Heads up, LA

Some rad pictures of Los Angeles. Rad partly because on analog everything that comes out nice feels twice as good. (Pardon the weird part in my bangs)


Taken with a Golden Half.


Mid-70s all week.

And no smog?...anything can happen.

Rehab. Re:up.

What a zonker of a month. TGINFA: Thank God It's Not February Anymore.

Travel. Lots of travel. It's become a sort of metaphor. "I been movin around a lot."

Between jetlag, gutrot and brainfreeze I'm sure I need a good month of rehabilitation. To wit, I'm going back on the Paleo Diet that ended a couple weeks ago. This time cutting down on me ole smokey treats and the mead and adding some productive R&R (as opposed to self-imposed exile). Wait patiently for heartache to grow up and leave the house.

Detox requires a certain environment and several rations. For example:

Canned wild salmon: $4 a can.
Omega-3 Supplements: $30
Other various mineral supps: $20
Organic and free-range/grassfed produce and meats: $50
2Lbs of coffee beans: $10
New coffeemaker (I now have three different coffee making systems sigh): $90
Mongolian expedition: $1500+
Spending money as defense mechanism: Priceless.

Imperfect as they are.

Some of us get dogs to cure our loneliness. Others get cats. Yet others find themselves boyfriends or girlfriends.

I found an imperfect little video camera.

Some of you have seen the nano films I've shot using this semi-precious gem, and if it meant anything to you, then I don't need to say much more about the product. I can't say enough about it, but even better than my words are the artifacts left by others.

Powershovel is exhibiting a mighty fine roster of Digital Harinezumi films created by artists, musicians, filmmakers and other ordinary geniuses.
March 19 6:30-8:30 at the New Museum.

Please come and keep us company.

The Architecture of Insults

Exhibit A:
Your Mother + Racism

Exhibit B:
You + Racism

Exhibit C:
Your Girlfriend + Racism

Exhibit D:
Your Mother + Sexual Promiscuity

Exhibit E:
Your Girlfriend + Sexual Promiscuity

Exhibit F:
You + Sexual Orientation

Exhibit G:
"Hipster"

Social Networking in a nutshell

Twitter: you you you you you you you you you you you you you you you
you you you you you you you you me you you you you you you you you

Facebook: me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me
me me me me me you me me me me me me me me me me me me me

Myspace: Myspace Myspace Myspace Myspace Myspace Myspace Myspace
Myspace Myspace Myspace Myspace Myspace Myspace Myspace Myspace

Friendster: social networking social networking social networking social networking
social networking social networking social networking social networking social networking

Tokyo

I like Tokyo just fine and each time I go there I like it more. Probably just because each time I go there I meet more people. The odds of my hitting an ace acquaintance get better each time. My biggest hangup is still the gender divide, but as an American visitor it's nothing I can't pretend gets isolated on this side of the Pacific.

Observation 1: Made by Alvin.

"Japan has mastered a brilliant system of mind-control." (inre: cultish purchasing habits, and business morale)

Observation 2: Made by my Korean Grandma.

"When the kimchi's good, everything is good." (after a sub par KBBQ experience saved by panchan)

Observation 3: Made by Julia (in reference to time zones and where we were currently)

"Right now is today's now."

Observation 4:

This is what karaoke should always look like. (ps: I have just realized I've been surrounded almost my whole life with handsome friends. I must have hated men in a previous existence.)

Karaoke in Tokyo from Ill Iterate on Vimeo.

Observation 5:

Tokyo is a city of solitude.

Tokyo from Ill Iterate on Vimeo.

All She had

Real receipt from corner deli. So profound.

PSA

Real quick:

Been seeing a lot of "kombucha" on the juice market lately. Let me just say that as a Japanist, sweet kombucha sounds about as appetizing as a Monster Iced Chicken Tea.

transitions

In stories, there are forgettable climaxes, and there are memorable non-climaxes. These latter are transitions you can pinpoint to an exact shift in eye contact or a pause in speech. Los Angeles seems to pronounce memorable moments especially well.

Episode 1:
Anne gets menudo at the local Mexican joint on the East Side. Waiting for her order to come out of the kitchen, she notices a lot of Mexican families. It's Sunday. I love the sound of this English. I can't place it, but Baby Boomer Latinos speaking English is soooo lovely. There's a gentlemanly timbre to even their small talk.

I hear it. A woman announces in spanish that my order's ready. She starts asking if I want tortillas with my order, still in Spanish because her head's buried in the plastic bag she's filling with my food.

She sees me. THAT precise moment of "oh, she's not Mexican" was followed with the LOL-equivalent of a facial expression -- she's thinking about how silly that was, but wearing the laughter in a smile on her face. And then THAT precise moment was in turn followed by an "oh right, Asians like tripe too" look.

Episode 2:
Anne plays chatroulette with a group of filmmakers in Los Feliz. We keep "next"ing bald dicks and racist pricks. The nicest people (read: the only ones who'd talk to us for any length of time) were Asian or Middle Eastern. As most of the group of filmmakers are white, I sense some awful race-accident about to happen. And then it does. We meet someone from Saudi Arabia and one of us unconsciously blurts out:

Al Qaeda!

Except...we're typing all our conversations with these newfound chatmates, and our "Al Qaeda!" typer can't seem to spell it right. So while the first iteration of the name was offensive, the next ten were farcical attempts to render it correct. Even I laughed at some of the spellings. The cringe-worthy moment lasted all of a split-second. As if a ball tossed in the air to remain static for just that apex. Laughter and illiteracy took over the rest.

Episode 3:
Anne has dinner with her family to celebrate sister's birthday. We talking about the one person who's not at our table: pater familias. Sister's husband who's recently returned from his own marital sabbatical having ultimately reconciled with what for a moment looked like an "irreconcilable difference" with my sister, tries to give an informed opinion about said father. Judges him for his neglect, commends him for his humility. Sister mentions dad was the first person to make well wishes for her birthday. She shows us his text message, time-stamped at 6 in the morning. There's an "awww" somewhere inside each of us but it won't come out.

My brother-in-law then says with childish envy, "great. I should have woken you up at 5:59am to beat him at wishing you happy birthday then."

My sister and I make nanosecond eye contact. That eye contact acknowledges the fact that her husband's statement was pregnant with irony. Then we looked away.

Last night I went to a corporate karaoke party for a hedge fund in lower Manhattan. I'd heard amazing things about this company, where my friend Daniel (who does hardware development for them) has been working since 2009 Q3 (hehehe). And from what I can tell, the diversity of their workplace spans all spectra, though the diversity was very compartmentalized. HR was composed mostly of women, lawyers all had boring haircuts, and the programmers. Well...

Programmers.

Put them together in a karaoke bar and what do you have? Beauty. Comedy. The meaning of nerd reaffirmed.

Episode 1: Programmer A (somewhat portly, nicely dressed, wire-frame glasses) sings "We Belong to the Night" by Pat Benetar. He finishes, returns to the table where all the programmers are sitting (including myself but only by proxy) and comments to Daniel:

"That song was 10% longer than it should have been."

Episode 2: Programmer B (striped wool sweater, grey kakhis and skater shoes...and still the nerdiest looking dude that night) argues that "Girls Just Wanna Have Fun" is a false dichotomy, as it implies that unlike girls, boys don't want to have fun, which is not true.

Episode 3: Programmer C (a middle-aged Frenchman who's reputed to be a mathematical genius), "researches" songs on his iPhone to determine what fits the Karaoke Matrix of Entertainment-vs.-Talent best and decides on "Mamma Mia."
He sings the entire song slouched, with one hand stuffed deep in his pocket.

Episode 4: Programmer A has invited a woman he's just met, to the karaoke party. Before she arrived he recited to those around him, the re-appropriation of Gloria Gaynor's "I Will Survive" he used to entice her. His version describes the act of singing in public instead of being dumped. All the programmers approve.

The woman never showed up.

Episode 5: Lawyerly looking dude (tall, big, clean haircut, light pink dress shirt, black pants and sports jacket) goes on stage, starts singing...

I Swear

I swear to you he actually sang this song unironically. How do I know he took it seriously? Because a programmer in the audience jokingly crooned along in a falsetto and the lawyerly type said into the mic:

Alright, seriously. Stop that.

Same lawyer sang Michael Bublé later, which set off all the ladies in HR. ("Hello LAdiiiiiies")

Frankly, I'm all about the nerds. I'm in love with each and every one of you. Don't ever let someone shush you from mocking their rendition of All-4-One.

Just plain silly

I looked up alternate definitions of the word "tempt" (in Japanese) today.
This is double the fun for anyone who can read Japanese, but worth it for the English alone. I'll let you figure out what it says in Japanese.

(screen shot of dictionary entry)

Apologies

I apologize to those on my Facebook network that were subject to the chlamydia of some hacker fark. Don't worry. I will find him. And I will go number two into his scrota so I can say he has sh+t for brains.

I'm posting this on my blog because I have a feeling only five of you were really worried about said Chlamydia, while the other 200 people who got spam-ed had already been through this with other people. And I have a feeling you five FB-STD virgins are the same five people who regularly read this blog, since this blog doesn't "get around."

So now, a note about Facebook.

Preamble: I'd been wanting desperately to deactivate my account for a while now, despite, or because of the fact that it would suck up so much of my time (especially late at night when I'm most susceptible to crappy entertainment and self-important postings). Getting hacked was a great lynchpin. Now that I'm off it, I can rant about my FB network's poor etiquette.

Pictures.
What's the funniest thing you've ever seen? I'll give you a minute to think about this.
Now, who do you hate more than anyone else?
Unless the answer to question 2 is the subject of question 1, you should never post embarrassing pictures. Because otherwise you become my answer to question 2, and the answer to question 1 becomes:
I posted pictures of Question 2 acting like a slut at Halloween on Facebook and then she lost her job, and now she's a clown in Atlantic City. A really friggin' hilarious clown.

Networking.
You seriously can't email me? Nothing is more annoying than writing into a slow-ass ghetto message template when I got five perfectly sophisticated email accounts from which I can write and share more freely. Unless the message directly pertains to the Facebook world, you should use one of the fifty other federally approved tools of communication. A message from "Facebook User John Doe" is a message from someone who depends on Facebook's curation for credibility, and that, my friends, is like adopting a hooker so you can "safely" be a pervert.

Games.
Why the hell would I ever play Farm Town or Mafia? Ping me when they make Paid Work.

Fu(rni)ture

I do not want furniture anymore.
And when I say "no furniture," I don't mean I'll live with a janky futon. Don't get me wrong, futon-lovers. I like the idea of it bunching up and memorizing the contour of my dreadlocks and clay-beaded hemp ankle-bracelet. It would match the milk crates I use as chairs and the Greatful Dead stubs that prop up my soul.

No, this isn't faux-hippie or anti-consumerist Anne talking, nor is it my asceticism. I'm simply unable to find The Perfect Furniture For Me. And this is why:

I like IKEA as much as the next guy whose Billy bookcase screams "I'm not in the mood!" whenever I touch it. IKEA is affordable and convenient. Clean lines, fun to assemble (yes, I said "fun") and frankly, where I am financially.

However, at this juncture I can sort of entertain the idea of something a little more special. And yet if I talk to a real furniture dealer they'll always correct my pronunciation of Eames (it rhymes with "douchebag"), and though technically I could splurge some (a friend made a great point that I could think of this investment as what I'd spend on a car if I lived in LA), something dies inside me every time I look at the price tags. Then I go back to Billy but he still won't let me touch him.

What's a girl to do?

I have a feeling asylums are padded with the detritus of furniture.

Payday

I like to ask people what they'd do with a million dollars. Everyone thinks they have an idea of what a million dollars would look like in their lives but they frequently undergauge. They'd pay off cars, houses, loans. But unless you already make millions, that won't even cost you half of the lottery you just won. After the dissolution they might want to start a business, take out someone (in both senses), or maybe just have Demi Moore swim in benjamins and make Woody Harrelson watch with a half-boner. So you're blowing 500k on Lame.

So what would you do with five thousand dollars? It's not really enough to do the big things. But maybe it would take care of your debts. Maybe it's your boyfriend's bail. One really lame purse. In other words, if you had to spend money frivolously and a million dollars just doesn't feel ethically frivolous, how about a fraction?

USD5k.

Los Angeles

LA was originally my forgettable hometown.
Later, it was the node from which sprouted the suburb I grew up in.
It became my enemy when I went north for school, and my call of port when I lived abroad.

Now it's Los Angeles and I love it.

Go watch "Los Angeles Plays Itself."

Mr. Mom

What's AMC's agenda this week, showing "Three Men and a Baby" and "Mr. Mom"? Whatever it is, God bless ye, AMC. I've come to the realization that Mr. Mom is The Greatest Film on Earth. Not "The Seven Samurai," not "Aliens," not "The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari."
Not anything by Fellini, Tarkovsky, Ang or Spike Lee.
Screw the Nouvelle Vague.
Lars Von Trier can cut his own nub with rusty scissors.

Mr. Mom is the best film ever. It deserves a place in a permanent archive and Beetleman Michael Keaton's batjuice deserves an Oscar. I'm willing to go up against A.O. Scott on this.
(Placing nozzle of a .38 against Scott's temple) "Shhhh, A.O. Just repeat after me: Mr. Mom. Perfect film. Fin."

I mean, whatever happened to the accidental Mom-Dad/Man-Woman social comedy genre? Three Men and a Baby, Raising Arizona, Baby Boom, Mr. Mom, all came out in the 1980s. What have we had since? Dan in Real Life? Give me a break.

I know it's four months early but here's to dads. Go rent Mr. Mom and rub one out to Michael Keaton's eyebrows.

Paleo dicks

I recently started the Primal Challenge. Many of you already know what it is. (It's just a six week attempt to stick to The Paleo Diet, which was covered in a NYT article this week.) I want to point out that I'm doing it in solidarity with the Crossfit gym I've been a part of since last summer, and it's more for the "challenge" aspect than the "primal." Doesn't change the fact that I'm a poser, but hey, I got my chin held high. (It's propped up by blocks of beef jerky and fish oil supplements...)

So far, no cravings for the things I cannot eat: rice, beans, grains, legumes, processed sugars and processed fats. I mean, really not that bad in terms of psychological food needs.

However.

I have had debilitating headaches since Tuesday evening. Headaches so awful I dry heaved all morning today because my head wouldn't stop spinning. I'm told this is specifically a condition of sudden grain-cessation. They tell me it will end soon. But My God.
What. The. Hell. Am. I. Doing??

Headaches are strange. They never make me angry, just sad or maniacally humored. Strangely, being on the verge of tears seems to alleviate the pain. Tears of pain or laughter. Fortunately it's been easy to get to this state this week.

With grenades ricocheting off each other in my head, my sense of humor seems to have taken to new testosterones.

Case 1:
I'm going to buy a dildo and tap people on the shoulder farther from me, so that when they turn they'll see a dildo and not me.

Case 2:
Fucking up cornflakes. I said to my crossfit Primal Challenge mentor, "I've never been a breakfast person." She said, "fuck breakfast." That led me to the vision of me taking cornflakes around to a back alley and fucking it up to within an inch of its life. This is an endless source of laughter for me.

Case 3:
Any instance of exclamation points. They all look like abstract boners.

Case 4:
Idea for a movie: Illicit romance of shopping mall Santas who aren't out. Title: Santa Closet.


NYT Paleo piece.

Postcards From the Edge Benefit Show

Postcards From the Edge is to VisualAIDS what the Post-It Show is to Giant Robot. (Of course, if you're not fully immersed in both GR and VA, that analogy won't make any sense to you...)

OK let's try this>>

There are entire days I wish everyone could use the FUBU (LL Cool J's "For Us By Us" brand) moniker without having to wear jersey tracksuits that make you look like a creamsicle cross-dressing as a Disney rapper.

Populist Art Culture has never been more important than it is today in an income-starved USA with almost no more compulsory arts education. Populist art does not deign to or disdain from class or quality, but avails itself to only three basic facts: (a) whether they know it or not, everybody can create artwork, because (b) whether they know it or not, everybody loves artwork, but (c) not everyone can afford it.

Everyone can afford a postcard or post-it. That's what makes shows like this so rad.

VisualAIDS' annual benefit show is also unique in that all proceeds go to supporting artists living with HIV or AIDS, and also to AIDS research.

I went to the preview show last night. Gotta say, it was the first time I went to a Meatpacking District gallery show and stayed for the whole two hours of the reception (and those in NYC know how near impossible that is short of the artwork being your own craptastic bullshit).

There is a lot of awesome affordable artwork in there, folks. Including GR's own pretender to the Throne of Illustration, Adrian Tomine.

POSTCARDS FROM THE EDGE
And if you won't take my word for it, take VANITY FAIR's.

Cuz postcards are the isht. Am I right, or am I right? I'm looking at you, Ryan "EA-Z Boy" Sands. [And I swear to you sooner than later I will deliver something.]

In sum: if you are in the New York area, I highly recommend you go to the show. Last bid: It's an unapologetically gay cause, so if you love cock or have the sense of humor of a nine year old it might be worth it for nothing more than the many interpretations of erectus phalli.

New meaning to "frigid"

I dreamt last night I had drinks at a bar on a cruise-liner with an old flame, who said, "watching the woman's mind become one with her body is such a turn on." I then made several failed attempts to light a cigarette. When I looked up it was snowing against the dark ocean sky and I thought of Tromso. Later, in a hotel room in Los Angeles, I was writing a letter to said flame, with just one word on a post-it affixed to the hotel letterhead: gâter. I changed my mind and wrote another word: gâcher.

When I woke up I thought of how difficult it would be to go back to Tromso (answer: not difficult at all), but then dreaded simply the idea of being in an airport again, not to mention a U.S. airport...right now.

Minutes ago I received an email from Arild in Oslo, asking how the end of my sejour in Tromso was. He reminded me what it really meant to be cold. Below, said explication. Now, I really want to go back.

Norwegian weather - temperatures:

+15°C / 59°F
This is as warm as it gets in Norway, so we'll start here. People in Spain wear winter-coats and gloves. The Norwegians are out in the sun, getting a tan.

+10°C / 50°F
The French are trying in vain to start their central heating. The Norwegians plant flowers in their gardens.

+5°C / 41°F
Italian cars won't start. The Norwegians are cruising in cabriolets.

0°C / 32°F
Distilled water freezes. The water in the Oslo Fjord gets a little thicker.

-5°C / 23°F
People in California almost freeze to death. The Norwegians have their final barbecue before winter.

-10°C / 14°F
The Brits start the heat in their houses. The Norwegians start using long sleeves.

-20°C / -4°F
The Aussies flee from Mallorca. The Norwegians end their Midsummer celebrations. Autumn is here.

-30°C / -22°F
People in Greece die from the cold and disappear from the face of the earth. The Norwegians start drying their laundry indoors.

-40°C / -40°F
Paris start cracking in the cold. The Norwegians stand in line at the hotdog stands.

-50°C / -58°F
Polar bears start evacuating the North Pole. The Norwegian army postpones their winter survival training awaiting real winter weather.

-70°C / -94°F
The false Santa moves south. The Norwegian army goes out on winter survival training.

-183°C / -297.4°F
Microbes in food don't survive. The Norwegian cows complain that the farmers' hands are cold.

-273°C / -459.4°F
ALL atom-based movent halts. The Norwegians start saying "Faen, det er kaldt i dag! (Damn, it's cold outside today!)"

-300°C / -508°F
Hell freezes over, Norway wins the Eurovision Song Contest.