Giving thanks for yesterday's carb count.

Thanksigving 2.0 proved, on almost all counts, a success. The morning's turnout to Gobble Gobble Give was astounding. I'm pretty certain that every hipster in a 15 mile radius of The Echo turned out to pack, pass and send out hundreds of packaged meals to LA's homeless. Note for next year: rolls and pie do not a Thanksgiving meal make people. By the end of the day, we'd run out of turkey and were sending out whole pies in the stead of meals. But a pumpkin pie is better than nothing to eat. And I left inspired by the community's come-togetherness. And especially impressed by my very own DJ Scott T. Sterling's 2 hour set which had volunteers shaking their tail as they doled stuffing and pie out.

The rest of the day was equally satisfactory.

The centerpiece turned out...well, it turned out alright. A little gliterry for the occasion, perhaps. But now we've just got a headstart on decorating for Christmas...

Scott and I made a pumpkin pie. Because the one pie we'd already purchased, simply put, needed a pal. And because no Thanksgiving would be complete without pumpkin products...

We snacked on brie and my all time fave cheese, Cave-Aged Gruyere...

Heating up the dinner from Auntie Em's, picked up the day before, was quite the production for me and had me baffled more than a couple of times--further proof that I should never, ever attempt to actually create an entire meal from scratch. It also could probably have fed 4 people...

As you'll see by the amount of food leftover, which looks nearly identical to the amount of food which we started with...

Next year, perhaps we'll opt for a dinner out. Either that or the purchase of a stomach pump.

Til the next holiday. When we'll do it all over again...

A centerpiece for Thanksgiving.

For the last 26 years, I've anticipated Thanksgiving (and most major holidays) with a sense of agitation and annoyance. I likely had to choose between family members' dinners. And once I made my choice, I would usually come to regret it for some reason or another--generally to do with either a family fight or questionable culinary offerings. This year, however, I received no invitation anywhere and for the first time I was saddened that I wouldn't get a chance to spend an uncomfortable evening with family.

But times change and holiday meals must change with them. As neither my boyfriend nor I wanted to forsake the holiday, we decided to create Thanksgiving 2.0--our way (catered), our guests (he. and I.), our style (still figuring this one out, but most likely it will be drunk, messy and fast).

Once we decided on Auntie Em's Kitchen to provide the edibles, the only thing left to do was sort out decor. Yes, that's right--decor. Just cause it's just the two of us don't mean this party's not a party.

Having spent most of the holiday budget on ordering dinner (and knowing I'll need to save some for the several bottles of wine it will take me to forget that we're actually catering dinner) I turned to the closest 99 Cent Only store for some festive touches. I expected to walk in and find pumpkins and turkey mobiles and pilgrim figurines at my disposal which I would magically, in Martha Stewart style, fashion into some sort of masterful centerpiece. But I am no Martha Stewart. And this was the 99 Cent Only store's excuse for a holiday display.

Realizing that I might need to get creative, I took a trip through the rest of the store. Turkey bags and plastic Halloween pumpkins aside, the pickings were slim. I did manage to scoop up some fall-colored candles, a couple of shiny objects that I figure I can do something with, a glittered reindeer (so, I'm on the wrong holiday--like I said, the pickings were slim) and a ceramic bird that I think may be a turkey (and if it's a chicken, so what?).

The decorations will be mismatched, the food may be from someone else's family kitchen and I may be too drunk at the end to stop myself from eating the last of the pie, but I'll be celebrating Thanksgiving alright--pumpkin pie, pilgrim abuse of the Indians, and all.

Thank you Daily Candy for the burning in my thighs.

There are few of us ladies residing in major metropolises that don't subscribe to Daily Candy, even if the editorial has gotten too bombastic for its own good. However, those of us who are savvy know better than to take too much stock in the daily newsletter's reviews. If we're in the know, than we've likely already heard of the new restaurant/boutique/sample sale its touting. If, by chance, the editors suggest something fab and unique, it will have been made common by by the time you get to the store after hundreds of other girls before you. And if the DC writers actually get the scoop on a new gem before word's out, it's often before the gem itself is ready for business. (I'm sure others out there were duped when Daily Candy told us about Mode Restaurant, the restaurant that would 'stay open around the clock' but never actually opened its doors at all--a fact I learned only after paying $10 for parking to find the eatery dark. Or remember when The Waffle was reviewed just days after opening, after impoloring DC not to run the item, and faced a rush of eager readers wanting items that were'nt yet stocked and service that hadn't yet been ironed out.)

So, after years of faithful Daily Candy reading, despite my sometimes bitter disappointment in its coverage, I was finally rewarded with an item I couldn't have been more pleased to discover--Pop Physique, an East side sculpting studio that I have, since reading about, fallen just a little bit in love with. Yes, the studio's logo and website design is a play on the American Apparel motif. And yes, the irony is sort of twisted when the studio is located in the heart of Silverlake which is nothing if not American Apparel hipster central, making me unsure if the girls in leotards and bleached hair is not supposed to be ironic at all. But still, design follies aside, I'm glad I allowed Daily Candy to direct me to the only healthy thing I've done for myself since I gave up heroin and crack cocaine. Kidding, kidding. Cause really--nothing feels better than a burning in your thighs while a rubber ball's placed squarely between your [you know what].

The new Gmail: a party in my inbox.

Opening up my email generally consists of weeding through bills, bank statements (that show how little I am worth after said bills), and daily inspirational messages I have opted to receive from various spiritual and religious groups for kicks.

Today, upon logging into my gmail account, I discovered a new template. New things tend to bother me, especially when they're dropped into my life without warning, without a request. But after fiddling around for a moment with the colors and themes, I've realized I rather like the new and colorful gmail interface. It's like a party in my inbox. Check out this adventurous ninja theme I decided to try out...


Little Samurai Sams that seem to say 'hey! email can be fun! just look at how I make this Wells Fargo overdraft notice look exciting and new.'

Of course, now that I've had enough of the ninja nonsense, I can't seem to find the template options again. But I trust, I'll happen upon it by accident again before I'm driven to register for a yahoo account.

Anti-WORD of the Day

Today's Anti-Word of the Day is: brainstorm.

This word should never have been mainstreamed. There's just no proper way to envision a brain storming. I refuse to engage.

Los Angeles in flames.

Los Angeles County has been on fire since some time yesterday or the day before. Yesterday the news of wildfires seemed unimportant as the fires were contained to a region near Santa Barbara which, since I've never been there, seems especially far away. By this morning, the fires had spread to areas I've heard of, have even been to. But still, from what I could tell from the radio coverage, these people knew what they were in for--lived in areas prone to dryness and fire when the yearly Santa Ana winds come through. Tonight, however, I can smell the fire through the open windows in my studio apartment here in Koreatown. In this small space, the smell seeps in and, with nowhere to circulate to, grows sour--like a mix of fire and barbeque and pot smoke. I take a walk outside, figuring I might see the streets ablaze. But people are out per usual. It's Saturday night and no one seems to notice that the air is heavy and smells like ash. Young twenty somethings are out at Le Cercle Super Club, taking advantage of the warm weather by wearing next to nothing. I can smell the cigarette smoke as I walk by and I wonder if they realize they could ignite a Koreatown fire with the next butt tossed carelessly to the sidewalk. I'm scared that, if I fall asleep, I might wake to flames outside my window. I contemplate loading my important documents and belongings--organized for just such an occasion--into the car in case we're encouraged to evacuate. But one can't let these things get to her if she's to live in Los Angeles. If it's not a fire, it's an earthquake. If it's not an earthquake, it's a corrupt police force and pricey plastic surgeons. Those of us who come to live here, come knowing full well what the risks are. And so, knowing that I can probably pack my car in 15 minutes flat with my few posessions and pieces of art and nostalgia, I resolve to calm down, maybe have a glass of wine to fall asleep, and hope the winds have calmed by morning.

For full fire coverage, visit The LA Times

Stand up against Prop 8. Stand for Love.

Since the morning of November 5th when I learned that California's Prop 8 had been approved, I've been seething. I've been incredulous. I've been wanting to say something to the many who voted in its favor, voting against the rights of an entire segment of the population. But I was unsure of how to send a message to those whose position stems from faith--in something they think they understand from the bible and in what a small number of bishops tell them. Well, MSNBC's Keith Olberman has said it for me...

Do Good: No plans for Thanksgiving? Now you've got 'em. We're volunteering.

So, you're stuck in LA for Thanksgiving? Sucks to be you. But it sucks a lot more to be homeless. Or food-less. Or just really, really worse than you think you are because you can't afford a plane ticket out of here. I'm hoping that realizing you're not that bad off even though you had to sell your last bit of Prada on ebay last week inspires you to volunteer with me this Thanksgiving Day at Gobble Gobble Give. We'll be hanging at your favorite spot for Indie tunes, The Echo, and getting food together for peeps who need it. Even more than you.

Want to sign up to volunteer? CLICK HERE.

Interested in donating either supplies (clothes, toiletries, day-of cooking necessities) or money? CLICK HERE. (And remember, just $5 or $10 can go a long way.)

Do you work for a company that might have product (shirts, food, etc) to donate? Email me at theartisticgroup@gmail.com.

I'll be there. You should be too. Looking forward to seeing many of you on T Day.

Flaming Hot Cardboard...Baked!

Just cause something's got an exclamation point in it, doesn't make it good. Case in point--Baked(!) Flaming Hot Cheetos. They were not good the first time I bought them from the office cafeteria. But they were novel. They were not good the second time I bought them. But I was hungry. Today, after I actually sought them out in every vending machine in the building, they were just foul. An exclamation point does not equate flavor, nor does the boatload of inedible 'Hot' in the ingredient list. Oh, Frito Lay, how you've disappointed my snack hour.

It's always sunny when you're Van Morrison.

Last night, on an unusually warm night at the Bowl, Van Morrison took the stage, donning a pair of dark sunglasses he would not remove for the entirety of his show. He performed--first, a set of Greatest Hits (Brown Eyed Girls drew hoots and hollers) and later, the complete set of Astral Weeks--before an enthused, though not completely full, crowd. Save a militant-type move he fancied with his right arm, Van's performance was cool, calm and one might say, un-emotional. Toward the end of his last song, he exited, calculatedly re-entered and then, finally, exited again. A wave of audience members rose to cheer and clap and shout encore. And they did so for near 10 minutes, expecting their rock idol to give them what they wanted--another song, a brief rendition of Moondance, a few more notes at his personzlized, logo-ed mic stand. But nothing. Van Morrison was likely piling into his car already--cool, calm, seemingly unattached to his adoring fans, and, probably, still wearing his dark shades. Van, The Man, The Machine.

On another note, sightings at the Bowl included Justin Long and Jonah Hill together and excitedly greeting friends. Jonah--this is probably, no definitely, the 4th time I've seen you this month. Are you following me? Also spotted...we think...was Fran Drescher heading toward the ladies loo. Cause everyone's got to go. After all, stars--they're just like us.

Photo Credit: Van Morrison, Hollywood Bowl
Photo Credit: Jonah Hill and Justin Long in 'Accepted', Universal Pictures

As the race draws to a close...

The current map on the homepage of NYTimes.com, as we approach the 7 o'clock hour is frighteningly red. Barack Obama is winning the race, but not by the sweeping lead you would have thought he had guaranteed to him if you live in California, or New York or a state where people are led by their hearts and not by bibles.

Last night, I volunteered at the shelter near my home and the young children, all under 10 years old, of all races--they all told me that they would be 'voting' for Obama today. When I asked one why, he let me know that Obama would 'be the first president.' Well, not really. But not so far from the truth. It is a shame that these children are not voting today--we would all benefit from their innocence and their hopefulness.

Elephants and effigies.

Halloween is over and beside relief at its end, I'm left with just a few thoughts.

1. People are stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

2. Larry King is not as easy a costume to pull together as I'd suspected. Graying my hair and giving it the volume necessary to do proper justice to Larry's would have taken far too long. And suspenders; where does one even get suspenders?




3. Horrors are not reserved for just Halloween day. For example, today, Jehovah's Witnesses knocked on my door at 10:30 in the morning. And believe me, there is nothing more frightful to awaken to on a Saturday.

Halloween. Ghastly.

I've never understood the allure of Halloween.

Ghosts frighten me.










Costumes confuse me.

And often freak me the fuck out.

And feeding candy to children has always just seemed an irresponsible concept.








Though I can't get away with protesting the offensive tradition this year, as my job requires me to celebrate the holiday (I could sue, I imagine, for an affront against my secular beliefs), I plan to treat the day with as much dignity as possible. While in costume as Larry King.

Look out for pics of me as your favorite CNN Host. Next week on Los Angeles: a strange and unsober journey.

It's terrifying what lives between America's coasts.

With the campaign drawing near a close, each side's attacks gain momentum, fear and anticipation resounds in both parties and, apparently, the idiots of America are speaking out.



In this startling Al Jazeera footage of an Ohio rally for Sarah Palin, Palin supporters voice their concern about Barack Obama--their main issues, his blackness, his 'Muslim' standing and 9-11. Seriously? Has the American education system failed to reach those between New York and Los Angeles? Does mainstream media not broadcast in Ohio? Or, as I suspect, are these people just terrifyingly resistant to reality? I am horrified that these people live in the same country as me. No, actually, I'm pretty terrified that they live at all.

Happy Yom Kippur to my Chosen People pals.

To those of you who are home from work today fasting in honor of Yom Kippur, keep up the good work! By the end of the day, you'll be absolved of a full year of sins* while I'll still remain burdened by years and years of subpar behavior (and fatter for a full day of eating). And god only knows, I could stand for some repentance.

And to those of you who are struggling through the fast, I offer my friend Elana's advice - 'just think, what would an anorexic do.'

* I may be a little fuzzy on the details of the contract.

Obsessions. Michael Alig.

It takes a good deal to stimulate my interest [or at least to hold it for more than a moment if something shinier comes into view]. But when something grabs me--it fascinates me.

Michael Alig. Anyone who's seen Party Monster has a faint idea of the madness that overshadowed the New York club scene--long past Studio 54's heyday and well into the 90's when queens still reined king and freaks ruled the velvet ropes of NYC's hottest parties. But unless you lived through it [or at least passed by the parties, just beginning each night when the rest of New York was heading home to bed]--and I didn't--Clubland is mere fantasy, a period piece that happened just a decade ago, in full costume in the streets of Manhattan.

Michael Alig was a fixture in the chaos. A flamboyant, outrageous character who might have faded into obscurity--fighting and drugging his way through the downward spiral, mind you--had he not murdered his drug dealer, chopped him up, and later deposited the remains into the river.

Black Book's new columnist, Steve Lewis--another character from the club days--recently visited Michael to make amends and shared his visit's anecdotes.

I was engaged, but I realized the account to be lacking depth. I found New York Magazine's profile of Michael, also written after an encounter with the man in prison. It portrays a man, young and crazed and on top of the world--the character we judge but all wish to play--and his descent. It struck me. More, I think, because I wish he'd remained on top. He would've stayed such an idol for those of who desire to live our lives wrecklessly. But know better. And sometimes regret it.

Do Good: The Great Schlep.

Jewish? Wish you were Jewish? Of course you do. We're the chosen people.

Visit The Great Schlep. Influence change.


The Great Schlep from The Great Schlep on Vimeo.

7-Eleven percolates the vote.

7-Eleven has long been my stop for diet coke, late night snacks (though, god-forbid, never the hot dogs) and even, on occasion, overpriced meds. And though the brand earned some buzz last year for the well-executed and well-publicized Simpson Movie's Kwik-E-Mart stunt at stores across the nation, that is as much as I thought about 7-Eleven, the convenience stop for teens, truckers and munchie-seeking stoners.

So, yesterday, when I drove off Freeway 73 to grab a much needed coffee on route to Orange County, I didn't expect to pour my latte into a politically charged coffee cup. But sure enough, 7-Eleven is getting in on the campaign action along with the rest of the country.

I got to choose my presidential nominee before choosing my brew.








There were sleeves available to show anyone who might glance over that I don't just drink coffee, I am also politicallly active--a socially responsible caffeine consumer.






I chose Obama. And the iced pumpkin latte.











Deliciously democratic. Thank heaven for 7-Eleven.

Jessie for President.

The other night on CNN's Larry King, Chris Rock appeared to make jabs at Bill Clinton, compare Palin to Kim Kardashian and support Barack Obama. Oh, and seemingly make Larry and his entire audience uncomfortable.



Chris suggested voting for Barack because he has one house versus John McCain's multiple houses. That if the economy goes down and McCain loses 1/2 his houses, he'd still be ok while the guy with one house gets worried.

I'd like to suggest voting for me, the girl with one studio apartment. That she rents. In Koreatown. Complete with ants in the bathroom and roaches in the kitchen. Jessie for president. Write 'er in.

xo * The poorest candidate for president

Tasers. Pink stun guns. And another deadly move by the NYPD.

Koreatown is safe for a few kinds of people. Without getting into specifics, I can tell you that I am not one of them. From being followed home by strange men in the wee hours to fighting off attacks from water bugs in my bed, residing in K Town has kept me on my toes [keys locked in defense mode on the street, cell phone ready to dial 911].

Upon hearing conservative radio talk show host Dr. Laura advise one of her listeners to get a stun gun a few weeks ago, I toyed around with the idea. A stun gun would serve me well on the streets--powerful enough to have a grown man to the ground, mild enough not to land me in prison where I would surely get beaten by larger, stronger, butcher inmates seeking extra muffin rations in the cafeteria.

I researched a bit and found that stun guns aren't merely tools of defense, they can serve as accessories--an important consideration for the prudent, but stylish stun gun shopper.

They come in pink...











They come in fun animal form...











The Pink Stinger even comes shaped like a tampon (not, I repeat, NOT for insertion).





But as fun as a stun gun may sound, I reserved doubts. In today's NY Times, my doubts were confirmed. Earlier this week, a troubled young man was shot by an NYPD's taser gun, only to fall to his death. If girls around the country can successfully taser a man with her tampon without killing him, what kind of insanely inferior training is the police force receiving?!

Signing off [and still searching for means of defense],
Jessie B. R.

Recommended further reading on self-defense and fun with tasers:
Wired - Defense Gadgets

Ashlee, Pete Wentz and Jr.-to-be get artsy.

Tonight kept me in downtown for a post-work outing to the preview reception for artist Futura's first LA show. Ever. It should be noted that to many people, this is a big deal. Futura is a NY-based graffiti artist with pretty far-reaching acclaim. Had I ever heard of him before? We'll leave it at 'maybe.' But a whole lotta downtown art fans and East side hipsters were more than a little excited to crowd into the pop-up gallery at Main and 6th for a siting of the man himself, his fancy fans and a look at the $4,000 -$42,000 pieces on the walls. For those of you to whom $42,000 seems pricey, you've got to understand...it was the first time Futura had drawn a perfect circle. So OBviously, it's going to cost you a few extra thousand. We learned that earlier in the evening Shepard Fairey (Obey founder, artist, dj, and all around decent fellow) had been by to make a pre-preview purchase himself. And while most of the remaining guest list was full of your average joe art enthusiasts, Ashlee Simpson, boyfriend Pete Wentz and their baby bump did make an appearance as expected. We'd been given strict instructions that Ashlee was not to be photographed. And even after quite a few at the open Belvedere bar, we held onto our ethics (which are usually quite flexible) and covered our media lenses in respect for the mom to be.

After leaving the beautiful people and the beautiful art, I headed home. To be reminded--as I narrowly escaped abduction by a strange little man who followed me the 3 blocks from my car to my apartment--that my current life and assets are worth, well, less than a 10' x 10' abstract canvas.

Paparazzi. Making private moments public. Every day. Deal with it Mr. West.

When I was young, I wanted to be a famous actress. I wanted to star in big budget movies or, at the least, nationally televised commercials. I took acting classes and auditioned for school performances and enthused over the eyes that landed on me when I was on stage and the laudations that followed a performance. I didn't love performing for the art of it. I was not even much of an actress. But I craved the attention I received for my efforts.

The entire construction of a set fed my love of the spotlight. Microphones amplify a performer's voice so it can ring louder than the rest. Houselights are dimmed and a light shone on the stage so that the performer can stand out from the crowd. Stages are built high so that its talent can stand higher. Performing is the natural calling for the ego-driven, the narcissistic, the self-important.

So, somebody tell me why the f++k Kanye West threw that mother f++king paparazzi's camera to the ground this week. Why he had the audacity to get himself arrested at LA-mother-f++king-X because some dude with a long lens was doing his job, trying to fulfill Kanye West's God-complex. Kanye West, you hear me and you hear me good. I didn't make it as an actress. And I'm not mad. But you made it. You are filling arenas with fans--thousands of them--and preaching that you are the next John Lennon, the next Bono, the next thing we should care about. Well, Mr. Lennon 2.0. You got what you wanted. So act nice, get grateful, and smile next time I try to take a mother f++king picture.

[TMZ: Kanye Felony Assault Footage]

P.S. At a recent get-together, I happened to pick up this paparazzi of my own.

Apparently, according to the packaging, he recognizes my 'it girl' status. Finally. Someone does. I am currently growing him. Look for me in the weeklies soon.

Crying babies, bad dates and a Hilton family outing this VMA weekend in LA.

First, let me tell you that while I write this, the baby downstairs is wailing, the children on the street have somehow organized their screams into choral orchestration and the refrigerator's humming has reached new volumes. But this is what one gets when one tries to pay less than $900 on rent in Los Angeles, I gather.

So, this weekend saw a lot of of action here in LA. While the Sarah Palin jokes have continued to amuse across the nation, and Democrats become fearful as they realize the McCain/Palin ticket is scoring more favor than they'd expected (librarian porn fans are finding their way to polls countrywide), here we have remained focused on the races that really matter, namely that for Best Music Video.

Not having had cable in years, I myself haven't had the pleasure of seeing a music video since Paula Abdul got Straight Up and Aerosmith broke Alicia Silverstone in in the 90s. But apparently America still loves its televised music and MTV hosted its god knows whateth annual Video Music Awards at Paramount Studios last night. Yes, Britney Spears showed up. No, I have no idea who won.

After parties kept the winners, losers and fans busy all night. And at one West Hollywood hotspot, the after party got wild as the Hiltons made a family outing of it, Lindsay and Samantha quarreled in a corner and a 90210 newbie tried to drive off with my friend's Jetta. [The Bar Code]

The rest of the weekend was a blur, save a visit to WeHo on Friday to visit my dear friend Elana. E took me to a great restaurant hidden on a side street of the neighborhood, Gardens of Taxco. Though there are no menus here and the staff's English was shaky enough to instill fear in a cautious eater, our waiter spoke with enough gusto and rolling of his R's to get us through the ordering stage. The only thing more awkward than placing our orders was the date at the adjacent table, a lovely lady with none other than Jonah Hill, the Romanesque co-star of Superbad. A lot of nervous hand holding across the chips and salsa and Hill's request for the mariachi to play Feliz Navidad made for an interesting date to watch, probably less one to be on.

[Photo Credits: WireImage]

Edible computers. Why hasn't anyone thought of this before!?

I thought it was worth it to tell you--Microsoft is on the verge of an edible software. And Jerry Seinfeld has teemed up with the Windows guru, Bill Gates, to advertise the wave of the future.

I, personally, dream of the day that my PC tastes like Chinese orange-flavored soy chicken. Thank you Bill Gates. Thank you.

[Sources: Brandweek, Crunchgear]

[Photo Credit: Crunchgear]

Republicans. They're just like us.

I am the first to admit I don't know enough about American politics. I am in the dark on most issues of the current election. Though I aim to learn more, my occasional 10 minute tune-ins to am talk radio haven't yet turned me into the educated, politically savvy student of politics I hope to be in time for, oh say, the November 4th elections.

In the meantime, I am finding ways to relate to candidates on both sides in a fair and unbiased attempt to form my opinion. Though the McCain/Palin ticket has not impressed me to this point, it comforted me to see the pair so excited about chocolate. You see, in the picture below, the dynamic team as excited about the sweets shoppes behind them as they are about wrenching rights from women across the nation. And while I can't stand behind the McCain/Palin pro-life agenda, nor his too-close-to-death biology, nor her awful taste in suits...I can stand behind chocolate. Finally, a platform I can believe in. Chocolate for the Democrats! Chocolate for the Republicans! Heck even for the Independents! Chocolate for boys and girls everywhere!!

[Photo credit: NY Times]

The Pictures: 'Towelhead' Premiere. A balanced night of star sightings and geekouts.

Tonight, after a long day of working, I barely gathered enough energy to drive myself to the Arclight to meet some friends for one of Gen Art's monthly screenings. Had I known that Towelhead was a film about statutory rape, prejudice and coming of age, I might have skipped it altogther. Had I remembered that the screening was, in fact, a premiere, I might have worn makeup and cuter underwear. But I knew none of this. I came with no expectations of the film. And I came in old pink panties.

The film was, in the end, phenomenal. I'm no film critic. And I shouldn't give it away. But I'll tell you this--any film that brings back knit wool sweaters and imagines golf courses overrun by nude chicks--well, it's got to be good.

The highlight of the evening for my friend was having her picture taken with director Alan Ball, director of American Beauty, creator of Six Feet Under, and now of True Blood. While I was too bashful to partake in the major, maaaajor geek out session that ensued, I got in on the action by lending my camera. So, my camera....touched the hands of my friend....who then put her arms around Alan Ball. Whooooa....whoa!

Yes, nearly everyone got in on the Ball action but yours truly.

I'll confess now that I may not have known the name Alan Ball before tonight. But goshdarn--I liked his movie.

The desert: Ed Hardy, palms and a bride to be.

Nothing says nuptial bliss like the drunken stupid fun the bride and groom are allowed one last time before the big day. (Personally, I don't intend to stop having stupid, if not drunken, fun for anything. And my future-husband--God bless you whoever you are--should know this. But I am not most people and I digress.) And this past weekend I had the great pleasure of helping one of my best friends celebrate her last moments of single, un-attached freedom.

Early on Saturday morning, gal-pal A and I rode the long way East to Palm Springs. The trip should have taken 2 hours. I drove. It took 4.

In transit, we got lost, discovering the wonders of 'cities' on route to the desert. The towns may be small, hot and have a disturbingly high ratio of mullets to non-mullets, but even the DMV office appears tropical and alluring when it's surrounded by sand and palms. Heck, if I lived in the desert, I'd make a point of violating traffic more often to get the chance to return to this government building oasis.

No bachelorette party is complete without the offering of naughty gifts to the bride to be. Even the most demure of girls get gifted with lingerie, oils and sex toys to last a lifetime...or, until the sex stops. Here, the winning gift of the night came from K--a paddle from every bad girl's fave shoppe, Agent Provocateur (that is, every bad girl who can afford to drop several hundred for a corset and a bottle of lube).

Later in the evening, all of us girls had the pleasure of attending the most rip-roaring dance club in all of the desert. (For those who've been to Palm Springs during Coachella, note that the crowd during the off season sports a little less hipster flare and a little more Ed Hardy, but who's counting the bedazzled muscle tees? Oh right--the cougars with the fake tits in the corner were keeping tally all night.) The JW Marriot's Costas Nightclub boasts the title of 'Valley's Nightclub of the Year' and calls itself the 'playground to the stars.' Seeing as the rules at the entrance of the club call for no facial tattoos and no Dickies, it seems that nearly every LA star to speak of would be ruled out, but maybe that tranny with all the work done who was on line before us was somebody--I'm not really sure.

Well, we didn't get in to Costas--apparently the doorman didn't find it impressive that we were visiting from LA, had natural breasts and didn't have anything sparkly on. But the men (pictured left) that we met in the Lobby Bar were enough to remind us all that marriage is indeed preferable to the single life. And I couldn't be happier for my amazing bff D, who's about to embark on the journey toward commitment. (Thank goodness because I am planning on returning next week to Palm Springs to score that muscley fellow on the right for myself. Here I come Don Juan de Mentally Challenged!)

Esprit de corps

Happy Labor Day to all of you who are celebrating the national holiday today. Or to all of you, I should say, who even know why they've got a day off. In order to be self-righteous and make a comment like that, I needed to get my own Labor Day facts straight. So I looked the holiday up on Wikipedia--[the only source for information that is produced by your fellow layman, making it full of room for error, but truly democratic, and isn't that what counts]--and learned that the holiday was originally intended to celebrate "the strength and esprit de corps of the trade and labor organizations" and was to be "followed by a festival for the workers and their families." Nowadays, of course, we generally celebrate with a pool party where those who really need the day off are treated to a day of serving us mojitos and emptying our ashtrays. But as long as we celebrate their strength and spirit as they move lounge chairs away from the barbeque smoke, I guess we've retained the dignity of the holiday. So, enjoy the remaining few hours of your day off, the last hoorahs of summer.

Time for change.

Barack Obama just accepted the Democratic nomination. I'm not sure why anyone's surprised. It would seem a shame if, after a year of campaigning, Barack decided that the position wasn't for him. If, after a year of accepting donations, he decided that presidency seemed overwhelming--that wouldn't culinary school or an MFA in creative writing be just as fulfilling--and no, he wouldn't be accepting the bid to be the US' first black president. Well, anyway, the so-called 'breaking' news has people just thrilled. Even Hillary Clinton--who, by all logical reasoning, should be miffed--seems to think Obama's the candidate this nation needs. While there are things I don't love about the O Dog--he talks a little too deliberately for my tastes--I too hope that he makes it all the way. The White House could use a little black in it. After all, it's Labor Day. And everyone knows that white in the fall's just tacky.

Another year gone. Older, but back in action.

I'm back to blogging as part of me is convinced that someone out there might be interested in my life. I, myself, am constantly stimulated by myself. So, perhaps you will be too. Since I've last written lots has happened, but most crucially, I've had another birthday. I'm 27 now, still unmarried, living in a studio apartment in Koreatown. And many would count me amongst a demo most popularly referred to as old maids. I would just refer to me as really fucking unlucky.

Here are the flowers my boyfriend was so sweet to bring me on my birthday. A few red roses aren't going to erase the wrinkles starting at my eyes, but it was a lovely gesture.

Beside entering my late 20s with a debatably small amount to show for it, I've not wanted for things to keep me busy and out of my 15 x 15 so-called apartment this summer.

I checked out some of LA's new supposed hotspots. Here we are at the opening of The Kress. What the club lacked in cohesive design, class or modesty, it made up for in size...really, really big size. I guess this counts for something?

I checked out SA Studio's Righteous Kill pop up space in Downtown. Mister Cartoon, Estevan Oriol and a couple hundred bad ass tatted guests were in the house to celebrate DeNiro and Pacino's newest film project. I don't think that any of us could tell you what this film is about. So much for experiential marketing.

Amongst the guests was a rep from the bad-asses of tomorrow club. Too f-ing cute.

And what would summertime be without some impulsive and irrational spending. That is, if you don't consider the purchase of designer diet coke bottles rational. Damn you Patty Field for so slyly using the phrase 'limited edition.' Nothing says 'buy me immediately with no thought of practicality or your dwindling checking account' like 'limited edition' tacked on to a product description.