I was in ninth grade when American Pie came out. My brother and I went to see it at the Santa Monica AMC on one of dad's Divorced Parents Weekends. We laughed. Hysterically. Along with the entire room of adolescent, prepubescent teenagers. What could be funnier than humping a pie?
Eight years later I am taking a hike up Runyan Canyon with my boyfriend and I see a bigger Jason Biggs moving up the hillside alongside us. And when he takes the lead, he picks his hike-induced wedgie. It's the kind of thing that makes you never want to be famous in any capacity.
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
Monday, March 9, 2009
SL,UT
West of Brooklyn...really?
The alarm clock goes off at 5:30 AM Central Time. It is 4:30 in Los Angeles and I am all sorts of fucked up. A body should not be put through torture such as this and I cannot get out of Utah sooner. Our flight leaves at 8:25 am. Thank god. I go through airport security. A breeze, relatively speaking. On the way to the gate I spot a general store called "West of Brooklyn" which I suppose is an attempt to compare it artistically with indie hipster going-ons. Further than this hypothetical I come up with, there is no rhyme or reason as to why the owner would have the audacity to try to strike up a similarity with anything, let alone New York City. "West of Broadway" is in a class all it's own and probably filled with the most terrifying art in Utah.
1. Fruit and Vegetable Animals
These go in the inedible art category. They are pottery-like and glazed. Imagine taking your favorite treat, say, a banana. And you think, hey, a banana could look like a donkey if I turn it around and draw a head where the top end of the banana is and shape the bottom end into a tail. Then I can just add some banana colored legs and voila, Banana Donkey! There is an eggplant dolphin, tangerine cats, onion geese, red pepper bulls and cabbage fish. I realize as I write this that it all sounds a little strange and pointless. Trust me, it is.
2. Forever Blue Jeans Family Collection
I'm not sure where to place these little miniature dolls. I'm not even sure if they are dolls. I suppose they are closer to figurines. Like GI Joe toys minus anything interesting or cool. In fact, the Forever Blue Jeans Family Collection does not even go through the trouble of painting on the faces of the moms, dads, sons and daughters that stand eerily next to each other in white GAP tee shirts and blue denim pants. The lack of features on these creepy little representations of the white, Christian nuclear family is to perhaps allow the buyer (if any) to more easily relate to these 5 inch tall pieces of plastic. Admittedly, there was a moment there were I stared deep into the space where eyes should be of an anonymous female family member and I thought "Hey! That could me me!" And then I thought about being stuck on a shelf inside of the West of Brooklyn general store in the Salt Lake City Airport...a modern day "Indian in the Cupboard"...I shuddered and put the figurine back where it came from and backed away slowly.
3. Fimocreations
Fimo dough came out when I was in elementary school. Its consistency was something like a combination of Play-Dough and Wacky Taffy. You could buy all sorts of colors, roll them together into a tube and then slice them like julienned basil. The sliced pieces then looked like a Play-Dough kaleidoscope which we would then string on necklaces and let dry. I was 8 years old. This was okay then. Apparently in Utah, Fimo dough is still going strong for every man, woman, and child. The Fimocreations jewelry case takes up an entire enclosed showcase next to the register.
4. SL,UT
Call me immature but when my eyes passed by the rack of Salt Lake City themed coffee cups this one stuck out. Were they trying to be clever? I looked for other innuendos but I don't think Utah is capable of it. Nothing else in here had a sense of humor and I doubt they would start with this one.
The alarm clock goes off at 5:30 AM Central Time. It is 4:30 in Los Angeles and I am all sorts of fucked up. A body should not be put through torture such as this and I cannot get out of Utah sooner. Our flight leaves at 8:25 am. Thank god. I go through airport security. A breeze, relatively speaking. On the way to the gate I spot a general store called "West of Brooklyn" which I suppose is an attempt to compare it artistically with indie hipster going-ons. Further than this hypothetical I come up with, there is no rhyme or reason as to why the owner would have the audacity to try to strike up a similarity with anything, let alone New York City. "West of Broadway" is in a class all it's own and probably filled with the most terrifying art in Utah.
1. Fruit and Vegetable Animals
These go in the inedible art category. They are pottery-like and glazed. Imagine taking your favorite treat, say, a banana. And you think, hey, a banana could look like a donkey if I turn it around and draw a head where the top end of the banana is and shape the bottom end into a tail. Then I can just add some banana colored legs and voila, Banana Donkey! There is an eggplant dolphin, tangerine cats, onion geese, red pepper bulls and cabbage fish. I realize as I write this that it all sounds a little strange and pointless. Trust me, it is.
2. Forever Blue Jeans Family Collection
I'm not sure where to place these little miniature dolls. I'm not even sure if they are dolls. I suppose they are closer to figurines. Like GI Joe toys minus anything interesting or cool. In fact, the Forever Blue Jeans Family Collection does not even go through the trouble of painting on the faces of the moms, dads, sons and daughters that stand eerily next to each other in white GAP tee shirts and blue denim pants. The lack of features on these creepy little representations of the white, Christian nuclear family is to perhaps allow the buyer (if any) to more easily relate to these 5 inch tall pieces of plastic. Admittedly, there was a moment there were I stared deep into the space where eyes should be of an anonymous female family member and I thought "Hey! That could me me!" And then I thought about being stuck on a shelf inside of the West of Brooklyn general store in the Salt Lake City Airport...a modern day "Indian in the Cupboard"...I shuddered and put the figurine back where it came from and backed away slowly.
3. Fimocreations
Fimo dough came out when I was in elementary school. Its consistency was something like a combination of Play-Dough and Wacky Taffy. You could buy all sorts of colors, roll them together into a tube and then slice them like julienned basil. The sliced pieces then looked like a Play-Dough kaleidoscope which we would then string on necklaces and let dry. I was 8 years old. This was okay then. Apparently in Utah, Fimo dough is still going strong for every man, woman, and child. The Fimocreations jewelry case takes up an entire enclosed showcase next to the register.
4. SL,UT
Call me immature but when my eyes passed by the rack of Salt Lake City themed coffee cups this one stuck out. Were they trying to be clever? I looked for other innuendos but I don't think Utah is capable of it. Nothing else in here had a sense of humor and I doubt they would start with this one.
Monday, March 2, 2009
Living the High Life
Utah. I am here for work. I've recently been informed that we will be standing on a box for 4 hours. This is an excruciating amount of time. Yes, I am aware it is not coal mining nor is it rocket science. But this f'ing blows. In all honesty, I am used to getting paid to sit around waiting to walk on a runway for a combined 1.3 minutes, maybe less.
This recession thing is really kicking my spoiled, over-payed ass. We work for a client, a big department store. They fly us around the country and we prance around for rich folk in the name of marketing and charity. I have been to such glamorous places as Detroit, Fort Lauderdale, and, today, Salt Lake City. When people were actually still contributing to this economy buying expensive designer goodies, we were treated to such hotels as The Westin (functional and clean and business friendly) and The Mandarin Oriental (giggle-inducing extravagant).
Currently I am sitting in the Crystal Inn, a twenty-five minute ride from the airport into the middle of absolute nothingness. The driver of my courtesy shuttle informed me that this was the only Crystal Inn that provided both a complimentary hot breakfast and as well as a light dinner because of their extreme distance from anything resembling food. If we lose contact from the rest of the world, I will most certainly die. After, of course, the breakfast and light dinner rations deplete and the convenience store is raided.
I suppose I shouldn't complain though. I am watching a news special on Tanya Harding and what she has been up to since ruining someone's Olympic career. She pulls a giant trout out of a lake yelling "Holy shit! Holy shit! Holy shit!" Oh, Tanya. You are just as high class as ever and I am so happy that I am stuck in Salt Lake City with no where to go and crappy news stations with twelve year old irrelevant news.
This is apparently an image of the whirling jacuzzi tub in the super suite, which was, unfortunately not in the budget this trip.
This recession thing is really kicking my spoiled, over-payed ass. We work for a client, a big department store. They fly us around the country and we prance around for rich folk in the name of marketing and charity. I have been to such glamorous places as Detroit, Fort Lauderdale, and, today, Salt Lake City. When people were actually still contributing to this economy buying expensive designer goodies, we were treated to such hotels as The Westin (functional and clean and business friendly) and The Mandarin Oriental (giggle-inducing extravagant).
Currently I am sitting in the Crystal Inn, a twenty-five minute ride from the airport into the middle of absolute nothingness. The driver of my courtesy shuttle informed me that this was the only Crystal Inn that provided both a complimentary hot breakfast and as well as a light dinner because of their extreme distance from anything resembling food. If we lose contact from the rest of the world, I will most certainly die. After, of course, the breakfast and light dinner rations deplete and the convenience store is raided.
I suppose I shouldn't complain though. I am watching a news special on Tanya Harding and what she has been up to since ruining someone's Olympic career. She pulls a giant trout out of a lake yelling "Holy shit! Holy shit! Holy shit!" Oh, Tanya. You are just as high class as ever and I am so happy that I am stuck in Salt Lake City with no where to go and crappy news stations with twelve year old irrelevant news.
This is apparently an image of the whirling jacuzzi tub in the super suite, which was, unfortunately not in the budget this trip.
Saturday, February 28, 2009
Lazy Saturday
Picture post...I blame this on having seen "He's Just Not That Into You" a mere few hours ago. My brain hurts and it is robbed of intelligent thought.
Thursday, February 26, 2009
Celebreality Bites: Volume 1
Despite having grown up in the backyard of Los Angeles County I had absolutely nothing to do with the city until I was about nineteen. This is of course with the exception of one trip to the Palm Restaurant with my boyfriend plus his dad and dad's flight attendant lady friend. Then there was the class trip to the Museum of Tolerance; rather ironic having been scheduled by my Catholic school who's "Love the Sinner, Hate the Sin" anti-gay propaganda is seared into my memory. Oh, and there were a handful of La Brea Tar Pit family days. As a side note, going there as an adult was a far less enjoyable experience having since acquired a keen sense of smell and a heightened level of OCD. The "Imagine Pulling Yourself Out of a Vat of Tar!" segment turned into "Imagine Yourself Catching Malaria from Kiddie Boogers!"
I was a Los Angeles virgin. And like most late bloomers who went away to college determined and pure, I popped my cherry with the boy bang equivalent of the naughty dude who barely showered, probably did drugs, and was rarely seen in class. I can't say that at nineteen I had 100% quality guaranteed, foolproof taste in people. The crowd of people I fell in with will remain nameless but their ilk were the types to own shi-shi restaurants, private planes, and were listed as named contributors to political campaigns (most often Democratic...this is Hollywood). New money, old money, inherited money, money, money, money.
One night one of these money boys had a party. The host was an emaciated little lizard who, ironically, often sported a black snakeskin leather jacket. The driveway up to the house was lined with vintage cars and Aston Martins. Two gigantic doors with round center knobs opened up to a literal homage to the 1960s shag pad. Silver leafed wallpapered bathrooms, white shag carpet rugs, pod-like patio furniture staring out over Los Angeles. Daddy was in the fruit business, and not in the mafia sense but in the "Look at Me Next to the President" picture in a frame sense...which were littered casually around the house.
I spot Stephen Dorff, or rather, he spots me. He's shorter than I expected, not as good looking in person, but when he slurs a suggestion that we go sit on a pod in the backyard I think, "What the hell...I liked Blade." What transpired lasted only a few minutes and included some mild flattery followed by a swift recommendation that we "go make out over there." He points at the dark side of the house. Now while talking on an isolated pod with a troll is perfectly acceptable, looking down to make out with one is an entirely different animal.
"No."
"Why?"
"I don't kiss strangers."
"Well, fuck you then."
Mr. Dorff gets up to leave and proceeds to abandon me in the middle of the backyard with panoramic views of Los Angeles where I am sure that somewhere down there, at some party, some asshole just did the same thing to someone else.
Bite me.
I was a Los Angeles virgin. And like most late bloomers who went away to college determined and pure, I popped my cherry with the boy bang equivalent of the naughty dude who barely showered, probably did drugs, and was rarely seen in class. I can't say that at nineteen I had 100% quality guaranteed, foolproof taste in people. The crowd of people I fell in with will remain nameless but their ilk were the types to own shi-shi restaurants, private planes, and were listed as named contributors to political campaigns (most often Democratic...this is Hollywood). New money, old money, inherited money, money, money, money.
One night one of these money boys had a party. The host was an emaciated little lizard who, ironically, often sported a black snakeskin leather jacket. The driveway up to the house was lined with vintage cars and Aston Martins. Two gigantic doors with round center knobs opened up to a literal homage to the 1960s shag pad. Silver leafed wallpapered bathrooms, white shag carpet rugs, pod-like patio furniture staring out over Los Angeles. Daddy was in the fruit business, and not in the mafia sense but in the "Look at Me Next to the President" picture in a frame sense...which were littered casually around the house.
I spot Stephen Dorff, or rather, he spots me. He's shorter than I expected, not as good looking in person, but when he slurs a suggestion that we go sit on a pod in the backyard I think, "What the hell...I liked Blade." What transpired lasted only a few minutes and included some mild flattery followed by a swift recommendation that we "go make out over there." He points at the dark side of the house. Now while talking on an isolated pod with a troll is perfectly acceptable, looking down to make out with one is an entirely different animal.
"No."
"Why?"
"I don't kiss strangers."
"Well, fuck you then."
Mr. Dorff gets up to leave and proceeds to abandon me in the middle of the backyard with panoramic views of Los Angeles where I am sure that somewhere down there, at some party, some asshole just did the same thing to someone else.
Bite me.
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
Cameo Writer: Oscar Fashion
This was just too good, people. Enjoy the linguistic styling of my dear friend, Cesar Trujillo. Here is...THE STILETTO BI-ANNUAL
Hello Dear Reader,
I know you have been neglected by my absence. I can explain. I have been recovering from a full body lift, a Brazilian butt plump (You know I have a big back yard with nothing in it), and some extractions and additions we need not discuss. There may be some misspellings as I cannot see the screen clearly because of my leaking tear ducts. I was just sitting here minding everyone’s business and watching the Oscars whilst barely wearing a tulle jumpsuit with a sprinkling of Swarovski somethings in strategic locations....
Here are just a couple of observations from my chaise.
A lot of bizo's missed the recession memo. There were many a statement necklace around. I am starting a petition encouraging Carolina Herrera to stop making clothes. She just threw Amy Adams in a tomato soup bath and drew a grid on her tits.
Kate Winslet was beautiful. I was loving the bee catcher netting on her gown. Natalie Portman got her Rodarte at Cache in the Glendale Galleria during their annual Persian clearance sale. SJP looked great. She was looking very haggard/equine recently. I didn’t feel the need to give her a feed bag. It was so lovely for Nikki Kidman to take time out of her busy schedule of rolling around with the chickens to come the show. I just wished she would have changed before she left the house.
I love that Miley is recycling. She managed to save all of the tripe from her last barbecue to make her own dress. My heart goes out to Beouwulf. She had to wear that dress from The House of D-rrrhea-n. I know what it is like to have an overbearing transsexual momma running yo shiz. Poor Jesse Biel. It appears that her left breast caught elephantitis. Miuccia did an amazing job of making her look very Michelinesque.
I think it is about time I tape my eyes shut (very necessary after an extreme eye job) and go to bed.
I hope to write to you before my next procedure.
-- Penelope Anne Chinchilla Capodemonte Salome Lavetra Cinay Smith
PS - I saw John Legend buying a dress for some Hoe at Prada on Saturday. Confucius says what? He was with a completely different hoe at the Oscars. Everyone needs an SBSD (Single Black Sugar Daddy), but you hope yours doesn't mess around on you.
.jpg)
Hello Dear Reader,
I know you have been neglected by my absence. I can explain. I have been recovering from a full body lift, a Brazilian butt plump (You know I have a big back yard with nothing in it), and some extractions and additions we need not discuss. There may be some misspellings as I cannot see the screen clearly because of my leaking tear ducts. I was just sitting here minding everyone’s business and watching the Oscars whilst barely wearing a tulle jumpsuit with a sprinkling of Swarovski somethings in strategic locations....
Here are just a couple of observations from my chaise.
A lot of bizo's missed the recession memo. There were many a statement necklace around. I am starting a petition encouraging Carolina Herrera to stop making clothes. She just threw Amy Adams in a tomato soup bath and drew a grid on her tits.
Kate Winslet was beautiful. I was loving the bee catcher netting on her gown. Natalie Portman got her Rodarte at Cache in the Glendale Galleria during their annual Persian clearance sale. SJP looked great. She was looking very haggard/equine recently. I didn’t feel the need to give her a feed bag. It was so lovely for Nikki Kidman to take time out of her busy schedule of rolling around with the chickens to come the show. I just wished she would have changed before she left the house.
I love that Miley is recycling. She managed to save all of the tripe from her last barbecue to make her own dress. My heart goes out to Beouwulf. She had to wear that dress from The House of D-rrrhea-n. I know what it is like to have an overbearing transsexual momma running yo shiz. Poor Jesse Biel. It appears that her left breast caught elephantitis. Miuccia did an amazing job of making her look very Michelinesque.
I think it is about time I tape my eyes shut (very necessary after an extreme eye job) and go to bed.
I hope to write to you before my next procedure.
-- Penelope Anne Chinchilla Capodemonte Salome Lavetra Cinay Smith
PS - I saw John Legend buying a dress for some Hoe at Prada on Saturday. Confucius says what? He was with a completely different hoe at the Oscars. Everyone needs an SBSD (Single Black Sugar Daddy), but you hope yours doesn't mess around on you.
.jpg)
Monday, February 23, 2009
Oh, I Wish I were an Oscar Mayer Winner
To a very small, very select group, the Academy Awards represent years of toil, bullshit, lunch meetings, getting funding, losing funding, hard work and the climax of a very big and heady dream. To the rest of this city, it is an opportunity to party on someone else's dime, not unlike celebrating Christmas even if you're Jewish and you're just "into the vibe."
As I stand in line waiting to check in for the Bolthouse/Whitesell Oscar fete I am saddened that I am not allowed to bring my camera in to document the event. The slew of badly pressed, cheap gowns...the overtly sexy cleavage...the bare legs with small bruises. This is where merit and might meet gold-digging irrelevance. The people that actually deserve to celebrate the Oscars are not in line with us, of course. They take the narrow road up Mount Olympus in their own cars and limos. They shuttle the rest of us like they do the party decorations and catering brought in hours earlier. I see Bill Mayer in the parking lot, which I suspect is a fluke as he disappears moments later into a car.
I am not unlike the other people waiting in queue. I have nothing to do with the entertainment industry as of yet. Not in any grand capacity, really. But these things can be fun, and I'm not one to turn down a people watching extravaganza. I never do feel completely comfortable at these things though. I feel like I should wait for things like this until they mean something more than free drinks and a 2 AM breakfast bar (waffles, fresh fruit, turkey bacon, bacon bacon, chorizo frittata, sun dried tomato and feta cheese frittata, the works). I am a shameful mooch.
Recipe for a AA Cocktail:
4 scantily clad ladies
4 opaque black tights
1 Monster Energy Drink
1 forty-five minute valet disaster
1 Diet Coke with Lemon
1 pair of very high Jimmy Choo eel-skin booties
1 pair of sensible black flats (kept in my purse for emergency situations)
1 enormous and tasteless marble mansion
600 party goers
3 different types of hors d'oeuvres
1 DJ living in the past a la 2006
180 degree view of the Los Angeles skyline
Celebrities
We call it a night around 3 in the morning, after realizing that nothing really crazy is going to happen and struggling to remember if it ever does. My friends are buzzed and silly with alcohol. The night is a success. I take off in my car, back to my little duplex and my sleeping boyfriend, wondering how I just ended up under a giant plastic party tent with Javier Bardem and Amy Adams.
As I stand in line waiting to check in for the Bolthouse/Whitesell Oscar fete I am saddened that I am not allowed to bring my camera in to document the event. The slew of badly pressed, cheap gowns...the overtly sexy cleavage...the bare legs with small bruises. This is where merit and might meet gold-digging irrelevance. The people that actually deserve to celebrate the Oscars are not in line with us, of course. They take the narrow road up Mount Olympus in their own cars and limos. They shuttle the rest of us like they do the party decorations and catering brought in hours earlier. I see Bill Mayer in the parking lot, which I suspect is a fluke as he disappears moments later into a car.
I am not unlike the other people waiting in queue. I have nothing to do with the entertainment industry as of yet. Not in any grand capacity, really. But these things can be fun, and I'm not one to turn down a people watching extravaganza. I never do feel completely comfortable at these things though. I feel like I should wait for things like this until they mean something more than free drinks and a 2 AM breakfast bar (waffles, fresh fruit, turkey bacon, bacon bacon, chorizo frittata, sun dried tomato and feta cheese frittata, the works). I am a shameful mooch.
Recipe for a AA Cocktail:
4 scantily clad ladies
4 opaque black tights
1 Monster Energy Drink
1 forty-five minute valet disaster
1 Diet Coke with Lemon
1 pair of very high Jimmy Choo eel-skin booties
1 pair of sensible black flats (kept in my purse for emergency situations)
1 enormous and tasteless marble mansion
600 party goers
3 different types of hors d'oeuvres
1 DJ living in the past a la 2006
180 degree view of the Los Angeles skyline
Celebrities
We call it a night around 3 in the morning, after realizing that nothing really crazy is going to happen and struggling to remember if it ever does. My friends are buzzed and silly with alcohol. The night is a success. I take off in my car, back to my little duplex and my sleeping boyfriend, wondering how I just ended up under a giant plastic party tent with Javier Bardem and Amy Adams.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
