Hyperkult

Photo credit: Gauldo, via Flickr

Five words, together so ambiguous except to the handful of friends who actually know the real-life referents that bore this Facebook status update. On a screen cluttered with links to songs I like, articles I find interesting, a 10-comment-long thread on Coachella 2010, and a photo of the book I’m currently reading, the text gets lost—lost in a trash heap of social networking miscellany that is supposed to represent me, the person.

“Strange week in coffee shops.”

About every six months, I have a full-blown Facebook anxiety attack, during which time I try—and fail miserably—to stay away from the website, wondering why I feel the need to broadcast my hunger pains (”Desperately Seeking Soba”) and other absurd fragments that have no business being on the internet. I do not see how, on a site where information is dispatched with Bloomberg ticker rapidity, the lives of my 300-odd “friends” could be enhanced by seeing a picture of my birthday cake.

The idea of nurturing online friendships is another issue altogether. There are unspoken rules to using Facebook. For instance, if a friend “likes” your status, you duly repay them by commenting on a photo, or something adequately reciprocal. Perhaps this isn’t done on the same day, but within a week’s time should suffice so as not to bruise anyone’s ego. And who, exactly, should you let into your online clique? I’ve just spent the past 24-hours scrubbing my Friends list of people I never speak to, don’t know, can’t remember, and so on. Nearly 50 innocent souls were lost in the process (sorry, Alain Macklovitch and Dana Cowin), and that was only a very hurried first-run. I will quit for the time being, but watch out this summer, because you could be next.

I take issue with the ways in which the Internet intervenes in our lives, but moreso with my complicity in the process. I’m concerned that we’re inundated with information for the sake of information, and that nothing meaningful sticks. I’m concerned that my online behavior is sometimes a cry for social approval. I’m concerned that experience is devalued in favor of recording said experience. I’m concerned that it’s all a terrible farce.

Having deleted my Twitter account months ago, I wonder if I’ll ever have the fortitude to axe my Facebook account for good, too. The answer is probably “no,” because I, like fellow addicts (admitted or not), get voyeuristic fulfillment from seeing what my “friends”—always in scare quotes—are thinking, feeling, doing, and I give them the same in return. I enjoy seeing the tiny red notification flag pop up in the lower right-hand corner of my screen, as if I’m the fucking Sally Field of the web.

Facebook, web-specific news outlets (more like aggregating tools and platforms for punditry), and yes, blogs, too, all belong to a family of new media that I am as apprehensive about as I am an active agent in ensuring their survival. The moment I become overtly concerned I’m living out a Huxley novel, I banish the upsetting thoughts and status update (verb) that I’ve just seen Jason Bateman at my local Peet’s (four comments, six likes).

Maybe I’m a neo-Luddite, don’t “get it,” or am just hopelessly uncool. All I know is, I derive far more pleasure from taking the time to truly breathe, participate in and ingest the world around me rather than worrying that I’m missing out on an online world that is mainly meaningless noise.

I value those indescribably wonderful moments that can’t be reduced to 140-characters or less, the richness of real-life conversations that GChat’s paltry window can’t contain, sitting down with a real, ink-and-paper magazine filled with articles that writers labored over—not some repost of a post of a thing that was seen on a blog. I find the bright light of my laptop screen blinding and somewhat paralyzing at times, and not just because I had my eyes dilated this week.

If I were to status update right now, I would have but eight words:

The road to hell is paved with tweets.*

*Pretty sure I stole this from my friend Chas, but at least he’s getting credit on my blog.

Jane Birkin in all her bohemian glory

Note: I wrote half of this yesterday and the other half this morning after waking from a Bordelaise and butter coma. My actual birthday was the 9th, but posting today gave me the chance to include a couple things I wouldn’t have otherwise.

Today is my birthday, giving me permission to be unabashedly indulgent for one day, and one day only. Truth be told, I prefer that these 24-hours pass with little fanfare, which is why I’ve planned a quiet dinner with a few close girlfriends tonight.

Since I have a free pass to be self-serving, though, I’ll use it to share a few of my favorite things in—you guessed it—list form. There’s no binding thread among what follows, save for the fact that I’m really loving, wanting, listening, thinking about, and/or admiring them.

1. The Savage Detectives by Roberto Bolaño

I recently read a description of this novel, about a crew of “visceral realist” poets on a madcap quest for an elusive literary heroine, that pegged it as Y tu mamá también meets Gabriel García Márquez. That’s somewhat accurate and perhaps complimentary, but also reductive. Unwieldy as its character threads may be, Bolaño’s writing is controlled and lyrically singular. The last time I felt this way about an author was when I picked up Murakami’s The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle, which I now consider sacrosanct text. Only 200 pages in, and I can’t wait for the next 400.

2. The xx, “Intro”

The xx was on many a critic’s Top [insert number] list of 2009’s Most Notable Releases. I wasn’t convinced the first time I listened to the album, but I’ve since come to like the group’s self-titled debut and love “Intro,” its succinct opening track. It’s become one of those songs I stop midway, then jump back to the beginning because I don’t want it to end. Hypnotic and moody, just like I like ‘em.

Photo credit: LuisaViaRoma

3. Rick Owens Padded Leather Jacket

If I could make sweet, sweet love to an item of clothing, this would be it. After trying it on earlier this winter, I can attest to the fact that it fits perfectly and feels like a sumptuous second skin. Now, who has an extra $1,500 they can spare (and that’s on sale)?

Photo credit: Future Classics

4. Future Classics

When I first saw this draped dress in person, I believe my first words were, “this shit is ridiculous.” And it is—ridiculously beautiful, coupling femininity with layered and intricate figure-conscious cuts. I appreciate designer Julie Wilkins’ nod to vintage clothing and the deconstructive edge of each piece, especially. And who needs jeggings when you have sexy, buttoned, stirrup-like leggings like those above?

5. Style a la Jane Birkin

When I get dressed, I’m usually channeling Jane Birkin to some degree, or doggedly attempting to. While I may not be able to pull off the signature bangs, the high-waist jeans, square mini-dresses, and slouchy boyish/feminine look I can do. Pout not included.

Garance, left, and me, right, trying to tame my Canon Rebel XT (ignore the disgusting stained mirror)

6. Garance Doré

Photographer, illustrator, partner of Scott Schuman (a.k.a., The Sartorialist), and the French woman I secretly wish I was. She’s a woman of impeccable style, with an effervescence that comes across in photos and her playful musings about fashion. Devoid of pretense, Doré’s blog offers a refreshing and simultaneously erudite take on what’s happening on and off the runway.

Photo credit: Neiman Marcus

7. Chloé Eau de Parfum and Tom Ford Champaca Absolute

My grandmother on my mother’s side was a rigid disciplinarian who sold fish on the streets of Manila to provide for her family—far from being a fashion or beauty maven in the traditional sense. I only know her through stories my mother has told me, one of the more memorable anecdotes being that she was never without designer perfume. How the woman, who was partial to Nina Ricci and Chanel No. 5, managed to get her hands on high-end fragrances in the face of dire financial straits is equally confusing and impressive.

She passed her love of perfume down to my mom, who in turn cultivated the same appreciation in me. Growing up, I remember my mother smelling of Yves Saint Laurent’s Opium, Coco Chanel, and Jaipur, and my own taste tends toward forward florals and spicy aromas. At the moment, Chloé is getting the most play in my scent wardrobe (because I do indeed have a wardrobe, including Jo Malone’s Nectarine Blossom and Honey for bedtime), but Tom Ford’s Champaca Absolute is at the top of my wish list. Did I mention it’s my birthday today?

Photo credit: Neil Leifer

8. The Annenberg Space for Photography

Located on the same hallowed grounds as the CAA fortress building in Century City, the Annenberg Space for Photography is one of my favorite places to spend an afternoon in Los Angeles. I typically like to come here alone (more meditative), and I’ve seen every exhibit since it first opened last year. My favorite of the three rotating collections was themed around L.A. photographers/photojournalism, the work of Julius Shulman and Carolyn Cole being standouts for me. Best of all, visiting Annenberg is free; you’ll only have to pay a meager $1 parking fee post-validation. I visited the space today to see the Ioose/Leifer exhibit and left with a newfound appreciation for sports photography.

Mmm. Caramel icing.

9. Lark Cake Shop, Silverlake

As this is being written post-birthday celebration, I can include Lark on my list. My friend Frances, having heard me endlessly prattle on about wanting to sample the Caramel Cake from this adorable bake shop in Silverlake, surprised me by bringing it to dinner at Café Stella. It was as fantastic and moist as I imagined it, the sprinkle of Kosher salt in between layers of white cake and caramel icing subtly balancing out its sweetness.

Photo credit: The Louvre

10. Lists

My obsessive-compulsive love of organization was recently reinforced by a segment that aired on NPR. Famed Parisian museum the Louvre has unveiled an exhibit about “The Infinity of Lists,” curated in part by Italian writer Umberto Eco. Eco believes lists, even those as mundane as the phone book, can be “poetic” provided the correct intent is present. And that’s where this particular list ends.