Closing out my 2008 tab

Hello, dolls. So did you have good holiday times? Um, yeah. So that's rhetorical. We're here to talk about me today.

Okay, so Ex picked me up from the airport on Monday and we decided to play his mom's game of "name your ten significant events of the year". So I cocked my head and thought about it for a second and my list went something like this:

-first car accident
-first lost wallet
-toxic mold allergies that ruined my face (and, therefore, life) for two and a half months
-hostile eviction from my apartment (for speaking out against toxic mold)
-three flat tires on the freeway (before 2008 I'd never experienced a flat tire ever)
-second car accident (luckily this time some jackass just hit my parked car, but it was another two weeks my car was in the body shop)
-walked through a glass wall and got a concussion
-experienced several bouts of homelessness
-embarrassingly cried on the set of Gossip Girl

And this doesn't even include the psychological damage I got from spending large amounts of time with a Toxic Ex and a seriously disappointing dating venture that made me and the other person consider we are both possibly dysfunctional and/or crazy. (Incidentally, we're hanging out Friday.)

This was when I realized that my life is actually an Exhausting Shit Storm that most people could not even comprehend nor bear on a daily basis. If daily panic were measured using the Homeland Security Advisory System, I'd be pretty much operating around a Level Orange constantly. It occurred to me, most people don't live like I do. Even Ex gave me a sideways glance and was like, 2009 will by default be better than that Shit Storm that made up your life.

But is 2008 over? No. Was that ten things? No.

And apparently 2008 was keeping count because it was not going out without One Final Shit Storm Hurrah.

Because today while I was seriously enjoying my morning, having just returned from an ass-kicking on the Santa Monica Stairs, I got a phone call from Union Bank of California informing me that some questionable charges were on my account.

Yes, add to my list of Significant Events of 2008 Credit Card Fraud. What would 2008 be without some Identity Theft, right?

Did you know there is no way to prevent this if you have a card you have used, like, ever? I started hyperventilating and called my parents, who informed me they couldn't understand me, so I hung up on them and threw the phone, then called back moments later. Credit Card Fraud will bring out your good side.

So today I'm winding up 2008 with no debit card to pay my bills tomorrow and a drained checking account. I mean, some A-hole went to town on my dime. They hit up the In-n-Out, some expensive baby store (CLEARLY not me and most assuredly what tipped the bank people off), then they seriously threw down at Norstrom's and stopped by a Rite Aid in Missouri for good measure.

After I cried at the bank for the second time this year, I came home and watched all those poignant Citibank Identity Theft commercials from a few years ago. That shit RESONATES, people. I watched it through new eyes. Here. Watch one. They make me feel less alone.



But you know, if Ex hadn't asked me to think of "Big Moments" I kind of would have written off 2008 as a fun time. I met more amazing people than I can count, got good writing jobs, joined a band, went to fun parties, got good swag and watched a lot of fantastic reality television. (That's right. TV good. Gina happy.)

But also because I had the Shitstorm of 2008, and everyone in my life knew it, there was a ridiculous, unexpected, ceaseless amount of Clover Love and Support. Do you know who loves you? I do. Because I have been down and motherf*cking OUT this year, and bitches have shown me LOVE and AWESOMENESS. Endlessly.

But 2009 you better have something good for me. Like a TV show. And a book deal. And possibly an awesome boyfriend who also likes reality TV. It's not so much to ask for.

So, in conclusion, I sincerely wish you all awesome, non-shit storm 2009s, peeps. I really do love you.

Shiny and Bright

Happy happy, everybody!

I'm spending Christmas eve in my cozy Standard nook in Hollywood, which has been a blissful oasis of quiet, devoid of holiday fervor. And tomorrow I fly to Atlanta which means the airports will also be quiet and devoid of holiday fervor.

So since I can't post twinkle lights on here, I'm posting the visual equivalent. I am obsessed with the new Nip/Tuck promo. It's a dreamy synchronized sundae kaleidoscope with sparkle motion magic and the undercurrent of something totally dark. This is what it looks like in my head. Even Ex and I happened upon a conversation where we both extolled the genius of this TV ad video art. He wants to know who directed it. I want to know how I can get one of those pin up rompers.

For serious. It's like Matthew Barney took on plastic surgery and Marie Antoinette. And lord knows I love me some Matthew Barney.

Anyway, here are my blog's holiday decorations. I hope Santa is good to all of you.

Quick! Let's Make Love Before We Die.

Join the car crash set.

No, I'm not going to make love to you all, despite the fact I know you all refresh this page daily hoping for such salacious hand outs. No, this post is about music. The other thing you wonder about when you come check in on me. (Didn't you join a band, Miss Clover? Weren't you all beside yourself in excitement and going to rehearsals and tambourine wenching all over town like some percussive floozy?) Yes, yes, yes! I was!

But what I haven't mentioned, partially because I've been busy with mold and moving and whatevertheblah, but partially because I'm in denial and terribly hurt (truly deeply hurt) is that Moxers, my beautiful, whip smart partner in a gazillion projects, is gone. She up and fell in love and went to London without even saying good-bye. The nerve! I got a vague email about two weeks before she dipped that was all, sometime soon....blah...want to sort of see you...busy...blah. This was a girl I spent every day with, working on writing, singing, money making, gossiping, pizza eating. Everything.

And then she fell in love. Who does this? Certainly not me.

So I don't like to talk about it, but I've been in music withdrawal. Sad musical times in Camp clover.

Luckily though, through her, about two months ago, I met the fantastically fun and stupidly talented Kii Arens.

Kii makes things tasty and delicious.

Kii makes art, music and magic. Last week he emailed me about doing a photo shoot for a project he's doing and I was delighted to work with him. But what I didn't know was that he is the musical end to my sleepless nights. He makes rawkin beats and dope lyrics. We discovered we wanna sing together and dance and play instruments and make videos. And it assuages my abandonment issues since Moxy is the one that introduced us. I feel no qualms about taking him for myself.

This afternoon in a passionate conversation about disco and Judas Priest and Prince and soft core porn music videos, I burst out with one of my musical inspirations, Grace Jones. I was honestly surprised she tumbled out of my mouth. But I guess it's inevitable. When it comes to my favorite music I listen to I would gush about Neutral Milk Hotel or Blur, but when it comes to who I want to sound like with my own music: Effing Grace Jones, bitches. I can't help it. I spent my formative years in a metropolitan suburb and Williamsburg circa 2002. I like pop aesthetics with electro fag beats. I like that Grace is equal parts supermodel recognition and downtown NYC electroclash sound.

Here is my favorite Grace Jones moment, her cover of The Normal's "Warm Leatherette". Now everyone from Trent Reznor to Duran Duran has covered this track, but Grace does it best. Hands down. The sultry bass line. The deadpan vocals. Her snarly "leatherette". Of course her sleek androgyny. And the double symbol arm crash? I could only dream of such coolness. I'll settle for introducing her coolness to others.

Love actually

Despite all evidence to the contrary (and there is a lot of evidence to the contrary), I am inexplicably happy these days. I typically run on steady doses of anxiety, irritability and judgment, but lately there's been an outpouring of Clover love and I'm compelled to give love back. (And by "give love back" I mainly mean smiling at people and having strange warm sensations in my heart cavity region thingy.)

I've been the recipient of a lot of little thoughtful things from many people and the effect has been greater than the sum of its parts.

Things like completely accidentally finding nice stuff written about you on the interwebs:

"Gina is my cross-country internet partner in crime. Her posts make me laugh and her emails make me smile. She's a good one.
-Laurie | Your Ill-fitting Overcoat

(Of course the best part was that she didn't tell me. I've said it many times, Laurie is the blogger I wish I could be. Read her. Love her.)

I wish I could bake you all a cake. If there's one thing I like to do, it's dress up like an anime character and celebrate for no reason.

Jane seeks Serge

Strauss and I got to googling hot women a couple weeks ago and ever since then I've become terribly obsessed with the stunning chanteuse et muse Jane Birkin. More specifically, I've become completely enchanted with her passionate love affair in the 60's with Serge Gainsbourg.

Torrid. Glamorous. Creatively charged. How am I not presently engaged in such an all-consuming amour such as this? Really, this is all I want out of life.

Regardez:

Si charmant!



Très sexy!



Et chantant ensemble!



How can you not be smitten with their smittenness? Although, I must admit, totally unwittingly, the guy I almost dated this summer was a Jewish musician with a French name. Clearly I'm destined for this. Now we just need to fast track it. And a designer also needs to name something after me.

Knee High Friday: Vintage Clover

Despite my 24/7 commitment to being sick this week, I managed to find time to get all up in arms over Polaroids. Everyone's heard, right? In my weakened condition, this really just meant I vented to Ex, and wrote this email to my friend: "we are going nowhere as a civilization if we refuse to acknowledge polaroids as one of the greatest artistic mediums ever."

(Nice, huh? Don't you want to be my email friend? You too could get pertinent, topical missives like this delivered right to your inbox.)

Okay, so it's not like I chained myself to a Polaroid tree, but things rarely come out of my mouth that aren't about Me and Myself, so in Cloverland this constitutes as Giving Back. And look, I'm even going to share with you a website where people with more energy than I have united and mobilized. This will give you a further sense of my altruistic nature.

But because God didn't want to add insult to injury by making me suffer from "latent mono" (those were the Doctor's words) and mourn the loss of one of my favorite things this week, he led me to this website. Now, this will never make up for having a real Polaroid in your hand, but it is ridiculously fun and awesome to make your digital photos into Polaroids. Go there and live the fun now!

So in a tribute to Polaroids (RIP), here's a vintage Clover knee high foto (Remember when that was my default picture, gang? We've been through so much together!) with all kindsa vintage-y, Polaroid-friendly looks goin' on. Seriously, that picture could have totally been a Polaroid.

Behold the Fauxlaroid:

Straight Illin'

I just can't feel better, guys. Even when the sore throat wanes, I still am consumed with sheer weariness in my bones. The kind of physical exhaustion that makes me fall asleep at nine and want to take two hour naps during the day. I continually contemplate the idea that I may have mono (again) or that I somehow permanently misplaced my adrenals/will to live.

I ran into one of my personal heroes, Harijot, last night at the Venice Whole Foods, an encounter that surprised and delighted us both. Harijot is a magical sprite of a lady, my very special fairy godmother who wears a turban and reminds me to breath deeply. She singlehandedly got me through my 9-5 job without long-term psychological damage. Anyway, I blathered on about the Laurel Canyon mold fest and how I just haven't felt right ever since that time. She bleakly informed me that if it took me two and a half months to get all busted in the face and spored on a cellular level, why should it take any less time to feel ship-shape? Not the news I wanted to hear, but somehow she made me feel better. I think that's what it's like to be magic.

But like a trooper I've been showing up at a few holiday social engagements (though sleeping through most), and completely faking my way through it. "I've never felt better!" I cheer, as my fake smile triggers a headache pang. One of the shindigs I managed to straggle out to was the Bunim/Murray party (parent company of my beloved TVgasm)with Flipit last weekend. I felt I had to. It's coming up on my year anniversary at the 'gasm and I wanted to get something to compensate for the weak pay. Those things being free food and shitty characatures of my face.

I mean, you'd never guess I was dying on the inside, right? Right?? Make me feel better, gang.

Not pictured: Burning sore throat, large crowd-induced vertigo, dull, persistent headache, desire to be in a fetal position.

R.I.P. x 2

We said goodbye to Pick Up Artist viewing parties on Sunday. Hopefully the fun and adventures will continue in some fashion. I like my new friends. And old friend Strauss is taking me up on a long-standing offer for a home cooked meal, so clearly I'm always game to be gamed. (Or is HE game to be gamed?)

So to commemorate the end of the greatest month in weekly parties ever, read my final installment of the show at TVgasm. Don't you want to find out which contestant finally gamed me?

Ripe for the picking up.

In other, sadder RIP news, I am devastated to report that one of my favorite ATLiens of all time and dirty south nightlife legend, Mr. Johnny Ether passed away last week. Back in the day, Johnny singlehandedly saved me thousands of dollars in boozing money by being the most generous tender of bar ever. He also happened to be wickedly funny, terribly interesting and devilishly handsome. And much to my disappointment, he never asked me out. (Really, is there a better eulogy than that?)

I know you have gone off to places as rawkin' as you are. xoxo