lala land

I went to LA over the weekend with all kinds of preconceived notions based almost exclusively on the reality-show line up of the Bravo network. i've lived in California for almost two years, but I've purposely avoided the journey south for several reasons.

1) I have kind of a bad attitude. Alright, I don't really, but i do like to hate on easy targets--vegans, leisure wear by Juicy (and I'm sorry, but I can't bring myself to put the word Couture after Juicy), cougars. And since I'm fairly certain those are the three horseman of LA culture, I've always placed it squarely in the "meh" category of travel destinations.

2) Its nightlife frightens me. I like dressing up as much as the next girl, but I have visions of being forced into something by Herve Leger and then given a cocktail by a man in his late 40s and made to dance on a banquette. I'm sure that doesn't actually happen, but it's what I imagine. Why else would every party photo of LA feature an identical scene?

3) The thought of traveling everywhere in mind-numbing traffic doesn't sound that appealing. I lived in NYC for several years. I haven't owned a car since college. I like public transportation. Drivers bopping around to top 40 hits in their own little steel bubbles reminds me of something out of I, Robot. And you know how that turns out.

Nonetheless, I have a lovely friend who lives there who fits none of the stereotypes. Plus, I wanted to see if the majority of LA's female population was truly besotted with fake boobs/eyelashes/hair/nails/tans, and either "auditioning" or working as a stylist. So there I was. Although no one forced me into designer goods, almost exactly what I feared in reason-not-to-visit-LA #2 started to unfold one evening at the Chateau Marmont.

First of all, it was after midnight when we made our way there and we sat in quite a bit of traffic. Rush hour is one thing, rush hour to the bar is another. We hadn't been there for more than 20 minutes when a man in his late 40s (how did i know?!) sauntered up and said he would be buying our drinks. Well, that's nice, but we all know that free drinks never come without a price. It turned out that our new friend was "terribly successful." He lived in the neighborhood (being Hollywood). He made people very famous. These are all proclamations he's made while I put on my best "thanks for the drink, please back away from me before I put you in a headlock" face. He, however, was not getting the hint. In fact, he's starting to become very angry that I wasn't as impressed with him as he thought I should be. It became increasingly more amusing for me, and for the people around us. Eventually he skulked off, but not before declaring that he preferred to date younger women anyway (I'm 26!) and my boyfriend will never be as successful as he is. Really charming.

My friend and I had a few good chuckles over his Botox-ed face and hostile approach with women during our 45-min drive home. In the end, LA lived almost entirely up to expectations, which is not to say that I didn't have a fantastic time--I did--only that I found further evidence that a cliché is often a cliché because it's true.

mr. groverwatts

 

Everyone has one of those friends who seems capable of rocking just about everything they touch. Jireh is one of those people. When we worked together, he would sometimes arrive at the office in the morning bearing freshly baked cookies in combinations like white chocolate/macadamia nut/bing cherry, and they'd still be warm. Just as endearingly, he never brought an ordinary sandwich for lunch. Instead, he would transport all of the ingredients and build his masterpiece on site. I'm pretty sure he still does both of these things, as he was lamenting the loss of an avocado in his travels just this week. He chronicles his kitchen endeavors--that's how i know this (and i'm stalking him). 

And in addition to his culinary prowess, he's also a stellar photographer. From food porn to ladies with horse heads, his style is unmistakable. I'll let the photos speak for themselves.

 

 

 

 

 

 

To view more, check out The Grover Watts Photo Appreciation Society.

masculine sensibilities

Photo: Terry Richardson

Since moving into our new place, we've been getting the previous tenants' magazines. One would think they'd have them forwarded, but apparently not. So now we're the rather reluctant recipients of Fitness, Esquire and Details. I guess we're technically the target audience, but M's an English designer who couldn't care less about Q+A's with Matt Damon or "finding the perfect suit." As for me, I find myself consistently resentful of Fitness magazine's urgings that I seek out legumes I've never heard of and consume no more than one cocktail in an evening. No thanks. Neither of us was impressed by the sudden influx of reading material.

But as he turned his nose up at Details, I thought, "wait a minute, maybe if we trade publications here, we'll each find something we like." He can check out the toned ladies of Pilates and I can peer into the male psyche. Because he's wonderful, he wasn't interested in Fitness. Or maybe he thought it was a test. Either way, as I settled into Details, I immediately realized there was something missing from so many women's magazines--anything remotely funny.

Let's compare for a second the headlines from Details, to those from Fitness. Details: "63 Signs That You're a Giant Tool," "The Hip-Hop Star and His $30 Million Coke Binge," "Why It's Okay To Stare at Fat People." And Fitness: "Flatten Your Belly Fast," "Walk Off Every Bulge," "Snack the Smart Way." First of all, I just fell asleep compiling the second list. While one says to me, "Hey bud, the world is pretty ridiculous, here's some fodder for a laugh," the other says, "Hi. Yes you, with the un-slim thighs, let us show you the way to an eating disorder and an elliptical trainer."

One could argue that I'm simply comparing two unrelated representations of men's and women's magazines, but even when I took a look at my beloved Elle and Vogue, there's a similar disparity. Women's magazines tend to insinuate that the reader could do with a makeover and a fashion budget in the six-figures (that's not funny, it's depressing), while men's magazines are rife with far more varied, and often amusing, content that doesn't seem to suggest that the reader should change anything about himself--other than maybe upgrading his suit. 

I looked harder, perusing not only fashion magazines but more gender-neutral publications as well. The more reputable monthlies showcase literature, music and culture alongside fashion and lifestyle features, but in women's magazines there's simply none of the tongue-in-cheek writing that seems so ubiquitous in those intended primarily for men or a mixed audience. Why is that? Are women not as funny as men? Is it thought that we'll be offended more easily? Or that we won't "get it" or appreciate it? Or that we all really just want to know how to make our bottoms smaller? Please tell me that's not the case.  

Of course I'm not saying that I plan to trade in all of my subscriptions to fashion magazines for more masculine fare, I just wish there was more pizazz. We can handle it.

sybil

Photo: Corinne Day

(This post is not about Kate Moss. It's about my dad's love life.)

My dad is a pretty funny guy, and like me, he also seems to have a high tolerance for questionable behavior. But on occasion, one encounters someone so spectacularly insane that the story cannot be told without many pauses for bursts of laughter and clarification that what was said wasn't just being embellished for dramatic effect. The saga of the "really attractive, cannot-imagine-how-she-could-be-single woman" who he'd recently invited to a wedding, falls into this category.

It went like this. Dad meets (seemingly) lovely woman through a mutual friend. They go out and it goes really well. He has a wedding coming up in a month, and knowing that ladies like to be given ample time to strategize clothing options for significant events, he (perhaps prematurely, considering) asks her to be his date. She obliges, and it all pretty much goes downhill from here.

Shedding her facade of normalcy, she starts calling my dad to share increasingly worrisome details of her life. Two to three times a day, every day. This is after one date. He didn't answer. So, she left voicemails.

"...You know, I didn't get my period while i was anorexic."

"...Both of my parents used to sexually abuse me."

"Hey there scooterboot..." (Note: my dad is no one's "scooterboot." And more importantly, that's not even a real word.)
"I just got back from the doctor's. Turns out I have fluid on my pelvis."

"Today isn't going so well. My mom came into my room again last night. When will this end?!"(turns out that "mom came into my room again last night" was not further alleged sexual abuse, but merely 3am vacuuming, which she found very inappropriate)
"...still have the fluid on my pelvis..."

"Why aren't you calling me back, mister man?!" (I added "man" at the end of mister for emphasis, but she did call him "mister" on numerous occasions.) 

I think my dad did everyone a favor by not responding to any of these calls, but she was obviously not getting the hint. So he finally called her back and said that they should probably discuss the wedding (while silently plotting how he could get out of this without creating a fatal attraction scenario). Unsurprisingly, taking the rational high-road quickly led to the disintegration of all remaining shards of sanity. For one, apparently my dad should not have felt special, as she was leaving similar voicemails for "at least six other friends." Jesus. I don't know about you, but I try to spare my friends the details of my lady troubles, especially those who I've just begun dating. 

Long story short, he told her that he wouldn't be taking her to the wedding. To this she responded with eerie calmness that that was fine because if he couldn't be there for her, she was better off. That sounds like a direct threat to me. However he's assured me that, sensing her instability, he made sure that she didn't know where he lived. Like that's ever stopped a crazy woman. Anyway, we're hoping for the best. On the upside, it's making for some really entertaining impersonations.

 

my last hours as a blonde

I'm switching over to the dark side. I've been a blonde my entire life. Most recently, platinum, which is a complete nightmare in upkeep. I literally have my roots touched up every 6-8 weeks, and usually by week three, it's already in a state. So, I'm about to become a brunette.

I realize it's entirely superficial to be as concerned as I am about the outcome, but I fear that I might have some kind of identity crisis. I've looked in the mirror at varying degrees of blonde-headedness for the past 26 years. Suddenly trying to harness the alluring darkness of, say, Eva Mendes could be onerous. (too dramatic?) I just hope I don't look like a vampire.

Blonde seems the color of youth and insouciance. Dark hair is exotic and seductive. Two words I simply don't identify with. There are very few come hither stares in my repertoire. So hopefully this isn't a major misstep. But if it is, a few rounds of (harmless?) bleaching will put me back on the blonde team. As long as all my hair doesn't fall out in the process.

to the cougars

 

Ed Westwick and Helena Christensen, Photo: Terry Richardson

I don't like all the hype that cougars are getting. It's not the older-woman-dates-younger-man scenario that bothers me in the least. It's the way this thing is being carried out that makes it embarrassing for the entire female gender. "Forty is the new twenty." It's really not.

Women have been free to date younger men for quite some time. It may not have been mainstream in generations past, but there was no law prohibiting it. The lust over younger men just didn't become a thing until Demi Moore locked one down. Apparently that's when the over-forty set was sent a memo stating something along the lines of "if a woman whose beauty defies all laws of gravity and logic can marry a hot young stud, so can you." 
 

Suddenly women who would have never considered such a thing are donning platform heels, having Restylane injections and turning up at their sons' graduation parties wearing push-up bras. If i remember correctly, Mrs. Robinson was a rather mysterious and sophisticated older woman, not one who flitted around with her breasts on display, throwing her head back at all the young boys' jokes. This new generation of women on the prowl is a lot less subtle.
 

I liken it to watching squirrels trying to eat from a bird-feeder. Sure, they can climb up there and get the seeds, but it wasn't meant for them, so it's kind of messy and sad. I thought we lived in an era where it was strong, successful women who were celebrated. Since when did strong translate into going on a man-seeking rampage in questionable attire? There was a cougar convention in Palo Alto, for god's sake. It's gone too far. 

 

All of this said, young men are gorgeous, and should an older woman find herself in the apt hands of one, more power to you. All i'm saying is that there's a respectable way to do it. The following are a few points to keep it reeled in. 
 

1) Don't refer to yourself as a cougar.

2) Repeat this phrase: I am not Samantha from Sex and the City. She is a fictional character.

3) Do not attend parties where everyone else is so young that the other guests wonder who brought their mom along.

4) Furthermore, getting drunk and falling over is unattractive in your twenties. It's pathetic in your forties.

5) Do not feign interest in popular bands or sartorial trends for the sake of connecting with a younger audience. If a guy wanted to date a 25-year-old, he would date a 25-year-old.

6)  Do not make it your business to sleep with every young, foreign man who works at your office. Even if English is not his first language, you will get a reputation.

7) Unless you are actually a celebrity, resist the urge to imitate the style of your younger counterparts. I know it's unfair, but some things really are only acceptable in L.A. 

8) Taking seductive one-handed photos of yourself for any social networking site is not the act of a mature, confident woman. Don't do it.

9) Desperation is to men what fear is to dogs. Both react unkindly.
10) Please, act your age.

massive crush - alain de botton

Photograph by Christoffer Rudquist

I have a history of falling hard for brainy men completely out of my reach. My very first crush in life was Dan Rather. I couldn't get enough of him. I would literally cry when the news was over. I was three. Anyway, I think it's safe to blame nana for this one. Nan was a fiercely intelligent old gal who made it her business to ensure that i knew how to spell aurora borealis before pre-school. She really knew how to make a girl popular. 

She first introduced me to the "intellectual crush" when she expressed a (questionable, I think) fervor for Tim Russert. She unapologetically declared that she was "in love with his mind." If I learned anything in my young life, it was that you didn't question nana. This man was someone worthy of her attention. I took heed. He wasn't much on the eyes, but he was mesmerizing in debate. I kinda saw what she meant.

Fast forward to my post-college years. My own crush looms large. Dan Rather has since passed--bless him. Alain de Botton is the new man of my dreams. It started when I read his novel, On Love. In short, it's a chronicle of De Botton's first serious relationship and how it so dramatically, but unexceptionally, unraveled. It sounds trite. It's the exact opposite. Rife with philosophical underpinnings, historical references and comical illustrations, On Love made me wonder if perhaps I was in love with its author. Since then, I've systematically worked my way through his entire library of work, watched his TEDtalk an alarming number of times, and when he started following me on Twitter, (surely only because I referenced one of his books in a tweet) I thought maybe it was the start of something.

Then, while contracting with a design firm who collaborated on this year's TEDGlobal event, his personal email address landed in my inbox. What was I to do? Do I write to him and tell him how much I admire his work? Confess my love? Ask for career advice? I emailed my boyfriend to ask him if he would be upset if I threw myself at Alain de Botton via email. His response was, "Yeah go for it, but don't be lame." Well, that was that. I knew there was absolutely no way to do it without being lame. He got me.

I kept his contact info, but I still don't really know what to say. But Mr. De Botton, if you read this, email me. I'm yours.