u gotta be fresh

George Bailey lassos the moon. (if George Bailey = Claire Eliza and the moon = any meaning in life.)

[claireelizagee]

Mount and dew me.

I made a sacrifice recently. In hindsight, I see that the sacrifice had to happen just the way it did. It now makes sense the way the baptism scene from The Godfather makes sense, or Kobe with a torn Achilles shooting free throws makes sense; there is a necessity to the pain, as it brings order to chaos. For me, it came in the form of permanently losing my Twitter privileges for the sake of Mtn Dew Major Melon Zero, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.

My Twitter surrender origin story starts on Valentine’s Day, in Oxnard, at the Chevron off Victoria Ave. and the 101 N. It felt spontaneous as I parked in front of the gas station (I didn’t need gas) and walked into the store wearing a silk pink skirt and a black crop top. I dressed up for the holiday, and so I dressed up for this moment. 

I was mostly stalling when I got to Chevron, flippantly browsing the drink aisle. Of course I wanted to try the sugar-free version of the new Mtn Dew flavor, but these seasonal drops are hard to track. Much like a Missouri blue jay, spotting a new Dew flavor is common enough that it will happen! yet always feels special to catch. And so, without even knowing I was looking, I found her in the bottom row of the aisle. I swooped the bottle up with a sense of inexplicable magnetism, the brightness of the perfectly pink liquid matching my skirt and spirit. My first sip was small and slow, as if to avoid the accidental greedy consumption of a golden ticket. Later that night, drunk on artificial flavors & official love, I tweeted a photo of my hand cradling the half-full bottle in my lap. I held her in a maternal way: firm but loving, secure but free. The tweet’s caption was “.@MtnDew if u discontinue this…I will hunt u and I will kill u.” 

The next morning, I awoke to a permanent suspension alert from Twitter. I was cited for threatening violence against an individual or group of people. It was sent to my gmail account in the stillness of 2am, so as not to directly confront me during cognizant hours. To say I did not expect the email would be an understatement. As I sent out the tweet the night before, I ignorantly envisioned Mtn Dew retweeting me with a side smile emoji, or coyly replying “come and find us :)” (the fact that I was fantasizing about Twitter interactions with a major corporation could be dog-eared for a later study). 

Love is expressed in peculiar ways. The expression need not be understood, merely felt. The expression of my love for Mtn Dew Major Melon Zero on Twitter was misconstrued, as Twitter did not take the time to process what my words represented. I love this soda flavor so purely that I want to ensure, perhaps control, its means of production, which was the sentiment behind my tweet. When I look at it this way, I can argue that my passionate pronouncement of a PepsiCo product was censored not based on my supposed violent incitement, but what I can only assume is the platform’s own apathy towards trying new Mtn Dew flavors. 

The thing is, I already wanted to quit Twitter. Getting kicked off the site was a shock, then a schtick, and now a symbol of the relief I've found in 2k21. I already quit alcohol this year, and as I strive for a more refined existence, my tolerance for Twitter has also plummeted. As long as the ban doesn’t impede upon my Dew consumption, I actually feel released.

I do have a Rolling Stones song stuck in my head: "Can't You Hear Me Knocking?" off Sticky Fingers (1971). Combine Can’t you hear me knocking? with my favorite philosophical thought experiment—if a tree falls in a forest and no one is around to hear it, does it make sound?—and the result is my occasional paranoia surrounding life sans Twitter. When I have funny thoughts, I still feel inclined to tweet them out as proof that I’m alive. I remind myself that it would lead to attachment and comparison, that I’d get thrown into the trenches of self-doubt, sucked dry of self-validation and self-love. It’s strange, but sensible, that Mtn Dew relieved me from another prong of addiction, just as it relieved me from alcohol (when one stops drinking, the nonalcoholic beverages in their life become very true friends in the process).

On Valentine’s Day, I acted as a martyr for my own true self when I sent that tweet. I can now show my love for Mtn Dew Major Melon Zero in bigger and better ways; more intentional ways. Since my feelings for it don’t hold a place on Twitter, they can be held more voraciously and unadulterated everywhere else. I fortuitously rescued the Dew, to have and to hold in my real life, one free of character limits and censorship. But as the saying goes, “Who rescued who?” 

[claireelizagee]

re: my geographical obsessions

- i am getting my teaching credential at cal state LA

- however.... 

- i want to move back to theeee midwest post-grad......

- currently i am fantasizing about 

            tulsa: i.e. SE HINTON/THE OUTSIDERS

*or*

            detroit, i.e. FREAKS N GEEKS (michigan suburbia) 

*or*

            st. louis, i.e. webster forever

*or*

            memphis, i.e. my kids would know good music forever

honorable mentions: austin (too expensive), nashville, kansas city, little rock, madison

don't you love americana despite the interference of an executive branch ... i will always love it ... my great grandma's homemade peach ice cream in arkansas, janis joplin growing up miserably in texas, my dad's (i am forever eternally grateful for this) birth in pennsylvania, my mom's college life a few degrees away from brad in missouri, george harrison visiting his sister in illinois

i love states and i love adolescent literature: the perks of being a wallflower

hope was here

stargirl

walk two moons

i love robert s. mcnamara and i love john f. kennedy. and i love lyndon b. johnson 

because ^^ altho men, altho white, altho authority

^^ still soft and gentle and scared

xoxo,

a poem,

for you by me,

now off to teach high school and adult reading classes in west covina,

claire eliza

[claireelizagee]

Amy & Jake? More like NOBODY BUT Michael Shannon.

“Nocturnal Animals” breathes in and out for the sake and survival of Michael Shannon chain-smoking his way thru West Texas. I said god damn! I’m already re-turned on.

I didn’t have expectations entering this film. Last week, I heard Isla Fisher mention “mental violence” on a podcast, but it didn’t stir much inside me. I knew what the poster looked like and I didn’t like the poster. I knew it wasn’t about animals and that actually pissed me off because sometimes misleading titles piss me off. Frankly, I always knew I would see the next Tom Ford film, no questions asked. (see: “A Single Man” for evidential support)

Saturday, I went home after a grueling five hour LSAT affair at Southwestern Law School to change and eat split pea soup. Then I arrived at the Laemmle Playhouse 7 an ENTIRE hour before the show to buy tickets.  I’m an adult now and I don’t like to rush or procrastinate occasionally! Actually, I purposefully gave myself an hour to stall so I could walk into the Blaze Pizza next door and have three Deschutes Fresh Squeezed IPAs for $13.50 total! If that’s not enough to make me/you smile, I also sat at the high-top with the best winter sun shining in and I saw Michael Cera cross the street in a beanie. 

Let it be said I entered this film with a buzz that may or may not have affected my overall opinion.

The dry, brown, lawless nature of a Texan backdrop is quite the romantic adhesive...stick it on any 21st century film and, apparently, for the life of me, I can’t deny the dreaminess. Michael Shannon plays Detective Bobby Andes, a man good and bad at his job for the same reason: he lusts revenge. He is never seen without a cigarette in hand, but the symbolism is not trite. He knows the cancer stick will eventually kill him and I gotta respect a middle-aged man who finds smoking too delicious to quit. Bobby Andes wears plaid red shirts and the sexiest khaki jacket. He’s skinny with a constant leather belt, and his gun in its holster...more phallic than I’ve ever realized a gun could be.

Truth be told, this critique is much ado about nothing. Essentially, I wanted to be honest in telling you that I only cared about the moments when Michael Shannon reigned. I mean, I dug Amy Adams’ thick, pretentious glasses (being a frame-wearer now myself, I notice this stuff!). I saw it on a good day. I was relieved that I just tackled the law school admissions test and I was content that I just drank three beers midday for the first time in a few weeks (more like ages, am I right). The masturbatory directorial techniques weren’t make-it-or-break-it for me. I was either neutral, or slightly piqued, at the transitions. I can note that Jake makes some solid crying faces and I was fascinated with the bleak lights that would highlight Amy’s aged face and neck.

A secondary noble truth “Nocturnal Animals” delivers is a reinforcement of the eerie accuracy in which Tom Ford elegantly captures aggressive solitude. He makes loneliness fashionable again. It’s beautiful and quiet and white and privileged; rich and soft and real.

The necessary condition under which you watch this movie is to see Michael Shannon’s performance. Then, sufficiently (LSAT takers see what I did there!!!), you may fall for some other offers. Example I: Laura Linney plays a pearly golden Texan mom pendant a 3.5 minute dinner scene. Example II: Isla Fisher is the southern maternal millennial Birth of Venus.

anyway, RE-WATCH “HELL OR HIGH WATER” 

[claireelizagee]

sometimes i realize after hours of depression, discomfort, disillusion...that maybe i just need a cigarette. im struggling with a writer's block i haven’t experienced before. i've never had such a need, such a neediness, for archiving my feelings with no outlet to do so. im sure fifteen-year-old me would disagree. how i wish i was fifteen. because when i was fifteen i could cry for two hours over my love for like, wes anderson or some shit. ok ill give myself a little more credit: noah baumbach. the strokes. sofia coppola. sean lennon. #OSCARSSOWHITE

and no one truly cares how i feel. unless im being the ultimate self-loather. only then can i assist in making others feel better or superior or prettier or smarter in comparison. I AM NOT AN ANOMALY. i promise i know this to be true; i know my suffering and my aching and my numbness are not only unoriginal, but an offense to blow out of proportion in the relevant scale of privilege. yet that same promise i just made, the promise of awareness in knowing i'm not special...it doesn't make for good writing. 

i watched "by the sea" and realized i need to move by the sea? to write? with my domesticated whiskey and beautiful, lonely wife? answer me, doc. prescribe me, doc. please, i'm beggin' ya, doc.

to write publicly is to write actively with one's ego at the forefront of a civil battle against one's insecurities. and as much as i want to kill my ego every day of the week i do also thank it for its energy and determination in conducting me through the intellectual sphere. i would lack my wordiness and, therefore, my own public persona, without my ego. but this cultivation of a public persona is simultaneously exhausting...eventually leading to the desire to avoid the very public validation i seek! i could pile layers and layers onto this individualistic view of my own ego because i now realize my entire theory has created, in itself, an inflated version of self-image...as if i believe to be some celebrity figure or, at least, a voice of importance, when all i mean to say is that any person in this world with wi-fi accommodations has a public persona. so now i want to amend again and again to eventually ensure a true disassociation with my own ego. 

i just had this idea for a claymation "Platoon"-esque film, but instead of the Vietnam War, it’s (wait for it) my internal war. and all my inner struggles are fighting each other in an exhausting, romantic, tropical, erratic jungle that is my mind. they all believe they are on the right side of history. but alas, they are each other's own worst enemies. there would still to be that scene where every one forgets their differences for a moment and conjugates at my heart (base camp) for a night of drinking and smoking. they would listen to Otis and dance and giggle with a touch of homoerotic mysticism in the air. naturally my ego (Barnes) finally kills my, hmmm, morality? humility? fuckability (Elias)? but fear not, in the end Charlie Sheen (God) destroys all of me in one fell swoop and the credits role and everyone's like "wow...how much did that cost to make a feature-length claymated film all about one poor little girl's internal struggles. did she front all that cash??? who greenlit this??!"

i feel like way too much is happening all the time around me and to stay in an insulated mindset is safe but probably despicable. or at least dangerous, too. i'm conflicted about what to do or who to do or where to stay and then i listen to John or Etta to maintain my sadness and drink the cheapest wine in the house to maintain non-sobriety and reflect on the good times...the times when i was happy. since i always "was" happy and i never "am" happy. no matter what, i just don't let myself be happy in the present moment because who does that? who sits pretty and thinks "wow, i really am happy in this moment right here, man"...i don't even know what that would feel like. ugh actually i think i do know what that would feel like. mmm, maybe it feels like when zac efron takes his shirt off on the big screen? or a breakfast burrito is all warm in my hands before i take the first bite? or a puppy gives me some real good lovin’ on the street? or i go home for christmas in less than a month? ALRIGHT, THAT’S IT. I’M WATCHING NEIGHBORS 2 TONITE.

[claireelizagee]

”Bad Moms” anti-review

I saw “Bad Moms” last night, and it was kinda fucking prolific for summer 2016. Not that it’s up against much. I mean, the world sucks this summer, and I can prove it without even getting political. like, lol @ “Suicide Squad” and “Ice Age 5.” Instagram is now a shittier version of Snapchat. Lindsay Lohan is still insane. Many of my high school and college classmates are jizzing over the new “Harry Potter” book, and it makes me want to vomit more than I already do in general most days. I’m being a bitch, but I need everyone over the age of thirteen to let go of the Harry Potter world for awhile. I promise it will stand the test of time, and you will all get to read it to your children someday. But let’s just keep it that way and not have it this way, too. We can’t always have everything all the time. And I am allowed to be bitter about the unromantic shittiness that is a 20-something’s summer. Summer fucking sucks for twenty-four-year-olds. Especially lonely, stressed, poor twenty-four-years-olds with no AC who get bored at their endless production assistant jobs but don’t know how to put air in their own tires and still call their dads every day.

Anyway, “Bad Moms” didn’t have much to compete with right now in theatres or in my life. And so it was pure gratification…it got me hyper the way I did when I saw Christina Applegate in “Achorman” or all of [the first] “Horrible Bosses.” I’m too lazy to translate the specifics, but it made me feel better than any person or thing has since the Summer Solstice. I got a newfound comfort in watching sexy, weird moms cry alone in their mini-vans and avoid attending every single soccer game. It’s empowering for me to know that moms can still have the best dick jokes and the best sex and the best parties.  It’s no matter if I won’t be a mom for another decade–or if I’ll ever be a mom. This movie isn’t just for the maternal. “Bad Moms” highlights the significance in maintaining one’s personal identity, sanity, and cool throughout the journeys of adulthood and parenthood. It also seems helpful to avoid birthing bad eggs. A good person is a good person because of their flaws, not despite them. GO SEE IT. GIRL POWER. ELVIS FOREVER.

[claireelizagee]

The Anthology version is normally better than the original version. But that’s because I am deeply consumed by the rawness of Paul and John’s voices and I cannot get enough of the stripped down takes when they giggle and stumble and talk over everything with perfect imperfection.

I wish I were the fifth Beatle, even if it meant I could never kiss any of them on the mouth as a result. Although some people claim Brian Epstein is the fifth Beatle and other people claim him to have kissed John somewhere on the timeline so maybe I could squeeze it in!

I have no motivation to clean my room or life right now. I come home from work and go straight for the chilled white I had the self-control not to finish the night before. Little accomplishments like this still make me proud...I feel like I am twenty-four going on forty-two. A single woman with no one but herself to take care of, waking up alone in a bed where the sheets don’t even fully cover the mattress--a metaphor of her earning : spending or apologies : mistakes. I yearn for a more tragic life, if not a better one.

[claireelizagee]

Santa Barbara, I love you.

I spent the night at Daniel’s Saturday night so we could leave bright and early for the wineries Sunday. We watched “Flirting With Disaster” and I fell in love with the film itself and the historic coziness Daniel associates with it. I slept on the futon because I was sort of sneezy and solitary and it worked well as we dreamt of each other from across the house.

It was easy to wake up since we were both bursting with anticipation. I put on a $5 floral dress I found at Salvation Army the day before. We hopped in Baby, my 2002 Toyota Corolla, and filled ‘er up at the local filling station. We bought some **SUGAR FREE** energy drinks to keep in our back pocket for the potential sleepy post-wine portion of the day. SIDE NOTE: Daniel and I are seeing each other later and I just texted him “I can’t wait to fuck wichu tonite” and he responded “Soon baby swoon” and now that is the name of our band.

We stopped halfway there to pee at a Micky D’s. Daniel's good deed of the day was buying a breakfast combo so we weren’t loiterers and my annoying deed of the day was claiming I needed “a Clif bar instead blah blah blah etc.” so we stopped at CVS too. It was cloudy and rainy at 9am and we were okay with the dreary atmosphere since the wine would brighten our minds and inner happiness is all that matters besides outer beauty. While finishing the second half of our drive, we listened to "Beggars Banquet" and it reminded me why I love, nay need, Keith's singing voice as I tried to remember all the lyrics between bites of Clif bar and sips of coffee.

Fess Parker is the “la dee dah” type of winery--harder to transition to from the road than I realized. Apparently we were the silly kids in the corner the pourers were reluctant to serve. My parents are randomly Fess Parker members, so our tastings were free and my dry Riesling was discounted. But the only anecdote that truly matters here--and I know anecdotes never truly matter--is the unexpected gem of Fess Parker Winery: their crackers. If I could write an ode to these crackers, I would. I understand that I actually could write this ode. No one’s stopping me. But it’s hard to get me to write in general, you see, so to write an ode to hardened bread may be lower on my list of to-dos. These crackers were circular and thick and the pure opposite of dollar store pretzels you see in most tasting room food bowls. I can only compare the taste to a mild animal cracker on the nose with a dry, powdery finish. Confession: I just called Fess Parker to ask what kind of cracker it is but I am not going to disclose that information here. PM me. A sip of pinot noir with a bite of a cracker back-and-forth complemented the earlier Clif bar/McDonald’s coffee indulgence so well I could’ve screamed--I'm not even sure why I had such a strong reaction to this parallel but it was there. We ended our first winery visit with a mini photo shoot in the vineyard and also discovered more about its Hollywood roots (Fess Parker himself starred as Davy Crockett and Daniel Boone on television shows and wanted to suck Reagan’s D).

The Foxen wineries were next, and they were more our speed (which was probably a little over the limit because I had already re-learned the old trick at Fess Parker of pretending to be interested in purchasing every wine on the tasting list so I could get double pours--plus we were winding down Foxen Canyon with no other cars in sight chasing the dreams of Miles and Jack à la Sideways). Foxen is a little less white and a little more woodsy. There are two Foxen locations and one was an actual shack of a bar with little trinkets and gizmos on wooden shelves surrounding a cabin-like counter, with a cozy yet haunted looking barn in the background and two port-a-potties to the side for my convenience. As I sip Foxen's incredibly dry Rosé of Mourvédre while I write this, I can ensure you Foxen looks out for its homies. This shit is so refreshing I don’t think I need to shower tonight.

We headed to Tres Hermanas after Foxen because I remembered it had a cute little baby-boomer-targeted shop and an unassuming, informative staff. Here was our jackpot: Daniel and I left with a $60 case of Malvasia Bianca that we have collectively burned through since. I’m normally immune to the wine hangover now or else I wouldn't function most mornings, but my headaches this weekend can only be compared to those of (insert a celebrity dude who has to deal with an annoying celebrity gf or wife every day lol).

LASTLY, since I remembered they had shuffleboard and millennial-targeted lightening and design, I suggested we round our day up at Andrew Murray Wines. I was right that it was a good closer because I am always right. Daniel had a great time and even bought his third pinot of the day. Finally, we wrapped up a day of drinking and flirting with all the pourers.  I claimed "I'm good to drive" after Daniel inquired, "You good to drive?" Technically I was, since I’m here today to tell the story, but after the n-th tasting and inevitable road-trip blaze, the windy winding drive into Solvang for dinner and then down into Santa Barbara proper to catch the non-must-see “Money Monster” was quite reminiscent of my carefree, dazed and confused high school days. I almost forgot I was a young professional with a new job and overwhelming student loans. The evening took me away and in that moment, I swear we were infinite. Or at least chiller than usual because I stopped worrying about skin cancer and Tinder and my “check engine” light.

When we finally arrived at the Motel 6 in Carpinteria (Daniel still has to help me pronounce this any time I say it) we were sleepy boys. HGTV was the perfect lullaby and I felt safe despite the mysterious blood stain on one of my pillows and the loitering teens at the bottom of the stairs. We deserved that good sleep like all drinkers do.

The next morning we got a sidewalk breakfast at the best café in Carpinteria and I forget the name of it, but they had cute clip-art dolphins on their menus and we were overwhelmed with how many staff members cared about our well-being as diners. Then we walked along the streets to the beach and pretended we were Southern newly-weds on "House Hunters" and I got sand in my purse and we put fake tattoos from the Foxen winery on our wrists using the sea water. Then we hopped back in Baby and drove the six miles up to Santa Barbara again for an alternatively urban winery crawl.

I know I need to wrap this up...I'm too uneducated to describe the wines I failed to remember much about in the first place. And Day 2 was understandably more blurry than Day 1. But the urban wineries were perfect for our second round of day drinking: we could walk from tasting to tasting and enjoy the ocean breeze without any time in the car and boy if you just could've seen how many steps we did by the end of the day!!! Like 15000!!! I do remember that the dry Moscato at Oreana was dangerously delicious and non-basic. And that the tugboat we spied on while sipping at the Deep Sea Tasting Room on the wharf was named "Lil Toot." I also remember that the Sanford and Benedict Chard at Au Bon Climat wasn't a swiss chard reference, because that was an embarrassing discovery! But whatever. Give me a break if you haven't already because I'm poor and I still buy boxed wines and I drink too much to savor the quality but I am learning, I promise.

Daniel and I listened to "Life of Pablo" on the drive home, giggling through Calabasas, and rubbed our hands together in anticipation of uncorking. We had two bottles of the Malvasia Bianca that night while we watched "Misery" and "Real Time with Bill Maher." A chilled white pairs nicely with James Caan’s on-screen dreaminess! The night ended with wine-induced arguments over Chelsea Handler's new show and emotional dismissiveness because maybe we were exhausted and crabby for a moment. But we both know this will always be a cherished, incomparable weekend. Except for next weekend when we go back for more $60 cases of the Malvasia Bianca.

[claireelizagee]

If you’re looking for something upbeat today

you must kindly search elsewhere. 

I am tactfully blasting Tom Tom Club in my albeit anticlimactic earbuds to combat the EDM someone in upper management found appropriate for a sleepy afternoon playlist in a public place on North Figueroa. This reminds me of the night last week when Mikey, Daniel and I screamed obscenities while we played Mrs. Pacman and drank tall boys at the Blipsy barcade in Koreatown. The resident DJ strung together a romantic line of songs that complimented my fuzzy insides well; The Cure and Bow Wow Wow and tunes I didn’t know but needed to know and knew I must have known in a past life. I assumed the atmospheric music was orchestrated by a sensitive and reliable source. But, as I began to wrap up my evening as a poseur nerd who doesn’t fully comprehend the rules of Asteroids or Donkey Kong and fears wasting quarters on the unknown, the trusted disk jokey transitioned into what can only be explained as a minor identity crises. She pushed dubstep into the semi-empty room of tall skinny boys and I was repulsed by the choice. I left the bar with a sour taste in my mouth but that could have been from the nicotine lozenge.

What is wrong with 2016? And 2015? and etc. backwards forever save for a few solid years in the ‘90s and the guilty pleasures of the ‘80s...I miss 1978 so badly. The year my dad graduated high school and “Who Are You” came out and John was alive and well.

Sunday night my bff/roommate/caretaker Mark bought us tickets to the Pet Sounds 50th Anniversary tribute at The Echo to publicly celebrate Brian’s brilliance and privately celebrate my birthday. We met at Two Boots as I had already spent 3.5 boozed up hours at the Dodger v. Cardinal game and needed Vegan in Furs and water to recuperate. We split 3 pizza slices 2 ways; I was sleepy, dreamy, blazed and content; it was a perfect prelude to a Pet Sounds evening. When we entered The Echo late (obviously), we walked in on The Lemon Tree harmonizing beautifully on “You Still Believe In Me.” Alright! I thought. We are most likely in for a treat tonight! 

See, in the past, I’ve always struggled with this intensely possessive and protective love for any beautiful band or album or song from the mid-century. The Beatles and Dylan and The Stones are my best friends so if you claim to listen to them you have to prove to me that they’re also your best friends so WHEN IS RICHARD STARKEY’S BIRTHDAY. Although I accepted the first band’s rendition, most of the other artists…I’m just going to say it…sucked. And I’m sure they don’t always suck, but if a band is being pulled in to this circle for an intimate album tribute--an album that is arguably the most influential, ground-breaking, magnificent album of all time—they BETTER. FUCKING. KNOW. WHAT. THEY'RE. DOING. And care! Like, shit! I hate getting bratty and worked up but if I was some kitschy LA band that was asked to stand up there and play any song off Pet Sounds, I swear on Dennis Wilson's grave I would put every ounce of stored/stoned energy out there to make it the most real and gentle and loving performance in my personal history of performances--musically or otherwise (sexually). Even if I was nervous and sweating and tipsy and sad. In fact, that would make it better. And no excuses! 

This anger comes from many of the live attempts, but mostly it comes straight from the existence of Honey Child. A 12-piece (or some excessive number like that) female band who wore all white and held various string instruments and horns, Honey Child had a promising aesthetic, I guess. I knew what song they’d be doing by process of elimination, and I was prepared for a heartfelt, layered and passionate version of it. But as soon the leader of the pack started her little unrecognizable “God Only Knows” intro on an electric keyboard and sang in a weak, off-key vibrato, my eyes rolled up but my dad wasn't there to shake his head in disappointment with me. She then insisted the need to start over halfway through the first verse... It was unprofessional, disappointing and confusing. I assumed this would throw off the whole audience like it did me, but they all cheered with encouragement. They were either 1. all idiots or 2. way better at faking it or 3. mostly her friends. I’m guessing this lead singer was also the arranger, and she failed to utilize any of the other musicians or vocalists on stage in any way that could partially honor Brian Wilson’s vision of instrumental and vocal harmony. Basically, Honey Child disrespected Brian Wilson fans everywhere. 

“God Only Knows” is a song written at the highest level of emotional intelligence that propels the listener into a raw and love-sickening, gut-wrenching place in their mind--it’s the most important song on Pet Sounds. I left The Echo with a sour taste in my mouth. And this time there was no lozenge on my tongue. I just wasn’t made for these times.

[claireelizagee]

The Main Ingredient - "Everybody Plays The Fool"

My grandma commented on my profile picture asking if I got my lips plumped. I would rather spend the money plumping my liquor cabinet. I noticed we’re out of gin and whiskey when I splashed vodka into my afternoon coffee yesterday. One should never go through long absences of gin and whiskey. Gin is the perfect solitary drink. I find it classy and healthy since mothers used to put it in bottles to stop babies from crying, or something like that. And whiskey is clearly the only drink you should offer when you’re trying to be cool after greeting a boy at your front door. He doesn’t act awkward but you act awkward. Naturally, none of your jokes land and you forget how to pronounce his name. Cue the Jack & Coke! 

There is a hefty handful of stupidly expensive, admittedly cozy coffee shops in Highland Park. I love Highland Cafe the most for their vegan breakfast burrito. I only go on the mornings I’m painfully hungover or heartbroken. “Isn’t that most mornings, Claire?” I only go on the mornings I’m painfully hungover or heartbroken and exaggeratedly hungry.

But this morning I was just painfully bored so I stopped by Civil Coffee. I immediately regretted it. I ordered a drip coffee and it was served in the smallest mug I’ve seen in recent memory. There were no outlets in sight since they don’t want unemployed millennials camping out for longer than a Broad City episode. I sat down by a lovely, large window and my mood improved despite hearing U2 blast through the shop’s speakers. It was a nice seat. I could study everything. I spied on a puppy tied to a bench whose owner blew his nose with a black hanky. I stared at a perfect woman with velvet pants and a Sun Records t-shirt as she walked her yorkie by more than once. I realized that everyone has a dog. I would bet money that every other resident of Southern California has a god damned puppy! And here I am, stuck in a corner with my mom’s hand-me-down Birkenstocks and a cracked phone screen, not one warm-blooded companion by my side. I know I sound like I WANT AN OOMPA LOOMPA NOW but in the words of Lloyd Christmas: “You know what I’m sick and tired of, Harry? I’m sick and tired of having to eek my way through life. I’m sick and tired of being a nobody. (pause) But most of all, I’m sick and tired of having nobody.” Anyway, long story short, I applied to Civil Coffee when I got home. 

[claireelizagee]

I saw a woman with an Enrique Iglesias tote bag

at the airport yesterday. Other than that, it was a mostly miserable day of diverted flights and dehydration and middle-seats. I was a privileged, nervous wreck to come home to excited empty-nesters, because I don’t have much to show for myself lately besides weird black-denim Dickies and another cavity. But, it was worth it, as now I’m safely guarded from most stressful endeavors. I’m alone in the house drinking Coke Zero, at any given time pantless or shirtless, deciding whether or not I should skate around the basement and chug one beer before my haircut appointment (also deciding if I should get a boring trim or a shoulder-length look and I’m leaning towards the latter because I haven’t been getting much attention lately so I think I should channel current JLaw vs. 2006 Ashlee Simpson since I’m a bored & needy double whammy, but I.D.K.).

I really thought the Tinder scene in Los Angeles was weak, but St. Louis is essentially off the radar. I know someday everyone will tell me I can’t afford to be picky, but that's a decade from now after 1-2 botched plastic surgeries and a “messy” divorce under my belt. Right now, I’m a glowing (almost) 24-year-old BABY who needs breezy flirting and mental and physical stimulation and one cooked meal a week and a ride to the airport and maybe a bi-monthly sincere heart emoji good-night text.

I hope to regularly write anecdotal, self-involved essays or the occasional social commentary on the illness I feel re: everyone’s stupid PC shit or the schizophrenic disheartening/euphoric outlook I have on North East Los Angeles when I wake and bake on a Sunday, but for now I will stick with a swift personal introduction from the comfort of the living-room sectional in my childhood home that probably costs more than 2 months rent. 

Mostly I just want to do whatever I want anywhere on the planet and make money from it and change the world one joke at a time or change my mind one job at a time without terrible consequences.  I want to live in Joshua Tree but work in Santa Barbara. I’m a floating twenty-something, a breathing sample of our narcissistic, disengaged, multi-skilled generation. I have multiple complexes. I listen to Natural Child, the Modern Lovers, and Kanye. I like the cheapest beers as much as the nicest, and I love to hate Lena Dunham yet obsess over every scene of every episode of every season of Girls. 

(I feel like I’m just writing a long-form Tinder profile, but at least I’m saving you the drowsy-eyed selfies and sassy comebacks and granting you full punctuation and complete sentences.)