Wednesday, May 28, 2008
VIEWER DISCRETION IS ADVISED.
All you lurking at-work bloggers, this one may require headphones, or your boss may peek his/her head around the corner and ask why you're watching a video that has so many expletives.
Monday, May 26, 2008
You know you aren't from Los Angeles when you decide it's a good idea to make s'mores on your balcony at 10am on a hot L.A. morning.
This is exactly what my best friend and I did the other day. As we sat there in our over sized sweats, drifting off into the nostalgia that the smell of coals and grilling brought back, we pressed together store brand graham crackers, slightly hung over and revived old Colorado camping memories, leaving the crumbs on our face and cleaning marshmallow off of dirty tree branches. We carefully picked out our sticks off the street on Burbank and hopped that some dog hadn't peed on them, or at least the pee taste would be covered up by overly burnt marshmallows.
The whole idea of "home" has been on my mind lately. Partially because, I don't really have one. Sure, I have an apartment in New York. I have an address and a roof over my head. A pillow, and a throw blankie (I have yet to buy a comforter...?) I have a cabinet and a bathroom, but it doesn't feel like home. It feels like a place that I stay at.
Half of my belongings are in storage (indefinitely) in Los Angeles, pieces of my past and photos, files, trinkets and a printer remain in the trunk of my car in Colorado. Then, the clothes that I could fit into two suitcases are in New York. I have stuff, but stuff doesn't make up for a feeling.
Fine, I have chosen to live like a Gypsy and truthfully I make anywhere I go "my home" for the time being. I find my favorite coffee shop, adapt to new friendships and create a routine. I wouldn't let go of the lifestyle I'm choosing, right now but the idea of home is as exciting as the idea of my wedding someday. Both of which seem very, very, far away. Maybe that's why I feel safe thinking about the both of them.
Home means you are committed to a place. Or having a home does. Having a home means setting timers for sprinklers, investing in a "welcome" mat, buying a spice rack from Bed Bath and Beyond and a blender that you'll let get dusty in the back of your cabinet. Home means at the end of the day you'll have somewhere to kick your feet back, throw your shoes in a pile in front of your door and misplace things but find them a couple weeks later.
Home is not only stability but it allows you to settle into your life, accept your surroundings and live in them. Home isn't just a place, but a feeling, a sense of belonging- the puzzle and you're that final piece that fits perfectly into it.
I want to choose paint colors, coordinating bathroom "stuff" toothbrush holders and a fancy plunger. I don't want to grocery shop for just a one serving meal. I'd like to buy marinades, fresh veggies and wine "just to have" for company. I'd like to finally find a place that I don't want to leave. I've accepted my need for adventure and I know that I each place, each "home", each month is just another piece in my patchwork quilt that I am making of my life. Some pieces are bright and busy, unique, others are blank, dark and confusing- but the WHOLE THING is beautiful, I'd just like a bed to place it all on at the end of the day.
My home will be a direct reflection of where I've been, who I am and will hopefully be a place that is full of light and energy, LOVE and loooong evenings of too much wine and even more conversation. Having a home would mean for me that I have taken on a new wave of acceptance of right. where. I'm. at. or at the very least that I am secure enough to have somewhere that I feel comfortable resting my head.
What does HOME mean to you and have you found it yet?
Friday, May 23, 2008
The hardest part about growing up is losing perspective on the things that once gave you a sense of wonder. Things, people, places and ideas that you once thought were “magical” are now overlooked, mundane and taken for granted.
When I was younger my Mom always took her dancers out to L.A. and I happily tagged along. I would sit for hours staring out the window at the Hollywood sign. Everything that Hollywood represented; glamour, talent, opportunity, fame, “magic”, possibility that someday all of the visions you once had could be realized, there where pools of people are just waiting to say “yes” to them. I wrapped all of the abundance I knew I'd have into a tiny time capsule and planted itself in my little heart and then it grew…completely, fully and in absolute faith through my years as a teenager.
Every time I watched an old Hollywood movie I would fantasize about being able to do the work, I’d imagine my speeches, auditions and rehearsals. The careful planning for the perfect outfit, the hours spent perfecting your craft…..the people who got to experience it all with you. I had every idea so clearly outlined in my head.
I’d run my fingertips across actor’s headshots placed on diner walls and think “someday I’ll hang my picture up here.” I watched Madonna and imagined the first breathe that she takes every time she walks out onto stage and sees thousands of people anticipating her presence. I imagined the feeling of drinking it all in, the moment that you realize you’ve finally made it.
I would lay in bed at night every night as a kid and pray, pray for it be used, pray to allow my “gifts” to be used in anyway that they were capable….All of them.
I wanted to be exhausted. I wanted to feel like everyone was fully aware of what I had to give, and they only wanted more. More was endless for me.
I would obsess over Hollywood history, I drank in the characters, the classics, and the "greats"…I wanted to have all the knowledge in my head to use it like a weapon that I’d slay people with. I wanted to teach myself how to walk in their footsteps.
Star maps, Paramount, Capitol Records, my eyes were alive and open to everything. When I moved to L.A. everything meant seeing all of the parts that weren't so beautiful and like a wild fire after the first spark of resentment, or disappointment set a flame to everything that I had once seen with such awe.
The moments that once brought me joy, dissipated in the face of "realism". Experience put a dark mask over all of the things that brought me there to being with.
Rather than being able to move on, the past became part of my present and repeated more of the same. Unfortunately the same only got darker, more jaded and let down.
I've been in L.A. filming for a new website I'm an online host for and stopped by Debbie Reynolds Dance Studio....the halls are lined with posters of Natalie Wood, Leslie Caron, and other beautiful triple threats from the musical era, old timers and Gene Kelly and just like that a flood every little piece of childlike wonder came pouring out of a tiny door tucked away in my heart.
I remembered playing Wizard of Oz on repeat, learning the dances from Kiss Me Kate, thinking Planet Hollywood was the greatest thing ever and noticing every. single. flower that grew in random locations (i.e. fences, sidewalks, etc.) in Los Angeles. The vibrancy that I once had popped open and seeped out of my pours and into every orifice of my being and wanted to be released again. I realized under all of the “stuff” I’d thrown into the mix, that same WONDER was still there.
At some point in our “adult” lives we start to turn off the “wonder.” The wide eyes are afraid of looking naive, “hope” turns to “being realistic” and dreams turn to reality when responsibility takes the reigns. It’s easier to turn on Auto-pilot and coast rather than deal with the uncertainty that often comes along with illogical or “dream-like” motivation. We stop listening to our hearts, we stop noticing the things that made up happy as kids, we have less time and less vulnerability. Instead of observing we make up our own answers, we project our own perspectives….we stop finding wonder in the small things and stop believing in the big things. Instead of carrying on the innocence of blind faith we stash it away in a little door next to nostalgia and “throwing fits in public.”
I never wanted to be a fairy (though I am certain they exist in some realm) I just wanted to live my fullest possible life. Which is the same desire I have now. The difference is, then….I believed in it. Behind what is now, uncertainty was unwavering faith, without question. The key is keeping awe alive. Keeping the childlike enthusiasm that made everything possible; that made cupcakes taste better, rain something to play in rather than dread, future exciting rather than angst ridden, dreams something to skip towards rather than struggle to grasp. Keeping the wonder alive, to me- means keeping your spirit alive.
If you had your childlike sense of wonder still, what would you have been….or who are you still, that’s gotten stashed away with the teddy bears?
Monday, May 19, 2008
Thanks Ma. This was her response after I was checked out by a confused clerk at Urban Outfitters. Due to my Mother's logic anyhow, I was wearing glasses so the poor thing must've had some "depth" to not overlook me. I have pink eye damnit.
This was shortly after I was having a "moment" and asked my mother to point out someone in a magazine that was the same "size" as I was.
"There, that girl...you guys are about the same, she's little."
"MOM. She's pregnant."
"OH! OH! I didn't see that!!"
She totally slipped and compared me to a pregnant girl, and for the record my mother is not a bitch (I love you Mom, we all make mistakes, sorta how you made me! Even though I was a "blessing") And how does one recover? Well first, my remedy induced from the the past blog, decided to aid my "mood" with a spur of the moment day in Denver (shocker.) My connection to L.A. had a layover in D-town so instead of hopping on straight to L.A. I suprised the family and spent a solid day playing frisbee with the Pops, coloring the sidewalk with baby blue chalk and tracing the outline of my sisters hands. Then, kicked ass at an evening of board games accompanied by a bottle of red wine.
Then the night in shining armor swooped in..... While lamenting over life at a local pub, (wearing my glasses)....I scoped out a table of "normal looking dudes" no musician drama, no arty types, no overly perfectionist business types, just regular dudes...totally not noticing me. Instead, noticing a skanky chick wearing entirely too much lycra and self tanner.
"Lowest hanging fruit Chels."
"That's what they do Chelsea, most men will go for the lowest hanging fruit; a woman who is easy to grab. Someone who they don't need to work too hard to reach. You're not that, that's why they aren't looking." Basically lowest hanging fruit translates to: skank? Or run of the mill sans "fancy-free" and awesome. i.e. me.
"Aw. Thanks Dad." My faith in men is restored, because men like my father exist.
And fucking A right. I'm no apple. I'm on top of the canopy. Call me a fucking coconut (no pun intended with the "nut" part.)
If the majority of chicks are bananas, I'm a starfruit.
The question really is; do I aspire to have a man who only wants to snatch up an almost fallen apple? A man who has shitty taste in fruit? A man who will settle to eat the meal-y part of the apple, or the bruised banana, the worm holed pear, to avoid breaking the sweat necessary to indulge in a sweet mango? Do I want that? Do I want a man who only wants what's arms length away, or do I want a man who is willing to set forth on a quest to find a more exotic fruit?
Are all men only reaching for what's reachable?
Friday, May 16, 2008
I look very writerly today. I've been wearing my hair in a bun more often than any twentysomething should, and I haven't transitioned into "spring clothes" yet. Basically, I look like I emerged out of a cave at all hours of the day. I look like someone who got stranded in their car for a week and ate Cheerios that were crushed in their seat cushions. I look like a librarian?
It's pouring rain outside which usually makes me feel rejuvenated, but today I'm realizing that this sedentary writing stuff is making me very weak. I have to get up and do a "2 minute power boost!!!!" Which involves a lot of jumping jacks and lunges. I really want to be skipping through the streets like Gene Kelly and then sit in a cafe and contemplate the meaning of love. Life is already a mystery I've accepted, the mystery of love on the other hand, I refuse to accept. Accepting it is like saying you're willing to leave every first date saying, "What the fuck just happened? Is this my fate? I knew I should've joined a convent during my 'religious phase.'"
I'd also like to confess that I've been living off of Red Bull, rice cakes, peanut butter and chicklets. Like the gum. I'm out of eggs, so now my diet is all effed up. Now I know that none of the above are anywhere in any sort of food chain, and this is probably why I look like a character from Sweeney Todd today. So I'm getting on a plane back to L.A. again for work and am sufficiently malnourished and all I really want to do today, is go hang out with my little sister. Fly to CO, take her to a movie, find the bitch who threw a bottle at her at school and busted her lip and pull her pigtails out of her head, then bake a nice batch of cookies.
My friends think that the things I do are exciting when all I really want to do is drink a beer at a pub with my uncles and my Daddy. You may not know, that though I look crazy independent, I call my Mother at least ten times a day. You may think that I look self sufficient but I have to call my Dad to have him "calm me down" when I'm about to have a "flip out" which has an uncanny resemblance to Tom Cruise's flip out in Jerry Mcguire. Everyone says that I'm not "that girl that has lots of boyfriends cause I'm picky" but the truth is, every time I meet a man I'm considering whether or not he's good boyfriend material. More often than not, I settle on yes and he settles on someone else. I may look stable but when I read a posting on Craigslist about a guy who needed a "no expectation date" on a wedding and would pay $500, I seriously considered and had to call my best friend so she could tell me I had hit a new low.
The truth of the matter is this: I miss my family. I don't even really like Red Bull. I crave milkshakes and fried food more than any human ever should. I have a crush on everyone, but I don't really want anyone. I've been procrastinating and daydreaming for hours at a time, time has been a black hole lately. I've been listening to Usher? I have a crush on someone for real, that I'll never be able to date. I wish I wasn't questioning all of my usual hippie ways. I think I should have been the next Bachelorette. I still think about him. I chew a lot of gum to forget how hungry I am. It's still not right. When I'm in the moment, I snap out of it and realize I can't be in that moment forever, or.....I may look like and feel like Sweeney Todd forever.
What's the truth for you?
Wednesday, May 14, 2008
Business cards are a means of status, title- etc. Business cards are for unimportant people who want to feel as though they are important...for instance, I have a business card, ME. which, is. hysterical. I got them out of necessity because when I moved to NYC, I was asked "Do you have a card?" every time I met someone new. Which was projecting far more importance onto me than necessary. So I thought, "ho-de-ho, I suppose I should get a card?"
I debated writing my name and listing, very fittingly underneath- BAMF.
Then, on the reverse side it would say- BAD ASS MOTHER F*CKER. My business card was going to be a piece of flare! I ended up going with my name, and underneath- Freelance Writer. I did however sneak in my little Chelsea Talks Smack girl who stares up at my name like it's going to crush her face, which shows that I'm not only an asshole but that I have some sense of humor, no?
BAMF, is still cooler. I'm still wondering if I should have left it out, on one hand if someone can't handle BAMF, I A. wouldn't want them to employ me? B. would tell them they needed to lighten up if they found it offensive. and C. did I mention that I wouldn't want to be associated with those of the BAMF hating variety? I did list my blog however, so the secrets out. Here I am! All loud and obnoxious and entirely inappropriate. The crazy guest at dinner, cleverly disguised with a charming demeanor and skinny jeans.
The thing about cards is this; they say something about your personality. I find that handing someone a little packaged version of what to expect is the best way, unfortunately cards don't come with tequila shots and listing "free hugs" might creep people out. But each time I look at my card I wish it said more, I am NOT my title. I am not just a writer. I am not just a smack talker. I am a musician, a traveler, a modern day gypsy and a professor in snarktasm. I am a lover and nerd and a peacemaker and an ass kicker and frankly- all of those things make up my "profession."
I've found that when I'm handing out my cards, I'm also using words like; deadline, excel, in-the-loop, budget, network, contacts, evennnntttssss.....etc. All of which sound like I'm speaking Chinese with marbles in my mouth when I say them.
My business cards are sprinkled about the city, in pockets of strangers and "contacts" all of which, makes me chuckle quite a bit, because I am not nearly serious enough for a business card.I feel like my DAD when I say it I've been going to some pretty interesting events lately; GQ party, Gift Bags For Good and tonight, an event in support of Medical Marijuana, with Kurt Loder and Montel Williams (who I'm hoping brings his little psychic friend Sylvia as a date, I have some questions.) which is so my gig....how serious can you get when you're eating space cake?
What is your title on your business card, and what do you WISH is said?
Saturday, May 10, 2008
"Acknowledging the good that is already in your life is the foundation for
all abundance. The fact is: Whatever you think the world is
withholding from you, you are withholding from the world."
Wow, that sentence hit me like the time my mother threw a glass of water in my face cause "Parent" magazine said it'd help "stop the tantrum." Hopefully the quote proves more affective than her attempt at keeping me under control.
Oprah has in fact, proved she has found another gem worth knowing and that she is, smarter than the rest of us for finding it first (or at least her people are?) I've read Eckhart Tolle's book "The Power of Now" before and as a result I lived "presently" or in the now during the entire duration of reading the book, proving it's effectiveness somewhat ineffective, unless I was reading. Not to take away from its brilliance, it's just when I stepped out of my bubble into life it was hard to avoid future thinking and to step out of imprints/habits of the past that were affecting me presently. Without my compulsive thinking on the future I felt as if I might be one step behind, I may look lazy, or I may not reach high enough, etc. SO only briefly was I right where I was, and more frequently I was somewhere else....that mostly existed inside my head.
Reluctantly I started to read "A New Earth." I was afraid it's genius would be beyond the grasp of my purely mortal hands. It's funny what you'll resort to doing when you have no money and nowhere to go. Picking up a book was a better option than creating a indoor putt-putt golf course (yes, I have done this), and risk breaking the few things I barely have, and unfortunately liquor isn't free.
By page 200 it looked as though a graphomaniac had taken the book hostage. I wanted to underline everything, I wanted to memorize it and sing it on street corners, or create a new language and speak only in, "New Earth." I'd just finished a conversation with my Mother when she said, "You keep saying, 'somebody love me, somebody notice, somebody love me. love me.' But you aren't loving anybody, so you aren't letting them love you." Nothing is worse than when your mother and Oprah are right.
I stared at the quote above for an hour. WHAT AM I WITHHOLDING that I feel is being withheld?
Right now in my life, I am writing and in return more writing has come. It is self perpetuating. I have virtually stopped singing, and in return the stage to sing on has eluded me. More than anything, I have been wanting love for a very. very. long time, and with no avail, have not received it.
I've been giving; hurt, bitterness and mistrust and have been expecting warmth, vulnerability...attraction? I've been a softer looking version of an Ice Princess towards the male race, and I've wanted them to smother me in affection. I've have been giving my heart on my sleeve; accompanied by Britney Spears' former body guards for it's protection and I've been expecting men to come take me on a date?
I've been wanting arms wrapped around me, skin and goosebumps and I've been giving, a tap on the back, and a half-smile? I've been wanting all the good stuff; deep kisses, little moments, organic communication, unadulterated expression, morning sighs and shared french toast. Instead, I've built a steel cage around all of the parts of mine which are delicate, which are rare and visceral. Everything I've been wanting in love, I've selfishly kept my own. It's like that "special something" you keep hidden, it's just that special you're afraid to lose it. Then you completely forget where you put it and know its around here somewhere but no one will get to enjoy it. Until it's found, it's just talk. I am that "something special" and I've hidden it.
"Whatever you think people are withholding from you- praise, appreciation,
assistance, loving care and so on- give it to them. You don't have it? Just act
as if had it, and it will come. Then, soon after you start giving, you
will start receiving."
What is it that you feel that the world is withholding from you and are you withholding it from them?
Thursday, May 8, 2008
Without my knowledge the other day a friend of mine counted the amount of times I used the word douche. The number was shockingly high, something like 20 times with the matter of half an hour. This got me thinking….I was either very irate about something, I need a new adjective OR I have stumbled upon the perfect words for any siuation/person/ etc. There are many types of doucheness. So, I thought I would break it down so you too can put to use this fantastic word.
DOUCHE:The true definition of douche is; a jet or current of water, sometimes with a dissolved medicating or cleansing agent, applied to a body part, organ, or cavity for medicinal or hygienic purposes. or; to use a douche or douches; undergo douching. Vaginal douches may consist of water, water mixed with vinegar, or even antiseptic chemicals. OK. FIRST OF ALL….Does that sound painful to anyone else? Have any of you actually tried this? I’d really like to know.
MY DEFINITION OF DOUCHE:Here’s the thing, douche has it’s varieties. Douche is like an endless salad bar of accouterments, douche is multifaceted word and I’ll have to give you a breakdown.
The Rich Douche usually will do something like order your meal for you at a dinner table, while saying something patronizing about what color lipstick you’re wearing and how it clashes with your dress. Rich Douche's usually say snide things about poor douches and visa versa. He most likely has Daddy’s money or Daddy’s company, and has dated his fair share of waify blondes wearing pearls. The rich douche would never enjoy a divey pub or roll around in the grass with a Labrador, instead he’d have a greyhound and would think pubs were for Irish invalids, take him to The Palm or he’ll just go hungry.
Just as bad as rich douche, though in a different way. Poor douche usually plays some sort of victim role which involves “hating ‘The Man’” or “The System.” Poor douche takes advantage of his Mother and then takes advantage of his chick. Poor douche eats entirely too much pizza and plays entirely too much Halo with the boys and almost never cleans his bathroom. Poor Douche never picks up the tab, and usually has you buy your own liquor that he will proceed to get drunk off of. Poor Douche thinks Rich Douche is worse than him, but really…they are one in the same- one just isn’t overdrawn.
You’ve seen this guy. As a matter of fact, these are the easiest ones to detect. The muscles and the hair gel usually give them away. Gym Douche can even be detected from a car, bumper stickers that say “NO FEAR!” or have some little kid pissing on something will usually don their trucks, or shiny black cars with ridiculous rims. Gym Douche will tell you you need to do squats and won’t enjoy your Grandma’s cooking when he meets the family. Gym Douche like Girl Gym Douches who wear makeup and hoop earrings while running on the treadmill, and lipsynching Madonna.
Will almost always make you feel like an idiot by saying something patronizing like, “…well you wouldn’t know anything about that…” Intellectual douche will definitely say something snarky about your lattes or your affinity for Half-n-Half while he drinks a sh*tty cup of black coffee and looks pensive. Intellectual Douche will also make fun of you if you enjoy Rihanna.
Will listen to entirely too much bad rap and call you “Gurl” or “Woman.” Gangsta Douche will generally have sketchy text messages from “other chicks” and will roll entirely too many blunts, while watching 106 and Park. Gangsta Douche should chill out on the cubic zirconium. Gangsta Douche will choose “his boys” first, almost ALWAYS, so just forget it…..at least until you’re his baby mama.
THESE ARE THE WORST KIND. Because they use their fancy fingers, and fancy voices and their fancy fancy HAIR to make you think they’re not douchey. They write lovey little ditties and fool you into thinking you’ve found a “sensitive one” one that will love you when eat too much pie and will let you be neurotic and imperfect and won’t mind when you stop wearing so much mascara. THEN. The true colors shine through…..and you realize those little ditties…..were JUST LITTLE DITTIES. There was no meaning, there was no depth? He’s still a man. Musician Douche almost always has an easy rebound waiting in the wings. Musician Douche is LETHAL. Not to mention Musician Douche can then write beautiful hate songs about you, that will leave everyone feeling sorry for his poor. little. heart. You bitch.
There you go my friends…..please, tell me, what type of DOUCHES do you know?
Wednesday, May 7, 2008
I prefer to start off all of my conversations with porn references. Especially when I’m talking to total strangers, or in this case Landon Pigg who I wish wasn’t a total stranger to me, because I’m quite sure we’d get along famously, in the non-famousy way, since you know I'm not famous? However, from seeing two of his performances in the past couple weeks I’m fairly certain he’s going to be all sorts of “famous” very soon. Magazine cover famous. AOL’s top ten hottest musicians famous. Rumoured to be dating some random Gossip Girl or Mary-Kate Olsen type famous. That kind of famous, though the latter would be tragic. He seems much too sane to make those types of bad decisions involving starlets or socialites.
But I digress. I know how your little minds work, where does the porn come in??
Before introducing myself to him (which I did by saying, "HI! we're both wearing plaid!" what the fuck? Can I not be such a tool for five minutes??), Landon played an incredible show at The Living Room in New York City. Unlike many artists who have tweaked or auto-tuned so much of their albums they’re unable to echo the sounds we’re used to and often fall short, Landon exceeded all expectation. Not only did his songs (the popular “Falling in Love at a Coffee Shop” which has never happened to me, though it sounds nice) sound exactly like his record, they sounded better. Not to mention that fact that he could have just stood on stage and chatted about random stories from life on the road and he still would have had the audience in the palm of his hand. From the looks of the table across from me I’m surprised bras weren’t thrown at high speed towards his face. Women (and men I’m sure) were in full swoon.
Landon’s lyrics speak in a way that are honest and relatable. He makes himself vulnerable on stage and has this whole elvin vibe, (ya know-like Lord of the Rings, yes I’m nerdy enough to think elves are hot) and impish grin that makes you want say, “Tell me more, tell me more!” (wow. I have officially referenced Grease and LOTR in one paragraph, I am awesome.)
At the end of Landon’s show and my emotional journey (if you haven’t heard “Great Companion” its the perfect song to accompany a good cry in a glass of whiskey) I felt like I should let him know I was going to write about him on College Candy, which had me mentioning that it is in fact, not a porn site. Though if it were, I’m sure I could still write an article on Landon and the porn industry, or porn itself. So Landon, as promised here are your two paragraphs on you….and porn:
I would say Landon’s album could be the soundtrack for a porn, but that would be a lie. Unless of course it was a very romantic porno and let’s be honest, porn’s are anything but romantic. His music would lend itself much better to a soundtrack for a movie staring Reese Witherspoon, or a Grey’s Anatomy episode where Mcdreamy and neurotic Meredith fight the urge to jump each other in an elevator, “Magnetism” would be song used in that scene.
Truthfully, Landon seems to have an understanding about women being objectified by entertainment and the unrealistic standards that are set. Which would include the world of porn, were women are perfectly blonde, perfectly large breasted, tanned, toned and for the most part, catering entirely to the desires of men. In the song “Dressed To Kill” Landon speaks specifically about what women go through in order to get attention and approval to feel validated, “I know I feed your desires, to wear red lipstick and be dressed for the kill, Yeah, I know I feed your desires cause now you’re murdering my soul. So you take off your glasses and highlight your lashes and it’s the beginning of a sad song.You lower your collar I start to notice and it’s the beginning of a sad sad song”……sad sad song indeed, especially since I spent an hour before his show trying to find the perfect t-shirt that made me look like I had the slightest bit of boob.
If only all men could think like Landon maybe women would be allowed to feel a bit more comfortable in their own skin, rather than trying to fit into a certain mold of beauty. So maybe his tunes aren’t exactly sextastic porno rhythms, instead they’re beautiful representations of what love and the different dimensions of life are really all about, and that is just fine by me......and fine, I totally swooned.
Monday, May 5, 2008
I would like to be sitting in Verona, Italy eating polenta and cheese, with a bottle of red wine, after a nice breast rub on the statue of Juliet full of wishes for "luck in love".... but instead, I am sitting in my apartment, eating hard-boiled eggs, watching that smug Samantha Brown drink in (sometimes literally) the country of Italy, and I'm tempted to buy a one way ticket on my credit card, right now- so I can go join her, or strangle her for being such a tease.
Hard boiled eggs aren't usually my meal of choice but it was either that or hundred calorie rice krispie treats, since that's all I have right now. Whoa, yeah. and almonds....the least I can hope for is that I lose a few pounds, since I keep obsessing over how my inner thighs are looking " a bit fat." And due to my thigh irritation I want to bake a cake? My mind is such a bitch, if she were a person I would trip her on the street.
Due to some financial restraints, I haven't been able to go and gallivant about NYC like usual, instead I have resulted to hibernating and daydreaming about far off lands, while doing the occasional wind sprint from my couch to my bedroom ( a solid 3 feet) to keep the flow of blood going. And to keep my ass from getting flat. I am convinced, flat asses are the derivative of sitting in front of a computer and I pride myself on my ass and it's bubbliness. Bubbliness?
Today Samantha Brown has taken me to Milan, nice place, good people, Prada :) and Verona where she is now eating some liquor filled sponge cake...which sounds like something I would choose to live on if I ever had to choose one meal for the rest of my life. A couple months ago when I was on a "trip" with Sam (I feel like I know her well enough to call her Sam, maybe Sammy?) I was so inspired to flee to Europe that I created a ridiculously in depth itinerary of my trip. A trip, I couldn't afford and had NO PLANS on taking.
I saved this itinerary in a Word document, so it could marinate and someday "attract" the bank account, opportunity and.... maybe my own camera crew, with major network funding so that the trip could be made possible.
I create lists and collages of things that I want to attract into my life, with the same conviction behind them as a nun with a rosary. My lists are my version of a prayer candle. My lists are my visualization and my mental image held at my third eye and all the New Age loveliness. I make my attempts to live "The Secret." And in turn "The Secret" has given me hard-boiled eggs and Passport To Europe marathons. The Secret made sure I had cable in my new "home."
So here's a taste (mind you I did this for EVERY COUNTRY) of my itinerary, I'm just putting it out there....to, ya know....come back to me? Like attracts like? Energy attracts more of them same? and all the vibeology jargon.
Ride the old fashioned bike. And pick fresh tulips.
Meet friends in the “Brown Cafes” Not just the Dutch, but people from all over, artists, businessmen, travelers, interesting conversations and great beer. CHEERS.
Pay tribute to Anne Frank.
Tour the read light district
Enjoy that weed is legal, and try it in the form of cake ;)
Eat Gouda and Broodje’s two of Amsterdam’s favorites. Take pictures.
Make a toast with random locals with some Absinthe.
Music Music Music. Sit outside any of the squares and enjoy a music festival.
Make out with a hot band member of the Swedish band. Preferably a drummer.
Visit a Viking warship!
Try Swedish meatballs.
Take a morning run through the city.
Check out the Rival Hotel, all the while singing an ABBA song.
Absolut icebar! Shots!
If time permits, take a hot air balloon ride and feel like Dorothy saying goodbye to Oz.
Greek food, Greek dessert.
Wear gold, and white this whole trip.
Go sailing. Live for the sun, and find the name of your inner Greek goddess.
Visit the Parthenon.
Meet the locals in Plaka and Kolonaki square, watch the sun come up.
Go to Cine Paris, rooftop watch the stars and a vintage Greek film.
Greek folk dance!! Dance dance dance!
Where would you go on your imaginary vacation and what would you do???
Saturday, May 3, 2008
I am sorry for that "half shot" I took, which then made me feel that it was "ok" to follow up with a full shot. I apologize for the two margaritas and I'm even more sorry for whatever cucumber infused beverage I added on top of that, and for those two sangria's. I'm sorry for treating my body like a science experiment and for mixing liquor like Bill Nye The Science Guy. Please forgive me, I tried to do a nice thing by feeding you pizza and you seem pretty pissed about that too.
With deepest regret,
Chelsea Talks Smack
SIDENOTE: Can we talk about how my mother found an old journal of mine and in it, I list some of my favorite things; favorite shoes- pennyloafer platforms, WHAT. THE. FUCK. ???
favorite songs- Castle On A Cloud from Les Miserables and No Diggity by Blackstreet.
Good to see that I had a wide range of musical appreciation. An inner broadway nerd, meets the streets, sounds like a musical in the making, no?
Anyway, lets rewind a bit....my audition was incredible. Thank you to all of you who sent me good vibes and energy, I was serene and confident, and don't think I could have done any better. It felt amazing....now I just have to wait, which is driving me so crazy I feel like I need to take up knitting or something to busy my mind so that I chill out with my compulsive thinking. Even better than the audition itself, was being able to see my friends in L.A. again, who I've missed IMMENSELY. Cuddling up on the couch with my best friend, munching on candy and salad from Gelsons, the comfort of being with people who you can be completely silent with or understand what you're thinking when you just look at each other. My friends are my family, so beautiful and perfect...I laughed harder for the days that I was there than I have in awhile, and I played an awesome game of Operation as well as mastered by art as Guitar Hero GOD. And damn, isn't it refreshing when you have friends who call you out on your shit? I love the connectedness, the bond, the ridiculousness and the support our friendship has...after my audition my bff was in the audience and screamed, "That's OVA!!!!" followed by boisterous applause. And obviously from the video below you can see why I love them so much, let me introduce you to my best friends: This is Schman (that's what I call her) and she is an asshole.
And my YouTube gift from my other BFF, in which she dances to my music that I wrote/sing/play....
Writing about how amazing my friends are almost made me forget how hung over I am....
So I will continue to watch youtube videos and hope that I don't go insane while I wait for a phone call that could change my life....