the internet sensation

H+

2011-07-21T15:23:00.001-07:00

My boyfriend is in this, so I'm not impartial. But I think this is gonna be fantastic.

Portland, I am coming for you.

2010-07-28T13:50:00.000-07:00

Okay, it's late notice, but still. Come out and see me! And, I don't know, if for some reason it's somehow too last minute for you to make it out to Portland, the performance will be online soon after.

I'm telling the "she said" side of a story, and my boyfriend, Sean Gunn, will be telling the "he said." We don't know what the other one is saying, so (hopefully) tender hilarity will ensue. Let's see.

July, you're a woman.

2010-07-06T13:49:00.000-07:00

Six months and no posting! A personal best! Or worst!

So here's what you missed:

Since I last attempted a post, I became a redhead, oversaw a massive four month overhaul on the boyfriend's house, started playing poker, became an avid sewer, wrote my first TV spec script, got asked to be a maid of honor, and became a mother to this monster:

As of press time, I've successfully cohabitated for six months. I'm especially proud of this, because the boyfriend and I have very differing views on what constitutes a livable level of cleanliness. Also, apparently, I am moody.

Okay, so you're all caught up.

Other than the surgery incident at the beginning of the year, this is turning out to be a bomb ass year. I've started new things, picked up old things, and felt more inspired than I have since I was a teenager. In honor of it all, I'm starting a tumblr. Well, I'm also starting it because people kinda pressure you into these things. (See also: drugs, twitter) Anyway, it's heyclover.tumblr.com. Let's start all over again.

i spoke too soon.

2010-01-31T12:39:00.000-08:00

Apparently i'm not out of the woods with this sick boob thing.

I had surgery again on Friday and it was a much more brutal experience than the one in October. I'll resume posting next week. And maybe I'll even share the gory details if you all promise not to be squeamish about it.

Let me know if you want any Vicodin. I'm carrying enough painkillers to warrant a spot on the next Celebrity Rehab.

Churched & Sated

2010-01-15T14:35:00.000-08:00

Now that I'm moving out, I guess it's okay to discuss the residence frankly. Like share the exact address.

In case you'd like to stalk me the one afternoon I'm going to collect my belongings at some point during this month: I've been living in The Biscuit Lofts in downtown LA since last spring. A former Nabisco factory turned architectural wonder and luxury loft building. I am also lucky enough to have had a friend that wanted to split a unit. (Let's be reasonable here. Clover's not pulling solo Biscuit cash these days.)

So for those of you not familiar with the eastern section of downtown LA, the neighborhood can be summed up as one block of Chelsea and twenty blocks of Skid Row. Just how I like it. And one of the factors contributing to the Chelsea-ish qualities is a trendy bistro of a place called Church & State.

And just how hot is this joint? WELL, I will have you know, it was name dropped recently on the new Melrose Place. (You know. The guy who was Ella's boss at the PR agency before Amanda Woodward came back and fired him was trying to impress someone by saying he had "standing reservations at Church & State.") Or something like that. I wasn't paying that close attention. Okay I was.

(ASIDE: Melrose Place is only one in a long list of many shameful television programs I consume weekly. Yesterday morning Boyfriend asked me what shows he should set a season pass for from the living room and yelling them out from the kitchen was difficult even for me, and I have a say-it-loud-say-it-proud policy with my low brow television viewing. Q: Do you know how cool it sounds to yell "The Bachelor" urgently from across a house? A: As cool as being a contestant on The Bachelor.)

SO. Anycomfortablewithmyself, I have been a longtime enemy of this Church & State establishment.

Yes, I appreciate that its presence makes the otherwise no man's land that is my corner of DTLA a destination. And I like that it gives extra cache to the building. My beef with C&S stemmed entirely from the close quarters we shared. And when I mean close, I mean it's like this, y'all:

Shit gets loud.

My only understanding of Church & State was that its employees liked to listen to Kings of Leon and Journey. Loudly and often. And exclusively. While there was the audible din of a dinner crowd on a Friday night, the real headache began after the doors closed and before they opened, when it appeared the only songs its staff enjoyed hearing were "Sex on Fire" and "Don't Stop Believin'". There were times when I thought the bands were giving in-house performances and hoped for an earthquake so I could come crashing down on them. When this is occurring at 8 am after working at a bar until 2 am the night before, you easily become homicidal. Ear plugs do not cancel out the throbbing bass that will pulse through your loft floors. Goodbye rest and youth and beauty.

But I had heard the food was awesome there. And while a few nights over the past year I had gone in for a drink at the bar, that was not enough to win me over nor justify its existence. Plus I walked by it everyday. It wasn't THAT exciting. Usually I would glare at the patrons in my sweats while carrying groceries and feel completely desensitized to its awesomeness.

But this week, as my tenure at the Biscuit comes to a close, I decided it was high time Boyfriend and I had a date night there. As excited as I am to be back in Silverlake, I'm already having downtown nostalgia. I got misty as we sat at our table, and while checking my email on my iPhone, saw my wireless network pop up. Aw, Bisky. It's been so real.

And Church & State is absolutely as good as the hype. We ate like Royalty. (Like how Marie Antoinette got killed for eating this awesome. Also under this Royalty eating structure, vegetables are for the cake-eating plebes.) Eat this: the steak tartare, the foie gras served in a magical little French-y mason jar, the moules frites and the frisée salad with an (also magical!) soft poached egg and warm bacon vinaigrette.

So go go go, people. I'm totally over the time they ruined my sleep for a year.

I'd rather be lucky than good.

2010-01-13T18:56:00.000-08:00

Back in November I got this Facebook wall post from one of my favorite bloggers (and IRL friend!) Bex.

G! What on earth has happened to your life since we saw each other last? You went to court, had surgery, are now In a Relationship and you LOST YOUR iPHONE?

Yes, that's what's been goin' on. And the answers to all those questions are, respectively: charges dropped, breast, yes, and I got a new one. Each one of those are worthy of several posts, but I've exhausted the topics by repeating them so much verbally. I just can't elaborate any more right now. I do have much to say about all of the above, however, ranging from my disillusionment with the health care system and gratitude for my parent's financial support for said breast surgery, to my run in with the law and having my first attorney. I guess the Serious Relationship thing is kind of a big deal, too.

Basically things are kind of different. Including that I am now thirty. Yes. THIRTY. I probably wouldn't mention this fact had the past three months of being thirty not been a glorious departure from the shit storm that was The Twenties. I am not unconvinced I didn't walk around with a glittery marquis sign above me for the entirety of the decade (invisible only to me) that screamed "Fuck this bitch."

Although there has been some holdovers. I'm still excelling in my wheelhouse of "car problems" and "evictions".

Exhibit A: Right before the holidays some kind jackoff hit my parked car and knocked off the bumper. I think about this person at least once a day and wish them evil things. Like a knocked off side mirror and a flat tire in rush hour traffic on the 405. (Also instead of using my blog as a platform for iPhone solicitation, as was last year's urgent request, this year I'm asking for a Prius. Dream big and impractically, I've always said.)

Exhibit B: Also right before the holidays, the place I've been living in in scenic downtown LA got foreclosed on, and I was told that the bank wants us out, like, ASAP. (Soooo... where was that rent money going if not the mortgage?) But whatever, who wants to live in a nice building with a pool and famous people and a doorman anyway. Not me.

But now that I'm thirty, things are getting progressively better. Including The boyfriend and me moving in together, which is like winning a Prius and a brand new iPhone all at once. Which leads us to my first point of order in the new year (and upcoming post): Cohabitation. Gentle Interfriends, I am about to embark upon the glorious enterprise otherwise known as "living in sin". And I have much to learn about this endeavor. Although. I've been living in sin long before Boyfriend came along, so it already feels pretty homey.

happy new year.

2010-01-13T10:17:00.000-08:00

i'm drafting. genuinely drafting. internet sensationing is a resolution i'm keeping this year.

Welcome, LA Weekly Readers!

2009-12-02T16:37:00.000-08:00

Thank you for reading my article. You've come to the right place. It's me that confused to be here.

I've been in a bloggerly limbo, unsure of whether to move forward with all things Sensational, or go anonymous and kick it with a new URL. And apparently it takes me six odd months to make this decision.

TELL ME WHAT TO DO, INTERNET. I've solicited advice from far less reputable sources, and promise that I very much like to be bossed around.

Yet another day my life did not change.

2009-08-18T21:14:00.000-07:00

I KNOW. Lazy blogger, thy name is Clover.

"Where have you been all summer?" you ask. "Isn't it true that you are a generally self-absorbed person who derives great satisfaction in receiving attention from complete strangers?"

Yes yes, fine interfriends. As a matter of fact, I do. I enjoy this even more than watching Megan wants a Millionaire. Kidding. I don't enjoy anything more than watching Megan wants a Millionaire.

I just kept hoping for something really exciting to talk about. You know like almost getting arrested. Oh wait. That did happen.

But see? Things are just as they've always been:

Doling out quiet judgment.

Boozy singing.

Boozing with coworkers.

I don't know how to describe this, but it's VERY typical.

Also very typical Friday night.

So that about covers it. Now that you're all up to speed, regular posting will resume immediately.

RIP Baking with Plath and watch yer heads.

2009-06-12T14:35:00.000-07:00

And just like that my most favorite blog in the world IS GONE.

I woke up to the grim text announcing Sudden Blog Death around 10 am after staying up way too late with Christy trying to sponge bathe and sort out a bloodied and battered neighbor we found outside the building around 2 am when we came home.

I KNOW. A lot of confusing and sad things in a short span of time, gentle readers.

I've been traumatized since 2 am now, I do believe. That happens when you come back from a cheerily cheerful Girl Night with your hot girlfriends, and you find a neighbor is so effed up he can barely open his purple, bulbous eyes and his forehead is gashed and he keeps repeating he has no idea how it happened and he needs to find his brother OH JESUS IT FREAKS YOUR SHIT OUT.

I had never realized that I have not seen someone jacked the fuck up that close and personal ever. I guess my fights have all begun and ended with the dramatic throwing of a champagne glass.

The human skull is a fragile thing, babies. Be careful out there.

So I wanted to give a proper funeral for my favorite blog in all the blogotrons (and also say, Bitch. With it, you killed my truly righteous guest post.) But for right now I'm sleep deprived. Staying up till 4 am manically scrubbing blood off the bathtub with Comet while your friend departs with the concussed neighbor to the hospital is exhausting.

So BWP, I will miss you, ol' friend. I always looked to you for inspiration and I was always inspired by your inspiring inspirations. Blogs are dropping like flies these days, but I didn't think it would be you. We lost you too soon.

On the brighter side, as for the neighbor, I hear he's gonna make it. I'd like to bring him flowers when he gets home.

Well, then.

2009-05-31T17:32:00.000-07:00

After the last post, I was surprised to receive the bevy of emails and texts that confused Blog Malaise with forays into self-cutting, existential despair and/or maturity. Slow your roll, friends. No need to have this overwhelming pressure to become a better person. Let's not get ahead of ourselves.

Really, my most accurate metaphor was that it's been like a friendship that's no longer relevant and in those situations that person gets cut, not me. (FROM MY LIFE, people. Jeez.) I just wanted to point out that sometimes you don't want to muck around in all your old bullshit from the past couple years on virtual space. And this blog feels like Clover's primo bullshit garden, you know? Can't blame a gal for wanting to throw some weed killer on it every now and again.

But clearly me feeling feelings is an awkward moment for everyone, so let's snap that blog persona back firmly in place and carry on, shall we?

Melissa Lion, famous writer, astutely observed in the comments section of that post that whenever someone says they want to burn their blog in a giant online bonfire (I paraphrase), the next week they start posting twice a day. When I first read it I thought she wrote twice a week and I was nodding my head going "Yes, twice a week. That is probably what I am going to start doing again." Then I reread it. I get her metaphor, but bitch. Don't get crazy on me.

So I'm still here. That is until I decide that what I truly want is to write without people calling or emailing me ten minutes after every post, and then I will move some to some new URL and BE ANONYMOUS. I will be the Thomas Pynchon of bloggering. It will be hard because then I can't post gratuitous pictures of myself, but I will do it for The Craft. ::cough::

So while I'm still here talking about me and my stuff and my things, I'm going to attempt to post everyday this week about the some New Changes that are going on in an attempt to 2009-ify this shizz. I give me Monday and maybe Tuesday.

But the Fun New Thing that has NOT happened is my New Look. Fraken frak. Unfortunately yesterday's reality show makeover was part of a High Concept Styling Challenge. Soooo I looked ka-razy yesterday but this morning I look like, you know, myself again. Le sigh. (I don't think the show airs still August or September, but I will let you all know when it does.)

Can someone make my hair look like this? I WANT THIS HAIR LIKE A FAT KID WANTS BACON.

It's just a mission statement.

2009-05-29T02:44:00.000-07:00

When I started blogging I didn't know what I was getting into.

My friend Bethany told me that I should start a blog because it would force me to write consistently and publish immediately. (As opposed to the elusive longer, larger project where imaginary deadlines are never met and the final product is only in your head. What's up, everything I've ever done but this blog.)

And it did. I loved having a blog. Then, as any blogger can testify, the blog takes over your life. You become compelled to post, comment on fifty other blogs everyday, make blog friends and talk about your blog in your real life so you can annoy and alienate all your non-blogger friends. It feels important and special.

And then the malaise sets in.

I've blamed Twitter. I've blamed having nothing to talk about, but yesterday I saw this post on one of my favorite blogs and I realized this was actually what was going on:

I hate this blog.

(Of course she always says it better.)

I didn't realize I hated it, because deep down I didn't want to. I put in a lot of work and, in many ways, I'm proud of it. But I am hating this shit for real, yo, and no longer afraid to say it.

I am tired of roasting my life. I am tired of constant daily blog networking. I am tired of feeling like I should post or no one will read this anymore. I am tired of my blog persona making me feel like who I really am. And I am beyond tired of my mom calling me and telling me this blog makes her feel like she has no idea who I am.

I am filming an episode for a Reality Show this weekend. I've made it clear once or one hundred times here that I love me a show where someone gets eliminated at the end of it, so as you can imagine, I'm gleeful. It's kind of a makeover show, and while I don't need a makeover, I want one. BADLY.

I recently moved, I'm ready to begin a new phase of my career, three of my most reliable and fun friends are no longer day players (one got a serious boyfriend overnight and two disappointed and hurt me very much, together), and most of all I want a visual representation of the new person I am trying to become.

Hopefully after Saturday I can (and will want to) show photographic evidence of this new me. In my head, she is very hot.

I'm not bold enough to delete this entire blog, (in the same way I've always been too chicken to torch genuinely torchable journals), but I have needed a break to figure out why I feel so resentful of it, like a friend that is no longer relevant to my life, someone whose conversations irritate me because I am forced to speak from a place that's not me anymore.

I don't want to feel this way about this blog, and I've been avoiding it because I haven't been brave enough to say it. Not only do I need to feel fresh and clean once again about this blog, but also my life.

So cross your fingers and hope that Saturday does the trick. As a girl, sadly, it probably will.

(Also, embarrassingly, the title of this post is not the first time I've quoted Jerry Maguire in the past twenty-four hours.)

#cloverisageek #advancinggeekery #hashtaggingisadisease

2009-05-17T18:20:00.000-07:00

So this whole geek thing turned out to not include a vlog, but I promise this is not the first time I will let you all down, so please just accept me for who I am, and let's all move on with the low expectations route firmly in place.

But I'd still like to address this: if you notice there is a nifty little emblem in the bottom of the left hand corner it says "Society for Geek Advancement". Really? Since when did geeks need help advancing? Do I need to spend more of my money on Apple products so a geek can leave the ghetto?

I am going to start a Society for Clover Advancement. I am also marginalized, suburban and have trouble getting laid. Please throw a party in my honor. I will also give out really good stickers.

(Of note: A popular question among the advancers of geekery was "What makes you a geek?" and apparently responding with "I have started hash tagging my texts." is not geeky, just sad. #idontcare #iblamekiala #societyforcloveradvancement

It's about time we had affirmative action for college educated, socially awkward people.

Just another day in my inbox

2009-05-15T13:09:00.000-07:00

So where will the weekend find the Clover? Got any big plans that involve goats or Jews? Mine kind of got filled up when I wasn't looking.
Oh, and I don't think I commented on that link you sent me, the eye candy assistant thing. That's fucking unbelievable, except that it's totally believable. Did you sign up?

Rivishly,
Rivers

gina to Mark

no! i didn't. should i? i kind of thought if it's coming to that i would rather just be a whore.

right?
clover

Mark Rivers to me

Yeah, I'm skeptical. You might find yourself chloroformed and shipped off to some Russian slave-whore prison. Though I've learned that such ideas sort of turns you on.

gina to Mark

yes, i am the kind of person that actively wishes to experience stockholm syndrome at least once in my life. what? like holding a girl captive doesn't turn you on.

do comedy nerds do any kidnapping and chaining in basements these days? maybe the one you set me up with will.

bam boom,
clover

So, ladies and gents? How do you feel about eye candy assistants? Whore-y or fruitful vein in my employment search?

I am 8 bit.

2009-05-14T18:53:00.000-07:00

This was the week of The Geek. At least if you were on Twitter. Or in the world of New Media.

Or not. (#iamembarrassedtobetalkingaboutthis.)

And in honor of it I'm doing a vlog tomorrow. So yeah. Come back then.

I am posting this picture mostly because I am trying to show the people who follow me on Twitter (#pleasedontjudge) what I was talking about when I referenced my "clown nails" and how I thought painting each nail a different color would cheer me up when I had the afternoon sads yesterday.

Totally didn't!

But the invite to speak at the illustrious, national sensation Back Fence PDX sure did. (For those of you that don't know, Back Fence PDX is like The Moth but better, because the hottest bitches in all the lands run it. Everything is better when the hot bitches are runnin' shit.) The smart and delectable Melissa Lion and I have been in discussion about bringing the Cloveries to perform in the magnificent town of Portland (I've had a crush since high school), and I will let you all know in advance when I will be there so we can all make a weekend of it.

Anything that Ezra Caraeff is a part of, I want to be a part of.

Also, last year Strauss got me into Matt and Kim and since then I have put "Yea Yeah" on every mixed CD I make for people. Today I saw their latest video and it makes me feel happy and sad and alive.

If there is a better metaphor for my life, I have not found it.

Pills really do make it all better.

2009-05-11T14:26:00.000-07:00

There comes a time in every girl blogger’s life where she takes it upon herself to get all up on her weblogspace and talk about Feminine Stuff. And no, not Feminine Stuff like we might refer to it in a women’s studies class, the one where we all agree Simone de Beauvoir was just as smart as her famous boyfriend dude, whats-his-tits, but the one where she talks about Lady Things, like time o’ the month and other such things that send the manpart-wielding readers running for the hills.

Fear not: this is only sort of one of those posts, boys. In fact you will probably like it because this is a post where ima just say it: Bitches be crazy.

I feel for you, manfriends. Woman can be more nuttier than a nutcake, and there’s nothing any of us can do about it. Really, we promise.

And I only feel compelled to write about it because I only recently rejoined this world. Because, you see, I was on the little joydrops known as birth control. Now some baby preventer mints only enhance the crazy juices flowing through the female endocrinals. BUT, if you get on the right little magic button, you become Woman 2.0. A more evolved and refined creature: permanently clear skin, a mere nod to a period, no painful, swelling body parts, no creepy emotional outbreaks, an inability to reproduce. Basically perfection.

I was actually very similar to a bionic woman.

And, not to give y’all too much info about my bizsnatch, but I’ll be frank, Clover really does not have much of a need to be on year-round miracle pill action. I am more likely to spend the eve turning out a round table discussion with my ladiez about which dude we would pick if we had to get with one of the dudes from Daisy of Love (easier than it sounds!) than I am actively doing things where I would need to prevent a baby creature from taking residence in my womb region.

Yes, 2008’s anti-baby vitamin lifestyle was primarily because I enjoyed being untethered by things like “crying for no reason” and “emotional eating” and “blood”.

And then I had the brill plan to stop. If I deeply analyze this decision, it was pretty much some clever reverse psychology I was trying to pull with the universe, like, as soon as I stop taking this for no reason, I’ll be up to my eyeballs in ~~Danny McBride!~~ ~~a nice, normal fella just perfect to take home to mom & dad~~. Okay, I was hoping for Danny McBride. So far this trick has only served to clown me further. Physically and emotionally.

And now for the past week or so, I am plagued by the following symptoms:

1) Ten extra pounds of ache, though no actual discernible weight gain.

2) The desire to consume anything but a vegetable

3) The Sads. Permanently.

4) Face-disfiguring chin pimples

5) Attempting to will myself into the Superhero Power of DEATH GAZE

6) Amped up hate towards most living things, the human baby creatures in particular (See: DEATH GAZE, recipients of)

Numero seis especialmente, since as I pen this on the airplane, THE MOST ANNOYING CHILD EVER WILL NOT STOP KICKING MY SEAT NOR SHUT UP. I heard the parents say that after we land in LA they are continuing on to Australia. LOL. Good luck with that, suckers.

This shizz is for the birds, people. I can tell you I am the opposite of interested in this phenomenon. I miss the old me, which I truly believe is the Real Me. I do not enjoy the psychos, nor relate to them for that matter. It feels foreign and confusing. Hold me, interfriends. Most of all, I do not like feeling like I am nothing more than a hard-wired set of biological information, cellulars screaming out in pain because I am operating on a program I did not choose to run on, one that says I should shoot something large and loud out of something small and dignified AND FINE JUST THE WAY IT IS.

Next month baby preventer mints are back on. Until then, I’ll just be here practicing my Superhero Power on the Seat Kicking Cretin behind me.

Preview of the Remix

2009-05-05T11:33:00.000-07:00

It's Cinco de Party Time and BWP and I are THIS CLOSE to blowing your mindregions with our fantastical blogaventure. Between these two glorious things, I am giddy in my cloverparts.

Here is a sneak peak at what's to come. Just to whet your 'tite.

Clover: I just drank a vodka drink and contemplated ending my life. I switched to tequila and within two sips I'm already texting you because I am filled with the jovials. Are the Mexicans magical or what?

Rivers: Mexicans are the unicorns of booze.

And yes, when I am happy I call it "the jovials".

Thank you for being my friend.

2009-05-01T22:49:00.000-07:00

I'm still at least half blaming the Twitters for the Blog Death '09 that's happening. Sometime between getting called "ADD" and "retarded", it dawned on me that my hybrid of "scattered" and "slow" was not charming anymore. And my presence on Twitter is NOT helping. I don't even read blogs anymore, much less comment on them prolifically and write on my actual blog. It makes feel so mentally dirty, people. And not in the way I like to be mentally dirty.

But despite this fact, I still know some damn smart people in this world. In fact, some exceptionally smart people still call me friend and (shockingly) think I'm reasonably intelligent. I can put up a solid façade. So this blog post is a tribute to them. Despite the fact they will probably just be embarrassed to be associated with me. OH WELL FOR YOU, FRIENDS.

So on Tuesday night I had dinner with a friend I hadn't seen in a while (read: two years), a writer I know, who I often just refer to as "The Smartest Person I Know" because he kind of is. During the course of that meal, I detailed my plight of texting and twittering, my all-around general commitment to Attention Span Murder and how I'm rocking a bad case of The Dumbs these days. He ordered me to read actual books again or he would stop talking to me altogether. (That's the kind of tough love I need, people.)

So his ominous threat has at least scared me into reading Neil Strauss's latest book, which I've had sitting around collecting dust the past month. It's a great read and I'm not just promoting it just because it's genuinely good, but because Strauss is a really good friend to me, and I appreciate that he put up with some serious drunken Clover antics this week. See? There is a pay-off after all. I blog about you when you love me unconditionally. Yes, debatable pay-off, but it's all I've got right now.

So Strauss became the latest victim/beneficiary of my Drunk Texting. (A hobby which I only grow more passionate about as the days go on.) After the writer dinner Tuesday, I was feeling smarter and energized by the encounter, so I went and visited my friend who tends bar nearby. It seemed too early to go home, and I wanted to share the posi vibes I had gotten with more than just the tivo-ed American Idol waiting for me at home. (Clover LOVES posi vibes and the sharing of them).

It turned out to not be my slickest move to date. Writer Friend had gotten us a bottle of wine to share and I was already "feelin' the flow" (as Kevin Nealon's character might say to Happy Gilmore in the eponymous film). Except this flow was drunkenness, and since it was a slow night at my friend's bar, he began pouring me champagne glass after champagne glass and I begrudgingly (read: enthusiastically) drank them all.

And because Strauss is how I know the Very Smart Writer Friend, I decided it was high time to begin enthusiastically drunk texting Strauss that Mutual Smart Writer Friend and I had FINALLY gotten together after a year of endlessly talking about getting together. There was general celebration that this feat finally occurred and then (I think) we began gossiping about people we know, projects Strauss is working on and how he was leaving for New York in a day, but we CLEARLY had to "catch up" on all of these things before he left, because in my drunken haze, these were the most important topics to be discussed on earth and had to be discussed THAT NIGHT.

Unfortunately when I turn on the drunk text charm, I am inexplicably articulate, lucid, even witty, and this is a problem. He could obviously not tell I was under the influence of "the spirits". Because I somehow convinced Strauss that I was in some sort of place to discuss anything. I left the bar, went to Strauss's and promptly passed out. Yes, I was a charming visitor.

When I woke up the next morning (confused to be at Strauss's [LOLZ, Clover]) I asked him if he was interviewing Judd Apatow for Rolling Stone. He looked at me like I was a Giant Moron, and I almost punched myself in the face remembering that he told me eight times last night it was for Maxim. Apparently the one thing I did enjoy doing was asking that question over and over.

Strauss had the interview that morning, but being the good friend he is, told me that he would finally teach me how to milk his goats (yes, he has goats) and while he prepped for his interview, he still found time to show me how to milk a goat. So I proceeded to spend my hangover straddling a goat trying to keep her from running away with the nonexistent power of my inner thighs and simultaneously keeping the baby goats from cracking open Strauss's skull while they jumped on his back as he milked their mom's teat. Hollywood living.

These are the actual goats if you want to see what I'm talking about:

So after my clothes got glamorously covered in goat hair and goat paw prints from the goat milking venture, we tried to go back inside and inexplicably all the doors back into the house were locked. Really, doors? What's your damage? Strauss smartly had me run after the goat caretaker who was already in her car (because I could not fathom a solution to this crisis), and luckily I caught her before she turned out onto the street, so she was able to click open the garage door for us.

But this was not before the goats squeezed out the fence gate behind me, and we then ran frantically around trying to wrangle in three frolicky, spastic goats before they ran out into the major thoroughfare right by his house.

If you think this is a fun way to spend a hangover you are wrong.

But I did learn that baby goats are surprisingly easy to pick up. Much easier than squirmy bunny rabbits, which is what I used to do at Ex's. The skill set I have developed living in rustic Los Angeles.

I've already forgotten the point of this blog because I am ADD, and it is much longer to construct than a text, but I think it was kind of a public apology for subjecting Strauss to severe Clover inebriation.

Um, I also pledge to blog more because I really miss it, and my brainsicle is atrophying more than it already is without it. Troof.

But all the talk of drunk texting is really just a lengthy preamble to inform you that Baking With Plath and I have a joint blog venture in the works and it will knock yer socks off. JUST YOU WAIT AND SEE.

4:17 seconds of unadulterated triangle humor

2009-04-20T11:06:00.000-07:00

Bring it, Balfa. BRING IT.

Lately I'd been wondering where the funny went in my life and apparently it's on NPR.

NPR had a recent podcast about a soccer mom looking lady who put out an entire album of solo triangle. A couple times she throws out some off-key caterwauling, but this is truly 55 minutes of unadulterated triangle.

THIS SHIT CANNOT BE PARODIED.

My friendz and I sat around yesterday not entirely unconvinced this is not a joke. Someone even asked if this was posted on April Fool's Day. You have to listen for yourself to discover your favorite triangle joke, but my personal high point comes at 2:18 when the sentence "We got lightning in a bottle on that one." is uttered in all seriousness.

I know it's called "All Things Considered", but it really makes you wonder if all things do, in fact, need to be considered.

LISTEN! LISTEN! LISTEN!

And you're welcome.

"Oh Moonshine, I am sorry the flavor of your life is currently pralines and dick."

2009-04-16T18:15:00.000-07:00

Nobody puts it like BWP and she just summed up my life with a powerful ice cream flavor metaphor via our nightly text exchange.

Unfortunately I know I'm not the only one banging his or her head on walls and chowing down on the praline-and-dick gelato of life. Pretty much everyone I know is having a tough time, even people who normally coast. Long-term relationships are suddenly ending, bills aren't getting paid, jobs are getting scarcer and livers are getting destroyed.

I am at my friend's house right now having a sad pants party about it all, and the one thing that cheered me up today was learning that this week she drove out of a gas station with the gas hose still in her car. Like she ripped it off and drove down the street with the hose dangling behind the car like a wedding streamer.

Me, I just got a street cleaning ticket and locked myself out of my apartment on the same day.

Okay, I am going to bang my head on that wall now. Bye bye.

Because my new Twitter addiction makes me ADD and incapable of writing a real post.

2009-04-14T11:47:00.000-07:00

Here is the latest from the annals of Clover texting. And no. Not drunk.

Clover: In my dream last night I was pregnant with your baby and didn't tell you and felt terrible about it, but then I had the baby and it turned out to be a bunch of really cute kittens, so I told you that I'd been pregnant and gave you one of the kitties and you were stoked "because it looked like you". But it jumped out of your arms, ran into a wall and died.
Clover: Dreams are fucked, man.
Jacques: Woah
Jacques: That's bizarre. Did you eat McDonald's before bed?
Clover: Normally I hit up a Jack in the Box before bed, but this was sushi. Maybe there was some mercury poisoning going on. You were pretty inconsolable over the kitten baby.
Jacques: Can you blame me?
Clover: No way. It did look like you. I tried to give you one of the other kittens, an orange one, but it didn't feel like your son. Maybe the mailman had also knocked me up. That's where all redheads come from.
Jacques: The mailman!

The Hipster Bunny

2009-04-12T10:28:00.000-07:00

Happy Easter, peeps.

Get it? PEEPS? Easter humor!

I am in the process of constructing a larger post about google referrers (I know, baited breath), and part of my desire to speak out on this topic stems from a disturbing amount of people on the intertrons searching for knowledge on hipsters and hipster hair and looking to ME for that advice.

So for all you searchers looking for hipster tips, here's my latest: turn your necklace into a faggy hipster Mischa Barton-like headband. And wear it out.

When did I become this person?

Dear Danny McBride

2009-04-06T17:33:00.000-07:00

We met in The Foot Fist Way, but I had a boyfriend back then. I saw you again in Tropic Thunder, but I thought we'd just be friends, because back in Tropic Thunder I was still crushing on Steve Coogan.

But then you stole every scene in Pineapple Express, and singlehandedly kept me from being disappointed in a movie I was extremely excited to see, and now that you've just blown my mind with the best premium cable comedy to ever be on premium cable, I really want to end the heretofore platonic nature of our relationship.

I know, Danny. You are just going to say that Clover pretty much universally likes chubby comedy dudes. And yes, I've loved a fat funny dude before, almost sociopathically I love fat funny dudes, but you are special. You make humilition so hilarious and comedy so tragic. There have been similar dudes before you, but I have never felt so sad and pants-pissy all at once. It's next level type shit. You are a master of the very essence of comedy, and I am in awe of you.

If by any chance you walk around LA in such devastatingly appealing clothing as hoodies and converse, I will probably just marry you or rape you on the spot. Or both. I feel like we possibly live near each other, so FYI, I drink a lot at the Griffin. And Sgt. Recruiter. And El Prado. And the El Torito in Santa Monica. Okay, I just drink a lot. Let's meet up.

xoxo,
Clover

[photo credit:Jeff Kravitz/filmmagic.com]

Does anyone perchance have an iPhone they want to give me?

2009-04-05T23:36:00.000-07:00

Because my TI-85 of a Blackberry doesn't work for shit.

Really. This is almost exactly what it looks like. Except for the fact that it doesn't graph parabolas, and that sucks too, because I totally sometimes want to lay down a derivative in between episodes of Snapped and painting my nails.

For two hours last night I didn't even receive information. It would just delete every little envelope that came in. An envelope would appear in the corner, and then, Poof. Vanish. I tried leaving the folder open so I could at least see a name attached to it, but it had a straight-to-nothingness policy. I got the corner envelope and that was it before those little mystery texts were mainlined to the glue factory.

But anyway, back to Phone Suckage 09, it's coolio and all if we're dealing with emails, because I have OTHER more RELIABLE sources to get my emails, like checking my actual email on a computer. But texts. Those are just gone forever. And you all know how I feel about texts. Is it too dramatic to say they make my life worth living? Do I care?

So unless I ask everyone in my address book if they texted me during those hours (which I won't because that would be more embarrassing than having a shitty Blackberry), there are definitely several people thinking I'm a total asshole for not responding to them. And, yeah I don't respond to every text in the world, so there are some people that think I'm an asshole anyway. But I prefer my assholeishness to be by CHOICE. Not at the whims of my beat down Blackberry. (I knew it was bad two years ago when a cashier at Trader Joes asked me if I had the first Blackberry ever made. Well played, Trader Joes cashier. I believe they call that "negging".

Srsly. I can't handle the heartache of a 'Nam-era Blackberry anymore and would be forever grateful and I promise to never drunk text you.

Or drunk text you all the time, if you're into that kind of thing.

Kthx.
Clover

Ezra Caraeff: Date Me

2009-04-03T11:18:00.000-07:00

I am no stranger to loving funny dudes in hoodies, BECAUSE THAT IS ALL I TRULY LOVE IN THIS WORLD. But this is the first time I am using a platform such as my blog to try and fanagle a date with one. Like I said, dignity and I broke up a while ago and I'm totally available now.

I don't know if you all read Kiala's blog but it's very super and you definitely should read it if you don't. Anyway, she posted this today and it made my little Clover heart skip a beat. This Ezra individual is hilarious and has great taste in art, and we have at least one email friend in common so I feel like this somehow makes the dream of dating possible, even though he lives in Portland and I am slave to LA 4 LIFE. Whatevs. Small potatoes.

Regular posting to resume shortly. In the meantime, watch and laugh and crush on this person too:

Ezra Caraeff - Back Fence PDX from brewcaster on Vimeo.

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

2009-03-29T22:32:00.000-07:00

Bruises on the fruit/ Tender Age in Bloom

2009-03-26T23:04:00.000-07:00

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.

2009-03-21T11:36:00.000-07:00

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

2009-03-17T11:18:00.000-07:00

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!

2009-03-16T01:50:00.000-07:00

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.

2009-03-11T21:30:00.000-07:00

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

2009-03-09T18:06:00.000-07:00

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

2009-03-05T19:59:00.000-08:00

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

2009-03-03T20:33:00.000-08:00

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.

Let's party!

2009-02-28T20:10:00.000-08:00

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

2009-02-24T14:49:00.000-08:00

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.

2009-02-22T00:18:00.000-08:00

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

2009-02-21T13:03:00.000-08:00

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.)

2009-02-19T19:07:00.000-08:00

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

2009-02-14T09:33:00.000-08:00

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.

2009-02-05T21:22:00.000-08:00

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

2009-02-02T13:21:00.000-08:00

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

Baja Infierno

2009-01-29T15:33:00.000-08:00

So spending most of my waking life reading other blogs I learn a lot about Blog Protocol and things that Bloggers do. Mostly things like how you all like to post lists of random You Facts, and how you interview each other with impressively random questions (If you had to, would prefer to club a baby seal or a baby panda?)

And then I get my mind blown when I see that people GUEST BLOG and then I am still trying to figure out what a meme is. I keep getting it confused with meta, but as far as I can tell the concepts are interchangeable. And then there are the awards. (I feel like this is kind of like when you win a trophy on Rock Band 2. Earlier this week I won a Best Singing Trophy at the Heebie Jeebie's venue in New York. Like, it's kind of cool I guess, but does it really hold out there in the Real World? Not like the Real World and I are BFFs, but you know what I mean.) Anyway, I guess what I'm saying, is much like most things, I just can't care that much. And much like everything else, I always think I have strong levels of caring, but then I see how much more everyone else does, and I realize I kinda don't. But I envy you, you the carers and the daily posters. You live life in a way I only sort of dream of.

But ANYSORRYFORBORINGANDOFFENDINGYOU, today I am going to continue ~~boring~~ entertaining you with a Random Fact Story about myself. (A list of ten or twenty-five is just too many to conceive of.)

So I am obsessed with the Baja Fresh Salsa Bar. More specifically I am obsessed with the Baja Fresh Stab-Yourself-In-The-Face-To-Make-The-Burning-Stop Red Hot Salsa at the Baja Fresh Salsa Bar.

Now I am no salsa snob. If there is a fried chip and a red salsa-like substance, I will immediately ladle and inhale it. But if it makes you cry from its fiery glory then I will like you more. This past week however the Baja Fresh Red Face-Paralyzing Salsa obsession has gotten out of control.

For those of you that don't have this glorious chain in your state, Baja Fresh is the "healthy" Mexican food chain, which is a hundred times more expensive than street Mexican food or El Pollo Loco, but when you live in LA you eat Mexican food fives times a week for dinner and three times a week for lunch, so you have to mix Baja Fresh in, so you don't feel so guilty that eighty percent of your diet is fried in lard.

And while Baja Fresh is no bargain (or ganga, as we used to say in the AP Spanish), the Salsa Bar is free. Flanking the salsa bar are these little containers and you fill them up with a melange of mild to hot salsas. Now on Saturday, when the obsession decided to take over my life, I went with Leah to an art opening in Culver City and I consumed about a bottle of red wine (Because at art openings the red wine is Free. As in, "¡Que Ganga!") So after this red wine opening, I mean, art opening, I decided that the only way to make Saturday night better would be to raid the Baja Fresh on Sawtelle of its Face Melting Salsa. Normally I get two or three because I don't want to look like a homeless person with a Taste Bud Death Wish, but, in case you aren't aware, excessive consumption of red wine liberates you, and you will henceforth have no qualms about leaving with six or seven or twelve containers. I'm sure I looked very glamourous filling container after container up for twenty minutes.

I then spent Sunday watching Vh1 and drinking the salsa straight from the container. (Leah: Oh, girl. That much of that salsa is messed up.) and by Monday I was almost out. So I went back to Baja Fresh Monday night, but not drinking on the school nights and all, I left with a tame five containers, allowing my self-consciousness to rule me, which is weak, people.

And that's when I decided to begin having the Tongue Melting Salsa Elixir for breakfast. Like I would wake up at 8:30am, actively look at the granola, and then go directly to the fridge to consume this En Fuego Salsa like it's orange juice. Individuals. I have problems.

Now it is Thursday and I am totally out and having the shakes and what not, so if you are looking for me, I will be at one of my Baja Fresh locations burying my face in the vat of Red Salsa For People That Hate Feeling Good In The Face. It will be a proud moment.

Okay, that's all for today.

Except for I would like to say that I am going to attempt to Vlog for you all very soon, since my endlessly generous mom sent me a way better memory card for my digital camera, and now you can hear what a ding-dong I sound like when I speak words and not just write them, but please don't laugh or judge me too harshly because I am kind of sensitive and am only doing this to bring us closer.

Georgia (and YOU) on my mind.

2009-01-26T19:28:00.000-08:00

I know. I KNOW. Lame times in Camp Sensation. But I promise it's because my life has been filled to the brim with MARVELOUS and GLAMOROUS things like ~~watching TV with Leah for hours on end~~ writing for the glossies and going to contemporary art fairs to network with editors. Really my life is just endlessly fabulous.

Okay, okay. So I do spend most of my time watching TV with Leah and composing brilliant and ribald emails to Rivers (he gets my best work), but I find my life very fulfilling so don't judge.

But something genuinely big did happen last week. I had my first Blog Date. Now lest you get this confused with one of my Normal Dates, one in which I fail horribly at connecting with an individual of the opposite sex, this was a Blog Date, one in which we meet because we are mutual Blog Fans and our meeting would only collectively increase our awesomeness.

And points for us because we were so totally right. The situation, like all introductions made via the interweb, had the potential to go horribly awry, but this was all I dreamed of and MORE.

Georgia Hardstark: You are the bees knees.

I started reading Georgia's blog back in October and immediately took a shine to her because the first post I read was about Halloween costumes and how she wanted to go as Diane Lane from "Ladies and Gentlemen: The Fabulous Stains".

I mean, hello? Holy hotness! I have long held the belief that if I had more moxy and less lazy coursing through my veins, I would totally rock this as a daily look. (And for the record, Nights in Rodanthe excepting, Diane Lane is perfection.)

Reading her posts I always felt like we should run in the same circles. We seemed to haunt the same hoods and have the same aspirations (snarky writer-ing, indie music-making, general hotness). When she posted cute pics of her apartment recently, I broke down and emailed her directly because, well, we all know Clover has had some issues this past year with LA apartments. And it turned out she lives in the same building as one of my favorite people in the whole world, Flipit, my TVgasm editor, making it a building I frequent at least once a week during my recap seasons. I mean, this isn't a small town. It's not a typical discovery.

So we decided it was pretty much time to booze, and as of press time, we have now had two fantastic Blog Dates that have covered hipster drinking spots in Silverlake, Echo Park and Atwater Village. Both have included manic talking, impressive drinking and discussions of writing careers, boys, starting bands, the fact that we do know all the same people, boys, and DODGEBALL. That's right, fools. Georgia is a dodgeball bad ass and in two weeks, I'm joining her team. (Among other things I learned this week, the thought of me getting blasted in the face with a dodgeball is something people would like to see.)

And in summary, I now want to have more Blog Dates. I want to for real meet Laurie and Chris and Kiala and Jimmy and Aine and, well, there are so many of you that I wish were a part of my daily world. Smart, clever people that I know would have lots of fun making trouble with me in this here Hollywoodland. (Nico and Bex, you really have no excuse.)

Okay. Enough schmaltzy talk for one year. But yeah this week I vow to be better about the blog post reading and writing and commenting. I totally shirked last week. But I had no choice. My Bloody Valentine 3-D had to be watched by me.

You know you love me. xoxo, Gossip Girl

2009-01-19T23:04:00.000-08:00

Every now and again I've alluded to the fact that I had a failed attempt at being a part-time celebrity nanny. I wrote about it a little bit, but I didn't really go into specifics because I thought it would be tacky. I have no qualms about posting drunken texts nor sharing that I like to spend my time driving around downtown LA weeping in my car, but draw the line at mentioning whose kid I'm watching. Clover Logic is a special creature.

Anyway, I am ending my silence. Mostly because they are now being totally tacky, but also because the interweb, (or INTERTRONS, as very hot Kiala would say) has said more crapola about them in the past couple weeks than I ever could. I haven't talked to the family in question in about three months, okay four, and apparently since I haven't been gracing them with my presence everything has gone to shit. (Coincidence?)

Also, as we say in the South, these people done gone and lost they damn minds. And that means you gets talked about on the INTERTRONS. Since I left them, Kelly get knocked and then filed for divorce and now it's becoming a regular Knock Down Drag Out. And why aren't they getting me on the horn?

I called Kelly last week and left her a message saying that I knew it was weird to find out about something this way blah blah blah, but, you know, I heard the news about the divorce, and if she needed any help to call me, and, btw, congrats on being knocked up and whatever, this whole sitch is so totally not weird.

(And, PS btw, no hard feelings about the time we spent seventy-two hours straight together in the Hamptons and both silently wanted to kill ourselves.)

Srsly! Who wouldn't get the nanny as a character witness? I saw everything first hand. And so. Because, they are not utilizing me as a resource, LIKE THEY SHOULD, I will respond to all the intertronic reporting on my blog. This will make all the difference.

Gossip Girl's got nothing on Kelly Rutherford's real-life drama.
(from E! online)

Just one week after the teen-soap vet filed for divorce from David Giersch, Rutherford filed emergency papers in Los Angeles Superior Court Jan. 9 seeking to ban her estranged huband from leaving the country, saying she fears he may try to disappear with their 2-year-old son. "I feel there is some risk that he will leave the country with Hermes and I will not know where they are," the 40-year-old actress said in her declaration.

First round: Kelly. Since the first day I met her, she's told me about how The German eventually wants to settle in Hamburg and if his business isn't here, his marriage is in the crapper, and he's not an actual citizen, I totally don't put this past him. Do you really eff with a mad German?

Adding to the way-past-acrimonious custody battle are Rutherford's new allegations that the 34-year-old Giersch, who is not a U.S. citizen, "has a history during our marriage of getting angry with me and leaving without telling me where he is going."
Giersch, an entrepreneur, countered Rutherford with a filing of his own, painting an even less flattering picture of his missus.

Point: Kelly. Angry Germans are scary.

Giersch said Rutherford, who is currently four months pregnant with the duo's second child, has an equally bad, and physical, temper: "[She] has tried to hit me with an open fist when she's had an angry outburst. On July 6, she threw a laptop computer at me while we were in Hamburg. She smashed the computer on the table and it broke."

Point still goes to Kelly. I mean, big whoop. Kelly told me about this incident. One time we were in the car together and she was speaking calmly, with her big doe eyes musing thoughtfully, and I asked incredulously, "How do you keep it all together?" I am always a little ball of anxiety and I genuinely always felt relaxed around her. And she was all, oh sister, I am no stranger to a meltdown. I threw a laptop two weeks ago in Germany.

And this anecdote impressed ol' Clover. And I was thankful she was giving me wise marriage advice. Throwing something seemed like a very effective way of channeling anger and stress. And if my man and I are rich like they are, then you can bet your bottom dollar I'm throwing a laptop. Most likely my husband's.

Giersch also claimed that Rutherford's bicoastal, work-oriented lifestyle was the single driving reason behind their split and voiced strong opposition to the idea of the actress taking her son with her on location. "I have been extremely concerned about our son living in a hotel and a New York lifestyle, and this has been one of the main reasons, if not the reason for the ending of [Rutherford's] and my marriage."

Point: Kelly. I call BS. First of all I knew there was no True Love Forever in this match. EVER. And she's a damn actress. Do you know how many actors and actresses in this town have this travel-for-work lifestyle AND procreate? ALL OF THEM. If that beautiful couple with a child army can do it, I promise you these two can.

He also claims that it is him, not her, who acts as Hermes' primary caretaker. "[Rutherford's] routine is that she has weekly hair appointments for at least two hours, manicures, pedicures, shopping and the like. She has been able to do all of that because I have been taking care of Hermes, and am happy to continue doing so, as it would be best for him."

And one point for The German. He really does spend his days with the kid, his businesses being in Europe and all. Even baby-hating Clover will admit they are totally cute together. I've never seen a dad so enthused about being a dad, and hearing him and Hermes speak German made my day. (I have a secret desire to speak German. I feel that it would go well with my Jew fetish.)

While both parties are seeking sole legal and physical custody with monitored visitation for the other, a judge has denied Rutherford's latest motion to travel with Hermes for work. A subsequent hearing on the matter has been set for Jan. 21.

This one kills. These people are both totally obsessed with this kid. FOR REAL. Both of them equally live for this child, who is pretty much a living doll. I can't imagine how devastating it would be to either of them to lose daily contact with the boy. And I know the German is gonna get German on this and not make this easy. But clearly most points awarded to Kelly. I have officially thrown in my hat for Team Kelly and not just because she is beautiful and gave me things.

And couldn't she use some back-up? Since she hasn't returned my call, I may just include her on the next drunken texting sesh. I'm sure I will make my offer to be a character witness in her custody battle witty and hilarious.

And for the record. I really do dig this breathy intro.

You know you love me.

XOXO,
Clover

Boozing with Clover!

2009-01-16T07:36:00.000-08:00

Welcome to our next installment of why I am awesome and totally fun to be around!

Backstory: Wednesday was a Bad Day. I was going to pursue something I really really wanted and then at the last minute I choked hard. I sat in my car instead of going to the thing I wanted to pursue and drove circles around Little Tokyo crying that I was a self-saboteur and that I would never be successful. To make myself feel better, I called Ex and told him that he didn't care about me and was a shitty friend. (This is after last week when he loaned me cash because of the whole raped checking account thing, took me out to several lunches and let me cry on his shoulder a lot about how God doesn't want me to ever be rich.) Being a girl is hard. Sometimes the crazy gene just pops out and there's nothing we can do to stop it.

So looking to be cheered up I sent a sad sack email to Mark Rivers, who always makes life better.

Aw, dude, that happens to everybody. Seriously. The paradox of fucking up the thing you want because you want it so much that it freaks you out. You're mortal, Clover, hate to break it to you. What the hell was it, anyway?
Don't be sad. Move on. That's what you have to do in this town. And by this town I mean Eagle Rock. As for Hollywood I recommend giving up and getting drunk.

Don't worry, you'll always be a successfully hot ding dong to me.

love,
Rivers

And, people, that email was like a wake up call. Get drunk! That is exactly what I should do. And Wednesday night was when I realized that none of my problems are too big for the alcohol. Yes, they can all be solved by booze. Mostly because the next day you will want to kill yourself, but this is helpful because you have transferred all that attention away from that original problem and can solely focus on making it through the day alive. I haven't been worried about that whole self-sabotage thing since!

And Wednesday night was a grand time. I met lots of new, nice people and was generally reaffirmed that life is a happy place that was made to be enjoyed! Now in some ways I don't understand how I was able to consume so much beer and meet so many people because I was texting NON STOP. Boozing makes me a regular multi-tasker.

It started with Rivers. Now this is only a snippet of the conversation because it would take a large portion of the day going through all our material. But here is a sample of how awesome it is to text me when I am out in the world judging people by their physical appearance (learned: way less judgmental than when I am sober!).

(Also, I should add that back over the holidays when I was flying back to LA from Altanta, for the first time EVER, i was sitting next to someone I wanted to talk to, a cute guy, of course! But seriously when does this happen?? I get crying babies and not much else. Anyway, he bought me a bloody mary on that plane ride, so clearly it was the start of a beautiful friendship. He is in a band, and also hosts bands at this place in Hollywood. I decided Wednesday would be the night to check it all out.)

Clover: I found pretty plane boy dude. He is prettier than I remembered. Jesus, Rivers. He's like if Jeff Davis was a blond girl.
Rivers: Ugh. I'm sexually confused by your imagery.
Clover: Okay. Like Wesley from the Princess Bride. But LA. How's that?
Rivers: Ooo, fairytale homo boner. Like maybe your dream guy when you were ten?
Clover: Yes, exactly. So did you ever watch Deadwood? Or that Miranda July movie everyone loved? I'm now hanging out with that guy. John Hawkes, I think? Everyone is so pretty here.
Rivers: Yeah loved the Deadwood. Which Deadwoodian? Gay starfuckerishly, Fagsy
Clover: The one who played the Jew. He's gorgeous.
Rivers: Oh yeah. Saw him at a xmas party and couldn't place him. Thought he was an Aussie rocker or something. The hot blonde girlfriend threw me.
Clover: Not as hot as me, Rivers!!!
Rivers: John Hawkes. And he ain't so gorgeous, Clover. You've just got a pay cable star boner.
Clover: Okay, so not compared to pretty plane boy, but I swear he looks better in person.
Rivers: He looks like Neil Finn or something. They must be enchanted by your constant texting.

Constant texting is not enchanting? And he didn't even know the half of it. I was also simultaneously having a passionate discussion about the suckiness of Gran Torino with Rickett. And since I have passionate texting exchanges with Rickett, oh, never, and I probably haven't even spoken to him in at least a month, let this demonstrate that Clover + Drunken Texting = Equal Opportunity.

Clover: Everywhere I turn, critics and civilians are freaking their shit over Gran Torino. I mean, really?
Rickett: I know, it's so weird. Even my own friends like it. Well, ex friends.
Clover: Whoa. I so can't imagine you with friends that are bout the Torino. I've analyzed the trailer (which is inexplicably on heavy rotation) trying to find the brilliant film and I still don't get it. Partially because they don't include the Asian clown car moment.
Rickett: Even the title of the film is bullshit. It's the equivalent of calling Star Wars "The Millenium Falcon". It was totally incidental to the racist subplot.
Clover. Thank you. This is also a big issue for me, especially because "gran torino" almost sounds like you could be in for a classic Eastwood spaghetti western and you're like, wtf am I doing in Detroit with a golden retriever and some Koreans? Seriously, Rickett. I stare at the billboard in traffic like some bitch with Asperger's trying to make sense of it all. We've been had.
Rickett: That movie validates my atheism.
Clover: I hear you. I personally revisited "Thus spoke Zarathustra" after my viewing. So when can we expect your feature? I've seen some of the shit that's at Sundance this week and it's killing my belief in even dignity.
Rickett: Im trying to raise money right now for my first film called, Gran Totino, about a guy who hates pizza and lives in a neighborhood full of Italian chefs.
Clover: Starring Josh Brolin because Josh Brolin does a great anti-Italian bit. And Marisa Tomei because she's Italian and looks hot for, like, sixty, and Shia Le Beauf because you get an extra two mill if you cast him as the irascible son.

Unfortunately my phone had to die and quit that bitch just when all these conversations were getting so good.

But before it peaced out, I ran into one of the actors from Ex's movie and because of this exciting encounter decided Ex should be included in the passionate texting. It made no reference to consuming alcohol, but was a blur of variations of "I'm here with Luke Griiiiiimes!!!" and future plans for all of us and Loving Life 4evs.

All I got in response was a text around noon yesterday.
Ex: How u feelin

LOL, Ex. L.O.L.

Clover responds:
Why? Did manic texts at 1 am about Luke Grimes and strip clubs give you the impression that I might be turning my liver into Jack Palance's face? To say I'm in a world of hurt would be an understatement. But last night sure was fun!

And, in conclusion, I hope you have gathered that I will pretty much text anyone with vim and vigor when out drinking and would like to extend an invitation to send me your phone number so you can be included in this drollery . Clearly it won't matter where I am and what I am doing because me and my texts are UNSTOPPABLE.

Oh and shortly after Ex's text, I got this from Rivers.
Did you wake up in Deadwood this morning with one of Swearingen's whores between your legs?

Dating with Clover!

2009-01-12T21:52:00.000-08:00

Welcome to a very personal blog! One in which you get to learn more ways in which I am awesome and fun to be around!

Okay, so here is something you should all know about me. I have trouble being a real person. Not like I don't bleed or get hangovers, I'm totally with you there, but I have trouble interacting with people, like a genuine, normal human being. Specifically when it comes to dating.

I somehow wound up hardwired to want to dazzle and enchant you with my wit, cheek, and ability to get even the most obscure pop culture references. I just can't seem to not be in this mode. Moxy used to always beg me, "Just be less witty. Just be softer and nicer." Even when I want to, I...just....can't.

Now this schtick works on some level. Boys like me and I like them. But suffice it to say that I cycle through a lot of guys, mostly because they want to like me and I just want them to be charmed by me. So what? I lead a meaningful and fulfilling life. Mostly because I watch a lot of TV, but whatevs.

So when Strauss (my oft-mentioned favorite pick up artist) got a very good feeling that he should set me up with a friend of his, a guitarist in a well known indie rock band (Well, at least well-known if you are into indie rock music or from their home country, where I hear they are as big as U2 and leprechauns), I was excited. I love charming men in hipster rock bands! This is what I excel at. But then there was talk of him being really really sweet and sometimes "sweet" guys do not do well with me. It's not like I like assholes. I just need my men to be banter-y. I just really really do and "sweet" guys often seem to just want to "connect". And whoa, nelly. Clover does not like connecting.

Although really, it just comes down to this: If we do not share the same sense of humor, we will probably not be that close. I just still think things should be funny and glib after a year of dating. Just ask Ex who still insists he has never been "deeply connected to my humanity." Go, Clover!

So it all went down Saturday night at a pointlessly overpriced steakhouse in Beverly Hills. A group of us gathered together for dinner, and Irish Rocker and I were put next to each other to let the sparks fly. HA.

It went something like this:
Clover: So...do you drive when you're in LA?
Rocker: Um, yes. We do have cars in Ireland.
(Okay, not my point. Many people don't drive when they're visiting LA, especially people in bands from Europe. I mean, maybe he doesn't have an international license. And for the record, there was no mirth in his voice when he delivered this. But ol' Clover decided to persist with the jokes!)
Clover: Well, yeah. I mean, I know you have cars. But do you have the internet? There's this thing that's all the rage with the kids. It's called email.
Rocker: I have a blackberry.

Awkward silence. It went on like this for at least an hour.

So, I whip out my own blackberry and just start texting Strauss.

Clover: Okay, so I don't think what's his tits likes me. At all. My attempts at humor seem like SO AWKWARD. I am sucking, Strauss.
Strauss: Treat him like the goat, and everything will magically work out.
Strauss: Maybe feed him some him some edamame out of your hand.

I should point out at this juncture that Strauss just got a goat, one we were feeding edamame before heading to Mastro's. And his whole point (echoing Moxy) was that I should just be gentle and sweet, instead of cheeky and glib and typically, completely inaccessible.

So with that in mind I decided to toss out some barbs about Steven Adler and Celebrity Rehab, both of which were met with extreme distaste. But so was the mention of karaoke, arguably a fun, wholesome time, so what gives with this dude?

I mean, who does this individual think he is, so superior to reality television and drunken public singing? Does he think he is above Bret Michaels and/or the Japanese??

So before you think I am completely unacceptable for human interaction, I would like to add that the other females that interacted with him over the evening also thought he had the personality of a wet rag. Actually, the other ladies there, who I'd just met for the first time, found me to be positively delightful. While the men that interacted with him found him affable and interesting. This makes me think that perhaps this individual is just painfully shy around women (something Strauss agreed with), and it wasn't necessarily my general suckiness at knowing how to relate to people that made this an awkward experience for everyone.

But what I will point out is that clearly if you are shy and you are meeting me for the first time, I will do nothing but make you feel more uncomfortable. YAY.

I ended the night resignedly texting Mark Rivers about the unsuccessful dating attempt. Dashing, talented Mark Rivers, who thinks I am just a glorious stitch, but has yet to allow me to wreak havoc upon any of his own hot, nerd friends.

Clover: Oh, Rivers. Strauss set me up with the guitarist from [redacted]. Ha. Ha. Set up: FAIL. You would have LOLed, Rivers. Clover charm lost upon Irish rockers. Holy god. My humor was not well received. What you find adorable, guitarists from [redacted] find retarded.
Rivers: Ugh! The Irish. Worse than the sexless Jews. [a jab at the other boy in a hip indie rock band I attempted to date last year] What a waste of a Bettie Page 'do.
Clover: WORD. When Clover can't get dudes in hipster bands, the end is nigh. I'm thinking this also means Bono is now out of the question.

Hipster Bangs Redux

2009-01-10T18:21:00.000-08:00

I am avoiding the blog intentionally. I am a broken record in both inner and outer monologue and I don't want to drag you into it. In a nutshell, Identity Theft 2008 has gotten not better but WORSE. I thought everything was on track with that whole getting my money back in my account thing. SILLY CLOVER.

I went into Union Bank of California three days days ago to make sure everything was coming along, since, well, why wouldn't it be? Back on New Year's Eve, my one plea was that my bills clear no matter how long it took to investigate the fraud charges, and they were all, oh totes, Clover, we so got your back on that one.

Turned out they did not have my back. Drained checking account, overdraft fees, now bounced checks and late fees and fees for all the pity parties I'm throwing myself. I live on AIR right now, people. And that is way less magical than it sounds.

So yesterday in an attempt to stop dreaming of rat poison and arsenic for myself, the identity theft perps and UBOC employees, I went and got a "new look". (Bang trims are free, FYI. I now know exactly what is free in this world. Pretty much nothing, but bang trims are one of them.) My love for long sixties go-go bangs means lots and lots of fringe maintenance until I just can't take it anymore. And yesterday was one of those days. I was in the mood for a good whack and that's just what I did.

So while normally I sport the long hipster bangs, I went with the short hipster bangs and I'm afraid they're far cooler than I am. I've never had bangs this short and I'm still getting used to them. I'm convinced they don't look good without glasses and black liquid eyeliner. And this a lot of look for me to keep up, considering my daily wardrobe consists of hoodies, jeans and Oliver Peck Vans.

I'm just not sure I'm comfortable with so much...face.

See how sad I look? This is what getting your bank account raped looks like.

Okay, I'm going to leave you all now before you get sucked into my vortex of doom.

009: The Gold Standard

2009-01-04T14:12:00.000-08:00

Things are improving already in 09.

See? I'm already getting lucky.

American Apparel: Call me.

(PS-For those that expressed confusion, this is me at The Standard in Hollywood on New Year's Eve. Where else would I bring in the new year? I love that box.)

Closing out my 2008 tab

2008-12-31T20:42:00.000-08:00

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

2008-12-25T00:00:00.000-08:00

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.

2008-12-20T20:33:00.000-08:00

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

2008-12-18T00:00:00.000-08:00

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

2008-12-15T07:30:00.000-08:00

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

2008-12-12T16:21:00.000-08:00

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'

2008-12-10T18:36:00.000-08:00

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

2008-12-04T22:41:00.000-08:00

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

You know you're a hipster when

2008-11-30T19:00:00.000-08:00

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

2008-11-28T14:40:00.000-08:00

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.

2008-11-27T08:22:00.000-08:00

Happy Thanksgiving, Internet!

Eat meat and get stuffed.

Meat. Gratitude.

See you tomorrow for Knee High Friday. Really!

Suck it, DMV.

2008-11-25T19:20:00.000-08:00

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

2008-11-24T19:20:00.000-08:00

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.

2008-11-13T08:42:00.000-08:00

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.

2008-11-09T10:13:00.000-08:00

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.

2008-11-06T08:32:00.000-08:00

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

2008-11-04T10:27:00.000-08:00

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)

Knee High Friday: Fruit Stripe

2008-10-31T14:29:00.000-07:00

Knee High Sock Style Tip of the Day: Make sure to pepper your knee high sock collection with bold, basic colors so you can pair them with kicky, stripey heels.

You weren't expecting Halloween socks, were you? That would make me feel like a preschool teacher. Happy Halloween, y'all.

Twitterpated

2008-10-27T12:32:00.000-07:00

I am not a fan of Twitter. As you all know I am a huge proponent of narcissism and posting pointless information about myself on the internet, but Twitter really takes these elements to another level. A level I cannot endorse. It's the kind of "adorable" "minutiae" I would glibly and cheekily text the boy I have a crush on, but instead of privately texting the person you like, you're essentially texting perfect strangers the play-by-play of everylittlething in your life and asking them to "follow" you in this malarkey and there's really no dignity involved on anyone's part. Just say no.

That said (for purposes of consolidation here only), here is the Twitter-like recap of my weekend!!!!

Today is day fifty of the worst eye allergy in history. I might have to abandon Laurel Canyon because I can't look like a meth head suffering from progeria any longer. It's like being allergic to hay and living in a barn.
Friday, October 24th, 9:00am

What is Perez Hilton doing at the downtown rehearsal space? Why am I the only one that didn't recognize him? Btw, thx band for making such a fuss over it that I walked into the VERY CLOSED elevator door, right in front of him and his friends. Wasn't embarrassing at all. Nor did I bruise my knee.
Friday, October 24th, 11:45pm

I officially have a crush on someone.
Saturday, October 25th, 10:45pm

This is the second night in a row I've gotten fast food after midnight. Drive thru, cheap-ness and fried-ness. Why have I been such a snob for so long? I'm not sure if this development counts as progress, but if Jack in the Box is wrong, I don't want to be right.
Sunday, October 26th, 1:45am

Eye allergy is seriously getting in the way of freelance writing. Please God, send me a job where I never have to open my eyes.
Monday, October 27th, 8:05am

Knee High Friday: School's in

2008-10-24T10:13:00.000-07:00

Dear LA,

School has started. It's almost November. Can you please make things less insufferably hot? I'm prancing around in my schoolgirl finest to remind you how things are supposed to go down in the autumnal seasons. Your cooperation would be greatly appreciated.

Kthx.
xoxo, Clover

Pink and green is most my favorite color combination. Life update to come over the weekend.

Knee High Friday: Be A Bad Ass

2008-10-17T10:00:00.000-07:00

Today's Sock of the Week is NINJAS.

Getting ninja-like in my Marc Jacobs pumps.

I'm feeling like a bad ass these days and I hope you all are, too.

In other Bad Ass news, I am proud to say I am back at TVgasm with the Pick Up Artist 2 and completed my recap in record time. Flipit doubted me, I doubted me. But it actually did happen and I'm happy to be back over there after my summer break. So thank you, Mark Rivers, for bailing on our awesome plans last night. I never would have finished (or started) it otherwise. And now we're even.

The Other Gina

2008-10-16T10:28:00.000-07:00

An email seriously insulting my "Young Hot and Free Forever" policy arrived in my inbox last week.

I know people out there have kids and love them and go to birthday parties with lots of other people's kids and they find their lives very meaningful. Until recently I was a nanny, I know this firsthand. But I am not one of them. Truth be told, I'm not the most maternal individual and getting out of the nannying world, I'm embracing this fact yet again. I didn't play with dolls growing up. I asked my mom if we could return my younger brother when he was born. (Which I'm totally glad we didn't, T!! Loves you!!!) My mom once said a few years ago that at least she had said younger brother to count on for grandkids. That said, I was a good nanny and the kids I nannied where all good eggs. It's just not my natural state of being and over time, watching children sucked the life of me.

And okay, I do admit that one day I will most likely succumb to domesticity and procreation, but in my current life it sounds like a totally grim prospect. So when I got an email from a mom in Central Florida confusing me with someone who would a) live in Central Florida b) have kids, I got salty. Usually I try to keep the bitchiness to bitch face, but I got so consumed with her knowing that I would NEVER live in the Orlando area and AM SO NOT about to change my lifestyle to include Saturday morning Gymborees, I had to respond.

Hi Gina,

How are you? Here is a copy of the invitation. It’s nice that you could make it. Michelle said that it’s so much fun for the kids. The website for the place is www.bigbouncefunzone.com We’ll see you there and give you the waiver to be signed before the kids can play. It starts at 10am.

Please call me if you need directions.

Take care and see you on Saturday.

D****

I cringed at her words. I was sure that even if I had kids she would be the kind of mom I wouldn't want to be friends with. I mean, what do you do if you have kids and you don't like any of the parents?? Who do you hang out with? This email stressed me out. I had to distance myself as much as possible.

hi d****,

i am a single girl in los angeles and, as far as i know, have no children.

maybe in a parallel universe i am a mom in central florida, but in this one, you have the wrong person.

happy birthday to alexa.
best, gina

I am so so grateful I am not a mom in Orlando, y'all. Like OMG grateful. But I do wish I weren't so judgmental of people who are into that sort of thing. Sorry, random mom, for thinking my life is so much better than yours. Can't help it!!

Stay tuned for next week when I accidently get knocked up and decide to move to Orlando.

Welcome to Knee High Friday!

2008-10-10T10:05:00.001-07:00

I thought it was about time for a weekly installment chez Sensation.

I acquired three new pairs of knee high socks yesterday, adding to my already impressive, ever expanding collection. And it was then I realized I can no longer keep this prized menagerie to myself. It's time to share the colorful glory and girlish bounty with you!

To know me is to know that I wear knee high socks. Always. Even when it is 900 degrees out (and it has been lately) and even when they are hidden to the naked eye under various garments and boots (and they usually are). And this is a shame, because they are magical, beautiful things, deserving of their day in the sun. I also know more than anything, you, gentle readers, want to know everything you can possibly know about me. This is understandable. And if there is one thing you should know, it's that I live and die for knee high socks.

Thus, Knee High Friday is born.

First up: Unicorns! Y'all know I love me some unicorns.

Purple, regal mythical creatures resting atop a pillowy, cotton candy sheepskin. If this isn't a sign that the weekend is going to be great, I don't know what is.

Stay tuned for next week when I decide between robots and killer teddy bears.

Looking at the world through 70's Earth Toned Glasses

2008-10-08T08:28:00.000-07:00

So one Ex dropped the birthday ball, but another Ex (the one I refer to a lot on this blog) totally didn't drop the ball. Or threw it really well. Or whatever ball metaphor is the opposite in this instance. (And yes, I hang out all the time with my Ex-Boyfriends. I'm likable. Sue me.)

While in New Mexico this summer, I discovered what many people who've been watching informercials since the 80s have long known. That Blublocker Sunglasses (As Seen On TV) are the Best Sunglasses Ever. The magic of the Blublockers, other than their visual badassery, lies in literally blocking the color blue and making life a sunshine-y, spaghetti western. We also refer to them as the "Anti-Depression Regimen" as they are designed to "block the blues". (Har, har.) Really, individuals. I hope you don't plan on going through life much longer without them.

Just take this man's word for it:

Soooo, Ex (who was in New Mexico with me) and I were supposed to get our Blublockers when we discovered their myth and majesty out there, but the one time we were at the store to get them, there was a thunderstorm and the cash register went down and they wouldn't let us just leave the cash. A-holes!

Then, upon our return to LA, we learned that there has been some weird rush in Southern California on Blublockers and you can't find them ANYWHERE. Yes, it's been a hard few months as one pair of Blublockers has been passed around between me, Ex and Blondie for a good three months now and that's just no way to live. (For us or the glasses.)

And then, lo and behold, all that angst and struggle was turned into surprise and delight when I opened this Monday night. (And look at the clever birthday packaging, combining badass glasses with one of my badass pastimes. Home run, Ex!)

BLUBLOCKERS ARE MINE!!!!!!

And just how royally awesome do they look? Well, here is a picture of me from a few weeks ago in Blondie's Blublockers doing what I do best: Doling out the Grade A non-specific Bitch Gaze while drinking margaritas.

Blublockers are a lifestyle choice I encourage you all to make as soon as possible. For both staying positive and looking hot. The two go hand in hand.

Mixed Bag

2008-10-06T09:36:00.000-07:00

Shitty birthday: Spending the day with an Ex who intentionally wants you to feel bitter and self-loathing, and then doesn't get you a present.

Awesome birthday: Same Ex leaves LA that afternoon to move to Europe NEVER TO RETURN.

So I cried and felt bitter and self-loathing and then I celebrated. Not many birthdays have that kind of closure.

Internet Birthday Party!!! LOL! OMG!!

2008-10-03T08:10:00.000-07:00

Yesterday God surprised me with an early birthday present. I was having kind of a tough October 2nd morning, which October 2's are famous for, shuffling my feet and having a low-key internal pity party. And then, lo and behold, God sends me an email (via Renz-o) announcing me as an Official Sexy Person of the Internet. Ladies and Gents: I was October 2nd's Sexy Person.

If you haven't been to Renz-o's Sexy Person blog, you need to correct that immediately, as it will provide you with hours of laughs and adolescent familiarity and desire to have your own eighties or nineties misstep become today's SEXINESS. I was tipped off to its brill-ness by one Chris of Surviving Myself fame and I would like to think my ascension to October 2nd's throne was a team effort.

So as my birthday gift to you I will now share with you this photographic delight which I will simply call "Ever since I can remember I've been poppin' my collar AKA Me at 12 yrs old".

Rolled cuffs. All love.

It may take you a few viewings to take in all the genius styling elements that came together for this portrait.

And clearly I was destined for a lifetime of inappropriate dressing and Olympic level pouting. I was freaking twelve, people. How did my mom let me run around with such jailbait face all the time? I'm ashamed and delighted.

So thank you, boys, for both assisting in my continual, eternal goal to be Young, Hot and Free.

May we all be Young, Hot and Free 4evs.

Crazy like a daisy

2008-10-01T07:38:00.000-07:00

I need to find this movie. Apparently it's a Czech film from the '60s about two girls running amok and I just have to see it. It's weird and beautiful and the art house version of my life. No joke. I have a life partner that I do everything with and we dress up and run amok and we are both of Eastern European descent. We are these girls in a parallel, stylized universe.

We don haus frau dresses and flirt with boys:

We wear bikinis and think in reds and pinks.

We share a bed and a home. And look awesome in it.

We know how to have a good time.

I pout and wear my hair in anime buns.

She pouts and wears flowers in her hair.

We both look gamine and disaffected as we contemplate life.

I am in love with this world. I am not complete until I see my 60's counterpart.

And here is our updated LA version via cameraphone. A more cheerful product, as a result of life far from the Eastern Bloc. Also we probably drink more margaritas and have better eye-wear.

So maybe someone can let me know how to find this visual confection as a birthday treat? My birthday is Friday. All I want is a cute boy I don't know to take me to Nick and Norah's Infinite Playlist. And to watch this movie with my current blondie doppelganger afterwards.

C'est tout.

(screengrabs courtesy of Agent Lover)

Standardization

2008-09-27T21:27:00.000-07:00

My struggle to post has reached epic proportions. Like, news radio should be on the case. "Today we have one woman's heroic journey to overcome apathy and persistent brain fog in order to self-publish narcissistic musings on the internet. Here is her amazing tale".

September has been a slumpy month. The weeks preceding my birthday always tend to be low energy/challenging and this has been no exception. One thing I did manage to do last week in an attempt to get myself excited for something in this world was to make a list of my Large Goals and Small Goals.

On this list, Large Goals are things wildly unrealistic in the present moment, like "getting my own sitcom". Small goals, however, are also sometimes wildly unrealistic, like "paying rent". Kidding. Maybe. Rent aside, Small Goals are usually something much less insurmountable.

And Friday I found out that very soon I'm going to be checking off one of my Small Goals. This alone practically redeemed the whole month of September:

I'm going to be one of the Girls in the Box in the lobby of the Hollywood Standard Hotel.

Yes, that will soon be me. Chillaxing behind glass for throngs of Sunset Strip visitors to see. A live mannequin. The beginnings of what I hope will be a long and fruitful career as a performance artist. I realize this is not your typical "goal" but this job is awesome. Because here are a few of the things I've seen the girls in the box doing:

1) working on a macbook
2) sleeping

Very soon, I can be making money while I sleep. Or freelance writing, which means I'll be gettin' real paid for two different jobs at the same time. This, gentle readers, is all I really ask from a job: Allow me to look at things on the internet. Allow me some nap time.

So there is a light at the end of the long dark tunnel that was September. It didn't have the crazy, WTF? factor that August did, which I'm grateful for, but it was an exercise in holding patterns and confusion. I'm so excited to come out of it, kicking off October with a birthday and adding "Standard Lobby Box Girl" to my resume. My parents will be so proud.

Re: Life

2008-09-24T17:24:00.000-07:00

F*ckin' A.

I accidently found my ex on Who's Dated Who and learned that the Bull Shark can swim far up into the Amazon river due to a special gland that retains salt and kidneys that recycle it.

It's a lot to take in for a Wednesday.

I'm back though. Proms.

Steve Coogan did not ask me out once.

2008-09-04T21:56:00.000-07:00

I hope you all haven't abandoned me. I haven't been writing because I'm still recovering mentally from the concussion and the week in New York, which was in an exercise in sleep deprivation, exhaustion and overwhelm. Yes, I was in the Hamptons and eating at Nobu, but nannying full time is hard, and in New York doubly so. Plus on a concussion. Sleeping on a couch. So there were a lot of things working against me, and this week back has involved as much staring at the wall blankly as I was doing almost two weeks ago.

So last night in an effort to mix it up with the things I stare at, I went and saw Hamlet 2, which I've been vocally excited for ever since I saw that whole "Rock Me, Sexy Jesus" thing in the preview. Plus, it's time to must confess to you all I have a thing for this man:

I know. Don't judge. This is solely based on a personal encounter approximately two years ago where we were both synchronistically at the same dinner party in Laurel Canyon (Laural Canyon AKA Best Place in LA. I just moved there and am so so in love. Infinite posts to come on that.) So at this dinner party two years ago, he and I were the first to arrive. I'd been to the house before, but being the only other person I went on the house tour with him. I had no idea who he was. I hadn't seen his hilarious Alan Partridge show yet, nor his killer performance in Coffee and Cigarettes. Behold:

But I could tell by the conversation with our mutual friend that in some circles he was known and respected and that perhaps someone else would immediately recognize him and be in awe. So I asked who he was. He told me that he was a comedian and actor but that he wasn't widely known in the States, unless you were a cult fan of his BBC show. Now the actor thing did not appeal to me, as I don't think I could ever date an actor. But he was quiet and reserved with a marvelously understated dry wit. He had these soulful puppy dog brown eyes of someone who is completely tortured. And the British accent. That's really all I need, gang. I was sold.

Now I never hit on guys. Never. My idea of showing someone interest is ignoring them, cleverly ridiculing them or giving them my default disdain face. It works. But with this individual I was suddenly possessed to show ardent interest. Even I didn't understand. I smiled, made cow eyes (I know I made cow eyes. My eyes naturally glare and roll so I can feel the difference when I'm trying to reach out and brush someone's face with my lashes.) And I continually made efforts throughout the evening to engage in conversation. It couldn't be considered throwing myself, but compared to my usual MO I felt like I was a contender for Girls Gone Wild.

He showed me pictures of his daughter on his cell phone. He stared at my cleavage. All signs pointed to yes! So imagine my surprise when the end of the night came and he did not ask me out. Just a hug and good-bye. Granted he was leaving to shoot in two weeks, but still I wanted something. I just didn't understand. All this wonderful interaction, my CLEAR interest and NOTHING. Why, people? WHY!?!?!

Shortly after that however my interest waned significantly. The whole Owen Wilson suicide debacle happened, where Mr. Coogan was rumored to have given him drugs and be a maudlin partier himself. Then the whole rumor where he had a tawdry fling with Courtney Love came out, and while both denied it, having your name in the same sentence as her will suck the hotness out of anyone. The person I'd met was not the person I was hearing about now, so I moved on with aplomb.

But last night the Steve Coogan love reared its head once again. That shit was hilarious. BRILL. I was LOL-ing all over the place. And now I'm hoping yet again we are synchronistically paired at another dinner party. I visited imdb and it appears he's working till the apocalypse (does this guy take a break?), so it's not like he has time for dating anyway. But if we ever cross paths again I will surely give him stink eye and the cold shoulder. No one can resist that.

Smashing Successes

2008-08-26T12:31:00.000-07:00

When I first moved out to LA I briefly held a few really dumb jobs. One of them was working in Culver City for a denim sample sale company headed by two young spoiled Beverly Hills boys. They were probably in their late twenties at the time, but they were two of the most immature and self-unaware people I’ve met. And between New York and LA I’ve met a few. I only worked there for about three weeks when it was clear that I couldn’t help them.

Each day I would go to work and wait for them to inform me of my duties while one picked absentmindedly at a guitar and the other talked about parties and VIP scenes and was basically obscene with every sentence he uttered. They wanted me to organize their entire company, but there was no training or instruction into how things were running in the first place, so we were constantly at a standstill. I think they were under the impression that some girl was going to come into their world and make the office functional. Girls came and went and apparently me sticking around three weeks was a bit of a record.

Anyway, despite boasting the same blue chip pedigree, there were differences between the two. The one who seemed to fancy himself a guitar player was definitely attractive and the far nicer one, and the ranter was fat and obnoxious and generally unappealing in every way. I remember always being surprised that the one who was attractive was the much more polite and a genuinely decent guy. The fat one was so vulgar and rude, I still make stink face when I think of him. I realize I’m narrow in my typecasting, but I was always taken aback that the cute one wasn’t arrogant and/or rude and that the fat one wasn’t amiable and/or funny. I know, I know. I’m a simple creature. Either way, I didn’t miss getting out of there one bit and moved on with considerable ease.

Every now and again over the years I’ll wonder what became of them and if they’ve managed to figure out how to run a business, but it’s always a vague wonder and passes quickly.
Yesterday however I found out what the Cute One is up to:

Victoria’s Secret angel Alessandra Ambrosio and California businessman beau Jamie Mazur welcomed a beautiful baby girl Sunday in Brazil — Anja Louise Ambrosio Mazur!
“To all of our family and friends, we are pleased to announce that our little princess Anja Louise Ambrosio Mazur was born on Sunday Aug 24 at 7:32 p.m.,” Alessandra tells People. “She is 6.3 lbs. and absolutely perfect.”
Alessandra adds, “[Anja] hasn’t cried once except for a second when they pulled her out. We have now felt a new kind of love and joy that we never knew existed.”

Day-um! Still not sure if he figured out how to handle a business, but he sure is handling business! Knocking up a Victoria’s Secret Angel? I’m impressed. He’s doing better than I expected. And I can honestly say he is a nice guy, so I am happy for him. Not sure how that kid will turn out, but I like when the internet makes my life easy for finding out what people are up to.

**********

In the mean time, I am suffering from a concussion. I am mentally riding the short bus in a serious way. I looked up concussion on Wikipedia and all the physical and emotional symptoms are currently plaguing me.

In Malibu this weekend I shot for Mark and Estel’s upcoming collection and after having the best shoot ever and a private shopping spree in the basement afterwards, I had an unfortunate incident with a glass wall dividing two rooms in the house. It was dark and not being that familiar with the palatial environs, I NAILED that shit hard. I didn’t even know what happened until I doubled over and noticed blood was dripping down my face onto the floor.

Of course I was embarrassed beyond belief so I acted like nothing was wrong, despite the fact I was bleeding everywhere and apparently made a noise like “a sonic boom” when I hit it. As I drove to Ex’s afterwards, I noticed more blood seeping through my jeans en route and upon arrival he pointed out I had glass in my hair and was getting it on the floor. Basically there was some shock to my nervous system and I was operating heavy machinery when I probably shouldn’t have been.

Now it takes me at least ten minutes to write a simple text. I’ve stared at walls for inappropriate amounts of time and cried inexplicably over my small cuts because they’re still raw and bloody (sorry, gross.) And most annoyingly, for several days I’ve had a headache that could stop the most type A person in their tracks.

So I went from this:

To this:

The bruisy goose eggs on my forehead aren’t really apparent in the photo, but they’re the source of a lot of pain at the moment. But it could have been much much worse and I realize that and I’m grateful. The catalogue will be out next month and I'm very excited for that. Also, get yourself some Mark and Estel clothing. Your body will be so so happy. It’s all I’m wearing from here on out. But that’s also because I’m too effed up to really think about it further.

I arrived in New York today so god bless the poor child who has to be under my watch in this condition.

Biting Big Apples

2008-08-20T07:57:00.000-07:00

It looks like I am going to get my annual summer NYC trip in after all. So if you are looking for me next week I will be on the set of this show:

Not a bad way to wrap up the summer. I'm sure my own life would make a winning plot line.

Be back when I am.

2008-08-13T17:10:00.000-07:00

In the meantime, suggestions are welcome. And happy birthday, mom.

To my friend who hates the word "Staycation".

2008-08-06T00:27:00.000-07:00

Today I came one step closer to realizing my dream of making music and shakin' it in front of large crowds of people. The highly talented and endlessly versatile Mz. Moxy asked me to play tambourine in her band. It's kind of a dream come true. We have approximately eighteen projects in the works together, but this one truly touches my cold, self-absorbed heart. Because I know she would never let me come within a country mile of her music if she didn't think I could rock it.

And just how much will this endeavor rock, you ask? Well, for example, this is the kind of conversation we have after a major car crash:

Me: Can we meet for a coffee in the am? I know you're up early. Anytime between 9-12 I'm free and could really use you. Really. Email/call/text to let me know your am status.

Moxy: On the up side, at least i dont have to worry about my Jesus fish dilemma. bad side: car totalled this morning. girl pulled out of parking garage and made a left directly into lil' Kia Rio. Good Morning!

Me: girl! are you okay??? let me know if you need any help this am until my parents get here! i will not have my elegant brown bride bamboozled by some LA ho!

Moxy: if the insurance claim works out - i will be putting a Jesus fish on my next car also.

Me: girl. I'M getting you your next jesus fish. today.

Moxy: girl. i might go all out with the rosary on my rear view, and the little statue of Guadalupe on my dashboard. All aboard, Christian soldiers!

Me: st. christopher. st. chrissy is the patron saint of travelers, aka protection from LA hos behind the wheel. that's who you want ridin' the dash. let me know if you need me to pick you one up while i'm shopping at the christian bookstore for your next fish.

Moxy: you're gonna die. my next column is on fucked up Patron Saints. checkie this - too bizarre. http://www.cracked.com/article_16509_8-most-bizarre-patron-saints.html

Me: there is a patron saint for ugly people! and the internet! i'm making an altar for the internet dude today. my christian bookstore shopping list is getting long.

Moxy: i personally scrawl all my Christian shopping lists on dead sea scrolls.

Me: i prefer the shroud of turin. surprisingly durable!

Moxy: well, maybe...but do the colors fade? Choosy Christians choose TIDE ™.

Me: then i defer to the old stone tablets. if it's good enough for moses, it's good enough for gina clover.

Moxy: girl - just don't carry them in your backpack. The Before Christ crowd always had such terrible back problems.

Me: that's why i have a burro in such times. this bitch already has scoliosis.

Moxy: that was a great volley, Serena (*wiping sweat from brow)

Me: girl. i'll be the venus to your serena.

Yes, we deserve each other.

Also in other good news of the day, the man I'm in love with, who I've mentioned several times a few posts ago, not only got a mad mention on my **favorite blog Dlisted**, but surprised me by returning to LA for the week! We shall be reunited! He's looking especially handsome in the picture and reading the comments on the post amused me to no end.

As if life couldn't get any rosier, did I mention I'm also having a staycation in Beverly Hills? Everyone is invited to come to the pool. I've already invited everyone I can text. And of course you are all invited to my upcoming tambourine shows.

Reach out and text someone

2008-08-04T08:45:00.000-07:00

I hate talking on the phone. My friends all know this, boys that try and date me know this and, more than anyone, my mother knows this. Yes, I may know you, live and die for you, but I probably only want to engage with you in the written word.

Behold:

Almost finished with the month and I haven't even used a quarter of my minutes. Ninety-eight minutes accumulated over several weekends? LOL. I'm so lame. This is a beautiful image in my world.

So imagine my surprise when I saw that my bill was, oh, FOUR HUNDRED DOLLARS.

FOUR HUNDRED CLAMS. Four. (And this was last week. The numbers have certainly spiked further since then.) So what is this financial madness plaguing my poor innocent blackberry?

Texting. Innocuous, beautiful texting.

In my plan I have 1,000 texts a month free, people. Une mille. A grand of texts in thirty days. As of last Wednesday I had gone over that limit by another cool thousand. It definitely feels like all I do all day every day is sit around and text people, but this pretty much confirms it.

Since last Wednesday I've attempted to curb this by switching to phone calls with a few girlfriends, but some people I only communicate with via text and that's not about to change. It would definitely be weird for everyone involved.

But please if you read this, try to call me instead of texting me. Because I will text you back. I cannot control myself. Some people will call this "an issue", I call it a lifestyle choice. But really, have mercy.

Life is like Jessica Alba's pit bill licking your face.

2008-07-24T12:15:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I had a job interview at a home high up in the hills of Beverly Hills. I arrived ten minutes early, as I do for almost everything, and sat on the couch and tried to decide who I should text while I waited. I didn't get reception and it was physically painful.

It didn't really matter though as there was much to distract me. A tiny dog was incessantly yapping, there was what I assume to be an adult son, a man that spoke with a British accent who I think was a realtor, a Mexican landscaper and some other guys who I think were involved with other home improvements. But I sat quietly on the couch, stared out the door to the pool in the backyard and watched a white pit bull breathing on the window, wagging its tail at me. I like pit bulls and automatically made some high pitched greeting. I couldn't figure out why the tiny dog was allowed in, but not this one, who clearly wanted in in a serious way.

Then my potential boss arrived. I hear her before I see her and what I hear loud and clear is: "I'M GOING TO SUE JESSICA ALBA!" This phrase is repeated several times. She enters into the living room and opens the door. The pit bull bounds over to me and jumps on her couch and licks my face. And that's when I learn that this is Jessica Alba's pit bull that is licking my face. And this dog is NOT welcome. It's a nice dog, but potential boss lady is getting sick of this dog always in her yard.

Apparently Jessica Alba just moved into the house behind her, which is up a serious incline, making it easy for Pit Bull to jump over the fence. And since potential boss lady is fond of leaving the doors open, on more than one occasion Jessica Alba's pit bull has wound up in bed with her. Okay, I get it. But suing?

So I begin following this woman awkwardly around the kitchen and into the backyard, as is everyone else, who is clamoring for her attention. And the next thing you know, she is screaming up the hill to Jessica's Mexican landscapers "Woooorker! Excuse me! Wooorrrrkerrrr! This dog is down here AGAIN!" And homegirl looks crazy. I'm suddenly embarrassed for everyone involved. Mainly her, but I can't really make eye contact with anyone, because I'm not sure what the appropriate emotion to feel is in this instance, I just know what I am feeling I should not express.

And then I realized that this is exactly the type of situation that I find myself in more often than not: random people, random places, opulent wealth, clothes I don't feel quite comfortable in and the vague feeling I should not be there.

So this is my life, y'all. If you change around a few variables each time, and string together incident after incident like this, you will have a good idea of what it feels like to be me. It's actually kinda fun.

I'll let you know if I get the job.

"Untitled Williamsburg Project"

2008-07-22T20:57:00.000-07:00

I love Tina Fey. I do. I love that she creates things, writes things and then also performs in them. I love that she is hot. I think Liz Lemon on 30 Rock is fabulously constructed and perfectly played. Basically I want to be Tina Fey. Well, not really, because I've never liked SNL and don't like sketches really at all, but I want to be hot and funny and make TV shows and movies and be in them. And I think she and I would totally get along. And we both wear glasses. (Yes, in case you all didn't know. I wear glasses. Like, all the time.) See?

The more whimsical Gina Lemon.

Also, that's Salvation Mountain, not my bedroom, though if you thought it was, you have a clear understanding of what I'd like my bedroom to look like.

I once wrote Entertainment Weekly and told them they should put her on the cover. A few months later they did. Coincidence? I doubt it. So basically I'm a little bit in love with her.

So about two months ago I was excited to find a script of hers at Ex's called "Untitled Williamsburg Project". I purloined it without a second thought, since I knew he would never read it (it was in an untouched pile of scripts), plus he always accuses me of taking shit, so I might as well actually take something every now and then. Yes, I thought I scored. Tiny Fey and Williamsburg! (I used to live there so it holds a special place in my heart even though it's a bit douchetastic these days. In the above picture, my t-shirt says "Brooklyn" on it. The parallels never cease. It's a bit illegible, but whatever.)

But anyway, as of press time, I still haven't finished "Untitled Williamsburg Project". I pick it up every few weeks and I still haven't laughed once.

I keep thinking maybe I'm confused. I am not going to pretend I get screenwriting. Every time I've read a script the writing seems conversational and yet forced at the same time. Phrases and descriptions are casual and yet it follows a strict format. Screenwriting has always been mystifying to me. It all seems awkward to me and I thought reading a script written by one of my inspirations, I'd finally get the cryptic art. Alas.

So this has raised a few possibilities for me: Maybe I would also read 30 Rock and not think it's funny. Maybe I'm expecting too much. Or maybe I'm retarded. It's all possible.

I checked imdb and found that "Untitled Williamsburg Project" now has a title and a star attached. And I just don't get it. Maybe other people read it and found it totally hilary, or maybe people can just see her vision and just know it'll be uproarious. I'll give it an interesting premise...it's just not making me laugh to read it. But Tina Fey and Borat? It HAS to be funny, right? I just can't believe I'm wrong in finding this script ass boring. Seriously. If anyone else wants to read this, let me know. I'd like a second opinion.

But only time will tell. Until then, I still love you T-Fey. Hit me up and we'll throw down some comedy.

Chow Down

2008-07-18T07:38:00.000-07:00

It's funny to be with really really rich people. I don't feel entirely out of place, as I've been to the same places and don't exactly come from the sticks. I eat at the Brentwood Country Mart, can navigate all of the Beverly Hills shopping district and know what Northern Trust is. I've even been there.

It's just different to me though to act like it's normal to have a home in three or four cities on two continents. I am still looking for one place here. My mom and I don't discuss whether or not she should get the Balenciaga dress. (We are more likely to discuss whether or not I am on drugs, although in all fairness, I think many people that know me discuss whether or not I am on drugs.)

Last night we all went to Mr. Chow for a family meal. Again, I've been to Mr. Chow with my family. But it's different when the entire staff greets you with hugs and the paparazzi takes your picture as you leave. It's just a bit different. I'd like to think this is all acclimating me for when I finally get my own sitcom on premium cable and have a string of celebrity romances that are extensively covered and speculated upon in Us Weekly and various internet blogs. But until then I'm happy to cozy up to the eastside and pretend I'm a hipster (I may look cool, but I could never be real hipster cool. I like reality TV too much.) and live with other people who hope their checks clear each month. These days I'm more broke than Bel Air.

All in all my proudest moment of the day was being the only one to get the little man to stop crying when he was tired and cranky and it was way past his bedtime. I did a quick execution of The Bubble Dance that I had invented earlier that day and through the tears he started doing The Bubble Dance too with instant joy and spontaneous whimsy. That kid rocks my world.

Say yes.

2008-07-16T10:37:00.000-07:00

So it's abundantly clear I'm not writing much these days. Yesterday I got an email bitchslap from Flipit because of it. So this week I'm back on Denise, and here and maaaaybe even gonna think about starting that short story.

In the meantime, here is a list of things that have been occupying my time this summer:
1) Watching a lot of MXC. A lotttttt.
2) Refreshing Craigslist all day everyday looking for random ways to make money.
3) Getting free passes to high vis gyms in West Hollywood.
4) Reconnecting with coffee.
5) And wine.
6) Going out with cute boys who cook meals and have big TVs.
7) Chasing Hermes around Beverly Hills.

Which brings us to Hermes. This week I finally started the celebrity nanny stint a few hours a day just to see how we all like each other. Over the past couple years I've been a lukewarm part-time nanny. I've been fortunate to have all great kids, but it's been a paycheck, not a career. But for the first time I have to say I LOVE this kid. Like, abnormally, I love him. He is fun and funny and smart and totally chill. We were like instant BFFs.

Yesterday I went with the family to an event in West Hollywood that looked a lot like an episode of "Entourage". (A ton of typical LA girls and Adrien Grenier, who I've seen out in the world twice now, and I'm not unconvinced he's not just Vinnie Chase.) And in the midst of this swank event, (my mom won't believe it) I have never been happier to be walking around with a baby. Like myself, he wanted to continually be by the massively-tiered cupcake stand. And I seriously had the most popular date in the joint. The kid is an attention magnet. Another thing I can totally get behind.

And best of all, at 21 months, he's already highly googleable. Just how I like my men.

Also has a big TV.

It's Motherf*cking summer, bitches!

2008-07-06T16:16:00.001-07:00

That's what my friend said gleefully as we clumsily made margaritas with orange popsicles in a West Hollywood kitchen on the night of America's independence. And summer it is. I never seem to be online anymore. I am having slumber parties, dating boys, making new friends and living a real life in the real world. It's nuts.

And now I have to git to work on the interweb and all I can do is stare zombie-like at the CNN homepage and think about how this dude looks like he was born to bite a Wimbledon cup. Congrats whoever you are. You are hot.

Also, in these past few weeks I have begun concocting a large, excellent prank which will culminate in spring of '09 and will be highly documented and, ideally, sponsored Star Jones style. Coverage will begin here as soon as I get my head out my ass.

In the meantime, enjoy the motherfucking summer.

Life is a highway. And sometimes a parking lot.

2008-06-19T14:30:00.000-07:00

So I finally arrived in New Mexico at three in the morning Tuesday night. What started off as the Best Road Trip Ever turned into a Hippie Nightmare and there were times I genuinely thought I would not make it through the wilderness. My acquaintance that I'd lined up a ride with told me there was a surprise, but even in my magical world of abundance did I imagine this ride would be a giant double decker tour bus with a kitchen, a patio on the second story, and the most comfortable fold-out couches ever created. But those were our wheels and Day One I was living large.

Day one included a constant stream of delicious food from the kitchen and watching sunsets from the outdoor patio:

And then the next day, somewhere between Flagstaff and the New Mexico border, the bus died. And the last thing you want to have happen in the middle of the summer Arizona heat is have your vehicle die.

So after a day of baller-like glamour, I spent Day Two sweltering in the Petrified Forest National Park parking lot. Sweaty and sticky and not having showered since the trip began, I tried to recreate a shower in the Visitors' Center sink, while overweight ladies from the midwest came in and out and quietly judged my half naked skinny ass, dying as much from the heat as internet withdrawal. All in all, I think I got to spend quality time with that parking lot from approximately 1:30 in the afternoon until almost 9pm.

Not sure exactly why I wanted to commemorate the experience, but dehydration and captivity do weird things to you.

But there were truly wonderful moments. Like when we were exploring and found the Complete Douche Set.

If only it had been the Complete Douche Set of the Soul.

I'm still a little traumatized.

Land of Enchantment

2008-06-16T08:55:00.000-07:00

I'm always living in my own land of enchantment, but today I'm going to the official part of the country known as such. I wanted to do a full post before I left, but I have a new friend and hanging out turned out to be a terribly time-consuming affair yesterday. I can't dish, because I already know he's as much of a google stalker as the rest of us. But if I could, it would be good.

Don't f*#k with me. I know people.

2008-06-12T09:02:00.001-07:00

Inspired by the lovely Ms. Toew's recent post, I decided to share with you my own fine rejection.

Hi, Gina. So sorry for the dragged out delay with this. In fact, we just resolved the position yesterday, and hired another candidate. I’m sorry this is bad news! Your writing is awesome (in fact, you turned in the strongest writing test). But we needed someone to start at a moment’s notice, and your city transition status put you behind the other candidate. I hope you’re still headed to SF, and if you do, I hope our paths cross again.

All the best,
[name redacted]

Yeah, I was bummed, but a part of me has been really really scared to leave LA, and would have been slightly panicked to suddenly head north in a week. I do love it here. And I was sad, but mostly because I was kind of just ready to have a job. And it was a really cool job. But what I didn't anticipate when I forwarded this to my inner circle last night was that I have people that will seriously go to the mattresses for me. And a word to the wise, when forwarding emails from people that have hurt your feelings, don't include the email address of the offending person. They might just send that person an email like this:

That is so fucking lame!
You go up for the interview at a moments notice and
have friends to stay with. The 5 hour drive is a non
issue.
You're a twat.

Yes, that was sent.

After a bout of extreme professional embarrassment, I realized I've never been so touched. This person really cared and fully went to bat for me. He's an effing bad ass. No one has defended me quite like that. Like a bar brawl but on email. I actually LMAO-ed for a bit.

And don't worry about any ill will that might reflect back onto me. I swiftly added my own volley.

hi there again, [name redacted]!

so i think you might have gotten a snippy email from a friend of mine, which shocked me, embarrassed me, touched me and finally amused me. yes, it was a roller coaster of emotions. it was as if my cat had dragged a dead, mangled bird to my doorstep, and you can't be mad, but you are initially a little horrified.

that said, i have since forwarded your email address to my entire gmail contact list, so be prepared for everyone i've ever emailed at least once in the past four years to chime in.

i've decided to collect a whole arsenal of ridiculously insulting emails (hopefully my mom will pitch in), and after i cull the results for the most outrageous and over-the-top, i will create a live-action internet comedy short based on the material (eliza skinner would), and the resulting viral will be gangbusters to feature on [website i would have worked for]. (i'll even do the tags.)

seriously, all the best and i hope you find the humor in it all. i'm touched honestly. i didn't know he had it in him.
xo, gina

So let me know if you want this dude's email, too. I encourage you to completely go off. I'm ready to get my comedy short going. I've always wanted to be a YouTube sensation.

Anatomy of a lie: A photo essay

2008-06-06T21:59:00.001-07:00

I hate lying. I get nervous and fidgety and stare at the ceiling and say "um" a lot.

Although, based on the evidence, I kind of suspect this is exactly what I look like when I have a crush on someone.

Witness Exhibits A-D:

Looking up to the right. Looking up and to the right stimulates the part of the brain associated with imagination (that is, making things up), whereas looking up and to the left stimulates the part of the brain associated with recalling memories (that is, telling the truth).

No eye contact. A lot of information is conveyed through eye contact, and most people have an extremely hard time lying to someone while looking directly into his eyes.

Stress gestures (rapid blinking, scratching, itching, swallowing, fidgeting, etc.). If discovered, a deception carries much greater risk of punishment than simply telling the truth, and people understand this. This uncomfortable situation will make them uncomfortable, and they will act accordingly.

Wide-eyed, innocent look. Another product of childhood fibs, based on the “who, me?” fake innocence usually associated with a kid denying he has his hand in the cookie jar while it is still in there.

Of course this comes with a great big whopper.

More decisions, decisions

2008-06-05T07:33:00.000-07:00

Here's another career opportunity I'd like to run up the flagpole for my dear, special readers to weigh in on...What do y'all think about a topless scene in a major motion picture? The money isn't THAT amazing (you know like a hundred thousand dollars or something), but I'd get to be in a Huge Studio Film! Playing opposite a STAR!!

I can't give the breakdowns, them's confidential. But let's say the star is less Clive Owen, more Ryan Reynolds. (Though it's not actually Ryan Reynolds.) And my bosoms would be bared, which is a hard pill to swallow when you have a mother out there and the crazy desire that you want your feature film debut to be clothed.

So, really, I've made up my mind, but your thoughts on these funny things that somehow always seem to find me would delight me to no end.

It's so hard to say good-bye

2008-06-01T20:29:00.001-07:00

Good-bye, Hipster Shed. You are without a doubt the coolest place I have ever lived. You were there for me when I needed you and I will never forget our time together. I will miss you. But I know in my heart, it's time to move on.

Write, right.

2008-05-29T23:05:00.000-07:00

I think I'm the hardest working writer at TVgasm this week. Three shows is a bit much, but luckily one was a reunion episode and doesn't require the normal time-sucking devotion and dedication a regular one does.

So I'm linking to my brand new show at TVgasm, which I really don't do around here, but all my sensationalness is over there these days, so it's best to find me there. Plus, unlike my usual shows, it doesn't require you to watch every week, or to watch it at all, to enjoy a nice skewering of it.

Anyway, I'm finally starting to pack up tomorrow. I keep thinking it won't take that long. But I know I think that every time I move and then two hours in I realize the joke is on me.

And I still have to do that reunion recap.

Decisions, decisions

2008-05-24T15:43:00.000-07:00

Writing job in San Francisco or celebrity nanny job that's LA/NYC bi-coastal plus international travel?

Thoughts?

Three things I have learned this week.

2008-05-22T20:55:00.000-07:00

1) Freaks and Geeks is possibly the best TV show ever made.

(And now I've officially seen something with James Franco in it.)

2) No matter how dead they are, cockroaches will always scare the living bejesus out of me. Especially when you wake up in the morning to find them in your otherwise clean sink.

3) Despite the fact that, other than myself, only a male gay couple has occupied the hipster shed, I still managed to find dirty, lacy girls' panties wadded up inside a Longs drugstore bag and shoved in the back of my pantry. I have no idea whose they are, how long they've been there or why they were balled up and shoved in a Longs shopping bag that somehow found its way to my pantry. I've never even shopped at Longs. Frankly it grossed me out as much as the cockroach. And they'd *definitely* been worn by a girl. I haven't the foggiest how they wound up there.

Unfortunately no visual for my third lesson of the week. The skivvies did NOT get photographed. They were promptly discarded.

It hasn't been a good day for my kitchen.

Friends in High Places

2008-05-20T08:18:00.001-07:00

View from Coco's driveway. Sausalito. Saturday afternoon.

I haven't had any true alone time since Thursday evening other than some bathroom time and a few car trips between San Mateo and Marin county. I'm back in LA, but the lack of alone time will continue until tomorrow night when I then kill myself trying to get last week's Step It Up recap together and then the Paradise Hotel finale. Neither of which I've watched yet.

This flurry of various activities sure makes it look like I have a social life, and/or a life outside the interweb at all, which is truly not the case. I apologize for any misleading.

Where are you, Lady Sensation?

2008-05-17T00:27:00.000-07:00

Your devoted blogger is up in the Bay Area yet again, wrapping up old projects and starting some new ones.

Big changes are afoot: moving, writing, careering. Change is certainly in the air. I know I'm not the only one packing up and moving residence this month. And even my one constant for the past year completely reinvented themselves outta nowhere. (RIP Dragon.)

It's an exciting time to be alive and I'll be back on track after the weekend.

I'm on a California mission. But, fear not, too much time away from the computer and I get the shakes.