Katy Perry will bite my rhyme in 3...2...1

Bruises on the fruit/ Tender Age in Bloom

Freelance died last week.

All in one day:

- I found out a recent assignment was not paid per "piece" but per "lump of pieces", meaning I got a third of what I'd anticipated.

- I found out I wasn't going to get a freelance copywriting project at the yoga organization I used to work for, which even though I didn't want, I needed and considered myself a shoo-in for.

- The editor at my main freelance bread and butter announced that assignments are going to be less not more ("tough economy and all"). And I still haven't seen the last check they owe me.

It was just an exhausting day of disappointment.

So... I did what any normal person would do when confronted with the significant loss of income. I popped a Xanax and flipped on a marathon of Snapped.

Have we talked about "Snapped" yet? Because we should. For an hour or twelve. Lately it has been brought to my attention that when I'm out a-boozin' I tend to talk at length about how this is the best show in the history of shows, and how people need to add this show immediately in to their DVR queue. (This includes you. We're having this conversation right now.)

To put it quite simply, these are true stories of bitches doin' murder. Mostly it's greedy hos who off their husbands for their money, but sometimes it gets wild. Like a teenage girl who shot her parents in their sleep because they didn't like her cholo boyfriend. One crazy lady made her fifteen-year-old daughter shoot her husband telling her that she would love her if she did. These bitches are stone cold. It is all true, and these hos got CAUGHT. It's often like a what-not-to-do if you want your spouse dead. I promise you will also become entranced and watch it and say things out loud like, "Really, ho? You thought you could fake that 911 call? You thought you could scrub the blood stains out that duvet cover. Hell no, trick! BLOOD NEVER DISAPPEARS."

It is no secret that I find television to be a tremendous boon to the world, and that I watch it at length and with shameless adoration. Mostly for reality television, because I like shows best when someone gets eliminated at the end, but now it all seems so tame. Rock of Love used to be so shocking. Now those hos seem so weak. They threw a tequila shot at someone? Snoozey times.

Is there a deaf lesbian love triangle where someone got hacked up and put in a barrel in a storage unit?? Yeah, didn't think so, skanks. Step yer game up.

But really. Unless you threw your husband into the Chesapeake Bay in a suitcase for his life insurance policy, I'm kind of unimpressed. Wake me up when there's arsenic kool-aid involved.

So on Monday when I was done with weekend boozing and satisfied that there are way worse off bitches than myself out there, I decided to get back on the Real Job Hunt. Now I spend hours laboriously drafting professional cover letters and submitting impressive samples of Clover writing published in periodicals to get jobs I know I wouldn't even like, if only to have the comfort of a W-2 and a reason to get out of bed in the morning.

But when I saw a job I really wanted and felt would actually be something I would be interested in and enthusiastic about going to on a daily basis, I just couldn't do the professional bullshit dance. I dropped a quick note linking to this blog and name-dropping Mark Rivers. (And yeah, I attached my resume. I'm not an idiot, people.)

And this was clearly the way to go. Within a day, it was ON. We have plans to try it all on for size next week and I'm aglow.

Lesson learned: If you want a job, link to my blog and talk about Mark Rivers. EMPLOYMENT GOLD.

So yeah, it looks like Clovesy gots a JOB. Where I leave the house and interact with individuals in a paid environment. Dazzling. And next week I'm meeting someone about another writing project which would be temporary, but an interesting source of much needed extra income.

AND my new friend Alice (whose toilet I puked coconut oil into and whom I've since met and become terribly fond of) has started a TOP SECRET comedy project with me that is making me very very excited. (It involves the Banksy-inspired vlog, P. Hold tight.)

So basically, Cloverland is looking rosy again and I'm sorry I can't share more, it's just that when your life starts to look how you wanted it to look all along, it freaks you out a little bit. So I'm quietly crushing on my new life and hoping that it likes me back. When we're going steady, I'll gush.

Me and my new life making out in an otherwordly, cosmic way.

In the meantime pouty hipster pics soon. Most likely with PBR and girls in bathrooms. Apparently you people are not impressed easily.

It will be like this. But with less dignity.

Fine. I give up.

Barely a week after I mock hipsters and their appearances on party photo blogs, I wind up on one.

Hipster by numbers, people. I could teach you, but I'd have to charge.

***MORE GIRL-ON-GIRL BLOG ACTION***

Yeah, it's not as salacious as it sounds unfortunately, but I am guest blogging again, and this time I am getting down with BWP over at her hilarious blog Baking With Plath today.

It was kind of a big fat honor to contribute to her internet masterpiece, since she is brutally funny and totally hot. I am no stranger to sitting around on a Saturday morning reading every post she has ever written, chuckling to myself like a crackhead. I bet knowing this would only make me more desirable to her.

I sincerely dream about the day that BWP and I get to guzzle apple martinis and marry strangers at dive bars together. This is because I have always dreamed big.

So go read it. Also it will explain the presence of that giant tiger up there.

Yer so artsy, Clover!

Patterson Beckwith and I became friends this weekend. I've been busy writing for ArtSlant and it makes me channel my inner smarty pants. It's kind of weird to use big words and be all serious-like, but it's mostly fun. I haven't written about art since I lived in New York, which were the salad days of me lording my bullshit all over the world.

Yup, just lording my nuanced understanding of semiotics and critical theory left and right. Thank god I discovered reality TV because I was downright insufferable back in those days.

I've got an au courant guest blog that has no big words nor references to contemporary art for tomorrow, but in the meantime please enjoy me and Patterson consummating our artsiness.

Oooh.

Aaah.

In Which I Incriminate Myself Further as a Hipster By Accidently Discovering Scores of Ironic T-shirts in My Storage Unit.

WTF, people? Who knew I had an entire drawer full of hipster tees lurking in my storage unit like a pile of unpaid parking tickets. (I know nothing about unpaid parking tickets.)

UhyeahIguessIforgot.

So, before anything else, I should announce that I like going to my storage unit. I didn't at first because it made me all sad in the heart about the Laurel Canyon Incident of '08, and I felt like my stuff was giving me stink eye for leaving it in the Valley, but now I like it, and my stuff has been deprived of me long enough where now it's just happy to see me.

I find the distinctly weird odor plaguing the halls of Public Storage familiar and oddly comforting. Since I left the LC in November I go once every couple weeks, and at some point in this journey became consumed with warm fuzzies towards that crappy cement block. I feel equal parts nostalgic and happy to see my things, and shocked and confused that I have schlepped some of this crapola around since I lived in New York. I assure my belongings that we'll be together again soon in a beautiful, magical place, and it's kind of a special moment.

(Is this sounding creepy yet? I HOPE SO.)

Anyway, I went today to do some clothes clearing for an upcoming clothing swap, (clothing swaps are the new shopping and I won't hear otherwise) but I could probably get rid of half of my wardrobe and not even notice. (Does anyone else out there wear the same five things over and over?)

And I don't know if I am competing with a goldfish for the worst short term memory in a living being, but I am always surprised to learn about some of the things I own. How could something I loved so much at one time become so irrelevant and unimportant to my hippocampus? (This statement was actually mainly about people. Sorry, people I've forgotten.)

So, I culled some of my favorites to share with you, though it turns out I could fill a yearbook with ironic tees. Maybe I will make a coffee table art book of them. A Clover Coffee Table Art Book is coming one of these days. Please believe.

Without further ado and whatnot:

Ironic Myspace Ringer Tee!

My friend Erik made these at the height of Myspace Mania and because of the crowd he runs with (not me, I swear!) I think Mickey Avalon and Cisco Adler were also rocking these, which is a seriously terrible endorsement. Clover is guilty of hipster irony in the first degree.

Ironic 80's Shirt!

Oh, hey gang. Do you like my hot pink, Cheap Trick-ish hipster tee? I wore this out last night with sequined hot pants, fishnet anklets and purposefully clashing red stilettos, then I found pictures of myself this morning on Last Night's Party making out with twenty-one year old gay boys and I SO don't remember any of it.

Ironic "I'm from Georgia" Shirt!

Hey y'all. I'm from Georgia, even though I look like I hold court in the LES. Whatever. I'm just here to say somethin' real funny about peaches and boobs. Y'all git it?

And the piece de resistance:

Ironic Lifestyle Shirt!

Okay, this one is particularly special to me. It is soft, it carries a bold message and comes complete with ironic detailing. It totally looks like one of those stitched things in ovals, right? What are those called? Oh, who cares.

Anyway, I love this last shirt and it is one of my favorite vintage finds, but I never wear it (I've only worn it, like, twice), because I actually don't hate housework. Recently I did a massive overhaul on my friend's room and I almost exploded into bleach bubbles of excitement when we could finally see his floor so I could clean it. Then I had a full-on Swiffergasm when I discovered that his roommate bought this Swiffer that has the soapy water stuff squirting out of it. Luckily I don't get embarrassed about acting stupid when clean floors are at stake.

So what do I do with this shirt that is so fantastic but more ironic than even I choose to be? I would like to give it to someone who would actually wear it. Are there any female readers that can fully rock this? Yes, even in my poverty, Clover is feeling generous and will snail mail it. I will generously send this to you, but you have to genuinely hate housework, and then post a picture of yourself in it on yer blog and give a shout out to me.

Whatever. I'm not that generous.

The Amazing Disgrace

Back in January my friend Carrie sent me an email with the subject "Your Former Boyfriend" and this story in the email:



Mike White On The Amazing Race!

He's written such comedy classics as School of Rock and Nacho Libre (and starred in Chuck & Buck), but how will that help actor-screenwriter Mike White on the Amazing Race?

Especially when he's teamed up with his father, gay rights activist Mel White, who at 68 is the season's oldest competitor!

Little White claims that neither the generation gap nor the competition's frantic pace caused much strife between he and Big White, saying, "We got along like a Hallmark card."

"So, is Mike White your former boyfriend, Clover?", I hear you all asking.

Um, NO, actually. No he is not my former boyfriend. But he should have been. He was going to be. If he hadn't turned out to be GAY.

Which no one told me before I flagrantly hit on him one fateful day. Thanks, everyone. (His wikipedia page says he's "openly bisexual", but whatever. We all know what means.)

But before I was aware of this knowledge, and before Carrie was, too, we both convinced ourselves that Whitey and I would make the most adorable writer nerd couple in the history of all adorable writer nerd couples.

This was right after Ex and I had just broken up (soooo...summer 2006-ish) and we were on a mission to upgrade quickly. (FACT: This is how girls think, boys. When we break up we want you replaced all Beyoncé "You must not know 'bout me" Knowles-style STAT. We want you to call us up and be all, "I can find another you in a minute. Matter fact, he'll be here in a minute.")

At that moment Carrie and I were in a major City Bakery phase, which is conveniently located at the Brentwood Country Mart, a place where peoples marvelously more successful than myself lunch, shop and flaunt their glamorousness.

One afternoon we were sitting there talking about Carrie's fantastic show (which should be coming to a Premium Cable Channel near you sometime this decade), and she was all, "OMG. Mike White is behind you." I knew who he was, but had never seen him before, so I turned around to see this blue-eyed, sweet-faced individual eating and listening to his iPod all by himself, looking like he'd just come in from a jog. Aw! He seemed like the opposite of Ex. Uncharming, unsocial, and blonde. I was thrilled.

I was on a Brentwood Country Mart roll, and after that first sighting, it seemed that every time I came in, Whitey was there. Usually having business-looking lunch dates with industry-looking men. I logically deduced he was single and, of course, very heterosexual.

And finally I decided, we'd seen each other plenty of times, surely it was time to seize the moment and act on what we were surely BOTH feeling, but the impressive result was simply making an obviously shy person extremely uncomfortable. Typical.

It was a while ago, but it went something like this:

Clover: Um, hi.
Whitey: Hi.
Clover: Soooo...I've seen you here before.
Whitey: (Blank stare)
Clover: Um, so I just like your stuff.
Whitey: Cool.
Clover: Yeah. Cool.

Aaaaand scene.

I wanted to stab myself in the face. I might have stood there awkwardly for a moment or two, realizing that he would not try and say something droll and clever for us to spontaneously burst into cheeky and flirty repartee thereafter.

For the record, Clover DOES NOT go up to people and tell them that she is a "fan" of their "stuff". How did those words come a-tumblin' out of my mouth? This incident has become a source of much merriment for Carrie and me over the years. Especially since she and Whitey started to cross paths with some regularity at writerly parties and she is all, "Dude. Clover. He is not so much all over the ladies."

I can accept this and I feel mildly better knowing that if he were the Bret Michaels of comedic screenwriting it would have gone down differently, but then who can forget how I cow-eyed my way into nothing with Steve Coogan several months later? If you are professionally funny, I will not care if you seem interested in me.

If you are a comedy nerd with a cult following and HIGHLY DEBATABLE SEXUAL APPEAL, I will most likely throw myself at you. (Patton Oswalt and Brian Posehn, I cannot WAIT for our run-in.)

Anyway, I went to The City Bakery this morning because I was having a craving for their pretzel croissant, the most expensive croissant in the world, and it got me to thinking about the day my dreams of Writer Nerd Dream Couple were dashed forever and also about The Amazing Race. I haven't been watching The Amazing Race, which is shocking because I will watch anything, but I don't want to rub gay salt in my straight girl wounds. But if anyone is, how is it? Are he and his gay dad kicking ass? I hope so. I don't want to go down as hitting on a loser.

I am also including this special picture of Mike White with Jonah Hill.



Last week I was driving in Hollywood and across the intersection from me at a red light there was a fat middle-aged woman, and for at least ten seconds I thought it was Jonah Hill. Don't judge. It's confusing to see fat people in Hollywood.

Shawty had them Apple Bottom Jeans/ Boots with the fur/The whole club was lookin' at herrrr

Hi, guys.

I am bowled over. I had no idea anyone would even notice the Apple Bottom Jeans reference in the last post. I mean, I spend the greater part of my days thinking about their applicious glory, but I certainly didn't think anyone would notice the throwaway comment within a comment. BUT YOU DID.

And this is good news, because now I feel like you will love me and accept me for who I am, and it's okay to confide things in you, internet friends.

Which is why I am going to confide this:

I don't know if the ATL made me this way or if GOD did, but yer ol' pal Clover here is, well, kind of a wigger.

Not a wigger like Jamie Kennedy in "Malibu's Most Wanted Way", but more like Michael Bolton in "Office Space" kind of way.

I'm a nerdy white girl who grew up in the ATL, and it feels natural that I should want to wear Apple Bottom Jeans and have black men call me shawty. I especially like it when they tell me I don't dance like a white girl. This is normal, right? Right?? Well I witnessed Juneteenth celebrations growing up, so maybe I just was normalized differently.

Anyway, back to Apple Bottoms Jeans and NELLY, the magnanimous creator of Apple Bottom Jeans. I don't know how Nelly got to be so durn adorables, but I have loved him ever since Country Grammar came out, and then he had that cute little band-aid on his face, and then he told me to take off all my clothes because it was getting hot in herre, and then he was positively charming as the fast-running inmate in the remake of "The Longest Yard" (That movie was all kindsa funny so shut up.), and basically, I would wear anything if Nelly told me I was going to look fly.

I mean, wouldn't you?



So back in 2006 (after one too many viewings of "You Got Served"), my former roommate Kristen and I decided to venture out to the Fox Hills mall. (The Fox Hills mall gets a reference in the "film", in case you haven't seen Omarion do his thang approximately five to seven times.) And the Fox Hills mall quickly became my most favorite mall in all of LA, mostly because it felt like being at Lenox Mall on a Saturday (before it decided to get all fancy because it's in "Buckhead"). It felt like home. Plus they have an Orange Julius there. If you haven't experienced the deliciousness of an Orange Julius, then I just feel bad for you.

Anyway, after collecting hot threads at stores with names like "LVL X" and "Silhouette", I went to Macy's where they have a blissfully large selection of all sorts of Apple Bottom gear. And it was there that I purchased my first pair of Apple Bottom Jeans, which looked and felt like a dream, plus, magically, on the inside of the front zipper, as you unzip it, stitched underneath is a very special inscription: "Sweet to the core."

Yes, that's right. Best. Jeans. Ever. What other jeans have "Sweet to the core" inscribed above your special place, ladies, huh? Huh, all you Rock & Republic, Seven for All Mankind wearers?? What special message do those jeans have for YOU? That's right. Nothin'.

But after two and a half years, I was down to this. They were falling off me, the belt loop was busted, and they had turned almost white. These jeans were purchased in the shade of DARK BLUE. And yet, up until the purchase, because dignity is not something I deeply care about, I was busting these EVERY SINGLE DAY. People were starting to comment that I was looking a little less fly and a little more low rent. Whatever, baller on a budget, I say.



But finally I relented. I loved those jeans so much, but I had to throw them in the trash. Without that kind of bold move, I knew I would stall, holding onto the old. If we finally parted ways, that would ensure I get a new pair on the double. Not a day would pass without an apple on my ass.

And an apple I got. Nobody can take their eyes of my apple bottoms now. These, my friends, are the brand new Goddess Boot Cut edition:



My only complaint is that, last week, I finally noticed that my special message doesn't say "Sweet to the core", it just says "Delicious". I mean, it's still more magical than whatever you're wearing, but kind of a let down after all that talk about the sweetness of my core.

But I would still trade it to have a shiny gold apple on my ass.

Libyans: 1, Hipsters: 0

I am one of those people who annoys every person with a normal internal thermostat by always being "cold". Every morning I step out of the bedroom and shiver adorably, hugging myself like I am a fifteen year old supermodel walking down a sidewalk of Soho (they do this), and then turn on the space heater even though it is blinding sunshine outside, and yes, it's LA.

Real Cold is an abstraction to me. And for the past few days I've been freezing my eyeballs out in Michigan. (WTF, cold? What's your damage?) This is also why I've had a very lame internet presence this week. I haven't had easy access to wifi and just an hour ago I emailed Mark Rivers saying, "I feel like throwing things when wireless is not easily accessible to me. At one point, I got so irritable I would have thrown my tits across the room if I could have. " Yes, I wrote this.

Anyway, the point is. An interesting post is not coming from Michigan. But I'll be back where it's Fake Cold tomorrow, so soon I will regale you with more Tales From Ding-Dongdom. But in the meantime read my friend's blog. A week or two ago my roommate from New York started a blog and it is a real good blog. Her name is Sarah, but I call her The Ho. Not because she is a ho, but because it got whittled down from the original nickname Honey Dijon. (We cribbed it from a flyer for a gay DJ on Ave A. Sue us. It's better suited for her.) Anyway, she is smart and hot and a damn fine blogger. We were inseparable when we lived in our charming apartment "Four Tweezy" in the East Village.

Here was a typical Sunday:

-Wake up and go to brunch at Old Devil Moon
-Leisurely shop the 11th and Ave A flea market
-Leisurely walk to the Soho Sephora later in the afternoon to try on all the make up
-The Ho goes to bartend at night*
-I go to the Ho's bar to sit with her

*If the Ho is not bartending, go to Sweet and Vicious and watch ARE Weapons & Co. act a fool.

Anyway, she just did a genuinely fascinating investigation of Craigslist Job Hunting (READ IT!) and even better stuff is going down in the comments. Like this:

miss clover said...

i would have needed a xanax to handle that greenpoint bar. hipsters stress me out. but people tell me i am one. how is this possible?

i mean, i went and bought a new pair of apple bottoms at the ghetto mall today. or maybe this is the new hipster?

ho, say it ain't so.

forever22 said...

g- i grapple with that myself. seeing as i have only purchased one garment in the past 6 months, i often feel like i am making an ironic fashion choice, by choosing to be wholly unfashionable.

but the fact that we barely manage to hold down jobs despite our expensive educations does put us dangerously close to hipster territory.

so does our consumption of alternative media.

but i think that as long as our professional ineptitude and poor fashion choices are wholly unintentional we are safe from being thrown into the hipster bowl.