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.

I forgot my camera, so my friend's iPhone had to suffice.

It was some combination of dumb luck and benign universal energy that allowed me to score tickets to Thom Yorke’s secret show at The Echoplex on Friday night. Well, secret insomuch as L.A. Weekly tipped readers off to rumors of the show last Wednesday, and on Friday morning it was officially announced that tickets—all things considered, reasonable at $20—would go on sale at noon. Cut to: frantic text messages between my friend Luisa and myself, multiple browsers open to TicketWeb.com, and serendipity intervening to finalize the sale. A verbal stream of “Holy shit!” was all I could muster afterward.

By 7:30 PM, the line snaking around The Echoplex had reached critical proportions—long and filled with antsy fans muttering “Fuck, can we get in already?” My guess is that the unusual holdup had to do with crowd control and the CAA and VIP lists up front. Because, make no mistake, this was one of “those shows”: suited industry stiffs with ear plugs were peppered throughout the crowd, awkwardly shuffling their legs alongside the likes of Kim Gordon, Daft Punk, and the moody girl behind us who yelled something about needing a milk crate to stand on because we were too tall. The hype machine (figuratively speaking, not the website) was working overtime. I was more preoccupied, though, with the fact that we were actually there and about to see Thom perform for a crowd of a few hundred. “This will never happen to us again,” I kept uttering incredulously to Luisa. Granted, I can be hyperbolic at times, but when you’ve grown up listening to Radiohead and are about to see its lead singer preview new songs with his freshly-formed supergroup (including producer Nigel Godrich, Joey Waronker, Mauro Refosco, and Flea), “excited” doesn’t cut it as an adjective.

His set consisted mainly of tracks from The Eraser, which he went through in order. Live, the band went light on the album’s pervasive blips and bleeps and overally sleepiness, and made them much more danceable. I’ve seen Thom play Eraser songs prior, at least in fan-captured YouTube videos or the odd TV appearance, but I’ve never seen him so effervescent as a performer than Friday night, not even with Radiohead. We’ve all witnessed his frantic “Idioteque” moves, but imagine that flailing, crazed energy consistent over the course of an evening, punctuated by a schoolboy’s grin. What happened to our sulky Radiohead frontman?

I had heard none of the new songs before that night, and the immediate standouts were “Skirting on the Surface” and “Judge, Jury, and Executioner.” Post-show I’ve settled on “Feeling Pulled Apart By Horses” as my favorite. I blame the sexy, ominous bass line.

Driving back down Sunset after the show, Luisa and I could only describe the experience, the songs, and his palpable exuberance as so “Thom York-ie.” I count myself lucky to have beaten the odds, the wily scalper/hackers, and a catastrophic TicketWeb crash to have witnessed it.

Dawn breaking over Bon Iver

Last weekend went by in a dreamlike blur. Somehow, a friend and I managed to stumble from Disneyland on Friday to a birthday party at The London West Hollywood on Saturday night to Bon Iver’s once-in-a-lifetime sunrise show at the Hollywood Forever Cemetery, emerging with mildly scathed circadian rhythms and ravenous appetites. Luckily Joan’s on Third covered us on the hunger front, along with a couple other Bon Iver concertgoers with yellow wristbands matching ours. I vaguely remember an exchange with a fellow Hollywood Forever survivor while waiting for my food (Her: “Wasn’t that amazing?” Me: “It was amazzzzzing.”), but anything that happened after 9:00 AM was pretty much stricken from my sleep-deprived mind.

I’ve still got a small case of what I’m calling “graveyard cough,” but my scratchy throat is a small price to pay for a concert experience that I’ll never forget. Though the gates of Hollywood Forever—the “resting ground of Hollywood’s immortals”—opened at midnight, my friend Frances and I opted to take a disco nap at my apartment and show up around 4:00 AM. Fighting our way through Hollywood’s foggy streets and dodging a neon-clad male hustler yelling “You know you can afford me!” to passing cars, we finally crossed into a land of phantoms, headstones, and hoodie-wearing Silverlake hipsters.

We missed a screening of Bottle Rocket earlier that morning, a movie chosen specially for the occasion by Bon Iver’s Justin Vernon. But no matter, because there was a projection of Planet Earth on the mausoleum wall and hypnotic mood music to lull us into a half-meditative, half-delirious state. The band must’ve sensed how out of sorts we would all be, so they called on Buddhist monks—yes, actual Buddhist monks—to be our alarm clock at 5:30 AM with a blessing and chanting ceremony.

As if that wasn’t enough to settle us into a state of pure zen, the band then took the stage, launching into their work from For Emma, Forever Ago and the Blood Bank EP. I’ve always filed For Emma under “writing music,” or “hole me up in a cabin for the winter” music, which, actually, is just what Vernon did when he was recording the album. But live I wasn’t moodily swaying my head back and forth like I’m wont to do when Emma wafts through my headphones. Oh, no. There was a bit of strange seated dancing going on, some tapping of feet, and tempo-synched neck bobbing that I normally reserve for whatever mega-awesome remix I’m obsessed with at the moment.

Yet Bon Iver, all heart on stage, gave us the kind of magical melancholy that we all sleepily trekked there for. After a finale of “The Wolves (Act I and II),” the mostly ass-parked audience gave a standing ovation and Vernon left us with this cryptic note of thanks: “Thank you guys so much for making this so wonderful. You guys are so kind, for real. Let’s do it again, maybe—or maybe never again. I love that.”

I love that, too.

Stumbling through cemetery fog at 4:00 AM

Sleepy Bon Iver fans