in case you haven't figured out...

My Blogging Type Is the Private Performer

Your blog is your stage - with your visitors your adoring fans. At least, that's how you write with your witty one liners. And while you like attention, you value your privacy. You're likely to have an anonymous blog - or turn off comments.

What's Your Blogging Personality?

tiny ghosts frighten me

Like it when I post photos and tell the stories that go along with them? Imagine a blog that only does that. But it's not a blog. It's a comic strip. It's not a funny-ha-ha comic strip, but one that's supposed to make you think. Really it's a two-sentence picture book, okay. Just check it out.

Happy, Chris? No seriously, it's worth checking out. It's some well-done photography from an overeducated man (if there ever was one) at the very least.

at long last

Last night ended six and a half years of waiting to see Jason Falkner play live again. I went to the Troubadour in West Hollywood all by my lonesome. Coyote Shivers opened. That was an experience for sure. Just ask me about it. I don't really feel like typing. But the best part was that the bassist had scary hair: imagine if a mohawk and a mullet had a love child on someone's head.

Back to Jason. I had physically seen him a week or so ago spinning records at Amoeba. Yes, I went in there knowing he'd be there, but not to gawk at him. Except I made a beeline for the cheap DVDs and he happened to be standing in front of them.

So I was standing front and center, which means I had the perfect view but could barely hear the vocals. He began the set that lasted for nearly an hour a half (including encore) with a new song "Stephanie Tells Me." Damn right I do!

It was truly a night of new tunes. I'm glad I went. But I think I overhyped it (in my mind) since it had been so damn long.

Here's something worth a chuckle: remember the guy I tried to hit on at the Posies show (with the nice jacket)? Well, I thought I saw him and his jacket at Amoeba when Jason was there. After seeing him at the show last night, I'm pretty sure it was him.

have you been cruising?

As someone fascinated by how gay men utilize space, I got a real kick out of seeing these no cruising signs on Griffith Park Blvd. the first time I drove up it to Trader Joe's. I swear in the nearly three months I've lived in Silver Lake the number of these signs on this street have shrunk to just this one. There are tons of no U-turn (midnight to 6 a.m.) signs along it, which I assume were companions to the no cruising signs. I mean, if you were to see a sexy guy on the opposite side of the street at 4:13 a.m. you'd surely make that U-turn to pick him up.

Silver Lake is still very gay--though straightifying by the day--and these are now vestigial signs from the day when this was far from a desirable neighborhood with gay prostitutes lining the streets so of course we needed these signs to clean it up. I just love how cruising is defined as passing the same point twice within 6 hours. Hell, I do that running errands!

The ironic photo is this one of the no U-turn sign with the bike lane notice. Ironic because if these no-U turns really are just to deter cruising then they signal the neighborhood's lower point. Bike lanes, on the other hand, are usually only found in "safe" neighborhoods where people would actually want to bike--whether for recreation or transportation.

the 88 survived christmas with ben affleck

You know it's a very lazy day when I willingly watch anything starring Ben Affleck. Maybe a half hour into Surviving Christmas I asked why anyone would want to make this movie. But I literally sat up and screamed "Oh My God!" when the credits started to roll and an early version of The 88's "Coming Home" began.

They are literally everywhere. Even in shitty movies.

magnum, p.i.

I know, it's been awhile since I blogged. Allie got on my case a few days ago about it, but I told her I didn't have anything blogworthy. Now I do. No, I'm not going to tell you how this became blogworthy--so don't even ask.

You know I love irony, so this really makes me chuckle and scratch my head at the same time. Men are obsessed with penis size. Each man is convinced he has the biggest dick on earth, and even if he knows he's not nearly so well endowed he pretends like he does (hell, it's actually more obvious when men aren't well endowed with those little signals I make fun of all the time). Okay, anyway, so men think they have huge cocks, but more importantly, they want everyone else to think it's huge. So, tell me, why are men (and I know more than one so it's obviously a phenomenon worth studying) who claim that regularly-sized condoms are too small, too tight, or whathaveyou embarrassed to buy magnums? With the way men behave you'd think magnums would be flying off the shelves--hell you'd think Trojan would only make magnums!

So I invite my male readers, preferably ones that exhibit this paradox, to leave comments that explain this. Come on, you know you want to.

adventures in karaoke

I had prepared to blog earlier, because I know that some members of my audience (ironically those who also experienced it, i.e. Anna) are dying to read about my karaoke experience last night. Then the phone rang. It's great that that happened because in the process of fidgeting (I do that when I talk period, let alone on the phone), I fixed my computer's sound problem. Which means I can be blissfully happy, bopping to music, as I write about this rather interesting experience--sort of helps with the vibe since that's what karaoke is about.

I had never seen karaoke live before last night. Sure I've seen it in the movies so I was familiar with how it works, but there really is a whole culture around this. I was very psyched to go and do it. Anna and Mike invited me out, and I hopped in the car (for the mindblowing mile drive...sad I know, but it's actually harder to walk to the place than that mile sounds).

I looked through the book, and while I was initially determined to do a New Wave tune, I settled on Redbone's "Come and Get Your Love." When my turn was called, I got up there and realized I don't know the first part of the song, but I was told that didn't come off too horribly. So I'm grooving, moving my hips to the music as I sing when a guy starts grinding up against me, basically freak dancing. I'm convinced it's Mike teasing me until the guy lifts his shirt over my head. I'm sort of in shock and don't really know how to react, I continue to sing, but I guess he thought I was giving him the cold shoulder (or ass, as the case may be) and stops.

Once I finish I return to my station to figure out who it was. Anna points him out, urges me to talk to him, but I have no idea what to say. He was cute, but as I would find out, drunk and only going to get drunker. So I go over there to talk to him, but as I put my hand on his back to get his attention, he starts humping this girl at the bar. I figure that's it, no big deal. But after some time passes, he keeps looking back at me and the various guys he talks to do the same. I'm told, "They're totally checking you out!" "Yeah, well, why don't they come over here?" I'm told I'm supposed to buy him a drink. Hell no I'm not buying him a drink! Mike decides he wants to intervene and buy the drink on my behalf (he caught a garter full of cash at a wedding earlier that day and seemed determined to spend it all there). I didn't think he should, but Anna tells me to let it happen. Well, it happens, he comes over, hugs me a few times, but I think there's some freaking out over the etiquette of who is buying and who is paying for the drink--or perhaps he really had no interest in me whatsoever. I'm totally fine with that. I figure that's the case, and I'm just thrilled I had this experience. In general I had a great time singing along, watching people. Karaoke is so much fun!

Out of nowhere my "fan" appears, on his way out of the bar. He pins me against the wall and starts to rub against me again (this time facing one another), and somehow I remember it as him humping my leg (at least that's how I described it to Allie on the phone this morning). I was in shock again and probably should have pushed him away (especially after I lost my balance a couple of times--and I didn't have a drop of alcohol!), but I didn't think it was going to last very long. It definitely lasted longer than any of us anticipated. I was also convinced he was going to grap my tits, but he didn't. He probably had a good enough view. And just before we separated, we rubbed cheeks and I got a peck.

I still don't know what to make of the situation. Allie says I was sexually assaulted! Nah, I live for such cheap thrills. They certainly do wonders for the self esteem.

what's your name?

What is with the Gap lately? The pants are too long. Still. I returned some stuff I bought online and decided to browse the sale (everyone knows you never buy anything full price there!). Tried on a pair of pants that just a few months ago would have fit perfectly. Not only do I think their waist sizes may be getting bigger (or somehow my post-Halloween binge on mini 3 Musketeers is shrinking me rather than maintaining), but the inseam is still too damn long. But this is not why I write.

I go to the fitting room and the employee asks my name so she can write it on the dry erase board on the door. I ask why they are now doing this, but don't really get an answer. I also tell her "Stephanie," and she says, "You too?" I guess the girl before me was also Stephanie (it's such a rare name, I can't imagine how that could be). But she only writes "Steph." So I wipe it off with my finger and say, "I'd rather it be nothing than Steph. This is why you don't ask people their names." I don't think she liked my response, but I really didn't like being labeled Steph. It's a life-long struggle of setting people straight. It's a tough thing to do without seeming bitchy, so I pick and choose my battles. Gap girl gets it, sorry!

Next time, I'm going to answer "I'd rather be anonymous."

i'm so tragically unhip it's cool, right? right?

I had this great plan. I was going to go to the Echo Park Film Center to see a political film. Not that the film really interested me all that much, but I thought this would be a great way to meet men. Yes, constantly on the prowl.

The film was to start at 8, so I hopped in the car and followed the directions provided by Google Maps that I committed to memory. But I had no idea where the place could be, so I gave them a rang and found out the damn thing sent me the wrong direction. And if I had remembered anyway, I knew where the place was on Alvarado next to The Downbeat Cafe, which I've been told is very cool. So I'm zooming to get there, then drive around a bit to get parking, but it ultimately wasn't too hard. I run over there, only to see that the people waiting for the film (listening to a poet) are women and middle-aged men. Damn. So I politely leave at the end of a poem. I walk back to where I parked, in front of American Apparel, and go into the store to look around. I've wanted to go in for awhile, but I was also looking for a magazine they're supposed to sell (no luck). It's amazing how expensive plain cotton clothing is when it isn't made in a sweatshop. On the way out, I picked up some free magazines (really high quality paper) and thought I might find some interesting stuff to hang in my mobile (one has some paper dolls, that'll be fun!).

I decide that I'm going to see about hanging out somewhere cool. I walk east on Sunset, thinking maybe Sea Level Records might be worth a go. But the stretch of road is a little uncomfortable since everything is closed two blocks before it. And after two creepy men checked me out, I decided that might not be the best idea. So I head west and then up Alvarado, thinking I can hang out at The Downbeat. I get there and there's all this moving stuff in and out. I look in and it doesn't seem like it's a happening place. Then I notice a small handwritten note that says "Closed for production." Ah, yes. That could have been my chance to see a celebrity, but I heard some woman ask how long it was going to take to set up the craft service--so celebrities were long away.

What's a girl to do? I walk back to my car, noticing a sort of sexy weird guy watch me. I should have smiled. Always in hindsight. So I get in my car and go to Fosters Freeze. God, that is the worst cone on earth.

sexy conservatism?

If you're a loyal reader, you must have seen me make fun of my Wall Street (Journal) economics professor. I can't believe I'm going to say this, but he is kind of sexy now. I think I'm starting to slowly understand the allure of (and reason) older conservative men go after young leftist women like me and think they're actually going to hook us. Now, don't misunderstand any of what I type to mean that I actually want to enter into any of this bullshit with him or anyone else. All those Ray Porters won't charm me into prostitution. Anyway...

He's sexy because it's the law of well-dressed men in suits. I didn't make a T-shirt that says "i ♥ skinny rock 'n' roll boys in suits" for nothing. He's not skinny and he's not a rock 'n' roll boy, but he does wear suits. Very expensive suits. And his shirts are fitted and monogramed. He also has very bold, cool (shocking really), expensive ties. I know these things are expensive because of the way they look, the way they fit, but he's also probably filthy rich. Last week he filled his vehicle with $6 gas just to say he did it (and to see the meter go past $50). He also made some comments about using the elevator in his house during the California energy crisis just to spite the powers that be who weren't using price signals to change energy consumption. I guess it's not surprising that there's money in economics (consulting).

I came to the realization of his sexiness this afternoon since he, for the first time, wore flat-front pants (navy-blue pinestripe, oh my god, what is better than that?) with a boot cut. This is what pretty much all men should stick to. He's always wearing pleated pants that taper slightly, and thus give him the illusion of big thighs, forming a big round area along with his gut. I can't tell you how good his legs looked in these pants. I wish I had my camera.

[Oh and he's not as annoying as you'd think an unabashed conservative market-lover would be. He's actually funny and very aware of his mostly liberal audience.]

is the bubble bursting?

Housing supply is up and demand is down in the Washington area. hmmm...

warhol's pittsburgh

I like Karrie Jacobs. More often than not her articles on Metropolismag.com are brought up here or linked or whathaveyou. This is a rather interesting look into Warhol, especially his time capsules. I have to admit, when I heard about them, I was pretty intrigued as well. At some point when I was a kid I was obsessed with this idea of leaving behind some sort of ordinary time capsule.

Now I wish I was in Pittsburgh. So damn close Carnegie Mellon, but then that'd also mean I'd have a history (as in history department) Ph.D. Not so sure that would be cool, but living in a reimagined Pittsburgh would be. And I'd have definitely made it out to see Fallingwater. Though it is kind of cool that I actually live about a mile from a Frank Lloyd Wright work (Hollyhock House).

This was a really lame blog, I know. I felt obligated to write something but it just didn't turn out as I had hoped.

you cannot be serious...

From The Bible's News:

Gallo Offers Sperm for Sale
An internet site is offering controversial film maker Vincent Gallo's sperm for sale for $1 million. VGMerchandise.com - which calls itself "the official website for Vincent Gallo merchandise" - includes a detailed agreement whereby wannabe mothers can pay for Gallo to inseminate them by in vitro fertilization (IVF) or even naturally for an extra $500,000, a fee it alleges he will waive if he deems the woman attractive enough. The site details the actor/director's physical attributes: "Mr. Gallo is 5 feet 11 inches and has blue eyes. There are no known genetic deformities in his ancestry and no history of congenital diseases. If you have seen The Brown Bunny, you know the potential size of the genitals if it's a boy (eight inches if he's like his father)." It also recommends his sharp features would "blend well with a softer, more subtly featured female."

boycott target, yes, seriously

From "Savage Love" this week:

STRAIGHT RIGHTS UPDATE: There were two disturbing developments in the battle over straight rights last week. First, we know that Target fills its ads with dancing, multi-culti hipsters giving off a tolerant, urbanist vibe, and runs hipster-heavy ad campaigns positioning Target as a slightly more expensive, more progressive alternative to Wal-Mart. Well, as John Aravosis revealed on americablog.org last week, Target's politics are as red as their bulls-eye logo. The chain allows its pharmacists to refuse to dispense birth control and emergency contraception to female customers if the pharmacist objects on religious grounds. What's worse, the company claims that any of its employees have a right to discriminate against any of its customers provided the discrimination is motivated by an employee's religious beliefs. Read all about it at americablog.org and plannedparenthood.org.

Second, more troubling news from Tucson, Arizona, where a 20-year-old rape victim called dozens of pharmacies in town before she found one that stocked emergency contraception (EC). "When she finally did find a pharmacy with it, she said she was told the pharmacist on duty would not dispense it because of religious and moral objections," reported the Arizona Daily Star. Emergency contraception, the story continued, "prevents pregnancy by stopping ovulation, fertilization, or implantation of a fertilized egg. The sooner the emergency contraception is taken after intercourse, the more effective it is."

Don't just sit there, heteros. Defend your rights! Don't shop at Target, and write 'em and tell them why you're going elsewhere. (Go to target.com and click on "contact us," then "Target Corporation.") As for Fry's Pharmacy in Tucson, the shop that wouldn't dispense EC to a freakin' rape victim, the fundamentalist pharmacist claims it's her "right" to not do her fucking job. Well, you have a right to free speech. Call Fry's at 520-323-2695 and ask them why the fuck a pharmacy that won't dispense EC keeps the drug in stock. Do they do it just to torment rape victims? ("Oh yeah, we've got EC—but you can't have any. Don't you know that Jesus wants you to bear your rapist's child?") Rise up, straight people, and demand your rights!

there's good reason why...

I've never noticed Mirabelle's bizarre apartment building. Only a sliver of it actually faces Griffith Park Blvd. (which is its address). When I have time I'll peek around and see if I can get the views they showed in the movie. It's about three blocks north of where I live.

shopgirl

I recently returned from a showing of Shopgirl at the ArcLight, which you know I've been eager to see. It was fabulous, and I do recommend it. However, two near-fatal flaws in the movie (meaning that if I didn't have preconceived investment in it, I'd have discounted it quite a bit):

1. The score is horrific. The music itself is fine, but it doesn't belong in this movie! I felt like I was watching a futuristic sci-fi thriller (think Gattaca), and actually elements of the aesthetic sort of gave me that feel (let's just say the night sky was a lot clearer than it really is in Los Angeles).

2. Steve Martin's voiceover narration is completely unnecessary and it hurts the work. Nothing he says isn't said with images--and better.

But I have to say that thank god it took forever for the film to come out because that allowed me to see it in Los Angeles. I can't even describe how geekily happy it made me feel to watch a movie that was filmed in my neighborhood (Silver Lake, duh). Seriously, so many places I pass on a daily basis. While I never even noticed it, I drive past Mirabelle's apartment complex all the time (it's on my route to Trader Joe's). The uniqueness of the building (horribly designed from a circulation standpoint--sort of the dingbat from hell) isn't apparent from the street facade.

why it might suck to keep an east coast cell number...

You could get woken up very early by a wrong number. More than once in the same day.

I've gotten a couple of calls in the last few months asking for so and so, and I tell the caller she (yeah, it's always women) has the wrong number. And it's always people with Maryland area codes (240 or 301). Yesterday this happened late morning (afternoon in the east). But this morning someone called at 5:10, woke me up. I answered, but it was nothing but noise. Hung up. Same person calls again, again only noise, hung up. The moron calls a third time, but I let it ring and go to the bathroom--hoping that when the voicemail reveals my identity the idiot will get that s/he has the wrong number. I get back in bed, and the sound alerts letting me know I have voicemail. Voicemail from a wrong number? So I check, and again it's a really long period of odd noise (like something out of The Ring possibly) and at one point a human noise. I deleted it without listening to the entire duration. But what does this tell me about this moron? Doesn't just dial the wrong number three times, but apparently has no clue how to use a telephone to communicate.

Of course I have trouble getting back to sleep, which is only made worse by the fact that I went to bed after 1:30 after being up a really long time. I've finally fallen asleep when the phone rings again, just after 7. At least this time the person spoke (and it was a different number). I told her she had the wrong number, but she said she was calling because my number appeared on her cell phone. How on earth did that happen?

fosters freeze v. dairy queen

I had my first Fosters Freeze experience this evening. Ever since I got here and bemoaned the lack of Dairy Queen, I was told that Fosters Freeze might be a good substitute. Well, I went to one inside an El Pollo Loco so it had a limited menu (I assume...and hope). I decided to try the dipped cone. They only have chocolate (and I'm a DQ cherry fan), but I have to say it was pretty good. It's french vanilla ice cream and the chocolate coating wasn't too bad. I'm not a fan of dark chocolate so I'm never going to be thrilled with these things. Though I have to say the cone was absolutely disgusting. In general I think that of cake cones, but this one was particularly gross.

I still think IKEA has the best ice cream (really frozen yogurt) in the area (yucky cone, though). And you can't be it for $1!


How exciting was that post? I've been up for nearly 17 hours working constantly, cut me some slack.