Who me?

j at Ninja Newflash gave me my first ever blog award. I nearly jumped out of my seat with joy (in the middle of Peaches, a packed frozen yogurt place with wifi.) Thank you, j. You, and this fat free vanilla with blackberries, have officially made my day. 

The Honest Scrap Award rules are as follows:

1. “The Honest Scrap” award is not one to hold all to your self but it must be shared!
2. The recipient has to tell 10 true things about themselves in their blog that no one else knows.
3. The recipient has to pass along this prestigious award to 10 more bloggers.
4. Those 10 bloggers all have to be notified they have been given this award.
5. Those 10 bloggers should link back to the blog that awarded them.

A few people in the universe may know things on this list. But since I'm kind of the "open book" kind of girl, it happens.

1. I used to relate to Holden Caulfeild, but now I'm more like Bridget Jones.

2. The first time I touched a penis, I was 3. It was my best friend's. I was just curious.

3. The first time I touched a (vagina other than my own) was also one of my best friend's. I was much older than 3. I was just curious.

4. Everyone who knows me knows I'm disorganized. But I'm even more disorganized than I appear.

5. Last night, I talked to a boy for an hour on the phone. When we hung up, I wrote for hours. It feels good to be inspired again.

6. I got a Brazilian at a new salon today, closer to my new home. The specialist kept asking me if I was OK, because I looked like I was "thinking hard." 

This is not an uncommon phenomenon, nor is it one that occurs solely while hot wax is being poured onto my nether regions. People always seem to think I am "thinking hard." And usually, I'm just thinking about Muppets, or where to buy frozen yogurt. 

But this time, I was thinking about Billie Holiday, because "Gloomy Sunday" was playing. 

And I was thinking about what music would be like if she was around just a bit longer. 

And at the same time, how I hate when people try to predict these things on a grander scale.

And then I remembered this magazine article (I want to say it was in Details, but I'm not sure) that pissed me off a couple of months ago, where the writer tried to make the case that Kurt Cobain would be in TV commercials if he were still alive today.

And how lame and predictable and disrespectful the whole article was. 

And how, even though we are individuals living in an increasingly materialistic society, we are still individuals, and we are not victims. 

And how we still make choices. 

And while I cannot say with any certainty that if Kurt Cobain were alive, he wouldn't have his own plaid shirt line, I can say with complete certainty that Kurt Cobain is not alive. 

And that it's wack to try to frame him as some pawn moved by the times, because he was worth more than that.

And while I don't like that particular presumption about his place in our current internet culture, it's natural to wonder what music he'd be making today. 

And where Dave Grohl would be, for that matter.

And where so many musicians affected by his death and life and music would be. 

And even where I would be.

And that brings me back to Billie Holiday. 

And I remember how, when I introduced my ex to the wonders of her music, "Gloomy Sunday" was his favorite.

And then the specialist said "are you OK?" again, and I began to wonder what other women think about while their legs are suspended in the air and a stranger inflicts pain upon their most private part.

7. My power animal is an awkward turtle.

8. The first movie I saw in theaters was A Muppet's Christmas Carol, in Brooklyn Heights, with my dad.

9. The first R-rated movie I saw in theaters was Romy and Michelle's High School Reunion, at Celina Blackwell's birthday party.

10. My first threesome did not "work."

My Honest Scrap Awards go out to:

1. Your Beard is Good, for his "about me" section: I live in and LA and don't work in the "biz". Does this make me normal? No? Does anything make me normal? No. At the risk of making this sound like a myspace profile I like mini horses. A lot.
2. The Girl with the Pink Teacup, because I read all of the Sunday Secrets she posts, but I want to read some of her own. Also, because she is an awesome Australian.
   
3. Tennyson ee Hemingway, because he recently wrote a post that made me oh-so-happy to be a blogger. And he's another awesome Australian.
   
4. Hip-ster-krit, because "pretending we're not hipsters is what hipsters do best" is honesty. Also, she's hot.
   
5. Mr. London Street, for this post alone (Please, tell me all of your secrets.)
   
6. Baking with Plath, for being my internet crush.
   
7. Mysterg, because I enjoy the contents of his mind. 
   
8. J-Money, for hilarious anecdotes. And for drinking as much Diet Coke as I do.
   
9. i capture the city electric, for purely poetic words and great taste in music.
10. Baby Sinead, for posting retro porn and being a fellow survivor of Mahopac High School
11. ** Honorable mention (so I don't break the rules)**: Anonymous. For being "anonymous."

Now, I will walk home in the rain feeling special, and hopefully not killing my MacBook.

Hyperbolically Speaking.

So, 500 Days of Summer is one of the greatest summer films ever. But for me, it was also pretty painful to sit through. 

You know how I admitted that Away We Go made me so optimistic about the future that I  could (and did) cry?

During this movie, I felt so shitty about the past that I could tear my hair out to the tune of "Please, Please, Please, Let Me Get What I Want."  

Also, there was a wonderfully realistic almost-ending. Followed by a tacked-on, tackily-optimistic real ending. 

And no, that's not a SPOILER. In fact, if you have yet to see this, please, please, please leave the theater fifteen minutes before it ends. You don't have to watch the clock. You will know exactly when to get out of your seat when your entire body is overcome with misery.

 So, um. Moving on. I felt much better after riding The Cylclone.

 

(Highlight of the comments : "We used to wonder, WTF, did they close it down and hire a bunch of white actors for the day? ")

And now an excessive amount of Youtube gold:

(If I can teach my future dog to do this without breaking any animal cruelty laws, I'll be a happy camper.)

(I love her. And this.)

So that was (very vaguely)  my past few days. Let's ease into today:

and

(Thanks Lauren, for the link to this one.)

I'm weather depressive, I guess. And not in the Shirley Manson way.  I'm never happy when it's complicated, and I certainly won't appreciate it if the sun doesn't come out tomorrow while I'm moving.  Because a girl's gotta have some symbolism, every now and then.

This is why you're broke.

Things I adore, but can't afford:

One can costs $2.50. Which is affordable (but still absurd) if you don't drink 3 of them every morning. I'm glad I kicked this habit. But I miss you, Red Bull.

"Behind every good man there is a woman, and that woman was Martha Washington, man, and everyday George would come home, she would have a big fat bowl waiting for him...she was a hip, hip lady, man."

Escargot. Bottle o' wine to the face. Perfect dinner. 

Morimoto in Chelsea. I went here with a "male suitor" (one of my favorite terms). The sashimi comes in five-layered towers with 5 different sauces in squeeze tubes. Like a delicious science experiment.  Don't even get me started on the cocktails. Or what the bill came to.

Living a double life between Paris and New York.  

I have a thing for hotels. Even in my own city. Or especially in my own city.

I can no longer take a week off of life to sway on fields with thousands of people (who have pupils the size of quarters), eat at Pancake Pantry, and get Jack White's sweat on me. 

There is nothing wrong with celebratory champagne. The problem is that I like to celebrate things like walking 5  blocks without tripping and memorizing half of "It's The End of the World as we Know it (And I Feel Fine)." Also, I prefer the good stuff.

You know that pre-teen boy crazy stage? It's happening ten years too late. Sorry guys. Bear with me.

Page from my Notebook: I always cry at endings.

(I am sort of in love with the person who made this video)

Ipod Shuffle, you have me figured out today. I applaud you. 

This song reminds me of watching Forgetting Sarah Marshall with my dad when he was in the hospital. 

It reminds me of sending a text to a friend when I was having a bad day, and receiving a playlist of feel-better music in response. 

It is by far my favorite Belle & Sebastian song, and will play at my wedding or funeral. Whichever one happens first. 

Fuck breakup boxes, man**. I don't really understand them. It's like trying to erase memories, which is impossible and lame. You cannot remove the effect someone has on your life, let alone stuff it in a box. 

And what goes in the box? How about the story I wrote and never showed anyone about a purple haired girl named Veronica who had superpowers she only used to embarrass bridge-and-tunnel toolbags who hit on me in bars? 

How about the aftertaste of Jager bombs?

The opening notes to any and every Led Zeppelin song, and "Razorblade" and everything written by or vaguely resembling Kimya Dawson? 

I can't eject these from the fabric of my mind, let alone fit them in a cardboard thing that says "Westchester Wines" on it. Also, I don't really want to. So I'm starting a fuck-breakup-boxes revolution. In 60 years, we'll be dead or mad old or we'll forget each others names. So let's hold onto the past while we still can. Fuck breakup boxes, man.

**DVDS and Books are an entirely different story. And if you are confused at the placement of this rant at a time when I am single...well, you should be. 

I saw Away We Go today and cried for the first time in 2 months.

Besides 

-an amazing cast

-a someone-falling-on-their face joke perfectly placed in an otherwise intelligent movie

-a poignant scene involving a strip club in Montreol and "Oh, Sweet Nothing,"

and

-writing that's both touching and funny,

I really just liked watching protagonists I realistically want to be in ten years. And I may be in a hyperbolic afterglow, but I relate to Maya Rudolph's character more than any character ever. 

Jeremiah took me to a romantic movie knowing I hate romantic movies, 99% of the time. But that's because I (usually) either see through the formula or don't believe in the romance. In Away We Go, it was natural. The characters weren't perfect in the beginning or the end. But they were perfect for each other the whole time. And they weren't fucking 20. All of this was very comforting to me. Especially as someone who is scared of falling in love and having kids just as much as I want to fall in love and have kids, eventually.

So, in terms of the review the lovely Lauren asked for, I can only say this: 

1. It is not for everyone, but it is definitely for me. 

2. The writers, Dave Eggers and Vendela Vida, are clearly head over heels in love. 

3. The soundtrack is perfect.

4. "Write this in stone, in your heart: I will love you even if I can't find your vagina."

I'm using a machete to cut through red tape.

After not sleeping for three days, then banking 12 hours last night, I feel fantastic. Temporary sobriety looks good on me. Mostly because I don't eat waffle fries at 3 a.m. in Penn Station while sober. I plan on extending my week off the drink until the 1st, which will make my return to the whiskey wagon, moving to the west side, and stumbling down Amsterdam with Lady Hemingway as epic as it should be. 

Also, speaking of the extended Hemingway family, one of my favorite Australian bloggers, Tennyson ee Hemingway, invited me to invite you all over for dinner--a fantastic idea started by Mr. Condescending. Of course, I am going to wait until August and show y'all my new crib: "this is where the magic (usually doesn't) happen!"  

I will also be tagging other bloggers I love. My newest love: the girls behind The Dirty Whore Handbook. "The quickest way to a man's heart may be through his stomach, but the quickest way to his pants is through Jager Bombs." Yes.

I was one of those people that piss me off today. I ate my veggie sandwich on the F train. It was empty, so it wasn't the making-love-to-smelly-Indian-food-on-a-packed-train scenario, but still. Check out more "Things That Are Annoying (Unless You're the one Doing It)" at Secret Society of List Addicts. And Phelps, for the record, I freestyle with jalapenos, olives, lettuce, tomato, red peppers and provolone. Accompanied by Diet Coke.

My close-to-the-soul song of the day is "Trouble" by Elliott Smith.  I would include a Youtube link (as well as the link to the priceless Cake video for the song referenced in the title to this post), but I am currently on the DJ-computer at The L, and it would clash with The Clash.  So look it up, and feel calm and happy and sad.

I'm driving The Burbs tomorrow to see Away We Go, and then sneak into Up, with Jeremiah and his mom. Please, tell me I'm not the coolest chick you (sort of) know. 

Every time is an “uncertain time"

I wrote these lyrics today and I want a cute girl with an acoustic guitar to use them in a song, record it, and send it to me, please. Cute dudes with falsettos are also acceptable.

I held your hair back to drain out the blue

But the truth is, I was just jealous of you

Jealous of your heart, all broken in two

While mine was just painfully

Painfully

Painfully

Solid.

Ok, moving on. This blog has a theme. A political theme! Well, a lack of a political theme. I do not follow politics anymore. I read reviews of TV shows on cable networks I don’t even receive, yet I flip past any news remotely connected to dudes in suits. I know, how juvenile.  It’s not that I don’t care, entirely. I just can’t connect. My brain feels like a computer with so many illegally downloaded files that it takes 25 minutes to load something as simple as Microsoft Word. 

There was a time when I considered myself an activist, sort of. Ok, I always disliked that word, but I shouted at rallies. I tried to take on my entire Republican high school in a debate about the 2004 presidential election (sorry I didn’t win it for ya in Putnam County, Kerry). I tried to know everything about everything.  Now I feel most at peace when I’m disconnected. And not because Obama is Superman and I have nothing to complain about. He’s not and I do. But the last thing I recall saying about our president was “I’d hit that.” In reference to a threesome with Michelle.

My friend Cojapelli recently described my generation as lost. This has been said about almost every generation. But that’s because it’s true. He said we possess both apathy and attitude. I said it was more apathy with an attitude. But the truth is, I’m not sure I personally possess either of these qualities. Sometimes, I am uncertain about everything, save for the fact that I am certainly lost, following myself around like a puppy. Or a butterfly. (Diversion from non-political theme/backstory: When I was working at a health food restaurant on the Upper East, a fortune teller with a turban walked in. Without explanation, he walked up to the counter, took my hands, looked me in the eyes and said "Your soul is a butterfly." This is the only thing I can claim to truly know about myself. But lately I feel like a butterfly fluttering around Plato's Cave. The fortune teller also gave me these weird dried berries for good luck. End of diversion/backstory). I’m not “waiting on the world to change,” like that godawful song, I’m waiting on myself to feel things again. Because the past year has been pretty numb. And uncomfortably numb, ever since I gave up my morning bong rips.

Thanks for letting me ramble. I’m now blasting James Brown throughout The L offices in an attempt to get on the good foot.

I'm a little bit in love with you.

I am obsessed with those Subway ads where Michael Phelps says "I freestyle with banana peppers" next to a photo where he is grinning like a (stoned, slightly deranged) school boy.

I want to plaster the walls of my new apartment entirely with these ads, though the slogan would better suit this photo:

I freestyle with banana peppers. Bitch.

Tonight was my second night without drinking. While cleaning/packing up life, I found an amount of beer caps that...well, the beer equivalent could kill at least three humans and/or Grizzly Bears. This summer has been a bit rough. But "I'm beginning to see the light."  

Here is my cleaning playlist. If you are reading this, post yours, and leave a comment letting me know that you did. If you don't clean, get off your lazy ass. If you don't have a blog, post the whole list in the comments.  And count your beer caps.

1. "Black Butterfly"--Laura Veirs

(Should be this blog's theme song)

2. "Bizarre Love Triangle"-- Frentel

(Amazing cover #1...the first line kills me)

3. "Heartbeats"--Jose Gonzalez

(Amazing cover #2)

4. "Captain of Quarantine"--Shannon Wright

5. "November"--Azure Ray 

(two ex-Bright Eyes bitches that I found thanks to my bitch, Pandora.  I love the line "I was afraid to be alone, Now I'm scared that's how I'd like to be.")

6. "The Arsonist"--The Extraordinaries

(this video is obviously official!)

7. "Here She Comes Now"--The Velvet Underground

(See Nirvana for amazing cover #3)

8. "Sustain Pedal"--Kathryn Williams

(My wish on 11:11 will be to have sex to this. But shit. I missed it.)

9. "Election Day"--Heikki

10. "Birthday Present"--Mirah

(Please, please, turn away from this video while listening to this for the first time. It's the only place I could find it on these damn internets.)

11. "Little Bit"--Lykke Li

12. "Go on, Kill me"--Liz Pappademas

13. "Lights out"--Santogold 

(oh, excuse me, SantIgold. Ugh.)

14. "I Fire Myself"--Mary Timony

15. "Anthony"--Nickel Creek

16. "Did You Drive"--The Blow

17. "Mr Tough"--Yo La Tengo

(This song makes me happier than Phelps in those ads)

18. "Backside Grind 2"--Plan B

19. "Silver Springs"--Stevie Nicks

20. "Wraith Pinned to the Mist and Other Games"--Of Montreal

I'm psyched to reorganize my life and read your playlists. The latter more than the former, since it requires less effort.  

xoxo Hannah Miet

Ballin'. As in crying. But not really.

Dear Abby,

My French pen pal is no longer sending me postcards that are signed "French kisses" in a way that may or may not be intentionally ironic. 

Was I snail mail dumped?

And if I send another letter, will I be the equivalent of that dude? (Trust me, ladies,  you know at least one of those dudes).

I really, really do not want to be that dude.

HELP.

French Kisses,

Très confondu

P.s. Abby = anyone reading this.

P.p.s. I didn't go on Iwantahotfrenchdude.com.  I met this dude in France, and I'm supposedly showing him New York in Fall. Emphasis on the supposedly, I suppose. 

So, since the surgery, how's that ghost limb?

One of many, many strangers whose art I want to fuck (read: not the stranger, ...persay...the art) is Nikola Tamindzic.

His blog just reminded me of my love for this:

Random Rant of the day:

It's really a shame there are no beer vending machines. 

I am starting my week of sobriety a day early, but I wouldn't be

if I could get ice cold Guinness in my lobby.

If I were mayor of planet Earth, there would be beer vending

machines everywhere, and everything would cost a dollar. 

Even James Franco.

Edits: So in order for this beer vending thing to work, 

there would need to be some personal ID system in the machines.

That way, people in AA and 3-year-olds with erections

would be excluded. And since that freaks me out in the 1984 

kinda way, it's probably not the best idea. 

Also, James Franco should probably cost 2 dollars.

More of an addition than an edit: I am angry at Pandora for being 

awesome and coming up with "Mayonaise" by The Smashing Pumpkins

when I put on Pavement Radio with Beyonce as the variety.

Don't judge me.

That joke isn't funny anymore.

I learn tons of things from the Internet. For example, I recently learned that three-year-olds are capable of getting erections and I'm stupid for not knowing this already. I also learned that "crusties" is apparently a commonly used term I've never heard of, an that "crusty punks" are invading Williamsburg and pissing people off. I also learned, via unintentional information on someone else's personal blog that I'm unintentionally an asshole.  

That last one was vague and lame. I'm vague and lame today.  

Tonight, I am not going to see Harry Potter, Bruno, or other movies I don't give a shit about. I am also not going to see Whatever Works, or other movies I sort of give a shit about. I am going to work, which means I am going to watch people have sex.  I'm not going to explain the last sentence just yet. Hooray for vague lameness. Goodnight, internet. Thanks for teaching me things. 

In my life, why do I give valuable time to people I'd much rather kick in the eye?

My favorite Q&A in Audrey's sex column for The L this week:

Dear Audrey,

Why is it that everyone seems to like boobs? Even gay men and straight women that I know admire ladies’ racks. Why?

It is because boobs are awesome.

Or maybe it's really this one:

Dear Audrey,
I have a couple guys who I used to keep on file for 4am drunk hookups. What’s the best way to tell them that I have a boyfriend now and we’ve decided not to sleep with anyone else?

Here, I will create a form letter for you. Friends, feel free to use this as you wish. Creative commons! Upload this into your text message generational software:

Hey [name],
Thanks for all the excellent ass over the years. FYI, I am no longer available for fucking. I will keep you informed if/when this changes. Just wanted to let you know for the next time you are crunk.
Hugs not slugs (though actually no hugs any more because of my boyfriend),
[your name]

You can send each one individually, or if you want to do a group list, just cut the part with the name. “Hey buddy/pal/guy” is probably not recommended, as it implies that you cannot remember the person’s name. I mean I know you guys are just fuck buddies but still, a person likes to feel that their sex-having style left some kind of impression. And no, you are not required to suggest possible replacements. Good luck with your monogamy!

Also, I want to start an advice column called "Don't Take My Advice."  I don't know where to publish it, but I might as well start it on here. Please email any and all (ridiculous, serious, offensive) questions to hannahmiet@gmail.com or leave your question in the comments.

Awesome VHS cover art. Fuck yes.

From Video Heat.

I love his big ego. It's too much. He walk like this cause he can back it up.

Tonight, S and I caught up on each other's lives. Which means that we had a lot of conversations like this one:

"Sex is good."

"It's, like, the best activity for two people to participate in."

"Agreed."

I was 9 when I met S. We sat next to each other on the first day of 4th grade. She thought my name was Christie, which offended me inexplicably. Within seconds, we were best friends. Within minutes, we got into trouble and were never allowed to sit next to each other again for the rest of our (elementary school, middle school, high school) lives. 

We wrote a story together that same year. A collaborative effort. It was about these three horrible teachers (with one letter variations from our actual teacher's names) who kept two best friends (with one letter variations from our actual names) from the very simple thing that made them happy--each other. We read it aloud to them and were utterly aghast when it failed to convince them to change the seating chart.  

One of these three teachers also called my mom to complain that I was "making faces" that were "disrupting the class." She was really just pissed that I recited Beavis and Butthead lines during math. I always, always hated math. Then there was the time that I decided we should make chicken noises every time the teacher said "do it." Because "it" means "sex." Get it? I was a genius back then.

Also that same year, I asked her if her parent's had given her "the talk."  I think I used air quotations and exaggerated "the talk" for dramatic effect.

She scoffed and said "No way. They probably never will."

4th grade was the best year ever.

Contents of my bag, and mind, this morning.

I forgot that I picked up Miss Sadie Thompson (on VHS) on my walk home last night. It was in a box on some random Curry Hill streetcorner. I hope this won't give me herpes. I also forgot that I dropped it halfway through my walk, and decided not to pick it back up again. Three blocks later, an Indian man tapped me on the shoulder and gave it back to me. So Rita Hayworth is now in my posession. I think this means I was drunk last night.

Oh, yeah, and I also ate two orders of waffle fries to the face. I'm a winner.

I'm signing the lease at my Upper West Side apartment today. I like the sentence I just typed a whole lot.  I'm signing the lease at my Upper West Side apartment today. Yeah, it still feels good.  

The building is 8 blocks away from L.H., but far enough uptown that I won't run into the ex while hungover, in Donald Duck pajamas, buying a bagel.

Speaking of bagels, the thing I will miss most about Murray Hill is Ess-a-Bagel. I am already planning the most epic goodbye bagel in the history of the non-neighborhood. Divided into fourths, with a different spread for each fourth. Maybe I will take pictures. I know you want pictures of my epic bagel.

Still, for some reason, speaking of bagels, I am very concerned about finding a suitable replacement bagel joint in the neighborhood with the largest Jewish population in New York City. Chinese Food will be a similar struggle.

When I told Lauren, my pseudo-boss at The L Magazine, where I was moving, she immediately responded with, "Does this mean you're going to shop at Zabar's now?"

I'm going to listen to Swirlies and Beck (I probably don't even need to say the new Dodos), and probably eat more carbs before leaving to sign the lease (I have to stick to my strict reverse Atkin's diet, don't judge me!).

I'm a driver,I'm a winner. Things are gonna change. I can feel it.

Oh, Craigslist.

Note: I apologize if you follow both Pomp and Circumstance and this blog, because I posted it (with minor changes) twice. If you don't follow Pomp and Circumstance...well, you should.

I said I wouldn’t blog. But I was super productive this weekend. I promise. I wrote, like, a million words. I visited, like, a million apartments. I also posted, like, a million ads on Craigslist. I enjoy using "like" to exaggerate.

The ad that got the most responses included somewhat relevant information about myself:

“I love dogs, but will never have one of my own until I "settle down," which will probably never happen. I hate cats, because I'm allergic to them.”

As well as some seemingly superfluous information about myself: 

"I will play an excessive amount of The Velvet Underground and Nina Simone, but I can use headphones if this bothers you. I am a pretty quiet person. Also, I'm perpetually, comfortably single. So you probably won't hear me having sex on a regular basis. Which, is generally a positive thing (maybe not for me).”

I also, inexplicably, included a photo. Now, without further ado, I bring you: 

The Best  (and worse) of The Craigslist Responses

      I, too, am named Hanna and have been spending my nights stalking Craigslist… I'll see your Velvet Underground, and raise you Tom Waits.

Y        You  are welcome to view likely mid week, as I am presently in the midst of Herculean labors

          This building is  like the Friends series (even though it wasn’t even filmed in New York). Everyone knows each other. And my (our?) next door neighbor is Ross.

          You are cute, funny & articulate. I am not going to tell you about my apartment and you can’t move in with me! The sexual frustration would kill me!

         Ur photo is cute. Can I take u 2 dinner?

Good news for people who love bad news.

Lady Hemingway is leaving her  job in August to pour her heart into Columbia film school.  I am taking over for her, which means two, equally awesome things:

1. I can afford an apartment in the city and stop worrying about logistical bullshit. I can now focus my energy on non logistical bullshit. And finding a kick ass apartment.

2. My boss will be Steve, who is also the man responsible for my bourbon-drinking, hot tub-lounging, 4th of July antics. Suffice it to say my boss is cool.

L.H. and I saw Shakespeare in the Parking Lot perform a Midummer Night's Dream last night. It was literally in the parking lot--- on the corner of Broome and Ludlow--complete with confused Asian men walking amongst the actors and car alarms making the dialogue difficult to decipher. Well, I should probably append that we only sort-of saw it. We had to leave after an hour--an hour which dragged on painfully due to the slowest pacing I have ever seen in Shakespeare. Apparently, my first ever theater review for The L is going to be incredibly snarky and make me sound like a Shakespeare purist (I kind of am). But it will also be funny. There was bacon spray involved.  

In other news, my friend Tim, who writes a great blog for the New York Times, and is also a great comic artist, is drawing me tomorrow. I am excited in the most narcissistic way imaginable. 

Tomorrow's agenda also includes looking at a few apartments, and going to a writing group my cousin Royal, of Pomp & Circumstance, started up in his Bushwick apartment. I am told there will be wine. On Sunday, I am celebrating Bastille Day, and you bet your ass there will be wine.

I am writing all this in an attempt to keep myself from blogging throughout the weekend, when I should be writing other things--and lurking like a hawk over the housing section of Craigslist. Who knows if I will actually follow through with this absence. I like you people too much (hi, new people I just noticed started following!) and feel like I am speaking to you. I don't feel like I am directly speaking to specific people when I write reviews. I don't care that I'm a dork. I really enjoy blogging, even if I hate the word "blogging." I can't seem to stay away for long.

I need you so much closer.

Watching the fourth season of Six Feet Under last night brought a new appreciation of this...It isn't an official video, but it's awesome in the Bob Ross on LSD kind of way.

Review: The Rural Alberta Advantage

Generally, I dislike writing reviews. Mostly, because you are not allowed to be incredibly narcissistic when you write an album review, and I like all of my writing to be incredibly narcissistic. Sorry. But I wrote this one for The L Magazine about the best new band I have heard in a long time. You can actually listen to the whole album on Last Fm.

The Rural Alberta Advantage make music that is intensely nostalgic, yet their sound is not reminiscent of anything specific. Their debut album, Hometowns, was born out of singer/songwriter Nils Edenloff’s feelings of homesickness after moving to Toronto from his native Edmonton. Yet despite many poignant Alberta-specific lyrics describing “dead roads” and “purple nights,” the album carries a sentimentality that translates to any town, in any county--any place left behind. The RAA’s dynamic acoustic sound is the happy, heartbreaking kind of sad that will either leave you in tears or drunk-dialing ex-girlfriends.

Opening track “Ballad of The RAA” is decidedly the album’s mission statement. “We invariably/left the prairies in my heart/since we never moved an inch,” Edenloff sings in an endearing plea of a voice. Entirely acoustic without sacrificing power, The RAA create a strained emotionality that is tragic and haunting. This sense of sonic distress enhances the restlessness and longing that Edenloff explores in his lyrics. His powerful folk guitar blends with his simple, honest verses and Paul Banwatt’s precise drumming to thoroughly capture “the ghosts of our town” that drift throughout the album. 

 “Edmonton” asks “What’ll I do if you never want to come back/sitting in a city that is always on the attack?” And while the concept of any Canadian city being “on the attack” is laughable, I love the un-whiny earnestness in Edenloff’s voice when he asks “What if I’m only satisfied when I’m at home?” In this song, and throughout Hometowns, there is an absent, lingering “you” that is most striking in the album’s single, “Don’t Haunt This Place.” Amy Cole, who plays a ridiculous amount of instruments on the album—everything from a tambourine to a glockenspiel--adds her vocal harmony to the refrain, “because we need this oh so bad, because I need you oh so bad,” making it even more (oh so) emotional. If you drink while listening to this album, you might want to throw your phone out the window.  There’s nothing more embarrassing than a nostalgia-fueled drunk dial, and if there’s any album that will send your heart shattering back ten years, Hometowns is the one to do it. Pass the tissues, please.

A case of the hypotheticals.

Question: If you had to consume an absurdly large quantity of food from McDonald's--the same amount that Spurlock ate on a daily basis in Super Size Me--but only for ten days, and you  had to suffer all of the health consequences except for the fact that all the weight you would typically gain you would lose instead, WOULD YOU DO THIS?

Thoughts: When groups of construction workers cat call me--even if they are simply saying "good afternoon, beautiful," I immediately translate their cat call into commentary on how big my ass is.

People who work at fast food chains often fall in love with me. Today, when I ordered my Veggie Delight at Subway, the counter dude complimented my hair, the flower in my hair, my elephant necklace, and my soul. Yes, my soul. Then he gave me a free white chocolate chip cookie.  I also immediately translate this into commentary on how big my ass is.

Beautiful girls are nice to me because I seem unthreatening. I seem unthreatening because I smile a lot, use the word "dude" and hit on them more than their boyfriends.  And yes, overwhelmingly, I translate this into commentary on how big my ass is. 

When people tell me I "have to" see a film I have yet to experience, and then proceed to describe-- scene by scene--the entire plot of said film, I get the urge to push them out the window, and jump out the window myself, simultaneously.

Often, when I am forced to engage in small talk about lame things like, say, American Idol, this thought flashes through my mind, verbatim: I will probably be alone for the rest of my life.  I will definitely be alone for the rest of my life.  And then I get the urge to jump out the window.

When people talk to me about their writing, film or acting careers, there is a 90% chance I will get the urge to jump out of a window. 

The most phony people I know are the same people who most adamantly speak out against pretension, a fact that my Lady Hemingway , aka Jessica, pointed out much more articulately than I just did, the other day.  I want to bring the word "phony" back, H. C. style. When someone talks about "pseudo intellectual hipsters" and then proceed to make arguments that come directly out of magazines they don't realize other people (like me!) actually read, and this happens outside, I get the urge to create a building out of thin air, just so I can jump out the window.

I am not actually suicidal. At all. I do, however, have an (awesomely?, unfortunately?--I go back and forth) large derriere. An "extreme hourglass" someone super tactful once put it. I am alright with this, confident, even, as long as one of these songs is playing:

(Admittedly, Ellen can dance to this better than I can)




(Yes, this version)

(The bridge of this one is AMAZING)

Sometimes, my entire day feels like one massive Craigslist Missed Connection.  Sometimes, my entire life feels like one massive Craigslist Missed Connection.

Goodnight world (or more accurately, 14 people that kindly follow this blog).

Oops.

I just unintentionally played the new song from Sigur Ros' frontman and his boyfriend for the entire L Magazine office. I thought my headphones were plugged into my computer jack. They weren't. I didn't realize until the publisher came over like "what are those incredibly peaceful sounds emanating from your corner?"

Ugh. I'm a sleepless space cadet. You should download the free track though. Jonsi + Alex = Zen. The new record, Riceboy Sleeps, comes out on the 20th.

Also, this just in: The Wall Street Journal just discovered a NEW (brand spanking new, not 5 years old) fashion trend: Skinny jeans. Articles like this show why it's so difficult to enter the field of journalism as a young person. Clearly, our elders are more hip to fashion trends. Breaking news, guys.
Also, this just in: There is an Ebay auction for a Cheetoh that (very vaguely) looks like Michael Jackson doing the moonwalk.
Also, this just in: 23 people bid on it. It sold for $35.
Also, this just in: Nothing surprises me anymore, no matter how absurd.

Page From My Notebook: I Love Jesus (Lizard), and America too.

This is a new "feature" of this blog (if you will humor me enough to allow for such a concept) where I type up a page from the "paper blog" I carry around with me everywhere I go in my dorky L-Magazine messenger bag.

July 4th, 2009

I did not bring my Ipod to The Shore. Sometimes it's refreshing to hear the world, especially when the world sounds like waves crashing against a boat and hair whipping against my face. That is not to say that music takes away from experiencing the world. In fact, I believe that music can only enhance experience, which is why I normally choose to listen to it nearly every second of the day.  

My beloved ITouch, which I lost in a cab on my last night abroad, walked with me along The Seine to peruse the book stands of nude postcards, toured East London looking for Space Invaders, and orchestrated the chaos that is Amsterdam after a "special" cupcake.  Some people, like my mother, I think, believe that this takes away from the organic experience of encountering theses places, but I disagree.  Music makes my insides bleed out into my surroundings. I feel like I become what I am seeing, whether it is a painting of a beautiful woman or a littered street in a pseudo-ghetto of Paris. Also, I sometimes feel like a disconnected alien/robot viewing the world from afar when there is no music playing.

Music also facilitates human connection at a level we can't even describe. I friend I met in Amsterdam understood this completely. After laughing at the tourists who traveled from painting to painting with their art museum audio tours, we created our own synchronized Audio Tour Playlist from songs we both had on our Ipods (mostly Radiohead and String Cheese Incident, strangely--even stranger that this combination turned out to be brilliant). It was one of the most intensely connected series of moments I have ever had with a stranger I will (in all probability) never see again. And, yeah, we were ridiculously and appropriately stoned, because weed and music, and beer and music, and art museums and music, and every human emotion and music, combine well.

If I did bring my Ipod, my Independence Day Playlist would sound something like this:

1. "She grew up in an Indiana town, had a good lookin' mom that never was around"

2. "Got your mother in a whirl, She's not sure if you're a boy or a girl"

3. " I saw her today at the reception..."

4. "Where are you going, I don't mind, I've killed my world and I've killed my time"

5. "Let us be lovers, we'll marry our fortunes together"

6. "I listen to the wind, to the wind of my soul"

7. "Clouds so swift, the rain falling in..." 

8. "Busted flat in Baton Rouge..."

9. "Love is a burning thing, and it makes a fiery ring"

10. "Jolene, Jolene, Jolene, Jolene..." (DP version)

I'm apparently very cliche about my Patriotism. This list lacks Weezer though. Weezer makes me feel insanely patriotic. 

------

Jessica took this last night. I realize I like the beach the best at 7-10 p.m.

It must be said that after drinking Bourbon at the racetrack, listening to Springsteen in the car, and eating pie with ice cream, I feel exponentially more American. Also, as Jessica noted when we left the racetrack, we are exponentially closer to our dream of becoming Hemingway. The next logical step is obviously to replace our X-chromosomes with whiskey. Happy Independence Day, America (you slut).

Dream a Little Dream.

Woah. FREEwilliamsburg just spoke about both of the magazines I write for in two sentences, and also posted this video:

I was feeling sick from insomnia/drinking Sugar Free Redbull and not getting wings and then drinking more Sugar Free Redbull and still not getting wings, but then I ate sushi off of a conveyor belt and I feel better. 

It's a good thing I'm not rich, cause you bet your ass I would have a sushi conveyor belt in my living room. Also, I want Wiley Wiggins to be my sushi chef.  In cartoon form. 

Woody Allen, so not down.

For the first time in years, I read (if you can even call it reading) Star this morning: the celebrity-gossip-ass-wipe of a magazine with the "52 Best and Worst BEACH BODIES!"  It's much more hilarious than I remember. The "best bodies" happen to be striking a favorable pose. The "worst bodies" are slouching, or bending down to pick something up (the fat fucks!).

I don't think gossip magazines will be hit too hard by the "print media tragedy."  There will always be a market of people interested in the fact that Mary Kate drank vodka on a plane without (gasp!) eating anything, a market of people that need to be reassured that "Celebrities" are "Just Like Us," which basically means that they eat Cheese Doodles. 

On the contrary, I prefer to think that celebrities are alien creatures that never eat Cheese Doodles, sleep, defecate, or form thoughts: they simply have 6-year-long publicized love triangles and occasionally appear in motion pictures. 

My favorite quote in the entire magazine:

"He's...the Silm-Fast, Diet Coke of vampires." -Stephen Moyer of True Blood on Robert Pattinson. Hells yes.

After submerging my brain in goo, I decided to redeem myself by reading The Onion. You should read about The 12 Things Woody Allen Just Doesn't Get.  I also found a great article yesterday that is totally on point about the difference between Pixar and Dreamworks.

Oh, and end note: two six-year-old black kids on the 6 train told me I'm cute. Their lesbian parent's proceeded to cute-call me as I exited.  My day is officially made.

Cleaning, life.

Last semester, after failing to finish an assignment, I sent this email to my journalism professor, G. Morris:

Overwhelmed Student Seeks Sympathy

“I really didn’t think it would come to this,” said Hannah Levine, 21, an English major who was working at the writing center this Wednesday morning. “I thought I could finish my research assignment. I didn’t think I needed an extension.”

Levine stared at her MacBook, which now has a broken “k” key. According to Levine, it broke while she was furiously typing the word “kryptonite.” Dressed in wrinkled jeans as she chugged a king-sized Redbull, Levine said that she took on too much this week. “I have fifteen articles to edit for the school paper, a political science paper to write, a presentation to prepare for English class and a poetry reading to cover,” she said. “I hate to do this, but I have to ask Professor Morris for an extension.”

When this reporter asked why she didn’t ask for an extension earlier, Levine let out an exasperated sigh and continued staring at her Macbook. “I thought that I could handle it all. Sometimes I think I’m Superwoman.”

Levine said that, at this point, her only hope is that Professor Morris will give her an extension of a few days so she can follow-up with some officers from student government, and not have to “half ass” it. “I don’t even know how to half ass it,” she said. “I’m like a dysfunctional type-A personality, or something.”

I'm a flag waving Type A personality. But I didn't always wave my flag so high. In fact, for many years, I did everything I could to stifle the intensely motivated side of me (hello, Mary Jane) in order to keep the same pace with people around me (however cocky that may sound) and never have to worry that I might FAIL miserably at something I poured my heart into.

I'm not so afraid of failure anymore.

The downside of my work-until-I-pass-out side is that I feel empty when I'm not doing anything. Even when I'm working at an internship I love, writing a memoir, taking side gigs, and doing A&R for a friends play at The Fring (in August), I still feel deflated because I don't have a "real job" and am usually not getting "paid" for my writing. And I revert back to that person who tries to distract herself.

I just woke up to my empty beer bottled filled room and wonder where I've been this month. This isn't an "oh, I'm an alcy" post, and I'm not attempting sobriety. This is more of a declaration to clean my room and my life. I'm going to stop preventing myself from success. And I'm going to lose ten pounds this summer. Yup, you heard it here first.

MGMT in Prospect Park was not so fun, but felt like it should have been. Jessica and Suh were the reason it was good night. MGMT, swarms of high school groupies, new songs I couldn't make out the lyrics to because the mic was so low...not so much.

Endnote, from BV: