Nope.

I will be home, watching El Cid*, The Hours*, Where The Wild Things Are, and Hollywoodland*. I have [...]]]> My vagina has gone rogue again, Pretty Birds. Thus, my weekend will not be spent at the theatre, watching The Best Exotic Hotel Marigold, In Cold Blood, and Deadline U.S.A. (The latter two will be screened at The Egyptian, starting at 7:30 tonight.) I will not be riding my bike around Hollywood in the sunshine.

Nope.

I will be home, watching El Cid*, The Hours*, Where The Wild Things Are, and Hollywoodland*. I have already watched The Quiet American*, as Michael Caine is not only my favorite Alfred, but a longtime favorite actor.

I will later be sequestered in my bat-cave, known now for it’s lack of sunlight, painting more-than-slightly pornagraphic self-portraits and ink-blotting my way into a not-yet-warring art scene (more on that impending conflict at a later date, methinks?).

And yes, I will be blogging about all sorts of things, like breakfast, like what a mistake it was for Obama to announce his support of gay marriage before the election. I will blog about some of my favorite beauty products, and the upcoming Summer Olympic Games in London. We will discuss (aka, I write and you listen?) some upcoming film “stuffs” you should know about, some fashion “things” I currently abhor (floral print cigarette pants- and offending wearers are everywhere these days!), and a Jayne Mansfield moment I’m currently having.

Also, I hope to make you a little movie about the piece I’m working on in the Cave so you can see how I sometimes work.

Also x2, you guys have been asking some questions, and soon, I’ll have real answers.

Also x3, I will be eating copious amounts of gelato this evening. Hope your Saturday evening is just as lazy, and the vaginas in your life are a lot less complicated. Some things should never be this dark and twisty. LOL. (I’m on a total roll with the TMI though, right?)

*These movies were checked out from my local library. I highly recommend you support your local library. I do so regularly- by checking books and DVD’s out, not returning them for a couple of weeks, racking up a gigantic bill, and then paying out of my ass to cover those fines; libraries have no qualms reporting you to creditors, by the way.

Cured my cranky attitude and aching ears. (Hate all high pitched voices, even Karen’s- from Will & Grace.) Say yes to giant cups of fruit and coffee.

Also, Steve Harvey, on the Steve Harvey morning show: “I knew Stevie Wonder had money, because he didn’t have a dog. He had a PERSON.”

Yesssss. Now, time to play with clay.

Breakfast is sacred. Sometimes there are eggs, and when they’re my eggs, there’s often salsa. On good days, pieces of turkey. The god otherwise known as coffee is usually present, and when eggs, salsa, coffee and I get together, we harmonize. Yes, we make beautiful music. Sometimes berries accompany us on the forks. lol. I am cheesy for breakfast, especially in omelettes.

Naturally, we try to [...]]]> Doesn’t mean I’m game for breakfast with you.

Breakfast is sacred. Sometimes there are eggs, and when they’re my eggs, there’s often salsa. On good days, pieces of turkey. The god otherwise known as coffee is usually present, and when eggs, salsa, coffee and I get together, we harmonize. Yes, we make beautiful music. Sometimes berries accompany us on the forks. lol. I am cheesy for breakfast, especially in omelettes.

Naturally, we try to get together as often as humanly possible for a jam session with gluten-free toast. Sometimes school and work and lack of funds keeps us apart.

Birds, have you ever noticed there’s certain politics to having breakfast with someone. It’s kind of intimate, only reserved for close friends. Even that lingering weekend meal that can’t make up it’s mind, Brunch, only makes sense with friends. I mean, do you really want to drink champagne around noon  and wax poetic about the deliciousness of your french toast with aquaintances? Nawwwww.

Also, breakfast is best when someone else makes it for you, or you make it to enjoy with someone. The only thing better than breakfast in the morning is sex, and then when breakfast follows, it’s like the ultimate send off. It’s like going out into your battle against the daily grind with an atomic bomb in your arsenal.

You are unstoppable.

Granted, efforts at remaining single and uncomplicated (that’s the tricky part) require us to make concessions, like eating breakfast alone or with the dogs, who only want you for your food. (Bastards! Cute bastards, though.) Or with married friends, who would probably, most assuredly, rather be having sex and eating breakfast with their spouses. Having breakfast with single friends, for some strange reason I can’t figure out, rarely, if ever, happens at a home. You generally have to go to a greasy spoon or some frivolous place that charges you ten dollars for a plate of eggs and the limpest hash browns you’ve ever seen, but wait! there’s cool hip people hanging around, and that’s what your tenner goes towards—to pay the stand-ins so we can all bask in their pretentious aura.

So, no more skipping breakfast. No more just drinking your coffee and running out the door. Definitely no more putting your mascara on in the car while driving. Accidents happen, you know! You could really poke an eye out with that wand!

Say yes to breakfast everyday with uncomplicated people. Definitely not with people you’re only fucking. Stick to dogs, and friends, and a little bit of Al Green on the stereo (<—is that what we still call it?). Say yes to everything bagels with chive cream cheese. Say yes to Greek yogurt with berries tossed in. Say yes to hash browns and biscuits and gravy. Say yes to grilled fish with your eggs— or yes!, bacon. Who could refuse pancakes (in my case, gluten-free pancakes)? You will thank me for it later, when there’s no rumbly in your tumbly, Pooh-Bear style.

Eat. Breakfast. Everyday. Always.

PS. Do you love my artless photo of my breakfast this morning? Tech troubles bore me.

PPS. Yes, this is the start of a new category, breakfast boasting, in which I chronicle my love of all things breakfast. I hope it will inspire you to eat in the morning, so you can NOT be grouchy.

Starring Marlene Deitrich as a partying socialite who becomes enamored with a thief at the underworld of Cafe Electric, the 1927 silent film [...]]]> Last Saturday, Birds, I caught a screening of one of my favorite films of all time, “Les Enfants du Paradis“, at The Aero in Santa Monica, courtesy of the American Cinematheque- one of the lovelier non-profits Hollywood has to offer. Tomorrow, I’ll return to The Aero Theatre to catch a screening of “Cafe Electric“.

Starring Marlene Deitrich as a partying socialite who becomes enamored with a thief at the underworld of Cafe Electric, the 1927 silent film will be accompanied by the world-famous Gerhard Gruber. Pianos? Silent films? Marlene Deitrich? Show starts at 7:30 PM, box office opens at 6 PM. See you there, if you know what’s good for ya.

Also, should you venture yonder, I can recommend R + D Kitchen. About two blocks down, the restaurant offers a polished spin on Americana, and the service is nothing short of efficient and thoughtful. I ordered the cheeseburger, super-rare- as in still mooing, but sans bun, explaining to my server that I am allergic to the bread. He came back a minute and a half later to ask about the details of my allergy, because the seasoning used to flavor the burger has gluten in it. Indeed, gluten was and is my killer, so I was grateful the staff is knowledgeable enough about both allergies and their offerings to shield me from a grave evening spent bent over the toilet. BTW, Birds, a crowded restaurant in LA is never an indication of whether or not the food is of any value. Lemmings will crowd a joint just to be “scene”, even if it’s to be “scene” next to a heaping plate of nastiness. So, when I say this place was crowded, I mean crowded in a good way, and the decor is classy-casual. Don’t get fancy, but I wouldn’t roll in “with day old fast-food wrappers tucked into the waistband of my mom jeans”. (OMG, best quote ever. Anyone else loving “Don’t Trust the ‘B’“? Sisterfrannnnn Nu, who will be with me tomorrow night, and I am obsessed.)

Also note, the meat tasted fresh. When you order your burger bloody, you can always tell when the meat is over-ripened and lower quality. This burger was not bad (quite the compliment coming from me), and not overly dressed with the odd-and-ends trappings that foodies have become obsessed with lately, like bacon and cocksauce- or any sauce, for that matter- or how about excessive shit like gruyere and a garlic aoli sauce? 5 Napkins digs aside, the place is solid.

Below, photos of the light roasted coffee, my rare cheeseburger, protein-style, and my chilled asparagus drizzled with a creamy, citrust aoli.

PS. She’s the one with the giant bunhead.

PPS. They’re total dance moms material, right?

Me: Isn’t that a little morbid?

Friend: Okay, so your bio ?

Me: What? Chili-cheese-fries-obsessive who has mastered the art of tactless-ness?

Friend: Noooo, it should say, “Cooler than you.”

Me: You mean than thou? Old English is the way to go, dear.

But, Pretty Birds, I NEVER want to be thissssss cool.

Back from Vegas. Many demons exercised exorcised on the dance [...]]]>

Friend: You know what your epitaph should read?

Me: Isn’t that a little morbid?

Friend: Okay, so your bio ?

Me: What? Chili-cheese-fries-obsessive who has mastered the art of tactless-ness?

Friend: Noooo, it should say, “Cooler than you.”

Me: You mean than thou? Old English is the way to go, dear.

But, Pretty Birds, I NEVER want to be thissssss cool.

Back from Vegas. Many demons exercised exorcised on the dance floor. LOL.

Me: Nope, no knife.

Friend: You and that damn knife. You gotta get over that.

Me: You need to get one already. I refuse to hit the water, I don’t even like to snorkel, without a knife strapped to me.

Friend: Lame.

Me: I’ll take lame over dead. If it comes down to me and creatures of the ocean, I’m at a supreme disadvantage, because I can’t [...]]]>

Friend: You hittin’ the water this morning?

Me: Nope, no knife.

Friend: You and that damn knife. You gotta get over that.

Me: You need to get one already. I refuse to hit the water, I don’t even like to snorkel, without a knife strapped to me.

Friend: Lame.

Me: I’ll take lame over dead. If it comes down to me and creatures of the ocean, I’m at a supreme disadvantage, because I can’t breathe underwater.

Friend: I hate that you’re always right about these things, but I’ll take my chances.

I feel like this has come up quite often for me over the last couple of years, Birds.

I don’t dive without a knife, freediving and snorkeling included. Otherwise, I might end up like this dysfunctional bachelor. (See his video reposted below:)

All of my life, my brothers and a very specific subset of friends have called me paranoid about things like, a) locking the door to my apartment (Hello, I’m a young woman who generally lives in urban areas?!), b) diving with a knife, and c) anything else that seems like common sense (not so common) to everyone else. (And yes, I’ve just officially gone over my quota for this week’s use of parenthetical devices. So stab me, please. With a knife.)

I’ll take paranoid over being an amputee. ANY DAY.

This post only exists because a) I’m not diving this weekend, b) green gunge has been making a hasty exit from my nostrils all day, and c) being sick means catching up on all the blogs I’ve been neglecting the last couple of weeks. Anyways, while catching up on this dysfunctional bachelor’s spearfishing mishap, I thought to myself- and commented on the post, something along the lines of knife! knife! knife! thank god you’re alive.

A couple of years back, I happened to be in Kona, Hawaii for about two weeks. Summertime in Kona, one of my favorite places on Earth, slams into your chest like a brick wall the second you get off the plane. The humidity that renders all of the lotion tourists pack useles, the sunshine that draws you outside and kicks your ass all day long in the water, it gets to you.

Dehydration and the vacation mentality can also make you do stupid, stupid, stupid things, like free dive without a knife.

When you’re face to face with a group of speckled morays that are posed in that creepy, frozen-like-a-statue, ready to strike, half-way in it’s cave, half-way suspended in the lilting current, you really, really wish you’d stuck to your guns and traveled with your knife. I mean, have you ever been bitten by a moray? I haven’t, but I’ve seen it happen, and those little fucking guppies latch on to you like a first-time fairy to a rock-hard cock, and there’s no letting go. Like people lose fingers (and perhaps penises? Shouldn’t lol about that though.) Please note: It’s incredibly rare to see that many large moray together, all half-suspended at once, but when you take into account that they are transfixed by the fishing-lure-like, neon colored strings dangling off the hips of your bikini bottoms, it’s just plain god awful, terrible luck.

Luckily I’m smart enough to be still and let the gulp of air still in my chest buoy me to the surface and gently ride the current back into the bay. When I reached the shore, I mentioned to the shop owner that the eel were out and about all over the little bay where he was renting snorkel gear, and like all asshole capitalists in tourist destinations, he denied it. When I told him he was full of shit, and there was no way I’d be getting back in that water without a knife, he laughed and said something along the lines of “smart girl.” And like most other asshole capitalists in tourist destinations I frequent, I wound up hanging out with him later on that night, with my bestfriend Nohea. LOL. We needed a ride back to the hotel, because walking 6 miles after a long day in the sun just plain fucking sucks . . .

FYI people out in the world who have never dived and decide to pick it up as a random vacation hobby: in exotic locales, not only are there eels, but there are also poisonous fish. You’d be wise to listen when your instructor tells you to NEVER put your feet, even when engulfed in ill-fitting fins, on the reef. Not only do you kill the reef this way, and severely damage a very fragile ecosystem, but you risk upsetting the marine life that blend in with the reef, e.g. stonefish. You know, the most poisonous fish in the freaking world?

A couple of years previous to Kona, my stepmother and youngest sister- the two of them combined can hardly even swim- decided it would be fun to snorkel with the rest of us down at Poipu (Kauai). My stepmother kept kicking her feet against the ground while my younger sister (maybe around 5 at the time?) kept crying and whining about putting her face in the water, and, of course, I kept getting pissed and telling them to quit. Luckily, I happened to look over at her while snorkeling- very piss-ily, as I’m wont to do- before the stonefish took matters into it’s own hand. She probably would have been dead before we could have gotten her back to shore. Plus, it felt really, really satisfying to yell and scream at her and tell her to quit being an idiot before she gets herself poisoned. (I hate, hate, HATE people that put their feet on the reef. How stupid can you possibly be about marine life?!)

Anyways, the heart of this post is not that I’m not paranoid, because I totally am. The point is that, while you need not be paranoid, you should err on the side of caution when entering into a situation wherein you are not able to breathe, as in consume oxygen, like when you’re underwater. That’s all, Birds.

I don’t want to one day watch your inadvertant self-taping of your death-by-sea-bass on late night news. I much prefer 30Rock reruns. (On FOX, btw. Can we lol at that?) Also, did you ever imagine, that I- a devout pacifist who is all about peace, love, and proper fiscal management- would ever ask you to please, pretty please, pack a knife? The world has turned upside down, Birds!

Don’t worry, though, my mother-henning is officially out of my system now. On to more frivolous things . . .

This guy was parked across from me, and I wanted to make out with it. Instead, I settled for stalking the lad with my mobile camera.

There were monks galore and very nifty personal microphones (that looked eerily like those old Nokia’s everyone used to have) to guide you through [...]]]> Birds, couple of weeks ago I headed South for Santa Ana‘s Bowers Museum to catch the tail-end of the Terra Cotta Warriors exhibit.

This guy was parked across from me, and I wanted to make out with it. Instead, I settled for stalking the lad with my mobile camera.

There were monks galore and very nifty personal microphones (that looked eerily like those old Nokia’s everyone used to have) to guide you through the lengthy, about 45 minutes of audio, exhibit. If the exhibit is coming to a town near you or you somewhere, somehow catch it down the road (life happens, I swear it), be warned that the actual terra cotta warriors make up less than half of the exhibit, which is actually more of a chronological collage of trinkets and votives from throughout Ancient Chinese history. Some of the pieces were painstakingly detailed- the kind of craftsmanship that you rarely see these days in the Western world- and more than made up for the false advertising of the exhibit’s content, but just sayin’, if warriors be what you seek, seek Google; the warriors only loaned out a few at a time, so said museum personnel on hand when I inquired.

And because what I primarily seek (at all museums, being a fashion-centric) are the garments from certain periods and how the framework and detail reflect the context it would be worn in, the museum’s outerlying, less flashy exhibits satisfied my need for sartorial study.

This would be a neck piece, but how many pairs of shrunken hoops does everyone (yes, everyone, because remember back when men thought piercing an ear or two was in?) who lived through the nineties own that look exactly like this? Ancient inspiration? Perhaps.

So, to give you the run-down, Bowers is like every other major museum not in the metro-meccas of LA and NYC. There are lots of older people, the cafe is always over-priced, and parking is around six or seven bucks. Think your snobbish self can handle it? Good, because over the years, I’d say Bowers is one of the better places to see exhibits that might not get the fanfare they deserve.

Also notable: the lack of artsy-tard, hipster-y types. Amen. I mean, not that I don’t love a flannel-wearing faux lumberjack as much as the next lass, but young people wearing old people glasses shouldn’t be pounding PBR’s in the parking lot of a a museum.

Just sayin’ art is sacred, PrettyBirds ! 

I am, however, on Instagram (find me: RogueRanting, instagramming random things like the picture above) and exceptionally proud that both my cities, Los Angeles and New York, have exceptionally beautiful libraries that made into on to Flavorwire’s 25 Most Beautiful Public Libraries in the World. (Remember when I went through that phase where I obsessed over the word “mediocrity” and all it’s tangible examples, like burgers without [...]]]> No, Pretty Birds, I am not.

I am, however, on Instagram (find me: RogueRanting, instagramming random things like the picture above) and exceptionally proud that both my cities, Los Angeles and New York, have exceptionally beautiful libraries that made into on to Flavorwire’s 25 Most Beautiful Public Libraries in the World. (Remember when I went through that phase where I obsessed over the word “mediocrity” and all it’s tangible examples, like burgers without cheese? Well, I’m obsessed a bit with “exceptional” things, apparently.)

Also, Remember that brilliant post I did on the overall attractiveness of the men inside NYPL’s Rosary vs. the overall attractiveness of men outside of the NYPL’s Rosary- and inside the Rosary totally kicked hot, sexy ass?

-And then, I was like, if ever you were an illiterate in New York City looking for a hot date, you’re SOL, because all (ALL) of the good-looking men in that town go congregate in silence and admire each other’s attractiveness at the one place illiterati’s generally hate to be found: THE PUBLIC LIBRARY.

That’s almost enough to make me wish I didn’t delete my archives when I switched from blogger to wordpress.com to wordpress.org all those many years ago. (Then I could link to it, and we could revisit it more formally, with a small vignette about how I am a clumsy fool who slipped up the stairs at NYPL and then slid all the way down and had a bunch of asshole Japanese tourists taking pictures of me in a state of supreme dishevelment. Bastards!) Please note, I spend wayyyy too much time at NYPL. Not kidding. Like I practically lived there when I had writing to finish up or wanted to be around attractive men that weren’t wearing too much cologne and had had too much to drink. Also, when I was in high school, any time I wanted to do something bad during strange hours of the day, I would tell my dad I was going to do some research at the library. I don’t know if he ever bought it, but he kept mum about my endless hours doing “research” for projects that earned me mediocre marks in school.

So, in short, sorry I’ve been out doing things and not posting about them or posting the back log of posts that are waiting in my draft box, but I’ve been sick. (Excuses, excuses.) Really, though, I’ve been sneezing up green shit and inadvertently poisoning myself with gluten (Odwalla, I hate you. FOREVER. Who the eff labels a bottle of juice “100% juice/puree” and slips some barlery and wheat grass in it?)

In fact, while I was typing about the Rosary Conundrum of 2007 (see two paragraphs above), I sneezed green gunge all down the front of the stolen t-shirt, displaying a football and some school name, that I occassionally wear to bed. Gross right?

Even grosser: those hipsters over at NPR review the Doritos Locos Taco. Dammnit! I totally had a review planned, but when a pale, thin blonde wearing glasses your grandpa regrets from the grave proclaims: “Doritos Orange Powder: The fat man’s cocaine.” is there really any point? Sidenote: they totally ignored the part where the shells are too thin, like thinner than a regular taco from Taco Bell, and therefore you totally don’t get a satisfying crunch to go with your Doritos Orange Powder-laced “meat and stuff”. Not that I ever actually eat Taco Bell. Mexicans don’t even eat there! (LOL?)

By the way, did you read “American’s Top 10 Cities for Hipsters”? Ugh, my favorite place in the entire world, Portland, Maine, made the list, which is like, sooooo unfortunate, because the second it becomes “discovered” rents will skyrocket, and I will NEVER be able to afford to relocate there and live in the most beautiful state of this godforsaken union. UGH. UGH. UGH. Blast you, Time!, for spreading the word. Also, how unshocked am I that Seattle, Portland, and San Francisco rounded up the top three? I’m convinced it’s because the weather there is so dreary most of the time (PNWers know all the shades of the grey-bow), they have no choice but to choke down their depression with a swig of concept coffee and drag on their plaids. Plus, who needs showers when you spend all that time out in the rain?

Oh, and this weekend, namely Sunday, I’ll be out at the LA Times Book Festival, cruisin’ for books, not gay sex in the bushes of Elysian park, because I’m a heterosexual woman. (I feel like no one ever get my “don’t get cruised” comments outside of LA. Bastards!) More on books later; Sorry, I’m a geek, so I can’t just write a sentence about Lauren Groff‘s newest novel “Arcadia.” I have to post the entire cute-and-charmingly-unpretentious email she sent everyone asking if we wouldn’t mind checking it out. Forthcoming . . .

Also, I had planned to spend next Thursday watching all of Marvel’s movie-versions of it’s comics from the last decade (in which Hollywood forgot to produce anything of any real interest) at the theatre with WB. ($40 gets you ten hours of entertainment, plus the midnight showing of the Avengers. Not bad.). Turns out I will be in Vegas from Wednesday till Saturday, and the movie isn’t until the week after? Meh, can’t remember. City Center, though? Yessssss. Please, point me towards the Tom Ford makeup counter. That is all.

Really, it’s not. But I can’t remember the rest, and I really want some hot chocolate to soothe my aching throat. My aching throat really, really needs to heal, because I’ll be deep throating next Tuesday with my new Gastro-Intestinal specialist. Upper-endoscopy? Yayyyyy anesthesia!

We’ll talk more embarrassing moments next post, because apparently one of my dearest friends thinks I have none. He gets all butt hurt when I laugh about his shit-show moments, but mine are so horrifically awful that you’d look like the biggest asshole in the world for mentioning them, especially if you are a man. (Clearly, you got my hint that one of my most embarrassing moments ever is a period story from a dreaded family vacation, right? Thanks a mil’, Aunt Rose- or whatever dumb people who hate the clinical word menstruation are saying these days.)

Oh yeah, almost forgot, which is worse: EDC in Las Vegas or EDC in New York? I know Chloe Sevigny is still achingly cool and rave party-favors have made an “exceptional” comeback, but good lord, this is not the 90′s and raves are dead. When the man who sits across from me in a ceramics class asked me if I had gotten my tickets, the look of contempt and pity I shot him should have paralyzed, but the raving SOB was probably on too many uppers for my death stare to have any real effect. Sorry, but no, no, no I won’t be going to EDC, because I’m no longer fifteen years old and desperate to stay up past my bedtime with a bunch of people swirling glow-sticks, dressed as go-go dancers, and rubbing their glittered up bodies all over me. OLD NEWS. OLD NEWS. OLD NEWS, PARTY PEOPLE.

And now, in Keeganisms, that’s all, FOR REAL! WORD! TRUE STORY!

See you ’round these parts tomorrow. Promise to be less whiny.