Tuesday, December 31, 2013

Venus at the Edge // Happy New Year

“Everything in the universe 
is within you. 
Ask all from yourself.” 


You were so good to me. 
Your memory shall not be forgotten.

Monday, November 18, 2013


There are just some things that cannot be unseen.

Friday, November 08, 2013


: /

Wednesday, November 06, 2013

Zeta Oph: Runaway Star // London

It is never too late 
to be what you 
might have been.
-George Eliot

Monday, November 04, 2013

Bondage Bunnies

A regular ol' goddamn Bansky, eh?

art hack by yours truly, an art hack
just kidding, i don't know shit about art.

Tuesday, October 08, 2013

Oh. Sorry. Haven't been updating. 
Too busy hanging out with this bitch.

Wednesday, September 04, 2013

Sweet Sorrow

Completely saddened and down trodden that the Best Summer Ever is coming to an end.

2013. Adventures galore. Bachelorette party weekend in Vegas. Pool time in LA with friends and pizza. Bachelorette party in Scottsdale. Pool time in Phoenix. Leather shorts. Handful of fun shows. NovaSure. The most perfect wedding in Costa Rica. (Bride walked down the aisle to WonderWall for fucks sake). Laying around in hammocks. Feeding monkeys. Petting sloths. Hot-tubbin'. Zip linin'. Skinny dippin'. Ol' long johnsonin'. New yoga studio. New friends in Montreal. Dancing the night away. Connecting more than ever with my best friend. Bloody Caesars with chicken wings.  Poutine. Poutine. Poutine.

Not too shabby for managing to squeeze the time of your life into the grind that makes coming down-slash-back all the so much harder.

Monday, July 29, 2013

NGC 3132: The Southern Ring Nebula // JapHats

“Courage is 
resistance to fear, 
mastery of fear, 
not absence of fear.”
-Mark Twain

Thursday, July 18, 2013

Sunday, June 30, 2013

YBIAWL: Part 2 - Cold Feet

Part two of a three part series entitled "Your Body is a Wonderland" dedicated to my maternal grandmother, who graciously allowed me to John Mayer her corpus, in a mostly, nonsexual way.

Growing up in Massachusetts was beautiful. I loved waking up on blustery winter mornings to discover that the snow on the back deck was up to my neck (I was only about 3'7" at the time) and school had been cancelled. I'd bound around outside until I couldn't feel my extremities and had two tiny glimmering snot luges pouring down my face.

Defrosting was another painful story. Teeth still chattering, my grandmother would pluck out my little frozen "dumplings" from underneath the piles of blankets.What she did next was the most altruistic act I can think of anyone doing for anyone, ever.

SIDE BAR: I can only imagine that having four children takes quite the toll on your body. I had heard many legends of my grandmother when I growing up. One that particularly imprinted on me was that by the time my uncle Johnnie was born, she was able to breast feed with him piggyback style by slinging a tit over her shoulder. Not sure how anatomically accurate that is, but what I can say for sure that her tits, were indeed, a magical sanctuary.

She slowly unbuttoned her shirt (I don't think she wore a bra, but if she did, this is the point where she'd take that off, too), lifted up her long, battle-worn breast, nestled my icy foot under, and draped it back over my foot. Her flesh melted down part of my leg. Rinse and repeat with the right sides.

We'd sit there and chat on her twin bed with my feet jammed up under her tits while she chain-smoked. Needles and pins would appear; while the feeling slowly returned. It felt like heaven; it felt like home.

Read Part 1 here

Wednesday, June 12, 2013

Post Punk

I didn't sell out;

I bought in.

Thursday, June 06, 2013

Thursday, May 30, 2013

Tuesday, May 28, 2013

YBIAWL: Part 1 - The Blue

Part one of a three part series entitled "Your Body is a Wonderland" dedicated to my maternal grandmother, who graciously allowed me to John Mayer her corpus, in a mostly, nonsexual way.

A beautiful, rich, yet translucent hue that's bluer than where the sky meets the ocean. Clear as the lagoon that Brooke Shield's eyebrows and her young tits splashed around in. This little patch of paradise lived right under her eye on top of the plateau of her left cheek bone.

It would move and undulate when she spoke, smiled. Hypnotized by its ocean waves, I'd be filled nervous kinetic energy when I got too close. She would be imparting an important life lesson, I'm sure of it, but I was lost in that spot.

It felt like my birthday, or Christmas morning, when the time would come to take a dive into The Blue.

"Get a tissue," she'd whisper with gravitas.

My tiny body would propel itself to the nearest Kleenex box and ricochet back before she could grab her brass mirror. Hands shaking, I was careful not to compromise the tissue by crumpling it, ripping it, sweating on it, or chewing on it (as I sometimes did as a kid).

The wait was excruciating. I stood at attention but knew better than to rush her. She'd skillfully set her mirror on the nightstand next to her, rusty brass kickstands tilting it up at precisely the right angle.

"Tissue," she motioned, as I sprawled it out in front of her mirror. I had a second sheet behind my back which I promptly shoved in my mouth and packed it under my tongue letting it soften and melt like cotton candy.

Her two pointer fingers touched her cheek. At first just gently prodding around The Blue, then with more force and pressure. A large white tube snaked out of her face as I squealed with glee and helicoptered around the room. She'd press again and more would erupt. This happened five or six more times.

A million questions swirled (presented are three)...as I caught my breath from the excitement:
If she kept squeezing would her brains come out?How could anything like to live inside my sweet old grandmother's head?What was in my head?
Of course, as I learned early on, that all good things, such as birthdays, holidays... I'd have to wait for the appropriate cycle, season before we could dive into The Blue again.

Read Part 2 here

Do Not Disturb

Wednesday, May 22, 2013


"Your eyes are as dry as the Sahara!" exclaimed the bird-like optometrist (who coincidentally happens to love and own many pet birds).

"Argh, really?" Surprised at my sounding surprised. This I already knew because there's rarely a moment where it doesn't feel like tiny kitten tongues are bathing my eyeballs.

Blink. Blink. Blink.

"Yes, your tear breakup time is three seconds, while it normally should be around ten," Doc advised. "It's unavoidable we're going to have to put you on a daily prescription that will help you produce your own tears."

"Oh, okay. So, ummmm, will it cause all of my mucus membranes to produce more moisture?" as I shifted my eyes down into my lap.

"Uh," Doc following my gaze, "No, it shouldn't..."

"Oh, okay. Is it an oral medication?" I inquired further.

He passed me a sample of prescription eye drops.

Blink. Blink. Blink.

Tuesday, April 30, 2013

Young Moon // Kane

"Fell in love with a girl
fell in love once 
and almost completely..."
-The White Stripes

Wednesday, April 17, 2013

Monday, April 01, 2013

More or Less

the more time passes

the less real 

most things become

Monday, March 25, 2013

Kori // LL Ori and the Orion Nebula

"The secret of joy is 
the mastery of pain." 

-Anaïs Nin

Wednesday, March 20, 2013

Friday, March 15, 2013

Gird your loins

I'm ovulating.

It's really rather cartoonish and absurd the way I feel/act before packing up and departing for my ladies holiday. Like a bad caricature of myself, I fumble through the days foggy, primitive, ravenous in each and every way. Leaving a trail of tears (other people's, usually), wrappers, and slime in my wake.

Sigourney Weaver eating a hotdog in Los Angeles, 1983
Photo sent to me everso thoughtfully by ESB
This is pretty nice.

Wednesday, March 13, 2013

Don't let's be sensible

A love letter from Henry Miller to Anaïs Nin. c.1932
Straight up lifted from Letters of Note.
August 14, 1932


Don't expect me to be sane anymore. Don't let's be sensible. It was a marriage at Louveciennes—you can't dispute it. I came away with pieces of you sticking to me; I am walking about, swimming, in an ocean of blood, your Andalusian blood, distilled and poisonous. Everything I do and say and think relates back to the marriage. I saw you as the mistress of your home, a Moor with a heavy face, a negress with a white body, eyes all over your skin, woman, woman, woman. I can't see how I can go on living away from you—these intermissions are death. How did it seem to you when Hugo came back? Was I still there? I can't picture you moving about with him as you did with me. Legs closed. Frailty. Sweet, treacherous acquiescence. Bird docility. You became a woman with me. I was almost terrified by it. You are not just thirty years old—you are a thousand years old.

Here I am back and still smouldering with passion, like wine smoking. Not a passion any longer for flesh, but a complete hunger for you, a devouring hunger. I read the paper about suicides and murders and I understand it all thoroughly. I feel murderous, suicidal. I feel somehow that it is a disgrace to do nothing, to just bide one's time, to take it philosophically, to be sensible. Where has gone the time when men fought, killed, died for a glove, a glance, etc? (A victrola is playing that terrible aria from Madama Butterfly—"Some day he'll come!")

I still hear you singing in the kitchen—a sort of inharmonic, monotonous Cuban wail. I know you're happy in the kitchen and the meal you're cooking is the best meal we ever ate together. I know you would scald yourself and not complain. I feel the greatest peace and joy sitting in the dining room listening to you rustling about, your dress like the goddess Indra studded with a thousand eyes.

Anais, I only thought I loved you before; it was nothing like this certainty that's in me now. Was all this so wonderful only because it was brief and stolen? Were we acting for each other, to each other? Was I less I, or more I, and you less or more you? Is it madness to believe that this could go on? When and where would the drab moments begin? I study you so much to discover the possible flaws, the weak points, the danger zones. I don't find them—not any. That means I am in love, blind, blind. To be blind forever! (Now they're singing "Heaven and Ocean" from La Gioconda.)

I picture you playing the records over and over—Hugo's records. "Parlez moi d amour." The double life, double taste, double joy and misery. How you must be furrowed and ploughed by it. I know all that, but I can't do anything to prevent it. I wish indeed it were me who had to endure it. I know now your eyes are wide open. Certain things you will never believe anymore, certain gestures you will never repeat, certain sorrows, misgivings, you will never again experience. A kind of white criminal fervor in your tenderness and cruelty. Neither remorse nor vengeance, neither sorrow nor guilt. A living it out, with nothing to save you from the abysm but a high hope, a faith, a joy that you tasted, that you can repeat when you will.

All morning I was at my notes, ferreting through my life records, wondering where to begin, how to make a start, seeing not just another book before me but a life of books. But I don't begin. The walls are completely bare—I had taken everything down before going to meet you. It is as though I had made ready to leave for good. The spots on the walls stand out—where our heads rested. While it thunders and lightnings I lie on the bed and go through wild dreams. We're in Seville and then in Fez and then in Capri and then in Havana. We're journeying constantly, but there is always a machine and books, and your body is always close to me and the look in your eyes never changes. People are saying we will be miserable, we will regret, but we are happy, we are laughing always, we are singing. We are talking Spanish and French and Arabic and Turkish. We are admitted everywhere and they strew our path with flowers.

I say this is a wild dream—but it is this dream I want to realize. Life and literature combined, love the dynamo, you with your chameleon's soul giving me a thousand loves, being anchored always in no matter what storm, home wherever we are. In the mornings, continuing where we left off. Resurrection after resurrection. You asserting yourself, getting the rich varied life you desire; and the more you assert yourself the more you want me, need me. Your voice getting hoarser, deeper, your eyes blacker, your blood thicker, your body fuller. A voluptuous servility and tyrannical necessity. More cruel now than before—consciously, wilfully cruel. The insatiable delight of experience.


Monday, March 04, 2013

Be Real

“Those who mind don't matter, 
and those who matter don't mind.”
-Bernard Baruch

Friday, March 01, 2013

Something you said that was so incredibly beautiful, so profound, that it shook me to the core of my being. Stood there... speechless, stupefied; while my heart erupted into a trillion little pieces of confetti that rained down on the party that is and always has been, us.

Tuesday, February 19, 2013

Ring ring

"Yes, hi. I was in for dinner earlier and I think I left my phone behind."

"It's a black iPhone 4S without a case. The lock screen is a photo of a dog doing down dog."

Sunday, February 17, 2013

Jayne // NGC 2623

"Some pursue happiness,
others create it."

My friend Jayne repped it so hard at New York Fashion Week that all the other bitches went home and cried.

Sunday, February 03, 2013

True story

Things we saw today:

  1. A straight-up trenchcoat mafia goth motherfucker riding a hot pink cruiser;
  2. A Navajo Nancy proposition a man in the car in front of us at a stop light and jump in;
  3. A guy punch a horse in the face.

Friday, February 01, 2013

Spring 2013 Couture: Jean Paul Garfield

JANUARY 23, 2013
By Tim Blanks
"...Gaultier definitely scored the award for Couture's Aw-Shucks Moment when his bride hiked up her skirts to reveal four adorable Garfields who cascaded down the catwalk to the unmitigated delight of broody fashion folk of all genders. You could only be enchanted by the crowd-pleasing gall of such a gesture."

Tuesday, January 29, 2013

Advice from a Tree

Stand tall and proud
Go out on a limb
Remember your roots
Drink plenty of water
Be content with your natural beauty
Enjoy the view

-Ilan Shamir

Sunday, January 27, 2013

NGC 6888: The Crescent Nebula // Miu Miu

Our friend described my behavior at his wife's birthday party as "abhorrent and captivating."

While I know I shouldn't be proud of being so inebriated to remember behaving badly; but that is one excellent review.

Friday, January 25, 2013

Celia According to Grace

Here's an ode to my friend and blogging accountabilibuddy, Celia. 

Why I love her and why you should too 
(if you don't already --- in no particular order):
  • She's hilarious and makes great meatloaf
  • She has the cutest family ever. I met Cheech once, and I don't even like kids, but I loved this little girl.
  • She's ambitious, entrepreneurial, and brave as hell
  • She has an awesome rack and a buttery voice
  • She runs an sweet vintage shop, Monday's Child and dreams big dreams
On that tip, here's a twisted recap of a convo we had recently:
G: I love your shop. Sorry I don't support it more, but I look stupid in vintage.
C: I'm the same way with boots.
G: R calls my style "future slut/dominatrix."
C: I bet you're good at boots.
G: Hell yeah. I think you're either a vintage girl or a future slut.
C: Hahahaha, only those two?
G: YES! Pick a side!!!

Tuesday, January 01, 2013


Happy new year, friends!

I will make a couple resolutions this year:

  1. to be more punctual
  2. to be more positive (the infectious kind)* 
Be prosperous. Be happy. Be safe.

Love you!
*not HIV