Dr. Everything Will Be Alright

1984.

This is the year I was born. It's also the name of a book that was banned in Communist-era Poland, which my mom talks about as if it was some mind opening anti-Bible that had something to do with her moving to America-- which it doesn't. I'm a product of these four numbers, through and through, raised with a "Video Killed the Radio Star" mentality, a short attention span, and an urge to get my "money for nothing, and the chicks for free."

Happy Anniversary?

I just realized a year ago today I started this blog. Weird that I got the urge to write the same time of year again... I promised myself big things, I guess. Seems some sort of realization came to me after the Olaf Eliasson opening at the MoMA. 

Well, this Friday you can catch me at the Guggenheim's first installation of the It Came From Brooklyn series. I'll be wearing a Martin Margiela dress and Anna Molinari heels, hoping to guise myself in the name of bigger and better things. 

Eternal Sunshine of the Exhausted Mind

I remember sitting in my 4 bedroom apartment on the top floor of an old Victorian on the Berkeley/Oakland border, surrounded by the smell of lingering weed smoke, hot sauce, and 19 year old male. I had been living with three boys for the better part of the year, and was sick of watching Braveheart and the Food Network, although part of me longs for those days now. Whenever I'm asked why I moved back to New York from the mellow sunshine of Northern California, this memory comes to mind.

Curled up with my pseudo brothers on our oversized futon couch, watching Eternal Sunshine, bursting into tears over the flimsy fence on the dunes of a snowy Long Island beach. This was the one thing I missed most about home-- the confusing texture of your foot searching for stable ground below snow, only to find more moveable particles. 

I haven't watched the film since, and it played in McCarren Park tonight. I am stuck in bed paying for my weekend, where I spent most of my day talking to one of those boys. Tomorrow I have doctors appointments all morning, and that brings me back to that Victorian house-- with the graffiti "Get Well" USPS sticker and paint marker drawn rose on my bedroom door.

I Could Use A Little Turning

It was all so innocent then-- skirts too short, lipstick too red. Back when MTV set a mood, rather than displayed a hot tub stereotype. These days, I actually understand what these songs are talking about. But then, I felt I understood feelings and words I was years away from experiencing. Although I guess I've never been in an R&B troupe, or had a boyfriend who drove a Bentley...

I am pretty sure, though, I uttered the words "I put that on my life" to a boyfriend once-- in his black Nissan 240SX, with a sunroof. Oh Foxy, once upon a time you were our lackluster Britney-- raw, truthful, and a soundtrack to my teenage naivety.

When It's All Happening, You're Bound To Get The Summertime Flu

I've had an amazing couple of weeks. Ok, months. Wait, years?

But yesterday was NOT fun. After quite the epic Sunday, definitely got home around 1:30 in the afternoon on Monday after waking up in the blazing dusty swirl of sunshine on a friend's couch in Greenpoint. Somewhere between Simian Mobile Disco's dance inertia and drinks in styrofoam cups bought by members of a certain Brooklyn band, I lost my head. 

Nothing like waking up to another month of self-proclaimed sobriety with the worst hangover of all time. Which, in turn, has become some sort of monster cold. Now, I'd like to take a moment to thank Jesus for coconut water and dance beats to get me through my days of irresponsibility... Thanks for lookin' out, kiddo!

You know I LOVES it!

It's All Happening

Me & Lauren were in touching distance of Mr. S. Carter during this performance, and both got teary eyed. Such gays we are...

Una Solución Para el Insomnio, Por Favor

I took a nap yesterday for the first time in months. This is the sort of accidental happening that only occurs out of utter exhaustion, and ends in my being cranky for the rest of the day. Instead of waking up refreshed and revitalized, I wake up swinging.

I haven't been able to sleep during the day ever since I was a child. My worked to the bone mother trying to put me down for some sunlit rest, buying herself time to carelessly flip through a Vanity Fair. And instead, I'd throw a fit- hopelessly and unconsciously worried that I'd be missing something.

I still have trouble sleeping, no matter the time of day/night. Laying awake with the fan circling dreams that I won't remember over my head, wondering what I could possibly be missing (in New York the probability is that you're missing something every second of the day) until I fall into a restless slumber- finally. Only to sleep through my alarm, miss brunch with a friend from out of town, push back a deadline, and be stuck doing laundry until my next obligation.

If you're interested in what exhausts me so, take a looksy here and here.

In other news, and hence the seemingly unrelated photo above, I'm looking for a new apartment. 2-3 bedroom, dog friendly, a loft around the Morgan L stop would be ideal (since I love my 'hood). If I don't find the perfect place, I'm seriously considering moving to Mexico (no joke). Adios!