Mama Don't Take My Kodachrome Away

When coming across new blogs, I'm constantly surprised to see that many people are more narcissistic than myself.

That is a tough chew to swallow (is that an expression?)

I mean, I thought no one could love themselves more than me.

My love knows no boundaries.

It's blinding.

However, I'm finding that people in deed love to take pictures of themselves. In the bathroom, in the car, in the bedroom... wherever they can get it.

I kind of feel like I'm denying the world of something now.

So in honor of the art of self-lovin', here are classic forms of narcissism caught in their natural state (tell me if I'm forgetting anything):

1.) Bathroom Mirror Shot- (male and female, worse for males)- I hate these photos so much, I almost refused to take one as a joke. Tell me, who still does this? I don't want to see the contents of your bathroom. I understand that you may have the photography skills of an intoxicated primate but you look like a dude from Jersey. Put your shirt back on. Oh wait, you are a dude from Jersey.

2.) Driving Shot (males and females)- These shots will never look good because you're too self-conscious about passerbys thinking you're that asshole that is taking pictures of themselves while driving.

3.) Hipster "I Have Polio In My Legs" Shot (females and effeminate males)- You know what I'm talking about. Every single photo in Lookbook is what. When did scoleosis become in?

4.) The Hipster "Oops I Crapped My Pants Shot" (female)- at an attempt at seeming innocent and caught of guard, most young females end up looking like they shat themselves. Now I understand why bloomers are back in style.

5.) The Kissy Shot- I can't find the words for this one.

6.) The Cleavage Shot- typically involves cleavage, but when you don't have any, you try to make it.

Welcome To My Neighborhood

I work and live on the Eastside of Austin which means that I'm unique and hip... by default.

Anytime a young person moves to the east side of any city, their credibility suddenly goes up fourteen notches.

Or down.

Way down.

Eastside Austin is a culturally vibrant and enthusiastic part of our fair city. It's the only place where you can sit back and watch a police helicopter chase while enjoying a nice $1.50 taco of your choice. It's a place where warehouses are turned into art spaces, vacant lots are furnished with food trailers, and old dive bars are turned into new dive bars.

I myself work in said warehouse. My office was formerly a bus depot, then furniture store, now hipster art collective/squirrel habitat. Our building boasts a graffiti-esque sign of our name which is an exclaimed adjective followed by an exclaimed adverb. In front of the sign, is another sign posted by an anonymous local telling us to get lost.

At our office we enjoy watching prostitutes having sex with their johns outside our windows, high speed police chases that cumulate in our parking lot, and squirrels that randomly fall from the ceiling and hit the hard cement floor with a thud, run spastically in circles and then fling themselves against the window pane in a desperate bid to flee.

Just yesterday I was able to snap my first prostitute solicitation on my Iphone. The deal went down right behind my desk and I quietly hid and raised my phone above the windowsill to get the shot below. I heard the woman offer her services for ten dollars, then enthusiastically dance when the man said "yes". Hence the awkward position she, er, let's call her Linda, is standing in the picture. The two temporary love birds giddily drove off and no less than ten minutes later, I see a beaming Linda walking back down the street hocking a big loogie and wiping her hands.

When not at work, you can often find me at home, gardening with BBQ prongs in my bloomers, or riding my bike back and forth down the street for no apparent reason. Naked hippie children play within ten feet of where I am and ignore me. I too ignore them but secretly I'm sad that they act like I don't exist.
I live in a 1920's Sears catalog house. Which means in 1925, it cost what I pay in a month's rent to built.

Tomorrow I will be partaking in a photo exhibit at Super!Alright! @ 6PM. Come by and say hello. The fabulous Missions will be playing. You'll be able to meet the squirrels and I just may be in my bloomers. The naked hippie children will not be there, and even if they were, they wouldn't give a shit about you. Linda might make a guest appearance though.

The Mystery Man

I looked down on the shelf and saw Robert Blake looking back up at me.

He was dressed in a police uniform and had a very intense look on his face. The sort of stare that actors in the 60's gave to add depth to their performance. Like Zoolander.

I picked up the VHS box for "Electra Glide in Blue" and felt my heart pinch just a little.

Then a combination of guilt and disgust quickly washed it away.

"You know, I've never seen this movie," I said to Marc, tapping the empty box on my arm. "I've watched "In Cold Blood" over and over, but haven't seen this one."

Marc works at I Luv Video in Austin. One of the largest independent movie rental houses in the country and where Quentin Tarantino will most likely be buried . Marc and I went to film school together and lost touch until we met up in L.A. He was in a band, I was in the film business. We cuddled to "Funeral" by Arcade Fire when it first came out. He left the band to do some sort ecological job that I can still never recall. I left the film business to stop myself from driving my car off the Pacific Coast Highway. We lost touch and wandered around the country until we discovered that we both landed in Austin, TX.

"Well, why don't you rent it then?"

"I don't know, man, I think it will kind of make me feel bad."

"Why?"

I shrugged my shoulders and walked over to the next aisle. I wasn't sure exactly why it would make me feel bad. I just knew that it would.

The Paul Morrissey video shelf. How pretentious can you get?

"You know, I called him last Christmas. It had been a year. He never called me back."

Oh God. Kenneth Unger's "Scorpion Rising". Intro to Film Aesthetics and Analysis. Patricia Zimmerman's class. 2003. Bullshit.

"It was his number still. Same voice message. "

How is this shit considered quintessential film making!?!

"It still says in a fake Texan drawl, "Robert's not here right now. Leave a message."

-------------------------------

They don't tell you in film school how it's really going to be. They might show you a movie with a bunch of leather clad dudes fucking to Bobby Vinton and call it ground-breaking, but they don't tell you about the lost souls you'll encounter every day in Hollywood. The sort of situations you will find yourself in at 23. Those moments when you step back and go, "Shit, I finally get what David Byrne was saying when he said, "Well, how did I get here?"

How I met Robert is a long story, but one I will try to keep short. Three years ago I got a phone call at my desk. A man introduced himself as Robert Blake and asked if he could stop by the studio to drop a gift off to my boss. My boss' father and Robert were friends back in the 1950's and he had found a script that the two had worked on together. I only knew of Robert threw his murder trial and was a little nervous to have him stop by. We waited anxiously as the tiniest old man in a ten gallon hat and purple cowboy shirt appeared. I was struck by his meander and pissed at his incessant use of calling me "secretary". I pointed out that we had a mutual acquaintance (my friend Ian lived in the same apartment complex in The Valley as Robert) and we chatted for roughly a minute before he said he had to go. And that was it. I didn't hear from Robert again.

Until six months later. Another call at my desk.

He was short and sweet. "I want back in the business and I need help."

I told him that I worked exclusively for my boss at the time but I'd be happy to meet with him and talk. We made plans for breakfast and I hung up the phone wondering what the fuck I was doing.

And I went to breakfast with Robert.

And we talked for five hours.

And I met with him again the following week.

And we drove around Los Angeles as he told me stories about dancing on the Paramount Pictures sidewalk at three years old looking for work, getting beaten and locked in the closet by his father, performing on "The Little Rascals", doing heroin, calling Humphrey Bogart his mentor, hanging out with Truman Captoe and Dexter Gordon, going to jail, how Marlon Brando's son was the one who really killed his wife, giving away the contents of his life to complete strangers, only shopping at garage sales, and believing that the most romantic thing he ever heard was actor Richard Farnsforth killing himself so he wouldn't burden his wife with his cancer. As he was telling me this, he pointed to all the Los Angeles landmarks that only meant something to him, the same landmarks that he had seen for the past 72 years of his life. In a town that had swallowed him up and spit him out ten times over. He spoke of going to Peoria, IL. The illusion of normalcy that only a small Mid-west American town can bring.

But Robert is to die in the muck of Los Angeles. It's his home and all that he knows.

He let me into his apartment. A tiny one bedroom apartment in the Valley that was empty other than old photographs and pieces of paper with the words, "Don't give up" scrawled in child-like writing lining the walls. He told me that he would win an Oscar before he died, dammit, and that he's still got the gift.

Bobby Blake has still got it.

------------------------------------

Last year, I wrote a thinly disguised essay about my friendship with Blake titled, "The Night of the Acquitted B-list Actor". The biggest amendment I made to the story was the ending. I wanted to make it more romantic than it actually was.

In the fictional ending, I spoke of mixed feelings in my emotional involvement with a presumed murderer and separately my need to get out Los Angeles in order to rediscover myself. I wrote of Robert's encouragement and his "seeing something in me". He told me I had too much to offer the world. So as I watched the skyline of Los Angeles get smaller and smaller in my rear view mirror, I thought of Robert, of picking up the phone and calling him, but instead, I decided to leave it all behind me.

In real life, the dirty old bastard wanted to get in my pants! He's fucking 50 years older than me! What the hell did he think? Did he think that losing a $40 million civil law suit for most likely killing his wife was is a huge turn-on?

...to Robert and to my fantasies of what it wasn't. You definitely deserve that Oscar.

Crispin Glover is My Density

When I was a child, I lusted after Doc Brown.
I used to write my name as "Mrs. Emmett Brown" on notebooks.
My mother thought it was f'ing weird. My classmates gave me strange looks.

I mean, it wasn't Christopher Lloyd that I was jonesin' for.
There was just something about that wild white hair and manic eyes. I swooned after his near autistic dedication to science and inability to interact with anyone socially.
And that car!
Yep, Doc Brown could get my motor up to 88 miles per hour (weak).

But as time went on and puberty set in, my appetite towards Doc changed and my interest started to fall towards another.

Someone equally as brilliant and likely to have Asperger's, but yet more refined. Like a fine Merlot.

With that strong jaw line, beautiful laugh, and amazing part in his hair- George McFly quickly won over my affections.

Why didn't I see it when I was younger!? This man is beautiful!

My interest in George began to deepen and deepen. The pangs of desire would keep me up at night. It was getting serious. How I longed to hear the words, "Lauren, you are my den-sity!"

Eventually, the crush leaked over into real life where I made it a life-long mission to see every Crispin Glover movie. I bought his record "The Big Problem Does Not Equal the Solution, The Solution Equals Let It Be" ("I hate you clowny clown clown!"). I watched his independent film,WHAT IS IT?, staring actors with Down Syndrome. I even sat through CHARLIE'S ANGELS 1 + 2 (Justin Theroux's abs took a strong second to the most interesting thing about the sequel).

Then one day, on a not so special day in January, the stars aligned and Crispin and I crossed paths. It was the Sundance Film Festival 2005. I was wandering around one of many butt sniffing industry parties when my boss, Dana, shouted, "There goes your man!"

"My man?"

"You know, that freak that you always talk about?" Dana said.

"Oh! My man!"

I quickly spun around to see a dark shadow filter through the crowd.

Was it really him!?

Without thinking, I dashed into the party. I marched up and down the room desperately searching for my love. Finally, when I was about to give up all hope, the sea of scenesters parted ways and like a shining beacon, I spotted the illusive figure in the back of the room. With his back turned towards me and a single silhouette of smoke rising above his head, I floated up and gently tapped him on the shoulder.

It was him!

There was something Godly about him (or Ungodly- take your pick).

That snow-white tan! That slippery snake hair! That gawky body! That indifferent demeanor! All of it hadn't changed since 1985. It was as if he had been pickled.

I was staring at a beautiful artifact in a mortician's garb.

"Mr Glover, may I take a picture with you?" I stuttered.

He leaned in, put his strong hand around my waist, and whispered into my ear, "Yes, Lauren. I've been waiting for you. You are my DES-TINY."

Then we kissed.

THE END.

Look how incredibly happy we are

I'm a Big Kid Now...Wow!

My blog was born from a time in my life that I like to call, "The Time I Lost Me".

Dear Lord, that's an epically boring name for such a significant time in my life.

"The Time I Did Things I Secretly Don't Regret"?

"The Time I Would Sit on Venice Beach with Homeless People and Drink From My Flask"?

"The Time I Wanted to Abandon My Life and Drive Out Into the Desert and Live in a Seedy Motel and Write Poetry on the Walls in Lipstick"?

Though I rarely addressed my "feelings" in the beginning days of my blog (at that time called, "PlasticLA"), I did often joke about certain predicaments that I would find myself in. Situations that could be labeled as "sad" or "pathetic".

Waking up lying next to a bottle of cheap vodka with mascara running down your face and turning towards the mirror wondering who the hell you were looking at did make for endless writing fodder, but it did not make for a great life.

And though I dreamt since I was a little girl of being a bi-polar, substance abusing, romanticizing artist I realized that that path was not best for me, my family & friends, or my writing. Determined to "find me a again" (<--lame), I set out on a quest to do such.

And I did.

And now I have nothing remotely interesting to talk about.

Being an adult sucks ass.

No longer feeling the urge to drink myself to sleep at 9PM on Friday night, not before calling every I know to announce that I just drank a quarter of a bottle of really expensive vodka that was not mine, that I think I puked up something purple, but I couldn't really tell, and that I'm sorry for being a narcissist= boring.

No longer chasing after self-centered "artists" who a.) wear three piece wool suits year round in Southern California and stick their thumb in the dirt when stressed out b.) is a married producer that most people believes has the mental capability of killing someone or c.) are car-less and/or jobless and grow patchy beards and nervously twist their unwashed hair= boring

No longer being able to drive through Skid Row at night and press my hand against the driver's side window, out towards the rows of tents and fumbling zombies, while waiting at a stop light= boring

No longer living in a steel box in down, downtown Los Angeles infested with rats, mutant mosquitoes born from the nearby recycling plant, drug addicts hiding in the alley behind my window and setting fire to abandoned vans in my parking lot, lying awake at night holding myself into a tiny ball and wondering if I was going to see the light of morning= boring.

I miss the those days of twenty-something emotional outbursts and bad decision-making!

How can I possibly have my shit together at 26?!

Hm. Maybe having a therapist when I was 23 actually did help.

Or maybe I just don't have an imagination.

Life is a Mixtape

Awhile back, someone gave me a mixtape.

It wasn't just any ol' mixtape.

This person, a boy, carefully selected a medley of music ranging from Tom Waits to Gil Scott-Heron, dropped it all onto a USB drive, and then fused the USB drive into a gutted cassette cartridge, therefore creating a USB mixtape.

The idea that someone wanted to give me a mixtape was lost upon me at first. However, over time the significance became more clearer. You see, it had been a long time since a boy made a mixtape solely for me. The connotation often affiliated with such an act had become foreign to me. A gesture of a time long ago.

At least I thought.

In return, I arduously made the boy a mixtape. Though creatively inferior to his own present, it held the same emphasis nonetheless.

Since the day I received the modern day version of the classic mixtape, I've thought a lot about it's bearing on contemporary culture.

Being the articulate sage I am not, Rob Sheffield, from his book, "Love is a Mixtape", sums it up better than I ever could;

"The times you lived through, the people you shared those times with- nothing brings it all to life like an old mix tape. It does a better job of storing up memories than actual brain tissue can do. Every mix tape tells a story. Put them together and they can add up to the story of a life."

He's right.

For me there is only one song that lives on my own mixtape. It sums up my entire life. It's the mixtape I will give to myself at my wedding. The mixtape I will play at my child's birth. The mixtape someone else will have to play for me at my funeral.

It's a tape made of twenty tracks of "This Must be the Place (Naive Melody)" by Talking Heads.

It's a song about love. The sort of love where your "head is in the sky" and you "make it up as you go along". It's about home, but not really knowing where that is, until you find that person. It's about death and loving that person until "their heart stops". The words are spoken by a man who never sang about love, who never sang about his emotions. Only objects and abstraction. A man who probably thought he was incapable of ever feeling such a way.

However, this time he felt something.

This post has been a few months in the making, and now I can finally finish it.

The boy and I parted ways yesterday.

But the mixtape that he put so much time and energy in, the mixtape he nervously handed to me in the kitchen, the mixtape I was too confused to receive, the mixtape I listened to the next night and smiled to until I fell asleep, like a snapshot, has now become a fleeting memory that will forever live on in the essence of itself.

So goodbye, boy. I know you are reading this. You always do.
But maybe today you won't.
You knew you couldn't get away with dating a blogger and not getting mentioned at least once on her blog.
Thank you for being my mixtape giver, my daily proofreader, but above all, thank you for being simply amazing.

Your Down n' Dirty Austin Thrift Store Guide

I've officially become an expert on Austin thrift stores.
You wanna know why?
Because I've been to every single freakin' one in search of a dresser.
Though I ended up empty handed (most furniture fell under the "Oh my God! Is that covered in rat poop?!" or "What!? This floral golf bag is worth more than my car!?" categories), I did come across some other great finds and colorful characters.

Forget Cream or Feathers, this is your down n' dirty Austin thrift store guide:

1.) Thrift Town- 10 stars out of 10
Thrift Town is my absolute most favorite thrift store in Austin. Located down south at Stassney and Manchaca, this store not only has the best selection of clothing and shoes, but it's clean, the staff is friendly, and they boast terrific daily and monthly specials. Sign up for their VIP email list to hear more about it. Thrift Town rocks because it has the perfect mix of contemporary and vintage clothing and the absolute best selection of shoes. Prices are relatively low. If you wait for the specials, they're even lower! The shoes below I bought for $2.99 and $3.99 respectively. Whomever is the shoe buyer at Thrift Town deserves a big bonus! Here are some of my favorite finds:

2.) Savers- 9 stars out of 10
Though Thrift Town will always hold the number one place in my heart, Savers on Burnet and North Loop (there is a second location at S. Lamar and Ben White) is definitely a close second. Savers is a popular thrift store destination spot in Austin and I can't believe I had never been until this weekend! What organization! What cleaniness! What service! And to top it all off, Savers selects quality brand name clothing (this is not the place to go vintage hunting). I saw beautiful Banana Republic slacks for $7. What impressed me the most was their great selection of cheap furniture and housewares. I spotted a record player for $10, a desk for $25, and a mirror for $2.
I bought this thing below. I have no idea what the hell it is, but now it's a home for my jewelry.

3.) Room Service- 8 stars out of 10
Though I wouldn't call this a thrift store per se, I just couldn't leave it off the list. This store takes the cake for the best quality retro furniture/housewares/clothing that is not ridiculously overpriced. Room Service on North Loop and Avenue F sits comfortably somewhere in between thrift and vintage. They have a large selection of mid-century furniture, lighting fixtures, magazines, telephones, ugly ass wall paintings, you name it! Every month they run a different special. This month is 20% anything with flowers on it (which was primarily everything I tried on). Room Service has a wonderful collection of carefully hand-selected vintage clothing (especially 50's/60's/70's dresses), most of the prices ranging in between $15-$30, but definitely well worth it.

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4.) Treasure City- 7 stars out of 10
I discovered this little gem recently and have become a fan. Treasure City, located on E. 12th west of Airport, does not have the best selection of anything, really, but the stuff is dirt cheap. Also, it's kind of a art collective/art space/volunteer outreach spot which is cool in my book. They have clothing, books, housewares, and furniture. I wouldn't put all my eggs in this basket, but it's definitely a fun place to poke around.

5.) Texas Thrift- 6 stars out of 10
Last time I went in here, it smelled like baby poo, but I spotted a wall-size photograph of shirtless men high-fiving and that made my day. Texas Thrift, located off of I-35 past 51st, is not the most up-lifting of the thrift stores. However, with some perseverance, you can definitely find some great steals. I typically don't have success in the clothing department, but have come across some cheap furniture and housewares. A friend of mine got a 35mm camera for $10. This is a good place for cheap fixer-upper odds and ends....or giant photos of shirtless men.

6.) Goodwill- 6 stars out of 10
Goodwill thrift stores are located all over Austin. I have yet to go to one that has blown me away. I've found that Goodwill is not good for clothing and is typically messy. Most clothing is over $10 and not of great quality. I mostly have luck in the book department, often finding myself scavenging their book selection for over an hour. This weekend I went to the infamous Goodwill Blue Hangar on Springdale where they deposit all the leftover clothing from the area Goodwills. Even reading Yelp reviews before going did not prevent me for f'ing up the protocol of waiting for the workers to finish sifting through the clothing. As I wandered aimlessly through the giant hangar, a kind employee told me that I was in the wrong section and pointed to the line of people waiting at the front of the building. Thinking that thrift shopping should not be this difficult, I left and vowed never to return.
Here are some books I've purchased over time at Goodwill. Hey, don't judge!

7.) Top Drawer- 6 stars out of 10
Everything about Top Drawer on Burnet and 49th is great: the prices, the cause (proceeds go to AIDs community outreach), and the staff. However, when I went there just really wasn't anything there! As I recall there was a sign stating that they were renovating, so I will have to go back in the future and give it another shot.

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8.) St. Vincent de Paul- 5 stars out of 10
It took me a long time to warm up to this South Congress thrift store. At first, it seemed like I could never find anything I wanted. Then over time, little gems started to pop up occasionaly. I've had a lot of success with dresses at St. Vincent, but really nothing else. Their shoe collection is subpar and their furniture overpriced. The staff there is not very talkative, but I guess you can't blame them. When you're over eighty years old and volunteering at a place where a bunch of hipsters shop, I wouldn't want to talk to me either. I got this dress below for $10 or $12.

My Man Harpo

(Prepare to be blown away with my nerdiness...)

When I was a little girl, I loved many men.

Men that played unpopular instruments. Men that made irreverent jokes. Men who wore thick horn-rimmed glasses. Men with big Jewish noses.

However, there was only one man that captured and owned my tiny heart.

The trouble was, he was 110 years old and thirty years dead.

Harpo Adolph Arthur Marx will forever be my number one guy.

What makes a ten year-old fall in love with a person she's a.) never met b.) will never meet c.) never heard speak d.) knows is about 5'5", bald, and can't read or write?

What factors in one's life lead to a perverted obsession such as this?

There I would be, sitting two feet from the TV screen, watching a scratchy second-generation VHS copy of The Marx Brothers' "Cocoanuts" or "Animal Crackers" over and over. My eyes transfixed on the impish mute bopping from scene to scene. Something about his glint suggested that he would show me the secrets to the Universe, and I was willing to following him anywhere.

I wanted to know what he knew.

So I hunted down an old copy of Harpo's auto-biography, "Harpo Speaks". If you're not familiar with The Marx Brothers, Harpo and his four brothers (Chico, Groucho, Gummo, and Zeppo) grew up in a brownstone on the Upper East Side. This was no swanky pad though. This was Upper East Side 120 years ago, when Daniel Day-Lewis roamed the streets. The brothers lived with their beloved parents; the sweet, sensitive Jew, Samuel, and the boisterous, talented, Minnie, along with five other family members in a small, one bedroom house. The family could not afford the boys a formal education, so the brothers all dropped out at various points in elementary school and began working for bread (12 year-old Harpo was a piano player at a brothel). Though survival was a daily struggle, the household was vibrant with song and dance and it soon became apparent that the boys had talent. With the help of their mother and comedian uncle, the brothers took to the stage and soon became a popular vaudevillian team. So popular in fact, that they landed their first Broadway Show in 1924. Soon enough, Hollywood came a'callin' and the boys were one of the first to join the "talking picture" movement. The brothers earned acclaim with such greats as "Animal Crackers", "Duck Soup", and "A Night at the Opera". With thirteen films under their belt, the brothers secured their place in American film and are still hailed as one of the greatest comedic teams of all time.

But what makes Arthur Marx so freakin' special, you ask?

Arthur married the love of his life, and stayed married to her until his death, which occuried on their wedding anniversary.

Arthur adopted four children, "one to wave goodbye to him in every window".

Arthur took in every stray animal he ever came across.

Arthur, though he could not read or write, became a respected harpist, even though he taught himself to play backwards.

Arthur became a Russian spy for the U.S. Government.

Arthur was a member of the Algonquin Table because he "listened".

Arthur set out to make people feel good, and that is what he did.

As described by his brother, Gummo: "Harpo played the right instrument. He was an angel. There was nobody like him, there never will be anybody like him. He was just simply wonderful. He never had a bad word for anybody... not like me. I at least occasionally say something. But Harpo... they don’t make that kind anymore."

And what about stage Harpo?

Harpo only wanted to be loved. Sure he would poison or bop over the head the lady he desired, but there was still such innocence to it. An innocence that we rarely see anymore.

A moment caught from time-to-time with puppies or children.

Below is one of my favorite scenes from Duck Soup-

Below is a video on how you can help prevent the tearing down of the Marx Brothers' home on East 93rd-

Coachella 2010

So Coachella starts today.

Five years ago I vowed that I would never step foot in Indio, CA ever again.

In 2005, I bought tickets so my gentlemen friend and I could attend together. I really wanted to see Wolf Parade and he really really liked Eagles of Death Metal (how 2005 of us). I spent somewhere around $400 for the weekend tickets and he conveniently told me that he did not want to go, and oh, hey, I don't really wanna see you anymore.

Stuck with these tickets, I was bound and determine to go and have a good time. I was going to show him! How could he, someone who looked like a serial killer in his Nebraska driver's license photo, dump me?!

The only person who would buy my ticket was my 36 year-old roommate who the week prior tried to kiss me while I was plucking my eyebrows in the bathroom and he was drunk off of champagne.

So we went... and I was angry and resentful the entire time.

36 year-old roommate got so stoned that I had to carry his flat ass around the 100 degree desert. By the end of the first day, I was so blindingly upset at EVERYTHING IN THE UNIVERSE, I couldn't even focus on the Depeche Mode concert, a band that I really liked (to this day, the only thing I remember is looking at my feet and thinking that that old dude (David Gahan) looked pretty good in a leather vest and nothing else).

Before the rush of cars left, I threw my roommate in the car and headed back to Los Angeles. As he mumbled something about circle-jerking with a bunch of male friends when he was 12 years-old, I tried everything to not veer my car off the road.

Ever since that day, I had no interest in going to Coachella....until now.

What a great line-up this year and I'm stuck in Austin typing this post.

Here are a couple of my favorite bands playing this year.

"Rise" by Public Image Limited (John Lyndon from the Sex Pistols. Probably know this song from the Rules of Attraction soundtrack)

"Take it In" by Hot Chip (Great band, and fucking awesome new single. Makes me want to start break dancing during a police raid in Baltimore)

"Home" by Edward Sharpe and The Magnetic Zeros (Another amazing band from California. Saw these guys last year and they were phenom. This song reminds me of what love should feel like.)

"I Want to Take You Higher" by Sly & The Family Stone (Probably one of my favorite bands ever. Sly has a

horrible track record of actually showing up (sober) to concerts,

so I'm excited to see if he does.)

"Black and Blue" by Miike Snow (Norwegian band

that I'm ashamed to admit that I like)

"Golden Cage" by The Whitest Boy Alive (Is comprised of Erlend Oye, who you maybe know from

Kings of Convenience. His smooth voice reminds me of

my latest love, Arthur Russell)

How to Dress Like Your Hipster Idols

When I was a little girl, if I liked something a lot, I typically tried to emulate it.

Take for instance the time I burned a cork and drew giant Jewish eyebrows on myself to transform into Rod Serling. Or the other time I burned a cork and drew giant Jewish eyebrows on myself to look like Groucho Marx. Or the time I burned a cork and drew giant Greek/Italian/Arab eyebrows on myself to look like Frank Zappa.

Hm.

Looking back at that paragraph just explained a lot.

I truly believe that certain movies and characters have defined who I am today. Annie Hall told me it was ok to dress like a boy. Pee-Wee showed me the advantages of bow-ties. George McFly and Egon Spengler proved that nerdy could be sexy. Andie Walsh explained to me that buying second-hand can look classy. Sloane Peterson told me that fringe jackets and shorts kind of go together?

If you're anything like me, then you like to honor your hipster "young, creative urbanite" Gods. Below are some of my favorite hipster "young, creative urbanite" movies and their stylish lead characters.

1.) Annie Hall- The ultimate fashion icon. Diane Keaton made dressing like a boy sexy. What really makes her so attractive though? The comfort and confidence she has in her own skin...and that is not for sale.

For Annie Hall, buy a men's dress shirt at any thrift store (there is never a shortage of them). The slacks and vest will be a little more tricky. I don't recommend buying men's pants or vest. It will be too big. As you can see from the picture above, her pants/vest still fit her body appropriately. If you like knowing that small, bleeding hands made your clothing, then try the Top Notched Vest at Forever 21. For the hat, check out American Apparel's Floppy Hat (but don't buy the one at the South Congress store, it's MINE!) As for Alvy Singer's outfit, all you need is a whole lotta noodginess.

2.) Heathers- Nothing says classy like croquet and bulimia, right Heather? Finding shoulder-padded jackets should not be hard. People are more than happy to get rid of their horrible fashion decisions from 20 years ago. And for whatever reason skorts are back in style, so sadly, you shouldn't have any trouble finding some of those. Or try the Reformed Kelly Skort at Urban Outfitters. For fun opaque pantyhose, check out American Apparel's crazy-ass line. Make sure to accessorize with broaches, hair clips, cracked finger nail polish, cigarettes, and a gun.

3.) The Big Lebowski- I don't actually recommend that you dress like The Dude. Chances are no one will get your cheeky reference and assume that you are homeless or have unbelievably bad fashion sense. There is nothing appealing about The Dude's outfit of dirty shirts, pajama pants, and frumpy sweaters. He reminds me of my old, old landlord who used to only wear pajama bottoms that comfortably and articulately let his sagging ball sack swing.

4.) The Royal Tenenbaums- Again, chances are, if you dress like Margot or Richie Tenenbaum, people will think you are homeless, but at least you'll feel superior to them. For Margot, check out Craigslist for cheap fur coats and the American Apparel collared Leisure Dress. Make sure to throw on some heavy eyeliner and a frown, and the misunderstood tennis prodigies will come running! For Richie, grab your grandfather's suit from the closet and pick up some terry cloth headbands and wrist bands from American Apparel.

5.) Less Than Zero- Every morning I wake up and wish I look like Blair. It's true. However, my boobs can't fill a fitted tuxedo jacket if they tried! Less Than Zero optimizes 80's L.A., and boy, was that a fun time! The key to looking Bret Easton Ellis-like is wearing Ralph Lauren circa 1985, Oliver People's during the day, Wayfarer's at night, and tiny ring of blood around your nostril. Throw in a little hedonistic behavior and utter indifference to everything around you, and you're all set.

"Are you happy, Blair? You don't look happy."

"But do I look good?"

6.) Harold and Maude- The greatest love story ever told. It's not what you wear, but the glow of smitten that you give. Dress-wise, Harold and Maude look like they both collectively held up a Salvation Army. Actually, that is what the sequel was going to be if Maude didn't go and off herself (did I just spoil that for you?) The key to your outfit is not only the heavy jacket, but the scarf and 1971 haircuts. Make Bud Cort proud!

7.) Breathless- I'm going to share something with you right now that I don't want you to judge me for, ok? Ok? PROMISE? I've never gotten through The Big Lebowski and I was bored to shit during Breathless. There. I said.

However, I know that all you hip kids looooove both of these movies. The key to Breathless is looking all 60's-like. The Mia Farrow pixie cut and the anorexic body. That's all really. Oh!...and make sure to do slight cat like eyes with liquid eyeliner and maybe some pastel lipstick.

Freelance Blogging and You

Sometimes I love blogging.

Sometimes I want to push blogging out of a moving car.

Anyway I look at it, blogging has become a big part of my life (i.e. my butt is getting bigger).

Through Hipstercrite, I've received some wonderful paid blogging opportunities. Some of them are permanent, some of them are not.

I'm always on the look out for more writing opportunities and if they pay, all the better.

Below are some freelance blogging websites that I've come across in my year of blogging. Most of them you've probably heard of, but maybe haven't tried. Here are my experiences:

Seed- Seed is a new freelance blogging/photography network created by AOL. I became acquainted with Seed through assignments I took on for Spinner during SXSW. I was really impressed with the quality of assignments, pay, and quick turn around of payment that Seed offers. They have writing assignments for AOL subsidiaries Stylist, Parentdish, ShelterPop, and other blogs such as PopEater, WalletPop, Gadling, and the list goes on. If I recall correctly, to join is as simple as just signing up! My only complaint with Seed is that it doesn't have a constant flow of new assignments coming in.

Demand Studios- Much like Seed, Demand Studios is another freelance blogging network. I signed up and was accepted recently, however, I have not been impressed with their writing options. Demand Studios does not offer as interesting writing opportunities as Seed does. In fact, almost all of their assignments are for Ehow and are pretty difficult/boring. It doesn't hurt to sign up, but don't expect a lot from Demand. Hopefully down the road they'll have more exciting opportunities.

Examiner- Examiner is a community-written news source for major cities. I signed up to be a contributor last night and am waiting to see if I get approved. I have an acquaintance who writes for Examiner and she stated that she's earned $300 in about three months of writing for them (how many articles, I'm not sure). Examiner also paid her to cover SXSW 2010. It appears that Examiner also gives you the freedom to write what you want about your hometown. This looks like a great option for aspiring bloggers.
*Update- Just got an email saying I was accepted.

Ehow- I have only written a few Ehows, mostly http://www.problogger.netabout living in Los Angeles and How to Be Chuck Bass (you know you love it). My 4 articles have received about 9,000 views over the course of a year and I've earned a whopping $14.05! Ehow is definitely not a place to supplement income, but I guess if you're able to churn out several articles a week that peak readers' interest, then you might have a little extra pocket money each month. However, I've found difficulties in receiving my payment and have yet to hear back from the Ehow Help Center.

Problogger- Problogger is a great resource for any blogger. Here they offer blogging tips on how to become a better blogger, drive traffic to your site, and make money blogging. Problogger has a job forum section where big-name, reputable companies post blogging job opportunities. Some of them are full-time jobs, some are pay-per-post. They have about one or two new job postings a day. It's always worth checking out!

Do you write for any of these websites? Do you write for any that I haven't covered?

We'd love to hear from you!

Discovering Your Sexuality Through Hairy Gay Men

Remember that age when you started discovering your sexuality?

That awkward, dreadful time when you didn't understand why your male friends suddnely felt the urge to show you their penises while you were trying to reenact "X-files" episodes in the basement of your house, or why you got that funny feeling when you climbed the rope in gym?

When classmates started throwing around the words "pink", "taco", "tossing" and "salad" and you still thought they were talking about food, and your class president got detention for receiving something called a "blow job" on the 8th grade school trip to D.C.?

Then there you were. Clueless and wearing a sports bra. Fantisizing over a picture of a shirtless Elton John from 1972 hanging above your bed.

I wish I could say it was 1972 when I would gawk at this picture. That would make a little more sense.

I guess?

However, it was 1997. While all my friends carried pictures of Leonardo DiCaprio and Gavin Rossdale in their text books, I licked my lips over a twenty-five year old image of pudgy, gay piano-player.

We all know what Elton John looks like, but I'm going to paint you a portrait anyways. Here was a picture of quite possibly one of the most flamboyantly gay performers in history of the world with a pasty, doughy body covered in what looks like bear fur, standing in his shoe closet, wearing glittery high waisted pants with suspenders and no shirt. He had a shit-eating grinning on his face as he showed off his favorite pair of bejeweled platform shoes.

I was transfixed. At thirteen years old, I thought this was what a real heterosexual man was like.

I have mostly likely sealed my fate by marrying a closeted homosexual who enjoys collecting shoes and Bedazzling his clothing.

Anyways, I just tried Googling "shirtless Elton John" and "Elton John with no shirt", but I'm guessing that's not a popular search item. In fact, the only images that come up are pictures of people one should normally lust after like, Hugh Jackman and Zac Efron.

...Gosh, I really wish I had that picture right now...

Baby Hipsters

Hey Everyone!

I decided that the internet needs another hipster photo blog and have created "Baby Hipsters".

Babies are hipsters too and their voices need to be heard!

I would love for you all to participate, but I definitely don't need feedback. I already know that this is a stupid, half-ass idea and I don't need you reminding me of that.

Wait, I do need feedback, but just nothing mean, ok? My delicate ego can't handle it.

If you'd like to submit a hipstery-looking photo of yourself as a toddler or of your own kid, please email me at hipsterbabies@gmail.com

Please join in!

Here is a taste of what the website will look like:

Lou thought that going to the Kenny Loggins show would be "ironic", but ultimately left the concert feeling sad and confused.

Sandra was torn on whether a $60 Jean-Paul Gautier dress in Spanish Mustard from Target was actually a good investment.

Telling her friends and family that it was a "social experiment", Tami quit her job as an editorial assistant and tried forging a new movement of "young, creative, urbanite hookers" in hopes of landing a book deal.

Tom was still steaming over his father's suggestion to move home after pointing out that his attempt at paying off his debt by sending cookies to the creditors was not working.

Jesse figured that going into the Scientology Center near campus and taking a stress test would make for excellent fodder for her blog the next day. Little did she expect they would haunt her dreams.

Barely able to stand up on his own, Danny finally admitted to friends in a drunken haze that he drinks wine coolers and thinks Fleetwood Mac is the greatest band that's ever lived.

(Photo graciously lent from We Choose Joy shop on Etsy)

Lauren decided at an early age that if she could not be with Christian Bale that she would be the embodiment of Christian Bale a la "Newsies" and that life will probably turn out ok.

Johnny had never heard of the fashion rule, "Horizontal stripes are fattening", why would he? However, after seeing photos of himself from this day on Facebook, he promptly asked his friend to detag him.

(Picture from Erin at Blogging is for Dorks! Thanks Erin! Your baby is a cutie! Look for more cute photos at her website.)

Jocelyn was so disgusted with MGMT's exhausted viral campaign for "Congratulations", that she vowed to trash talk the album whether she actually listened to it or not.

Fashion- Necklaces for the "Young, Creative Urbanite"

The word "hipster" dead?

Nah. Never!

Here are some of my favorite Etsy hipster finds this week.
It's all about necklaces.

Can I ride your pennyfarth? $28

Cover of the next Bret Easton Ellis novel $110

Mr. Hatstache wants to be close to you $13.99

Taken and gilded from the tiniest deer in the world $29

God's (or whomever's) greatest gift- the saltine cracker $18

Gun $140

Stabby LeBear $10

What all animals really want to do to Poodles $10

Mr. Octopus, The Song-and-Dance Man! $21.99

For those who can't tie $15

Dirty Diana $16.75

Jazz hands! $16.75

When routine bites hard $152