Let's party!

In my headspace, I created my next vlog yesterday. It was great. But then I remembered Mark Rivers's words of wisdom after last weekend's vlog: "Nicely done. You should do more of that...selectively, of course. Don't go floodin' the market with adorable ding-dongery hilarity. Supply and damage, Clover! It's the foundation of economics!"

And so, in my ongoing losing battle against laziness, and my acceptance that I will do whatever Mark Rivers says, the vlog did not get did. Which is a shame because it was a Farewell to Black History Month vlog, and I know it might be hard for all of you to process Black History Month without Clover weighing in. No adorable ding-dongery today. Sorry.

And alas it probably won't get done now. Because it's kind of weak to do a Black History Month vlog after the month is over and if nothing else, as you can tell, I aspire to be RELEVANT and TOPICAL around here.

So this afternoon I swung by Ex's to pick some mail up and on his doorstep a little package from Etsy had been delivered. Yes, today I learned Ex is a passionate Etsy shopper. (Hi, Jonah. Sorry about that whole gay vlog thing. It was meant for Brett.)

Anyway, he opened the package and informed me that the best part of ordering from Etsy (really?) is that they send you a personalized card, a fact which he is especially excited about. And today's card was not only the Best Card Ever, but it was also wonderfully blank inside. Fresh card! Upon sight of it, I burst into a weird, embarrassing dance spasm and told him I must have it. I could not continue my life without the Four Horse Party Gangbang:



And, individuals. I LOVE bizarre, design-y, letterpress cards. I used to have a full-time hobby collecting these cards at overpriced boutiques around the city and sending them to people, souping up the minimal outsides with themed insides, so it became this narrative, 2D diorama- like extravaganza. Cards are my medium. (Unfortunately, my best work went to Toxic Ex and thinking about the insane sort of precision and detail and love that went into each one kind of bums me out. What a waste! And yes, I think this more about the cards than the relationship.)

Anygreeting, probably because my sad spasming slightly edged out Ex's enthusiasm, he gave the Horse Mounting Party Card to me. On the condition that when I send it I send it to him.

Well, it's mine for now, and I'm sharing it with you as my topical and relevant post for the weekend since the weekend is, like, for partying. And horses mounting each other.

And please party like it's a horse-on-horse gangbang for me tonight. This will be the second Saturday night in a row I am home writing, not because I want to, but because I was incapable of doing it at any other time. At every other point this week, I found staring at the wall to be a more compelling way to spend the day. I think of it less as procrastination and more as a part of my creative process.

UPDATE: Guess who did no writing and partied like a HORSE last night? Uh, yeah. Me. Sundays are more civilized writing days anyway.

Clover vs. Healthy Living

Round 1:

I mentioned back in June that I go out to New Mexico every summer. What I didn't mention, because I didn't want to scare you all off, is that I go out for a New Age Gathering of Meditating and Upliftment, where I do yoga and feel positive about having to be on this planet, but where I am still known as the girl from LA with a questionable attitude, a questionable wardrobe and a questionable mouth. Heeere's Clover!

So last week when my friend Gurudarshan said she had a picture of me (she is the event photographer every year) she wanted to use for a brochure she was hired to make, I was all, "Yeah. Sure. That picture of me peeing in the bushes will totally inspire someone to hit up a retreat. Knock yourself out." Over the years I've been in hundreds of her pictures, and most of the time I am eating or looking pissed or looking slutty. I was ready to L-O-L at my involvement in this.

And then, this was the picture. And yes, people. THIS IS ME. I didn't believe it either.



Holy ghost of yoga past.

I'll completely 'fess up, y'all: Yoga is actually why I moved to LA. I know. It surprises me too. I'm, like, certified to teach the stuff. (My services are available at reasonable rates.) Everyone I've shown this picture to is all, "Yeah. Sorry you don't look that nice or peaceful anymore. Blame those Laurel Canyon mold spores for raping your face for so long."

Here is the Life of Clover, in Four Phases:

1) Inexplicable Overachiever

2) Degenerate Partier

3) Beaming, Shiny, Healthy Spiritual Person

and currently 4) embracing mediocrity of all previous phases.

It's like I decided to take on the personality of each Brother Karamazov and suck at fully realizing each one all at once.

(Click on the foto to enlarge and read the poignant story of heroin addiction coming out of my crotch.)

Clover: 0, Healthy Living: 1

Round 2:

On Thursday I went out to a bar and met a friend of a friend who was the petitest, shiniest-haired Latina girl, who swore that her glowing skin and perfect metabolism came from consuming three tablespoons of coconut oil a day. SIX tablespoons when she feels under the weather. Now I was in awe of this specimen. I involuntarily kept touching her hair because it was so pretty. This would have been awkward except that her passion for sharing the benefits of coconut oil consumption eclipsed even weirdo gratuitous touching from strangers. (Whatever. People like it when I touch them.)

I'm all for any health fad that will keep me young and beautiful, so I was pretty much, "Where do I sign my name?" instantly. And much to my delight, I went to hang at Blondie's new pad in The Valley the next day and discovered a large vat of organic, extra virgin coconut oil (which, for the record, normal people only use for putting DIRECTLY into their hair. Or cooking.)

But I was ready to guzzle this shit DOWN. I was ready to metabolize like a mofo. I was ready to inspire mass hair envy.

After tablespoon one, I knew I was making a grand mistake. Coconut oil is just kind of like olive oil. But coconut-flavored. Do you know how gross drinking olive oil is? I've cleansed, people. ALOTNESS. And tablespoons are kind of big. But what are three tablespoons of oil when shiny hair and skinnier thighs are at stake? I persevered.

I tried to pretend I did not instantly feel like killing myself or at least ripping out my stomach and throwing it against the wall, because surely that would be less painful than the nausea I was experiencing.

I then agreed to happy hour at Casa Vega before Blondie went to work hoping that chips, salsa and my sheer love for happy hour would put a stop to the sadness in my stomach.

OH, RETARDED CLOVER. There is no stopping three tablespoons of coconut oil. Casa Vega was just where the puking began.

Here is what you do not want to happen when you are experiencing a coconut oil-induced pukefest:

1) To be far away from your home in the Valley.

2) To be far away in the Valley and have your friend leave you all alone at her house (where you have only been once before).

3) To technically not even be in the strange house because her keys do not even work. (I mean, really?) So you are left in the guest house of the roommate you have never met to ralph out your entrails. (Hi Alice, thank you for letting me vom in your toilet and pass out on the bed for twenty minutes or so in coconut oil misery. I tried to fold the blanket like you had it so you wouldn't know your roommate's friend was violently ill for dumb-dumb reasons, but I felt like I was dying at that moment and could only care so much about the throw blanket. I do look forward to hanging out soon though. I've heard good things. xoxo, C)

I couldn't stay in Alice's guest house because (I also discovered) being sick in an unfamiliar environment only makes you feel worse. So I drove back to the westside in rush hour traffic. That was fun. And I know everyone wants to puke on the 405 because it sucks so much, but it was all I could do to NOT puke on the 405. Maybe I should have. It would have been, like, a metaphor. And/or performance art.

So, yeah. Friday night blew. Most importantly, while I pathetically nibbled on saltines and drank ginger ale, I missed out on my favorite two things gathering together that night: Pick Up Artists and Rock Band. I do not want to talk about this further because it upsets me too much, but no doubt I would have guzzled a whole bottle of Patron and been better off than I was with this misguided attempt to cleanse my body.

Seriously, forcibly taking five shots of Jagermeister would be more enjoyable. EFF YOU, coconut oil.

Clover: 1, Healthy Living: CAN SUCK IT


Round 3:

Saturday, after The Great Coconut Oil Purging of 2009, I went back to Bikram Yoga. Which I haven't been to for at least a year. Now for those of you not familiar with this beautiful form of body and mind union, here is the deal: You go into a two hundred degree room for an hour and a half. Contort your body into the same twenty-six postures each and every class. Do each posture twice in every class. And hold them till you think your muscles will explode from shaking and your skin will melt off from sweating.

It. is awesome.

It has occurred to me that people who go to Bikrams are major self-loathers. Or at the very least, masochists. And is Clover a self-loathing masochist? You bet your bottom dollar.

I can only describe it as a motherf*cking SWEATGASM. I got sweat in my eyeballs. More than once. My lungs cheered that I wasn't breathing like a panicked gerbil for ten minutes, and when I left, the world smiled again. Positivity was simply brimming out of me.

Then I got back in the car and heard some melancholy Top 40 rock song and thought to myself, "These dudes are right. I guess life does suck."

But that walk to the car was just GLORIOUS.

Clover: 0, Healthy Living: 1

So yeah, it's a mixed bag this healthy living business. You can feel good, you can wind up yakking in a strange place in Valley Village.

I'm thinking to embrace it all, I am going to start a group called "Bikrams and Beer: Feel good and then feel more good". Please contact me if you are interested in joining. In the meantime, I will attempt being successful at realizing all the traits of the Brothers Karamazov at the same time, which basically means I will become a drunk intellectual who wants to devote her life to God.

Sunday Lovin': Clover is getting slutty and shacking up with another blog.

TODAY. And it's not just slutty. It's meaningful blog sleeping around. I'm like all sincere and sh*t. Go see for yourself at Miel et Cannelle, which you should read daily. And not just because she posts daily, but because she is smart and hot and finds the best stuff on the planet to put on her blog. Basically we are kind of in love and MORE than just on Sundays.

But the posi vibes might be a lot for you. They were for me. If so, just watch me making fun of Jonah over and over. It will feel more natural that way.

**SPECIAL GRATITUDE VLOG FOR JONAH RAY**

This is my friend Jonah.



We went to Mexico last weekend. It was great except he promised to punch me in the face because he HE CLAIMS to hate it so much and then didn't. LAME.

Watch this special video! In which you learn I have an EXCELLENT command of the Spanish language!

You must not know 'bout me. (Unless you are Mexican.)

When I plan big, fantastic posts, I sometimes get lost in translating it from my head to the web. That's what happened this week.

So many posts ideas. So comfortable just where they are in my head. DEAL.

But, yes, Lickedy. I made it back from my Adventure in one piece. My adventure was to MEXICO for those of you that don't know, and it was GRAND. And by GRAND I mean I drank beer and watched Along Came Polly. (I didn't want to watch it! JONAH RAY made me do it. Jonah Ray LOVES Along Came Polly. It's his favorite movie.)

Okay okay, so other stuff happened. Fun, good stuff. Maybe I will do my first VLOG about my trip to Mexico. How does that sound? Ugh. Like WORK. Someone will have to order me to do it, because that is the only way to get things done around here.

Anyway, here is something that happened to me today, which I will not vlog about.

I was walking through Sunset Junction in Silver Lake and I passed a group of young Mexican dudes and one of them goes, "Hey, you look like Shelley Duvall."



Ha! I do. Now I rarely agree with celebrities people say I look like. Liv Tyler. Meh. Kate Winslet. ARE YOU HIGH? Shelley Duvall. Pretty much.

(Only one other person has said this to me. It was this guy at Golden Bridge Yoga who turned to me out of the blue and said, "You're like Shelley Duvall. BUT HOT.")

Back to Mexicans in Silver Lake, now I did not make eye contact with these individuals. I was wearing my glasses and not lookin' for troubs, so I was so taken aback that not only did this Mexican man GROK my celebrity doppelganger within two seconds of glancing at me in my schlep gear, but that he even knew who Shelley Duvall is. In fact this was all I could think about as I was busting my ass up Hyperion. WTF Day Laborers? Do you all secretly have degrees in film studies? Do you all think the 1970's stood out as the greatest period in American filmmaking? (Because who doesn't? AM I RIGHT!)

I loved these Mexicans.

I think I giggled in response, and then one of the other ones kind of chuckled and then I thought they were laughing at me, but I always think people are laughing at me. Oh, to be Clover!

So yeah. Mexicans telling me I look like Olive Oyl. It made me want to turn around and head right back down to Rosarito where maybe people will think I AM Shelley Duvall and I will treated like ROYALTY FOREVER. Then everyday I will eat the BEST FISH TACO EVER (It's there. We found it.) and live at the Rosarito Beach Hotel where they put zen candles in the living rooms.

That is all.

Koala Sluts for your Valentine's Day

When you don't hear from me for extended periods of time, it is because one of two things is happening.

I am either:

a) weeping silently to myself, wallowing in a narcissistic self-pitying stupor, usually on the couch, but often in my car, because self-absorbed people don't care who sees them bawl over nothing.

b) having a great f*cking time!

And this week included equal amounts of both. Clover was all, blogga what? Blogga who? I would wallow in my self-absorbed depression and then laugh about it with my friends at night as we got drunk on beerz.

I have life figured OUT, people.

Now I know that anyone with two eyes and a heart was moved by this here image this week:



That paw! That sweet little upturned fat koala face!

You just wanted to melt and punch something all at the same time.

So early in the week I was rounding out two solid days of feeling sorry for myself, and wearing the sad pants like they were my most cherished knee high socks when I went out with my awesome writer friends who also look great in sad pants, but who are willing to take them off at the prospect of group drinking. I heart my friends.

So early into the evening, conversation turned to this Burn Victim Koala and how all our lives had been touched forever by its cuteness and thirstiness.

Within moments we brilliantly decided to recreate this picture. If a Koala and an Australian Fireman could change the lives of so many, perhaps we (Internet Sensation and her Most Beautiful Blog Girlfriend Georgia Hardstark could also affect the masses with a paw and an upturned face.)

But I am here to report to you that the result was merely:

SLUTS AT A BAR.



Um, yeah. Sluts boozing. That's what we got. I think Georgia nailed the paw, but the Modelo inherently clowns the moment. Also the girl-on-girl vaguely Coyote Ugly vibe. And the grainy photo quality. But almost!

I would also like to add this was cerveza uno. This was when we were still talking about current events and expressing compassion towards living creatures other than ourselves. Yes, this was sober. But when you are trying to take something sweet and innocent and recreate with beer and bordello lighting, you will only look like Sluts at a Bar. Please believe.

Anyway, happy Valentine's Day, my intertronic lovers. I would totally hold yer paws and shove beer down your throats. Because that is love.

Now I am going on an adventure which I will report back on soon-like.
xoxo.

My life would suck without you.

Seconds before I got my eye poked out.

I realized this week my friendship with Ex is defined by abuse. Yes, Clover is one battered woman. (And judging by my reaction to the Christian Bale rant, I seriously want MORE. Much much more.)

This week Ex and I resurrected the sport we invented three years ago while vacationing in Palm Springs: BIKE JOUSTING. And while we have devised a set of rules and codes, the sport is basically this: kick each other literally in the ass while riding your bike. (We'd like to start a league if anyone is interested. And also make YouTube videos of Bike Jousting in action.)

It's a sophisticated sport, people. You get a point for each ass-kick (must be on the ass and NOT the back or thigh, though I always wind up getting all three), and you also get a point if the person falls off his or her bike. Because Ex is like 6'5'' and has never-ending, gangly, spidey legs, he is much better at kicking me squarely in the ass than I am at kicking him. This means my "strategy" is usually to ram my bike into his and get him to fall off. Yet inexplicably I am almost ALWAYS THE ONE TO FALL OFF. How he has become such an excellent bike jouster while I totally suck is beyond me. (I should admit I also have a handicap and still am almost always on the losing end.)

Anyway, after Bike Joust Resurrection 2009 this week, we went and got Mexican food from our favorite burrito stand on Lincoln Blvd, and this immediately turned into a slapping match right on the sidewalk. Once again he had a distinct advantage with his long, spidey arms plus a handful of cash, so essentially it turned into me getting repeatedly Cash-Slapped, (yes, Cash-Slapped. Which for the record TOTALLY STINGS) while he laughed hysterically about "cash-slapping bitches". Okay, I was laughing too. Cash-slapping is the new pistol-whipping, fools.

And then after that, as usual, we watched TV, which consistently (every time) involves dutch ovens (the first definition is by far our favorite and we often recite it to one another gleefully), and on this particular evening we discovered that our conversations sound a lot like Jack Donaghy and Liz Lemon on 30 Rock when Jack is talking to Liz like a very small (possibly retarded) child. Yes, people. I am physically and psychologically abused on a weekly basis.

But the one place I wear the pants (possibly the only place I feel some authority in this cold, cruel world) is in my car. Let me just tell you that should you ever be in my car I will make you play the tambourine and have a sing-a-long with me. IT WILL BE GLORIOUS FUN.

So here is Ex yesterday. Singing and dancing and playing the tambourine. It's my first VLOG and I realize I'm not in it other than vocally, but you'll just have to wait. Because nothing makes me more joyful than Ex dancing and attempting to play the tambourine for me in my vehicle. (And check out that hot pink tambourine all shaped like a magical HOT PINK BIRD. The sound quality does nothing for its majesty.)

But for the record: Brett Simon, my life would suck without you. I'd rather not go into the ways in which he is also totally awesome to me, because that defeats the purpose of this intertronic forum. We just make fun of people round here.

(Please contact me directly if you would like to join our Bike Jousting League or Cash-Slapping Battles.)


delo roatrip from gina clover on Vimeo.

Flames on the side of my face/ Thinking of You

Saturday morning I woke up and set out to respond to an email I'd been avoiding all week, and to keep me company I decided to hang out with my best friend in the whole wide world, television. Since Sober House is only once a week and not actually a live feed I can watch at all times, I had to settle for the Top 20 music video countdown on Vh1. Now ol' Clover doesn't make it a habit of watching music videos, but Saturday she decided it was high time to keep up with the young people, because the young people are our future, everyone. It's important to keep tabs on them.

And I regret to announce that the young people are watching Katy Perry videos. I know, I know. The bearer of bad news and all that. Obviously, I'm not one to talk shit, but I have to say...I freaking hate Katy Perry. I don't like her shouty voice. I don't like her fake bisexuality. I don't like her pseudo-Lolita posturing. NO KATY PERRY. GO AWAY. And okay there are many many things that make me get all Mrs. White, but Katy Perry especially makes me get all Mrs. White.

Witness! Yay!




(And btw, is Clue the most fantasticalest movie of all time or is Clue the most fantasticalest movie of all time?)

Getting back to the topic at hand though, I watched this video mesmerized by its shittiness and confusingness. And I'm completely ignoring the actual song shittiness, which is there in spades. I just mean the epic love story narrative shittiness. This hackneyed war story has been done and redone in at least twelve hundred movies and music videos. (It was obviously never done better than in that modern classic "A League of their Own", mostly because of Lori Petty, Tom Hanks as the lovable wiseacre, and that whole girls in skirts playing baseball thing. But whatevs, Perry. Have at it.)

So today I am taking my highly refined recapping skills and bringing my interpretation it to you. I promise it will be better, shorter and quieter than than Katy Perry caterwauling and looking sad beneath a pile of false eyelashes, but here is the offending work if you must watch.



"Thinking of You": A photo essay

Rmember that time Katy Perry kissed a girl and totally liked it? Well, you know, she also loves God, too. And in a totally austere and Calvinistic way, Red State people. So buy her album. Kthx.

Katy Perry also eff soldiers. No word on if they also taste like cherry chapstick.

(More like, I kissed GOD and I liked it. LOL!! xoxo, KP)

(That's right, bitches! God AND soldiers. So are you totally over that time I had a pillow fight with a girl and said I was half-dyke and that it felt so right? Awesome. Me, too. Buy this shit now. xoxo, KP)

Enter Dude Two. This dude looks like the dude in the photo, but he's obviously not the One True Love, because he is unshaven and wears a wifebeater and may or may not have moobs, the telltale signs of a LOSER DUDE. Bet he's gonna be totally cool about the whole Soul-Mate's-picture-on-the-mirror thing though.

At this point, gentle readers, I became very convinced that my friend Ryan Rickett was now in the video. And therefore both dudes began to look like Rickett, but not really, but sort of, and then they all stopped looking like anyone entirely, and I couldn't keep up anymore, and I don't think I have any idea what actual Rickett looks like anymore. Good Rickett, Bad Rickett, Shaved Rickett, Facial Hair Rickett, Hotter Rickett, Less Hot Rickett. It was a lot for poor Clover. And then because Soldier Dude and Civilian Dude looked so similar I was no longer able to tell between real time and flashback time. IS IT THAT HARD TO CAST TWO GUYS THAT LOOK DIFFERENT, MUSIC VIDEO CASTING DIRECTORS??

At this point, however, I have shamefully pored over this video and can give you a frame-by-frame play-by-play blindfolded with the sound off, but when it was all flying by my face at this initial viewing, I was just overwhelmed with the quasi-Rickett proxies. That is the spirit I have tried to capture, so please feel free to be confused as well.

Dressed-up-but-still-loser-dude Rickett.

Wifebeater Rickett. Same as dressed-up-with-glasses Rickett.

Obligatory pretty lighting shot because this director is an AUTEUR.

Shaved Rickett=Good Rickett=Flashback Rickett.

OMGKATYPERRY+THE40'S=BFFS4EVER!!!

KIDS: Rough sex is bad no matter how hot it looks. When a man and a woman truly love one another, they only MAKE LOVE. The angels and seraphim descend from the heavens and fly around the room and sing and weep at the sight of your lovemaking. REPEAT: This is NOT hot.

(Hey guys, I used to dance and be happy, but now I'm too busy getting raped by my new boyfriend. Kthx for listening. xoxo, KP)

Please note: It pays to be a date raper, because then, inexplicably, you don't have to go to war with other able-bodied men, where, unfortunately, there is no color.

Is Bad Rickett gonna have to choke a bitch?

Oh, wait. Her true love was Mac Dude Rickett?

Mac Dude Rickett gets one tear only because it takes like four hours to shalaque this whore make up on.

Wait. Now the Western Union telegram comes? So was she crying before because of the whole date rape thing? What a baby.

I will respond to that question with a constipation impression.

Um, okay. Bye.

Please send all music video recap requests to whydomusicvideoshavetosucksobad??@gmail.com