Hyperkult

Icons for the ages: Belmondo and Seberg; Photo credit: Film Reference

Once again I’m guilty of blog neglect, which is a shame because there are so many creative, delicious (food-related and otherwise) things that I’m enthused about right now. I’ve often felt compelled to share them, yet haven’t been able to muster the energy or focus to write.

There’s the otherworldly brilliance of Flying Lotus‘ new album, Cosmogramma, the joy that Cinespia season brings, my overwhelming devotion to L.A.’s nonpareil beat scene, my obsession with Echo Park designer Clare Vivier’s gorgeous bags (in sumptuous leather and, for summer, smart-looking canvas), and the 50th anniversary re-release of one of my favorite films, Breathless. And that’s not the half of it.

In short, I’ve been busy, but with Hollywood Bowl shows, many a weekend trip planned, culinary explorations, and so much more in store, now is not the time to slacken my writing pace.

My sweet friend and savvy co-worker Sarah is someone that I’ve been looking to for blogging inspiration. Fancy Eats, which she co-writes with her friend Amanda, is the stylish duo’s online fashion and food diary. There you’ll find them musing about everything from Isabel Marant (love) to amazing ramen restaurants, and encouraging readers to “Eat Well. Dress Fancy.”

I recently joined them on a Fancy Eats outing to M Cafe de Chaya in Beverly Hills, which we hit up with our Blackboard Eats coupon codes in hand. I frequent the Melrose M Cafe far more often than I’d like to admit, never tiring of their Sesame Soba Noodles and Kale with Spicy Peanut Dressing. This time around, I was floored by the layered fudge cake, which tasted nothing like any dairy-free dessert I’ve tried in the past. It puts mealy, dry vegan pastries to shame with each thickly-frosted, dark chocolate layer.

Our post-macrobiotic glow; Photo credit: Fancy Eats

Meanwhile, Luisa—who is a great storyteller, easily my funniest girlfriend and one of the most generous, warm people I know—shares the things that she loves on Free the Inspiration. From philanthropic outreach to runway stills to short films, Lu consistently unearths cool things to share with the online masses. Her latest pet project is an audition tape she made for Oprah’s soon-to-be-launched network.

Considering how much Luisa manages to inspire me, whether through her creative endeavors or during long conversations shared over wine in my living room, this contest seems like it was designed for her. Of course I’m biased, but I think you should vote for Luisa—multiple times, if possible. She’s a lovely person whose individuality would really shine on a show of her own design. The concept: to get meandering adults in touch with their most deeply held dreams. Hell, we could all use that kind of help, and who doesn’t love a good makeover? Vote for Luisa by clicking here.

In other news, I’m still mourning the recent loss of Lala and searching for a suitable playlist alternative. Fairtilizer will have to do in the interim. Here’s a taste of what I’ve been listening to lately:

Related Links:

Major Lazer and La Roux Present Lazerproof (Mad Decent)

Over the Weekend: Flying Lotus at the Echoplex (LA Weekly)

See Vivier (Clare Vivier Blog)

After the rain, Napa, CA

As I’ve taken the time to slow down and refocus both my energy and attention span lately, my writing has slackened in kind. I’d expected to have something to say about New York Fashion Week (didn’t flip through one slideshow), the Olympics (missed them completely), or the upcoming Oscars (still haven’t seen Avatar), but the opposite is true.

There’s never a dearth of blogging fodder, just an occasional lack of steam to write about any one of many topics. Instead I’ll share something that held my rapt attention last week: a Human Media piece on editor, composer, and artist Tucker Stilley. I could wax philosophical about the powerful segment, but I think it’s best to simply listen, and that I’d probably spoil it with a wordy synopsis. So listen.

Though I’m something of a pop culture zealot, I’ve managed to miss out on many of the biggest entertainment phenomena of our time—often deliberately so. I’ve never seen a Lord of the Rings film nor read any of the books, don’t know what The Secret is, am vampire-averse, and, most offensively (depending on how you look at it), have altogether avoided Harry Potter mania.

Among Potterphiles, author J.K. Rowling is a veritable god. While I don’t share this enthusiasm, after watching her commencement speech to Harvard’s graduating class of 2008 I have garnered an enormous amount of respect for Rowling. And, to further prove that I am as contradictory as they come, I’ll admit that I discovered this video via my Facebook friend feed (perhaps a “repost of a post of a thing that was seen on a blog”).

Her speech, an earnest and thoughtful meditation on “the fringe benefits of failure,” resonated with me. Over the past year my own confrontations with failure have forced me to question my beliefs, motivations, and what continues to buoy my optimism in the face of shit-tasticness. We all need a little pep talk sometimes, and Rowling’s speech helped restore my waning faith this week. I hope it does the same for you.

Totally unrelated post-script: I stole this blog entry title from the show I’m about to see tonight—a triple-bill of Jogger, Daedelus, and Nosaj Thing. This remix is magical in its own right:

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.

From my favorite "Vogue" shoot of all time; Natalia Vodianova as "Alice," shot by Annie Leibovitz, December 2003

When NPR put out a call for its Facebook fans and Twitter followers to sum up 2009 in one word, the response was immediate, the theme, obvious. Last I checked on tha ‘Book, over 3,000 users submitted responses mainly lamenting the shit-tastic year that was. NPR’s Andy Carvin used Wordle, a fantastically entertaining visual language “toy,” to create a collage out of the results, revealing feedback along the lines of “ugh,” “crappy,” “bittersweet,” and “fubar” (”fucked up beyond all recognition”).

But there, lying smack dab in the middle of the colorful tag cloud was a beacon of hope: “change.” This was indeed the theme of 2009. While I agree with fellow Facebook users that the last year was “sucky” on many fronts, I also remind myself that change is inherently painful. It requires that we are jolted from all that is safe and comfortable, that we consider a wildly different existence—one that may make us “fitter, happier, more productive,” yet doesn’t promise a permanently blissful future.

2009 bequeathed me a layoff, romantic trysts gone awry, the unexpected conclusion of a friendship, and general malaise— inheritances which range from mild disappointments to wrenching stabs. At least, they have been edifying, and I write this today with a persistent, dopey sense of hope that things can and will get better.

I revel in the possibility that a new year, new decade, and in just over a week’s time, my birthday, superficially mark on calendars. When I started this blog, I ended my inaugural post as I readied to leave my apartment and hike Runyon Canyon, “hoping for a momentary break in the cloud coverage” as a symbolic cue that all would be okay. Now, in the early morning hours of January 1st, I’m throwing on my running shoes in pursuit of the catharsis that a few laps around Silverlake Reservoir offers. It’s clear outside.

We call this "The Danger Zone"

As I sat huddled under a blanket next to my space heater, laptop screen aglow in the throes of early morning insomnia, it occurred to me that I have a problem. Sleeplessness is one thing, but worse yet is the dangerous form of online behavior that I’m wont to participate in. I don’t troll for anonymous sex partners on Craig’s List or play Texas Hold ‘Em at 3:00 AM, but my eBay Watch List consistently spirals out of control, virtually endless in number. Right now it’s bursting with items I want but don’t need, however I might find a way to justify that vintage Dior belly dance belt, Junya Watanabe cape sweater, mustard yellow Ungaro leather skirt, and on and on.

I vacillate between being ashamed and unabashedly proud of my eBay savvy—skills honed since my first triumphant win: a magenta Marc Jacobs Sofia bag, named after the fashionable Coppola and purchased for $410 all told. Riri zippers signaled its authenticity, it came in a pristine white duster, not a pen mark sullied its interior, and I snagged it for over 50 percent off retail. My hands were trembling in the aftermath of bidding, and I struggled to calm euphoric heart palpitations as I drove to my film class that evening.

Here I am five years later, even deeper in the dregs of my addiction. My retail taste tends toward vintage clothing, and most of my eBay finds end up being loved pieces I wear to the point of damaging them. My favorite vintage pirate boots ($30) are in the shop being resoled as I type this, along with a pair of early 2000s Costume National booties won for $41.99, including shipping. When I shared that tidbit with my local “shoe guy” he blanched, saying I had brought in “the Rolls-Royce of boots” as he caressed the smooth Italian leather, appraised for at least $500.

I am cocksure of my eBay intelligence, having near-perfected the art of last minute-bidding and winning without the aid of an auction sniper. Yet the shame of conspicuous consumption has a way of plaguing me, especially when I see how many items have been put on Watch in a single week. However, very few of these items end up in my closet—maybe one or two per month at most. I tell myself it’s more an exercise in judicious spending, and my way of preparing for the auctions that I will actually rearrange my schedule to win. It’s loathsome.

I wrote this with the hope of thinking more rationally about my behavior, to combat my need for that post-win elation. Make no mistake, eBay-ing can drive you to a hallucinatory state, hence its appeal. A concerned girlfriend recently, jokingly asked me what void I’m trying to fill with occasional impulse shopping, a question I gave serious thought yet couldn’t respond to. The easy answer would the empty spot in my closet soon-to-be occupied by a high-waisted wool Libertine skirt, if all goes well today. And so the cycle continues to turn, turn, turn.

On a final note, to novice users who pointlessly bid days in advance, I’d just like to say that you’re fucking things up for the rest of us.

P.S. Obviously the scan-and-upload process kind of scrunched my writing. I’m too tired to link to Flickr.

Photo credit: Omar Omar, via Flickr

After a year-long run of critic’s screenings and what a friend and I call “The Junket Circuit,” I have to admit that I’m quite the apathetic filmgoer these days. I hate to call myself a former film critic, because I don’t think the title is accurate at all. While I feverishly punched out reviews at my old job, I was often disillusioned by the process and frustrated by the quickfire pace of internet publishing. I myself don’t really read film reviews—maybe the occasional Andrew O’Hehir, Anthony Lane, or LA Weekly article, but not much else.

What the job demanded I do was keep up with every theatrical film release known to (wo)man, from Quantum of Solace to more obscure fare like Reprise, a really lovely Norwegian film that quietly came and went last year. The fact is, during my tenure as an active member of the film journalist cabal, however low on the totem pole, I was uniquely wise to how the game works. You start to see things differently when you’re privy to the special dance that critics and PR reps do, especially when you’re a part of the sometimes-sordid process.

I was also spoiled. Free movies were a given, as were afternoons at The Four Seasons in Beverly Hills, eating really good pasta salad, swilling Pellegrino, then chomping on a chocolate chip cookie while waiting to interview Colin Farrell. I would often emerge from junkets with a stupid or nonsensical story to tell, like smelling of Colin’s cologne after our one-on-one (we never touched, it was just that strong); trying to escape a roomful of pervy porn journalists at the Girlfriend Experience junket, only to run into Larry Flynt at the hotel restaurant; or sitting down with Gael García Bernal at the Chateau Marmont, listening to him speak about how purposely singing badly (in Rudo y Cursi) was kind of like losing one’s virginity.* Those were the days.

Now, I feel really disconnected from film. What’s coming out this week? You got me. Someone had to explain what I Know They Serve Beer in Hell was to me, and apparently it’s some kind of vulgar cultural phenom. This is due in part to the fact that I don’t own a television (true story), but more because I don’t really care. It’s like someone’s poured a vial of “I don’t give a shit” tonic into my morning tea. I’m not sure what caused the shift, but movies just don’t excite me very much at the moment, and they haven’t for a while. My Netflix account has gone from “long dormant” to “cancelled,” and I’ll only pay to see something if a group of friends wants to go. Even then it’s more about the pre- or post-movie drink or milling around the Arclight bookstore afterward.

All this cogitating came about because I noticed that Lars von Trier, a director who I’ve long admired, released a new film in the States yesterday—a movie I have zero interest in seeing. If you’re at all familiar with von Trier, you know that watching one of his movies is often tantamount to emotional torture, but at least they’re well made and say something about life’s absurdities, heartbreaks, contradictions, and on.

Antichrist I’m judging based solely on the violent descriptions I’ve read online. Usually I’m much more diplomatic about this kind of stuff, but do I really want to see a film about a child’s death, the parents’ psychological undoing, and featuring a climax (literally?) of genital mutilation? The answer is a resounding “no.” I just don’t want to go there. I don’t wanna.

It’s not that I don’t want to be challenged—for the love of God, I wish more movies were challenging in a good way. This just sounds like self-imposed cinematic flagellation, and after experiences with Salò, Irreversible, and Funny Games (both versions), I think I’m over the whole “shock tactics for profundity” approach. Antichrist may be nothing like any of those films, but as moviegoers we’re blessed with the power of choice. Sometimes you’re in the mood for Gomorrah, and other times you need an afternoon filled with perennially-rerun TBS favorites; I’m talking Back to the Future followed by She’s All That, and maybe you’ll luck out and catch Robocop on one of the basic cable stations around dinnertime. Not that I know anything about this, because I don’t own a television. Sigh. So right now, I want less Criterion fare and more British Elle, scoops of sorbetto, re-runs of the O.G. 90210, sunshine, bunnies, et cetera. Jeanne Dielman will have to wait.

On the other hand, there’s always room for more 90210.

*I think I still have the tape of Gael saying this. I hope I do. At the time, it necessitated several rewind-and-relisten takes because I really am that pathetic and helpless when it comes to hot, Spanish-speaking men.

I love Swedes.

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