Hail to the Prez and VP of Del Boca Vista.

Merry Christmas TIGER.

Now you know I love Tigers more than the next person, especially when they are made of painted glass and hurtling onto an invisible foe while jumping over a blue and white "M". That is right, I love me some Memphis Tigers and we showed all haters and doubters that we just might pounce all over that redneck Hansbrough puss and gross mottled Matta-Real (Suddenly he can add "Real" to his name? NO.) and that freak of Caucasian nature, Love, come March.
Sic em Tigers! And somebody get me this lovely ornament for Tree 2008.

In turn, let me say a prayer and a big RIP for another crazed Tiger, Tatiana of the San Francisco Zoo and her doomed victim, Carlos, age 17. Keep all Tigers in their respective cages and Forums.

If I blog again before the New Year, I will eat my hat.

Cheap Repost, not Riposte.

My dear friend, Andy Earles and his partner-in-crime (I'd call him a friend, but we've only just danced half nude trashed on sake with another girlfriend in his old apartment and that was yearssss ago), Jeff Jensen get appreciated.

(by the way, click on that mess above)

Ding Ding Ding! More Pre-Codes!

Consider me the Salvation Army Bell Ringer for TCM. I am not asking for your guilt-coated nickels, your lame muttered excuses or even a half-hearted "Happy Holidays Yourself, BUM!" This month known for holiday excess has an insane number of Pre-Code films to fit in with the season of overdoing every last thing. Here are a few that are simply must sees:

4:15 PM

Ladies They Talk About (1933)

A lady bank robber becomes the cell block boss after she's sent to prison. Cast: Barbara Stanwyck, Lyle Talbot, Preston Foster. Dir: Howard Bretherton, William Keighley. BW-69 mins, TV-G December 4 3:45 AM Heroes For Sale (1933) A veteran fights drug addiction to make his way in the business world. Cast: Richard Barthelmess, Aline MacMahon, Loretta Young. Dir: William A. Wellman. BW-72 mins, TV-G December 5 12:15 AM Ann Vickers (1933) A social worker's fight for reform is compromised by her love for a corrupt judge. Cast: Irene Dunne, Walter Huston, Conrad Nagel. Dir: John Cromwell. BW-76 mins, TV-G, CC December 6 AND MY ALL-TIME FAVE TO DATE: 8:00 PM Night Nurse (1931) A nurse discovers that the children she's caring for are murder targets. Cast: Barbara Stanwyck, Ben Lyon, Clark Gable. Dir: William A. Wellman. BW-72 mins, TV-G December 12

Critical Shopper.

YES! It was not just a one-off. It seems that the New York Times Thursday Styles section got wise and gave Cintra the weekly Critical Shopper section! I can't think of a better writer for this quarter page piece of brilliance. She eviscerated Fortunoff yesterday and I chuckled throughout. Cheers to Cintra! Enjoy that obscene cocktail, girl.

Happy Thanksgiving!

To the left, we have collard greens as grown in the wild, a city porch. Right now I have a All Clad stock pot full of these, three pork neckbones, gobs of garlic, a whole white onion chopped up, lots of yellow mustard, juice of a few lemons, splash of white vinegar, about a 1/2 bottle of Crystal Hot Sauce and too much salt. The house smells like you would imagine.

The thing is this disgusting-looking-smelling combination is one of the most terrific things you can eat, especially with a meat such as fried chicken or yes, that Thanksgiving bird, Mr. Turkey.

Anyways, I got about 3 hours of sleep after taking cold meds, watching No Country for Old Men (Tommy Lee Jones' character? Extraneous.) and allowing myself to go into panic mode about timing all the cooking for today. Someone please bring me some Xanax if you have them.

Jacuzzi Boys

Young boys in face paint and dashikis in a Jacuzzi?

Only in Miami.

Best Florida band since the HP.

I really hope this is a trend...

...cos Cintra kicks the ass out of Horyn and Trebay.

In today's New York Times "Thursday Styles" section:

For the Young of Heart and Hair

Lauren Lancaster for The New York Times

• 
  

By CINTRA WILSON

Published: November 8, 2007

AN hour before walking past squealing kids wobbling cutely around the Bryant Park skating rink, on my way to the BCBG Max Azria flagship, I had been struggling in my bathroom, trying to take my own passport photo.

BCBG Max Azria

461 Fifth Avenue (40th Street); (212) 991-9777

BIGGER CLOSETS This new three-story showplace is crawling with golden ivy, sleek accouterments and trend-friendly wares for the woman-child who might want to hang out and work for a year before college.

BETTER GOODS If you don’t mind a petroleum blend in your cashmere, you can Get the Look for somewhat, if not significantly, less. A veritable United Nations of manufacturing labels from Peru, Ukraine and China ensure that savings are being passed on to you.

BECAUSE Even girls with smaller budgets have big dreams, and these cuts are cute enough to create a bon chic silhouette without giving your wallet a grand mal.

Enlarge This Image

Lauren Lancaster for The New York Times

Enlarge This Image

Lauren Lancaster for The New York Times

Enlarge This Image

Lauren Lancaster for The New York Times

If you take 100 pictures of yourself trying to look simultaneously attractive and unthreatening to national security, you will notice that the slightest movements can blow everything. One wrong millimeter of eyebrow, and the expression you thought was your flower-girl face resembles Slovakia’s deadliest escort. Eyes open too wide, and optimism becomes “My dog told me to do it.” A spotlight in the wrong part of your shower can add 10 years.

God, as usual, is in the details, and details can be damning.

Officially, BCBG stands for the French compliment “bon chic, bon genre,” or “good style, good attitude.” I had always heard it stood for a muskier saying: “beau cul, belle gueule,” meaning “nice derrière, nice mouth.” We can’t be sure which BCBG the designer Max Azria intended, but I suspect both versions secretly go together: an illicit affair between smarts and smut.

BCBG’s collection lifts inspiration from Coco Chanel’s impromptu day look. After spending the night with a boyfriend, she absconded with her lover’s cardigan, slung a belt around it and threaded a ribbon through the buttonholes. Voilà!

BCBG has the cardigans and belts, 1930s-style shoes, ropes of fake pearls, cloche hats and affordable imitations of Chanel’s enamel cuffs. What gets lost in translation is elegance, which Ms. Chanel once defined as “the absence of vulgarity.”

Mr. Azria seems to have taken Coco’s iconic look and said: “Yes, but it needs sexing-up. Flashdance the cardigan off one shoulder. Gob on more baubles. Tighten the belts, stick feathers on the hat and make it all 45 percent acrylic.”

The overall ethos reminded me of “Working Girl,” in which the outer-borough gum-snapper Melanie Griffith goes to work in Manhattan and reluctantly empowers herself by embracing the corporate dress code. BCBG seems wedged in the middle of this character arc: sometime after Melanie starts flirting with Harrison Ford but before she gets serious hair. The Azria outfits seem to bridge and tunnel that paradoxical space between Bon Jovi and boardroom, Perth Amboy and Wall Street, beer and wine, bon chic and beau cul.

One need not pay astronomical prices for great clothes. A judicious eye serves as well as unlimited credit. A quality knockoff can work as well as its source. The simplest things, however, can often prove most expensive, and hardest to find. As the quality of garments gets diluted for wider distribution, simplicity always seems to hit the cutting room floor. A subtle Chanel detail might be quite large on a BCBG garment, as if to say: “Yo! Check it out! A classy detail!”

Some items suffer from excess creativity. One dress fuses a voile top onto a pinstripe skirt. This felt like a fashion handicap ramp, designed to assist girls incapable of managing actual separates ($260). A black sequined tank dress is apparently intended to break all the rules by being worn over a striped oxford button-down shirt, with ruffles. This combination works, I suppose, as long as the cocktail dress is being used as a barbecue apron.

The top floor is dedicated to the BCBG Runway line. This is prom dress heaven, dominated by Empire-waist goddess gowns, ideal for swooshing over with a xylophone glissando to reveal to game-show contestants what’s behind Door No. 3!

Some details, however, are puzzlingly crude. The bust of a chocolate chiffon dress seems to have been appliquéd with chipped flint tools from the mid-Paleolithic era; I christened it, “Je m’appelle Wilma” ($800). It would have gone well with an animal pelt that had a tag describing it — really — as a Rabbit Hare Coat ($498).

Some of the infantine BCBG staff members wore their black slacks so tight it looked as if they might be growing out of them. One rolled her eyes when I gestured inarticulately toward a crumpled brown tube that looked like a costume for a grade-school biology pageant: I am Mr. Snuffalupagus’s magic esophagus. I am the Snuffalupesophagus.

“So, like, are you trying to say you want to try that dress on?” her mouth managed to ask despite both braces and gum.

Little girl, I prayed for restraint. Please don’t poke the Cobra.

“Why, yes,” I said.

I have no children, I thought, with bright ecstasy.

The dress looked exponentially better on. Under different lights, the stretchy fabric was a burnished gold. The skirt draped well, and the top was a sturdily engineered bustier lined with an all-weather, vulcanized latex material, tough enough to grip off-road or on the dance floor. Still, I worried about condensation ($800).

I really liked a pair of black driving gloves ($125). I was walking to the register to pay for them when I tried them on. They fit well, but I realized the featured detail — a round opening at the back of the hand secured by a snap — was too large to be usefully glovelike. These weren’t so much gloves as riding chaps for the hands.

I also noticed, a bit glumly, that my hands, exposed through that decorative window, had never looked quite so dry, so vascular. There are hands that would look spectacular in those gloves: long, brown, dewy hands that told no tales, with watches that told less time.

I was damned again by details.

I turned around and replaced the gloves on the display table. BCBG, both the store and the compliment, should be directed toward a very young lady, after all; one still on her journey toward a suit without decorative zippers, and not yet possessed of serious hair.

Ads by Google what's this?

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Harlow the Harlot in Miami.

Red Dust (1932), a classic Pre-Code starring Jean Harlow, Clark Gable and Mary Astor in a L-U-V triangle will be shown on Turner Classic Movies at 8:15 AM on November 17th. A must see!

In other news, Ryan and I spent a few days in Miami/Miami Beach last week and it was a much needed break, though much more than a few days there is unnecessary unless you somehow win the lottery or a multimillionaire decides he likes your style and wants to foot the bill for the remainder of your life. I spent a painful 30 minutes in a teeny little store, Base Annex, dying to buy every single item of clothing they had, but finally discovering this gorgeous linen-covered Five Year Diary that was cheap enough for po' lil ol' me. The beautiful gay men running the establishment really thought I was going to drop money or maybe they were just being nice, because they were trying to sell me these $800 Comme Des Garcons t-shirts.

I did find a great small shop called Arrive on 16th near Collins that sold both mens and women's clothing (lots of wonderful wool car coats...in MIAMI???) and I found a stunning cotton Vivienne Westwood skirt that is totally evocative of her Pirates collection on sale. I almost cried; finally, I own Vivienne. I also bought a very Edie smoky grey cotton tee with very high side slits...it was only $30 on sale. Great store.

The food there was excellent for the most part, except our unbelievably crappy breakfast at the horribly overrated News Cafe on Ocean Drive, known as the last spot Gianni Versace interacted with someone not with an intent to murder him to become famous. I think our server wanted to murder us and not be known for anything but a hateful little bitch murderer of two paupers. Ocean has become pretty tawdry in some ways; Collins is the more interesting street at this point. The single most annoying thing about South Beach is the hostess with the over sized menu, seated on a tall stool and jumping into your path, shoving said menu in your face and saying, "Would you like to take a look at our wonderful dinner menu?????" It is horrific that restaurateurs believe this to be indicative of hospitality. It is assault.

We missed eating at Tap Tap as it was closed, but Grillfish was good, casual and had excellent service. Tapas y Tintos on Espanola Way was a beautiful little spot and most of their tapas were fantastic, except the final one, something to do with "Devil Shrimp". They should have called it "Something Remotely Like Shrimp Drowned in Parsley Sauce." It was disgusting. Ryan got all Bourdain on me and called it "a failure." The service sucked. We won't need to ever go there again.

In Miami proper, Catch of the Day on Le Jeune is A MUST. Super fresh seafood done extremely well; Cuban owned and operated with fantastic Cafe con Leche and wonderful, though youthful, service. We had a stone crab cocktail and deep-fried red snapper, served "smiling at you", i.e. HEAD ON!

Thanks to Ann-Eliza and Brian for reccommending The Catalina Hotel and Beach Club on Collins Ave., just past the Delano. Great rates, cool rooms and a wonderful pool. Not to mention free drinks for guests at Happy Hour.

Going Home.

Well, its done been decided. Instead of running off to yet another hip, happening locale with the hopes that it will provide us with utter happiness via constantly replenished consumer cornucopias, Ryan and I decided late last night that Memphis, TN--place of my birth, youth and grad school years--will be our next home come Summer 2008 (quite possibly the worst time to try to wrangle friends into helping you unload a Uhaul in that city).
Flawda just hasn't been "it" for us. I feel sad in admitting it as we have only been here 9 months, but it has just felt bizarre to me and well, painful for Ryan. I am glad to have met the great people we have met and to have had the beach 15 minutes from my home, but the other things just aren't catching our fancy.
Memphis has its own issues, but I don't feel like getting into it now as Ryan says I am being too contrarian and warning too much about the bad and not enjoying what is going to be really great about living there again. So, if anyone is reading this, remind me to stay nice and keep my head about me...and go to the beach as much as possible in the next 8 months!

My New Bag. A Dream Come True.

Today I think I received my dream handbag. It is a "Junco" by Ashley Watson, an enterprising, green-sensible young woman residing in one of the most wonderful cities in our hemisphere, Vancouver Canada. She makes remarkable handbags from old leather jackets. At first, I was skeptical of what the quality would be. I thought, "OK, they'll be ironic and goofy" or "They'll be poorly constructed and reeking of amateur seamstress." Neither of my cynical assumptions were correct now that I took possession of my fabulous, small (it is actually rather large at approx 16"wide and 12" tall) JUNCO tote in a forrest green leather. Ashley is an artist, a sculpto-seamstress. One would never suspect this jacket once likely warmed some high-class Canadian prostitute circa 1990 or a wealthy teen of the same era with a penchant for shocking her parents with her scary taste in color and leather. Yes, the leather is super soft, super strong kid and Ashley took full advantage of the diagonal, topstiched front pockets of the jacket, which are now the diagonal, topstiched front pockets of my handbag. And did I mention, it is RECYCLED? Go get yours (no two are exactly alike) or another design more to your taste at www.beklina.com.

Denwave Saves Lives.

Put together a lil $$$$ for some new Fall threads and while browsing the damn internets, checked out Hazel and Genevieve's goings-on (yeah, OK, I miss PDX) and noticed several new items that had to be owned. For starters, the above handmade cotton yarn and brass necklace by the inimitable Hazel Cox. $68 please. Hazel also had a killer $28 copper and cotton yarn necklace I had to have; I mean, IT'S $28! Then, of course, there is Genevieve Dillinger to be be reckoned with. I bought a flowing, light grey rayon tunic/tee ($68) and was easily talked into a gorgeous linen dress; best I can describe the major signature of the fabric is "bed ticking". It is just like everything from Genevieve: Simple, elegant and completely chic.

OH MY.

Bad, bad lady! I have taken quite the extended blogging vacances, so now I am back with that odd Guilt Post formerly known as the Guilt Entry when I used to actually use a device with ink to scribe my boring goings on.

Ryan and I hit a serious wall with St. Pete/Tampa. Bottom line, we bored of it here. I love the beach, the tennis courts, the skies, the big rain and whatever, but what was happening in this area when I was last here (early 2000's) has been replaced by a glossy, suburban ideal. Independent "funky" business were displaced in the hopes of making big condo dollars; this never happened in certain areas so an entire block sits abandoned. The new businesses may be owned by locals but many smack of a chain; almost like they hope and strive to one day be a chain. I can't get into this. And what the fuck happened to the screens that would show the indie/foreign/unusual films? None are around. I love the people I have met so far, but I am not quite sure if it is all enough to make it worth sticking it out for the long haul.

Sad but true. We'll see what happens. We are here for another year anyway and hell if I am not going to enjoy it to the fullest.

Martha Quinn Returns.

When I was in 9th grade, following the top row of braces being removed from my teeth, following the back part of my brown, golden-flecked hair growing out into a nice wavy rug creating a gorgeous mullet before there was such a thing, before I was unceremoniously deflowered as my boyfriend's father watched a John Wayne movie in the next room as I worried every time the headboard banged against the wall, before I dated men who were uncircumcised and caught hell from other boys about this (Why? I still don't know. Uncircumcised penises can still reach orgasm)...I resembled a spritely, adorable original MTV VJ, Martha Quinn.

For the first time ever in West Memphis, Arkansas, I had a cool cultural touchstone. I took on cachet and had acceptance from cute, sexy boys who had heretofore ignored me and girls who pinched my cheeks in crude disbelief when I swore I wasn't wearing any makeup. "Yew look jes lak MARTHA QUINN!" "Yew oughta be ah VJ!!!!" Ah, popularity.
Martha returns. Saturday night August 25th.

Theresa Duncan and Jeremy Blake

Image from Zero Zero, CD-ROM by Theresa Duncan and Jeremy Blake.

Read THIS

Really sad but really fascinating too. I have read her blog also, The Wit of the Staircase.

She so much reminds me of my friend P. (and so many brilliant female clients I have had over the last 10+ years with Bipolar Disorder)--that special girl who also will eat you up with that same brilliance. You want it so badly, but you also realize that being inside of it eats up whomever you are. Maybe I am overstepping here, but I can imagine that is how Jeremy Blake may have felt after she was gone--once you agree to be usurped by these people, even though the usurping is L-U-V, you give up yourself. To him, what else was he to do with her gone? Who really knows how much of himself was wrapped into her?

My biggest disgust in looking into the internets following this sad story are the multitudes of people enamored with Theresa and Jeremy (rather, their image) who seem desperate to believe in conspiracy theories over what seems more than apparent to me as a mental health therapist, as well as a fucking HUMAN, that these two were mentally ill and wrapped up resolutely in their illness, with only each other reinforcing their most desperate delusions. The ridiculous propensity of these message board/blogosphere twits wanting to want to believe that the CIA gives a shit about two gorgeous, creative, intelligent, but not-threatening-to- anyone-but-themselves young people, to the extent of ignoring what is obvious (Ah HEM. They were very paranoid and deluded)...well, it doesn't surprise me that the mental health system is forced socially to operate in a shadow world. It is just a much less glamourous and compelling shadow world than the CIA and Cointelpro for hipsters and glamour pusses to acknowledge.

Sorry T & J--you guys were sick and frightened and often, no one can help out with all that. R.I.P.

Turner Classic Movies.

I vaguely recall in the 1980's a minor scandal erupting when Ted Turner purchased many old films, particularly black and white films from the Pre Code era, and decided to color them and broadcast them on his new cable movie channel, Turner Classic Movies. Filmgoers collectively let a very Margaret Dumont-esque "Well I NEVAH!" which seemed to just egg Turner on and he actually broadcast a few colorized versions of classics like Casablanca.

Well, Turner Classic Movies (heretoforward, TCM) is still on cable and has become my favorite cable channel, bar none. I no longer see any threats of colorized classics, simply threats of a drunken Carrie Fisher arguing film with the ever-likeable Robert Osbourne (who seems to handle his alkie-hall much better). The secret behind what is now the best movie channel on TV is their extensive library of Pre-Code pictures. Go look up Pre-Code on Wikipedia if you don't already know what I am going for, but TCM on a very regular basis showcases such gems as Night Nurse starring Barbara Stanwyck and Joan Blondell as salt of the earth, fun-loving, private nurses devoted to saving the lives of young poisoned children...poisoned by a junkie doctor in cahoots with a shady chauffeur played by a whiskerless Clark Gable! You cannot get better than this.

I plan to begin reviewing some of these classics here on this blog as it is my belief that once this infamous code came into place, American film never quite recovered. Sure, we all know this as college-educated little intellectuals, right? WRONG. Somehow we believe that the Golden Age of Hollywood was the early 1970's when the hotshit, renegade directors like Altman were smoking a bunch of weed and making their wackadoodle extend-a-movies or when every other movie was some paranoid freakout starring Gene Hackman (I love him too, but hear me out here)...sure, that stuff is great, but trumpeting that mess in your 30's is truly akin to a 17 year old reading The Dharma Bums and then going to the mall and talking really loudly so everyone can hear you about how intense it is. Psst... I cringe thinking about me or you doing that. I really do.

So, do yourself a favor. Scan TCM for a Pre-Code film sometime and hell, if you must smoke a joint to enjoy it, go ahead, I'll give you that. Watch the glossy mouth of Joan Blondell as she smacks gum and tell me if you don't have an epiphany right there. Just tell me that isn't as incredible as Gene Hackman breaking down that tape in The Conversation any day.

Summer Reading Mach II

I Like You: Hospitality Under the Influence, Amy Sedaris 2006. This is seriously my new Bible. How did I miss this kookball's genius until now? Well, it is actually OK because I have lots of material to catch up on. I checked this gem out of the library and bought it on Amazon the same night. Pure and utter brilliance aka insanity. I have been known to carry this book to bars in town and force it's message on other drunk people. It has worked with gays and smart people. Addendum to the last sentence (7/9): And apparently, swingers.

Turn the Beat Around: The Secret History of Disco, Peter Shapiro 2005. I am obviously digging the book with a subtitle (is that would you'd call that?) I always think it makes your book or article or essay look as if you are really smart and telling us something important. Sometimes you actually do. So far, Mr. Shapiro is. I like his background info that makes NYC seem like it was a scary hellhole a la The Warriors. He isn't really talking about disco yet, but I can tell he is getting around to it. Tres bien, Mr. Shapiro! Please do not spare details on sex and drugs while sounding smart--you can do both.

Fucking HELL YES, Florida.

I never get over how great this place is. Sure, it is also so unbelievably stupid (Example: The amazing Tiki Gardens pictured to the left were DESTROYED for a municipal parking lot) that words cannot describe, but once you ease into this place and begin discovering it, it reminds me why all those crazed Conquistadores came over here bearing Catholicism and herpes wave after wave back in the 16th century.

Just today: Woke up, threw open the blinds to the rain-covered tropical regalia that is our front and back yard. Made coffee and listened to the radio. Rode the scooter up to the Bay and ate a Spanish breakfast outdoors with wind cooling us off. Rode the scooter along the bay and looked at all the sailboats. Rode home through the alley behind our street in Old Northeast and BRAKKKKKKKE! A guy is selling a massive record collection in the fucking alley. And he is the owner of one of the better used record (vinyl) stores still existing (Bananas). Score incredible shit, including two original John Fahey LPs on Takoma and an original copy of Tago Mago.

Go home and do the responsible thing by bringing our recycling to the drop off (somehow forcing this--rather than the ease of curbside--gets me thinking about what else I can do). Go to Target and spend too much money (this occurs wherever you happen to live). Go home and relax. Ride up to some place I've just seen and was curious about as it looked promising for a myriad beer selection. Was absolutely right in this assumption: Bought a 6-pack of Bell's Two-Hearted Ale, something even Portland never had (had to be something they never had, had to be)...then discovered after arriving home that I actually love John Fahey and I would never sell these records after listening to them.

What happens when you get happy again? You like even the most minute aspects of the day again. You enjoy the world and what it has to offer. So, here's a nice drink to you, Florida, thank you very much...you are a lovely place.

So, Kels, does this girl you are screwing live in ATLANTA?

One more and it is time for bed. Wow.

R. Kelly - Same Girl (feat. Usher)
Uploaded by yardie4life

Ah. The Return of THE MOOCH.

Jeffrey Jensen is really neccessary and I am being the furthest from sarcastic.

Book Blurb!

Indiana Gothic. Yeah, me too. Indiana is just not "Gothic" even when it has such juicy scandal as went down in this book. Key words: Farmland, old timey courtship, box socials, frigid wives, farming, land for miles and miles, weird country people, lusty men, prostitutes we barely hear a thing about damnit, slutty bored housewives, conniving sisters, sly sex on the side, adultery, sly sex on hay, made up visions of bad sex on hay, hallucinations and illicit babies. Oh yeah, murder, dust and small town politcos too. You think with all this (and trust me, there are about 20 more delicious keywords I didn't even mention!) you'd have a facinating summer read. Well, no. If this had been written by a woman it would have been more worth my time. What is it about men and their LAME sex tales. C'mon guys, you're the ones who supposedly love sex so much!

It was you all along, Lil Mama.

I love love love love a teenage gimmick rap video!!!

New Header Image.

Patsy Colleen Desmond et Kristin Irène Young, Evergreen Street off Damen Ave, Chicago, August 1994. Thanks to Geoffrey Ellis.

Love and miss you, Pats.

Best Believe.

This will be better than the Court TV snorefest.
(You can click on the above. Gotta explore why that grey is being used.)

Summer 2007 Reading List Mach I

1. Dolores--Jacqueline Susaan, 1976. So far I will describe this book as a bizarre, very-thinly-veiled retake on the story of another, not-as-fabulous "Jacqueline"...Kennedy-Onassis. Not trashy enough...yet. My copy (the Bantam pb pictured above has a great illustration of the author on the back cover, though).

2. Smoked: A True Story About the Kids Next Door--Lèon Bing, 1993. So promising, so bland. Could have been better, I am more than positive, if Ms. Bing didn't approach the subject like a hip grandmother. Still, I can't put it down.

3. Collected Writings--Frank Norris, 1928. Norris is firmly in my top three favorite authors of all fucking time list. His not-as-famous brother, Charles, collected stories for this after Frank's death and somehow my local library still has a first edition in fairly good shape. The problem is, much like many other authors I enjoy from this era, they were greatly influenced by Medieval literature. My mother got a master's in Medieval Lit and this perplexes me more than her unbiding love for Tab. Half of this book will suck, the other half has promise.

4. Indiana Gothic: A Story of Adultery and Murder in an American Family--Pope Brock, 1999. Now we're talking!!! That title basically is as promising as a bottle of Vicodin and a week's paid vacation. Let's hope "Pope" can pull it together.

Feel free to give me more suggestions!

Just to have something in here for May?

Yeah yeah yeah...been awhile but we have been going through all sorts of changes and things likely won't truly somewhat settled down again til July. Ryan and I were going to buy a house but discovered that cheap housing prices in Florida are offset by extraordinarily ridicuous insurance and property taxes. And, oh yeah, in the parlance of Sambeaux, our credit has AIDS. Well, not AIDS, but certainly Hep A. It is repairable, but not without some bouts of jaundice.

We instead are breaking the lease here in The Shoebox and got a very 1920's F. Scott Fitzgerald Gin & Hack Scripts Den over in Old Northeast. Pink stucco, tropical plants, deco fixtures, duplex, water view (uh, 3 blocks away, but YOU CAN SEE WATER, dammit!) and a brick-laid street. Cannot wait for this.

I also have a new job with mo' money and it is a four day workweek cos you work some long hours M-Th. Fine with me! Ryan is also The-AHEM-Manager at Bella Brava. I always think of Earles and "Can I speak to THE MANAGER???" when referring to this new title for Ryan. I think Ryan does too. Fucking Earles.

So, yes, things is good and getting better. I am tan, a size 6 again and have been having migraines. I got a bad haircut but found a guy who knows what he is doing who repaired it. Megan and Joel saved our asses with 4 lbs of Stumptown.

Nothing else. I will get to this at some point later on.

For political disaster, I mean, fun--check Ophelia Ford out!!!!

Yet another shameless DENWAVE plug.

My favorite shop in the universe is Denwave of Portland, Oregon. I can't really explain it, but it is a truly magical little place--gorgeous, comfortable, cozy, perfectly lit and full of just the right amount of truly unique treasures. Did I mention it has zero pretention even though you might expect a place this cool to drip "SNOB"?

Anyway, Genevieve and Hazel are officially going online soon, so get ready ladies and fashionable gents. www.denwave.com I will have to ask Lainey how to make that into a "hyperlink" or whatever they call it.

I just received the dress above--yeah, it is haute and hot.

'Tis RAINING!!!!

It is actually raining for an extended period of time outside today! Yay! I sometimes believe I have turned into a pod person or I am truly living in an alternate reality because, well, less than 3 months ago, you'd never hear excitement and cheer from me over rain. In fact, you may very well have caught me still in my robe at 4AM, mitts in a bag of Cheetos, staring at Bobby Goran solve another impossible NYC mystery, eyeing the last of the Vicodin with some dire thoughts on my brain at the mention of rain. Yeah, more Portland bashing. Let's have it!

I do miss Portland from time to time. The coffee mainly. Oh what I would do for a Stumptown soy latte right now. Also, the clothes and the jewelry. Genevieve from Denwave is enough of a dearheart to still offer to make me some very Florida fashions (dress coming soon!) and she even is trying to help facilitate the purchase of some of Hazel Cox's wonderful necklaces. So, yes, Portland is not all rain and hippies and hipsters and singular thinking. I still hate the garage rockers though; well, only the ones who can't take a little ribbing on Precious Portland. I guess I am getting protective of Florida though, so I understand their ugly indignant ranting on the blogs as I'd basically tie myself to a dying palm to defend Florida at this stage in the game.

I suppose the difference is that Portland gets lots and lots of love and awards for being so-very-amazing, while Florida gets no recognition for the stuff that is actually cool here and the people that are actually cool get that awful inferiority complex so common to the Southern states/cities. Be loud and proud, Florida! We made it rain!

Ever Feel Like You've Been Cheated?

This son of a bitch cannot act his way out of rice paper envelope. We spent over 2 hours, $16 and brain cells trying to force ourselves to sit through his "acting" in the debacle known as Zodiac. The film looks gorgeous, Robert Downey Jr. is as stunning as ever, Mark Ruffalo put some life into a shell of a character but the biggest insult of all is that the audience was supposed to give a shit about some half-baked "Chariot of the Gods"-level mess by a cartoonist-cum-true crime investigator played by steroid-popping, Lance Armstrong-stroking JAKIE GYLENHAAL. Who, by the way, cannot act his way out of a rice paper envelope.

You're My Obsession.

I CAN HAS CHEEZBURGER!

http://icanhascheezburger.com/

Lookin' For Our Lost Shaker of Salt. Life in Florida.

Tennis. Spring Training Baseball. Coronas with lime and zero irony. White rasta dude server at Chattaway's Drive In (not a drive in at all; you eat outdoors). This place is great and everyone who slags me for not digging Portland? Well, um, fuck off and worry about your own life, perhaps? It is much better for me here. MUCH. Now pass the fish spread and bottle of wine!

THAT IS CORRECT, TEXASSSSSSS.

Gotcha oversized arrogant ass state with our lovable Keystone Kops of a team. Piss on your Alamo anyday, thank you. Corpus your Christi!

I think Andre (aka "Entree"--thanks Dave Dunlap) Allen has a lil crush on Gwen Stefani and this was his idea of a good idea for a L.A.M.B look with that 'do.

Go Tigers! Smash "The" Ohio State University!

PLEASE suggest something for me to OUT METAL my downstairs neighbor.

That is correct people.

The gloves are OFF. I mean, I should wear latex gloves if I am within 50 feet of my downstairs, off-the-lease, off-the-books downstairs neighbor. I like to call him The Anger Management Tour of the Dartmoor House. He blasts really bad Flo-Metal (Florida+Metal?) when he is crashing at home (all the time) while his harpy idiot teen mom girlfriend, Barbie, is out manning the front desk at the local Mariott.

One of the small pleasures in my life while living in this shoebox at Dartmoor House is to get home after my 45 minute commute from the bowels of South County Tampa and fling open the back doors to our porch to let the air flow through the house and check out the sunset and all our plants.

Before Barbie and her child and her manchild moved in (manchild moved in sometime in the last 2 weeks), this was an easy enough task. Now? Not so much. Because if Barbie and Anger Management aren't screaming at each other and coming to near blows, the guy has aforementioned NuMetal CRANKED. It sounds like it probably has cookie monster vocals, but all I can really hear is the "chuh-chug, chuh-chug" pattern folowed by the needlessly complicated guitar "melody"...for all I know this could be what Insane Clown Posee sounds like cos this guy reeks of Jugalo smell.

Question to you, dear reader (likely my husband, maybe my cat)...WHAT metal can I purchase STAT to "out metal" this dick? He needs to get got. And fast. I want it so loud, so complex, so BRUTAL that his metal withers and dries up with a quickness.

I am now relying on my Rick James "Come Get It!" album...it only works for a minute.

Merci!

Craig Brewer: The Untouchable

Much like Robert DeNiro's Al Capone, Memphis has its own nonstick pan of film (WHAT?): Craig Brewer. I have attempted throughout lo these many years, to get anything beyond a vague expression of criticism of this man's "work" from any Memphian I know. I don't dig the man. Sure, I found Hustle & Flow (which now shall forever be known by me as M.E.M.P.H.I.S. Pimp) to be a surprising, sorta sweet (aka: saccharine) diversion rather than the utter piece of exploitative trash it could have been. However, the guy reeks of hack. I am sure I might like him as a person, but I fear he would be one of those people that I'd find myself panicking within moments to find the nearest shot glass to get through a conversation with. But then again, I saw this look in a couple of drunk women's faces the other night in Downtown St. Pete...so...

So, yeah, anyways...I make my feelings known about Mr. Brewer. I have asked every which way but Sunday how friends and acquaintances feel, either in person, via telephone or internet, HOW DO YOU FEEL? What did you THINK?

Nada.

I hate to say it and I guess this is whatcha gotta do in Memphis, people there are politicking. Craig Brewer could mean a future income to allow you to get through a few months in an area where you just don't make that "crazy money" that Hollywood pays out. Craig Brewer could mean an interview that might allow you to publish in a real magazine, not a blog like Saispas. Craig Brewer could mean a night with access to some Hollywood drugs, drink and women. Or at least a night on a red carpet in a humid dirty Downtown Memphis.

Who am I to judge? All I really want...is for you to tell me how you really feel about someone with that much of a cliched version of a place that, if you are with me, you love? All replies will be accepted by commented here on This Blog.

Goodnight and Good Luck.

Yes! Denwave has a blog!

You know when you are beginning to crave something that used to be so easy to get you took it for granted? No I am not discussing the cheap cocaine in Portland cos there is plenty of that lounging about Florida of course...I am talking about one of my favorite stores/places/enclaves/dreams ever getting all blogger-y and even discussing having a website of their own to SELL THINGS!!! Yes. Yes. Yes.

One of these days, I am gonna start something of my own here in St. Petersburg but until I am all set and ready, I am bereft of great design now that I live here. Sad but true. Not that I could even afford to drop as much $$$ as I did in Portland over the last years as the money given a therapist here ain't sheeeeeeet.

Anyway, if anyone is even reading this, go check this out:

http://denwave.blogspot.com/

Cabin Fever.

I got it bad. So bad, that even the fact we now have digital cable in our home is not enough. It sucks to move somewhere and not feel like going out to meet people but also feeling compelled to do so. Back in ye olden days, I would have just dragged my drug-addled ass out, but these days, it is just easier to stay in and hope it eventually feels comfortable to take things gradually.

Florida remains funny. But I don't tonight, so I'll stop. I'll come back when there is something interesting to talk on.

I don't like this place when it is cold. It needs to be warm all the time. Be warm, Florida, you skanky piece of trash!

Bob Hite. Do I hate you or love you?

From Hite's WFLA bio:

Bob Hite has been with News Channel 8 since the summer of 1977. He and his longtime partner Gayle Sierens co-anchor the 6 and 11 p.m. newscasts. Bob also co-anchors the 5:30 p.m. newscast with anchor Stacie Schaible. Over 28 years at News Channel 8's anchor desk have made Bob the Bay area's senior anchor.

Bob was "born to the business." His great grandfather was a London newspaper publisher, his grandfather a journalist and author, his mother had her own radio show and his father was an anchor for the CBS radio and TV news.

Bob launched his career in the Marines in 1967, when he joined the Corps as a photojournalist. After his discharge in '69, he worked in radio and industrial films. In 1975 he joined the staff of WPVI-TV in Philadelphia.

A life-long sailor, Bob couldn't resist the opportunity to come to Florida when WFLA offered him a job. He literally "cast off" from Philadelphia, sailing his classic wooden ketch to Tampa Bay.

Bob gets involved in his news coverage as much as he can. Not only does he develop all of his stories, he shoots and edits virtually all of them, both above and under water.

Since the beginning the War on Terror Bob has traveled twice to Afghanistan and Iraq to embed with our troops, particularly those from the Tampa Bay area. On his most recent trip, the Humvee he was riding in hit an IED (improvised explosive device) and was blown off the road. Neither Bob nor the 3 soldiers with him were seriously injured.

Bob is a Coast Guard licensed captain, a pilot, diver, and an accomplished horseman and marksman. He is a life member of the U.S. Marine Corps Combat Correspondents Association, the Broadcast Pilots Association and the International Documentary Association.

Bob has won seven Emmy awards for cinematography, videography, writing and editing, the "News Story of the Year" award, the Directors award and has been recognized as the foremost environmental reporter in the state by the Florida Coastal Management Conference. In fact, during his 28 years as a reporter in the Bay area, his environmental reporting has had an impact in excess of 20 billion dollars.


Andy Earles? You MUST do a little investigative reporting on this guy.

We're here!!!

We now live in Florida. I don't even know where to start about how it is so far exceeding my expectations (except in the world of salary offers--way on the low end, folks). I have to rewind before I get into St. Petersburg's supreme gorgeousness, so tomorrow or the next, I'll do my obligatory cross-country post wrapping up the highlights of a very fast yet somehow long and exhausting trip.

Flashes of St. Pete include faux Tony Alva's...kinda the real deal (as in 14 year old skateboarding kids of cokeheads), but also have seen Dogtown and are apeing him (to great effect)...WILD PARROTS in palm trees in the park four blocks from our home...Cubans living across from Mexicans who bump mariachi on Friday afternoons...a neighborhood that is like a cleaned up version of the Ninth Ward (this would be our neighborhood)...young hipster kids lounging dangerously close to gators...being refreshed when you see a hipster (fucking novel feeling)...bad coffee but not giving a shit...a level of relaxation that I really had no idea existed...big blue vistas...flip flops in february.

The Best Grandfather Ever 12/24/24-1/10/07

Thomas Sloan Young III.

We love and miss you.

Your favorite,

"Kripswitch"

Join Me on Curbly!

I like this site--kinda like a more accessible, Friendster-esque version of Apartment Therapy.

Join Me On Curbly!

WHO??!?!?!?!?!?!

This is what people are talking about. A LOT.




I remember once I read a Byron Coley (i think it was him) piece in Spin in the early 90's where he said in all seriousness that he had not heard Janet Jackson (this was when her s/t record was out, I believe). I was in line at Walgreens and I snorted so loud that the Talking Christmas Tree fell off the counter. I thought "God, he is so full of shit. What a FUCKING LIAR." Well, here it is 13 or so years later and I can honestly say I would not know The Hold Steady from Boris. Well, I'd probably guess Boris as I think they are a "heavy" band while these jokers look like substitute teachers. In Brooklyn. Or Portland.

So, call me what you will, but I don't know shit about what is going on with with music today, unless it is rap, and then I might know. It once was what defined me and it was an uncomfortable definition. I felt like the Rain Man of obscure independent music circa 1977-1998, with subspecializations in Southern Classic Rock, Afternoon Rock, 50's radio hits, Disco and last but fo' sho not least, early-mid 1980's rap/electro/hiphop. It still fills my brain. So much so that I just like to let a few musical things trickle in so I can have room for the other stuff that was always so interesting, but I left it by the wayside to buy a record or see a show.

There is my explanation. P.S. I am dying to hear Boris.

Friends.

Me y Liz at the Red Fang/Fed X show last night at Tube,



All other photos may stay away from this blog as we all look far too in our cups...as we were.

ALPHA DOG! WOOF!

Oh wow. Guess what I will be dragging my husband to see during our first week in Florida??? The trailer looks like total shit. This true crime story is one of my all-time faves. I first saw it as a classic America's Most Wanted segment that they showed about 80 zillion times and it featured a party, a lot of wiggers and slowed-down video to approximate the weed haze these small time suburban weed dealers were in. Then I read an expanded version of the story in one of the America's Best Crime Writing anthologies as I lounged in a drunken haze of my own on the beach in Mexico. I immediately started looking around the dinky surf town for Jesse James Hollywood.



http://www.alphadogmovie.com/main.html