| The Bookshelf! |
[Feb. 7th, 2009|09:30 pm] |
Like You'd Understand Anyway by Jim Shepard. His earlier short story collection, Love and Hydrogen is one of my favs. I saw him read at a bar a few years ago and was hooked.
Fodor's Croatia and Slovenia. In preparation for a trip I'm taking there in April.
Imagined London by Anna Quindlen. An great concept executed in a rather dull way. Quindlen writes a series of essays about "literary" vs. real London.
How to Love Like a Hot Chick by Jodi Lipper and Cerina Vincent. Two Los Angeles PR girls got bored and decided to write a book that sounds more or less like He's Not That Into You. The writing is cute but the advice is standard.
Twilight by Stephenie Meyer. "[She] really can't write worth a damn." – Stephen King.
Isadora Duncan by Sabrina Jones. Duncan's life in graphic novel form. Haven't delved into this much, but I'm sufficiently intrigued.
The World's Coolest Hotel Rooms by somebody or other. Self-explanitory design porn.
Italian Villas and Their Gardens by Edith Wharton. AMAZING facsimile edition that includes Maxfield Parish's illustrations of each villa. Unbearably awesome.
Wreaths and Bouquets by Paula Pryke. Lovely/modern flower arrangements that I will never, ever attempt.
Making Faces and Face Forward by Kevyn Aucoin. Stole these off the giveaway table at work. Fun to look at on Sunday mornings when you're hung over. I still love that one photo of Tori Amos done up as... somebody.
Victorian Style in San Francisco. Allegedly the book that coined the term "painted ladies." I don't think I would buy property anywhere but New England or California.
Style File by Ike Ude. Crazy style/fashion book. Not reflective of real life in any way. |
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| Whatever it is that I'm saying. |
[Jan. 3rd, 2009|06:54 pm] |
| [ | Current Mood |
| |  sick | ] |
I've been really sick. I think I'm still really sick?
My tonsils are the size of golf balls and my lymph nodes are sticking out everywhere and all I want to do is sleep. And sleep. And sleep.
And yes I owe you a phone call! And you. And you. And you.
But I'm busy taking care of me right now. Sorry.
I went to Barnes & Noble this morning, which was illogically exhausting, and all those tables at the front suddenly struck me as so manipulative and gross. Like, what some marketing guy thinks I'll want to read. What some marketing guy thinks will make me feel ***Intelligent***. What some marketing guy thinks I want to be holding on the subway to market my Personal Brand.
I wish people would deal with the fact that they're essentially ordinary.
The tables at the front of Barnes & Noble are rebellion against the fact that all of us are just ordinary. And why rebel against that? How futile.
So, I'm sick. That's one thing. I was sick right through Christmas. Right through the New Year. Sick before. Sick after.
The other odd thing that's happened is that I don't feel like taking photos anymore. I think I took so many in Europe that I'm photo-ed out.
The other thing is that I want to paint my room in the colors of this village I visited in the south of France called Gordes. Cream and blue. Actually, this is it:
It's going to be kind of girly. But whatevs.
I'm wearing knee socks right now and they're making me unbearably happy.
Also, I don't know what happened, but I hate yoga all of a sudden. Like, I hate it. Hate hate. Like maybe I hate the co-opting of a sacred ancient practice by like, fitness-crazed white people. (Yes.) And maybe I hate it because I did it a few weeks ago while I was really hung over and every inversion made me want to die. (Yes.) And maybe I hate it because I hate the instructors who single you out and correct you while simultaneously telling you that there's no "right" and "wrong" way to do yoga. (Yes.) And I hate that it's practiced by a lot of stupid people. (Yes.)
Actually, I hate acting for mostly all these same reasons.
I mean, really I just hate bullshit. And yoga and acting are duel havens of some pretty extreme-style bullshit.
Don't tell my roommates? They're both yoga instructors? And they always try to get me to go like I'm this unhealthy person who radiates urban toxicity and grossness when in reality I just like to read and be left alone?
Other things of note.
I went to Saturday Night Live a few weeks ago.
I saw Debra Messing on the street.
I got a pair of Tom's shoes for Christmas.
And I daydreamed all morning about going back to Aix-en-Provence, which was my favorite city in France. City of fountains. The sound of water was everywhere.
Happy 2009. |
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| Me. (Me.) I never care to chase. |
[Dec. 14th, 2008|11:02 am] |
Once upon a time in a bar on the Lower East Side, a boy used the best pickup line maybe ever. And it was:
So are you two like, Scott Leonard fangirls? |
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| Don't Use Drugs! |
[Aug. 21st, 2008|02:33 pm] |
Does anyone have that picture of Taylor in the pink blazer with his arm around the blond girl?
You know the one. |
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| To My Pals in the Twin Cities |
[Aug. 18th, 2008|09:40 am] |
Of which there are several of you now.
Do you read this?
Rake Mag
I've just scratched the surface, but it seems like a great read. It makes me want to come visit you. |
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| Laura ain't perfect like you, anyway. |
[Aug. 12th, 2008|01:33 am] |
In Target. In Brooklyn. There are couples perusing sandwich presses. Under the glare-y fluorescents surrounded by Branded Everything in the middle of the city on a sweltering day. And I feel my stomach muscles pull in, watching their faces, while H______ waits for a guy to bring her a toaster oven with a black front instead of a toaster oven with a silver front from the stock room. And I think.
Just buy the baby carriage now, why don't you.
To go with your juice maker, George Foreman, popcorn popper, ice lolly freezer, cappuccino-squirting chrome-plated range top. Go forth and multiply. And consume.
And it's not that. It's not that. It's not. Because I am not afraid of stability or commitment or babies, even though I can see already how all of the above will bend my life out of shape, will loosen my teeth, empty my wallet, make the line between my eyes even tighter. I can see who that woman is. But the idea of doing it for the sake of doing it. Doing it because that's what people do. Doing it as some dull, poorly-dressed antidote to loneliness — loneliness is a better muse, better company, better for honing the edges — is death.
Toss me off the Brooklyn bridge right now, head first, weights on my ankles.
Not because everyone does it for the wrong reasons. But because a lot of people do. And becoming one person in a lot of people is the easiest thing on earth. It is the option that's always there. Waiting.
A prayer said, give me shelter in the rush of this city, protect me from its endless onslaught, but mostly, more than anything, protect me from myself. |
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| Edit |
[Aug. 9th, 2008|09:30 am] |
I wonder sometimes if I broadcast too much, if I say too many things about my life. If I have made myself so vulnerable, a raw nerve.
And I hate that feeling. But I also hate living an invisible life. I hate having no story to tell. Because if there's no story, what else is there? |
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| Mmmbop. |
[Aug. 6th, 2008|11:22 pm] |
Post your favorite Hanson picture.
Goodnight. |
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| The Cleanout |
[Aug. 5th, 2008|07:03 pm] |
I just pulled out of my wallet.
£17.28
€6.11
$2.63
and .5 in Hungarian filler. |
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| How I Started 8 Different Pieces of Writing in a Notebook I Just Found |
[Aug. 5th, 2008|11:24 am] |
My name is Laura.
Mr. Rogers Neighborhood with little tiny plastic houses that I thought were real — an actual arial view.
There are houses in a row and a magnolia tree in each yard that I would take pictures of in spring.
A pair of shoes is green like grass.
So warm outside!
In the restaurant he sat talking about the weather or something that had happened earlier in the day and the sun streamed through the windows, unchecked, as though there was an endless supply of it.
He stapled and glued and put things end to end and lined up the edges.
My prom smelled like a funeral, gardenias everywhere. |
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| So Take Me Home Because I Don't Remember |
[Jul. 24th, 2008|08:41 pm] |
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The A train, English, bodega grilled cheese, pad thai, high heels, cheeseburgers, cupcakes, Tartine, Focaccia, Malatesta, the bridge, Century 21, the Met for 5 cents, cucumber sake martinis, the Hudson, Housing Works, book group, Shake Shack, celebrity sightings, OHNY, Central Park, 'Ino, Cafe Henri, workshop, monologues, Media Bistro, the bookstores in the West Village, the cheese plate at Perbacco, Podunk, Alice's, shrimp wonton soup at Great NY Noodle Town, splurges, Gawker as reality happening outside your window and not just a thing you read, skyscrapers, the fire escape, Brooklyn even though it's painful, free booze, bagels and lox, parades, Daily News headlines, TKTS, readings, workshops, catcalls, the Farmer's Market, Joyce Leslie, being a regular, cold pitching, temping, Chinatown grocery shopping, the clearance rack, Brooklyn Lager, local politics, The Fung Wah, night-and-weekend minutes, 917, the ferry when you're bored or broke, Hudson River Park, green-with-envy glances into windows on the UES, cheap t-shirts, National Wholesale Liquidators, baseball, taking cabs under the tunnels in the park, $5 umbrellas, Mexican food, Sea, bartenders who can make anything, cheese fries at 3 am, dumplings, warm summer rain, all the things you have not yet discovered, happy hour, the bathrooms at Vynl, Grand Central, burlesque, The Center for Book Arts, the Flatiron, fourth floor walkups, Craigslist, therapy, yoga, Restaurant Week even when you don't go, Fringe, the Tony Awards, Brooke's apartment, waking up to the sound of pigeons, the walk of shame, people watching, lunch with just one friend, movies at the Paris, Bergdorf just to look and get ideas, the swarm, waiting in line, book reviews, B&N, Shakespeare in the Park Starring Someone Famous, being the news, cheap manicures, The Strand, Trader Joe's at 9 pm on a Tuesday, The Living Room, Joe's Pub, dive bars, being too cool for school, the beautiful people, lemon icing, and all of this was back when I was a good girl when I was afraid for what I would become if I took risks before I had the entire world in front of me and not just a single portion of it an idea of what I should have been when I was trying to fit into a shoe. Now it's all mine. Or it all can be. Watch. |
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| I May Post This or Some Version of This on BAB |
[Jun. 1st, 2008|10:33 am] |
It's funny to me sometimes that I spent so many of my youthful hours trying to be the Voice of Reason in the Hanson fan community.
It's funny just to say that out loud, isn't it? I know!
But as I've gotten older, and watched other bands and their fans, I've realized that I was more or less trying to be the sanest person in the asylum. And you can be sane. You can take your meds every day and dress pretty cool and maybe even hold a part time job.
But you're still in the asylum. And nobody's letting you out any time soon.
Ever since rumors emerged that Steve Tyler checked himself into rehab after a decade or two of very high-profile sobriety, I've had one eye on Aeroforce One, Aerosmith's official message board. You want to talk about asylums? What goes on there makes the RP Lounge seem like a playdate in comparison. Right now there's a thread, 98 pages long at last glance, speculating about the actual and alleged nature of Steve's rehab stint. And nobody's locking it. Or deleting it. Or trying to make it go away. So it's just raging. And raging. And raging.
Is he lying? Is PR lying? Is it painkillers? Coke? Junk? Anorexia? Is it his girlfriend? Is she in with him? Has Joe relapsed too? And everyone noticed something was off when they appeared at the Hard Rock in December...
It's fan bullshit at its absolute zenith. I could write a thesis on just that one thread, and would have if Whitney hadn't already done it. And I love, too, that the band is being completely hands off about it. They're letting the conversation happen. If only Hanson had that much confidence. There might be some more people in their asylum if they did. |
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| For Slammin Sue |
[May. 27th, 2008|11:48 pm] |
Who wanted to know what I was reading in Europe:
Paris
Eat, Pray, Love
Wuthering Heights
Italy
Invisible Cities
The Book of Exodus
Ireland
The Pearl
A Wizard of Earthsea
South of France, Italy Again, Greece
A short story collection by Toni Cade Bambara
1,001 Nights
Some Greek myths
A collection of beloved/noteable American poems
And whatever I can pick up cheap and in English. Which is much harder than it sounds. And endless travel guides, including:
The Rough Guide to Greece
Rick Steves Rome
Rick Steves Paris
Rick Steves France
Let's Go Europe
Let's Go France
Let's Go Italy |
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| The Disease |
[May. 13th, 2008|08:44 am] |
There is a couple. A man and a woman. Speaking German. And the woman is young, sharp-featured, and the chemotherapy has taken everything. Her eyebrows. The color from her cheeks so she looks sallow and wan despite her smile. And they hold hands and chatter and kiss as they wait in the queue. And my friend says.
"I just read your mind."
"OK?"
"You just thought, 'He would have left me.'"
I say nothing, because. Because. |
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