Have you ever stumbled, bleary-eyed, to the bathroom, and catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror, and even though you’re tired and all sleep-scrunchy, you actually really just freakin’ love yourself? Well, grab the camera, friends. Immortalize this rare, beautiful moment of self-esteem.
Bonus points if you actually sing this to yourself (which you know I did!)
So, I went out with Lover Man and a friend today, and we ordered a bucket of fries to share. You would think the word “bucket” would provide a solid indication of the volume of fries we were about to receive. AND YET.
Oh, did I mention they were PARMESAN GARLIC HERB fries? (This, by the way, was already after we had started to dig in.) Crispy outside, fluffy inside, coated in the most delectable seasoning. I…I think I’m in love.
How about an aerial view for the cheap seats?
I have been craving fries for days, but for one reason or another, they have eluded me.
Good things come to those who wait, y’all.
The September Issue is one of my favorite documentaries of all time, so I am beyond thrilled that a new documentary centered around a major Vogue-heavy event, the Met Ball, is coming soon. Even better, its premiere is opening night of the Tribeca Film Festival. (Already figuring out how to get to NYC that weekend!)
The only thing missing from The First Monday in May is the true star of The September Issue, Grace Coddington.
The September Issue
The First Monday in May
Fashion is everything.
What do you do when the words won’t come? When everything feels wrong and sounds wrong? When your insides are in total chaos?
First, you go to a quiet place. Sprawl out on a yoga mat. Put earbuds in so that it’s just you and the sounds you want to hear. Rainy Mood is good. Sometimes, you need to hear a storm to calm the one raging inside of you. You can almost smell the rain.
You open your journal, and you write one word. Maybe even just the date. Anything to get the ink flowing, to awaken your brain. Remind it how good it feels when the pen is moving fluidly across the page.
You remember how words work. You start using them, and the tangle inside of you slowly begins to unfurl. You remember how to move again. How to be. Everyone says you have such beautiful handwriting, and even now, when the words are practically hurling themselves onto the page, you admire your cursive loops and flicks.
Four handwritten pages later, you close the book. You close your eyes.You remember how to breathe. Inhale. Exhale.
Today would have been Kurt Cobain’s 49th birthday. Thank you for making music that made a total fucking weirdo like me feel less alone.
One of the joys of having Netflix again is stumbling upon old favorites. One of those treasures is Unzipped, the Isaac Mizrahi documentary. I actually met Isaac years ago, when the film came out of VHS (#old), and he signed it for me. I brought it into school the next day, and someone smudged his signature, but I still held on to my VHS, watching the movie daily, sometimes several times in one day, enthralled in the process of creation. How inspiration is interpreted through a unique perspective. Through this film, you can see how Isaac formed his aesthetic. It was so powerful for me to witness. And the clothes! An empire waist strapless pink dress. A butter yellow slip dresses paired with a voluminous coat. The ball gown skirts paired with whisper thin tank tops. OBSESSED.
Then there are the people! The supermodels (Cindy! Shalom! Linda! Kate! NAOMI!) interacting backstage. Isaac gabbing with Candy Pratts Price, Eartha Kitt, Andre Leon Talley, Mark Morris and Sandra Bernhardt. We also get to see clips of classic movies that have woven their way into Isaac’s life and vernacular. (Whatever Happened to Baby Jane! Valley of the Dolls!) Watching it as an adult, I now see how valuable the movie was to me becoming a writer. I still carry what I’ve learned about interpreting inspiration and being unapologetic about staying true to who you are as an artist.
Watch and learn.
Getting the words out. Coffee helps.
An awesome autographed picture of Jen and Sylvia Soska, AKA The Twisted Twins, that they sent me for live tweeting with them during the season finale of Hellevator. Love badass women in horror!
The new FKA Twigs song. Deftones, James Blake AND FKA Twigs, all in the same month? Is it my birthday?
Good To Love (NSFW)
It’s the little things….
Life makes sense again…at least for the 5 minutes I listen to this song.
This man creates sonic landscapes. No, really. His music is visceral. It’s hard to explain, so I’ll stop trying.
Listen. Breathe. Let it sink into your skin.
So, this morning, all of the sidewalks in my neighborhood were coated in ice. The upside: it took so much strength to walk without busting my ass that my core got a great workout.
This afternoon? The temperature rose and the rain came. The ice melted! However, I then had to walk home in this monsoon. About two blocks in I already looked as if I had jumped into a swimming pool fully clothed. By the time I encountered a rain gutter that essentially poured a bucketful of water straight over my head, I had just accepted my fate and howled with laughter. A man was walking the opposite way with an umbrella. Make no mistake. He was just as bad off as I was, thanks to the wind which had left broken umbrellas dotting the streets like an ogre’s snotty, crumpled tissues. “You like that, huh!” he said and laughed along with me.
“I can’t even be mad at that,” I replied, shrugging my soggy shoulders.
All I could think of was the song “Let’s Have a Kiki” by The Scissor Sisters, particularly the line, “Looking like a drowned harassed rat” because I’m pretty sure that I, in my useless bubble coat, hat and sopping wet jeans, looked exactly as the song described.
Oddly enough, a couple of blocks from home, the air changed slightly, and it smelled exactly as it used to in the backyard of the home I grew up in. How I would run outside and shriek and giggle and get soaked without a care.
I’m safely indoors, but I can still smell the rain. Earthy, almost salty. Not bad at all.
Oh, and of course, I’m listening to this.