been out in the world, doing real world things and have been too tired to report about it all. I moved out of Laurel Canyon, suffered one last offensive from the mold spore allergens that lasted all last week, wrote a long piece for a magazine, played the Queen of Hearts at a party in Simi Valley, interviewed and befriended super sexy Sarah from Scream Queens and partied with (and like) the Pick Up Artists the past two weekends. Moving forward I'd like all my friends to be Vh1 reality show alum.

And speaking of those Pick Up Artists, this picture is from last night's throwdown when me, Topher and Joe D. brilliantly hid our shot glasses in Neil's microwave so no one else would use them. Because as Joe D. said, "Who's going to be using the microwave at a party??" Feel free to crib this move when you are facing the same situation at a large gathering. Obviously I was not very graceful about it. I'm not proud to show this picture, but I owe you.

Topher calls this "almost sexy".



I would say that's even generous. But at least my face isn't melting off anymore! More soon.

This was supposed to be a movie.

The other night when Blondie and I were making up, I tried to cheer her up by communicating through my Max from "Where the Wild Things Are" puppet. Before we knew it "Max" was a fount of moving commentary and we decided to do a heady discussion on Prop 8 and gay marriage. We got the digi cam and prepared ourselves for viral stardom.

Now this whole endeavor was fueled by our genius idea to mix rosé and Ed Hardy energy drinks. (Before you wonder what the hell is in my fridge, I will disclaim that I won the bottle of rosé in a round of Burlesque Bingo and also "won" the Ed Hardy energy drinks for writing about a new Ed Hardy store in a recent style guide. These things come to me.) And for the record, it's a great combination. One we patted ourselves on the back for gratuitously.

So while this elixir had the effect of making "Max's" Prop 8 rant brilliant and HI-larious, it also had the effect of making Blondie's technical skills less than focused.

This is all we got:



We realized the mistake right away, but lightening doesn't strike twice. It couldn't be repeated. Also, those energy drinks are crack-a-lacky. I think we scaled the walls promptly after that.

Raped in the face, y'all.

From my more non-raped-in-the-face days, when I could blithely read Vice magazine and look casually surprised when people took my picture.

Friday I reached my breaking point. The allergies were doing said raping to the face. The DMV was/is asking for a registration tag ransom equivalent to demanding my first child. (That means I think my first child is worth roughly $500.) I spent two and a half hours in traffic going to and from Long Beach and the person I was supposed to meet in Long Beach wasn’t even there. Then Blondie and I had an inexplicably sudden and dramatic fight that rendered me a puddle of defeat. And this was all before noon.

So. I decided to do what any self-respecting, fully functional adult would do when completely broken: Call one’s parents to tell them to fly you home for a weekend of TV, good food and mani/pedis. And so, here I am reaching out to you from Hotlanta, home of Ludacris, the Coke Museum and those amazingly retarded Bravo housewives.

Now before you go thinkin’ I’m some kinda emotionally stunted sissypants that cries to mommy when she gets a flat tire, I’ll have you know I haven’t even been to Atlanta in two years, haven’t had a genuine vacation in even longer, and when your face is as busted as mine is and the DMV has put a hit on you, you’re fully entitled to a long weekend of sleeping on fluffed pillows and eating fancy food.

And I’ll be right back in the mix on Tuesday in full manic mode attending to more responsibilities/obligations/hassles/projects than you can shake a stick at (or maybe not depending on your stick-wielding capabilities) but in the meantime, I am just giddy to have a spontaneous tryst with my long-lost ATL and pretend that for at least today I don’t have to plan ANOTHER shlepped together move before the end of this year.

On a side note, LA and I did leave things on the positive tip. Since I know you’ll worry yourselves sick wondering if Blondie and I are speaking, I will assure you that we are and have silently agreed to not speak of the bizarre mutual meltdown that transpired. Plus I overdressed the night before I left and went to a small, but enjoyable house party, laughed with professionally funny people and was reminded me that no matter what, I’m in the right place. LA and I deserve each other.

As we say in the south, God bless all y’all.

And we really do pray for you.

Let's just take it Nice and Slow.

Have you ever taken a moment and thought to yourself, "I bet that Internet Sensation character is just the kinda ding-dong to pretend she's a fake music video ho backup dancer during someone's karaoke version of an Usher song and embarrassingly ham it up with finger sucking and gratuitous undulating."?

Well, you're in luck because here is 1 minute and 19 seconds of visual proof that I am exactly that type of individual.

Special Edition Knee High Friday: Super Super Tuesday

Just when you thought you'd seen them all, I am here to bring you my very special voting socks.

This isn't just a hot, patriotically colored ensemble.

These socks have a message. And a vague Pac-Man theme.

That's right, fools. Fashion and function in effect, and lookin' fly in the voting booth.

So get out there and vote, people. And by "vote", I really mean vote for Obama or don't vote at all. I'm democratic and open-minded like that.

(And I promise this is the knee high post for the week. I'm starting to use my sock collection as a crutch for actual words, which is no way to live. We'll be back with Knee High Friday next week on Friday, but until then you have my promise I'll be here skewering my hot mess of a life with actual prose.)

(photo credit: Gurushabd Kaur Khalsa, or just Blondie)