The Happiest Activist

Typing this on an iPad

2011-05-30T18:20:00.002-05:00

...is pretty much the only positive thing I can say about this post.

This weekend was exhausting. Some time after your second year of "adult life,", the day-after sensations of an evening conquered kind of fade and are replaced with tiredness and a hovering emotion of regret that you can never tie back to any particular event. It's one of those, "I could have stayed in and had a glass of wine and red a book" regrets. Pointless.

Anyways, life in general is great. I ended my time at the University of Texas on a higher note than expected, and my future in regards to my career and overall life excitement (one of the few intangible measures of happiness that can be somewhat quantified) seems confirmed. On the other hand, I have no tangible relationship, at least romantically, and grappling with my expectations of people continues to be a battle fought externally more often than not. As in, I don't need to dwell on my disappointments. I change what disappoints me or vent to close friends about whatever iniquity I'm faced with.

That's where this blog comes in. I usually don't even publish what I write--by the time I'm finished authoring a post, I've untangled whatever mess of feelings I have come to write about in the first place and no longer give a shit about sharing it.

Today, though, is different, because I don't even know what's wrong. I have externalized all of the hang-ups I could source, but right now I feel betrayed, abandoned and disrespected. It involves someone specific but is not necessarily their fault my emotions are pulverized. Pummeled is an appropriate verb to describe the process it took for me to arrive at this cold and disconnected place, because it happened so slowly and I felt every blow. I knew where the game was headed before the hammer was even raised.

And now I am lost in my own post, once again. I've nothing to say, and likely no real counsel can be given aside from "Awwww feel better!" If I can just hold others to their own standards rather than my own, perhaps I can find a little peace with human kind.

I hope you enjoyed getting lost in a directionless post for 45 seconds.

F-word

2011-03-30T16:43:00.003-05:00

A few days ago I was at a bar and ordered a Jack and coke. It was weak. I told the bartender I'd like a bit of whiskey in my whiskey, and he responded with a swift, "Go f*** yourself." He was then corrected by a fellow bartender with, "Help him out or he'll f******* Yelp about it."

I left the bar. The bartender told fellow patrons--a few of which came up to me after my leaving--"If he comes back in here I'll kick his f***** ass."

And that's, "faggot," to clarify. Not "fucking."

I don't have a problem with being called names. I have dealt with that kind of crap my entire life. I am also a man before I am a gay person; I grew up with a little brother and I am used to fighting back, for better or for worse. I've killed animals. I like beer. I love classic rock and have an amazing father who loves me more than anything. This isn't to say I don't freak out over Lady Gaga or that I didn't download Britney's new album three weeks ago or haven't been playing it on repeat for that entire span of time. I wear tight white pants and I love my girlfriends and I don't apologize for it.

What I have a problem with is the assumption that a gay person wouldn't fight back. That a self-conscious "bro" would call me a faggot and expect me sink into the earth like the wilting flower that I am. Gay people are, in large part, not taken very seriously. As you know, we all love to party and dress in drag and only drink vodka cranberry and wear feather boas and work as strippers once our day shifts at Abercrombie have ended.

These assumptions, while based in a reality I am more entertained than ashamed by, lead to people calling us faggots in bars and expecting no consequences.

This particular bar, The Yellow Jacket Social Club, did feel the consequences, however brief. Customer complaints, a much-lowered Yelp score, a few angry facebook comments on their page (including mine). But these complaints were met with even more callous ignorance. "Some gay person got mad and got all his friends to write on Yelp. Typical story," read one review following mine and others. "Embrace who you are. One angry customer doesn't change anything," said another.

If only they understood the underlying attitudes that fueled these bartenders' remarks; centuries of religious confusion and populist, utopian ideologies have ingrained upon them the mark of false superiority, borne of the illusion that there is only one path to greatness. And that path, dear readers, is paved in pearly white stones stained by cheap beer and littered with empty bottles of Levitra and tattered NRA pamphlets.

Hopefully none of the commenters who responded to my review in the cruelest of all tones--condescension--were black, Asian, Native American, hispanic, Jewish, red-headed or female. (Or, as Gaga would say, "Black, white, beige, chola descent, lebanese, and Orient.") That would be an indirect affront to the problems that affect the non-majority members of the United States on a daily basis, a shoot-yourself-in-the-foot situation.

I am a leader in the number one advertising school in the nation, and I'm a decent artist with a helluva decent resume. I've got powerful friends and good taste. I can also outrun you both long and short-distance, and if I try, I can definitely snatch away your girlfriend.

To conclude, I am a white dude. I am as WASP-y as they come. I am, however, attracted to men.

So next time you call me faggot, take it seriously. Bitch.

A strange place to be

2011-02-07T20:04:00.002-06:00

I am in love
but with no one

I am unsure what this means. I have somehow amalgamated each three-line text, look in the street and flutter of the heart into a being that, right now, does not exist. Sometimes he's tall with a reddish beard (keep the beard, dye the hair), but most often he's only two days unshaven and is dating one of my platonic girlfriends. Sometimes he's dressed like a slob. Last night he spoke French and tutored chemistry students in a post-ironic coffee shop.

Should I be grateful that I wake up in love or heartbroken that I fall asleep alone?

Self explanatory

2011-01-24T17:48:00.002-06:00

A night in 2008

2010-11-09T18:30:00.004-06:00

Sitting at a table, legs pulled up to my chest; my jacket is black and oversized, a bit of red-and-black plaid peeping through the thick unzipped planes of dark wool. I'm listening, but not really. Good people, a lot of laughter. Good haircuts all around. We're passing around Pearl and Pabst Blue Ribbon and Miller High Life--horrible beers, but this is before I was picky about what beer I drank. Cigarettes and a few discarded cans crowd a small terra cotta pot in the center of the wrought iron table; faint smoke rises, but we're all talking and smoking and the hot breath and the cold air and the cigarette smoke are all just a jumbled mess, but it's not messy--it's destined. Artful even. I'm sitting in a cold green leather wing chair, the best chair on the porch. The roof is gone, so we can see stars through spindly tree branches and when I look up everything disappears. I don't hear the bits of conversation I was already ignoring and I don't think of whether or not I'm being looked at and I don't really feel anything physical, just an overwhelming sadness--sadness that this moment doesn't last forever, that a night like this only exists in most peoples' memories, yet everyone has it. Everyone, including my parents and theirs, has experienced this night, and that makes it even more sad. There's solidarity between me and the versions of me that lived in the eighties, and the sixties, and even before, but still I hate that it doesn't belong to me only. But that also makes it special. I look back down and color returns. Faint light. Someone's putting on a record, which I assume I'll most likely detest, and I wonder why we cannot just continue to sit here in quiet and stare at each other and why we aren't all in awe of how perfect this night is. I stare at a boy who's just moved in from Mexico, and his mattress is propped up against the wall in the yard. Can't really see it. Too dark. But he has just enough light on him from the cigarette-beer can candle to show off his long straight nose and thick eyebrows. Cute. Into me, maybe. A new acquaintance, one of the girls who has a neat haircut, leans over and whispers, "You two would have the most beautiful babies." I want to snicker something back but my heart jolts, and while I say nothing I feel suddenly ashamed and ugly and young. I've never learned to take complements. And this girl doesn't even know me, so her statements are weightless, despite their basis is strictly physical appearance. I suddenly hear the leaves under my feet and shuffle back and forth, crunching and sliding on the sandy porch. Perhaps it wasn't sandy, but in winter it seems everything is covered in a thin, imperceptible layer of cold dirt, and I feel this cold dirt as I slide back and forth. I can see that my Moment is fading and I look up at the sky again in hopes that I will feel alone again but I don't.

This is one of my favorite memories of my life, and it happened in Austin in late 2008. I had met a new group of friends, and with those friends completely found identity. I was no longer Dustin Is-He-Gay or Dustin Is-He-Smart: I was smart, friendly, gay Dustin. And that was nice. I'm often nostalgic about this one night in particular. You just can't recreate some things.

Shakira's Body: Altered for American version of "Loca?"

2010-10-20T19:19:00.003-05:00

Shakira's new single, "Loca," is one of her best efforts in recent memory, as is the album it's selected from, but I am disturbed by a difference I noticed in the American and Spanish-language versions of the single's music video.

The Spanish version:

And the English version:

Is it just me or did Shakira lose a few pounds between video shoots? Oh, wait, that's impossible; it's the SAME SHOOT. So, what, we American's can't handle a beautiful woman? She has to be photoshopped ANOREXIC to be objectified? NOT FAIR.

Projections in the sand

2010-09-26T21:06:00.001-05:00

This is the kind of art that makes me jealous.

"Go all out in romance and let the chips fall where they may."

"Exceptional people deserve special concessions." (e.g. I don't know, me?)

This is the kind of art that makes me jealous.

Simple, meaningful, and aesthetically interesting.

I'm unsure of their origin, but I'm thinking Singapore. (via my friend Evan's Facebook.)

Marc Jacobs, 2005

2010-09-07T10:41:00.008-05:00

Amy Larocca of New York Magazine wrote a quietly riveting article on Marc Jacobs in 2005 and I only stumbled upon it a few days ago. As is typical, I'm never interested in something immediately, and stashed it away in my left-of-the-screen-oriented menu bar for a rainy day. Obviously, the "rainy day" idiom is just that, but today it's pouring.

A few highlights:

On his clothes:

“It’s more psychological,” Jacobs says. “For people that don’t have any interest in the psychology of nuance, who need everything to be in their face, who don’t want to analyze . . . those aren’t the people I romanticize about dressing.”

“I don’t have any problem with what people refer to as sexy clothes,” Jacobs says. “I mean, everybody likes sex. The world would be a better place if people just engaged in sex and didn’t worry about it. But what I prefer is that even if someone feels hedonistic, they don’t look it. Curiosity about sex is much more interesting to me than domination. Like, Britney and Paris and Pamela might be someone’s definition of sexy, but they’re not mine. My clothes are not hot. Never. Never."

"I like romantic allusions to the past: what the babysitter wore, what the art teacher wore, what I wore during my experimental days in fashion when I was going to the Mudd Club and wanted to be a New Wave kid or a punk kid but was really a poseur. It’s the awkwardness of posing and feeling like I was in, but I never was in. Awkwardness gives me great comfort. I’ve never been cool, but I’ve felt cool. I’ve been in the cool place, but I wasn’t really cool—I was trying to pass for hip or cool. It’s the awkwardness that’s nice.”

“When I first moved here [Paris], my life was just like a frustrated version of what my life had been in New York,” Jacobs says. He didn’t (and still doesn’t) speak French. He didn’t like the food, the pace, the absence of multiethnic, all-hours takeout food. But, sober, he began to enjoy the city’s gentler rhythms: the quieter nightlife, the diminished options and temptations. Now his life is centered around two dogs and an apartment in a bougie corner of the 8th Arrondissement by the Champs de Mars, surrounded by families and diplomats and the odd tourist on his way to the Eiffel Tower. “I always get this certain anxiety when I’m in New York,” Jacobs says. “I see these billboards and Websites and movie openings and galleries and everyone’s like, ‘Have you seen Desperate Housewives? Have you seen The O.C.?’ I start hyperventilating. How can you stay on top of the art scene and what’s on TV, and read all those books? In New York, I just feel paralyzed by all that I’m missing. I feel stupid, uninformed. I don’t feel like that as much in Paris. It’s healthier for me.”

[Ed. Around this time in 2005, everyone should recall the worldwide proliferation of neon-tinted Louis Vuitton prints printed on white or black traditional bags. They were designed by someone arguably more creative than Jacobs' himself, Takashi Murakami, who recently collaborated with Kanye West.]

“It’s not like I can make the Murakami moment happen again,” he says. “It’s not like if I went to the beach for a week and thought about it, I could come back with an answer. There are moments where it’s like, Oh, God, everything’s okay right now, but if I don’t come up with something soon, how are they going to feel about me then? This is the root of my psychological problems. There’s an exercise that I learned in therapy to be present, to be open to new experiences and then let go of the results. That’s what’s worked for me in the past. Of course, it doesn’t mean it’s going to work for me in the future."

“There are nights when I can’t sleep. I go into a fantasyland and tableau sort of thinking, like, Tonight would be the perfect night to say, ‘Honey, I’m really tired and worried about work. And tell me about your day. Do you think someone will read this and try to get in touch with me?” He looks hopeful. “If I read that about someone, I’d drop him a note.”

Well, my day was fine, Marc, what about you?

Art in iTunes

2010-09-06T12:30:00.003-05:00

So I designed this album art for a really talented friend of mine, Jennifer Sullivan, and it released on iTunes this week! Super cool, even though it's my worst work yet. But she looks gorgeous and the EP is fantastic. Everyone buy it here, if you like Norah Jones and Fiona Apple.

The Death Penalty

2010-09-03T16:00:00.002-05:00

There is no need to retype or explain this story; its speaks for itself.

From Wikipedia.

"Virginia Christian (1895 – August 16, 1912) was the last female juvenile offender executed in the United States.^[1] She was also the only female juvenile executed via electric chair and, to date, the last woman executed by the Commonwealth of Virginia.^[2]

Christian, an African-American maid, was convicted for the murder of her white employer Mrs. Ida Virginia Belote, a white woman, aged 72 years, in her home at Hampton on March 18.^[3] It is said she confessed shortly after she was arrested.

Belote frequently mistreated Christian, and in mid-March 1912, a violent argument ensued between the two in which Belote accused Christian of stealing a locket and a skirt. Belote hit Christian with a cuspidor—commonly called a “spittoon”—which sent Christian into a violent frenzy. The altercation escalated when Christian and Belote ran for two broom handles Belote used to prop up her bedroom windows. Christian grabbed one of the broom handles and struck Belote on the forehead. In an attempt to stifle Belote’s screams, Christian stuffed a towel down Belote’s throat, and the woman died by suffocation. When Christian left the house, she stole Belote’s purse with some money and a ring. One newspaper reported that police found Belote’s body “laying face down in a pool of blood, and her head was horribly mutilated and a towel was stuffed into her mouth and throat” (Streib & Sametz, 1989, p. 25; see also Moten, 1997). The police soon arrested Christian, and during questioning she admitted to hitting Belote but was shocked that Belote was dead. Christian claimed she had no intent to kill Belote. With a lynch mob looming in the background, an Elizabeth City County Court tried and convicted Christian for murder and the trial judge sentenced her to death in the state’s electric chair. One day after her 17th birthday in August 1912, a short 5 months after the crime, Virginia authorities executed Christian at the state penitentiary in Richmond.^[3]

Governor William Hodges Mann declined to commute the death sentence, despite a plea from Virginia's mother, Charlotte Christian, who wrote to him:

My dear Mr. Governor: Please forgive me for bothering you ... I have been paralyzed for more than three years and I could not look after Gennie as I wants to. I know she done an awful wicked thing when she killed Miss Belote and I hear that people at the penitentiary wants to kill her. But I am praying night and day on my knees to God that he will soften your heart. If you only save my child who is so little, God will bless you forever.^[3]

Christian was electrocuted in the state prison in Richmond. She was 17 years old. The paper reported that her body was to be turned over to the state medical school, because her parents did not have the money to transport the body from Richmond."

Sometimes, it really sucks having a blog.

2010-09-02T22:18:00.002-05:00

Sometimes, there are feelings inside of me that even verbal discussion cannot rectify. Written language is far more distilled, more real. I'm sure someone somewhere would tell me I'm wrong. But either way, I can't even write out these emotions; the risk of peo- no, specific people taking my words out of context is too great.

I am BLOGGEDLY OPRESSED, PAINFULLY LOVESICK, and DESPERATELY TIRED OF MY PATH.

xoxo,

The "HAPPIEST" Activist

Longwinded Mantra

2010-09-01T10:57:00.003-05:00

Line by Baz Luhrmann, design by me.

New Music: Kylie Minogue's "Outta My Way"

2010-08-29T11:39:00.004-05:00

I have been obsessed--literally--with Kylie Minogue's hot-as-a-flaming-rainbow track "Get Outta My Way" since late May. That's four straight months of repeat plays. I dance to it, run to it, drive to it, dress to it, dream to it. It's a bubblegum anthem without any of the deep stuff that so easily wears us thin. (Some popstars take themselves too seriously when they reach Kylie's age. Case in point: The "introspective songwriting" of the American Life album.)

The preview for the video is below. This is major.

Oito Dias de Português

2010-08-18T10:58:00.014-05:00

Portugal is hard to describe in words. Or, rather, it would be unfair to explain it in words exclusively. When I returned from Paris last year--feels like last week--I was so heartbroken I could literally cry on cue. Luckily, my feelings this time are of immense fulfillment and hope for future visits. I am, without a doubt, returning to Portugal before I go anywhere else in Europe. (I say that now, of course.) It is a perfect place. A place of both serenity and energy, of love and sadness and longing. The Portuguese have a name for this infectious emotional ebb: saudade. It is why they sing Fado, why they can sit and watch a sunset every night of their lives, and why they never leave.

The Alfama district, dating back to the fifteenth century.

At Cascais, outside Lisbon. There were dancers in the square, and of course we joined in at one point.
Sunset for the eurovacationers in Cascais.

Even the dogs feel saudade. (Alfama)

This picture is relevant for some reason. I promise.

In Portugal, this is called, "a wedgie." Except, their wedgies can occur in crystalline Atlantic waters in the rocky coast of the Algarve.

Maria's boyfriend and I having an intense staring match.Plaia Dona Ana at low tide.

My favorite girl, Carolina, at Costa de Caparica.

In Lagos. Local red wine, three courses and a thick tuna steak in a tomato broth. One of the best meals I've ever eaten.
Sunset in the Algarve.
The Pradas and Bo's leg at sunset at Cos(h)ta de Caparica.
All night long (all night)!

"Bo, hurry the hell up" face. (Lisbon)

In the female tween Myspace vernacular, this is "< 3"

The view at Sintra's nothing to write home about, really.
Posing at the Torré de Belém.
"Quick, let's sit on these tables!" Sin, sin. (That's Portuguese, not holy-speak.)

To conclude. Lisbon by night, the fire that burns inside of me and will never extinguish.

Suitcase for Portugal

2010-08-08T17:01:00.004-05:00

Leaving for Lisbon tomorrow, and I'm super excited about my suitcase this time around. I mean, the picture doesn't do it any justice--my favorite pieces aren't even in the shot--but I'm going international for Lisbon. All-American Sperry's hi-top sneakers, a Tiger of Sweden pant, Havaianas flip-flops, Ralph Lauren blazer and Prada swim shorts and sunglasses. I am also bringing a Mexican skull scarf and an African necklace, as well as a pair of tan trunks I bought in Stockholm last year. The general theme is striped, loose, and short. Lots of denim, too.

Of course I'm bringing some great reads for the beach. Jack Kerouac, Bret Easton Ellis, some novel my friend Emily lent me called Dry.

I'm super nervous for Lisbon. Hope I can fit in the inevitably large pile of clothing I buy once I'm there...

Rihanna

2010-07-27T16:59:00.009-05:00

A few nights ago I saw Rihanna in concert. Her performances were fiery, angry. She was believable as a whip-toting badass, strutting onstage in thigh-high hooker boots and chain-mail hosiery, a vision of 21st Century femininity: I'm sexy, but don't touch me. It was a drastic change from her opening show for Kanye West in 2008, which I was also lucky enough to witness.

When I saw her at Kanye's Glow In The Dark Tour, I wrote, "No amount of costume changes or stage dancers can make up for [Rihanna's] obvious lack of hip-hop credibility." How amazing, then, that she arrives onstage in 2010 riding on the barrel of a hot-pink tank blaring lyrics about how hard the game has transformed her.

I'm a huge fan of her last album. Looking back on her ranking on my Happiest Albums of the decade list last December, I should have added Rated R to the top ten; with it's perfectly coalesced emotional ingredients--defiant anger, scorned-girl brattiness, heart-wrenching sadness and reverse-cowgirl sexuality--and admittedly addictive singles (namely "Rude Boy," easily among my favorite songs by Rihanna), Rated R was a near-perfect mainstream pop album.

Somehow, though, a lot of listeners find Rihanna phony and her lyrics empty. Even Pitchfork, the only music review website with any credibility, called her new direction "expected" and unoriginal. See, that's just sad. Christina Aguilera may have released a defiant second album, and Janet may have The Velvet Rope, but to say Rihanna's bitter verses are expected is offensive to female musicians everywhere. Drake just recently released an album full of self-conscious admittances and crumbling-ego confessions, yet no one pointed out the obvious comparisons to every single Kanye West album. Do you want a full album of "Pon De Replays?" Because I will choose "Rockstar 101" over anything on A Girl Like Me or Music of the Sun.

Oh, and there's this.

Teenage Dream

2010-07-24T12:19:00.003-05:00

Last night I was at a summer party for the agency I worked for last year. I've stayed in touch with nearly every employee, and regularly do contract creative work for the company.

The creative director, whom I admire for more reasons than I can count, is one of the biggest influences in my life. My relationship with him and the other creatives at the office form an essential component of my ego, and is why I work hard to impress anyone I respect. Of course, I was also given one of his Prada bathing suits recently, and wearing it in his strobing hot tub with his partner and our friends at 2:00 a.m. is entirely surreal; one of those, "I live a good life" kind of moments.

But, aside from a hangover, I woke up today in a melancholy haze. Something about being 21, about entering the senior year of my University education, about moving on and out and up and over--I wouldn't say I'm scared, but I am feeling a bit jarred in regards to my future, out of harmony with what I so easily picture in my head. I feel focused, and being with people I imitate always serves to remind me of What I Ultimately Want, but in all seriousness, how the hell am I going to get it?

This morning will be marked as a turning point. I'm going to work harder than ever; I will only accept flawlessness in everything I do, and I can't afford to wait for opportunities (as if I've ever waited around for anything). I need to be what I want to be today, not next Monday. Not once finals are over. Not "once I've balanced out my schedule."

I guess I am kind of scared. I'm worried that I won't be able to live up to the life I've built for myself, the reputation I've secured and the expectations of the people I would die for. (I'm not even dramatizing here--I have problems with obsession.) I am cleaning up my squeaky-clean act, adding a second hitch to my star and riding this out in hopes of surprising even myself.

I Pity The Haters

2010-07-23T10:20:00.006-05:00

The most intense and divisive conversations I have with people nearly always begin with, "I have a song I want to play you."

Pop music is a litmus test in the process of young adult coolness authenticity: "You listen to Bon Iver?" [You're cool.] "You listen to Kylie Minogue?" [You're lame, unintelligent, out-of-the-loop, immature, self in-actualized.]

Essentially, pop music can be enjoyed by girls aged in single digits, so if you listen to pop music you have the taste of a nine year-old. Of course, there are exceptions. Lady Gaga, for instance, has been scratched off the Guilty Pleasure list by Rolling Stone and Pitchfork, the birthplaces of indie cred and tectonic divergence zones for what is and is not acceptable to have on your iPod. Other exceptions involve music sites like Hype.fm and Pandora. ("If Taylor Swift plays in my Pheonix channel, I can't help that. I only have so many songs I can skip per hour!")

You can also be so out you're in, like Fergie. I'm not sure how that works, but everyone loves Fergie. I know cokeheads and band agents and American Apparel employees alike who will lose their shit when "Glamorous" comes on. "This is my jam!"

The irony is that many artists with a massive "underground" (i.e. depressed hipster) following like Uffie have pop sensibilities stronger than major aboveground musicians. "DVNO" by Justice is more radio-friendly than anything Gwen Stefani ever released, and she has multiple #1's and a legion of teenage fans.

Acceptable music acts like The Gossip, Tokyo Police Club, and Surfer Blood are the aural equivalent of nails being repeatedly driven into my skull. If I was a cave man, I'd love the grating chorus line of "Keep The Car Running" by Arcade Fire, but I heard Britney Spears' "Crazy" as a preteen inside a Chuck E. Cheese and know that pop music can change your life.

Pop music doesn't alter your life in the same way Fiona Apple does, however. Pop music is so frothy you don't even need to filter the lyrics. With our intellectual webs disabled, pop music hits directly at our pleasure (or pain) centers. The sensation can be so real even the most jaded of hipsters will, I guarantee you, dance when "Rude Boy" plays. They will belt out Mariah's "We Belong Together" in private. They will play Katy Perry's newest single, "Teenage Dream," and tear up in their rooms reflecting on high school memories.

"Teenage Dream" is a perfect example of Pop That Changes Your Life: "You say I'm pretty without any makeup on/...let's go all the way tonight." Damn. Have we not all lived through this? Why cast hate on a story told through this medium? As if hipsters speak more eloquently than most pop music is sung. "You make me/ feel like I'm living a/ teenage dream." There's no pretense. Come as you are, listeners, because we've all been teenagers and you don't need a degree from Columbia and a longtime pretend relationship with "a fashion designer from Brooklyn" to appreciate the first time you woke up and realized you were a little less innocent than you were the day before.

I pity anyone who can't appreciate the sugar rush of Kylie Minogue's "Get Out of My Way" or the electric bounce of Leighton Meester's "Your Love's A Drug." A good pop song, on first listen, can be better than sex. Just as pop can give life, however, pop also taketh away; I remember listening to Usher's "Love In This Club" (a painfully mediocre pop song, really) in the car for the first time and nearly getting into a wreck due to my temporary ecstasy.

We cheat pop music out of whatever potential it has to effect people when we label it the way we do; "deep art" can often be even more transparent than pop, which has a sense of irony and is rarely serious. There's more humor in Perry's "California Gurls" than in any song The Heartless Bastards ever conceived, more tangible emotion in Robyn's "Should Have Known" than any sculpture in the MoMA. (This may or may not be an exaggeration.)

I can't convince anyone to like pop music. You understand the appeal or you don't. However, like someone born with a poor sense of smell can never understand the appeal of French food, I can only try my best not to rub it in.

What is happening?!

2010-07-21T22:06:00.004-05:00

Today I woke up at nine after a full nights' sleep. I watched Ellen and drank two cups of coffee.

After breakfast, I meandered over to the office where I worked six hours designing; I made $100.00. Got compliments from my boss.

During my lunch hour, I planned a trip to Portugal with my brother. Dad said, "Yes."

I then came home to see I had received a new book two days ahead of schedule. ("Portrait of an Addict as a Young Man," by Bill Clegg.)

I washed down a beer and drove to Central Market; saw an old friend of mine who has a crush on me. (Tonight, my friends were having a vegetarian barbeque by the pool, so I picked up my favorite salsa and a pack of Blue Moon beer.)

I drank more, ate decent tofu kebabs, and we talked about relationships and the rapping style of Nikki Minaj.

At ten, I left for home to watch my favorite Bravo show and finish reading Bridges of Madison County.

Two years ago, I would call this a very full and satisfying day. The perfect summer evening, spent with friends and flies and frothy sweet alcohol. Money in the pocket, a trip quickly approaching, and a pretty decent tan.

I'm still "happy." Yet, right now, I am frightfully discontented with my life.

American Glamor?

2010-07-21T18:19:00.003-05:00

I've recently become obsessed with the style of paparazzi photos. The spontaneity, their rough quality; I find the way in which they're captured fascinating, as well. Obtrusive, uninvited photographers capture people at their most vulnerable. CSS Lewis once said somewhere, "If someone is caught off guard they're true soul is shown." Or, you know. Something like that.

This photo is of Mischa Barton, someone I have never actually seen act or sing or dance in any capacity whatsoever. I don't care about her. The photo, however, is stunning. It's actually a paparazzi shot I gave a quickie edit to reveal the composition. Mischa is now kind of a fatso, which makes this even more interesting; her golden moments are gone.

If only I had been there to watch her glow fade!

Scatterbrained

2010-07-16T15:34:00.002-05:00

Shot for my friend, musician Jennifer Sullivan. More to come...

The Idealized Lady Gaga

2010-07-09T22:38:00.003-05:00

21 Years

2010-07-02T21:43:00.006-05:00

Tomorrow, at exactly 12:07 a.m., I will have been alive on this earth for 21 years.

Twenty-one years of love, and family, and laughter. Twenty-one years of phenomenal friends, the best mother in the world, a loving and accepting father--a best friend in my brother.

But it has also been 21 years of tears and heartbreak. Melodramatic and ultimately minor, in truth, but I have felt pain so suffocating I could not breathe, so painful I could not open my eyes. I have "seen the light," but it was so bright it left me blind. I have also felt fear, a lot of fear. An inordinate, unnecessary amount of fear.

But right now, on this night, I am alive. I am alive with the soft yellow light of my room, the fan blowing air like passing phantoms; I am alive with three glasses on the side of my bed--one for water, one for coffee, one this evening's wine; I am alive with my floor completely camouflaged in old art prints and khakis, a copy of Interview splayed open to a shot of M.I.A.

I love fiercely and only know love that is obsessive, grasping, under the skin. Detriment--likely--but a Universal Truth of Dustin O'Neal at Twenty. Maybe I'll learn casual love later.

As I teeter on this brink, the true, last moment of childhood, I feel nothing. I am happy, but I was happy yesterday.

And I'll be happy tomorrow, as long as everyone shows up to my party.

Lady Gaga's "Alejandro"

2010-06-08T12:38:00.004-05:00

Gaga's new video has been on the air for less than an hour and "LADY GAGA OFFENSIVE VIDEO" headlines are already flowing like the freshly spilt tears of Pope Benedict XVI.

When something is offensive it must provoke and upset not by default but by intent, so do not mistake Lady Gaga and Steven Klein as accidentally ruffling the alms-paid-for feathers of the Catholic church. In a perfect world, or just an educated world, the word "offensive" would never coincide with a comment about art. Art is supposed to be offensive and I dare anyone to name a piece of art, whether a play or a song or a sculpture made of discarded placenta, that gave a distinct emotional impression without provocation.

But controversy aside, the video is just okay. Which, in the context of the video's pop cultural importance, is a fairly brutal criticism. "Alejandro" is, after all, a much-anticipated collaboration between one of the most talented American photographers and the most exciting musician in the world as of 2010 and yet, there isn't much of a story or even anything remotely pleasurable to look at. What I saw was a dark, unsurprising collage of interesting (but ultimately--and this is the worst part--pointless) imagery that would be better suited for the centerfold of W or Arena and not reeled into a projector and placed onscreen.

There are a few amazing moments. Near the end of the video, with Gaga standing alone in what seems like the demure outfit your salsa instructor would wear at any small-town ballet studio, there are sparks of real inspiration. Marching and snapping her alabaster fingers, she is defiant and beautiful. The following dance sequence is another strong moment, and the story of the track itself--modern women, the struggle and judgement of society towards homosexual men, and the torturous relationships between these entities--becomes at least somewhat apparent. With her gay soldiers marching at her side, preparing for their incoming battle against the brilliant critiques of Bill O'Reilly and Glenn Beck, she transcends her human body as Lady Gaga and, in a move that is becoming increasingly easy for her, transforms into a kind of religious icon, an image of something otherworldly. The video ends with her being obsessively disrobed and tossed about, finally exposing her breasts to her acolytes. This is disturbing, but fame is disturbing, and when interpreted this way, the lyrics of "Alejandro" seem disturbing.

Hopefully her next effort, for "Monster" I presume, will be more original. Gaga's already worshiped, but pop-cultural holiness requires a few miracles now and then.

And, as a big fan of Steven Klein, I couldn't help but notice the similarities between the video and a past shoot of Klein's for French Vogue in 2009, picture below. Even the haircuts on the male dancers are identical. Copying your art for the Queen of Pop? Now that's "offensive."

Baptism/Cheerleaders

2010-05-25T14:21:00.007-05:00

I haven't posted anything about music in months. Or, like, years.

But sometimes you have two diet cokes and five cups of coffee before noon and, all of a sudden, writing a few words on new music is more an obligation than a distraction.

On the whole, the pop music world is sort of at a standstill. The invention of Lady Gaga has placed a lot of new artists immediately on the shelf of Been There, Done That. The Gaga effect is so clear, songs like "OMG" by Usher are actually getting airplay. Actually hitting #1 on Billboard. Actually being illegally downloaded. Like tasting a filet mignon and being sentenced to Wendy's square meat patties for all of eternity, we as a pop audience have to dig a bit for anything even relatively tasty.

The food metaphors are a perfect lead-in to "Treats" by Sleigh Bells. Seriously, what the fuck is this? The duo--composed of some death metal musician and a girl group dropout--has created some exceptionally bizarre music. The album is aggressive, almost scary, with crunchy guitar sound effects and bass hits that sound more like boulders colliding in low gravity than an 808. I normally don't listen to "alternative"

(Sorry, a shudder just ripped through my body, sending me awkwardly to the floor of Thunderbird Coffee. Caffeine effect?)

As I was saying, Sleigh Bells is not my usual fare, but the songs are irresistible. My favorite track is "Riot Rhythm," probably because of the cheerleader chants. I just love cheerleaders. If Sleigh Bells had an owl on their album cover I probably wouldn't like them so much, but I continually picture the old McQueen ads and, as I grow deaf blasting "Tell 'Em" and yelling out my car window, I picture her doing cheers and flirtatiously (i.e. sluttily) dancing to the industrial sound of Treats.

The new Crystal Castles is pretty sick, too. "Baptism" is my favorite of the new tracks. I think this is a record that, if Lindsay Lohan had any foresight or taste or culture, would have been wise of her to collaborate on. "Baptism," and the album's lead single, "Empathy," are the kind of accessible underground that propelled Justice to international fame. (Or, at the very least, Youtube fame.) Ambitious, not so much--the album is standard CC fare--but it's enjoyable if you aren't in your room with the lights out.

May's seen more than a few killer singles. Kelis' "Flesh Tone" has already unloaded "Fourth of July," "Brave," and impossible-to-hate "Emancipate Yourself," Kelis' answer to Madonna's "Sorry." B.o.B. is boring as hell, but "Magic" (featuring the insanely sexy vocals of Rivers Cuomo, who is hot by rule of his moniker alone) is bouncy fun without any JoBros musical reference.

Xtina's "WooHoo" is one of those embarrassing tracks you can't imagine being approved ("you don't need a plate/just ya face/ahh") and Keane still sucks ass. No surprise there; being relegated to soft-rock radio play in Applebees is a sure sign you should never have a rapper featured on your album. Like, ever.

To conclude, I recommend that no one ever listens to "Freaky" by Koda Kumi. It is horrible and I somehow bought it on iTunes and have no recollection of the purchase. Don't suffer with me.

Miley Cyrus

2010-05-12T10:37:00.003-05:00

I cannot help it. I love Miley Cyrus.

I haven't listened to any of her music, aside from "Party In The USA," and I've never seen any of her movies nor her television show. The only Miley I know is a Hollywood brat who speaks with what sounds like a half-eaten Quizno's in her mouth and walks like she's way hotter than she is. (And who wouldn't with the guys she gets? Justin Gaston? He may be annoying and vapid but look at his...er, cheekbones!)

Last summer, a time of post-Paris depression and heartache, had one bright moment, and that was The Kid's Choice Awards. Miley Cyrus pole-danced to what would soon become one of my favorite songs of 2009, and it moved me. She made me wish I was straight just so I could lust after her properly. Miley isn't Hannah Montana. She is a young, virginal temptress and I will lap up any drops of pop culture she drools onto the public consciousness.

Since TKCA, she's gotten a tattoo as a seventeen year old, dirty danced (well) on a 44 year old man in front of her family, and literally cannot be seen without her hotpants and Fry's. The "Party In The USA" vid should have been evidence enough that she was taking the non-Hillary Duff route to long-lasting fame, and even if I'm the only fan left, I will be there when she takes her Lindsay Lohan tumble into cactus.

Here's to you, Miley. Hopefully I can dirty dance with you sometime. Perhaps to "Can't Be Tamed."

xoxo

Summer LITERALLY starts NOW

2010-05-07T17:29:00.003-05:00

I love everything about this.

http://www.katyperry.com/

Mister Donut

2010-05-05T00:05:00.003-05:00

A preview of my Mister Donut brand revamp. All creative materials are mine but still in progress. (Mister Donut himself is hot, too--tattoos and everything.)

Slippery

2010-04-25T18:10:00.004-05:00

Lately, my feelings have been extremely slippery.

In short bursts I feel clarity, but it's of the happy variety, the easy variety. Clarity is easy to come by when life seems perfect (and life only seems perfect when, by the function of an intensely pleasurable moment, you forget the peripheral imperfections). In no time at all, I resume my neutral state, sometimes slipping into "deep" thought, which is another way of saying "no thoughts, just an all-consuming emotional weight."

That guy did end up calling me back yesterday and we enjoyed a semi-wonderful brunch this afternoon. What does that say about the profound sadness I felt yesterday, and will most likely feel again once my ego-bucket has emptied?

(Do not mock the ego-bucket. We all have one, and they empty easily, like the cones at water parks that overflow and tip on willing passerby. The tipping is hardly noticeable, but once the buckets are drained of their life-giving nectar we are left with skinless emotions, like a peeled tomato after blanching. Everything is tender and sensitive to prodding.)

Whoa, too many similes.

If I like this guy, than I should want him. If I am going to spend a day moping, at least let it inspire me. If I'm going to feel joy, it should last more than an hour. So, essentially, I am done with the slippery. I need concrete from now on.

A Sad Day

2010-04-23T19:17:00.007-05:00

LORDY. I swear I'm not as sad as this blog impresses you--but why write when you're happy? I don't even need a blog when I'm happy. Happy times are for reading, not writing.

I have learned that true sadness is only felt after a seemingly unjust tug-of-war with love. The guessing games, the fleeting attractions, the steps taken to either prevent seeming overeager or ensure your interest is properly interpreted. I am in a tug-of-war, and losing. Or perhaps I've lost.

It's not a game shared with anyone else, even lovers, but one you play only with yourself--God knows what the other person is feeling. It really doesn't matter. Even if he is head over heels and you occupy his every free thought you'd never know, and it isn't important to know. How you react to your suspicions of his feelings tells you the most about how the game will end. Are you anxious? Are you aloof?

If you're aloof, well, lucky you. I envy aloof. Even in relationships where I couldn't give a rat's ass about the other person I cannot manage aloof. I equate aloof with guilt. In fact, I attribute guilt to any emotion other than affection or respect. As in, I feel shitty when I'm not totally fair with the other person.

Flashback: The week before spring break, I end a thing with a guy I had been dating for about two months. Because I never allowed the thing to become more than a thing, I didn't have to drop a whole breakup bomb on him. I just left a trail of sulphur and let the burn reach him slowly. Not cruel, but possibly heartwrenching (I mean, I'm kind of a catch, you know, with my emotional stability and all) and definitely dishonest. Just left him one day on his porch without a kiss and never spoke again.

Flashforward: Meet the most amazing person. Flirt for a week, go on a date that redefined Good Dates, flirt for another week, and here I am writing. On a Friday night. I'll let you guess the intervening details.

Perfect guy, and I blew it by doing nothing. Fickle. So I pulled too hard on this tug-of-war and fell straight on my back. I'm not sure if I'm in the mud yet, but for now, Fitzgerald is my only numbing agent and, much to my dismay, Amory Blaine is having his heart broken, too.

There isn't lesson from this, and that may be the worst part. Perhaps I am just reeling from the effects of karma--getting what I deserve for leaving someone without giving them confirmation of my departure and, therefore, never freeing them to live their lives without expectation of a sudden return. (Again, I doubt the situation is this dramatic, but God am I sad right now.)

Conclusions have always been the weakest component of my writing, but I'm going to try with this one: After getting off the phone with my mom, ranting all about this boy and lapping up any consolation she had to give, I saw a cloud in what has literally been a cloudless sky. It was so beautiful I stood up out of my reading and wine-induced stupor to look at it. (I've posted it below in what appears to be the highest quality my Mac can afford) The cloud, I hope, is a metaphor. This moment in my life is so sad, in so many different ways aside from missing out on Mr. Perfect, but it is beautiful. And like a cloud, this time of deep introspection and growth will pass, and life will be a spotless blue. So I should appreciate them now, before they dissipate.

Faking It, pt.2

2010-03-30T11:29:00.002-05:00

I love to fake it.

Example: Calling up six different high-end stores in a search for Givenchy's studded men's sandals.

First, Maxfield in LA: "Call Bonnies!"
"I'm sorry, Bonnies?"
"BONNIES!"
She hangs up.
Hm. Guess she meant Barney's?

I am a casual high-end shopper. As in, I don't shop too often, but the second I see a "spare" (i.e. existing) few hundred dollars in my bank account, there's a new Marc sweater in my closet, or Ferragamos, or my most recent purchase, a Ralph Lauren sportscoat.

It's hard to fake creativity. It's hard to fake European heritage. It's hard to fake intelligence. But it's unfairly easy to fake wealth and style.

So how did my search end? With a flirty sales assistant at Barney's on Madison who "snuck in a reservation" for size 11 Givenchy sandals. I don't know the price. So let's hope I have a spare few hundred dollars once my phone vibrates to "212."

Nasty, naughty girl

2010-03-29T10:26:00.003-05:00

Took this at a barber shop on South 1st. The barber said he hadn't a woman in panties inside his store in fifty years...

It's best viewed with the Suntones playing in the background.

Three Needs, 2nd ed.

2010-03-08T21:12:00.003-06:00

1. Givenchy men's studded sandals. (I'd sell an arm for a pair; they're at Barney's NY and if I win the One Shoe I'm buying a pair with the prize money)

2. A camel coat for fall.

3. Light, tight denim jeans. (Getting these tomorrow, actually.)

Current inspiration

Love

2010-03-03T14:04:00.004-06:00

Love is the weirdest thing. I've been in a few relationships, and have felt "in love," but I don't think I truly understood what It was until this past summer. The few weeks following my return from Europe all I could think about, write about, talk about, was love. Love is everything: love is motivation, love is pain, love is happiness, love is physical satiation.

Time has passed, though, and I've surrendered Love and am allowing It to do what It wants.

I've been dating someone for about six weeks now, and there isn't any spark. There's comfort, and we get along well. I see it as a shared journey in search of Love, which we will not find in each other but are sharpening our senses and preparing our minds for when It does come.

Today, Valleywag posted a series of accidentally-published Facebook messages obtained during a recent security goof on the website. No matter how "public" our culture seems to be--reality shows, webcams, blogs like the one you're reading--the truth is rarely told. These messages touched me, even through their grammatical errors, enough that I cried. I've included a few below.

Below: I feel like I've been through this exact scenario, but was never honest enough with myself to express it.

Below: They're the lyrics from Blink182's "Down," and end with a wrenching addendum in Spanish.
Below: Fairly certain this is from a young boy in England. Don't we all want to be told this?
Below: This one made me cry. Not a single period in the entire letter, which makes me wonder if the lack of grammar adds to the emotional effect. This is clearly a man in love.
How many of us experience this kind of love? Maybe I'm naive to even consider this Love, but I know I want to have this. And, likely, not everyone finds It in their lifetime.

Be-Have

2010-02-14T18:01:00.001-06:00

Lamb

2010-01-30T18:02:00.002-06:00

At The Visualist.

Armadillos

2010-01-28T13:18:00.001-06:00

Prince Pelayo

2010-01-22T18:48:00.005-06:00

Sometimes inspiration can come on so strong I feel stifled. The sheer power of the inspiration breaks my bones and crushes the more gentle organs, and leaves me feeling empty and unimportant. I am so many things, but so many things I want to be I am not.

Now is the time for change, and I'm going to fight through the oppression of observed brilliance to make my own.

And if you're in the mood to be destroyed, just take a peak at Kate Loves Me.

A Single Man

2010-01-21T00:30:00.002-06:00

Too many heavy movies too close together. Recently, all movies about love seem heavy. First, Up In The Air, and now Tom Ford's A Single Man, a truly heartbreaking story about a British professor whose partner of 16 years dies in a car crash. And, of course, it being set in the 1950s, our Single Man, named George, (an impeccably dressed and tender performance by Colin Firth, looking more handsome here than any man his age) cannot be open about his love, nor is it considered legitimate by even his closest friends, even after Jim, his partner, is killed. So when Jim dies, not only is our Man shunned from the funeral ("family only") but must suffer entirely within himself. In one striking sequence, Firth seems to literally crumble under the vacuum-like force of George's loss.

Of course, Tom Ford throws in his own delusional group of youngsters, all doe-eyed and strikingly similar to those in Ford's fashion campaigns, as potential distractions for our Man, but it doesn't matter one bit, ultimately: Jim's death signified the end of all importance on Earth for George, as his love was the most intense and sincere feeling he's ever experienced. The world of George is muted and lonely.

Love is so rare. And love is the greatest thing in human life, but also the most painful. And sometimes, a life without love is no life at all.

10 Happiest Albums of the Decade

2010-01-16T19:29:00.024-06:00

Two-thousand through 2010 was a thrilling decade for entertainment. Videogames continually defied storytelling expectation, film delivered both brains and brawn (albeit more clumsily), television consistently impressed both the public (the behemoth that is American Idol) and critics (Big Love), and novels like and Away and The Post Birthday World proved great authors still exist. The most creative growth, however, took place in the realm of music. From the anthem pep of the Red Hot Chili Peppers' Stadium Arcadium (2006) to Britney Spears' darkly futuristic pop in Blackout (2007), Shania Twain's genre-bending Up! (2002) and the solemn free-by-download In Rainbows by Radiohead (2007), music in the 2000s was as diverse as it was frighteningly similar. Shimmering electro-pop (Madonna's Confessions on a Dance Floor, 2005) and slinky throwback (Solange's Sol-Angel and the Hadley Street Dreams, 2008) were trends both widespread and pervasive, from superficial pop to underground hip-hop. But ten albums stand out in my mind as excellent, innovative from a creative standpoint and, as is most important to The Happiest Activist, a hell of a fun listen.

10. Kings of Leon, Only by the Night (2008)

It's rumored Caleb Followill wrote Only in a single night, beginning with the haunting, desperate "Closer," about a vampire looking to feed. This is not their Happiest record of the decade, but the general tone and musicality of the album wins with major style points.

Happiest Track: "Revelry"

9. Sam Sparro, Sam Sparro (2008)

Sparro's debut is unabashed 80's-style pop, but occasionally-deep lyrical content appears when least expected.

Happiest Track: "Too Many Questions"

8. Robyn, Robyn (2008)

Simple, perfect pop.

Happiest Track: "Handle Me"

7. Feist, Let It Die (2004)

Happiest Track: "Inside and Out"

6. Lady Gaga, The Fame Monster (2009)

I was tempted to rank this higher on the list--no other female pop record was quite as fun in the 2000s--but the album is still fresh.

Happiest Track: "Bad Romance"

5. The Postal Service, Give Up (2003)

Possibly also the Happiest Album Art Award?

Happiest Track: "Nothing Better"

4. Lily Allen, Alright, Still (2006)

Lily Allen was and still is the most believable pop music brat. And her brand of humor has been copied again and again...(Katy Perry, Ke$ha, Kate Nash...lot's of K's, for some reason)

Happiest Track: "Knock 'Em Out"

3. Fiona Apple, Extraordinary Machine (2005)

Happiest Track: "Better Version of Me"

2. The Killers, Hot Fuss (2004)

There are a lot of faux-Brit rockers in the music world, but none as slick, sexual or pared down as Brandon Flowers and his less-relevant band members.

Happiest Track: "Smile Like You Mean It"

1. Amy Winehouse, Back to Black (2006)

Cutting selections from this list--which began much larger than the ten you see here--took a lot of careful consideration and research. I wanted to include a Madonna album, simply for the impact she's had on my life in the past decade, but no single album is better than the above ten (2000's Music came close). I also wanted to throw in Rihanna's Rated R (2009), which is altogether a better record than The Fame Monster but, let's all be honest, the Lady deserves a spot here. There were a hundred others--Shakira (for She Wolf, 2009) and John Mayer (Continuum, 2006), M.I.A. (Kala, 2007) and even electro-pop goddess Annie for the dazzling, whirling disco of Anniemal (2004). But when I had to make a choice for Happiest album, there was no doubt in my mind. Amy Winehouse is a legend in the making. She has a voice without peer and an ability to write lyrics as sharp as shattered glass--and as heartbreaking as the worst breakup you've ever been through. Paired with Mark Ronson's addictive beats and as-of-yet-unmatched talent at mimicking the rasp of vintage recordings, one can only hope her heart is broken again. And that's black.

Happiest Track (of the Decade): "Back to Black"

Best Friend Needed

2010-01-15T03:02:00.003-06:00

I am tired of guys. Guys from a distance, that's fine, (Yes, man walking his dog outside Neiman's, I'm referring to you.) but guys up close and personal? The kind you've gotta talk to? That's rough.

Exhibit A: Shopping today with a friend--got a fantastic "Magic Mouse" but also found out my iPod is just barely past it's warranty and has a fatal hard drive error--I walked past one of my Exes. (I tend to call them Awxes.) He said nothing, I said nothing, and I walked on by. At first, I was amused. This had been a guy who'd begged for a few more dates after I lost interest. Literally harassed me for an Italian dinner, and I of course said no. And no, and no and no. But something didn't feel right, walking by without saying hello. So I did what felt natural.

I texted him, "LOL!"

And, being just as smart a communicator as I, he quickly responded, "eww lol." I, for one, find it even more directionless than my lonely acronym, which at least had a sense of humor. The addition of "eww" has completely mangled whatever meaning the LOL would have otherwise had. But that is beside the point.

Exhibit B: Old guy. Back in the picture. Still kind of charming, but I accidentally dissed some of his creative work (it was bad. Real bad) and thought I'd be spared his further interest, thereby letting me off the romantic hook without having an actual discussion. But no. He tells me "Good seeing you" via (SURPRISE!) text, and I respond in kind. And he finishes it with, "Let's hangout soon". No period. And no, period.

And people ask me why I don't have gay friends. Here's (/are) the only requirement (/s) for Dustin C. O'Neal:

When we sit down for dinner and talk, do you turn me on? If you had a bag over your head, would I still want to sleep with you? When I text you LOL, do you smile and respond in a way I understand? Can we, ya know...and then play eight nonstop hours of Super Smash Brothers? And, on a separate but entirely relevant note, are you less than double my age? If so, call me. Call Me 4 Dat Good.

Tiny White Shorts

2010-01-12T23:30:00.004-06:00

A lot has happened in the past two weeks. Namely, a trip to Miami.

Miami is a great city. I've been twice before, but I'll always remember this time: wandering down South Beach with over a million other humans from around the world, waiting for the close of a decade. And being on the East Coast, we were also the first part of the country to stumble into 2010, and I didn't use the word "stumble" just because it sounds cute.

New Years Eve was a mess. I won't go into long detail (storytelling of this magnitude can be a laborious process, especially when combined with weak attempts at redeeming my popular respect mid-paragraph with exclamations like, "But I wasn't THAT drunk! Hahahaha LOL!"), but at 4:30 a.m. I was wandering the streets of South Beach barefoot and likely beyond recognition, prompting at least one onlooker to mouth her astute observation of my evening. "There's someone tragic on every corner!"

I try not to linger on those moments--the first moments of 2010. A total mess. But I was having a great time, and except for the mild alcohol poisoning, totally healthy and happy!

But aside from Miami and the drama that, none of us can truly deny, made the trip much more fun, I had an amazing week back home and with my best friends who came to visit. I've had a great week since. Saw Avatar in 3-D, and I'm dying to see it again.

Oh, and if this particular post hasn't made me look shallower than a toilet bowl, I have also started Twilight. As in, started reading the first novel when I returned from Miami and am already on the third. That's nearly 1,500 pages of romantic goop, packed with metaphors that will you give you stomach aches and sentences so badly written you may be tempted to suck your own blood and die than continue the mental humiliation.

A few of my favorites, italics and grammar Meyer's:

"I felt well. Whole."

[Bella, spoken to her father] "I...am a...virgin!"

"I love you."

Meyer's a Mormon. I disagree with the Mormon faith wholeheartedly, and her agenda (no cursing, no sex, no pesky colored folk) is painfully transparent. Of course, if Bella wants to commit suicide because she can't live without her twu wove, it's like, SO totally okay for Bella to jump off a cliff and die for him. Like, right?! College is for women who HAVEN'T found the everlasting love of an immortal vampire who suffocates all ambition from anyone he meets. So are friends who have opinions. And if, one day, you have to give up everyone who loves you in your entire life to become a vampire and live out eternity with your lover, that's fine, too. Because Mom, Dad, your friends, extended family and future are worth nothing compared to a permanent seventeen year-old with a control complex who already dumped you once and, when threatened by you visiting an old friend, disabled your vehicle. Because that's healthy, Meyer.

And there's obviously the whole Edward (Vampire) versus Jacob (werewolf) argument. Which is a total joke, because anyone with an ounce of self-respect (and therefore not a reader of Twilight) would choose Team Jacob. Would you rather cuddle up to someone with "skin like cold marble" or "hovering around 103 degrees?" Of course, that doesn't really matter, because you...are a...virgin!

Fraud

2009-12-30T17:23:00.003-06:00

Today I was the victim of Up In The Air, the Oscar-ambling flick about a rugged, lonely man (aptly played by a rugged, lonely actor) and his empty relationships. I didn't cry--I didn't know I was supposed to--but I left completely silent. Nothing to say. Nothing to think. My thoughts had been read by some screenwriter, probably living in Williamsburg or Seattle, a few years ago, plucked by some ambitious producer in Hollywood, adapted and cast with my friends and thrown on screen for all to see. The emptiness of daily life is something we mentally push aside, like bills on the dining room table, eventually buried with Crate & Barrel catalogs, grocery lists, our extra salt shaker and possibly even a placemat, just to make sure the Offending Article is hidden. That Which We Do Not Speak Of. But eventually my hollandaise needs a pinch of salt and my grinder is missing, or I need to set the table. And there it is. IMPORTANT, written in red. (It's likely Helvetica, and if the Offending Article didn't involve me having less of something it might even be kind of pretty, in it's perfect proportion and red-on-white design.)

Up In The Air is a bill left on the table. Life is tough, love is rare--exceptionally rare. I learned that from both a summer in Paris and the film Before Sunset. And today, walking out of the theater, I was on autopilot. Movements were slow, deliberate. And deliberation does not necessarily mean there is caution involved. Changing lanes becomes an arduous, "I hope there isn't anyone in the left lane going 80" kind of action, but made without thinking.

If love is life, lovelessness is numbness. I wish I had a better word than "numbness"--it's one of those that seems to be a mistaken combination of syllables--but it's the most appropriate.

Today I was also the victim of bank fraud. I checked my account this morning, one day before leaving for Miami, mind you, to find that my entire checking has been drained. The bank says there's a 90% chance I'll have the money back by morning, but it seems like such a slap in the face on December 30th, 2010. I am love(r)less, penniless, and a bit hopeless. Hopefully the superficiality of Miami will remind me why we Americans live--to eat, drink, and ogle on the beach.

The Semester

2009-12-21T16:50:00.005-06:00

This Fall has been sobering. And not in the healthy way. Not in the, "I woke up today feeling fresh and sprinted six miles!" kind of way; no, in the "God, reality sucks." kind of way. And by "reality," I am referring to what our parents always referred to as The Real World. And this Real World doesn't contain Anderson Cooper's adorable ex-boyfriend.

Lesson 1: Dicks exist. There are people who make unjust decisions based on prejudice and, most frighteningly, for Fuck's Sake, and these people cannot be trusted and deserve no respect. I am actually referring to a very specific series of Fuck Dustin events that hit me in succession in late November and early December. Actually, revisiting them is a bit too harsh at the moment. Though, from now on I'll guard my asshole a bit better.

Lesson 2: You don't always get what you deserve. Ideas can be thrown away, work unacknowledged, and as someone who has happily received everything he ever wanted in life (plus more), this is like taking a sip of water and finding the sour bite of Vodka waiting for you beyond the rim. (It ain't Titos, either.)

Lesson 3: Love is entirely unpredictable. I worked with someone this Fall who was a genuine Flavor-Of-The-Week connoisseur, rummaging the dating world for whatever melted popsicle-of-a-man he could find. Oh, its Monday? That means ThirtyyearoldguyIworkwith must have a new boy. Oh, he thought he tasted like medicine? Back to the garbage can.

[I'm selling him a bit short. He did date one guy with an actual job, and two of them were mildly cute. But grape-flavored popsicles look good, too, until you look in the mirror and your mouth is dyed like you ate one of Lady Gaga's lavender wigs.]

Lesson 3 (continued): There was one man I wanted this semester. (And "wanted" is past tense because there was never any "getting.") He was much older (like, Daddy range--don't judge), but gorgeous, fluent in four languages, and the owner of a Chateau in the rural Loire Valley of France. I have always been into the...erm, ADULT type of man-- I wrongly fancy myself an old (er) soul--but never have I lusted after anyone this strongly. The fact that he never even REALIZED all of my awkward Hellos and How Are Yous (naturally, in my way-too-tight jeans) were an attempt at flirtation is the most upsetting part of the whole story. I just don't have the personal radar. One second I meet a straight man, three seconds later he tells me I'm "charming" and slips me a note with his number and "lets hook up soon." But give me six months, a toned ass and close proximity and I STILL can't get a man's attention.

But why is love unpredictable? (I use the word "love" loosely here) Because, all my time spent on this French-speaking, tanned and rugged Da Vinci of a man left me with nothing; but the entire time, a slightly younger man, yet with all the power and possibly a bit more in his pockets, wanted to, and I quote, "pin me up against a wall." And he did, in due time. But, like lesson number 2, don't I deserve the man I want? The man who is, by all accounts, LESS good-looking and OLDER than the man who actually wants me?!

And that leaves me here. Back at home, playing videogames and reading a biography of Alexander the Great. (My second-favorite gay of all time.) I feel pretty empty. Pretty unsuccessful. And I hope the next year brings something better. To end a year where I excelled at school, had three life-changing internships, spent six weeks in Paris, and lived out a few romantic fantasies in such cloudiness is the real tragedy of this situation. Like winning a marathon but finding the finish line to be two PVC pipes and fishing wire.

Advice for Women

2009-10-06T18:47:00.003-05:00

Ladies. There are some VERY easy ways to take risks this Fall, and we all know being risky shouldn't be easy...

1. Floppy hat. Not just BIG. Floppy, masculine. NOT cheap-looking or vintage.

2. Men's loafer. Make sure it is masculine or it just looks like a modified ballet slipper.

3. When you aren't wearing the loafers, wear chunky heels in flesh tones and blacks.

For me, I just need a new, good pair of dark jeans. (Mine were stolen in Barcelona.)

Tunnel vision

2009-09-30T22:49:00.001-05:00

The bus stop. Dear god, the bus stop. I was waiting for the 101 from Sherry Matthews, and I see this guy. Just from the back, like a three-quarters angle. "Bulletproof," by La Roux, was playing in my headphones, and something about this man's stance, the way he nodded to nothing in self-awareness, in combination with the dance music, reminded me of a thousand moments at once. Very much like a collage from Babel. A smile before speaking, where the mouth forms the shape of an opening conch shell--with good lips, this is very sexy. A flash of the eyes when walking alongside each other. Even this man's smell. My knees literally went weak and I felt overwhelmingly empty. My day seemed purposeless and my goals more like pathetic attempts at distraction. Which, maybe they were--are we all just trudging ahead in life to forget what we want most? (Not money--THIS is the real distraction. A career. And therefore, education. And therefore, tests, homework, and professors' salaries.) Deep down, isn't love the only thing we're after?

Needless to say, this man changed the course of my day entirely in a nanosecond.

Whoever said ignorance is bliss was clearly the one doing all the ignoring, because being forgotten--being ignored--is just about the most painful experience in life.

Imogen Heap's "Half Life"

2009-08-29T18:20:00.003-05:00

Imogen Heap released her new album, Ellipse, last week and it's great. It lacks the spunk and musical hooks of Speak for Yourself (with the exception of "Bad Body Double" and "2-1"), but one track, "Half Life," hit a chord with me. A few listens through, I sold the song short, assuming it was just another pretty, piano-driven track--a type of song Heap is prone to crafting. But it's one of the most beautiful tracks she's ever written or produced, instantly melancholy but never schmaltzy. There is an opening lyric that hit me like a brick wall a few hours ago and altered the course of my emotions today entirely:

The stickler is you've played not one beat wrong
You never promised me anything
Even sat me down, warned me just how they fall
And I knew the odds were I'd never win

Just as my sad self begins to reorient to the US, albeit bitterly, this lyric came in and crushed all superficial progress. I've experience these events more often recently, a perfect day shattered by a lyric, or a thought, a text (or lack of one), an image. And of course all the people I care about suddenly want to know what's wrong; I tell them, "I'm in a bad mood."

But I'm actually just a little heartbroken. I'm heartbroken because, like an animal making their march from barn to slaughter house, I've seen the greener grass--and it's the difference between life and death. That is, a happy life and an expected life.

The Easiest Way to Ruin Your Day: Guaranteed!

2009-08-20T12:25:00.004-05:00

Here at Sherry Matthews I've been working on a presentation for a client involving doctors. Here's the gist: I search "doctor," "asian doctor," "hispanic doctor," etc. and pick out the most politically-correct images. This gets boring. A few minutes ago I started searching for more personally-relevant (versus project-relevant) images, and I came upon something profound.

Getty, being a stock photo resource for advertisers and companies looking for the most socially-recognizable types of images, only displays photos it believes advertisers (and ultimately, society) will find "normal." That is, images with the most easily understood message.

Searching for "gay men," images of gay cowboys and threesomes are the top results. Lesbians are even worse; apparently, a "lesbian" is either an old, overweight hag or an oiled up vixen in a makeout session.

Of course, "perfect family" takes the cake. The families are literally all-white, and pictured only in the most WASP-y of settings. The most prevalent motifs seem to be white picket fences, oak trees in fall and the coast of New England. Seriously, America? I'm not a politically-correct person. In fact, I find political correctness to be a poison, a reverse version of racism that's just as sinister as basic sociocultural prejudice. (Like "Ebony" and "Black Businessman Magazine.") But a day after a poll was published showing nearly 28% of the United States is "unsure" whether or not our president was born in the U.S., even the most basic cultural judgments seem like persecution.

This country isn't a horrible place. But even with the best schools of higher learning in the world, even as the center of technological and design innovation on the planet, we are still the least intelligent, most narrow-minded, frightened people to ever hold so much power among nations.

Lessons in construction

2009-08-11T10:50:00.005-05:00

These pics, from this Flickr photostream, are pretty damn amazing. Late 50s menswear--or, really, boyswear--is exactly the kind of clothing I want to wear. But it's in the (sigh) style of wearing these pieces, the choice of color combinations and practical fabrics that set them apart from anything currently being produced. I hear Levi's bringing back their old denim construction (a la their European collections) and there are vendors like Billykirk and Gant that maintain a high standard of wearability over time, but will the era of rugged (but, really, flawless) clothing ever be replicated? Nah.

(As a side note, it's interesting to note that during the 50s and early 60s, women's fashion seems to have taken a backseat while menswear flourished: it was the during the evolution of bonafide American style, which is in fact male-centric. Anything "American" in fashion is usually a denim jacket, a paisley scarf, a leather boot...never a pencil skirt or silk blouse. Paris has always been the center for women. Italy is menswear, through and through [even their womenswear is masculine and hard-edged], and the U.S. is no different--albeit without the dark, sexual elements of Italian design.)

Anyone wondering where Ralph Lauren drew his initial fashion inspirations should look no further than pictures 1, 2, and 3.

Holy shit, "style!"

2009-08-10T14:50:00.003-05:00

Quick little realization.

The term "style" is outdated and needs to be thrown out. It's connotations are too broad; if there can be good and bad "style," how can anything be "stylish?" Which is the worst phrase of all, because at one point in time Lisa Frank binders were stylish.

And "fashion," which is misused far too often within both the daddy's girls-with-money clique and the gay community, is so much deeper than style. And it is important. Fashion and clothing is important because it brings to the surface everything latent about a person. (That is, if they even care enough to get dressed, period.)

Are you religious? Slap on a Kabbalah bracelet, a cross necklace, the Star of David. Are you gay? It's incredibly easy to show your sexuality through clothing choice--or, as my incredibly dikey (yet entirely straight) friend Lauren puts it, "Let your rainbow flag fly." Are you smart? Are you a stoner? Are you a geek/into movies/into music?

Thoughts, aspirations, admirations, sexual longings--these are all shown through how we dress, like organs on the outside of your body. Your heart, your brain, even your stomach (those Dr. Pepper tees need to die) is on display when you throw on your unwashed button-up and mussy slacks.

So why would I buy $100 Marc Jacobs track pants? Because what he as a designer values--simplicity, volume, French culture, multiculturalism, innovation, New Americanism--part of me values, and therefore I'm giving away just a bit more of myself when I wear them. Maybe it's subtle, even unknown to the average person (the tags aren't on the outside. Obvious logos make the process of analyzing an outfit way too easy), but for people who care about dressing, who have tapped into that third-realm of perceptive communication--your only target audience--they get it. For the rest of 'em, it's like writing a sign in Japanese and expecting the Chinese to read it.

Viewed in this light, clothing becomes part of the machine, one of the cogs that drive us to our ultimate self.

self-love/hate/search

2009-08-10T00:02:00.003-05:00

Listening to Owl City's Ocean Eyes on the way home tonight, (it's actually a decent record, once you get past the sugar coated Ben Gibbard-and-rainbows surface) I reflected on the idea of a self-concept. And self-worth. And, basically, the meaning of life. I'll try and keep the ranting to a mimimum and play hardball here.

Life is all about you. This has been one of the biggest realizations of my entire life, and it had never crossed my mind until my last week living in Paris. What freedom! Life is about you, so you can be hedonistic and selfish and self-loving (and hating) all you want, because as long as it is what you want, as long as it makes you happy, it is within the progressive channel of your life and is bringing you closer to the supreme You.

And it sounds so simple, but it isn't, because every other one-track-life stoner/trust-fund kid/sorority girl/whiny blogger can say the same thing: "It's all about me." But if they aren't progressing, if the selfishness is not validated by some sort of pain (and therefore growth) or revelation or new experience, it isn't really about you, because it doesn't benefit you. It may even hurt you.

So, basically know this: the most well-lived lives of all time were spent in search of the self. Shakespeare, Hemingway, Madonna, Ralph Lauren...(also known as "the first people Dustin could think of") all put themselves first. There are new examples. Lady Gaga, Donatella Versace, Scott Schuman...

When I start referencing Donatella Versace, it's time for Dustin to go to bed. So much for hardball.

Marc Jacobs is a god, duh

2009-08-07T10:46:00.003-05:00

Madonna, Joan Miro, and Marc Jacobs. These are the three people I admire most in my creative life. Above are a few selections he's releasing this fall. His concept of structure has no equal, nor does Kylie (the model in the middle image). Kylie's modified kimono must be seen in motion to be truly appreciated.

Preparing for the M-SAT

2009-08-03T09:15:00.004-05:00

Amid raving tweets and (restless sleep? twisted sheets? What doesn't rhyme with "eet?")...erm, an inability to fall asleep, my thoughts last night concluded in nothing. Seriously. I thought and thought and thought and tried to funnel whatever it was I was thinking into a singlular stream of conciousness, or even a few rivulets, but I ended up falling to sleep and dreaming my thoughts all over again, but of course with the darkly humorous tilt all dreams seem to have. I had sausage stolen and took the "M-SAT" (I took a picture of a cayote howling at the moon and "got an A?" What are the criteria for the "M-SAT," dreamworld?), neither of which helped answer my questions, which in turn weren't fully formed before I fell asleep.

Thoughts about hedonism, ultimate happiness, and faith--serious questions from the perspective of a new "adult." And not entirely unrelated. Since Paris, a period of my life still lingering heavily on a day to day basis, I have tried my best to adopt more hedonistic principles, which is fairly--no, very--easy, but allowing others to fit within the same standards is difficult. Honestly, just thinking is difficult. A life spent without deep thought is really a much happier life.

And that's what it's all about. Happiness. You can work, and play, and date, and love, and travel and do whatever but unless it makes you happy there is no reason behind it. Groundbreaking stuff, I know. But it's so much harder to implement into daily life than it seems. Sometimes I just want to normalize. I want to sit in my chair/on my bed/in my yard and take a deep breath, the kind of deep breath the sickly take in Advil commercials that says, "I am free of all pain and just so satisfied with my life/husband/white wraparound porch/the boat I'm painting in the garage here on the coast of Maine." Sometimes, though, you wake up feeling shitty, you can't find a single thing to wear, you forget to grab any food, you take two wrong turns on the way to work, and then you wait idly for hours because it's a "slow day." Give me a fucking slow day when I am stressed out, not when my mind is so clogged nothing relieves the itching of my thoughts pounding their little fists against my skull but disctraction. Warm, numbing distraction.

So what to do? My first thoughts: "I need a day off." "I need more money." "I need a partner." "I need to get drunk."

NOT HELPFUL, DUSTIN. THX.

I hate these kinds of blog posts. Useless and indulgent. I wouldn't post it, but I feel like my "loyal followers" would "want" to read a "new update" because they "care about [me], man."

A new perspective

2009-07-20T12:47:00.004-05:00

I'm back in the United States, and I'm not happy about it.

It's been about three days now, and I keep indulging myself with "life is unfair"-type musings and wallowing around eating canned soup and Ridged Barbecue chips (ew). I'm not at equilibrium. The air seems stale and the colors are muted everywhere. Basically, I'm a whiny little bitch!

I stopped writing in my blog a few weeks back because, somewhere near the end of my stay, Paris become more than a trip. It became personal, a part of my identity. Being distant from the vibrancy of this city, away from the romance and the people and the sunsets—I don’t think I can stomach it.

And of course there’s Fabien. Why he was placed in my life, besides as a slow, cruel torture, I do not know, but I know I am a new person because of him. I should see beyond the positive in people; I should speak what I feel; I shouldn’t idealize others. Things aren’t permanent but that’s okay. And that’s the hardest part. I may like new things and adventure but I don’t like change. I want to stay here in Paris and continue to evolve.

But maybe leaving is my evolution. Maybe going back to the states and living in my old environment is the only way I can truly grow, seeing the stark contrast between who I am and who I want to be—or in a more tangible phrase, where I am and where I want to be.

Fabien sees “with the good eyes,” as he put it, the world and how to protect oneself. I have never had that need, to be protected. I am open and honest, but not in the way he is, not in the way the French are. To be honest is to live openly but to embrace the good and bad, because they both lead to who we are eventually going to be. Announcing one’s opinion does not make you honest, it only makes you loud. (At present, I am definitely in the "loud" category of people.)

Paris has left me feeling liberated. Liberated in the sense that I have been enlightened to how life is meant to be lived. It sounds selfish to say the pursuit of self is the supreme goal of life, but we all believe it, even if we say it differently. The Holy wish to be sanctified in order to feel safe and secure in their rightness; those that offer their lives in service are really just seeking forgiveness and validation for being a human. I am neither of these things, however, so luckily for me this shouldn’t be too difficult.

I need to carve my superficiality into a small, complex nugget of who I am, instead of letting my image guide my actions. I need to become my truest self, and this is where I am both most excited and most afraid. I want to just coast. I want to “end up” in Paris, just “be” with Fabien or some other charming foreigner, and somehow “make” money out of nothing. I have to learn French and graduate and mature and gain life perspective. I need to be fucked up, get knocked around a little. I need a bruised lip and a broken ego. I got a taste of that with Fabien in the café my last night, the rain literally cascading off the awnings around the Marais as he metaphorically rained on my chirpy little existence. He let into me and told me who I was, the kind of bruising essential for the forming of new flesh.

What is it about a physical place that makes it so important? Why is Paris different than Austin and different than New York and Tokyo and Barcelona and Stockholm? A physical environment is just a construct within which the spirit of the city is held; so is it purely what’s “beneath” or is it also the aesthetic? In the case of Paris, of course it involves the aesthetic. It’s the most beautiful city on earth. But the people are also the most beautiful people on earth. So which influences which? Perhaps they live in synchronicity, each invigorating the other with joie de vivre. But I think it begins with the people. People like Fabien do not exist in other places on the earth. He would like me to think so, but who is he to talk? He has not dated anyone non-French, as far as I know. He is gay, he is a man, he is a dentist, but he is French first—whether he realizes it or not.

And now I'm lying here in the room I grew up in, with it's oddly human air and the constant business talk of my father in the rooms across the house. I have emerged from Paris not wiser but more aware of my lack of wisdom. I’m no longer going to live my life with my eyes innocent and open only to the good; without the bad I cannot grow. But above all, I cannot lose sight of what I want. (Which would actually be a contradiction in the eyes of the French: I cannot “plan” what I want to be serendipity.)

I am pretentious, annoying, superficial, and melodramatic, but at least I am sure of myself.

Barcelona...favorite city once again?

2009-06-26T12:41:00.003-05:00

I am in Barcelona, Spain. (Wish I could upload pictures, but I can't til I hit up another McDonalds in Paris. That's kind of deflating, actually.)

The weather is perfect. Hot, with a nice breeze off the coast, and just enough sun to give a bloom effect to each and every eccentric facade in the city. Where Paris glows, however, Barcelona sings; the city has a musical pace and rhythmic way of speaking. Everyone is exceptionally kind, refreshing after the cold (albeit mysterious and intriguing) Parisians.

The beach, something I didn't really get to experience last time, is almost too good to be true. The sand is scalding hot and the water is colder than ice, but when combined the two sensations are a uniquely appropriate accompaniment to beers and sun in Barcelona.

I woke up this morning with the windows wide open and the sky more blue than I've ever seen. The city had woken up; the sing-song tune of Spaniards walking to grab tortilla and cortados, the sound of children laughing in the nearby park, and (of course) the very noisy cars four stories below.

I want to continue writing but more than that I want to go back out into the city. Tonight Matthew and our new friend Anya (whom he met at his hostel) are going out for tapas in the Barri Gotic and then meeting up with Rachel and Alex for a little pre-going out wine and snacks. Yo estoy en Barcelona!!!

I can't leave

2009-06-24T10:04:00.003-05:00

After last night and this afternoon, there is no way I can ever leave this city and be satisfied with my life!

Last night was a blast. Wine and a light dinner at Allison's apartment--with about eight other houseguests, a perfectly awkward mix of fratboys, UT band members, and gorgeous blond Dallas girls--and on to a few bars and nightclubs to cap off the evening. There was an issue getting home after the final club, which I will not recount, but because I never got drunk the night ended fine.

Today was spent entirely in the Marais. "Soldes," the title Parisians give their twice-a-year "sale days," began today, and a few friends and I definitely took advantage of the fantastic deals. I bought a beautiful teal cardigan at Muji, and I wanted to buy more there, but I only paid 22 euro for the cardigan--it was marked down considerably. And it's my size. And a perfect deal is a perfect deal. Andandandandand.

After a lunch at the best falafel place in Paris (we've tried many), we continued our wandering through the Marais, which is without a doubt the best people watching in the city. I've now been at least seven or eight times, but never has it been filled with such electricity. Obviously the Parisians love clothes and love to shop; imagine a massive, expensive, elegant outdoor shopping mall. But minus the zoo and with a dash of a "scene and be seen" atmosphere.

Andrea, Allison and I stumbled (as in, literally stumbled over the threshold) into the Musee Caravalet, which is one of the lesser-visited museums here. I did not see a single English speaker inside. Centered around Paris-specific history, from celebre chanteuses (famous singers) to le garre (war), the small museum is built within the existing walls of an elaborate turn of the century townhouse where writers and painters lived. Albeit wealthy artists; the rooms are decadent and cake-like, just as much a spectacle as any of the art pieces within them.

The museum was free, too, which was an added bonus. But to successfully shop in the heat of a glowing Parisian afternoon and retreat into a quiet museum just a block off the beaten path is something uniquely Parisian.

A few and friends and I are actually headed off to the Place des Vosges (my new favorite park here) for some wine and hopefully a little more sunlight. It's about five thirty here, but we want to soak up every moment we can. We leave for Barcelona in the morning. Can't wait for that, either.

Pictures as soon as I get internet. Which is, likely never.

The End

2009-06-23T05:46:00.003-05:00

Today will always be remembered as the day I truly fell in love with this city.

Nothing in particular has happened to spur this, either; in fact, this weekend was the quietest I've ever spent in Europe. Afternoons at the park, the Louvre on Friday (which sucks), resting on Saturday and Sunday night under Le Tour Eiffel. Surreal.

What's even more surreal is when you bypass the "tourist" threshold. You walk around and feel like you know where you're going. The nooks and tucks of the streets are actually kind of inviting, rather than ominous and empty.

What's most inspiring is the way Time is "spent" here. In the U.S., Time is a border we place around our daily activities as a restraint on "wasting" it. We will eat breakfast for thirty minutes, run for an hour, and make it to work by 9:00 and enjoy a one hour lunch before 1:00 p.m. We may finish many activities in a scheduled manner, but in Paris, Time is supposed to be wasted. It is rude not to. If you get up from a table at a restaurant in less than two hours it is rude. Have another bottle of wine. Enjoy your dessert. Don't be bothered by the taught roundness of your belly telling you to get up and hop in the car. Let the fullness radiate through you.

A life "spent" any other way than in Western Europe is a mistake. Just as a life spent in leisure may be wasted time, if you don't waste time you've waisted your life. What's food if not for enjoying? Why cook a meal and not sit back and drink and talk for hours? What is the sun but if not for laying out in? It's nothing! If you don't give moments in your life the proper time to bloom they are wasted! Only a day not fully appreciated is truly a "waste." How many times have I come home from school-work-internship days at 11 p.m. and had no time for enjoying it? I feel like my most "filled" days are really my most empty. I will not make this mistake again. I will not be rushed.

When I get back to the states, (and this is to your benefit as well as mine, Nanu) I'm planting a garden and refurbishing the backyard eating area. I'm redesigning the layout of my room and I'm not going to flinch at buying wine I like or food I want. I'm going to become a student of the good life; I'm going to read books on wine preparation and how to cook.

I hate people who talk about what they're "going to do" just as much as anyone else; if you can't live up to what you claim you should not claim it in the first place. But I'm dedicated to this. Considering my time here is not even half "over," just imagine how impossible it will be for me to ever return to U.S. normalcy!

Photos

2009-06-19T04:34:00.003-05:00

Oscar Wilde's grave in Pere Lachaise.
Taking Absinthe shots...not as potent as you'd think.
Sarah and I at the L'Oreal corporate headquarters. Here's the entire trip in a nutshell: L'Oreal is one of the most efficient (i.e. boring) and vast (i.e. industrial) companies in the world!
Sunset near the Marais, the gay and Jewish district of Paris. Kind of odd, the gay/Jew juxtaposition, but think about it: Greenwich Village, in New York, is also a gay and Jewish district. Gays and Jews just love each other!
View of the entire city at night from the Sacre Coeur. (sp?)

Food.

2009-06-15T09:54:00.006-05:00

Wine mouth!
NOT PREPARED FOR THE PIC!

Saturday night Allison, Gina, Sarah and I made our way out to Montmartre for dinner at Chez Toinnette, a highly recommended restaurant on some kind of Paris site (Fodor's, maybe), and it was without a doubt one of the best, if not the best, meal of my life. It began with a bottle of wine around ten, a great bottle, and an entree of Foie Gras and pickle. The second course was around 11:00, and consisted of four proteins: lamb, veal, duck, and pork loin, all in different sauces and served with a sweet potato puree and baby asparagus with some kind of wine reduction. The restaurant itself was irrestistable. Small, with only six or seven tables, and owned by two brothers--one, the chef, the other, the waiter--played Edith Piaf and Feist in the background and was decorated in dark red sheaths of velvet. After dinner a family next to us (old money from Boston; extremely kind) gave us a 60 euro bottle of wine. Sadly, as they walked out, the owner told us he hadn't charged the family for the wine because he was confused about who was actually buying it. The moment was one of the most awkward of my life. We were so elated, thinking we had been given this amazing Bordeaux by this beautiful, Penn-educated Bostonian family, and the wine was taken back in front of them. The father jumped at the owner with his credit card but we just wished him a good flight home and to not worry about it.

It all worked out in the end, though. The owner came over before our dessert course (around 12:30) and poured each of us a full glass of wine from the bottle "on the house." It was touching.

The dessert, though...oh, the dessert. It is no secret I adore food. I live for food. I love to cook it, eat it, and read about it. I like just looking at it. We ordered a creme brulee, among two other desserts, that was so purely delicious, so flawless in both design and execution, that I understood why so many critics compare food to sex. It was a sexual experience. Every bite was a seduction, a tease of what heaven must truly be like. Complimented by the slighly bitter wine, that single creme brulee was the single best dish to ever pass my lips.

Best Night...well, ever

2009-06-13T07:33:00.006-05:00

I know it's blurry, but this shot perfectly captures what makes Paris at night such a magical place.
In the Parc Buddhiques, about ten minutes from my apartment.

A vinyard on one city block in Montmartre.
The Jardin du Luxembourg.

A few of my friends. From left: Tanya, Matthew, Sarah, Shannon, Lauren, Sarah R., and Mariah.

A few other friends. From left: Allison, me, Gina.
Sunsets in Paris are one of a kind.
Me (with a bit of wind in my hair, apparently) and Allison.
A man playing ball in Montmatre, the most beautiful place I've ever been to in Paris.

View from Montmartre.

If there's one easily comprehended French characteristic, it must be drinking. It is non-stop for Parisians; it begins at lunch, continues after work, levels off through dinner, and begins again apres-midi the following day. To say my friends and I have been partaking in this tradition is only half true--the alcohol is so cheap it's sick, but we are here to learn, not to be drunk Americans all the time.

That last paragraph was my disclaimer to preface this next story.

Last night was one of the most out of control, amazing evenings I can remember. A massive group of us, all well dressed in our least touristy outfits, headed down to Le Quartier Latin for un petit fete. As in, we wanted to go out. Out, out. Beginning at a small dive named Le Rive Gauche--and a larger game of "Never Have I Ever"--moving to a club off the Champs D'Elysees, and ending in an actual Parisian house party at 4:30 a.m., we achieved a great feat: we were no longer tourists.

The club and the bars were fine, but a bar is a bar. The house party is where the magic happened. My friend Thy, always one for spontaneity, pointed out a very loud apartment party along Rue de Rueilly as we were walking home around 2. (the Metro had stopped running.) As luck would have it, a group of about five youth were making their way into the apartment building, allowing us to sneak up. After being turned away at the door--in perfect English, too--the owner of the apartment, shirtless and all, appeared at the entrance and slurred a "let themmm comm eeennnn," saving us the embarassing walk down the stairs. The party was dark, filled with college students and young adults (late twenties, mostly). Lots of free drinks, amazing conversation in both French and English, and one HUGE component of the story I'll have to tell in person. Let's just say it ended with an invitation to party in the South of France next weekend. (Not going, don't worry Mom.)

SIDE NOTE: First of all, no drugs are being consumed by either I nor any of my friends or acquantances, and the safety level in Paris is very high. Not once have I felt unsure about any single situation. This city is safe, I'm being responsible, and everyone is keeping their priorities in check. We don't party every night. Well, except for Thursday, where my roommate and I hosted a mini dorm party for about 25 of our closest friends in the program. (As in, all of the students in the program.)

Before the evening, I spent a few hours in the Jardin du Luxembourg, which is by far my favorite park in Paris. Massive statues, white marble staircases, and pristine lines of square-trimmed trees all give perspective to the fountain in the center of the park, where children race toy boats and dogs take short swims. I had read that Hemingway, both my favorite author and definitely a personal hero, lived in the Luxembourg as a homeless man when he was first an expatriate. The book I'm currently reading, The Sun Also Rises, is Hemingway's love note to Paris, written about he and other American authors (like F. Scott Fitzgerald) living here in the 1920s. I had a very spiritual moment, carrying Hemingway's greatest novel to the very park he starved in, eating pidgeons for dinner, and knowing I was returning his work to the place that inspired him. I had a corny moment, as well, rubbing the book in the dirt, but I had to make the experience tangible.

My sinuses are out of control here. Something about the fickle weather.

An hour in the metro is ne bien pas

2009-06-10T17:24:00.003-05:00

One of these days I'll begin these posts on a positive note. At the moment, that's quite difficult. Having a great evening, just as me and some of my besties here were heading off for crepes and a barhop in the Latin Quarter, I was left sitting in the metro for an hour and a half while they sped away to enjoy their evenings. I was waiting for a friend who never showed up, and to top it all off I didn't have my dorm key with me--I left it with my roommate. After all, we were all going to get back at the same time, right? Essentially, my night was spent with the homeless men on the Rue de Reuilly. The highlight was when both of the gentlemen pulled out their, ahem, and decided to take a leak on the tree that stretches over the courtyard. Nice.

Well no matter. Now I have internet and can at least know I'm within the dorm complex, if not my dorm. First bad night in Paris, and hopefully the only bad night in Paris.

For the past few days I've just been acclimating to the city. The gorgeous lights, great (if limited) shopping, the new friends. That's one thing I've gotten right so far, making friends. I get along with about ten different students here, and they all bring something unique to my friend circle. I do miss the sense of style and wine knowledge of my Austin friends, but I now have new Austin friends to teach all about what I'm into! Apparently I'm "fabulous" and "crazy," but really I just want to eat a crepe in the Latin Quarter.

Last night, after a bit of shopping and a "bit" of wine, we all headed off to a CIBER-sponsored riverboat and saw the sights along the Seine. It was beautiful. Freezing, yes, and my whole "style over comfort" maxim didn't save me from the chills, but as the sun set the clouds parted, the Tour Eiffel lit up and sparkled, and the entire city just woke up. Afterwards we took a trek through a few bars near the Latin Quarter with our professor and his wife, who happen to be some of the coolest people I've ever met. The night ended with a double-tall glass of Foster's in a bar called "The Long Hop," which is owned and operated by a UT graduate. Apparently, one of my friends mentioned that she was American and the bartender laughed and threw her a bag of potato chips. We're not sure what this metaphor means but we're hoping it was a gesture of endearment.

Earlier this evening we took another tour, this time of the city, and we all decided a visit to the fourth arrondissement is in order for the weekend. Glowing bars and restaurants with names like "Le Roux" have that timelessness so characteristic of Parisian culture. Replace the Peugots with carriages and you have the 1880s.

After the tour...well, you know what happened already. A night was wasted, I'm extremely upset, and I feel like a loser.

It's still raining, but I think it's clearing up this weekend. I want to travel around France starting next Friday but the friend who I was supposed to meet tonight (and who consequently ruined it) is my travel buddy. I love her, but a night in Paris should never be spent next to urinating homeless men.

To end on a positive note, money spending has been minimal. Food is cheap* (if you don't mind eating croissants and cooking spice-less omelettes) and shopping is cheap, but I am dying to eat out and see the city like the people of Paris do.

*I bought a bottle of wine today for 1 euro. (That's about $1.27.)

"That Iranian man needs to stop grabbing my feet."

2009-06-06T13:21:00.002-05:00

In Paris. But that doesn't mean I'm "in" Paris. I'm passed the point of exhaustion into delirium, my stomach no longer feels hunger, and I can't find a wine opener. In fact, I had to trek down to this MACDO for effin' wifi. Ce n'est pas chic.

However, while today may not be perfect (as in, pre-Paris it was horrid), it is symbolic of a fantastic six weeks to come.

The plane to New York, on the oh-so-"happy-jetting" jetBlue, was one of the scariest of my life, but the ads are true--there is a lot of legroom! My flight to Paris, however, was no laughing matter. The airline itself, Swiss (which, like the country, is an offshoot of Air France) was very nice. The food was well prepared and the wine was great. I had a great neighbor, as well. A Bulgarian woman who said only two things to me the entire flight. "I like this international wine" and "hold this tray." After we both watched Milk on the back of our Iranian fore-neighbors' seats, I turned to her and asked her a probing question about the gay movement in Bulgaria. She nodded, and went back to munching on her roll.

(Milk was, by the way, one of the greatest films I've seen in years, and definitely left me proud. Not only is Sean Penn the reincarnated Harvey Milk, but Emile Hirsch was excellent as his slutty little activist. The only off-note was Diego Luna. Both the character and the acting was a fail. But aside from him, I think everyone must see this film at one point in their lives. Preferably before another Prop 8, thx.)

So, as I tried my best to stretch my 6'2'' body in the chair space apparently built for Swiss midgets, some awful man in front of me proceded to drop a endless amount of something on my feet and fish for them under his seat, invitably grabbing my big toe and attempting to extract it for his use. Later, once all of the window shades had been forced closed for everyone to sleep, he kept his open. So, throughout the "night," the bright headlights of the Swiss sun shone in my eyes, rendering even the notion of sleep impossible. But it's okay, I couldn't have slept in that seat anyway. The entire time I was just shifting positions, and by the time we landed I think I had completed an entire yoga session. Downward dog, tree position...at one point, I had a modified crane stand while crunching a water botttle in my groin to prevent my legs from sweating in my (admittedly tight) blue jeans.

But I am now here. At a MACDO, using their wifi while a burly manager walks around wondering why my friend Sarah and I haven't bought anything.

Because it's MACDO, you idiot.

Suitcase for Paris

2009-06-04T18:03:00.004-05:00

I'm only bringing American designers to Paris. Adam Lippes, Ralph Lauren, Arrow Sport, Polo by Ralph Lauren, Brooks Brothers, Levis, Sevens, Ray-Bans, and shoes from California. Obviously, my bag is BillyKirk, and Chris Bray (head of BillyKirk design) told me personally to have a wonderful time--and spread the word about American menswear.

All my authors are American, too.

One small step for this American, one (likely also small) step for American menswear!

The Girlfriend Experience

2009-06-02T10:53:00.008-05:00

Steven Soderbergh's The Girlfriend Experience was released in theaters and in stores simultaneously, allowing those of us not at Cannes the opportunity to watch this stark, surprisingly relevant drama as soon as release. Soderbergh's genius spawns from his wide-eyed curiosity of the unexplained and the mystified; he is also obsessed with the idea of a herione. His female leads (Julia Roberts as Erin Brokovich, Cate Blanchett in The Good German) are flawed but desirable and mysterious. Soderbergh's choice of porn star Sasha Grey as the lead character, Chelsea, in Girlfriend is bold but not shocking in any way. Who else could play a sexually numb call girl than a sexually numb porn star? (Meg Ryan's stint in the horrid In The Cut does not count.)

However, calling Grey "numb" really isn't fair. Her performance in Girlfriend is well studied and enlightening; she struggles with vocal inflection and her emotions seem fairly shallow, but her timing and body language is spot-on for this kind of film. She stretches across the bed for every man she meets, but she never dehumanizes Chelsea with triteness or overly sexual behavior; this is an accomplishment for any actress playing a call girl, but even more so for a non-actress.

There are really no co-stars, and aside from an annoying side story about a bunch of men on a plane to Vegas, Grey carries the entire film. Shot without any camera effects to increase the "art" factor (a la Vicky Cristina Barcelona), Soderbergh portray's Chelsea's life as one of both grandeur and heartbreak. She meets high-end clients, is invited on trips, and then returns home to her long-term boyfriend at the end of the day. Early in the film, her boyfriend, who works as a personal trainer, declines a client's invitation to Vegas mentioned earlier, only to find out Chelsea is leaving for the weekend with a new client despite her boyfriend's compromise. "It's my fucking life!" she tells him. And really, it is her own fucking life. It's separate, but in love the lines are hard to draw--and even harder to maintain.

Girlfriend is subtle and entertaining, but is clean enough to be a PG documentary. With the exception of the fight scene detailed above, foul language is never used, and the act of sex is not once portrayed. In fact, we see Grey naked only when leaving the bed of her live-in boyfriend (the "real" relationship). This is where the brilliance of this film is apparent. Chelsea is after self-fulfilment and in search of real love. Her clients have sex with her--often mutually enjoyable--and never appear jealous; even her long-term clients understand the business aspect of what she does, and suggest ways for her to wade through the economic crisis without losing clientele. Her actual boyfriend is whiny and attached, ultimately left cold by her line of work.

Is a relationship like Chelsea keeps with her clients just as loving as that with her boyfriend? Both include "the girlfriend experience," (which simply means deep kisses are part of the deal) but which is better for Chelsea? This question has no answer, and that is the point Soderbergh makes with Girlfriend.

Quietly acted, bizarrely sex-free, and gently directed by Soderbergh, The Girlfriend Experience is a never smutty and always smart look at 21st century love and how the game has changed.

Black Eyed Peas' "Alive"

2009-05-29T12:30:00.002-05:00

Why do the Black Eyed Peas even pretend Fergie is not their star? She carried the hooks for "Don't Phunk With My Heart," "Don't Lie," "Shut Up," "Where Is The Love?", and "My Humps." Seriously. will.i.am's production may be top-notch, but this group is nothing without Fergie's signature rasp. Or, signature growl. Or signature vocal personality.

Fergie's a vocalist-of-all-trades. And Fergie's importance is evident in both of the BEP's new singles. "Imma Be" is a blast--leagues better than the atrocious "Boom Boom Pow"--with excellent base and drum work. (Shockingly subtle for a will.i.am production.) But Fergie's opening rap, complete with the quintessential Fergie Ferg and "hips" references, saves the track from sinking into a safe pocket musically.

"Alive," assumedly the third(-ish) single off the yet-to-be-released The E.N.D., surpasses any previous BEP efforts since "My Humps." The chorus is derivative lyrically--no surprise for the Peas--but the production here is superb. "Alive" opens with a piano-driven melody, and as the track builds, the piano chords are replaced with vibrant synths and increased vocoder use. It's incredibly underplayed; when any BEP song peaks during an electronic organ solo, you know there is a good deal of innovation at work.

The Sad Truth About Brooke Hogan

2009-05-28T15:50:00.002-05:00

This pic tells you all you need to know.

Michael Thad Carter

2009-05-26T16:33:00.003-05:00

...is amazing. Not only is his body of work fantastic, and his resume that of a soon-to-be-legend, but he's an awesome guy, as well. I'm lucky enough to be a friend, or at least a "Party Together at Eeyore's" friend or "Get Drunk At Elysium" friend or even just a "Mutual Friend of Kelley's" friend. Hell, I'm a Facebook friend! But no matter. My future BEST friend-slash-photog took this stunner a few nights ago. It's one for the history books.

He should add it to his website, no?

Paris Hilton...continues to surprise

2009-05-18T13:26:00.004-05:00

I hate posts about Paris Hilton. She's one of those humans with a very singular purpose--to entertain--but even that "purpose" is kind of muddled most of the time. I mean, what does she do? Five years ago, I understood; wannabe-famous billionaire heiress, interesting enough, SURE! But now, she's lost what made her interesting: The delicate balance between naivete and a splash of naughty. Now, she's just naughty and predictable. The wonder is gone.

Her outfits, though, are increasingly impressive. Girl's got an iconic image, if anything.

Paris Hilton, above, at Cannes 2009.

Music Update: It's shiny

2009-05-16T19:06:00.008-05:00

Annie. Oh, Annie. What is going on in your world? One day you're signed to Universal, releasing weak-ass singles and dying your hair an increasingly lighter shade of blond, and the next time I look you're releasing weak-ass singles without Universal. Oh, well. The Old Annie may be gone, but New Annie still has something to offer.

"Anthonio," off Annie's delayed and likely inferior sophomore album Don't Stop--it's gotta be real, it's even got cover art!--is a blitzy, synth-filled track high on lyrical drama and low on originality. It's a step up over "I Know Ur Girlfriend Hates Me," a song I covered last summer, but that's like saying Lindsay Lohan is a step up over Hilary Duff; one is just a bit more exciting.

Now, as the Megan Fox to the Duffs and Lohans of this post, a friend of mine recently turned me onto the best DJ I've heard in 2009, a Brit named George. George Lenton, that is! Apparently new to the international scene, Lenton has one thing most "famous" (a.k.a. sell-out) DJs like Seamus Haji and even the Justice duo have not: a fresh perspective. Remixed tracks like Bob Marley's "Island in the Sun"--transformed by Lenton from stoner jam into dizzying dance track at just the right tempo--and MGMT's "Weekend Wars," you'll gladly sacrifice your car speakers for Lenton's amorphic beats.

He's got some nice original work, too, like "Refresh," the track Paul Oakenfold wished his Brittany Murphy disaster "Faster Kill Pussycat" had been. "Your Love," another throbbing club track, is his most traditional but also his dirtiest; the bass is sketchy and rough, but the piano bars throughout the track keep it accessible. He's remixed Yelle and a few more obscure artists, but "Island in the Sun" is his most surprising and most danceable selection off his recent EP. You can check him out here, and as a gift to my readers, a link to "Island in the Sun."

...and "Refresh"...and "Your Love"...and "Weekend Wars"...

Armani Exchange Campaign: Um, yes.

2009-05-11T12:24:00.003-05:00

Suffice it to say A|X is not my kind of brand. My style is more, oh, Madonna ex-husband meets "cool dad with tech job" combined with a touch of 2020 pop star. A|X is, quite simply, for tools.

However, their new ad campaign is great. I mean, the images are shot beautifully--the female lead is particularly striking--but the final shot, located just above, is the most memorable. (For obvious reasons.) So I applaud the art direction here. Racy advertising isn't limited to Gossip Girl, DSquared and Calvin Klein. A high-end douchey brand offshoot like A|X can be trashy, too!

Black Eyed Peas' "The E.N.D."

2009-05-05T09:52:00.002-05:00

The album cover for the BEP's new album is really neat conceptually. Individual images of all four members were digitally transposed over each other and formed this one, all-encompassing face. Great concept.

You can see the hints of femininity (Fergie) and masculinity. Hopefully the album is as cutting-edge as their cover, and hopefully nothing like "Boom Boom Pow."

Ciara's "Love Sex Magic"

2009-04-25T10:01:00.002-05:00

We've all heard it. Justin Timber--er, I mean Ciara's "Love Sex Magic," a sequel of sorts to JT's "SexyBack." (But in the musical vein of "Sexy Ladies.") The song is just above mediocre, not to say I haven't been obsesses with it for a month, but the video is truly stellar. It's a Gaga-Beyonce hybrid, but damn...Ciara is literally sizzling in it.

Icon?

2009-04-17T15:29:00.001-05:00

such thought goes into every outfit she wears. Used to hate, now I adore the almighty Gaga.

Paris Hilton: New fashion icon?

2009-04-03T14:34:00.001-05:00

Since when did Paris Hilton dress well? The glasses are out. of. control.

I've changed my mind

2009-03-28T13:26:00.001-05:00

The GaGa is alright after all.

Update: Why, herrrooo

2009-03-15T23:27:00.002-05:00

Still not blogging. Barely breathing. School is a mug in my life, not to mention the UT student agency (of which I am now creative director, bz!) and Texas Monthly and friends and family and work...and the bullsh!!!

Listening to Jazmine Sullivan, TEPR, Madeleine Peyroux, Nina Simone, K'naan...THE VIRGINS! Life's good, music's good. Friends are good.

This summer will be good! Spending half of it abroad. Nothing existential, no emo crap. I'm going to Paris to eat, Spain to shop, Berlin to observe, and Dublin to get toasty. And there you go!

MEBBE ILL BLG AGN SOON

Tranny Gaga?

2009-03-11T10:20:00.002-05:00

Yes, that happened! More at the The Visualist.

Fashion Icon

2009-03-02T13:42:00.002-06:00

Lady GaGa: I've found your next heinous fashion inspiration.

Kate Earl

2009-02-24T16:40:00.004-06:00

An artist I've actually kept up with for six years. Finally a sophomore album! To be released at the perfect time!

More of Kate Earl after the jump.

Update

2009-02-02T11:47:00.003-06:00

Feist's Let It Die is the perfect soundtrack for a day like this.

Over the past few weeks, my perspective on life's altered a little bit. I'm still music obsessed, though, and I still love to blog, so I'll be sure to get on that ASAP. But something's different, better.

The new website is finished, I just have to publish.

(It's so easy to fall out of habits...and fall into them!)

Keep checking this blog for the link to the NEW blog!

Thanks,

Dustin

still busy...site coming...

2009-01-11T23:43:00.003-06:00

I'm not usually super self-congratulatory...but I have no choice in this matter.

My new shots with Leslie are out. of. control.

She's phenomenal, and while I won't pretend it's not a ton of work and skill on my part, our close relationship is a great assist in getting that unforgettable shot.

updizzaTE

2009-01-11T01:36:00.003-06:00

still working on full-blown website, progress is slooooww....

BUT

new pics on THE VISUALIST!
like THIS ONE

New Website

2009-01-01T13:18:00.002-06:00

Hey everyone! This has been the best year of my life, and 2009 began in the best ways possible--not going to write about them here!!!--and I hope everyone else had a great night.

The HA will probably be moving to it's own domain soon, but I'm working out the details. I'll post here throughout the week, but by the end of the week prepare for a brand new Happiest Activist!

HappiestList 2K8: Number #2 & #1

2009-01-01T11:45:00.010-06:00

#1: MGMT's "Time To Pretend"
When the new year rolled around, what was the first track I listened to? (Honestly, it was the Kaskade remix of "Womanizer," but let's skip over that) It was MGMT's "Time To Pretend," their third European single and the song most applicable to the life of a young student. Off Oracular Spectacular, a psychedelic exercise in truth-telling, "Time To Pretend" cuts straight to the heart of life.

With the exception of Death Cab for Cutie's "Passenger Seat" and John Mayer's "Stop This Train," no song heightens my emotional senses like "Time To Pretend." It is an anthem of feeling, a confession of how we live our lives: "This is our decision, to live fast and die young/ we've got the vision, now let's have some fun/ yeah, it's overwhelming, but what else can we do? / get jobs in offices and wake up for the morning commute?"

We don't all do lines of coke under the Eiffel tower, or marry supermodels, or sail to islands on our private yachts, but neither do Andrew Vanwyngarden or Ben Goldwasser. MGMT is all about the big reveal, and the big reveal is...they're the real deal. (Wow, too many "eals." This would have been worse had my favorite song been "Electric Feel" instead)

So there you have it. The Happiest of 2k8. Nothing--not the Gap's Fall line, not Gears of War 2, not Britney Spears' managers--was, well, better than MGMT and "Time To Pretend."

#2: Madonna

For someone as obsessed as I am with the Queen, you'd imagine she would be the Happiest of 2k8, not number two! But it is what it is, and while Madge had an amazing year, she is not Andrew Vanwyngarden.

In 2k8, Madonna stuck a needle in Justin Timberlake's ass, was inducted into the Rock and Roll hall of fame, released a few amazing singles (and a half-baked, half-great album), began and ended the highest-grossing tour in history, left her husband and $75 million of her own estate, and in the most cougar-like of moves, is now dating the much younger Yankees star Alex Rodriguez.

I'm not sure if Madonna can 'stick it out' (LOLZ) forever, but for 2k8, she proved to women (and men) everywhere that people's expectations have no bearing on your potential to succeed. There was a single moment on her Sticky & Sweet tour, during her performance of "She's Not Me," where Madonna unbridled her sanity and let loose on a trio of past-Madonna posers; it was clear what Madonna was trying to say. There's only one Queen, and no shaved-head hick is going to take that title away. (That's a Spears reference, for the record.)

HappiestList 2K8: Number #5, #4, and #3

2008-12-30T16:10:00.007-06:00

#5: Michelle Obama

Michelle Obama's cool and all, but she has not been bestowed this mighty honor--one of the Happiest of 2k8--just because she's 'cool.' M-Bama is the Happiest because she is married to a President with benefits. America's changing for the better (like, way better), and while we are all blessed enough to be alive to watch the transformation, M-Bama's got the best seat in the house.

Oh, and there's this:

#4: Sam Sparro

Sam Sparro is an enigma. A gay ex-soul singer son of two preachers from Australia, there are so many adjectives applicable to his description--sexual, effervescent, genuis--there aren't enough descriptions in my vocabulary to describe him. Impressive production qualities aside, his debut Sam Sparro created its own disco vernacular: the ominous single "Black and Gold," the sparkling dance track "Cut Me Loose"--cuts that speak directly to the spirits of the young and the restless. Sparro's also become somewhat of an icon, with a personality ill-fitting any stereotype. If I may be childish for one moment, (LOLZ) the one flaw in Sparro is his horrible style. Neon is sooo 2k7. Agreed?

For a full review of Sam Sparro, click here.

#3: Preps

It was a good year for the preps. No, the preps aren't some alt-indie folk band or a new STD (or is it?). I mean what I say. Sorors, fratties, rich white kids and Ivy League types all benefited from 2k8. The election of BaROCK-N-RObama the sole exception, the cult of being preppy has once again ascended the pop culture ladder and now sits proudly on the peak. Why, you ask? Why, because the alts and the emos have lost their sting. What is 'mnstrm' is now what is 'alt.' So what's "alt" now? How can one differentiate themselves from the herds of American Apparel zombies?

Throw on a sweater, pull up some khakis and kick off your Toms. If you're a girl, you've got only one clothing option: Nike running shorts, a teeshirt that makes you look rich ('I <3>) and nike running shorts. For evening, swap out the shorts for black tights that end mid-calf and a pair of brown Uggs. I promise you'll feel better. Don't believe "prep" is the Happiest of 2k8/possibly the Happiest of 2k9? Two words: Gossip Girl.

You're reading the blog of a guy who bought his first pair of Sperry's last night. Prepare yourselves, people, for the altapocalypse has begun.

HappiestList 2K8: Number #8, #7 and #6 - Film Edition

2008-12-28T19:14:00.008-06:00

#8: The Curious Case of Benjamin Button
I left the theater minutes ago, literally, and I am not being typically dramatic when I say Brad Pitt's performance in Benjamin Button is one of the most touched and tangible of the year. Playing a man who ages in reverse, Pitt commands the entire emotional spectrum. He is quiet and mysterious, decisive and adventurous; he's beautiful. I've never been a Brad Pitt fan, but this film moved me, and Pitt was the hurricane force behind that movement.

A sumptuous feast for the eyes, ears and mind, Benjamin Button is an experience that is so much shorter than its physical constraints (that is, a 2:45 hour runtime). Blanchett, as his oddly inconsistent (but ravishing) wife, lover and eventual "mother," is the only weight on this weightless film, not meeting my expectations after seeing the Bob Dylan tribute I'm Not There. The visual effects are most impressive when rendering Blanchett as a youth, however, and her dancing is a powerful metaphor for how she lived her life; so, narratively, Blanchett's character soared, but when her character ignores Button leaving her--sitting on a bed with a stunted expression--one questions whether she deserved him at all.

Blanchett's part is only marginally bad in comparison to how fantastic the movie is as a whole. Before you know it, you will have tears streaming down your cheeks and the credits will fade in. I'll always remember Pitt's performance and the lessons his character told: life is short, and no matter how you live it, live well.

#7: Atonement

2008 was a great year for film, and Atonement was the first sign of life. Keira Knightly, as a stubborn girl suffering from an affliction that only be described as an early 19th century version of suburbia, gave an award-deserving performance, while James McAvoy took all the wrinkles caused by her shuffling and made them smooth. Of course, there's that sex scene. That breathless, steaming few seconds in the estate library, where they peered over their insecurities and faced the open skies of sexual possibility. (This is a semi-quote from Ian McEwan's inferior novel, which I read before the film.)

The credit here really goes to Joe Wright, one of the most plainly named yet most talented directors in the industry. Every frame of the film is a photograph, every set an art installation; he made dolls out of his actors but made them move and act human again.

#6: Speed Racer

For a full review of this unforgettable, kinetic visual workout, click here.

MobileMe sucks

2008-12-26T17:16:00.002-06:00

Just throwin' it out there.

Christmas was good. Great in terms of family, poor in terms of Apple product.

As in, any Apple products I received suck. What's happening to the fruitiest of software companies? Is shiny red losing her luster?

My iPods are failing, sorors are walking around with iPhones, and now I own the single crappiest piece of software Santa's ever graced with his grubby little paws.

Cooking classes, a collection of portraits by Mario Testino, and LOST season 4. Merry Christmas!

There's about to be a waterfall/flood of Happiestlist 2k8 posts. Grab an umbrella, y'all.

(BTDUBS: The HA is about to go 'global.' Dropping the blogspot and picking up the old .com!)

HappiestList 2K8: Number #9

2008-12-24T12:30:00.004-06:00

Number #9: Lupe Fiasco

Lupe Fiasco is a badass. In 2k8 alone, his stellar rap album--so fresh and cutting it's essentially spoken word set over a shimmering production--gained momentum and led to a tour with Kanye West in one of the most impressive shows of the year.

Lupe wouldn't be on this list if it weren't for "Hip Hop Saved My Life," a track that is not only deeply affecting but catchy and memorable. In the vein of Lauryn Hill's "To Zion," off Miseducation, Lupe tells a heartbreaking story about a Houston man rapping to make a living, going "back to the kitchen" to get "back to the mission" of getting his girlfriend off the streets and his mother out of the ghetto. The human side of rappers is rarely shown, unless you count dicks and prostitutes; Lupe's The Cool is a brave release, and certainly one to be remembered in 2K8.

Weekend: 12.21.08

2008-12-22T23:47:00.003-06:00

How often do we genuinely love the music we listen to?

I think, more often than we realize, the music we listen to is simply a social tool used to meet arbitrary standards set by our peers. If we were all free from judgment from our "tastemaker" friends--the friends who wear plaid skirts, watch Dexter and listen to Ghostland Observatory--wouldn't we all listen to the processed crap we hear on the radio without hesitation?

I'm sure others have debated this exact point in more concise terms than I, but once again, a fantastic article on Hipster Runoff got me thinking. I mean, why is so many great pop songs (Kelly Clarkson's "Since U Been Gone") shunned by the cool kids while Rihanna's "Umbrella" is embraced? Almost as if Rihanna won some hipster lottery, enabling her to be accepted by all music lovers. How stupid.

All people want to feel good. Human nature has programmed us this way. Pop music, on the whole, makes people feel good. It's shiny and electric, filled with hooks and musical connections that send out reinforcing pulses in our brains--the same pulses that one feels upon the completion of a puzzle or a book. (We won't get complicated, but a good musical hook is like a puzzle being solved by the mind over and over again. When the song sounds synchronous and beautiful, our brains feel accomplished.) Basically, I'm saying human beings would likely listen to pop music above other types of music because it's so accessible and can make us feel good easier.

Personally, I've noticed that no matter which song or artist I'm listening to--50 Cent, Sheryl Crow, MGMT, Of Montreal--it's just pop. I don't listen to MGMT's psychodelia. I don't about Crow's country recordings. I pick and choose the songs that most fit this unfortunate "pop" recess in my music library.

Case-in-point: I drunkenly downloaded two Shania Twain albums a few weeks ago (the total truth--long, long story), and the only songs I genuinely listen to are the poppiest of the bunch. I avoid the heartier stuff.

So what is this "thing" about pop music? Is it just me? Do we listen to music that makes us feel good?

(I know plenty of people that listen to gloomy music to make them feel worse--a sad kind of spiral.)

Conclusion to be added when I think of something.

Beachy

2008-12-20T18:58:00.003-06:00

More shots at The Visualist.

Creepy, cool, or wack?

2008-12-20T17:54:00.002-06:00

Mickey Avalon. Can't figure him out. I like "Jane Fonda" and "My Dick," but neither blow my mind.

Is he brilliant? Am I just not getting it?

I'm actually kind of upset at myself. A few months ago my friends were inviting me to see him live and I didn't go because I'd never heard of him. He's an ex-drug dealer/prostitute/orthodox Jew, reasons enough to see him live--music or not.

HappiestList 2K8: Number #10

2008-12-19T16:30:00.002-06:00

As the Happiest Activist is growing old (no wrinkles!), it's time to start making lists. Apparently, making lists is a great way to 'maintain youth.' (See current issue of TIME magazine.) The HA top ten is going to run the gamut, from pop culture to politics to the obscure and obscene.

Who will top the list? Who is the Happiest of 2008?

Will it be Ba-Rock N' R'Obama? The 'ugly' Jonas? Will it be Sarah Palin's meme-worthy Juno daughter?

Because it's unfair to tease, I'll go ahead and let the world know the first inductee into the HA top ten.

#10: Tricia Walsh-Smith

This crazy ho has an entire series of YouTube videos chronicling her recent divorce and subsequent life changes. She's aggressive, outspoken, and--really, now--totally nuts.

(Before each of her YouTube clips, a brief message appears, referring to Walsh-Smith as a "Pheonix Rising From The Ashes.")

Most recently, Walsh-Smith released a single (as in, music) and video titled, "(I'm Going) Bonkers." Watch it and you'll know exactly why she deserves a place on the HA top ten.

The Hipsterrunoff...is just..."2"...perfect

2008-12-16T12:56:00.004-06:00

Srsly. If I start writing the HA in memespeak, will my weblog b n e more authentic? Should I just 'follow my <3' style="font-weight: bold;">The Hipster Runoff today and was kind of blown away. (I was reading it on my bberry/'crackberry.' Does this make me an altprofesh? And I no longer an authenticalt? ) Carles wrote a poem/destined-to-be-meme about AZNs and I almost 'died LOLing.' Almost. died.

So srs q: What do I do? Follow the HA traditional 'common speak' or change into Carles 2.0?

When Apple updated Tiger into Leopard, was it "inauthentic" just b/c it was a superior jungle cat?

Ughhh. sOOO confused.

WTF: HOW DID THIS HAPPEN!?

2008-12-16T07:36:00.004-06:00

SOMEONE ACTUALLY GAVE SOULJA ANOTHER ALBUM? IN LIKE, FOUR MONTHS?!

Mad Style: Texas Monthly

2008-12-15T11:01:00.002-06:00

What is liberal, controversial and Texas all over?

Why, it's my spring internship.

New Music: Remix Update

2008-12-15T07:00:00.005-06:00

Club music right now...not so hot. DJs, however, seem to be having a lot of fun remixing pop classics.

Remix #1: Katy Perry's "Hot N Cold" by Yelle. Stripping away the addictive chorus, Yelle's replaced the bubblegum for a little alternative Big League chew: "You're hot, hot, hot/Then you're cold, cold, cold/You tease me, tease me, tease me/Sayin' you'll call, call, call." It's not an improvement, necessarily, but the remix brings something fresh (and yes, French) to the pop feast offered by Perry's original. It's like bourbon in a Jell-O cake.

Remix #2: Madonna's "Miles Away" by Johnny Vicious. In contrast to Oakenfold's superior remix of "Give It 2 Me" earlier this year, Vicious has downplayed the vulnerable elements of "Miles Away" in favor of earthy beats and tropical sound effects. In a smart editing move, Vicious didn't remove any of the guitar strumming of the original. So, in a nutshell, Vicious implemented a few light tweaks in the bodice of the original, leaving a slightly more robotic (but nontheless more danceable) version of Madonna's failed second Hard Candy single.

Remix #3: Justin Timberlake's "LoveStoned/I Think She Knows" by Justice. The brizilliant French duo, seemingly unable to craft anything sub-par, took Justin's original--by far the most offbeat of Futuresex/Lovesounds' singles--and transformed the lazy inbetween-chorus valleys with vibrant string sections and a stunning musical breakdown as the finale. (Did that make any sense?) However, Justice outdid themselves with vintage Britney...

Remix #4: Britney Spears' "Me Against the Music" by Justice. Remixes as surprising and revolutionary (in accordance to the original) as Justice's take on "Music" are rare. With anthemic, urgent horn-like synths and breathing-in-reverse effects at every chorus, this is a redeaux only the French could put out. (Teehee!) Britney actually sounds better with a rougher production, with Madonna's section sounding right at home, and it leaves me wondering if hiring Justice as either of their primary producers for their next albums would be a forward-thinking move. For Madonna, a sound like Justice's seems like a natural next step in her evolution into post-apocalyptic football player, but with Britney this should probably stay a one-time deal. It's the best remix of the four, but Britney is sexy; Justice is sexy. Together, they're almost cliche.

Weekend: 12.14.08

2008-12-14T11:38:00.007-06:00

Self-actualization! I can't even tell you how many times I've edited this post, trying to find the balance between a thought-to-keyboard tirade and sensible, restrained entry. It's supposed to be about authenticity, but it's hard to write about. The concept is even hard to grasp.

Who deems what is and isn't authentic? Do I sound smart and worldly if I just say, "Everything's authentic, there's no such thing as inauthenticity?" That's probably my canned response, like, "Everyone's got their own authenticity."

But it can't be true. If everything was authentic, than I wouldn't bristle when pretentious aquaintances brag about their co-op parties and their obsessions with Uggs. I'm not saying Uggs can't be authentic, but are they? This is Austin, Texas, where the winters clock in around mid-December and the temperature hovers at 70 degrees fahrenheit. Is practicality the ultimate tell of whether something is authentic or not?

What about motives? Perhaps, more so than practicality, the motives behind purchases and life decisions are a better measure of authenticity. Do you dress to be accepted by a peer group? Even in alternative circles, there are surprisingly salient trends. Child predator glasses (not my term), dark hose, dirty hair. Okay let's look at something less tangible than clothing. (It always seems to go back to clothing...)

Life decisions. Are you in business school because your parents demanded it/expected it/"your dad graduated from McCombs?" I'm not trying to judge anyone here. I'll be the first to admit that I am a product of my parent's raising. I'm independent and strong-willed, but that's because my parents taught me to be those things.

So, if you do anything someone expects of you, are you inauthentic? Motives cannot be a true measure of authenticity, because people do many things with ulterior motives that are entirely authentic.

What's the final answer, then? I can tell you one thing, I'm not authentic. I write my little blog, tromp around in my combat boots and Seven jeans, chatting about the latest issue of Texas Monthly and how I'm "sooo jealous" of all my friends' internships. I'm such a poser! Like, mad-pose! I'm not saying this as a deflector, either. This is not one of those disguised, "See I'm really authentic but I'll play like I'm not to diffuse any negative response." I'm serious.

I want to be authentic. I want to be as bold as Marc Jacobs, as enduring as Madonna, as creative as Steven Meisel. I want to be a genius like Kanye West and be as infiltrative as Crispin Porter + Bogusky. I want the life of The Sartorialist!

Bottom line. I may not be authentic, and can't tell you what is, but I can tell what isn't. Don't pretend, and don't be pretentious*. Don't live a life of self-indulgence and selfishness. Life a life of consequence. If you live for yourself there's no reason to live.

When Christopher McCandless entered the Alaskan wilderness alone in 1994, he thought life was about self-discovery and the relentless search for "the meaning of life." Dumb! He's authentic, for sure--he died for his own authenticity--but his theory failed.

On his death bed, McCandless wrote on a page of Henry David Thoreau's "On Walden Pond." Obviously he didn't have any paper, but in the margins he scribbled, "Happiness only real when shared."

You know, I may have just figured it out. (This is a post about authenticity, so I feel I have to reiterate that I didn't "get it" five minutes ago--this literally just clicked, which is a happy literary coincidence!) Living an authentic life means living a life loving others. A life is nothing without a counterpart, a husband or wife. How crazy, too, as a feminist and civil rights activist, I shouldn't be preaching eternal commitment. But I am because it's truth.

The key to an authentic life is--please excuse the heavy-handed cliche--love. That's what it's about.

[Dramatic pause. Go read something frothy so you can absorb all that corn syrup!]

And with that, I conclude my second weekend post.

Ooh, I feel all fulfilled and crap!

[This is an offish new tradish. Every weekend, since my life seems to both peak and recess somewhere between Saturday night and 4:00 a.m. Sunday morning, I have wild new thoughts. Definitely more on the rambling side, but they're important. I had a rant a few weekends ago on personal style, and you should read it. There's even a hobo shout out! Wha-what!]

*I know I'm like, extremely pretentious, so just pretend Mother Theresa wrote this post.

Mad Style: Fred Hart's alternative "808s & Heartbreak" covers

2008-12-12T12:14:00.002-06:00

The "Robocop" artwork is just OOC.

More at Gowhere Hiphop.

Once upon a time...

2008-12-12T00:18:00.004-06:00

...The Happiest Activist was The Great Gatsby. Er, x_TheGreatGatsby_x, to be exact.

I maintained a Xanga account for maybe two years, I don't know, and it's still there. HIGHlarious to read.

A quote from early 2007, proving some things never change:

"Since there may be people from my honors group who read this (besides Jac), I'll refrain from telling the story of...let's call him A-Man. LIFE IS THE CRAZY!!!!!

LIFE IS THE CRAZY!!!!"

New Music: Lily Allen and The Bird and the Bee

2008-12-11T23:43:00.001-06:00

The Bird and the Bee are "back." I use that phrase lightly because, really, the duo's been releasing EPs for what feels like forever. I saw TBATB open for Rilo Kiley last November at Stubb's, before I even knew a single song. Of course, like anyone who hears Inara' soft, milky voice over the sweet tinklings and sixties-inspired musical distortions of "F*****g Boyfriend" or "Polite Dance Song," I fell in love immediately. (Come on, she blew bubbles to "I'm A Broken Heart"--blew bubbles!)

"Love Letter to Japan" is the most radio-friendly work the group has ever released, and I'm thinking it will be pay off in dividends for the hipster crowd. It's kind of rambunctious, the kind of pop that swings from 0-to-60 in less than five seconds, but Inara works her creepy doll-meets-sex shop owner vocals to the hilt here, carving out a place I think belongs in pop radio. It's no "Womanizer," though, and when songs as produced as "Single Ladies" sit atop the charts its hard for something less overworked to break through. Maybe Apple will choose "Love Letter" as the next theme for an iPod ad or something. That worked for CSS. And Yael Naim. And The Ting Tings...

I adore Lily Allen. She's unforgiving, brutally honest, and can't keep her mouth shut. Hundreds of musical artists share these characteristics; Allen's different because she can back it up.

I'll admit I was never a fan of "Smile," her ubiquitous first single and (if the U.S. it to believed) only worthy track on Alright, Still. Other tracks blew my mind with their unique styling, a blend of hip-hop, reggae and standard Britpop. The strongest of her first LP, "Knock 'Em Out," was a brightly-produced pop number with a darkly humorous tint, and "Everything's Just Wonderful" proved Allen could handle beat-heavy production and stay on top with smart lyrics and a voice that never stretches itself beyond it's own 1950s, radio-hall quality.

"The Fear," her newest single culled from the upcoming It's Not Me, It's You, is exactly what an Allen fan wanted out of her new material. It's essentially a mature version of "Everything," with an overeager synthesized drumbeat and the same tongue-in-cheek rhyming of olde.

There's something different here, though, and it's not just the relaxed production. Allen sounds vulnerable. Sad, even. Allen's certainly endured a few tragedies over the past months, what with a miscarriage, a broken off engagement, pressure from her label to be more like her stateside unequivalent Katy Perry, and all the crap Perez Hilton throws at her on a daily basis. Allen's an ideal model for fame, however. She's fully self-aware of what fame is and how it can affect a new star. She's no Amy Winehouse.

And Amy Winehouse is no Lily Allen.