But we won’t just be talking, you’ll be watching, listening, absorbing a few of the sights that made me laugh, smile, and drink tummy-band-aids in the form of German Liqueur . . . Yup, another low-brow video and a slide show, just for you, Birds

Now let’s hit the road, we’ve got miles and miles to [...]]]> Birds, I wasn’t lying when I said we’d be revisiting the oft-talked about (with gleeeee!) Thanksgiving of 2010.

But we won’t just be talking, you’ll be watching, listening, absorbing a few of the sights that made me laugh, smile, and drink tummy-band-aids in the form of German Liqueur . . . Yup, another low-brow video and a slide show, just for you, Birds

Now let’s hit the road, we’ve got miles and miles to cover! . . . (Figuratively speaking.)

“Live Free Or Die!” Thanksgiving 2010 from Jacqueline Fonte on Vimeo.

There was so many amazing moments during this trip. Unfortunately, only a few were captured on video or on (digital) film. The film is mostly just scenery stuff from my brother, Keegan, and I running around with Laura and her lovely friends, Emily, Patrick, Craig, and Courtney. We toured the New England coast from Hampton, New Hampshire (a mini resort-town, like a Jersey Shore with cleaner water in the summer), to Portsmouth, New Hampshire, to Gloucester (yes, that of The Perfect Storm- you know I love my Clooney references). While in Gloucester, which has to be one of the most picturesque port town’s the world over, we had delicious Thai food and walked the downtown area. ONE MAJOR, MAJOR thing accomplished during this trip was our road trip to Portland, Maine, marking the first time I’ve set foot in the second to last state (the last is Alaska) left for me to visit in this country.

As for the holiday itself, Courtney’s family actually owns The Copper Lantern in North Hampton, New Hampshire. I had Thanksgiving breakfast there with Laura, Keeg, Courtney and her witty, very warm family. (There was pumpkin bread, and I devoured it!) and given that Laura’s dad, Norbert, raves about their breakfast- he’s about the biggest foodie you’ll ever meet!- I’d say this place should definitely be on your list of places to drop in, should you be in the area.

The photos above are just a few of my favorites from the trip. Since I’m a weirdo, artsy-tard, I naturally love the dark, deserted pictures. And yeahhhhh, there was a TON of good food. Robin made a lasagna that had everyone eating seconds, thirds, and fourths. There are no words to describe the Thanksgiving Day feast we had after breakfast, courtesy of Norbert, Laura’s dad’s, insane, genius culinary skills. And who could forget Rita? Keegan taught Robin’s mama about football, while she tried- and failed- to dodge my camera lense.

Since I can’t singularly post them all, here’s a slideshow, so you can see all the photos from America’s region that I frequently call the cutest thing since Hello Kitty- even though the Northeastern coast is far, far older than the little Sanrio feline.

PS. Birds, you’re going to see pictures of a decked out bedroom. It mildly resembles a spaceship. That would be Craig’s bedroom. Many a good session was had in this little mother-ship, and he is a freakin’ peach.

PSS. Supposedly his mama knit that rug. I want it.

PSSS. This post is pretty gratuitous, right? I only included like 10 minutes of video and 250 photos . . . Don’t care. I love it! I love New England. I mean, people not only have REAL mailboxes, but they also decorate them! And fireplaces are more necessity than decoration, and the crisp air, devoid of LA/NYC smog, smells so clean and pure. Plus, the people are pretty schnazzzzzzy, right?

Anyways, time to run, freaks. Watchin’ Friends reruns and drinking hot chocolate. Dream of New England tonight and we’ll chat more tomorrow about scandalous conversations and upcoming birthday plans!

Now, why would I do such a thing?

I have such a hard time describing the beauty [...]]]> Good evening, Birds . . . Last time I hit the road (must seem like I’m always on the road, right?)  to see my aunt, uncle, and cousins, I attached some fishing line to my phone and duct-taped the line to the roof of my car and turned on the camera. (My middle name is MacGuyver, didn’t you know?)

Now, why would I do such a thing?

I have such a hard time describing the beauty of California’s deserts, a region I commonly refer to as Shangri-la, to people who have never ventured this far West. In the words of Billy-Dan-Jimmy, the Long Island City resident who recently tortured me with pictures of his trip to Iceland (so jealous!), “I can’t even describe it with words, so I won’t.” (Bastard!)

PS. Has anyone noticed lately that everyone BUT ME is going to Iceland these days? (Bastards!)

So, in honor of lacking words, and because I’ve already showed you the interior of my aunt’s home many, many times-  here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here and here-  I made the executive decision to show you some of my lovely, amazing  raw and untouched footage. Obsessed much with my aunt’s little town and home? Yesssss, it’s one of my favorite places ON EARTH.

So, click the play button, Pretty Birds, and venture down my way for approximately 4 minutes of beautiful road time. (Note how blue the sky actually is outside of smog-infested waters, because my car windows are heavily tinted and it’s pretty damn bright, right?)

Shangri-La: On the Road to Twentynine Palms from Jacqueline Fonte on Vimeo.

And here’s a little slideshow for you to peruse (definitely check out some of the pictures, so you can imagine the grand-vastness of everything in the desert):

A video, set to one of the best song’s on earth AND a slideshow? My, my, aren’t we getting hi-tech here at RogueRanting Headquarters? Lol. Low-brow vids, call me a fan. And yes, I’m a geek for loving Third Eye Blind as much as I do, but I’ve never been good at being “cool” then, have I?

Stay tuned, RogueRanters, as we’ll be revisiting my “Live Free or Die” Thanksgiving circa 2010, with some gorgeous (and funny) footage tomorrow. And yes, I’ll finally give you all the deets about my trips to Palm Springs and back to New York. (We’ll also discuss my future trips to Big Sur, Catalina, and Seattle. Yippppeeeee!)

Scabs is back in town, from a semester abroad, and I’m thrilled to report back that she’s still the same merry-happy little shit-show we all know and lurvvvvve. While regaling me with tales of drunken sprees from [...]]]> Taters be damned, for now, Pretty Birds. Something’s abrewin’ over at RogueRanting headquarters. (By headquarters, I mean which ever cafe I’m presently at, usurping wifi, slurping down caffeinated beverages with all the class of a two-bit hooker).

Scabs is back in town, from a semester abroad, and I’m thrilled to report back that she’s still the same merry-happy little shit-show we all know and lurvvvvve. While regaling me with tales of drunken sprees from the po-po (cops, you fools!), getting kicked out of pubs, and beautiful Irishmen, she let slip that she got a tattoo.

She prefaced this little tidbit with, “Fonte, you’re gonna be pissed and laugh your ass off at me.”

Laugh my ass off I most certainly did.

*Isn’t isn’t spelled “i’snt”, is it? LOL.  Also, somewhere in that tattoo, the word “you’re” belongs. But if you knew my little Scabba-Abba as I know her, you know it’s oh-so-fitting.

After Adriana picked me up from LAX  yesterday, around noontime, my first priority was to ingest some kind of nourishment and run some errands. My second priority- playing catch-up with one of my oldest, nuttiest (in the most delightful way) friends.

I trekked to her temporary hood of Anaheim (aka, Anacrime, Anagrime, Anaslime, etc. etc.). Her and I dined on Orange Sushi. She ordered the OC roll and some other tempura-fried roll, which means I did not partake, as it was not gluten-free. My tofu salad, a measly $4.95, was large enough for a meal. So large that the order of California rolls that I slathered with wasabi would be considered added indulgence. (Soy sauce- the cheap stuff, anyways, is diluted with “wheat gluten” so I have to purchase the pure stuff from specialty stores. Wasabi without soy sauce? Great for clearing your sinuses.) Scabs really loves this joint, and the servers smile, don’t overshare details about their sex life, and make a mean ginger tea, so I humor her. (As a life-long sushi eater, I’ve had some AMAZING sushi and some AWFUL sushi. Orange sushi is neither of those things, but the great service, low-end prices and semi-innovative rolls push it just past mediocrity.)

Then, in trying to find a dingy little cafe to puff like little chimneys, we came across Frate’s Gelato. Less than a mile or so from Orange Sushi lies Frates. Amazing gelato, SUPERB service. They weren’t the slightest bit twitchy about usk asking to try two different flavors before deciding. In the end, Scabs decided on Limon and hot chocolate. (Bizarre combo? yes, but this is a girl who steals flowers from preschools. Social mores, be damned!) I decided, after trying both the dark chocolate, listed under a snazzier name, and the signature Frate flavor, to go with the dark chocolate and a decaf hazelnut coffee. The signature flavor, however, with it’s pine nuts and pistachio flavor, was nothing short of delicious. I’ll be back at some point, I’m certain, to devour a small scoop of it.

Pictures of plane arrival, misspelled tattoos, sushi orders, and gelato goodness below!

Tomorrow is Wednesday, aka CLAY DAY.

Will try to fill you in on the last month’s ongoings Thursday, as I will finally, FINALLY have some free time to geek out and get all culture-snob-ish on you.

And yes, YOU WILL LOVE EVERY SECOND OF IT. 

*Random thought occurence (hence it’s inclusion at end of post): If ever you were taking the kiddies or your childish friends to Disneyland, the place I possibly despise most on Earth, it wouldn’t be too far to head to downtown Fullerton. There’s nothing going on in Anaheim, Birds, so if you happen to be in that general vicinity of mouse hats and children on leashes (so cruel!) and decide you need to get away from the manufactured happiness, I’d recommend heading to downtown Fullerton. It’s not my favorite scene in the world, as there are loads of young men with suspiciously shaped facial hair and trucker hats (it is not 2002 anymore, so burn those bad boys already!), but there’s also some cool, un-hooliganish people to be found in the area. Does that sound less than encouraging? LOL. Let’s put it this way, there’s a smattering of bars and restaurants down Harbor Boulevard that won’t make you regret not getting your hepatits vaccinations.

How am I doing now? 

See you Thursday, Birds. Until then, have a coffee for me. (More on Scribble Madness 2.0 later.)

Just an astute observation here, Birds, but the young woman sleeping (pictured above) proves my point that if you want to look like a hairy yeti, it’s best to only don jackets with fur-trimmed hoods when you have exceptionally long hair.

How’s that for a post’s first sentence?

As you’ve already deduced from this previous post, I am back in LA for a bit. There’s sunshine and smog and sunshine and more sunshine! [...]]]>

Just an astute observation here, Birds, but the young woman sleeping (pictured above) proves my point that if you want to look like a hairy yeti, it’s best to only don jackets with fur-trimmed hoods when you have exceptionally long hair.

How’s that for a post’s first sentence?

As you’ve already deduced from this previous post, I am back in LA for a bit. There’s sunshine and smog and sunshine and more sunshine! Whooooopeeee!

And as much as I want to talk to you about the best mashed potatoes I’ve ever had in my life (I’ve had a lot of taters, damnit, so I’m qualifed to call these THE BEST), I have so many errands to run before I wake up tomorrow morning at the crack of dawn and play with clay. (Ceramics stuff? Yessss.) (Mashed potatoes from Wunderbar in LIC, Queens, New York, blanketed in a thick coated of bacon, topped with a layer of cheddar? Yesssss.)

Anyways, duty calls. I’ll be checking back in later—to discuss Wunderbar and the three other places that we went to that earned Junenoire a “crunk badge”- not joking- on this strange thing called Four Square. (Yes, we went to a total of four different places last night, five if you count our failed icecream run. lol. all in an effort to not sleep before I boarded the plane.) (I don’t understand the point of the Four Square app, but whatevs. Apparently people do it, and if you do it enough times in one night, you earn yourself a “Crunk Badge” of dishonor or some shit.)

 Seriously, did I just use up my limit of parenthetical devices for the week in a single post? Yes.

But wait, there’s more! After running some errands, I’ll be catching up with Scabs, back from merry Eng-a-land and Wales. No, we won’t be dressed as shady, hooded figures, but you can bet your asses it will be a merry, happy evening of scandalous conversation. (Don’t worry, I’ll tell you all about it later.)

Peace be with you, freaks. I’m now going to run like the winnnnnnnnddddd to my appointments.

She flew out of New York in a blur, leaving behind her dear, dear Riou George. I don’t know all the intimate details about Becky and Riou George’s relationship, but I have it on very good authority that they sleep together and have been for awhile. (Becky would be [...]]]> Birds,  Becky, my darling co-founder of our new art collective (more on that soon, promise!), is in LA for approximately ten days (as of January 26th?).

She flew out of New York in a blur, leaving behind her dear, dear Riou George. I don’t know all the intimate details about Becky and Riou George’s relationship, but I have it on very good authority that they sleep together and have been for awhile. (Becky would be Womb Buddy‘s girlfriend. Disconcerting much?)

Anyways, I hate to gossip about a partner-in-crime  partner-in-art, but apparently Riou didn’t take the news of her departure too well.

See what I mean? (Slideshow below, of course.) 

Without Becky here, Riou George had a bit of an identity crisis. Eyewitnesses said that after discovering his real name was “Riou George”- not “Curious George”, he repeatedly tried to take his own life and failed a total of four times.

He tried to blend himself to smithereens, but he was unable to reach the “pulse” button on the blender. He tried to burn his face off in the over, but discovered that his head didn’t reach far enough into the heat for that method to work. He tried to hang himself, and discovered that he doesn’t have lungs to breathe out of, only plush stuffing to fill himself.

All of these failures only added to poor Riou’s distress. Sources tell me he is now spending his days beneath a coffee table, trying to recover from his identity confusion and embarrassment.

 IN OTHER NEWS:

I’m hopping a plane in a couple of hours, bound for LA! On one hand, I’m excited. On the other hand, I’m feeling beleagured and beaten down, like I need a vacation from vacation. Last night I went to a lot of great places, to be dissected and discussed in later posts, of course- and you can bet your sweet asses I wore the tiara below.

ALL. NIGHT. LONG.

Hopefully later on, as I’m floating over middle America, I’ll also be sleeping.

I have so much to fill you all in on, and I know I always say this, but we’ll talk more about everything that has been going down the last month of so laterrrrrr.

(Promises, promises, right? Pffffff. ) 

Good news is I’ll be back with the sisterfrannnnnns soon! Been missing them like a fat kid misses her stretchy pants. (FOR REAL, Y’ALL!) And yeah, I have been just about every where this month.

See you on the West Coast (again), Pretty Birds. Sleep soundly!

Birds, can I tell you a secret, since we’re all being inundated via various social media outlets about this evening’s glittery gowns and award winners? (Golden Globes anyone? Pshhhhh, don’t pretend like the excitement of awards season is beneath you. It only makes you seem more pretentious than usual. )

Most so-called “red carpet” events where there’s an actual red carpet are tiny. The Globes and The Academy Awards are two of the [...]]]>

Birds, can I tell you a secret, since we’re all being inundated via various social media outlets about this evening’s glittery gowns and award winners? (Golden Globes anyone? Pshhhhh, don’t pretend like the excitement of awards season is beneath you. It only makes you seem more pretentious than usual. )

Most so-called “red carpet” events where there’s an actual red carpet are tiny. The Globes and The Academy Awards are two of the few exceptions to this rule.

Take, for instance, this photo of one of the crew (a very nice member of the crew) packing up the ubiquitous red carpet after a film premiere at The Annenberg Theatre in Palm Springs. The entire photocall took place on a small square landing. That’s right, all of the red carpet photos you will see from the festival that didn’t take place at the opening gala, held at the breath-taking Parker, probably took place on this tiny, square patch of unremarkable concrete.

Red carpet events, while in photos they may appear to be glamorous, are really just a bunch of people, most of them up-and-comers, tartlets in tiny, bedazzled dresses (or worse, the ubiquitous bandage dresses), who want to be seen.

Truly famous people, the one who are chased by the paps down Robertson Boulevard, neither need nor like the red carpet. Oprah doesn’t need a red carpet for us to know she’s Oprah.

The red carpet is really about the sponsors, whose names and logos are plastered on the backdrops of such photos, and the unglamorous people who need to appear to be glamorous, e.g. the Lindsay Lohans and the wannabe-Snooki’s lacking a reality t.v. show and a bump-it.

The Red Carpet during awards season is akin to mating season in a tribe of peacocks, everyone pruning and fanning their feathers, hoping to catch the eye of that special mate, be it producers dangling roles, perfumers flush with cash to burn on image building, or other pagans of opportunity.

And with so many people trying to claim a piece of the fame pie, you forget that the carpet upon which they stand is even red.

Maybe a dull, brown shag would be better suited for the lot of them?

So don’t be fooled, Birds, by the mirage. These proud peacocks are working hard for that $$$$$ tonight.

P.S. The only people who’s gowns I’m truly interested in are Rooney Mara and Shailene Woodley. Rooney, because of her no-doubt Vogue-approved transformation and Shailene, because she’s the only one out of this year’s tartlets who has thus far avoided trying too hard, even if she’s flops often.

Birds, say what you will about the desert.

Go on, complain about the heat and the scorpions; the dry, dusty wind that burns your throat in the spring and summer.

I love it, I love it, I love it all the more.

Which is why I’m back. No, not in Vegas. (I still haven’t managed to get the ciggy-and-booze scent off my clothing, despite multiple washes. “Filth” just seeps into your pores there, [...]]]>

Birds, say what you will about the desert.

Go on, complain about the heat and the scorpions; the dry, dusty wind that burns your throat in the spring and summer.

I love it, I love it, I love it all the more.

Which is why I’m back. No, not in Vegas. (I still haven’t managed to get the ciggy-and-booze scent off my clothing, despite multiple washes. “Filth” just seeps into your pores there, you know?) I’m headed to Palm Springs for the Palm Springs International Film Festival.

There’s quite a few films, like Dolphin Boy and A Separation and Run For Life and We Need To Talk About Kevin, that I’m dying to see.

Unfortunately, I’m too late for the Diana Vreeland documentary, but I think the festival has a really solid line up of foreign offerings this year that will fill in the gaps quite nicely.

Pictures, quasi-reviews, and other updates coming tomorrow. I’ll be arounnnnnnnd Birds, and if you’re also in the lo-desert, holla atcha gurrrrllll.