Monday, March 22, 2010

on the art of pin-curling

Seriously. I was going to post tonight, but I totally don't have time. I'm going to attempt to pin curl my hair for the first time since the road trip. This is slightly nerve-wracking, because if I even mess up one curl, I end up with one long strand in the midst of a thousand tiny corkscrews. And ask me how difficult THAT error is to hide. And now that I'm actually working, I can't stuff it up into a hat. With pin curls, I either end up looking like the cutest little pixie just threw up all over me, or like someone who escaped from a mental ward. I'm hoping for the former this time, although the latter does have its value.

Thursday, March 18, 2010

St. Patrick's what?

So I forgot to wear green today, and not one person pinched me. I even tried bending over the dishwasher, but no luck.

I don't know how it is anywhere else, but in San Francisco, St. Patrick's Day is huge. I think it's right behind Christmas on the Most Beloved Holidays list. Everybody decks out--green clothing, clover pins that light and buzz, leprechauns everywhere. Menus showcase corned beef and cabbage and taps pour green beer. There's a buzz in the air and a lot of 'where are you going tonight?' A few people have asked how they celebrated SPD in London, but I don't remember even noting its passing, which leads me to believe they don't. Maybe because the English don't need an excuse to drink? 

In other news related to crossing the pond, Lealea just sent me this awesome blog. This guy is like man-me, except more thoughtful and kind. When I move back to London, I can tell we won't be friends. But in the meantime, I'm totally going to blog-stalk him.

Now if you'll excuse me, my awesome roommate's corned beef and cabbage is done cooking and we've got some (non-alcoholic, Grampa) Boddington's to bust out. Between this and the newest disc of Veronica Mars that just arrived, it's going to be a good night.



Thursday, March 11, 2010

on staying home, book lists, and why people shouldn't be allowed to use stone lions as exterior decor

I love being at home. I LOVE it. I love the quiet, open hours, I love the freedom of time and space, I love knowing that the time is mine and mine alone to spend as I will. Camped in front of the laptop? Reading in bed? Curled up on the couch with a movie? WHO KNOWS, IT'S MY NIGHT!! 

Speaking of reading, tonight I'm going to re-post an interesting list of '12 Authors Every Man Must Know' from an article from Esquire that a friend sent me. And while I know that doesn't make this a * real * blog post because I didn't * technically * write it, I don't want to forget this list, and this blog is where I put things I don't want to forget.

12 Authors Everyone Should Know, by Esquire:

Saul Bellow
Everything you need to know about what propels the American male: "I am an American, Chicago born — Chicago, that somber city — and go at things as I have taught myself, freestyle, and will make the record in my own way: first to knock, first admitted; sometimes an innocent knock, sometimes a not so innocent." The book to read: The Adventures of Augie March.

Raymond Carver
A car hits a boy. A woman licks whiskey off her lover's belly. Nobody captures the darkness and hopefulness of everyday America better. The book to read: Where I'm Calling From.

Cormac McCarthy
Because he tells a truth most don't want to hear: that man is capable of terrible evil.  The book to read: Blood Meridian.

Zadie Smith
‘prose so kinetic, it seems to break-dance’  The book to read: White Teeth.

William Faulkner
Sometimes you must see the world through a fractured lens.  The book to read: As I Lay Dying.

Flannery O'Connor
Because: "She would of been a good woman ... if it had been somebody there to shoot her every minute of her life." We all would. The book to read: The Complete Stories.

Stephen King
No writer knows more about our current cultural fears — the cold-war anxiety of The Dead Zone, the post-9/11 fearfulness of Under the Dome — than Uncle Stevie. The book to read: The Stand.

Graham Greene
Have you ever felt as though you can't trust anyone, not your friends or your lovers, not your boss, your family, not your god, not even yourself? The book to read: The Quiet American.

George Orwell
Because he is angry, uncompromising, and unapologetically political. The book to read: Down and Out in Paris and London

Philip Roth
He understands that at base, we're a nation of fearful womanizers. Plus, he wrote the only great novel to end with a guy getting poked in the eye with a fork. The book to read: American Pastoral.

Norman Mailer
Because behind the grandstanding — the run for mayor, the head-butting of Gore Vidal — you can sense that Mailer was as much a fragile soul as the last great literary man. The book to read: The Executioner's Song.

William Shakespeare
We all come out of Shakespeare's pen — every one of us, every one of our stories of revenge, of ambition, of baleful and nectarous and incestuous love. The play to read: Henry V.

In other, totally unrelated news, did you know that in Japan they thought that the 'Sharona' of 'My Sharona' was a certain, unmentionable male organ? It gives a whole new meaning to my name. Also, it makes me want to go visit Japan. I anticipate a warm welcome.

And last, but not least, the Photo of the Day. RAWR!

Hugs hugs and oh so many more hugs,

Saturday, March 6, 2010

on monster trucks, old men, and photo projects

People love pictures of old men. Old men and black children in poverty-stricken situations. Maybe it's because they inspire fear and awe and guilty relief? I don't know. But what I do know is if you walked up to the average person on the street with these two pictures below and asked for a preference, they'd just love my previous landlord. They'd remark admiringly on the first photo, yes, but ohhhhh look at the wisdom and years lined in that man's face. Maybe he makes them miss their grampa. Heck, he made me miss mine, which is why I kept breaking things and calling him for repair.

In other news, I'm meeting Heather--in the first picture--for brunch today. I'm trying out Hard Knox Cafe in my neighborhood for the first time. I'll try anyplace boasting 'authentic soul food' at least once. Notably if they have a ghetto website.

SF is going through a soul food obsession right now. It's just about the hottest way you can describe something: throw in the words 'southern,' 'soul food,' or 'creole/cajun,' and you've got a hit on your hands. I'm thinking I'll have to open up a soul food joint when I get back to London and make some cha-ching. If there's one thing I've got, it's a love for biscuits. And I don't mean cookies, Eng-rand. You're about to get schooled.

Speaking of getting schooled, I went to my first Monster Truck Jam last weekend. And at the risk of losing your intellectual respect forever, I LOVED IT. And not ironically, either, despite the fact that I went with a group of San Francisco hipsters sporting trucker hats and American flags. We ALL loved it. (I don't think they were truck jam virgins, though--they all had favorites, like Blue Thunder, or Gravedigger, which made me ridiculously happy. Just when you think you know somebody, right?) But really, I had no idea that mass destruction and huge, airborne trucks could excite me so much. And you wouldn't believe my disappointment that nothing caught on fire. My transformation that evening from a rational, thinking person to a girl thrilled with a rolling truck was complete.

And on other, unrelated themes...San Francisco has once again been acting like a fierce hot mess, and I can't stop loving it:

In even further items of note, I cannot be more excited by the news that Neil Patrick Harris (or NePa, as he likes to be called) will be 'coming to Glee, going to be evil.' That's right up there with the recent addition of Dr. Horrible's Sing-a-long blog to the instant Netflix queue on 'another reason to stay in on a Saturday night.' Although when the Saturday night offerings are this and this, that's a tough call to make. 

Yesterday I got into a discussion with a friend about this photo project I did centuries ago, 30 Portraits in 30 Days, and I realized how long it's been since I've done something like that. I tried--a couple years ago--to create an alphabet book for my niece PeyPey full of SF landmarks A-Z, but it ended up being too open-ended and I fizzled out right around 'J for Japantown.' I need something attainable, with a very specific start-and-end date. Maybe I'll keep it open for now--just '30 Pictures in 30 Days'--and see what happens. Unless of course you have some ideas?

Wednesday, March 3, 2010

Really. You owe me one.

So remember that trip to New York recently, when we spent that night on the town and saw Leslie's FANTASTIC comedy show about her wacky crazy awesome family, and we laughed until we peed in our pants? No? You don't remember that? Well, THAT'S BECAUSE YOU WERE DRUNK. So drunk you passed out, and I had to hold back your hair, and then later I had to console you and tell you that everything was okay, and not to worry because EVERYbody does that when they're drunk, even though really, NObody does that when they're drunk, but I didn't want you to feel bad. Listen, though: you can make it up to me. All of it. The only thing you have to do is VOTE HERE. That's right! Click on this link, cast your vote, and HELP LESLIE'S SHOW WIN THE FRIGID FESTIVAL AUDIENCE CHOICE AWARD! I mean, it's the least you can do. Especially know.

p.s. Because you were just THAT WASTED, I thought I should let you know the show's name is Vodka Shoes (that should ring a bell considering what you did later), we went to the show on opening night, the 25th, and our zip code was 10048 while we were in New York. I LOVE YOU!

Tuesday, March 2, 2010

Wait. I have a blog?

Holy cow, my friends. This blog is becoming a bit of a sporadic joke, isn't it? Posting once a week is totally not my blog vision. Either I've got to chin up and do a sentence a day, or just call the whole thing off.

There's a lot of random stuff happening round here in Rona Land. For example: I've had the same head cold for approximately six years now. I can't remember Life Before Kleenex. I can't remember when I ever stayed up past ten o'clock. I can't remember tasting food that's not coated in rooster sauce. Life is now a strange and fuzzy thing.

I took some photos of Heather last weekend, just for some fun portrait play. Don't tell her I put them up here since she hasn't seen any of them yet. Plus she'd kill me for pimping her out. Again.

Isn't she gorgeous? I pick beautiful models because they make me look good.

I'm going to get ready for bed now. It's almost nine thirty, and my narcolepsy/pizza coma is about to kick in. More pictures coming tomorrow of last weekend's Monster Truck Jam! And I've also got an update on the super awesome awesomeness of Leslie's latest show