If you like hilarious captions, you will looooove the website dedicated to deconstructing the hidden meaning behind Dwell Magazine photo shoots, finally giving woefully unhip pleebs the answers to the burning questions, “What is that hipster thinking? And why is he so unhappy?
Here is a taste.
“You can come out when you can properly explain the differences between Modernist architecture and postmodern ornamentation.”
Photo: Craig Cutler, Dwell, February/March 2006
Link: Unhappy Hipsters
For more, visit Unhappyhipsters.com. Just visit it already.
10 to 1000 is a monthly collaborative project between me and some of my favorite writer friends. I give them a photo. They write 10 to 1000 words about it, inspired by it, or loosely referencing it. Simple. The first to contribute: My dear friend, former roommate, and favorite redhead, Rochelle Bourgault of the newly launched and sure to be spectacular Yoga Rogue.
Feather in his Cap
by Rochelle Bourgault
I felt the camera on me, and for whatever reason, I decided to plant the kiss. It looks like I’m rolling my eyes, or half-assing it. It’s less damning than you might think. The eye roll was not deliberate. I just felt self-conscious. We don’t know each other that well.
I love how steadily he is looking into the camera. It’s almost as though he is saying to you, “This is all me.” I remember that his sweatshirt was very soft beneath my hands. It was made from that type of weatherbeaten cotton that feels vintage but was made in Vietnam three weeks ago. He pushed his sleeves up all night; they kept slouching down, and it was warm in the showroom. He was all ease. I secretly wanted the hat to go. But we had met a few weeks before at another show, and he had such a melodic voice, just talking. That eye contact that he’s making with the camera? That’s what he does to you, too, the first time he meets you. It’s a conversational page turner; you just want to hear what he’s going to say next.
That night, I saw him with one of the musicians, this gorgeous woman with short, wild hair, and he was doing the quicksand thing, pulling her in slowly, steadily, and I could see her eating up the attention. It was funny, it made him look vulnerable to me. Does that make sense? Instead of feeling like, “Shit, I am expendable,” I thought, “This is how he is; it is as natural as breathing for him. He needs the attention.” That plus the hat — I saw him 15 years younger, for a moment, unsure but charming.
My kiss, though? Just an act for the camera.
“What really knocks me out is a book, when you’re all done reading it, you wished the author that wrote it was a terrific friend of yours and you could call him up on the phone whenever you felt like it….” ~Catcher in the Rye
Silence, remembrance, and thanks to J.D. Salinger. You were one of the best, you wonderful reclusive genius, and I–among many, many others–are forever in your debt. In a statement from his family: “Salinger had remarked that he was in this world but not of it. His body is gone but the family hopes that he is still with those he loves, whether they are religious or historical figures, personal friends or fictional characters.”
May you find the peace you were looking for on the other side. And may you know the peace you brought to others by giving such truth to a character that, for a moment (or roughly 200 pages), we felt a little less alone. Thank you, Salinger. Thanks.
And some of my favorite quotes, by the master.
“The worst that being an artist could do to you would be that it would make you slightly unhappy constantly.” ~De Daumier-Smith’s Blue Period
“It was that kind of a crazy afternoon, terrifically cold, and no sun out or anything, and you felt like you were disappearing every time you crossed a road.” ~The Catcher in the Rye*
“I’m tired of people who don’t have the courage to be an absolute nobody.” ~Franny and Zooey
And my absolute favorite, which I found on Beliefnet, of all places: “The most singular difference between happiness and joy is that happiness is a solid and joy is a liquid.” ~J.D. Salinger.
*Disclaimer. To anyone who has the urge to comment: yes, I am aware that Holden Caufield was a pretty pathetic character. At the time I read Catcher in the Rye, I was a pretty pathetic character myself. Still am, on occasion.
Photo courtesy of some guy's Wordpress site. I'll assume he swiped it from someone.
I know I’m late to the party with this whole Charlotte Gainsbourg thing. For years the daughter of Serge Gainsbourg and Jane Birkin has been floating in my periphery; but I guess I got confused as to whether she was an actress or a musician or a starlet more famous for being famous than anything else.
Never mind that I’ve actually seen her in half a dozen movies and, though her performances were staggering, for some reason I never got around to IMDB her. No, I didn’t see Antichrist. I’ll get on it. Gad, stop looking at me like that!
Call me a dolt, but there is so much talentless progeny of creative icons out there; I get confused and throw up shields impervious to any sort of cultural osmosis whenever I hear a famous last name attached to a new first name. In this instance, I’m a total idiot. I admit it. I’m trying to change.
I first (knowingly) heard Gainsbourg on KCRW a couple of weeks ago. I had no idea who was on, but I loved the song enough to whip out my iPhone and Shazam it–because I had to know who it was AT THAT VERY SECOND.
Then, this week I read a recent New York Times article on her new Beck-produced CD, “IRM.” My favorite part of the article (I’m not missing the point, I swear.) is her mother’s quote: “She is she, not Serge, not me. But, sweetly she has our voices in her head.” It’s like a tiny poem that needs not one more sentence to complete it. It’s also a two-sentence parenting philosophy–just tape it above your kid’s bed and think about it every day. That’s all you’ll ever need to have a perfectly well-adjusted kid, right?
Anyway, since you probably missed her David Letterman appearance on Friday (and her drummer in a wolf man mask!), opting instead to watch Conan O’Brien’s swan song, give the kid a moment of your time and watch her charmingly shy, inherently cool performance–and watch Beck back her up on guitar and vocals–at the KCRW studio. You won’t regret it. Promise. They even do a little bit of insightful chit-chat at the end.
I met Megan Stelzer, the designer of these necklaces, last summer at a dance-party show in Kittery, Maine, a few weeks before I moved to Los Angeles. I had just taken up metal-smithing and had a hawk eye out for cool pieces to inspire me; she was wearing the coolest key necklace I had ever seen. I made a beeline for her, gushed over all things metal and inspiring, and a full-blown girl crush on this incredible designer was born.
If there was anyone I would recommend you have a crush on, it would be Megan. Over the past few months, she and I have kept in touch over Facebook and I’ve only grown to like her more. Not only is she wildly creative, whip-smart, staggeringly funny, and brimming over with warmth and purpose–and a super-fun dancer to boot–she has an incredible, indescribable, openness about her. It’s no mistake then, that a woman whose door is left wide open to welcome you in specializes in creating gorgeous key necklaces, much like the one that drew me to her many months ago.
Megan will custom-make an order using any key you want; these would be a perfect present to a child who moves away, but whom you always want to know is welcome home, or to boyfriend or girlfriend who has earned the keys to your place. Or just for someone who has unlocked something in you that’s been stowed away for a long, long time.
The keys aren’t the only beautiful pieces of jewelry Megan makes. She has a whole Etsy site. Take a peek. Feel the crush.
Photos courtesy of Megan’s Etsy site. I do not own any of these necklaces, alas. Sigh.
A trip to the Museum of Contemporary Art in downtown LA, with the lovely Mandy Sabine after she finished her Australia tour with Tiger Saw. Click on the images to view them larger and less… square.
After a late night of beef pho and Get Shorty at my friend Bob’s place, and a long morning of disastrous cookie baking, here’s hoping a few shots of caffeine will be a reasonable stand in for the effervescence I lack, as Ryan and I make our way down to San Diego to see The Peanut and Oceanside to see his family.
I swiped this espresso pot from my first apartment in Rome. I love this thing so much; it’s even earned a pet name from me. Ladies and gentlemen of the World Wide Web, please meet the lovely and talented Fiorella.
Having always had an aversion to espresso, I was more than hesitant when my Scottish roommate offered me a shot one night after dinner. What he served was unbelievable to my ignorant, American palate. What I’d always thought of as being akin to mud, both in taste and texture, brewed by the Scottsman was extraordinarily smooth, nutty, and sweet. I can’t remember that roommate’s name anymore, but he and his girlfriend took me through the steps of making a perfect espresso–using this very pot–as taught to them by their Italian housekeeper.
I’m a little ashamed to say Fiorella is nothing but a cheap proletariat whose provenance is the cheerful, exclamatory, mass-marketed world of Ikea. I could have easily bought an espresso pot just like her anywhere in Europe or stateside, but I was so successfully–and surprisingly–swayed into unparalleled fondness for Italian coffee that night, I was afraid if I didn’t own this very coffee pot I’d be subject to a life of discontent, where I’d forever compare every espresso I had to the one perked by Fiorella.
So, I dragged Fiorella in my roller bag across sloping cobblestone streets from one Roman apartment to another and, when the time came to return to the states, made the decision to ditch a perfectly good pair of red shoes in favor of making space for her in my backpack. It’s a decision I’ve occasionally been sheepish to talk about, but I’ve never regretted it for an instant.
I am a total and complete jewelry whore, of biblical proportions. Like, a total whore. You wouldn’t believe what I would do for gorgeous, hand-crafted jewelry. I sometimes don’t believe it myself, but I digress.
My jewelry obsession has taken me far and wide on the world wide interwebs, but never have I been so swoonfully (not a word, but it should be) in love with a designer as I have with Freshy Fig. I hesitated to even write about her, since I don’t want all of her stuff to get scooped up before I can afford EVERY LAST FREAKING PIECE OF IT!
I do a little bit of metal-smithing and jewelry-making myself, so when I find a designer whose art I want to utterly and completely plagiarize, I know I’ve found a favorite. Oh, Freshy Fig, you complete me. You really do. Hello, Freshy Fig… It is you I’m looking for.
*Disclaimer: While I love all of these pieces I hesitated to post my very favorites so as not to draw attention to them before I have the scratch to buy them. Sorry… no I’m not.
One of the great things about Los Angeles is the ever bourgeoning music scene: it’s a constant influx of new and eager artists, armed with a fervent drive to make their bones in Dream Factory, USA.
Courtesy of Lissie's Myspace page
Lately, it seems Los Angeles has become a hub to an ever-growing collection of alt country artists. Great timing for me, an ardent fan of alt country and Americana music. One blazing young star in Los Angeles’ ever expanding milky way of hopeful starlets is Lissie Mauris.
Hailing from Rock Island, Ill she relocated to LA about five years ago and now resides in Ojai. And having gotten herself in with the right people who knew the right people who knew the right people who knew the right people, she scored herself a touring gig with Lenny Kravitz without so much as a debut CD.
With all the promise and charm of a young Jewel (give me all the flack you want, “Who Will Save Your Soul” is a good song), but without a hint of the affected optimism or naiveté, Lissie’s sound revels in the catharsis of heartbreak before she kicks it to the curb and moves on in a “take no prisoners” sort of way, with her tar and nicotine soaked vocals.
After hearing her on KCRW back in November, I downloaded her new EP “Why You Runnin’”.. Listening to it is like taking a rambling roadtrip through the past five years of heartbreak and self-discovery in Lissie’s life.
The lyrics and music are great, but it’s Lissie’s vocals: a blend of raw refinement reminiscent of a Bonnie Raitt, Patty Griffith, Stevie Nicks, late-night, cigarette-smoking, slumber party that’s the real star of the CD. All of the songs are great, but the standout is a cover of Hank Williams’ “Wedding Bells”; a rendition so powerful and true it will send a chill down your spin, a knot in your stomach, and an ache in your heart.
Here, have a listen, why don’t you.
And here are some great originals that didn’t make it on her EP. Obsessed? Yes. What of it?
I have always loved Miss Piggy. As a kid she was both a role model and a kindred spirit. Strong and independent, yet deeply feminine and romantic–almost to a fault. It’s good to see that, though many years have passed since the grand Miss P has been in the spotlight, she’s still as relevant today as she was when I was a kid. Next, I’d like to see her take on Lady Gaga.
