Obituary Birthday

The blogging community can be a gigantic ass kiss fest at times, but there is one blog that has stayed for me, and for many others, one of the best pieces of writing out there.

The very first blog that caught my attention when I dove nose first into the blogging world (is there another freakin' word for "blog"? Cripes! I've used it four times already!), was My Soul is a Butterfly, written by the enigmatic Hannah Miet. I still remember the first line that reeled me in. Hannah was describing her inability to connect with the book, "Loose Girl: Memoirs of Promiscuity":

"All I'm saying is that I can't masturbate to your lack of father figure. And I like masturbating to books."

I was hooked. Not only was this writer alluring, but she was smart and witty. She referenced Ernest Hemingway and talked about things most girls are afraid to suggest. A young and beautiful Woody Allen, walking the streets of New York commentating on all the quirk and poetry of the world.

Hannah, for this I hate you.

She also is the author of one of the best blogs post I've ever read.

Enough fucking talking. It's with great honor that Hannah is guest posting on my blog today.

P.S. Check out my post over at Hannah's

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Obituary Birthday by Hannah Miet

Sometimes I search my Gmail archives for clues. Evidence in sentence form. I excavate my bedroom for scraps of discarded paper. Shopping lists that may unlock my mystery.

It doesn’t work, of course. There is no narrative. I don’t find out why I did or did not love. I don’t find out where I was, or where I am.

I find an email to myself that only says “hipster circus, golf mag, rent check.”

500 saved job openings.

“Banksy’s Playlist for Curly American Enlightenment.”

Shopping list for a spectacular dinner I was too lazy to cook.

Apartment in Harlem: 420 Friendly: $900/month.

“I want to make love to your soul.”

Bonnaroo Music Festival Ticket Confirmation.

“Hire me. I have a flower in my hair.”

Open bar Obama. Don’t forget the red dress.

“Panda, call home, it’s been months.”

When I die, they may say that my life was in shambles. That I lived in squalor, or had many lovers and died lonely. My ghost will be unable to write a blog post saying “No guys, you’ve got it all wrong. I was happy.”

I hope my apartment is clean when I die. I hope there aren’t lists that say “Champagne, toothbrush, enema.” I hope I don’t go gently into that good night with my vibrator in hand reading a dirty French novel or watching Naughty Bookworms.

Then again, that’d be better than Alzheimer’s.

Maybe they will figure it all out better than I can (whoever “they” are). Fill in the blanks with the glue of time. String together images to make a motion picture, or at least an absurdist poem. They will say “She sang at Carnegie Hall” and “She kissed a married man” and both of these things will make perfect sense on the same page.

Someone I am quite fond of recently told me to turn to obituaries for examples of short, concise prose. I signed up for a daily obituary email, since such a thing, and pretty much everything, exists on the internet. I didn’t expect to find them so fascinating, and precisely for the fact they are so concise: an entire, messy, human summed up in a narrative.

I’ve always wondered what my obituary will look like. I wondered this in middle school, when a teacher made us write one positive adjective for each of our classmates and submit them all anonymously on scraps of paper. She read them all out loud. There were 24 students in the class. 20 of the strips of paper allotted to me said the word “nice.” One said “helpful,” most likely written by someone who cheated off me, one said “pretty,” most likely written by the one boy who noticed my breasts were growing faster than most, and one said “cool hair,” clearly written by an idiot who didn’t understand the concept of an adjective. I remember thinking that my obituary would be pretty boring.

“Hannah Miet was a loving daughter. Apparently nice, good to cheat off of, vaguely pretty. Idiots thought her hair was cool.”

11 years later, People still tell me I’m “nice.” They also tell me I’m “crazy,” occasionally with the addition “in the good way.” Since then, I’ve had over 15 jobs (one of which vaguely involved watching people have sex), danced awkwardly in and out of bedrooms and friendships and haphazard living arrangements; I’ve fallen for a stranger I’ve never met; I’ve shared champagne with the cinematic hero of my childhood; An ex once dumped the contents of my purse, as well as my shoes, down a 23 flight stairwell and broke my vibrator; I’m not sure my original obituary leaves room for these kind of memories and realities.

I need a Sherlock Holmes.

I am lost.

Barely two weeks after I signed up for the daily obituaries, I had a conversation with a stranger at a journalism conference. Obligatory small talk led me to the knowledge that, up until recently, his job was to write obituaries for a Baltimore paper.

“How did you stumble into that?” I asked, avoiding the urge to beg him to investigate my life and write mine.

“I just did.”

“Did you like it?”

“I did. But I wanted to be out reporting. Half of my time was spent searching the phrase ‘dies at’ on Google for leads.”

“Really? So it wasn’t interesting?”

“Rarely. Very rarely, the person was interesting. Sometimes, that didn’t make much of a difference. We’re all sons or daughters to someone, you know?”

“The interesting stuff is unwritten…”

“Exactly. Or at least, it doesn’t fit the storyboard.”

Scenes From A Jewish Christmas: Or What I Learned About My Family on This Trip Home

The Characters
Grandmother

Nickname: Nan, Nettie Mae, The Boss
Age: 83

Religious Affiliation: Passive Jew

Occupation: 40+ years in women's clothing retail

Relationship Status: Twice divorced, dating Special Friend whom she began dating after suing him for medical costs after her heel got stuck in a tile in the building he owns.
Children: One daughter and one granddaughter
Likes: dressing nicely, wearing heels to the gym, and preparing beautiful meals that you cannot touch
Dislikes: "people who pretend they are something that they are not."

Grandmother's Special Friend

Age: 82

Nickname: Jewish American Prince, Pain in the Ass, Asshole
Religion: Passive Jew

Occupation: 40+ years in women's clothing retail

Relationship Status: Once divorced, once widowed, dating Grandmother
Children: 3 sons, 2 stepsons, and 4 grandchildren
Likes: "people who pretend they are something that they are not and are good at it."
Dislikes: "...you know....things..."

Lauren
Age: 26
Nickname: As a child, she self-proclaimed her nickname to be "Spooky" due to her obsession with The X-files. Unfortunately, she was the only one that called herself that.
Religious Affiliation: Passive Jew (thanks to Grandmother)
Occupation: Perpetual assistant in the film industry
Relationship Status: Dating Special Gentleman Friend (different from Grandma's "Special Friend")
Likes: dancing to Michael Jackson in inappropriate situations.
Dislikes: people who don't pay attention to her dancing to Michael Jackson in inappropriate situations.


The Setting
Small, lonely town in Upstate NY.

Scenario 1-

Lauren decides to cook Grandma and Lionel Thai food because they have never tried it.

Grandma
Lionel, what we ate tonight was tufo. You've had tufo before.

Lauren

Grandma, it's tofu.

(Grandma laughs)

Lionel
Yeah, Nan, it's tofu!

(Grandma stops laughing)

Grandma
Shut the hell up, Lionel.

(Lionel's mouth drops open)

Lionel
Nan! How can you say that to me?

Grandma
Easy, stupid!

Fast forward to tomorrow morning.

Grandma
Lauren, that tufo has made me go to the bathroom five times now.

Scenario 2-
Lauren, Mom, Grandma, Grandma's Special Friend sit down for Christmas Eve dinner at The Community Restaurant.

Lionel
(to waitress)
Are you a man or woman?

Lauren
(to waitress)
Can you get me the tallest glass of vodka and cranberry please?

Scenario 3-
Lauren, Mom, Grandma, and Grandma's Special Friend sit down at a makeshift table planted in the middle of the living room for Christmas Dinner.

Grandma
Oh Lionel, you're always wishing you were dead.

Lionel
No I don't!

Grandma
Oh, yes you do. I always hear you saying, "Dear God, please take me now."

Lionel
That's because I'm trying to cut a deal with him.

Grandma
God doesn't cut deals.

Lionel
Yes, he does. He's Jewish

Grandma
(looks up)
Dear God, please forgive us.

To be continued....

You Can't Take a Picture of This, It's Already Gone

"Home is where I want to be pick me up and turn me 'round"- Talking Heads

It's that time again.
That time of the year that you go home. To the place that you experienced your childhood. The place your Mom and Dad live. The place that has the only bed that has ever mattered.
The place that still holds onto the life that you left behind when you were told to grow up.

But each time you go home. It feels a little different. A little off.
You can't quite put your finger on it as you stare at the glow-in-the-dark stars you affixed to your ceiling seventeen years ago.

Why don't I feel like I'm home? This looks like my home. Those are the same stickers on the back of my door, whose exact trace has never left my fingers. Those are the same milky stains in the floorboards, whose existence came to be as Sammy aged and became incontinent. Those are the same windows that over look the highway, whose path took me away from here five years ago.

This trip you decide you're going to dig a little deeper. Tear away the boards you've nailed over the obvious picture.
You peek through and that is when you see it.

For the first time, it all becomes clear: The white frost that has glazed over your mother's once copper skin. The little brown dots traversing up the now rough terrain of your father's hands. The frothy slur in your Grandmother's voice. The recognition of bewilderment upon meeting the child born from someone you climbed trees with not that long ago. The decaying facade of your family's business, their heart and soul, still sitting vacant on the comparably disintegrating Main Street. You see for the very first time that all of this, everything that you thought was a constant, has changed.

Changed while you weren't even paying attention.

Desperation quickly floods in and you try to freeze everything, but you can't.
It's already gone.

When You Give a Man Luck, He Must Fall in the Sea

Sick + finishing up guest post for My Soul is a Butterfly for tomorrow = Lame ass photo post today.

Make sure to tune in tomorrow to read the sweet, melodic words of Hannah Miet.

The only place open after 5PM Sunday in Lonelytown, NY

I have come 500 miles just to see a halo

83

83 and tired

Dogs love it when you do this

Favorite thing to wake up to in the morning

$1.61 find at the local thrift store

The World is Really Wild at Heart and Weird on Top, Lula Thought

I'm sitting in a cracked leather booth somewhere in the desert of west Texas.

I squint through the blinds and a faded sign tells me that I'm at Papa's Pantry in Van Horn.
There are three ceiling fans in Papa's Pantry.

They're lazy, just like the tongue of the waitress who brings me my iced tea.
Wait, aren't I still in Los Angeles?

Who are these two guys sitting behind me with cowboy hats?

Typically such a scene would mean I wandered onto a movie set.

But there are no lights and cameras in Papa's Pantry.

I take a deep breathe and let out a slow exhale. Somebody has finally released the nozzle and let all the air out.

It feels good.
It feels terrifying.

I slept in Lourdsburg, New Mexico last night. A railroad town, a border town. Not a ghost walked the lone sidewalk. I drove down the main drag to one cheap motel after another. Neglected and outdated signs guiding the way. They all looked the same. Midnight and stucco. Cream and rot. Somewhere in the dark, I spotted a florescent beacon that told me that was where I was to sleep.

It takes a lot to work up my nerves, but I felt I'd seen my room before. In a movie where cops discover the body of a young woman lying on the floor. I checked underneath the bed but turned up only black beetles and locusts. The room had a distinct smell, one I couldn't quite explain. It would be easy to say it smelled musty, but it didn't. It smelled frightening. Like sex and death. And I longed for someone to be here with me. Dangerous, macabre motels should not be experienced alone but with cheap liquor and someone else to feel the scratch of polyester comforters on bare skin.

Horny and melancholic, I set out on the main road to find picture-worthy landmarks to add to my epic road journal that will mean only something to me. Everything was desolate and forgotten. The motel pool hadn't seen water in years and what was left of the nearby gas station boasted $1.85 unleaded. The only signs of life were the humming of the crickets and the rhythm of the freight train. I took a few pictures in case they'd be needed as evidence when my bludgeoned body was found shoved in a dumpster around back.

My room was sweltering. I stripped down to my underwear and texted a former lover that he should be there. I drifted off to sleep but was awoken at 4AM to my TV turning on. I glanced sideways at the nightstand and noticed that the remote was still sitting there. I calmly turned off the television but told myself I should be more concerned that the TV turned itself on. I'd occasionally opened one eye to to see if a shadowy figure was standing over me and fell back into the uneasy sleep only a motel room like that could bring.

At 9:45AM a wake up call that I didn't ask for. I was hesitant to pick it up. I expected to hear on the other end a crackly voice asking where Billy was and that if I didn't put Billy on the phone right now, the crackly voice was going to come down to my room with a shotgun.

I let it ring and ring and decided it was time to go.

As I packed my car, an old John Wayne western on in the background, a gentleman with 4 teeth in his mouth introduced himself to me. His name was Ron and, "Yep, I am the owner of this here place."

"Well, Ron. It's nice to meet you."

"Where you headed?" he asked.

"Austin, from Los Angeles. Doing some soul searching, I guess. I don't know. You live here in Lourdsburg for long?"

"Grew up in Oklahoma, then spent some time at the casinos in Vegas, then bought this place. Now it's my home. See, I live directly above you."

He pointed to door above room 104. I could see through the opening that his room had the same bedding and artwork as mine. A Native American woman in pastel tones.

He wished me a safe trip and I told him that if I ever find myself in Lourdsburg again, I will stop by.

I got back in the car. Another leg. Another journey through the heart of the American Southwest. Another day of questioning. Another day of listening to "This Must be the Place (Naive Melody)" on repeat.

I followed the barrelling freight train through the desert and hoped I could muster up the same energy.

This Must Be The Place (Not a Naive Melody)

With the new year pending, you're probably thinking, "January 1st will be a good time to abandon the wife and child in the night and start a new life somewhere else".

Well don't come to Austin, TX.

Especially if you're from L.A.

I was the last person they let in from California here in Texas. The gates are locked and they don't want anyone else, you hear?

I'm sorry California didn't give you your tax return this year but go to South Dakota or Idaho. The unemployment rate is ridiculously low there right now. Let me tell you, animal husbandry will be ten times more rewarding than being a corporate drone.

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Austin is too good for me. I don't deserve her.
She took me in with open arms after I tore away from the suffocating hands of Los Angeles. No questions asked. Just picked me up, brushed me off, and rocked me to sleep.
She's still rocking me.

When people ask me, "So, how is living in Texas?" with that little grin suggesting what they're really asking is, "So, what on Earth possessed you to move to a southern red state that consists of 24 million cowboys and rednecks and George Bush?", I just shake my head and sing, "Home is where I want to be but I guess I'm already there".

What I really want to tell them is this:

Imagine that you just unearthed America. After years of digging and the dirt just getting thrown back into the hole, you finally break through and see her shining like a gleaming Atlantis at the bottom of a dark Ocean.
You walk down her Main Street. The sun is shining. Families going to brunch and artists sitting in cafes.
You pass a Policeman who tips his hat to you. A stranger that says your smile just made his day.
Music floats by, intertwined in every molecule of the wind.
You almost wonder if you're in an episode of "The Twilight Zone", the cheery facade will suddenly break away to a more apocalyptic scene, something that you're more used to.

It doesn't and it never will.

Imagine that part of you that you thought died before if ever really lived, the part that inflates your heart at tiny moments throughout the day, the part that makes you stop and see everything clearly for the first time, the part that inspires you to do and create and sing and dance. Remember that part of you?

Imagine all those things.
That is Austin.

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Let me rephrase what I said earlier.
Austin welcomes you with open arms.
Just maybe instead of trying to change her, let her change you.

Best of '09 According to a Shut-In Pt. 1

This will be the most uninformed "Best of List" of 2009 that you've read.

What is Your Favorite of '09?

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Best Movie:

"Precious"

I don't think I've seen a single new movie this year.

Wow.

That's really an amazing feat, you know?

I think the only other person to do that was my Great Aunt Stella who sat/slept in the same reclining chair and watched "Matlock" every day until she died.

Well, we see where I'm headed.

However, one movie I've wanted to see all year was Precious. After frequently getting up in the middle of the trailer to curl up into a ball on the bathroom floor, I haven't been able to bring myself to see it.

What do you guys think of it?

Best Album:

"Up From Below" by Edward Sharpe and the Magentic Zeros.

Probably one of the most refreshing acts out there now. How can you not love a band that has like a gazillion members, old school instruments, travels around on a vintage bus, and has lyrics like, "Chocolate Candy Jesus Christ"?

CHOCOLATE CANDY JESUS CHRIST!

It's a Jesus.

Made out of chocolate!

Check out their song 'Home" below.

Sure, they may look slightly mentally challenged in the video but it's because they're really into, ok?

Best Song:

"While You Wait for the Others" Grizzly Bear featuring Michael Mcdonald.

Don't argue with me on this, ok? You got a fucking quality song PLUS the sweet sounds of Michael McDonald. It's like oldie meets indie in the best way possible (better than the Dirty Projects/David Byrne song, "Knotty Pine". David Byrne is my honey bunny, but that song blah).

Michael, make sure you give your agent a big X-mas gift this year for that nail.

Best TV Show:

"Glee" on FOX

I don't actively watch prime time television (unless I'm home on holiday and watch marathons of "The George Lopez Show" and "Two and a Half Men" with my mother-....oh, and I'll admit...I like them). However, "Glee" struck me because it reminded me of two of my favorite things on this planet- "Waiting for Guffman" and "Arrested Development". This is all based off of watching one episode so it could be a big whopping piece of poop for all I know.

Best Book:

"When You Are Engulfed in Flames" by David Sedaris

I don't read contemporary fiction, but David Sedaris came out with a book this year and that's all I need.

IT'S ALL I NEED!

Best Concert:

"Zappa Plays Zappa"

Always wanted to see a Frank Zappa show but never did?

No?

Oh, well, if you did, then seeing/hearing Dweezil Zappa is the closest thing. Not only is he an amazing guitarist in his own right, but he stays true to his Dad's orchestrations and surrounds himself with extraordinary musicians who understand his Dad's work. Close your eyes during a Dweezil Zappa show and you're listening to Frank.

Best Celebrity Sighting:

"Poodie"

I don't have any good stories this year. When I lived in L.A., I had great stories like feeling Jeff Goldblum's boner against my leg and standing next to Stevie Wonder in a sushi restaurant watching Malcolm Jamal Warner do slam poetry about Bill Cosby. Best I have this year is meeting Willie Nelson's manager named Poodie. And he died.

Best Fashion Trend:

Not the "Harem Pant"

I'm not sure what the best trend is this year, but I can certainly tell you what is NOT the best fashion trend. And that no good fashion trend is the Harem Pant.

No. Nope. Never.

Who the hell thought that looking like you took a dump in your pants was a good idea?

Which my mother snidely responded to on my Facebook status when I asked this- "Lauren, the harem pant has been around since the time of the harems, ok?"

Well, ok, Mom. Then the harems looked incontinent just like this chick does:

Best Dream:

"David Byrne with Snowflake Sweater"

The one I had involving David Byrne following me around a party with a glass of sherry and a cable knit sweater with a snowflake on it.

Best Crazy Person:

"Dinosaur on the Railroad Track"

The time I saw a dude having a tea party with a blow-up T-rex on the railroad tracks.

TSSF- Twenty-Something Shit Fest

For the love of God! I don’t think I’ve ever been this depressed before! This has to be the lowest I’ve ever felt in my entire life! I am so unbelievably lost and lonely right now! My brain hurts and my heart perpetually aches! I don’t think it can get any worse than this!

Just when I think my twenties have reached the pinnacle of patheticness, I flip through my diary and am surprised to discover the same sentences, word for word, written every couple of months for the past five years.

What the fuck?

Have I been this whiny for awhile now? Or do I just have a pension for exclamations and dramatic adjectives like most girls my age?

Can someone please explain to me why during the most exciting time in our lives, we are positively convinced that we’re doomed to a lifetime of soul-charring careers and vapid relationships that culminates in a house filled with an array of pets named after our favorite soap stars and a refrigerator covered in pictures of other people’s children? Jason and Melissa’s adopted Taiwanese toddler with a $50 haircut and Iggy Pop t-shirt waves at you every time you go to the fridge to grab another tub of cream cheese and mouths, “Look! You don’t even have an Asian baby with a faux hawk!”

Can anyone please explain why our decisions feel so permanent, our loneliness so detrimental, and why we feel like we’re running out of time? We all know it’s silly to feel this way, that these problems really aren’t that severe, but try telling that to a twenty-five year old who can’t hear anything because her head is so far shoved up her ass.

The Twenty-Something Shit Fest (otherwise known as the “Quarter-Life Crisis”, though will not be referred to here out of copyright and overly-used cliche concerns) doesn’t suddenly show up on your doorstep with a flaming bag of dog shit the day you turn twenty years old. No, typically at twenty, you’re still in college, maybe have a “serious” boyfriend or girlfriend, spend Mom and Dad’s money on entertainment and beer (or on DVDs starring Crispin Glover and dessert wine), and only an iota of the responsibilities and worries you will have in a couple of years. TSSF rears it’s ugly head usually when you’re about twenty-one, newly legal, out of the institutional bubble, and into the real world.

Then the fun really begins.

You jump onto dodgeball field with grit and vigor.

“Ha! This is easy!” you shout as you coolly thwart off any ball that comes your way.

Suddenly, the balls start to drill in faster and harder. Some start to hit you in the face, then the vagina. You assure your friends and family on the sidelines that you’re fine, that you can handle this, but you begin to wonder if there is machine gun of balls being shot at you. A tooth gets knocked out, then a black out. You start mumbling “I’m fine.” over and over, while you try to raise an enthusiastic thumbs up to the crowd. It isn’t until you wake up one morning next to an empty bottle of Stoli and the words “When will this end?!?” written in lipstick on your mirror that you realize that maybe this has been difficult for you.

Eh.

It’s truly awe-inspiring how dramatically one’s life changes in the short period of time that is your twenties.

In my twentieth year I was a college junior on her way to finishing her degree in film. I had a long-term boyfriend who I figured I was stuck with forever, dreams of becoming a screenwriter in New York City or Toronto (what?), only a cell phone bill to worry about and no freakin’ idea what I was in for the next few years. My twenty-first year found me quitting school, moving to Los Angeles for a personal assistant gig, leaving my boyfriend and family, and diving face first into muck of Hollywood. Ok, this is where it gets good. My twenty-second year found me fooling around with a married producer who treated me like a $40 whore, racking up credit card debt in order to survive, working fifteen hours days, and drinking myself to sleep on Friday nights by 9PM (not before calling all my friends to tell them “I’m sorry” for no reason). My twenty-third year found me going to a psychotherapist to take control of my life, learning to tell myself I’m taking control of my life when I really wasn’t, accumulating a lot of interest on my credit card debt, and still working fifteen thankless hour days. My twenty-fourth year I began doubting everything (Am I pursuing the right career for me? Am I living in the right city for me? Am I drinking the best vodka for me?) and became increasingly unhappy at work. At this point I had a series of failed mini-relationships that made me question whether dating the opposite sex was the smartest choice. My twenty-fifth year found me leaving my career, wandering aimlessly around Los Angeles trying to figure what I wanted to do with my life, deciding to move to another city then changing my mind, working at an anti-war non-profit organization for validation, deciding on moving to another city then changing my mind, deciding to focus on my writing, and ultimately jumping in my car and driving east on route 10 to Austin, Texas to find some answers. Why I thought the meaning of my life would be unearthed in Texas is beyond me.

So what I have I learned in the first half of my twenties? No matter where you go, there you are, writing the same crap in your journal as you did yesteryear. I’ve learned that this life isn’t going to get any easier. I hear good things about your thirties, but that waits to be seen. I’ve also learned that all of us are in the same boat- the U.S.S. Narcissism and that everything I’m writing about it quite simply…normal. Gasp! That’s the last thing my vintage-wearing, fake eye-glass sporting, Woody Allen referencing ass wants to hear!

Televangelism Fashion

Sometimes I think about turning my blog into a fashion blog.

Fashion blogs always seem to be the belle of the ball.

The hit of the party.

The slut of the kegger.

They always get the most traffic and the most comments.

Which is interesting, because they're usually written by a doe-eyed thirteen year-old girl from Winnipeg who likes to stand pigeon-toed and wear her Grandma's reading glasses.

Anytime I do write about fashion, it's one of three things- vintage clothing, making fun of American Apparel, and making fun of American Apparel while forgetting that I'm wearing an entire American Apparel ensemble.

However, I thought today that I might write a fashion post for a dude named Oral.

Yes, Oral.

Oral died yesterday and I had no idea who the heck he was. In fact, I'm super hung-up on the fact that a couple decided to name their kid Oral and haven't read anything past that.

According to CNN, he was an extremely old Evangelist.

This is very fitting because I've always had a thing for popular, eccentric televangelists.

Not a "Mmm...I want to jump their God-fearing bones" kind of thing, but a, "Wow! Look at them sweat through that polyester suit!" kind of thing.

So in honor of a man who's name goes well with the words "hygiene" and "herpes", I'm declaring today, "Dress like an Televangelist Day".

No, wait!

Let's make it tomorrow.

Because you're probably already at work and I'm guessing you didn't wear your horn-rimmed glasses and rayon slacks today (if you did, send me a picture. I probably love you).

How do you dress like a televangelist you ask? It's simple!

1.) Every televangelist must have a pair of glasses that I only can describe as "Those ridiculous things on George Bush Sr.'s face" You can pick up a copy here, at (surprise!) American Apparel.

2.) Want to physcially get closer to God? Well, take Jan Crouch's example! The best I could come up with is "The Disco II Clown" wig. However, you would have to wear five of these wigs on top of each other to compete with this lady.

3.) No weave is complete without some old-fashioned hair pomade!

4.) An entire bottle of mascara on your face every morning!

5.) Make sure you raid your parents closet before you head to the thrift store for these outfits. Your parents probably don't want you to know, but they once wore things that would set the house on fire instantaneously.

*Please note- I'm actually putting a stupid ass declaimer here.

This post is not suggesting anything about Christianity.

I just think televangelists are neat-o looking. :)

Tonya Harding's Jeans Are the Best Aphrodisiac

I discovered via one of my favorite websites, Buzzfeed, that ex figure-skater/Queen of the Mom Jean Tonya Harding has a website.

It's just not any ol' website.

Ms. Harding shares with us beautiful photos center-piecing full denim ensembles, passive-agressive comments like, "Tonya Harding is an intelligent, caring and very sensitive person. Even though she will deny it to some of her friends, ugly remarks hurt her feelings", and erotic fan fiction.

Yep.

Just when *you thought you didn't have an outlet for your fantasies involving circa 1990 sequined leotards and crimped hair, you find out about Tonya Harding Fantasies.
*You=I.

Tonya Harding Fantasies isn't new. In fact, there are over 1587 stories from various shut-ins, illiterates, sexually frustrated middle-aged shoe salesman, and 26 year-old female bloggers from Austin.

Here are some snippets of my favorite Tonya Harding fanstasies....

-I've often fantasized about taking her to a recently erupted volcano, because I know she has to be sick of the cold. We could lay on top of cooled magma rocks and just make out until were on fire.

-I was super lucky finding Tonya walking outside at 4am in the morning...I picked her up, she knew me through a friend. However, she had this little problem...she started to smoke crack and didn't want anyone to know.

-Iwould like to take tonya to the nasa space camp, use the anti Gravity room to give her the most unforgettable night of her life .

Here is one of my Tonya Harding fantasies that I've been working on for awhile:

Tonya,
Ur high waisted stone washed jeans r so sexy. I just want to put them on and pretend that I am Kelly Kapowski. I will figure skate around in ur jeans and the judges will give me 99.99 for the most awesome camel toe they have ever seen. When I'm done skating, I will fall into a bed of scrunchies and make sweet love to a man w/ a mustache. Please don't join us. My Tonya Harding fantasy has nothing to do with u. In fact, I don't even want u watching. Just give me the jeans, scrunchies, and Jeff Gillooly. U just keep standing next to that tree.

Luv,

Lauren

Thank You For the Big Schnoz, Great-Grandma Sophie

Like every modern vintage lovin'/aspiring DIY hipster in Austin, TX, I will attempt to sell old clothing.

Wait. "Old clothing" makes it sound smelly; like it's been sitting in some shut-in's trunk in the basement for 35 years. These are "carefully selected vintage styles most likely owned by old ladies who took better care of their dresses than their children".

SGF and I did a photo shoot this weekend for my impending Etsy page. These are some out takes.

What do you all think?

Or better yet, does anyone want to buy one of these pieces?

Girl not included, but beer can definitely is.

What a Fool Believes

"I'm concerned", I said to my psychiatrist as I looked down at my thumbs.
God, they're some big ass fucking thumbs.

"I'm concerned because I'm starting to like Michael McDonald and I'm not sure what to do."

I don't have a therapist.
However, I did at one point.
If I still had a therapist this would be the first thing I'd say to her as I sit down for my session.

It does concern me that I no longer have the distinct urge to rip my face off and sling it against a window when I hear Michael McDonald. Even worse, sometimes you'll find me standing on a table, very enthusiastically shouting, "No, seriously guys, even the black folks think Darryl Hall is awesome."

I want to know what this all means. Does it signify that I'm getting old? Does the moment you go from thinking, "Quick! "Saturday in the Park" is making my ears bleed" to "Hey, don't change the station, I kind of dig Chicago" signify the immediate transition from young person into adult? Will Peter Cetera and Bruce Hornsby walk with me as I traverse this new territory into womanhood? The days of lying in bed, pretending to be stoned when I'm really not and listening to, like really listening to Arcade Fire will be replaced with candlelit hearty, but sensible dinners with a bearded man and Time Life Easy Listening CD collection. Pretentious and nonsensical statements like "Spencer Krug's work on Sunset Rubdown appeared more inspired, more whimsical, than any of Wolf Parade's ventures" turns into, "I prefer Steve Winwood's solo works". I'll probably name my kid Rhiannon and she'll grow up to think I have terrible taste in music. Just like how I'd shake my head and slam my door shut the second C, S, N, & Y's Greatest Hits came on the household stereo.

I don't want to become an adult! I'm perfectly happy thinking that liking David Byrne since I was thirteen years old makes me evolutionarily superior to everyone else! I want to keep walking through my life like I'm the subject of an Ipod commercial.

"How do I stop this? How do I stop myself from growing up?" I'd ask my fictional therapist.

"You can't," she'd laugh, "Just take it easy. Don't let the sound of your own wheels drive you crazy."

Hipster Gift Guide Pt. 2

Yesterday I showed you how to custom order a DeLorean or buy a t-shirt with dried cum on it.

Today, we have even more goodies for you to bestow the lovable scenester/trendster/geekster in your life.

Are you having trouble finding a gift for your NYU Film School dropout girlfriend who is unemployed and spends more time sewing that having sex with you? Well, we have just the thing for her! What about your homeless bike mechanic named Steel? Or your attention deficit friend that has a tattoo of a unicorn jumping over the Milky Way? We have gifts for them too!

Take a look....

1.) Ever get that urge to break into a rap about masturbation? I know I do. And so does Crispin Glover. Why not give Glover's Big Problem Does Not Equal the Solution. The Solution = Let it Be to that special auto-manipulator in your life? Or for $30, you can surprise him/her with signed copies of his books "Rat Catching", "Oak Mot", or "Concrete Inspection".

2.) The most pretentious gift on this list is this stupid ass USB drive in the shape of horn-rimmed glasses.

You can't even wear them.

This is a good gift to remind that that extra special hipster in your life how ridiculous they are.

3.) Start the day by listening to David Lynch give the weather report for a city you don't live in all the while sipping his richly brewed coffee. Part of the proceeds go to his film scholarship (which sadly has nothing to do with his transcendental meditation foundation).

4.) Amy Sedaris' hostessing/crafting/cooking for a lumberjack and the elderly book, "I Like You: Hospitality Under the Influence" is a must for any DIY hipster/friend with an imaginary boyfriend in your life.

5.) Though I was hoping she'd have something interesting on her website, something along the lines of the female equivalent of Vincent Gallo selling his sperm, the best I came up with is Miranda July's book, "No One Belongs Here More than You". Don't read it before giving it to your hipster friend. It will just make you angry and want to de-friend all the hipsters in your life.

6.) Here are your friggin' space and moon t-shirts.

These ones have cats!

Wonderful, wonderful cats.

7.) Since Lord Hipster discontinued their mustache ski mask, you can get a delightful one here.

8.) For the self-proclaimed culture jammer/freegan in your life, get them the holiday classic, "What Would Jesus Buy".

OR

It is an excellent way to tell your over-consuming friends that they are assholes and should feel bad.

The Shopocalypse is upon us!

9.) When you want your honey to look like Aristotle Onassis in the bedroom- The Aristocrat

10.) Zappa, Paul Reubens, and David Byrne dug it, so why not ordain your friend a minister of the Church of the Subgenius?

Bob wants you to.