It looks like all it takes anymore to win an Oscar for "Best Picture" is to write a story about a racist cop.

Tuesday the Flynn came over to watch me work. My apartment is very tactile; it’s difficult to leave once entered. Flynn has an amazing ability to troll up the best internet arcana available, so the afternoon was spent exchanging youtube clips and deviant art links, then watched some “House” episodes I had tivoed. The subject of “Grey’s Anatomy” came up. I’m still trying to understand why the nation has collectively decided that skinny doctors constitute must-see-tv. Flynn and I are in agreement that there is room in life for one medical drama and one medical comedy, and those places belong to “House” and “Scrubs.”

We met up with Marsha and her friend from high school Andrew around 6 or so at Vynl. I was asked to pick a place for dinner, and it’s all I could think of in the medium price range. I still don’t have a lot of experience eating out in New York—I can’t afford to eat out more than once a week, and since I don’t have any friends that live in the city, when I do eat out I take myself out for cheap burgers, diner food, or skuzzy MSG-laden Asian food (why do preservatives taste so good?). Mostly, I’ve been trying to cook more, part of my New Year’s resolution to “eat like a grown up.” I can now boil rice, make hard boiled eggs, create various chicken dishes, and make cream sauces in addition to the stuff I could make back in college. I am a complete failure as a Mormon woman. Who needs rice cooking lessons!? And why is saffron so expensive?

But I’m getting off track here. Vynl was the closest thing that seemed decently priced, with enough vegetarian dishes to keep our two vegetarians happy. Andrew, of course, turned out to be amazing—studied music at Oberlin, played 12 instruments, and now works for the city regulating vendors in Central Park. I’ve never really stopped to think about “the plight of the hotdog vendor,” but apparently they don’t get to take bathroom breaks all day. And everyone, it seems, knows this but me. Upon reflection, it makes sense, but being someone who can’t store urine like a camel, I will never be able to work in vending. This is discouraging. It seemed like such a romantic position—giving out popcorn and dreams, you know? I am only partly being facetious here. Vendor food is amazing, and I wouldn’t mind getting paid to eat through my own profits every day.

The best part about Vynl was the bathroom arrangement. There were 4 different doors, each one with a different star on it: Cher, Elvis, Celine (I think), and (inexplicably) Nelly. Each bathroom was then decorated in the theme of that particular recording artist with murals and music to match. I went into the Nelly (“the black billy corgan”) bathroom; “Hot in Herre was playing over the loudspeaker, The wall across from the toilet housed a shrine of the limited edition Nelly action figure (bandaid and all). The wall next to the toilet was a floor to ceiling mosaic of Nelly in his native St. Louis, looking fly in a grill and dewrag. I would love to shake the hand of the artist responsible for the work.

We went home, I showed Aaron a couple episodes of “My Super Sweet 16,” and we headed over to Blockbuster to get something for the evening. Flynn had never seen “Moonstruck,” but try as we may, Blockbuster cock-blocked our attempts. We settled on the Mike Judge movie “Idiocracy,” as we had both read good things, but hadn’t actually gotten around to watching it. Then we took the train over to Brooklyn where Marsha’s parents live. They were in Italy for Carnival, and were kind enough to let us crash. Marsha’s home is wonderful—Japanese cedar bathtubs, a robot toilet (!!!), and an original Durer print.

The movie ended up being amazing. The plot, roughly, is Luke Wilson, average in every way, gets frozen as part of a military experiment, and wakes up in 2505. Because dumb people are the only ones breeding, and smart people stop wanting to have children, the world is populated by morons, and Luke Wilson becomes the smartest man alive. Like “office space” it was a little too real at times to be funny without being sad, but it was the best satire I’d seen in ages. Afterwards we talked about the Western Renaissance and our goth years. As you do.

I decided to crash on the couch, not wanting to head all the way back to Manhattan at 2 am. I haven’t had a couch to crash on since I moved to New York.

My favorite high school teacher Bertie Lord died this weekend. She was a tough-minded, no-nonsense lady -- the first real feminist I'd ever met. I've thought of her often since high school, especially in moments of righteous anger.

Brief obituary here.

OMG EVERYBODY, THE FLYNN IS IN TOWN!!!

My love affair with the Flynn knows no bounds. It all started in high school, when I was his senior sister. He used to leave me little presents in front of my locker that he would find on the side of the road on the way to school. This is what I love about him.

But now the Flynn is moving away from Boston to warmer environs! Specifically Austin! And I hate Austin! But maybe I will not hate Flynn’s Austin—he says there’s lots of found fun to be had, and Miriam lives there, and Laura is but a stone throw away.

Aaron Flynn rolled into town Monday night. I could barely sit through my British Literature class, which has become more torturous as a certain member of the class becomes more shamed and degraded. It’s like this—everybody has that one student who’s always not quite getting the text. In college, this sort of thing is generally tolerated, but by the time one reaches the graduate level, one should be fluent in Gradspeak, and be able to deconstruct a book in seconds like a well-trained Israeli soldier dismantling a machine gun. There is one girl—R—who is blessed with a lot of enthusiasm for the works we’re reading. She is always looking for connections and meanings, doing outside research. But bless her, she doesn’t quite get it. For example, take “Howard’s End.” At the end of the novel, one of the Wilcoxes, newly arrived from Nigeria, is scratching his arms constantly. This could indicate nerves, this could indicate the poor working class manners of the Wilcox family, this could indicate the shadow of malaria that hung over Africa. R leaned over and whispered, “This reminds me of morphine addiction.” And it may very well be a vague allusion to addiction, but there isn’t any other contextual elements to suggest addiction. I shrugged and said, “maybe,” and she tells the teacher that the scratching is indicative of morphine addiction and the professor shoots R down with “absolutely not.” This scenario is repeated several times a week, and each time R gets more and more discouraged that the professor is “inhibiting freedom of thought.” But it’s so awkward for everyone, because she never has contextual facts, just conjecture, and her breakdowns and frustrations are becoming more severe, that every class is torture. And when one has the Flynn back in Manhattan ready to rock, one does not want to be listening to reasons why Millet was right in her condemnation of D.H. Lawrence. One wants to be rocking.

So I meet up with the Flynn and his awesome roommate Marsha in Chinatown, around 11. The trains in Manhattan have been effed up all week, so it’s a miracle I made it down there at all. They were having tea with Diana of project runway fame—you remember Diana: the amazing grad student who mixes fashion and technology, the only one who made clothes that looked, well, new?—apparently they all went to RISD together. They new her before she made the cover of iD magazine senior year. Am I jealous much? Diana and I exchanged pleasantries, and I admired my restraint at not gushing over her designs. She uses fractoral pleating, children! Fractals!

Marsha is pretty much the best person ever, next to Flynn. They’re both sweet and considerate without being cloying, both wildly politically incorrect and extraordinarily tolerant. Plus, their art makes me hard. No, I mean it. You go to shapesofthings.com now.

The first place we hit was the Boiler Room, a dark sorta seedy gay bar on 4^th street and 2^nd avenue. It was my first experience—believe it or not—with a unisex bathroom without locks on the doors. I can understand from a practical standpoint why one would avoid locks in a dark, out-of-the-way gay bar, but it was a bit creepy. Flynn experienced the crippling New York City booze prices ($9 for a Guinness? How about just my firstborn?). The coke situation was no better--$3 + $1 for tip, and then it tasted like moldy water and vaguely of cherries. This however, is not a unique phenomenon; I would say a good 60% if the bars I visit have cokes that taste like this.

Being that it was 1130 on a Monday night, the bar was dead, so we sat in a corner and caught up with people and places. Aaron Flynn and Marsha were sporting brand spanking new Chinatown hoodies. I was entranced by the patterns.

We asked the bartender if there were any good clubs to go dancing, and she recommended Mr. Black, on Broadway and Bleeker. We walked over, and after wandering up and down the intersection, we found nothing but a creepy set of stairs with a pink light that was dim enough to hide the horrible things that probably occurred on those stairs. We went to a bar, and Marsha and Aaron stormed in looking for directions, while I stayed outside text messaging like a fool. The bartender—flamingly hetero, baseball cap and all—comes out and points us in the direction of the pink stairs. We cautiously go down, bang on the door—no luck. It’s closed. In retrospect, it was probably for the best.

So we wander down Bleeker, across 6^th and down various Village streets, looking for open bars. We passed one with a crackling fire and dead pirate skeletons clutching tumblers decorating the awning. It was closed, but I am so hitting that up later. Finally, we made our way to Sheridan Square and found the bar/dance club Monster that Brian was talking about—some kind of drag queen haven. The guys smoking fags on the scaffold outside warned us not to go in—it was Spanish salsa night, and “who wants to go swinging about to music you can’t understand?” They recommended we go to Splash Bar on 16^th and 6^th (I think). Splash was the first to hit us with an entry fee ($5), and the drinks were outrageous--$4 for a coke, $9.50-$15 for most drinks. Though I will say the coke was liquid ecstasy—best I’ve ever had.

We arrived at Splash in the middle of some middle-age-bachlorette party, where all the ladies were wearing pink wigs. In fact, the ladies outnumbered the men in the bar, which threw off the balance of the club, and I think the guys were resentful. I mean, what’s the point of going to a gay bar if there are more women than men? The dance floor was full, considering the hour (1am) and the night (Monday). The music was so so—Kylie and Madonna, mostly. I went up to request Fergie, and was promptly smacked down by the DJ who ‘doesn’t play hip hop.’ Excuse me? What gay man DOESN’T want to hear “Fergalicious” 24 hours a day? The basement was the best: it was a kind of chillout lounge, with a medley of different Broadway musicals and showtunes playing on the tvs, and the most perfectly sculpted man I had ever seen wearing nothing but the smallest white briefs pouring drinks. The three of us stared at him until he was uncomfortable, then we continued to stare. He was the sort of man you wanted to eat food off of. His only flaw, according to Aaron, was an unfortunate played out tattoo (random Japanese symbol—between shoulder blades).

After refusing to use the semen smelling bathroom, we returned to the dance floor. A very drunk man offered us gum, and when I thanked him and kissed him, he was totally excited, shouting to Marsha, “This is so cool! I haven’t kissed a girl in years!” He later tried to get us to go to The Cock with him, but despite the amazing name, we were too busy tearing up the dancefloor with the only remaining patron—some sketchy guy with a hump who kept dancing like a velociraptor. Around 230, I bailed and took the subway home. Ever walked through the 14^th street station at night? Everything is moving, and everything is still.

Some notes of interest:

Tom Robbins is the worst writer I have ever read in my entire life. I have recently finished “Still Life with Woodpecker” at the recommendation of Chase, and bless her heart, I hate it. I hate it more than I’ve ever hated anything I’ve ever read. It isn’t like Harlequin romances, where bad writing and plot are taken for granted. This is being billed as literature, and yet lacks any of the qualities that would make a common story literature. It is so terrible that I even briefly entertained the theory that he was purposefully going against every convention of writing in order to create the worst book of all time as a statement. But then, I talked with a few people who had read several of his books, and it seems as though this style extends to all of his books, not just this one. For the love of heaven, people, he refers to the vagina as a “peachfish” (not once, but constantly), compares the heroine’s eyes to “huevos rancheros,” and robs the characters of all shreds of dignity. I was bored out of my mind reading it, and yet I went forward, because it was so terrible, so incredibly terrible, I couldn’t pull away.

So yes, don’t read Tom Robbins.

WEEKEND TRIP TO L.A.!

I find that I can’t travel to L.A. without singing Death Cab for Cutie’s “Why You’d Want to Live Here.” All the same, as much as I don’t like the traffic and the must-have-a-car nature of Los Angeles, I do agree with Adele: California is magical, and you have to have a steely heart not to be wowed by it.

The flight to L.A. ranks as either the worst, or the second worst (at best) in my entire life. Tuesday night New york was hit by a huge snowstorm, and dozens of JetBlue planes were glued to the tarmac. By the time I arrived on Thursday, everything was still backed up, and the crowds were insane. I almost got into a fist fight with a security worker—she was trying to confiscate a bottle that said 4 oz on it, even though it was less than half full and had, at best, 1.5 oz in it. When I told her she wasn’t following protocol, that it was the amount of fluid, not what the bottle said that mattered, she started getting extremely rude, making fun of me in front of the other passangers, and refused to let anyone go ahead of me because I was “being uncooperative.” I rarely lose my temper, but she was being so blindly irrational, and so blatently racist, that I completely lost it. I was so angry I was shaking, and had to exit the line so I didn’t hit her. I should have gotten her name and badge number so I could have reported her, but I was far away before I calmed down enough the think rationally. THEN our plane was an hour late in boarding, THEN I had to wait 1 hour on the plane while we waited for the plane behind us to move, THEN I had to wait while they looked for a tugger to tow the plane, THEN I had to wait another 30 minutes for them to find a tugger with chains to pull the first tugger, THEN I had to wait another 45 minutes in queue for take off. Luckily, we made up a lot of the time in the air, but I was in the middle, claustrophobic, and freaking out. THEN, once I got to LA, I had to wait 30 minutes for the plane in our gate to move, THEN I couldn’t find a workable ATM to get money for a taxi. By the time I arrived at the hotel, I was so jittery and upset I started impulsively eating any crackers my mother had in her purse.

Friday morning, my parents and I got up late and went (at the advice of the concierge) to a café called Jinky’s on 2nd Ave and Santa Monica. I don’t know why I even bother to get the advice of the concierge about anything; I have never had a recommendation for food that didn’t turn out—at best—mediocre. The day turned into idle shopping around the Santa Monica area. Apparently, California is the happening place for homeless in the winter. They migrate there like finches; one was on every corner, each one with various degrees of aggression in begging. I’ve become less generous about giving money because of the attitude involved. There seems to be a “Dang-straight-you-owe-me-money” mentality—especially amongst New York’s homeless. I don’t need the whole bowed head, I’m-not-worthy routine, but genuine gratitude goes a long way. That must make me less of a person, only giving based on gratitude, but whatever. It’s like any sort of capitalistic exchange: I give you money, in return, you show me that you acknowledge the kindness. You don’t keep up your end, I cease to keep up mine.

In the evening, dad went to work, and mom and I drove up Wilshire to hit the In-N-Out Burger on the UCLA campus. It was about 70-80F, so we rolled the windows down. The rental car had XM, so we listened to the French music station-They had one band called Sunny Duval (I think), which were pretty ace. We walked around a bit, did a bit of shopping, then met up with dad at another Concierge-recommended restaurant: El Cholo. Look, I don’t know why good Mexican is difficult to come by in LA. I require two things:
1) Chips and Salsa that don’t taste like old grease and tomato paste
2) Shredded beef.

Despite the relative simplicity of these requests, LA restaurants keep failing me. As do New York Mexican restaurants, but there is more of an excuse there. El Cholo, which even has a pull out quote on it’s menu from Gourmet Magazine (“I can’t imagine Los Angeles without El Cholo”). It was terribly. Mediocre chips, good tortillas and rice, but overall too salty and processed. Gosh dangit, will I never learn?

In the evening, after watching “Count of Monte Cristo” on TBS, we trudge over to the Santa Monica Pier. Unlike my mother, I can romanticize white trash. When I see sleazy carneys, cheap rollercoasters, amputeed street performers, and cheap ice cream stands, I can enjoy the derelict beauty of it. She enjoys no part of it. So we did not spend as much time on the Santa Monica pier as we would have hoped. We did, however, get a good view of what amounts to an entire corps of Vietnam vets camped out on the park by Ocean Avenue.

Saturday, we began the day at Le Pain Quotidien, a bakery on Santa Monica. It’s a bit like an haute-Au-Bon-Pain, but everything’s organic, and the bread tastes French. We then walked through a farmer’s market, trying bits of produce (Pink Navels and Blood Oranges! Strawberries and Artichokes!). Everything looked beautiful, and it was nice to be in the sunshine. By the way, someone should really talk to Californians about taking care of themselves and their physical bodies. It’s so sad to see them neglect their personal health and hide their bodies beneath all of those clothes.

Interesting Fact: Just like in Arrested Development, there is a British Town part of Santa Monica; Ye Olde Boar Head is a grocery stores that sells nothing but British wares (McVitties! Irn-bru!), and there are corresponding tea rooms and pubs.

This icon of Saint George was at the exhibit; it dates from the 6th century.

The purpose of the Los Angeles trip was to see the Icons of the Sinai exhibit at the Getty. St. Catherine’s Monastery, built around 400AD at the base of Mt. Sinai, has half of the world’s Byzantine Icons. Because of it’s location (first Greek, than Muslim Rule in 700), it missed a lot of the Iconoclasm, where most of the Greek Icons were destroyed. It also has a collection of manuscripts dating back from the 300s, including some of the first Christian documents translated into Arabic.

I’m not a huge fan of Byzantine Art. To me, once a person has seen one dark-hued person with angry brows in front of a gold leaf background, one has seen all dark-hued persons with angry brows in front of a gold leaf background. However, this exhibition anticipated me, and as a result, most of the icons were atypical.

St. Catherine's micro-mosaic

My favorite was a portrait of Mary in micro-tessarae (each on the size of a large grain of sand, cut into identical cubes). It was one of the most perfect mosaics I had ever seen. They also had a calendar of saints days, with very small saints painted under their corresponding numbers. Towards the end, they had a triptych El Greco had painted with the Monastery on the back. It was early El Greco, stormy, volcanic, and much more late-Renaissance than any work of his I’d seen. The characters were rounder, the scene lusher, the colors brighter(though clearly not on the proportion I'm showing you).

Back of the El Greco Triptych

It was odd seeing the Greek Orthodox Monks (they led the tours) wandering around the area. When they spoke, I kept thinking I had heard Serge’s voice. The intonation was remarkably similar, It was quite heartbreaking, in a way.

We stopped by the illuminated manuscript room. They had removed many of my favorites in order to showcase French illumination in particular. That was quite sad for me.

We had enough time left over to go to the Getty Villa, where we had ordered tickets. The Getty Villa is a crude imitation of the Villa Borghese, which isn’t necessarily a bad thing, but I do have a residual Platonic aversion to imitation. When I was little, I was yelled at when I sat underneath Van Gogh’s Irises, which they had purchased earlier that month for $40 million, an unheard of amount at the time. Upon returning, I found that they had removed the modern art, shipping it to the new Getty Museum, and turned the Getty Villa into a house for their classical antiquity collection.

Getty Villa

The Getty’s collection is small by some standards, but it shows impeccable taste. The items are often perfectly preserved, and always unique. They had a section from an “unswept floor” mosaic. Apparently, there was a trend in Roman houses to have floors that seem dirty or unclean. Potato peels, egg shells, prawn cases, sprouts, and bones are all perfectly rendered in the tiniest of stones. They had examples of Greek mummies that were created in Ptolemy’s Egypt, along with some of the treasures recovered from these tombs (wooden toys, perfectly preserved red leather slippers). There were glass jars, fantastic earrings, coffee tables, and small metal skeleton charms. I was enraptured. And the fact that you needed tickets to see the collection cut down on the crowds, so it was still and peaceful. Well worth a visit.

Interesting fact: Skinny jeans have not caught on in LA. No one is wearing them. This is an exclusive cold-climate trend.

After we exit the museum, I give Mary South a call, and we pick her up and head to dinner. We went to the same Mexican restaurant we had been to back in August. It was a nice, lazy evening, even though we were seated underneath a painting of a woman nursing butterflies on her erect nipples.

Afterwards, I went home with Mary to work on our photography project. It involved Ink and pig’s hearts. Some of the photos were amazing, some were very first-time-photo-shoot, but you know, you have to start somewhere, and I think we did amazing work, considering we had no idea what to do with our faces or out bodies. I have found that I can’t seem to work with my mouth at all—if I close it, my chin wrinkles up, and if I leave it open, it lacks expression. Mary’s figure photographed like a dream; she probably has the most beautiful body I’ve ever seen. Towards the end, we got very silly, and began to take bizarre photos with the heart, such as “sleeping with the heart,” “Vacuuming with the heart,” and “teeth brushing with the heart.” I still have ink all over my tummy. I know, I know—I suffer for art.

Rest of my weekend:

THURSDAY: O’DEATH
After our tea, Benjamin and I return home to change for our friend Chase’s 19th-birthday –party. She had rented out the basement of the Knitting Factory and hired a couple bands to perform: O’Death and Le Rug. This impresses me, as it shows infinite amounts of coolness. I think my 19th birthday was spent at home stressing out about college. We may have done something, but I don’t really remember. It certainly wasn’t a private indie-rock show.

Benjamin’s arrival was a secret, and it was completely adorable to see Chase’s shock when he showed up. She had gotten a spiffy new haircut, and was wearing a very pretty eli tahari dress. Her father was taking aura photographs. Mine turned out golden, with a lightbulb like light above my head. This apparently means I value reason and logic, hate not having things sorted and organized, and have undergone a profound epiphany in the last few weeks. Accurate, and odd. I still don’t go in for that kind of thing, but it interests me obliquely, the same way astrology does.

O’Death was terrific. They’re like, Appalachian Punk Rock, all electric fiddles and banjos and gas-can-drums. They shout and stomp their feet and basically put on a totally awesome show. I was totally sold. Then we had a birthday sing-a-long, ate a lovely cake, and Le Rug took the stage. While they had a lot of heart, they sounded like every band I heard in college: Q and not U mixed with Dismemberment Plan with a touch of …Trail of Dead. The lead singer was cute though, so I wasn’t complaining.

FRIDAY: SEINFELD APPAREL
Friday we got up super late and spent the morning doing our usual “sleep-in-watch-you-tube” routine. Around late afternoon, we were motivated enough to put on some clothes and walk up to the Columbia environs to meet up with Benjamin’s old high school friend Arthur. The manager of an American Apparel, Arthur has the benefit of both a 50% discount AND being a genuinely cool cat. We don’t seem to gel quite on our own though; I get the feeling I’m too serious/of middling attractiveness/not indie enough. Benjamin’s genuinely hesitancy to introduce me to him, I think, speaks volumes about his perception of my lack of proper Arthur-credentials.

I never know what to buy in American Apparel. It’s excellent for staples, but the shirts that are the right length have the wrong necklines, and the right necklines are on the shirts that are too short. I always am drawn to the crazier stuff (gold lame hotpants, anyone?) but seriously doubt my resolve to wear such a thing, should I purchase it. I did pick out a few things, though, as did Benjamin. 50% is too good a deal to pass up

For his lunch break, Arthur took us to a restaurant a block away—the Seinfeld diner. The outside is still just as it was on the show, but the inside is much different—dark wood, and lots of booths with high backs. It did have a counter, though. The food was mediocre; I didn’t each much, having stopped by a Greek restaurant on the way over. He also made us stop by a bagel shop on the way back and pick up a bagel pudding. Cinnamon, raisons, bagel, all mixed together and baked; it was pretty good. We were supposed to meet up with Arthur and his roommate Perri, but they never called us, so Benji and I feel asleep on my futon watching “Josie and the Pussycats.” That movie is completely underrated. Also, Babyface (yes, THE babyface, R&B producer to the stars and chief writer of the soundtrack) plays the role of the Chief on the “Captain and Tenille: Behind the Music” that Rosario Dawson watches. I never noticed that before

SATURDAY: BRUNCH + WORLD INFERNO
Everyone gets their romantic comedy moment that completely vindicates their lives; for me, that moment occurred on Saturday morning. My ward’s Relief Society has a brunch the first Saturday of every month. This Saturday, it was at Vynl, a hipster café 3 blocks from my house.

In typical fashion, the girls ignored me. Perri—Arthur’s friend and investigator—talked to me; we had good conversations about nightlife, and our respective boys. Arthur talks about Benjamin a lot, and Benjamin talks about Arthur a lot, so the two of us spent a lot of time swapping stories we’d heard. There was also a new girl from Texas who talk to me quite a bit. Otherwise, I was given the cold-but-polite indifference I’ve known so well since I’ve moved here.

As brunch came to a close, I called Benjamin and asked him to pick me up; we were going to go to lunch. He walks into the restaurant, and I kid you not, every girl at the table stopped talking. He has put on some weight, grown out his hair, and was sporting a nights stubble. He had on a well-fitted leather jacket which brought out his shoulders, some gorgeous guess jeans, and my silver aviators. He comes over to me, looks down, and says as cool as you can be, “You ready to go?”

“Just a sec,” I tell him. “I’m waiting for the check. You want to sit down?”

He looks over at one of the mean(er) girls, who you can see, is practically begging for him to sit down, and says, “It’s cool. I’ll wait outside.” He then heads out, and as soon as he’s gone, everyone’s SUPER polite to me, telling me they hope they’ll see me next week, and what a shame it is I have to go so early. I stand up, toss my money on the table, and say “I’ve got to go. I’ll be seeing you, ladies.” And walk out. It was A-MA-ZING. Perfectly executed. All I needed was the Verve’s “Bittersweet Symphony” to see me out the door.

After we left, we spent the afternoon shopping. Confessing my new obsession with drinking chocolate, Benjamin promised to make me drinking chocolate, Norwegian style. That meant shopping for Vanilla Beans, red pepper, coconut milk, and dark chocolate. We went all over Hell’s Kitchen to a dozen different stores. We then went back to the apartment, rested a bit, and soon enough Chase came over. She was planning on going with me to the World/Inferno show. I told her to dress up, and dress up she did: black corset, black skirt, and high-heeled boots. I felt a bit dowdy in my jeans and shirt, no matter how glitzy. Benjamin made us both his drinking chocolate, which was pretty dang good, though not as good as the stuff in Philly. Naked Chocolate is still my paradigm.

Benjamin went to the stake center for a Chinese New Year celebration with Arthur and some other guys. The show was at the Bowery Ballroom, and since we forgot to write down the information, we wandered around the LES for at least an hour before we found the venue. I forget that when some people say “I know how to get there” what they really mean is “I know it’s around here somewhere.” Luckily, we came late enough to miss the rather lame opening band—anger in stereo or something equally lame. They were all about politics, dangit, and jumping, and anger. Again, the presence of some cute band members made up for their musical limitations.

The Bowery reminds me of the Metro, so I felt right at home. It was dark and decadent, with a downstairs bar area of couches and mirrors, and upstairs ballroom with gold, glitz, and VIP balcony. I could definitely see myself going there just for the ambiance.

All World/Inferno shows are inherently chaos. They are inherently messy, sweat-and-blood soaked affairs where kids in suspenders, suits, or retro dresses dance and mosh with wild abandon of senses. I like this, because it is not standing around with arms folded, and I have grown deeply tired of shows that involve standing around with arms folded.

Jack Terrycloth was definitely back in his element—less jittery, more confident—with blood red contact lenses, a purple suit, and a belly full of malt liquor that got fuller and fuller as the show progressed. Chase’s height (or lack thereof) protected her from the worst body surfing, but I got the full brunt of it, getting hit in the back and shoulder so many times I thought I had a concussion. Observe photos from the morning after.

I was too bruised to go to church on Sunday. That, my friends, that is rock n'roll

I have a window in my sixth-floor office from which I can see the Sears Tower and the Chicago River. Sometimes, this is still mildly shocking to me. Today, mist is rising off the river. The recent snow melted the solid surface in parts, and now the broken slabs of ice look like gray cobblestones.

This morning, I am wearing jeans I've had since high school and a sweater I bought for $2 at the Salvation Army store in Binghamton. The sweater is polyester, woven in an abstract seashell pattern of kelly green and royal blue. It has irridescent plastic buttons. I am wearing boots that I bought in Evanston in 2003, when I first began working for this company. At the time, I needed something slightly professional, but also comfortable and sturdy. They were perfect for my tromp from Willard to the Metra; Metra to the west loop loft that smelled of pickles; and back again. The boots are now too beat up to qualify as "professional," but then again, I'm no longer worried about the impression my clothes make here. I am extremely grateful for that.

Yesterday, I interviewed a bunch of lawyers about the implications and nuances of a fairly complex case that involves procedural and statutory quirks, contract interpretation, antitrust and intellectual property.

Then I went to class at The Marsh without having done the reading, only to discover that I was already familiar with most of the assigned cases because I'd read them for work or moot court. My academic and professional lives form a positive feedback loop. For this, too, I am extremely grateful.

On the train, I read Interpreter of Maladies. I like Lahiri's stories and language, though not as much as I liked The Corrections, which I finished earlier this week.

Then even later, Laura and I hid out in our treehouse rehearsal space and plucked quietly at a few new songs. All of my new songs are about Chicago and Mark. All of the harmonies are cheery thirds and fifths. A green-gray radiator emits a steady field of dry heat. Laura hung a floral sheet on one wall and black and white industrial photos on the other. The windows stretch from waist level to the ceiling. They face out onto an alley where some condo-dweller has lined her back deck with white Christmas lights. The room has a perfect reverby resonance for the music we're doing -- our guitars and voices sound warm and close.

Downstairs, the lobby shook and pulsed with dance music from a club that recently opened next door. I tried to get away from the noise to talk to Mark on the phone, but I didn't know where the thumping was coming from until I stepped outside into the frigid night and felt the warm blast of music and people coming from the club's doors. Still, the snow and ice muted the sounds of music, traffic and people outside. My cheeks burned all the way home.

I decided before going to LA today for yet another random weekend (why am I living in New York if I’m never actually IN New York?) I figured I’d do a quick roundup of my weekend.

THURSDAY: TEA WITH THE WORLD/INFERNO FRIENDSHIP SOCIETY

Benjamin came to town Wednesday night. It was sort of a spur-of-the-moment thing. We had met this woman—Tamara (70ish, former actress, maker of sandwiches)—at a World/Inferno Friendship Society show. It turned out she worked at the Met, answering phones with Jack Terricloth, the lead singer. Because WIFS shows are—if nothing else, extremely raucous—we took her to the sides and watched the show with her, making sure she didn’t get trampled, then walked her to the subway afterwards. Tamara exchanged numbers with me, and we’ve been taking on and off since September. Everytime we talk, she says she’s going to arrange a meeting for us with Jack, to thank us for being so kind to her, and every time, I tell her not to worry. Imagine my surprise, then, when I get a call on Monday, asking me what kind of sandwiches Ben and I wanted for our tea with Mr. Terricloth. As much as I like WIFS, they are not my favorite band, so I call up Benji and throwing caution and a lot of money to the wind, gets on the next available flight to New York.

The World/Inferno Friendship Society

We both dressed up in our best Sunday-afternoon-tea clothes (which turned out to be a wise call: People who work for art museums dress up. It’s very posh.) We meet Tamara and Jack promptly at 1 and are led to the basement (members only!) of the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Jack seems skittish and shy, quite completely the opposite of his onstage, lavish, demonic stage persona. What sells me on him, though, is his outfit: a chocolate brown suit tucked into riding boots, open black shirt, smudged eyeliner and lacquered hair. He looked like some sort of 1930’s cabaret host, but distinctly modern. It has become my new paradigm outfit for making men attractive, following the classic shirt-tie-sweater combo.

Tamara was adorable. She had made everyone special sandwiches, wrapped them in foil and plastic with our names on them, and bought us all drinks. Benjamin didn’t say anything at first, letting me take the reins. Figuring he was a bookish guy, I asked him what he was reading (Knights Templar book), if he’d read and liked what I’m reading (Tom Robbins: yes, no), what he thought of propaganda movies (Leni Riefenstahl’s Olympiad was a favorite), and if Hallowmas was written about Bulkagov’s “Master and the Margarita” (yes, though he was a bit snippy about how it was quite obviously stated on the website. I remember implication, not statement. But then, I am sober.) He was so obviously disdainful about my Bulgakov question, and so clearly hung over, that I started to lay off and move to more general questions. The damage was done, however, and he was a bit on the quick, the sharp, and the defensive for the rest of the tea.

I do want to point out however, that he was very, very sweet and charming. He had given up his lunch break to hang out with two fans while nursing a hangover, and he was still gracious. He was asking us questions about ourselves, seemed interested in our answers, was really behaving quite well. There was an undercurrent of the annoyed and the intimidated I picked up on, though, and I really enjoyed watching him get his digs in when he could. However, once I became aware that he was intimidated, I started jabbing back. He enjoyed this, for the most part, but in the process I made two huge errors:

Don’t ever call the rockstar an alkie.

If a rockstar tells you he hopes you appreciated the time he was taking away from his lunch break, smile graciously and say “yes, thank you.” Do not ask him what he does on his lunch break. Were he to answer, he would probably tell you he goes to bars on his lunch break and drinks. If that is his answer, shrug and say “living the rock n’ roll dream!” Do not get needled by his tone—he’s been a gentleman. If you do get needled, do not say wryly, “Doesn’t having to have a drink in the afternoon constitute a problem?” because then the rock star will sneer “It’s only a problem when I’m not drinking.”

Don’t ever tell the rockstar about a review you read

WIFS got like, 3 out of 4 stars or something in SPIN magazine. I mentioned this when Jack was talking about increased exposure for the band. Benjamin asked if that wasn’t just average, and I said, “No, it’s good! But then, spin gives everyone at least 2.5 stars.” That was just me being artless. I really don’t know how I can be so tactful and charming sometimes, and so completely careless other times.

In general, I liked the thorniness because it was sort of what I wanted. I wanted the punk rock attitude and the sneering. He was clearly uncomfortable/disappointed with our religious preferences, and judging by his (what appeared to be) meth-and-tobacco teeth and DT shimmy shakes, I guessed that while we may read the same books and hate the same authors, I was not his kind of people.

It is also of note that when I asked how Jack got his job working at the Met, he answered that one of his friends offered it to him when his band took off. I asked him what band his friend was in, and get this: Jonathan Fire* Eater. Jonathan Effing Fire Eater. Turns out Walter, organist for JFE and now for the Walkmen, is like, really good friends with Jack Terricloth—like decade long friends. When he said that, I squealed like a Japanese school girl. Both Benjamin and Jack jumped back. Then Jack and I talked about the fate of the various members of JFE, and he told me which members of the band (as well as which members of the Walkmen) work at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Apparently, it’s very popular with band members because of the high flexibility and long leaves of absence.

But yes, despite the ridiculous thing I said, despite the fact that I freaked out Benjamin’s idol, the entire experience was well worth flying Benjamin up. It was everything I had wanted, and frankly, completely rock n’ roll. Plus, next time I see Tamara at the Met, I get a 50% discount on Museum merchandise.

Somebody give a sister Dave Choate's phone number. Brother won't hook me up with Anne House's email or her address, and this is getting ridiculous. I have a 3 month old letter here!

I am forever making the following chart in my head ...

 | M  T  W  Th F  Sa Su 
--------------------------
D| 0  0  1  0  1  3  0
--------------------------
S| 0  0  0  0  0  0  0

... to keep track of how much I'm drinking and smoking over the course of a week.

I once wrote a paper for him that hung up on my fridge for many months because of the comment he left me, which said: "Jason, You need to stop exploiting your intelligence to serve your laziness." I cried a little when I read that. Not because I was sad or disappointed, but because I realized that no human being would ever understand me so well as Professor Griggs did in that one sentence.
--Jason Mulgrew

OMG Photoblog Y'all!

In order to salve the burnin sting that is Northern winters in January, Adele, Mary, and Lakshmi all decided to convene in Philadelphia to raise some hell. As our forfathers would have.

Thursday:

I took the Chinatown bus to Philly. $25 bucks roundtrip--I know, right? I can't believe it either. Laksmhi picked me up here. She hates this building. I think it makes kind of a nice statement.


In fact, Lakshmi hates a good deal about Philadelphia. The cute dutch houses (see above), the colonial splendor (see Photobucket), these were all rendered worthless by the fact that the CM girls were not there. And you know, I can see it. I imagine many of your hometowns seem limp, lifeless, and dull now that we ladies have moved onto other pastures. I do apologize, but we are only human, and can only be in so many places at once.


I arrived before Adele, so much of the evening was spent talking to Lakshmi's roommate Nicole about US domestic policy in between segments of Bravo's "The Girls Next Door." Lakshmi's apartment was cold, but cute, and she gave me hot cider with mulling spices, and that did the trick admirably. We then went to pick up Adele at the airport, stopping at a very scary prison along the way. It was snowing and freezing. There is no way to put those events down in a poetical way.


The arrival of Adele at the airport led to girly behavior the likes of which hasn't been seen by any of us, really, since maybe some of the Shermanatrix parties of 2004. The atmosphere was total sleep-over: Joanna Newsom and teeth brushing, random anecdotes without reason or point, and most importantly, the space heater cranked up to 11--just like the old days.


Adele and Lakshmi compared stories about how much cuter they are then I am. Adele and I reminisced about our old apartment--the heat that drove our male guests crazy (what? we were comfortable) and the CLT wall of fame. Mary and Lakshmi compared stories about our summer in England together. And we all wondered why Theron was so sad and clearly not returning our calls.

In my defense, I have completely forgotten how to photograph. SO when Lakshmi grabbed hers, I did the first thing that came to my head, which was "Look at me! How much girlier could I POSSIBLY be at this moment?" I was dreaming of unicorns, I tell you. Beautiful, beautiful unicorns.


Friday:
Laksmhi left us a note with the naive suggestion of what to do for breakfast should we wake up before we got back from class. This note was recieved when we woke up, precisely 15 minutes before Lakshmi would return from her 11am class. It was sweet of her to think we would be motivated enough to wake up early. We were on vacation, dangit, and we weren't going to power play it.

Lakshmi pumpking gas before we start out. At my request, the girls were accompanying me to the Mutter Museum--sort of a curio cabinet of medical oddities that I read about in "Middlesex." The museum did not disappoint, though I think we were all unhappy by the large quantities of wax replicas. I came for the real thing, dangit, not an artist's interpretation.

Here is Adele in front of the dead fetus wing. She was also impressed by the 10-foot colon (when the man died, he hadn't defecated in more than a year. A YEAR!). They had various skeletons, including some babies and fetuses that they had stretched out and assembled as if they were little breathing midgets. I took some pictures of deformed genitals (to later post on various live journals), and we all agreed that necrosis was a terrible way to go.

As interesting as everything was, parts of the museum were less ventilated than others, and feeling nauseated by the smell of preserved bodies, we left to go find some good pizza. That's how the CM girls live, baby--we grip life and we rip it. We can go from nauseated to hungry in like, a second. We're like food ninjas.


One of the best things about being with the ladies again is there obscene level of tolerance concerning the ridiculous things I babble all day. I have a habit of trying out words for size, the sound, the context; I try rearranging words and phrases in new ways. This leads to terrible grammar, and sometimes completely erratic and incomprehensible things. When this is combined with my inability to rope in (often) the first thing that comes to my frontal lobe, the result is often funny, often inappropriate observations with various degrees of coherence. Some people find this evidence of a lack of education (reader, indeed!), while others think it's hilarious--like watching a toddler fall down over and over while learning to walk. Luckily, Adele and Lakshmi have a certain amount of schadenfreude.

After pizza, we decide to go down to some hipsterish areas of Philadelphia and find sewing materials; Lakshmi had bought a dres that needed straps, and we were going to make them, dangit, hell or high water. We were sidelined by many pairs of stripper shoes, as well as many stores that boasted insane levels of diamonds and/or sparkly things. Us girls are like magpies for bling.

Dude--M for Mary! It's totally doable, right? Right.

Eventually, we found the art store. We found the materials for Lakshmi's dress rather quickly, but then got sidelined by all the crafty stuff. At some point, the idea for sparkly headbands with feathers was brought up and was run with, and so we left the store with various glitters, elastics, and peacock feathers. How we have gotten as far as we have in the world, I'll never know.

Lashmi made us cider, various nibbly things as we sat and watched part of "I Love New York" and sewed. The finish products...

As you can see here, are not too shabby. They did take longer than expected though, so we were late to meet Lakshmi's friend and drummer Beth--a cute little trader joe's shelver who chain smokes, always has a good story, and reminds me of a couple of my cooler friends back in high school. Apparently, her old band used to tour with the Dresden Dolls and Regina Specktor. How do my friends know such cool people? I have absolutely no connections whatsoever.

Saturday:
Again, we slept in late. We decided that we'd go to reading station for breakfast, as opposed to having Lakshmi slave (again) over an open fire (she had made us yougurt, fruit, and granola breakfast parfaits Friday). This meant having to put on clothes and going into town. Putting on clothes sucks.

Even half-awake, they are still hot.



Lakshmi takes us to "her cafe"--as everyone has to have their particular coffee shop in which to read and look hot. There was a shocking lack of bull dyke lesbians--just your run of the mill proto-feminist college experimenters. This is Philadelphia, for crying out loud--where are the militant homos? Certainly not in Lakshmi's neck of the woods.

Reading Station turned out to be the Philadelphia's equivalent to Boston's Faneuil Hall: an indoor market with lots of restaurants, chocolate and honey shops, candle stands, and fresh butcher shops. The only difference: most of these stores were run by local Amish or Mennonites. I thought at first the bonnets and the costumes were part of the whole shtick, but i called my mother and she confirmed, no, really, they're really Amish.

The girls make a brave attempt to stay awake.


Afterwards, we decided to do what any cultured, well-educated, intelligent women would do in a historical city such as Philadelphia: we hit up the stores. Because what's the point of seeing the liberty bell if you don't have huge, ironic sunglasses in which to do it? This is Adele and my impression of Paris and Nicole. Clearly, my double chin makes me a dead ringer for Nicole Richie.

After a few more stores, we drag Adele to "Naked Chocolate," a bar which specializes in 'drinking chocolate', not 'cocoa.' As you can see from the above picture, you are literally being served melted chocolate--and it's unbelievable. And now I'm spoiled for life. I've even tried scoping out some New York chocolate houses since i've been pack, but so far, no luck.

After shopping, hot chocolate, and general wandering, we went home early, as I had to catch my Chinatown bus at 8pm. Lakshmi made me some "goodbye quasadillas," and we all collapsed onto the futon and spent our last few hours talking about how awesome we all were. Cause that's what girls do dangit."


There were cockroaches on my bus (again), so I spent the entire time back to the city chatting with Mary South and Benjamin. When I saw this bit of graffitti at Penn Station, I had to laugh. It seemed like as good a way as any to end the trip.

More experience in Myspace horror

So those of you who have been friends with me in myspace will probably remember this photo in my profile a month or two ago:

I don't know why I take dumb photos like this, but I DID like the fact that it was self-consciously vampish and made me look much, much more feminine.

The kind of cold contacts I get from men depends very much--no surprises here--on what photo I have up on my profile at any one given time. Here are some of my favorites that I recieved:

Case 1: The Robster

Dec 31, 2006 9:35 AM
Subject: No Subject
Body: Hello I think u look very cute, my name is Robert iam ital,25yrs old(just turned it) i work fixing and prog comps companies and right now iam going for my BA, I played baseball in a league during the summer hmm really dont know what else to say i guess if u are interested in chatting hit me up, bc iam looking for something serious, here is my sn robster620 it is my aol, well, hope to hear from u.

Sadly, Robster's Profile was so chock-full of Flash no good pull quotes could be gathered. but he is SERIOUS about relationships, you guys, and not just because it's all over his mind-numbingly strobe-ish page. It's because he sent the email at 9am.

Case 2: Demetrios, or more specifically, DEMETRIOS EL HOMBRE MAS FAMOSO DE LA FIERRA!

Dec 27, 2006 4:37 AM
Subject: No Subject
Body: hello how are you

Demetrios must be desperately trolling for a hook up to figure he can write "hello how are you?" to me at 4:37am while half drunk and I will respond with something other than complete and wild indifference. Had I any doubts about demetrios's motives, they could be cleared up by looking at his tagline: "DEMETRIOS IS MY NAME AND SEX IS MY GAME!"

His information:
Male; 29 years old; BAYONNE nj, New Jersey

About me:
FOR ME TO KNOW AND 4U TO FIND OUT?

Who I'd like to meet:
woman with good heart and to know what she wants?

Interests:
General: motorcycles cars road racing and woman and lots more...
Music: greek , salsa ,merengue, freestyle bachata,cumbia.freestyle,rock&;roll! disco and more.......
Movies: MAD MAX, CLASSICS, AND ACTION,MARTIAL ARTS!..
Television: TLC MTV
Heroes: to learn something you have to ask? ..
(ed. note: I love that--TLC. That's for the ladies)

DEMETRIOS EL HOMBRE MAS FAMOSO DE LA FIERRA!'s Details
Status: Divorced
Here for: Networking, Dating, Serious Relationships, Friends
Orientation: Straight
Hometown: GREECE CRETE
Body type: 5' 9" / Athletic
Ethnicity: White / Caucasian
Religion: Christian - other
Zodiac Sign: Gemini
Children: Proud parent
Occupation: for me to know and 4u to find out?
Income: $75,000 to $100,000

Case 3: Chinni

Dec 27, 2006 2:22 AM
Subject: hi
Body: so, where are you from originally? greece? ive just moved here 5 months ago from india...

Despite his complete and utter appeal to the late night booty call, I give Chinni the benefit of the doubt. I don't know, maybe because he's an adorable Indian, and I've got a weakness for adorable Indian men. Maybe it's his belief in my "ethnic" roots. Whatever the reason, Chinni does the cold-hot wooing well. Gentlemen, take notes: understated is always better.

Case 4: "DA OUTLAW5"

Dec 14, 2006 4:29 PM
Subject: wanna get to know you
Body: i really wanna get to know you and your likes and dis likes this way way we can build a real good freindship i wish i could tell you were im from but i want it to be a suprise so holla at your boy let open a new found freindship let me tell you this im from the heart from hell kitchen

This one's a toss up. As we can see, the time of day makes it look like he's looking for more than a quick fix. He also plays it slick by going straight into the friendship angle, rather than potentially creeping me out with going straight for the "so baby, how's that booty looking?"

Some of Da Outlaw5's stats:
Male
36 years old
NEW YORK, NEW YORK

About me:
im a interesting person someone whos real honest and sincere to the fullest and im looking for the same
Music all kind of music (Free Myspace Pictures from drewpydraws) [Note: reader, I hope the 'drewpydraws didn't escape your attention]
Movies: everything interesting
Television: everything interesting
Books: all novels from the hood and love novels
Heroes: myself, my son

Despite the strong opening, the outlaw shoots himself in the foot here. What could be less interesting than listing as your interests everything interesting? Novels from the hood? Kinda scary, dude, on so many levels, even if you added post script "love novels" to take the edge off, you know, again, for the ladies. And you are your own hero? The son, that seems a bit of a cop-out, but i'll allow it. But you can't be your own hero unless you're john galt. And clearly, you're not.

outlaw5's Details
Status: Single
Here for: Networking, Dating, Serious Relationships, Friends
Orientation: Straight
Hometown: RAISED IN BK BUT NOW HOLDIN DOWN MIDTOWN
Body type: 6' 3" / Average
Ethnicity: Latino / Hispanic
Religion: Catholic
Zodiac Sign: Aries
Smoke / Drink: Yes / Yes
Children: Proud parent
Education: High school
Occupation: WOULD'NT U LIKE TO KNOW
Income: $30,000 to $45,000

There is something about the occupation listing (wouldn't you like to know) that is the final icing on the cake to me. Man, he's right! Jobs are like the sexual roster--we should only share them with people we've been banging for at least 3 months. Who's with me?

I feel like I have a split personality, and the two sides are manifesting themselves at inappropriate times. This is how I end up drinking at a dive bar wearing black slacks, looking lawyerly and feeling uncomfortably matronly and square. Or vice versa, reciting the facts of Lochner v. New York, wearing a ratty sweater and skinny jeans, overtired and unwashed, feeling uncomfortably silly and immature.

As much as I pride myself on striking that balance, sometimes the extremes make me feel like I'm perpetually playing tricks on everyone, even myself.

On New Year's Eve, she passed out at the Las Vegas nightclub Pure. Her reps say it was due to exhaustion - not booze.But sources told The Post that it was humiliation that brought Britney to her knees that night. One person who was there said Britney was taunted at the club by the crowd, who shouted, "Whore, whore, whore, whore!" at her.(Britney spears at “Pure”)

I post this, because this is a fantastic example of a) why I follow gender studies so closely in my study in pop culture, and b) why the excuse "what's wrong with a little attention if it makes me feel good about myself?" is anti- rather than pro-woman.

Firstly, in the 10 years or so I have been following pop culture, there has been a fundamental shift in the way celebrities are treated by the media, and in turn the way celebrities interpret their actions according to media coverage. Some things are fundamental; the celebrity (especially true for female celebrities) follow the same basic plot arc:

1) They are discovered. This stage is usually where the “talent” is emphasized—that special spark that makes this actress, model, or singer different from everyone who has come before her. Media coverage at this stage is limited to the movie or album the individual has just completed

2) Public interest. Media coverage of the celebrity begins to move away from the realm of the public and into the private sphere. Who is this person? What is her past? The overall tone of coverage, initially, is overwhelmingly positive. The individual’s personality is shown in the best possible light: stupidity becomes innocence, rudeness becomes sassiness, arrogance becomes confidence, vanity is the new sexy. This is where many celebrities become addicted to being public figures and begin to spend more and more time at night clubs. They believe the positive attention will last forever.

3) Sexual Interest. The media coverage moves away from more “female friendly” coverage (friends, personality, relationships) to male-friendly media coverage. The starlet’s physical attributes become more important than her personality. She becomes “hot” or “sexy”—the more scandalous her clothing, the more attention she gets. And it’s still very positive attention. Women’s magazines start to put the star in the fashion trends pages, Maxim puts the starlet on their list of “Hottest Hotties.” Every act of increasing sexuality creates more and more interest. This is where women tend to drop their longtime boyfriends, believing they can do better. This is where they start posing naked with sheets, biting their lips with pullout quotes that say things like “I’m just a very sexual person. Sexuality is completely natural.” This will be the time they choose to be topless in a movie, or to release a racy video, or to makeout with another girl in Hyde

4) Backlash. As soon as the star shows signs of believing in her own media myth, she is rudely smacked to earth. The revolution usually begins with female-based magazines asking about too much partying, too much sleeping around, too little clothing. The men’s magazines lose interest in women that look used, and they move on. The starlet is then left at the mercy of the female-based magazines. The celebrity continues to act as she did before, but rather than finding her behavior rewarded, she is shocked to find everything she does is now wrong. She is now a slut. Men cease to find her attractive, women make fun of her for not realizing that she’s now the punchline

5) Rehab, humility—the celebrity hits rock bottom, leaves the spotlight

6) Acceptance—the celebrity takes her new place as one of the older, established members of the industry. Her popularity may go up or down, but she will never again be an it girl. She will give interviews where she speaks of her wild years. She will become media savvy, and she will begin to “keep her personal life personal.”

The old days of this arc, you had what I will call “the J-Lo Effect.” During her sexy phase, she always tried to stay ‘classy’—she kept a steady boyfriend, avoided slumming in Maxim and FHM. She believed she was sexy, but she never believed that her popularity was contingent upon her being sexy. She somewhat naively believed her story—‘inner city’-latina-made-good—would be what attracted people to her. As a result, the media has been relatively kind to her and she has entered stage 6 with a good degree of dignity.

In more recent years, there has been a sharp change in the arc, what I call, “The Britney Effect”. We are seeing the rise of celebutantes—girls who become famous for reasons that have nothing to do with talent. The way the media has been handling them has been brutal, but not necessarily undeserved. Britney, Lindsey, Tara—all these girls were nominally talented.. Paris, Nikki, Nicole—these girls have no talent whatsoever. These two groups of girls had to sell sex, and sell it fast, or else people would realize this. As a result, once they reached the end of the line (once the world has seen you give a blow job or show your vagina, there really isn’t any more sex you can sell), once they had been used up, they’re ground to bits. For girls like these, there’s no real hope of ever reaching step 6, because there’s no talent for them to fall back on. And it is impossible to fall back on a youthful, fun, sexual image once you’ve been “used”. Christina, Scarlett, Madonna—these women were extremely talented, which is why they’ve been dealt with more kindly, and which is why they have a chance at a J-Lo arc.

It has become clear, therefore, that though we still encourage girls to be in touch with their sexuality, as a whole, we still hold them to the same sexual standards that we always have. This of course is no surprise to anyone, really; we all know that while there has been slow and steady progress to accept female sexuality, we still revile a the thought of a “used” woman, a revulsion that doesn’t seem to cross over to male celebrities.

It also proves to me how wrong it is to tell woman to use sexual attention as a source of self-esteem. If your sense of worth is achieved by your feelings of inclusion and acceptance, then how must you feel when the (inevitable) backlash comes? I’ve spoken about this before, and the answer usually comes back as follows: what’s wrong with taking care of my appearance? What’s wrong with wanting to be pretty? Why shouldn’t I want to be attractive? The answer is of course a matter of degrees. Attractiveness matters—there is a certain charm in gender differences, just as there is a certain charm in racial differences. The difference is how much attention you need, and the things you are willing to do for that attention. Some women really, really like to take off their clothes because it’s a turn on for them. It’s not my thing, but if they get a rise out of it, that’s fine. Some women really, really like to strip because they really like the perception that men find it attractive. This I am not ok with. It seems like splitting hairs, but there’s a difference. You are forming your sexual pleasure based solely on what you feel other people want, not based on what you innately want yourself. Attention is not reaffirming your sense of worth, it is providing you with your sense of worth.

Anyway, moral of the story is: don’t shout a girl down for being a whore, even if she might be one. You made her, after all