Christmas List 2010

It's so exciting to start a Christmas list with such a beautifully Sci-Fi year attached. 

2010 was so easy to say.  It's a shame the apocalypse didn't hit this year...future humans would have relished the ease with which the date and THE event of the century coincided.

Regardless.  

Humanity has not been reduced to ashes and scraggly things, so as far as I'm concerned, Santa Clause is still coming to town.  And this is what I want him to bring me.

 Gemma Slack.  Anything by Gemma Slack.  Even that amazingly terrifying Hannibal Lector face mask.  I'll wear it to the grocery store on a late night grab for soy milk, I swear it.

and

I'm a consumer.  

I'm sorry.

I'm also a murderer since I killed The Dude's computer, so we need a new one because as grateful as I am for this supplicant Eee PC...I've been spoiled by the lure of "Technology for Idiots" that Apple has so perfected and can't turn back now.  

Some form of a 60 key semi weighted MIDI controller keyboard so I can herald the gods down from their lofty encampments just beyond the reach of man into the faces of The Unworthy Mortals.  Even if it's my own face I'm flaunting this in front of.  Or the cats.

Either way...a must have.

 

A seven toed, gray Maine Coon kitten that I can dress up in various neck scarves and take outside and train to come when I call "Lucifer!"  I already had a dream about this cat so it's obvious to me that it is only a matter of time.

This list includes several other things, but I can't bring Lightning Hopkins back to life or stuff the entirety of Radiohead in my closet with all that other things I've got in there already, so maybe next year.

Moe

 

This is, in my opinion, an unsung hero.

While it is true that anyone worth their salt knows that Maureen Tucker is a pure genius, knows that her influence is what made The Velvet Underground the legendary band that it grew to be, that without that golden, driving heartbeat Lou and John could never have soared to Iconography Land...I still feel as though the wealth of talent that is Moe Tucker should be more of a household name.

Any kid that ever bangs on a plastic shelf of a high chair should do so with her face at the bottom of the baby food bowl.

Just to drive the point home.

We who are about to die, O Tyrant of the Tom Tom, O Sultan of the Snare, salute you.

Let Bygones be Winespills...

The inevitable has finally come to pass.

After years and years of good, solid use, of true moral fiber and utmost dignity, and the grace to allow me the ability to look up obscure things on The Internet whenever I so choose...the inevitable.

It is with great sadness and enormous guilt that I am forced to admit that gravity got in between my hand and the wine glass and the result was a short circuted MacBookPro and the potential loss of everything on it.

This.
Sucks.

Essentially, our entire life's progress was on that motherboard.  The beginnings of our musical interest which unfolded into a full scale artistic pursuit, all the photographs, all the writings...everything.  The worst part (and it truly is The Worst Part) is that this computer was not even mine.

NO, this computer, I am distressed to say, was The Dude's.

Luckily for me, The Dude often shows a great expanse of inner grace which he extends to my ridiculous existence time and time again.  In this case, he is being extremely forgiving and understanding instead of hotwiring the remains of the machine through my brain and projecting the information out of my eyeballs (which I may not forcefully resist, truth be told...)

syd

honey love you honey little honey funny sunny morning love you more funny love in the skyline baby i scream scuse me i seen you lookin good the other evening

 

please leave us here close our eyes for the octopus ride

oh where are you now pussywillow that smiled on this leaf

Blue Paint Series

This is the result if a 3 day long panic attack over an in-house paint job, yielding a madness induced photo shoot and, finally, a really awesome new room.

Eat your heart out, gen-pop.

Artwork

Inamorato

46" X 34"
canvas, red wine, acrylic

My latest painting.

The title is an Italian phrase used to describe the object of one's affection, in this case, the male whom you desire.

wink.

head space

New Post

It's been a long time.

As the war continues to rage upon itself in the crinkles of my brain cavities, somewhere a desire to return to the internet has made itself known.

And so, here I sit, armed with a delicious Bloody Mary, a pair of boxer shorts, and cat hair in my eye, writing my first post in months.

At some point, this entire endeavor became a source of discontent. My usual existential ponderings kept pulling me in the direction of constant judgment, a nagging suspicion that I wasn't living up to my full potential, that there were thoughts to be developed and diatribes to be composed, and here I was posting pictures of hot girls.

As most things do, it all became too frustrating. The source, of course, was merely the voices in my head. Of late, I have begun to see them for what they truly are, that the feeling of having bats swooping around inside of your skull are only half real, the other half are paper cut outs that cast eerie shadows.

In a triumphant return to this wasteland, I guess it only makes sense to pick up where I left off.

Yes.

This is Charlotte Kemp Muhl, girlfriend of Sean Lennon and the second half of band "Ghost of a Saber Toothed Tiger.

Miss Kemp Muhl is known for her spidery vocals, whimsical fashion sense, and being excessively attractive.

Clearly.

In addition to...

Let's see what this does...

This is something that Google gave me called "Feed Shark."
It is supposed to track my progress in the blogosphere...or something to that omniscient effect.

Ping blog

Body Shot

3.6.10

Spring has sprung.

Naysayers be damned.

And after that pitiful excuse for Summer '09, The Empire State is well deserving of a little bit of sunshine.

Keeping those hellish memories of last year in mind, Boyfriend and I decided to venture out into the slowly thawing universe that is Our Neighborhood in search of delicious dinner ingredients (Broccoli Rabe!) and the camera somehow managed to make its way into the game plan.

Here is what today looked like.


















So here's to the earth's miraculous turn back towards the sun, for longer days, shorter nights, and the excuse to be drunk all the time.

Here's to spring!

Flickr

This is a test post from , a fancy photo sharing thing.

Blahahahaha....

I haven't had much that I have felt compelled to be writing about as of late...due in part to the general introverted disposition that my brain tends to warp into, and also due in part because it's February.

This just may be the worst month ever.

The snow is gray and flecked with gravel and looks menacingly permanent.

My friend always falls victim to what she refers to as "The February Itch" usually resulting in a somewhat botched hair dye or random piercing.

Hunter S. Thompson killed himself during the gruesome month of February.

I felt the tendrils of madness the most prevalently yesterday, as I rolled around on top of Boyfriend where I proceeded to ruin his nap and annoy the crap out of him. I would do the same to the cats, if I could catch them.

In other news, however, I saw The Sadies, a band from Canada that plays the dirtiest southern/psychedelic/rockabilly/foot stomping/head bashing-ly amazing music ever.



This would be the third time I have seen them, second time at the Mercury Lounge, and it was just a stellar show. One of the more fun moments that I've had this year. It's funny, since whenever me and My People go to a concert, I look around in the middle of frantic dancing and realize that we're the only ones going for it. My neck hurts badly today from thrashing it so hard.

All worth it, however.

That's what Advil Liqui-gels are for.

Glorious Saturday

I can't say much, since The Boyfriend has Battlestar Galactica all set up on the DVD player for us/me.

So, quickly, minions, quickly.

I did a shoot on the set of an upcoming show that is hopefully going to air on IFC. It was awesome and hilarious and I actually got to reconnect with a few old friends from a previous movie I worked on.

Then, I went to my friend's apartment which was conveniently located down the block from the set.
We started talking about various interests, various passions, and wound up having a completely impromptu photo shoot right there in his room!

And they turned out amazing!

Hooray!

For Saturdays are the best days!

Miss Bonnie Parker

Ok.

So the other night, after a long and exhausting marathon of Law & Order in various incarnations (original, Criminal Intent, Special Victims Unit) The Boyfriend and I decided to do one more sweep of the giant million-channel-menu and discovered to our great delight that Bonnie and Clyde was about to start in under 3 minutes. The perfect way to top off a ridiculously long television marathon.

We settled back against the futon, Snuggies tucked firmly in place, and then it happened: Bonnie Parker. I love you.

I realize the wonderful social backdrop that accompanies the majestic quality of this movie, especially in a nostalgic sense given the current economical landscape, but DAMN sister had some SERIOUS fashion sense!
And I'm not just talking about the cinematic version (however, Faye Dunaway...you will forever have a place in my heart.) The real-life Bonnie Parker, captured in the few legitimate photos from the time period, as found on Google, display that being constantly on the run did not put a crimp into looking fabulous.



The Actual Bonnie Parker. The Shirt! The Layering! I'm In LOVE!


CIGARS! TRIUMPH!


Check out the guns so artfully placed within the folds of the trench. Mastermind.

And of course, homage must be paid to Bonnie Parker of the cinematic universe. Faye Dunaway is so impossibly beautiful in this movie that it's difficult to focus on anything else at times. She made flinging herself emotionally through a barren cornfield look like the height of glamor.


Beautiful.


PATTERN!

This is clearly going to be behind many of my outfit choices from this point onward. The hunt for the perfect scarf begins. I've generally avoided scarfs/neckerchiefs/bibs for the most part due to a distaste for being compared to a "Hipster" which I now realize only makes me grumpy and cynical, and since I'm not an overly hormonal teenager anymore, I should probably just...relax.

And on that note....

Alexander McQueen

It's a very odd feeling to become immersed in something so whimsical and beautiful, only to lose one of its key players so soon into the game.

The world of fashion is something relatively new to me. I never regarded it as anything worth following, until recently. Right from the start, it was apparent that Alexander McQueen was someone to follow, someone to be inspired by, someone we were lucky to have.
His imprint upon not only the fashion world, but the artistic world in general, will go on, undaunted, by those who were inspired by his choice to be fearless.

So thank you, Mr. McQueen.

You will not be soon forgotten.

Whimsical Harbingers of Snow/Nostalgic Futurism

Vashti Bunyan-Some Things Just Stick In Your Mind


Nico-Chelsea Girl




Today, I fall head over heels for these two vocal sirens welling up from the past to point my head in the right direction.

It is a rather well-versed conversation that brings many of us yearning for a time period that we just missed. The golden strip between the late 1950's, spanning the 1960's, and cruising through the 1970's until it died in a fiery mess of its own misdeeds has long been ingrained in the general collective soul of the majority alive today. The relics of this golden era found in pictures, in fashion, in the art, the songs, the lifestyle in general, will never fail to send a torrent of shivers through me.

Something broke through to the surface and humanity in general is still trying to cope, to understand, and to invoke that terrible joy in some form or another just one more time. The time is now 2010, a frighteningly Sci-Fi year that seems more of a joke or flight of fancy that actual reality. If you look around, it does feel that we have become the electronically dependent beings found in the early paranoid visions of the future. Flying cars aside, we've become the parody of ourselves in a way.

And yet, no matter how far we come and how far we will undoubtedly go, the fact that this sliver of a utopia was able to exist for just a little bit on the great bloated face of history will forever be an influence. I want to run through the world with the wild joy and fierce ability to be generous with our minds, our bodies, and our hopes.

I feel that I have begun to live my life with a sense of nostalgic futurism, a pulsating desire to combine the places I have never seen with the infinite possibilities of a nameless tomorrow.

Wish me luck.

This Is Your Brain On-

Good morning, Monday Afternoon!

Today, I have been thinking deeply about a well known and widely discussed concoction known as The Back-Up Plan. This 'plan' is something that is discussed widely in the nether regions of Adulthood, where things like tax returns and student loan payments flutter through the air like dragonflies from hell.

Today, I feel like smashing things.
Today, I bask in the wake of those who went before me, of those who boldly slept in gutters and breathed in car exhaust for a chance to just touch that great thing they were chasing.
Today, I say Fuck You to the barbed wire that keeps trying to pull me back into a realm of general comfort and casualty.
Today, I crumble with one part sadness and two parts psychotic joy.

This lifestyle isn't a choice anymore.
I am well aware that I am standing at a point where if I turn back now, or even turn the dial back to a much safer burn, I'll lose this beautiful momentum and suddenly I'll wake up in a minivan on my way to the carpool lane. Again.

I'm not the first human to have these feelings and it's obvious that I'm not the last, and so this documentation of "how it feels" isn't meant to shock anyone out of themselves with recognition or even to put my oh-so unique thumbprint on the yearbook page that is 2010.

The point is that I'm tired of talking. I'm tired of going on and on about "The Business End Of Things" while slowly letting The Dream become the bane of my
existence.

Fuck The Back-Up Plan.
Fuck the built in excuse to fail.

"Art consists in going to the full length. If you start with drums, you have to end with dynamite, or TNT."

So give me that glorious fuse, and I'll deep throat the mother fucker before blowing my guts out all over this dead universe.
I won't go out in one piece.

Uncertainty

It seems that quite some time has elapsed since my last post.
To be honest, it sometimes takes the calculated movements of an existentialist to really bother with this thing at all, given that I am the only one that reads it.

This, however, is not the point. I guess the point is to do it purely because it's enjoyable, and I guess it's good practice in owning what you are interested in without becoming overtly embarrassed/full of yourself.

But it seems that, despite all the good reasons I have for making this a worthwhile practice, the well has run dry on this side of things and I seem to have lost my original zest for this project. As stated before, this is predominantly a result of not really knowing what to do with it. The internet is saturated with blogs that exist purely to promote a person's life/lifestyle and I do not want to contribute to that clogged cannon.
Maybe it's a matter of wondering if what I have to say is important, but then the old cyclical madness of writer's block starts to feel all too familiar again and that thought must be dumped post haste.

And so, my dear non-existent readers, perhaps my new plan of attack will be to regress to the days of imaginary tea parties, where tree stumps and pocket watches serve as the most important guests to grace my expansive kingdom.

So on that note....

TickTickTick

This was a very big weekend, containing an event that has the potential to change the course of some very important life choices.
And as another day passes into the recesses of yet another frigid night, I try to force myself into calm, realizing the the foolishness of that concept, as well as the futility to try any other course.

Ah yes, to ring in the New Year with paranoia and delusions of grandeur.
Nails bitten to the quick, mentally running circles around myself...at least it's fair to say that I am still very fully myself regardless of any calendar year's sudden and triumphant arrival.

And so, on that note, it is time to cuddle with cats to the oddly soothing sound of a Jets game tinkling in the background.