The TILT

Things I Learned Today

[thetilt]

Revisited this movie last night. So SEXy.

[thetilt]

TILT - #YESALLWOMEN

In the wake of the brutal shootings of innocent victims in Isla Vista this weekend, by a lonely, disturbed, and highly delusional person, (name omitted on purpose to not glorify him or his actions in any way,) the hashtag #YesAllWomen has become a beacon in social media and a battle cry from/for women everywhere.

  I sat down and read hundreds of these tweets—accounts of horrible acts of misogyny, prejudice, judgment, unfair treatment, double standards, and basic daily occurrences in which women have felt mistreated or disrespected because of their gender alone. And as summer swiftly approaches I’ve already had 3 experiences to share on the matter.

  1) THE SKIN PARADE

It’s amazing how the male landscape changes as summer approaches. Like starved animals awaking from a frigid hibernation they become lascivious, drooling, beasts in the streets. Now rows of the men huddle together to whisper, point, and sometimes-even call out as women walk by in their dresses, shirts, skirts and tank tops. I don’t particularly think I’m anything to bark at, especially in the summer when all of my genetic flaws are morbidly placed on display, but even I feel uncomfortable walking by this gaggle of oglers because they make no attempt to keep their skin-lust under wraps. None.

  It’s as if the season itself has given them permission to act on their desires, and we’re to blame for choosing not to die of a heat stroke under turtlenecks and long pants. I told a male friend about this and his response: “the bird and the bees.” As if man’s primal nature to hunt prey and mate makes every crude intention, aside, or grunt acceptable. It doesn’t.

  It’s really fucking hot in the summer here in New York, an already trying time for some of us, please don’t make it worse with your gross and disrespectful behavior.

  2) IF YOU DON’T KNOW ME DON’T TOUCH ME

So, in New York everyone is trying to make it. Some of the people trying to “make it” want you to grab their promo flyer, hear their song, or buy their CD (ha!) on the streets. Most of the time you can just ignore them as if they’re not even human beings, but I was raised by a sweet loving person so at the very least I will extend a “No, thank you.”—an acknowledgment of their efforts but a decisive attempt to make my position on the matter known. NO, in all cases, means NO. Do we really have to go through this over and over again ad nauseum? NO means NO. Or at least that’s the motto I try to hold onto.

  So, it was jarring to me when the man, walking with his entourage of men, disregarded my attempt at polite decisiveness to mean that he could place his hand on my shoulder and suck his lip while looking me up and down and mumbling something I didn’t understand because I was wearing headphones and listening to music at the time. I jerked away from him and kept walking HOPING that they didn’t decided to follow me. And even though it was broad daylight on a crowded street, I still looked behind me for 3 blocks just in case.

  Would he have grabbed at a man that politely declined his EP? Probably not.

  3) NOT ALL MEN

But how can we tell? As I was leaving a party on a rooftop, I got in the elevator alone and at the last second a male building worker got in with me. He stood in one corner and I in the other. I didn’t know him, but I found myself sizing him up. He was bigger than me, certainly stronger. He knew his way around the building and he may know how to stop the elevator. For 25 floors I thought of all the scenarios that could go horribly wrong in which I could find myself a victim of some crime at the hand of this person. Were my shorts too short? If I keep looking at my phone will that make me invisible or will he become enraged that I haven’t even bothered to look his way? Am I doing something that will provoke him? I don’t think I took a single breath for 25 whole floors. And when we reached the lobby, he let me out first, like a gentleman and smiled. I suddenly felt bad that I had judged him, but every thought and every worry I had in that elevator has been perpetuated by a social climate that tells women it’s THEIR fault that bad things happen to them at the hands of men. It’s something WE do to provoke them. And even though I’d like to think I’m an intelligent female, I am a female, and I’m not immune to said societal constructs and pressures.

  Not all men are evil. We know this. But evil men don’t come with warning labels. Evil men come disguised as neighbors, fathers, brothers, co-workers, teachers, priests and even young, privileged sons of Hollywood directors, so how do we make a change? How do we get to a place where women don’t have to look over their shoulder all the time like targets? I don’t have the answer.  I wish I did.

  It’s going to be a long summer.

[thetilt]

THINGS I'VE LEARNED WATCHING HALLMARK CHANNEL'S 'COUNTDOWN TO CHRISTMAS' MOVIES.

So, my mom and aunt came to visit me in New York City recently, and in true family tradition we would snuggle up in front of a television—as is the case in my tiny apartment, that snuggling took place on my bed—and they forced me to watch the Hallmark Channel “Countdown to Christmas” movies every chance we got when we weren’t wandering the city.

After watching at least a dozen of these “films” I’ve noticed a few similarities. Here is what I’ve learned about the art of the Hallmark Channel Christmas movie.

  By the 12th movie of Christmas, the Hallmark Channel taught to me…

  [12]

All movies share a budget of $100k MAX.

This includes cast and crew.

  [11]

They cast actors from the 80’s + 90’s that you just assumed were dead.

The Hallmark Channel, in an attempt to give C-list actors a final gasp of "artistic" humiliation, is currently employing all the actors you thought were dead or working on a Cruise Ship somewhere. Remember Saved By The Bell? Remember when Kelli broke up with Zach for Jeff, the hot manager of their hangout, The Max? Well that guy is Patrick Muldoon and he was the love interest in one of these movies, so were Bonnie Sommerville, Shelley Long, Crystal Bernard, Shannon Elizabeth, Jesse from Saved by The Bell, Joey Lawrence, uh, JOHN BENDER (Judd Nelson) and other countless actors from the 80’s and 90’s that shaped my childhood—including Roger Moore who plays a crusty old curmudgeonous fuck—and have now gone to die; slow morbid deaths of terrible plot lines and insipid dialogue, over on the Hallmark Channel.

 [10]

Ye Olde “Hire someone to be your significant other for the Holidays so your family will get off your back” is a beloved plot line.

Don't worry, the act of forcing someone to spend 72 hours with you will result in true love. First of all, Fuck you. I’m so sick of this storyline mainly because I’ve seen it one billion times. But also because it's basically telling single people that their lives are meaningless without a significant other and it will cause deep disappointment and resentment in the hearts of their beloved families. Cool. But, the thing that bothers me the most about this tired plotline is that it’s never true to life. The guy or girl doesn’t take your hard earned cash, then plays nice for a few days in front of your batshit crazy family, and finally spends it on a Cabo Vacation with their hot model significant other like they do IN REAL LIFE. No, here at the Hallmark Channel we’re taught that if you merely get someone to pretend to be your fiancé for the holidays they will meet your family, see you in a whole new light, and FALL IN LOVE WITH YOU within 24-72 hours, and then, of course, actually become your husband/wife by the end credits. Again, fuck you. Lies.

 [09]

Santa is real, he grants wishes, and has a ton of descendants living among us with names like “Krissy Kringle” and “Hanna Claus”

What? Stop it. I understand that the idea of Santa Claus is the whole reason we even care to put up lights and drink Mint Mocha Latte’s anymore, but please stop telling us that he actually exists, or that he can create Christmas Magic like getting your family back together or finding you the love of your life if you simply happen upon an old man with a beard and just “believe.” And, no, he doesn’t have descendants looking for love living among us and creating 'Naughty and Nice' lists all over the place.  Nope.

[08]

ALWAYS. BE. OVERACTING.

Maybe these actors deserve to be in this purgatorial cinematic tragedy. I went to theater school and worked professionally in the acting community of Miami, Florida for a large portion of my adult life, up until now, and I can honestly say that EVEN THEN, this is still some of the worst overacting I’ve ever seen. Especially, from the children in these movies. Thus proving that 8-12 year olds are the biggest, most annoying little a-holes out there—indicating all over the place and cheese-grinning like they’re in an ad for Disney World the whole time. Ugh. Parents, when was the last time your tween pried themselves away from their iPhones or iPads to help you make a cookie much less try to find you a spouse? Exactly.

The movies involving tweens in the plot are by far the worst, give me Miracle Santa or Courageous Sled-dog any day.

[07]

Dogs.

If there is a dog in the movie, he’s either a set piece or saving the day. Either way, there’s a dog and that’s better than a dumb precocious 11 y/o scene-stealer.

[06]

Racism.

[No picture because, again, racism]

I’m not an activist or anything but it’s shocking how few minorities ever appear in these movies much less are the romantic leads. Maybe they’re all suffering their own purgatorial demise over on BET or Telemundo.

  [05]

The “Scrooge” plotline.

If Charles Dickens were alive today he’d be a gazillionaire with the amount of royalties he’d get from the countless remakes they've made of his novella. How lazy are screenwriters these days? The contemporary twist they’ve added over at Hallmark is that the protagonist of “Scrooge” is always some frigid, workaholic, woman who is too busy trying to get ahead in the workplace to find love. Well, no duh. Women these days HAVE to make “that cheddah” because deadbeats. These favored archetypes are also seen as Angels…

 [04]

ANGELS!!!

They exist! Nope, just kidding. These Angels are just the primordial matter that appears as a real person while their body is laying in hospital somewhere in a coma. Again, they’re usually workaholic women that got into an accident trying to rush to an afterhours meeting of utmost importance, and now they’re toeing the line between dead and alive— because career women who choose their career over popping out kids and being a doting wife are awful creatures and should be punished, or at least taught a lesson. They are given one more chance to get to heaven by “the guy upstairs” but first they have to selflessly help some widowed dad and their tween, and of course she finally falls in love with the family unit and WANTS to stay home and bake cookies and make popcorn garland and now life finally makes sense! But oh no, they found love only to be beamed up to heaven, it’s so unfair! Right? C’mon it’s Hallmark, you know that that born again twat gets another chance to live! And by live I mean she gets to be the matriarch of some homogenized family unit. The more I write these the clearer it is to me that the Hallmark Channel is owned by the Westboro Baptist Church.

  [03]

EXTERIOR SHOTS LIE

Most of these movies are set in chilly cities where snow and nationally televised parades happen, ie: New York, Chicago. But then suddenly we’re forced to suspend our disbelief yet again when we see our protagonist walk out to a front porch or outdoor seating area in nothing but a long sleeve shirt and jeans as they kick up the fake snow, ahem, LA. Nobody is buying it. I live in NY and from experience I can tell you, a) what porch? b) Hypothermia.

[02]

SUGAR COOKIES

Every single one of these movies has a scene that involves either the making of or the eating of sugar cookies. Sometimes the act of making sugar cookies is the vehicle by which two utter strangers fall in love with each other in the time it takes to make sugar cookies— 23 minutes including the preheating of the oven, FYI. Fuck engagement chicken, ladies. Start making sugar cookies.

 [01]

LIES

Every single word uttered, plot line, zippy twist, time-table in which love is found, miracle, and plate of food served is a lie. It’s not real life. It’s not anything that can even be remotely found in real life. Which is ok, because, hey, it’s a movie and it’s Christmas time and both those things were created purely on lies since the dawn of time. But still, just once I’d like to see Santa fail, or the dog eat his bone instead of saving the day, or the 13 year old ignore all the cheery tidings because he’s too busy snap-chatting, or the guy ask the girl to pass by his house if she’s in the neighborhood to “hang out” aka fuck her and never call her back so she cries herself to sleep in a pool of over-bourboned egg nog, because then I wouldn’t feel so dreadfully left out in a world full of miracles, especially at Christmas time.

  But all that said, I still watch these movies non-stop. Maybe because Christmas is my favorite holiday and I can look past the lies in order to get a nice cup of cocoa for the soul. Or maybe it’s because watching them reminds me of my mom and I miss her. Or maybe because I’m not a TOTAL cynical asshole and I do have joy in my heart. Or maybe because I do, I DO BELIEVE. 

Merry Christmas, jerks!

[thetilt]

THINGS I LEARNED AT GOVERNOR'S BALL

This weekend I partook in one day of the music festival held at Randall's Island, NYC. I will start off by saying that I did have a lot of fun, the bands were good and traipsing around high in the mud was kind of amusing. Now, let's get real…

1) I'M TOO OLD FOR MUSIC FESTIVALS

This was an alarming realization. My whole life I've been drawn to music and music events and concerts, and musicians and music, music, music. Love them can't get enough, until yesterday. The median age at this thing was 23, at most. I pretty much knew that it would be that way, but thought "who cares, I'll get high and be on their level and it will be fine." Wrong. The weed made me hypercritical and I was just stuck in a prison of my own witty commentary about my surroundings for hours. I felt like I had tapped into the crotchety mindset of our parents when they just couldn't understand us and our "fucking vibe, man." at that age. It was horrifying and I just wanted it to stop. And then there was a peace that came from the understanding that we are ALL unbearable assholes from the time we're 17-27. Like the lost decade of just pure assholedom where we think we know every fucking thing and we're so cool, but we're just mindless drones trying like Hell to fit in and not fall over from the stress of not knowing anything about anything at all. I know this is a sweeping generalization so I speak for myself when I say that though I was never the ordinary bippity boopity boppin 23 year old sunny dispositioned flower girl with an agenda of fun and good times, I was still an asshole in my own right. And very possibly still am. These people were assholes, in the way we all were, just bopping around aimless like cattle in cut off shorts. Which brings me to:

2) "23" YEAR OLD GIRLS ARE THE WORST

Let's be honest, they are. If you're one of them, you are. I was, you are, nobody's exempt. Maybe Anais Nin at 23 or Gertrude Stein or Madame Currie. But not you. (or I) Here's why these girls are just super lame.

2A. FLOWER CROWNS/HEADBANDS.

Why the hell is this a thing again? Back in the late 60's when this shit was remotely relevant these floral headpieces represented a viewpoint on the political climate at the time. They were a token of a deep philosophical belief held by these bra hating females that we should all love each other, enjoy the fruit of the land, surround ourselves with beauty and be at peace with our universal brothers and sisters, I'm paraphrasing, but that was the gist. Moreover the flowers that they put in their flowing beach waves were actually REAL flowers picked from the soil of the Earth. They were NOT synthetic flowers sewn together by immigrants in Guatemala and sold for $25 at Urban Outfitters, you morons. Do you see the contradiction here? I have no problem with people picking some flowers and sticking them in their hair, running around barefoot high on mushrooms one of their 12 roommates grew out back in their commune/farm house thing and talking about Occupy Taksim Square. THAT I get and it's adorable, kind of. This new stock of flower power chicks are just a bunch of girls that aren't even interesting enough to look beyond the LFBoston instagram feed to find their identity. It's boring. Boring and dumb.

Here's an example. That outfit is made of leather, synthetic materials and the tears of underpaid sweatshop children. Hardly hippie-like.

  Didn't bring your own high priced floral headpiece? NO PROBLEM we made some for you that we're willing to sell you for hard cash cuz we're all just a bunch of capitalists disguised as people who care.

  2B. THEY ARE ALL MEAN GIRLS

They are. They're all skinny wenches with mermaid hair who underhandedly torture their "fat friend" by making the poor girl carry around the Spongebob Squarepants balloon all day in the "Tough Mudder" conditions. They do this, as I suspect, by telling her that she will be holding the beacon that will bring the group together at all times because "OMG WOULDN'T IT SUPER SUCK IF ONE OF US GOT LOST?!, Gosh, Brenda you're the best for carrying the balloon, really!!!" Meanwhile we all know that what they're really doing is spotlighting where the fat friend will be at all times and avoid her like a chubby plague. I saw Brenda wandering around with her balloon wondering where her friends were. After all she had the balloon were they coming to find her? NO, Brenda, they're off smoking joints and drinking beers at the stage that you're not at. It's cool though, B, you'll be ok, this will teach you about people, your pain will be turned into some fucking awesome expression of art, you will write fiction or non-fiction books, make a ton of money, and you will rule. Just not now. You don't rule right now—you're 23.

2C. SHOES, BITCH.

Shoes say a lot about a person. They say more about women as a gender. They say even more about you when the conditions of the ground match the LaBrea tar-pits after a hurricane. I don't know about these people but after a single Instagram photo, post, text, or just being alive in NYC for one second before days 2 and 3 of Governor's Ball, there was ZERO way you didn't get the proverbial memo that this place was a mudfest. 

The ONLY acceptable form of footwear was either head-to-toe Hazmat or Rain boots. Right?! Right.

So why, God, why did you show up in white Keds? Those aren't that cute ever, but now—in ankle deep mud—they just seem ill-informed. You could wash them, I guess, but it's probably not worth it at this point.

Flip Flops. Ugh, just ugh. Those stupid things lasted all of 3 minutes in the mud didn't they? Now you're walking around BAREFOOT in the sludge of scabies and feces and urine. How's that going for you?

Suede tan booties. SUEDE. TAN. BOOTIES. Seriously? Just throw those things away immediately. They are fucking ruined. I know they're the footwear of choice in every Free People/UO/Anthropology catalog but c'mon!!! Dump 'em. Don't even mock them with a ride on the subway like they have a chance in hell of recovering what you just put them through. It's mean. You're a mean girl. See? 

Exhibit A: self explanatory.

3) EVERYONE IS AN ANIMAL

3A. GIRL WHO YELLED AT ME FOR DROPPING A WATER BOTTLE.

So, our friend passed out cuz of the heat or something and as we're carrying her over to a security seating section I was faced with a decision—continue to help my friend carry her or preserve the Earth and my bottle of water. I chose to carry her to safety so she wouldn't be face-down in the putrid waste of Governor's Ball. MY BAD. I was quickly scolded by a synthetic flower wearing hippie freakshow with the following: "UMMMMM EXCUSE MEEEEE, you "DROPPED" your water bottle, ummm she might like some of it." she then scoffed and handed the bottle back to me. Riighhht, I'm the asshole in this situation because, "Sorry about the AIDS on the bottle, friend, I'm sure you'll find my backwash refreshing and hey, that fine upstanding citizen also saved the planet while you were passed out. Cool, huh? Drink up." is clearly what I should've been thinking about in the heat of the moment. You, you judgmental do-gooder are an animal, yes you.

3B. GUY WHO PUT A BOOGER (OR OTHER UNIDENTIFIED GOOEY SUBSTANCE) ON MY ARM

You're a fucking animal. Yes, this happened. No, I'm still not over it. My apologies to the Nerdy Indian guy in front of me whose book bag I tried to rub it off on to no avail. I'm sure you understand I couldn't touch it with my bare hands, and until my friend scrounged up a napkin it was the only recourse I had. The booger guy and I are animals, but he's a bigger grosser animal, for sure.

3C. EVERY BAREFOOT PERSON THERE.

Disgusting. Kill yourselves. Actually you won't need to because the violent and deadly disease you've contracted from the filth is surely working it's way to doing just that. 

(See Exhibit A.)

In closing…I had a really good time and might even go again. (Although, probs not.) xo

[thetilt]

Paris Diaries - Day 5

Rain, St. Germain, and friends again.

It's day 5 and the unseasonal rain is bringing us down. Not willing to let another day go by with us trapped in our surrounding neighborhood we decided to venture to St. Germain and hit up the Musee D'Orsay. If we were going to be trapped indoors we should at least be surrounded with fine works of art, right? Right.

We did our best to compile a rainy-day ensemble which basically meant wear the same jeans we've been wearing for four days, pile on sweaters, and kiss our spring dresses au-revoir, for they are never to see the light of day outside the closet in which they hang.

Out the door we went. We set our destination to the Café du Marché as it was pretty central within St. Germain and what we wanted to see. We got the usual Café Aulaits and peered as sopping American tourists walked by in their garish red ponchos and New Balance sneakers. Good grief. We were starting to have level 5 crankiness and it was all due to this unrelenting rain!

Me. In the Rain. The Usual.

I'm sure you're thinking "Oh what's the big deal?" And if you are then you are probably a boy, or were blessed with good straight hair. Am I right? My friend and I have been cursed with high-maintenance curls. The hair equivalent of the Wicked Witch of the West or a Chia Pet. Add water and all Hell breaks loose. So as the baguette pounds pile we basically only have our hair and faces to work with as far as our self-esteem is concerned, so, our hair matters, hence the disappointment in having to deal with this bullshit weather. Plus this is not how we fantasized Paris to be for the last 6 months, and we're just trying to adjust accordingly. 

Apparently, Monday the 20th is a Holiday in Paris and pretty much everything was closed. Musse D'Orsay? Closed. Karl Lagerfeld's bookstore the we tried to find? Closed. Ferme Ferme Ferme! This day was just looking real grim from the get. We decided to drag our depressed asses to the Eiffel Tower, so we walked for while in the freezing cold rain, and wind and there it was. I took a sweet picture of it at this point.

By the time we got up close we met this glorious structure with a resounding mutual "meh." The grounds were filled with Asian tourists and we could barely see the top due to the mist and rain. We kicked a few rocks around like sullen school girls and decided we'd revisit the Tower, maybe, on a day when we could really appreciate it. 

We walked around some more in silence, minus the chattering of our teeth, my fucking bone marrow was cold. We passed by this church which was pretty gorgeous. Apparently St. Germain is old money. Kind of like the Upper West Side in NY.

LOTS of money as you can see here

This day called for some retail therapy. Some people that my friend worked with recommended a famous department store called Bon Marché, so we checked if IT was open (it was) and headed there tout suite! My friend was starving to death so first we needed to fuel up before the "Hanger Games" started and one of us lost our lives. We ended up at some joint and seeing as we had dinner plans that included Risotto we settled on the Ceasar Salad. On the menu it said: lettuce, chicken, parmesan, croutons. What arrived at our table was: Frisee, curry chicken, tomatoes, shaved carrot, 8lbs of shaved parmesan and vinaigrette dressing. NOTE: Paris doesn't know shit about salads. Don't order them. Our "salad" also cost us each about $20. Cool.

We got out of there and went across the street to Bon Marché. First of all whoever recommended this to my friend must've been a fucking Arab Prince from Dubai. I'd never seen price tags with that many digits on them before. A black jersey dress for $1295 EUROS? We decided we'd have to treat this place like a Fashion Musuem, beautiful things that you weren't allowed to touch, for we were the equivalent of Eliza Doolittle in this place, before the rain in spain…We continued to walk around like the peasants that we were and found ourselves in the lingerie section. Finally! Something we could afford…SOCKS! We picked out a few pair of stockings and made our triumphant purchase! Unwilling to head out into the cold we wandered around for a bit longer and then headed home to change and get prettified for our dinner party at our new friends' apartment. 

The minute we got in we plopped like hippos onto the floor and couch respectively. We were exhausted. Paris is a lot harder than New York, we've decided. See, New York runs like a well-oiled machine. People follow a sense of order when maneuvering through the city, you walk on the right, pass on the left and give people their personal space. Not in Paris, oh no. People will b-line to you in your personal space so hard that it's almost like a game of chicken. Not wanting to bump chests with strangers I'm the one that moves most of the time but, sweet jesus. it's nuts. And umbrella etiquette? There is none. Period. We took a power nap, got ready and headed out to buy a bottle of wine on the way to the party.

As we walked up to the Carrafour, a supermarket chain in Paris, they kindly shut the door in our face since we got there 30 seconds past 7:30 and clearly that's when most things close here. Being that it was a holiday nothing else around us was open, really. WHAT THE FUCK DO WE DO NOW? Showing up empty handed was not an option for either of us since we're not animals raised by inbred goat-people, so we had to improvise. First we tried to buy a bottle of wine from a bar—that's illegal apparently who knew? Next we walked to a turkish deli in the hopes there were some baklava we could arrive with. Nope! Sold out! Baklava is so gross, sold out? Really? OK. Moving on…we found a pizza joint that was open, and in the rotating fridge we spotted an apple tart with all the pieces remaining. SUCCESS!!! We bought the hole thing and showed up with a pizza box full of day-old (probably) cold apple tart. It was literally the least we could do.

Elisabetta's apartment is awesome and you can see the Sacre Coeur perched on high from her living room window. The motley crew of guests started to arrive. 

The view throughout the night.

First was Lou - a lovely petite blonde makeup/hair stylists for the Paris Opera. Her English wasn't that great and our French kind of sucks but we managed to get by on Spanish and translation.

Then came Claire - a truly delightful spitfire of a woman with bright red hair that was dull in comparison to her giant personality. An actress who speaks and teaches (used to) 5 languages and impersonates famous French singers clumsily falling down the stairs on her spare time.

Claire + Lisette

Joakim - A tall dark stranger walked in full of life and personality. Joakim Latzko is a famous actor here in France and currently in the French equivalent of "Grey's Anatomy" called "Plu Belle la Vie" where he plays a gay doctor. His wedding to a man on the show is a first for Paris, go Joakim! He was our translator for the night and thinks Julia Ormond's French on Mad Men is fucking atrocious.

Me + Joakim

Elisabetta + Joakim

Then came Domenique - A bearded, hairy, slim Italian who gets mistaken for Russell Brand. He had no idea who that was until he traveled around in Europe. I don't think they look alike. Quiet, interesting and polite. We chatted about tattoos.

Aldo and Victor arrived and the gang was all there.

Aldo + Victor

We ate delicious guacamole, mushroom risotto, chocolate mousse, and oodles of wine. We all talked a ton, got loud, and we told them about our stay at Goutte D'or. Outraged. Claire would like a word with our hostess, in fact. God, I love her so. As Elisabetta was bringing out the pizza boxed tart we brought she accidentally dropped it in the dishwasher. Joakim heroically picked out the edible pieces and we had Apple Tart Crumble a la Goutte D'or. So Gauche!

We ended the night with Victor, Lisette and I having Ti Panche (like a mojito without the mint and though made of rum tastes just like tequila) at the bar we had originally met at. They dropped me off at the apartment while they went to continue their evening….My only request to her was not to come back a virgin. 

Not remembering if I had fully shut the door to the building of the apartment complex I decided to sleep with a butcher knife next to my bed :) (Not unusual, at home in NY i sleep with a hammer on the windowsill)

All in all though the day started out grim it really couldn't have ended better. And we have our new Parisian friends to thank for that.

à bientôt

[thetilt]

Paris Diaries - Day 4

Rain, Rain, go AWAY.

After last night's drunken debauchery our day started way late. This dark cave-like interior isn't doing anyone any favors either. Once we finally arose like vampires from our gluttonous slumber we had a slow go. I wrote Day 3's post for about, what seemed like 12 hours, while Lisette finally gave in and washed her hair and did that whole routine. 

We picked out a few places we should go and decided on a place that was a ways away, but then our torrential cigarette break altered those plans pretty quickly. Looked like we were staying local yet again. We texted our new friend, Elisabetta, to give us some suggestions as my friend was dead set on having some beef bourguignon. Sadly the place she suggested was closed on Sundays, turns out A LOT of places in Paris are closed on Sundays for some reason. We chose a place recommended by one of the Paris blogs we follow, Paris by Mouth, called Au Clocher de Montmartre, I called and made a reservation. We got ready by layering everything we had to fend off the rain (not much as I've mentioned in my previous posts) and headed out for a charming walk in a torrential downpour. Thanks, Paris, you're not making this easy but we still like you.

On our way there we were confronted with this charming obstacle:

No big deal. 

And it had a sign made just for me:

We arrived to an absolutely empty restaurant. Literally not a soul in the place besides the waiter and probably a chef. The interior was really cute but there was one grating element of the atmosphere that we both noticed immediately: Fucking country music. Why? Why would anyone play that in a French restaurant in France? Or ever? It was so out of place it was jarring. But the weather had trapped us so we were here to stay, and since neither of us had the guts to ask them to change it to Serge Gainsbourg as we would've liked, we figured we'd just grin and bear it. We ordered from the Pre Fixe menu. I ordered a Cesar salad, The Fillet of Beef—Medium Well, and a chocolate something or other.

The cesar salad had a barely cooked egg in it—weird. The steak arrived and it was bleeding like a cut artery all over my plate, which was peculiar not only because I had asked for medium well but also because it was tougher than a motherfucker. I mean this thing was like the sole of a shoe, the table shook when I tried to cut it. Isn't Paris known for it's Steak Frites? I was starving from not eating anything all day so I asked for ketchup—sacrilege, I know—and just got through it. I'm not even sure what part of the cow it was from, I'm guessing the calf muscle.

Elisabetta texted us and we told her to come rescue us, so she did. She met us and then the whole day turned around. She took us on a tour of the outside of the Basilique du Sacré-Coeur and the surrounding little neighborhoods. Even in the rain this place is divine and idyllic. My heart swelled with how gorgeous it was, even better than I had pictured it. As we walked around she pointed out all the tourist traps and where we should and shouldn't go. Truly the greatest tour guide. Then she took us to the localsie part of Montmartre to have a drink, as we were walking by I spotted Les Deux Moulins where Amelie was filmed, and like a nerd insisted we drink there. We had our drinks and enjoyed the evening with great company. 

Here are some photos of our walk:

Le Basilique du Sacré-Coeur

A street in Montmartre

Le Moulin de la Galette - One of 3 windmills in Montmartre.

The only remaining tiny little vineyard. (Did you know you could have wine from Montmartre?)

Real talk graffiti 

A pretty pink building.

It was a rather uneventful night as far as my posts have been, but none-the-less, it was a real joy to get an inside look of this gorgeous little part of Paris with great company.

Now I'm off to bed to get some sleep so we can wake up at a normal hour and hit St. Germaine tomorrow.

Bonne Nuit!

[thetilt]

Paris Diaries - Day 3

"A beautiful chameleon"

Day 3 started out late and lazy. My friend woke up obsessed with finding a market, getting some fresh food and making us breakfast, the options in restaurant in Paris are all kind of the same and we wanted a healthier home made option, plus it would be cheaper. I was all for this idea so she set off on her solo mission. If she did not return within an hour's time I was to set the search party in motion. Got it! I checked Facebook, like a crack addict and there it was. Somehow I had not unfriended on of my ex's musical pages and in my face was a link to his kickstarter. OF COURSE! Of course you need to beg for money to make a record. I hate kickstarter in general, I think it's the equivalent of a bum with his hand out on the steps of the subway only we've decided it's more civilized and viable because it's on the internet and it's shiny. I want to start a kickstarter to end kickstarter. I think it's the lamest thing ever and here he was on the steps of my Facebook with his greedy little hand out. Gross. It was an album "About us for us" (The greater US not me and him US, obviously.)

When she arrived she cooked a lovely breakfast fully equipped with mimosas, egg scramble, sauteed spinach, and, of course, baguette. No coffee though, apparently you can't get coffee to go in Paris. Bricks of bread? Yes. Coffee? No way. It's so unusual to see the New Yorker's usual coffee cup in hand replaced with a large stick of bread instead. And they're skinny, these people are thin and I'm just convinced that their genetic makeup turns white bread flour and dough into negative calories that eat away at the butter/cheese/fat they may also be consuming. THAT HAS TO BE IT RIGHT? For fuck's sake it's so annoying. My whole life I've been told bread is the devil and here we are and the devil is no where in sight according to their 24 inch waists and sharp protruding hip bones. And, btw, there is not a slice of multigrain in sight. Multigrain? HA! All the bread is white, unlike the people in our neighborhood. I digress...

Anyway, she was so excited to find a market and area near us that was gorgeous and the opposite of our little neighborhood. "Always turn left out of this place and just keep making lefts and then it's fine," she said. "It's a whole other world." Cool. I decided to tell her about the kickstarter I found and she said we should watch it. OK, why not? HOLY FUCKING A. I won't even really remark, I'll just leave it right here and you make your own opinions, and shit if it moves you to give him money than that's fine too.

KICKSTARTER LINK <--- click it.

After that comedic interlude we ate. Scoped our options for the evening via internet and planned to go to a really cool party in Pigalle this evening. But here's the rub: It's freezing in Paris right now, cold and rainy and we packed like we'd be traipsing through tulips in 70 degrees—all dresses and cute shoes. We would've been better off with a parka and galoshes. If we had any hope of wearing our dresses we'd need some goddamn stockings at least, so that was our new mission. We'd heard about the "Target equivalent of Paris" called Monoprix so I looked up the nearest one to our neighborhood. There was one close by-ish but it meant we'd have to make rights. We decided to brave it and off we went on a quick errand with minimal effort to look attractive, which is probably for the best if you're making rights, know what I mean?

We exited. We made a right…"Look straight ahead, keep focused, and hold on to your pointy umbrella tight and none of these dudes will fuck with you", I said to myself (they didn't but I have a heightened paranoia about such possibilities and like to take the utmost of precautions). Not a block away we came across a make-shift hobo mattress shanty town with actual hobos laying around, situated only slightly south of a "park" with a public toilet in the center with urine streaming from it which we had to navigate past. What the fuck was this place and how dare our hostess not warn us that just a few feet from her apartment was the goddamn Gaza strip? The rage toward her negligence fueled the rest of our walk through Hell just to get a pair of overpriced stockings.

We arrived at Monoprix and it was gross. Target? What an insult to the beloved institution of Tarjay. This place was an eye sore that smelled of rotting fruit and piss. A baby's onesie that would've cost $6 in the states cost $20 here. What? We got some bath wash and lotion, since our hostess has neither like the animal that she is, some stockings and got the hell up out of there. Back to Gaza. It's like when we booked our trip we got to visit two countries instead of one. Beautiful picturesque Paris and a slum in Morocco. Génial!

Here are some photos of our walk back. It doesn't do the slum dog hobo-square and the shanty town isn't featured, mainly because I was scared to death to snap a photo of that sitch:

My photographic skills are so awesome that they make this place look rather delightful, I assure you if you could smell and look around they show you the real horror. Anyway, you kinda get it.

Whatever, the ordeal required me to drink a coffee which I still had not had. By now it was 7pm (still light out—it gets dark here around 930) and raining, so we headed to the Narnia my friend had found earlier for a little afternoon coffee fix. We found a nice spot, sat down, and looked across the street at the bar in front. And there they were, four new husbands for my friend. I can now tell her type a mile away—bearded, dark, salt & peppery, strong noses, thick hair or bald. And these attributes were present in all of them. We stared across at the cool bar wondering why we always made the wrong choice. Whatever, perhaps it was that kind of day. Another twig with her baguette and motorcycle helmet walked in. And I made it a point to sneakily snap a photo to show you people that I'm not kidding. Here, proof!

We decided to go home get ready and come back out, the rain had thwarted our original plan of dressing up like fabulous ladies and going to a party, we had a baser plan: Get drunk and have Parisians talk to us, more specifically we wanted to use the first phrase we ever learned "J'm'appelle Ivonne + J'm'appelle Lisette" which up until now had been unnecessary since no one had asked or cared. Well, tonight was gonna change that. We got ourselves together, threw on some bright lipstick and headed out to get our drink on. We settled at the cafe´ Le Soleil de la Butte which we'd been to day one and sits at the bottom of the stairs toward Sacre Couer. There seemed to be a lively scene outside and open tables. Done. We ordered some vodso's—fuck wine tonight—and got comfy. Two older men sat next to us and started talking in phlegmy language which my friend later confirmed was Arabic. Didn't bother me much except that they were blocking the view from the table of hipper Parisians we had hoped would haze us in to their gang. Fine.

Suddenly the bald heavier man offered my friend a Marlboro and this sparked a rather interesting conversation/experience that I will dilute for you into highlights:

- His name is Haitham Rashid Wihaib. First he introduced himself as "A very well known author" Oh yeah? Never heard of ya, bud. Must be International Narcissist Day between this guy and this morning's kickstarter I'd had enough of self aggrandizing dudes. But we carried on the conversation.

- He made us Google him, repeatedly. And it turns out he was Suddam Hussein's minister of protocol from 1980 - 1993 and has had several assassination attempts on his life. A fascinating life, really. You can google click his name above to find out more.

- After finding out that my friend and I were in advertising he kept pushing his amazon book on us and wanted us to help him find a publisher in America. But why if you're so popular and your film is in Cannes for the 5th time and it's so amazing and you've told us how fucking amazing it is 37 times by now. Why would you need us?

- I gave him my card to shut him up, and he said I was "A sweet angel on the outside but inside you're a revolution." Suddenly he was my new favorite person. For about 10 minutes and then he kept selling his book to us even though we tried to talk about other things to no avail.

- I finally had to break it down for him cuz he was starting to ruin my buzz, I very kindly but pointedly said "Listen, Haitham, I get it. I like you, I like your story, and I believe in your book, I will do what I can with the contacts I have when I get back to New York, Ok? Just stop selling me on your book already it's enough." Too much? I didn't think so, I mean I was a sweet angel revolutionary. This was the kind of shit you'd expect from me. And then he said it. The phrase that has haunted me and indicted my personality since I was old enough for it to hit home. He said "Haha, you are very ambitious woman, this is why you're always alone."

(Let it sit)

(Read it again)

(You with me? Here we go…)

THIS IS WHY YOU'RE ALWAYS ALONE?! OHHHHHHH REALLLLY??!?!???? First of all, how do you know I'm alone, you didn't ask me! He continued on the subject a bit and from what I could make out through the hot burning rage in my ears at the moment I heard "Men don't like women who are so independent and opinionated, they are too much work." RED. ALL I SEE IS RED DEAR GOD WHAT IS COMING OUT OF YOUR MOUTH STOP TALKING.

I remained composed and I smiled and swallowed the bile that crept up in my throat and made a joke about his dagger into my achilles tendon and then he said, oh and there is more. OH FUCKING GOODIE! WHAT NOW? He said "you are a beautiful chameleon" Huh? What does that mean? I still don't know, I adapt? I'm fake? I decided I'd just pay attention to the beautiful part, and bid him adieu. We got our check, said our goodbyes and headed to another bar to MOTHERFUCKING DRINK THE RAGE AWAY! ALONE? ALWAYS ALONE? how daaaaaaare you, sir?

We went to the cool people bar from earlier ordered two shots and discussed what happened and ultimately decided that Arab men are the oppressors of women so of course he'd feel that way about a woman with the balls to tell him he was being a blow-hard, albeit nicely and in a joking tone. We went outside to finish our beers and I slammed my glass down. Fine this seems rude, BUT it got us to the best part of our night. My friend stayed back as I walked off toward the next bar to apologize for my gauche behavior to a couple of people sitting at the table. Turns out they had invited us to hang out with them. I guess they like strong (literally strong I almost broke the glass and the table) women. So we did. They were delightful, Alderick, Victor, Blondine, Luigi and our favorite, Elisabetta.

We had some more beers with them and as they closed the bar Elisabetta invited us to join them at Victor's apartment to continue the night. OK! Off we went through the streets of Montmartre, this was it, our first Paris apt invite. Alderick, Victor, Elisabetta, my friend and I headed over. It was a bachelor pad for sure, but there was rum and beer and weed, so yay!

Aldo is gay Victor is "not" here are a few things they said that we loved:

Aldo: "For me cocks are for eating and women are for breathing." (while in the background Victor is playing "What's love got to do with it" on YouTube.)

Aldo: "It's not the size of the dick it's the taste of the dick" (which could pertain to many things in life, I think)

(About Pigalle which is close to our neighborhood)

Aldo: "Fast sex for tourists and arabics"

Victor: "You know, like McDonalds."

(Between Lisette and Victor)

Victor: "are you german?"

Lisette: "Me, German?"

Victor: "Let me put it this way, 70 years ago I'd be asking you if you knew a good place to hide."

According to Lisette this is the funniest thing anyone has said to her in 4 years, but I think she laughed harder at 'fart in a ziploc' so who knows? Coulda been the weed.

(We played them Niggas in Paris)

Elisabetta: How do you spell Connnye? Who is he?

Me: You don't know Kanye West?

Aldo: Kind of

Me: Well he's moving here with Kim Kardashian

(Giant question marks above all their heads)

Aldo: Who is this Kim Kardash…

These hipster Parisians have no clue who Kim Kardashian is and all seems right with the world again. Just like that.

Then they showed us THESE VIDEOS to one up our Niggas in Paris. And boy did they.

HERE ARE THE CRAZIEST THINGS ON THE INTERNET:

Colombian/Chilean music video about Israeli tourism

Reggaeton song about 9/11

You're welcome America. Someone get Buzzfeed on the phone.

As the night went on the non gay guy played "I want to break free" by Freddie Mercury while the gay guy and I talked about the American judicial system and innate human behavior. It was perfect. They were great. It was now 4am and time to go.

Elisabetta walked us halfway to our place, we said our goodbyes and she said she'd have us over for dinner on Monday. Yay! First Parisian friend!

We stumbled home in a the euphoria of meeting our goals with such fervor. Drunk? Check! People talked to us? Super Check!

Today was a series of ups and downs and we adapted and adjusted accordingly just like a pair of beautiful chameleons.

I passed out. The end.

Voila!

[thetilt]

The Paris Diaries - Day 2

Hip Marais

Today was a whole lot of different. We woke our lazy asses up at 12:30pm—I must say this isn't our fault however, our apartment has electronic shutters covering the windows that let in the light thanks to the charming neighborhood in which its located (these kinds of precautions are necessary, I guess) and so I activated them last night so they wouldn't disturb me too early seeing as I'm sleeping in the hobbit loft. 

Anyhow we got up, ate some crackers, took showers, made a makeshift vanity out of some books and a tchotcke mirror found in my dwarf quarters, put on our hip outfits and decided to head to Haute-Marais, said to be the hippest part of Paris at the moment. We decided to start out at Café Charlot a trendy cafe in the center of the Haute. When we first entered the cafe we were affronted by possibly the most gorgeous blue eyes ever set into the skull of a dark bearded Mediterranean man in a LA Angels cap, once I picked my friend up off the floor we took our seat, outside (always outside, it's what you do here) The view in Marais was already QUITE different than that at Gare du Nord, I mean blue eyes wasn't crippled or drooling on his Croque Monsieur so the day was already looking WAY up. We ordered our Cafe au laits, in French, and of course were responded to in English, "Do we look that American, dammit? Is our French that bad?" Whatever, after our coffee we ordered some lunch stuff and then for dessert a giant pitcher of a St. Germaine based cocktail. We sat and watched as the skinny, gorgeous, perfect Parisian women walked by us picking at their baguettes. 

Seriously there are 4 must-have accessories for man or woman in Paris—pay attention—they are as follows: 1) A baguette in a paper bag that you pick at like a park pigeon all day. 2) A scarf, everyone here wears a scarf doesn't matter the outfit, fuck it, own and wear a scarf at all times. The children have scarves. Scarf it up. 3) A motorcycle helmet. I saw a woman get out of a cab holding a motorcycle helmet it's, just a thing, don't ask, just do. And finally 4) Unwashed hair. People here must stay home on days nature finally forces them to wash it fearing that they might get taxed or something. By the end of the day I was cursing my clean brushed hair. "Why can't you just be crinkled and perfectly messy but not frizzy like you've been having hot Parisian sex while wearing a braid and then tousled free to careless perfection, you stupid dumb hair!!" No wonder they keep speaking to me in English.

Post lunch we hit some shops and wandered around. I bought the fucking hottest pair of sunglasses you'll ever see in your lives, I mean they're just too much. When I put them on I almost convince myself I'm the coolest thing since Lou Dillon, but then I'm thwarted back to reality by a twig eating bread with bed head. I'm sure you'll see these beauts in a picture later since I'm never taking them off. Ever.

After our tra-la-la shopping we stumbled upon Le Progres and it was hustling and bustling with very hip and attractive people, my friend noticed a table full of dark bearded turkish looking men and decided she'd have to marry all of them. Not ready to eat or drink yet we kept walking, but agreed we'd return so she could work on organizing her nuptials. They weren't my type but I'm a good friend so I was Ok with that plan. We walked a bit and were totally captivated by a courtyard we spotted within a building. Just so happens that courtyard belonged to the pretty well-known Gallerie Perrotin. We went upstairs and were immersed in an installation of dollar bills hanging from several ceilings in white rooms—lame. But it made for a cool photo here:

and this was the courtyard that did it:

WHAAAAT? SO GREAT RIGHT? 

We went upstairs and stumbled into what appeared to be a private gallery party where hors d'oeuvres and champagne were being served and hip Parisian art goers were being Parisian and hip and whatever. It was hot in there. We left. Back to Le Progres.

Still packed. We stood in front of the outdoor tables and smoked a cigarette eye-fucking every person that looked like they might pay the bill within this century. Like hungry vultures on Road Kill Alley we awaited the opening to the cool club. Boom two people got up and as we made our way a Fat old guy in a "Something Big Is Coming" sweatshirt thwarted our plan by sitting his fat ass in the seat. Something big did come and it sat in our spot. But if yesterday taught us anything at all it's that we will not be defeated, dammit. No way. We managed to mangle some French words and hand motions into something that got the attention of a waiter who pointed to another table with people that were getting up. Finally! We sat. 

Here's the deal people, I know I'm exaggerated and have a penchant for the dramatic but listen to me when I tell you that pound per pound there are more gorgeous people in this bar/this corner than anywhere in the world. It was as if a fashion magazine shook itself and all the models fell out and landed on the corner of Rue de Turenne et Rue du Bretagne. And, I have to say, it was more beautiful men than women. Never happens ever, trust me. Sweet JESUS. My friend's husbands turned out to be gay, but whatever, I can appreciate Adonis-like features on anyone whether they are willing and able to have sex with my female bits or not. My future husband rolled up in his perfect blazer, hair, scarf, beard and swagger and sat with his back to me a few tables back, but he was unwilling to realize the future love and children we'd have together. So sad. And then his twig blonde girlfriend showed up way later, rubbed his head and headed off to await her perfect man to have perfect sex and therefore perfect hair yet again. 

After many beers, cigarettes and eye-candy cavities later we went across the street to have a lite dinner of bread with bread and a side order of bread with some wine and headed back to the abode. 

All in all it was a good day, a really really good day. Anyway, I'm off to put dirt in my hair, braid it, and go to bed.

Bonne Nuit!

P.S. here's an awesome picture of graphic graffiti that my stupid Instagram app won't let me upload without crashing, for your viewing pleasure.

I love this city :)

[thetilt]

The Paris Diaries - Day 1

The Arrival

Our flight was smooth sailing. Air France comes fully equipped with TVs and the latest movies to be viewed (for free), the wine is also free, so is the dark gray chicken entree. Don't eat the chicken. Anyway. I watched Oz the Great and Powerful–MEH, it was ok. Then I opted for Les Miserables and I can't remember a time before I started watching that movie, a good choice if you have 8 hours to kill. That's how long it is, right? I digress. We landed smoothly all was well. 

We were welcomed with flailing arms by our cabbie who became surly and disgruntled when we told him our apartment's destination a few "Putains!" and "c'est mal!!" flew out of his mouth and we took this as a rather bad sign. We carried on. We realized that per our Air BnB's hostess' request we were to stow our luggage at a nearby cafe at the Cafe Gare du Nord until our approved arrival time of 1pm where her "friends" would keep our luggage and we'd be free to wander the neighborhood and get acquainted until the apartment was ready. We told our cabbie the new destination and he seemed relieved. 

A mere $100 later we were at our destination. Our cabbie motioned toward the train station and told us the Cafe would be there. Side note: My friend/travel mate and I have packed our entire wardrobe for this trip, certain that the sartorialists of Paris would await to snap pictures of our Parisian fashions the second we stepped outside, our bags are fucking heavy. Huge and heavy. Anyway we forged toward the questionable train station to find our mirage of a sweet cafe straight from the scenes of Amelie as our fantasies had suggested it would be. FYI Gare du Nord cafe doesn't exist, though it is present in the directory inside the station, no one has heard of it, and directions to get to it were a series of broken french "directions" that consisted of waving arms in swirly motions and one clerk managed to tell me it was "Up Down" After about 40 minutes of a search with dragged bags we decided to exit the train station and head across the street to a bevy of cafe's—surely ONE of them was our scheduled destination. 

We decided "Cafe Du Nord" facing the train station was it, it had to be. We plopped our collective 3 suitcases, 2 carry-ons, and 1 purse beside us, ordered a cafe au lait, and texted our hostess to verify that we were at the right place. Let me paint the scene for you: Gare du Nord is the equivalent of Penn Station if Penn Station were located in a conglomerate of Roosevelt/Ellis/Staten Islands. As we sat at that cafe awaiting our answer from Natascha, our delightful hostess, that realization became more and more obvious. There were so many mangled, crippled, old and shady people passing by we were sure the set of A&E's American Horror Story: Asylum II was near by.

Finally she texted—first admonishing us for thinking we could meet her before the allotted time of 1pm, it was 10am, and then telling us that when she said we could stow our suitcases at the cafe, she meant in luggage lockers within the train station. Was she kidding? Did she think we were a pair of meth-addled transient prostitutes on a 2 week whoring tour of the Crown Heights of Paris? A locker? Did she think were traveling with nothing more than a ziploc filled with meth and a dream? "Plus 2 Cafe Au Lait et omelet sil vous plait!" we said to the waiter. This was gonna be a while. 

We tried to decipher all the ways we could've misjudged this correspondence but it was no use, clearly as the "stupid americains" we were wrong and she was $1550 richer so why should she give a fuck. I was then sent on the mission to scope this "luggage locker" situation out. Unwilling to be defeated, I blew my nose for the 43rd time, put on my jacket and headed back into the Den of Urine known as "Gare du Nord" to survey the situation. I managed to finagle my way through broken French down to the bowels of the station where the lockers were situated. Seriously, this place smells of pure pungent buttery piss, and I'm from New York so… anyway, there was a customs-style line to get into the lockers and by the looks of it only one of our bags had a prayer of making it to one of these. I headed back to my friend to report the news, "NO WAY IN FUCK are our bags fitting into those matchbooks they call lockers"—we waited. 

We got comfy seeing as that entire ordeal had only taken but an hour and we still had 2 more to wait. We relaxed, propped our feet up at the outside cafe and scoped the surroundings. A managerie of folks strolled by, all dressed as if they had shopped at the Jnco Graveyard Wholesaler. "Was this really Paris?," we thought to ourselves. Yup, just not the Paris anyone had ever pinned photos of. Clearly. 

The surly waiter walked by and gave my friend a disgusted look for putting her foot on the neighboring chair even though my half eaten egg-only omelette (that i hadn't ordered by the way) sat on the table for it's second hour in a row, "perhaps I'd have it for dinner" he thought to himself. 

Not being able to withstand the scenery any longer my friend suggested that we schlep our shit back into the Train Station and make our way to the taxis. I dreaded this notion since my bags were just too heavy to bear. She won, and we headed in. Once inside I made her switch her giant bag with my medium bag since I couldn't understand why she was dragging hers with such ease. "HOLY FUCK WHAT A DELIGHT!" It was like carrying a fart in a ziploc compared to mine. Turns out I have a broken googly wheel on mine and that's why it was like carrying a water-logged dead body across the sandy desert. 

8 mangled, 3 crippled, 24 old people, and 7 murderers later we made our way to the taxi line, and made it to the apartment. FINALLY. Yeah there are mosquitos the size of golf balls in the courtyard, along with a latrine (for hobos?) and the neighborhood is like the corner of Fulton and Nostrand in the late 80's but who cares, it's solace at this point. Once inside it's cute as a button, yet cold and damp like an attic after a hurricane, in December. Our pregnant surly hostess was miffed we arrived 3 minutes early, but she condescended to greet us regardless. Blah blah blah this that rules yadda yadda, turns out we only have one set of keys which she thought was okie dokie since i guess she figured we were a lesbian couple and wouldn't mind. (Shocked that we weren't when we clarified the matter, btw) We could spend another $200 for an extra set but our independence isn't worth the cash, we'll carry on and figure it out. 

Finally she leaves. We're here! PARIS AT LAST. Like crack addicts we hit the electrical sockets with our adaptors and plugged in our lifelines (iphones). Not two minutes into this smooth sailing the power goes out. In the whole building. Scratch that—the whole block. FINE, WE'LL NAP THEN.

Once awakened and reborn we collected ourselves, cleaned up and headed out. Determined not to let the first day of this seemingly National Lampoon-like vacation to get the best of us and it didn't. We made it to Montmartre in the late afternoon, drank wine, smoked cigarettes, had some dinner and decided tomorrow will be our welcome into Paris. So bring it Day 2. We're waiting...

Bonne Nuit!

[thetilt]

TILT: MY NEMESIS

You know what I learned today? I learned that Eva Mendes is a "love-of-my-life" stealing whore. 

[thetilt]

East Coast Learnings and other things.

ABOUT FIRST CLASS

(it was a free upgrade)

I don't understand it.

The snack table comes out from the middle console for your tiny peanut dish. The eating table is hidden in your arm rest, will get stuck, and make you look like a moron to your frequent-flying disgruntled co-passenger on his 30th flight this month and your annoyed flight attendant.

If you don't know what to use the warm towel for, wait for other passengers to use it and then apply it to your face-hands?

The food is free—put away your wallet.

Don't read Cosmopolitan's sex advice section next to the disgruntled co-passenger that hasn't had sex since the Reagan administration.

ABOUT CHICAGO

It gets hot as fuck there.

There are quite a few midwestern-bred, tall, good-looking white boys.

It's where the funny people go to be funny.

Good friends—who are really your friends despite time and distance—will welcome you with open arms and make you feel beyond loved.

The gays love me.

Señoras (spirtualists/psychics/fortune tellers) can turn your world upside down and sideways if they're the real deal. They can also put things into a perspective that can relieve you of a lot of pain and sadness, filling you with a hope you thought you'd lost.

Strange Cargo rules.

If Lollapalooza gets rained out they put all the festival attendees in parking garages like cattle until the storm passes.

eCigarettes are pretty good.

ABOUT MIAMI

The weather is as swampy as ever. It makes people annoyed, angry, and rude.

Dade is filled with entitled hispanics who refuse to learn English. 

Most girls have weaves.

The cuban food is goddamn delicious and unparalleled anywhere else in this Nation.

People who value you will make an effort to see you when you're in town. People who don't won't. And it's good to catch up with lovely old friends.

The Corner bar in downtown is new-ish, and serves Magic Hat no.9 beer which is surprisingly delicious.

My mother has the pain threshold of a POW navy seal, is a champ, and the strongest person I've ever known.

Doesn't matter how old you are, and how long ago you left the nest—when you're back under your parent's roof you're under their control and will even get your curfew back.

ABOUT OTHER THINGS

I adore the ever-loving shit out of New York City. This place really does feel like home.

Weight Watchers isn't so bad. 

'Angels' by The XX off the new album 'Coexist' is still the best song.

Going to Church bugs me. I think it's hypocritical to spend an entire mass telling us that we have to let God in, in order to be saved and lead a good life, and how much God loves us, and then when it comes time to take communion they tell us (on the monitors—yes, monitors) that if we haven't been to confession or have impure thoughts we're not allowed to partake. So you just sit there feeling like a sinning heathen while the rest of the congregation feasts, self-righteously, on the body of Christ. Also, I get headaches trying to keep cynical and/or impure thoughts at bay while at Church. And yet, I still consider myself a spiritual person. Not religious though. Not that.

I must force myself to write more. (The Señora told me so)

It wasn't all for nothing. My debt is paid.

Forgiveness is the only way to move on.

I never really knew or truly understood what "Eternal Sunshine of a Spotless Mind' was about, until I watched it again, tonight. It is only when you've gone through something so beautiful, yet so flawed, something that may have never really existed outside of your mind, something that you want to forget but mourn the thought of its absence, that you can, without question, truly identify. 

And the Whole Foods on 57th is the most glorious place on this planet, or at least in my neighborhood.

[thetilt]

An ode to Paul Rudd.

I FUCKING LOVE PAUL RUDD.

You don't understand, truly.

It's not even a sexual thing even though I would totally have sex with Paul Rudd, multiple times and often. But it's not like that. It's deeper than that. It's a deep deep gladness in my soul when I think about Paul Rudd. When I watch his movies or appearances. When he happens to pop up in some internet something-or-other. And yeah, he always plays himself in movies, for the most part, but that's because his general sense of self is awesome and great to watch, so why not?

You have to feel it too. Who has ever watched anything that Paul Rudd has done in his career and thought to themselves "Fuck, I hate this guy. What a douche?" NO ONE. And if they did, THAT guy is the douche. A soul-less bag of vinegar to be inserted in a smelly vagina for the purposes of—who knows what? Douches elude me. I digress—point is; Paul Rudd is the personification of joy. If happy had an ambassador, he would be it, with his smile and his wink and his gooey safe feeling. I want to clone Paul Rudd.

I wish there were 1000 Paul Rudds that I may distribute to those most deserving.

"Here you go, mom, I got you a Paul Rudd for your birthday, just to make you smile."

"Hey McKayla Moran, don't look so fucking disappointed all the time, here's a Paul Rudd."

"Sad lady in the grocery store with the saggy tits and the diminishing will to live, HERE'S A PAUL RUDD, YOU'RE WELCOME!"

Paul Rudd gets me so excited and I want to yell, but like a happy yell, an overly enthusiastic "FUCK YEAH PAUL RUDD" kind of yell. From the very pit of my guts, kind of yell.

I want to adopt a slow loris and I want to name him Paul Rudd. That's where I'M at.

Just because. Because he's awesome. Because he doesn't suck. Because he gives me hope that a man can be kind and funny and easy on the eyes all at once. Because he makes me laugh. Because he exists. 

Paul Rudd, I love you. Period.

[thetilt]

The Ex Ex Factor and Break Up Songs.

Things I Learned Today

My ex ex sent me a podcast today. It's about break ups. He sent this in relation to my break up with my most recent ex. It's been 9 months and i'm doing pretty effing well, I must say. And his intentions are sweet and concerned because he's a very good friend and I adore him. So, I listened to it.

Two parts hit home. 

Prologue - 

In the prologue Ira Glass walks around with a girl who had her heart broken only 2 months earlier. 2 months is nothing in the healing process after a particularly gut wrenching break up. You're still a wreck. She goes on to talk about how walking around the city sucks as every bench and empty parking spot where his car would reside, and every inch of sidewalk reminds her of her ex. "I don't walk down that street, I just don't." I've been there. I'm no longer there. I walk freely. And the spots in the city that still stir a pang in my chest have become less and less. Which. Is. Awesome.

Act one - Break up songs

This woman, Starlee, has a break up and becomes obsessed with sad songs. Her voice is annoying, so I'll spare you having to listen to the entire podcast, but I've taken the time to transcribe, what I find to be, the most important human truth.

"They were break up songs, and hearing them was the only thing that made me feel better, and by better, I mean worse. There's something so satisfying about listening to sad songs, they're like how you would be actually spending your day, if you were allowed to just break down and sob and grab hold of everyone you met. They make you feel less alone with your crazy thoughts. They don't judge you, in fact, they understand you. A break up song won't ever suggest you start online dating, or that you're better off without him. They tell you that you're worse without him, which is exactly what you want to hear because it's how you feel. I didn't want to be cheered up. I didn't want to bounce back. I didn't want to meet someone new. I wanted to wallow, big time, deeply, and with the least amount of perspective possible. And the only way to do that was by turning off my phone and turning up the sad sad music."

She sets off to write her own break up song after consulting Phil Collins and other singer/songwriters, in the hopes that "Anthony" will hear it. There's this part that rings true. "Because loving you doesn't do me any good, in fact it does me bad. And you're oh so gone and I'm oh, so, sad." That's pretty much what it boils down to, right?

So here are a few of the break up songs that "got me through"

Magnetic Fields - I don't want to get over you.

Word daggers: 

I guess I should take Prozac, right/ And just smile all night/At somebody new/Somebody not too bright/But sweet and kind/Who would try to get you off my mind/I could leave this agony behind/Which is just what I'd do/If I wanted to/But I don't want to get over you.

Why it rules:

It's the Magnetic Fields. They're witty and great and they just "get it."

Rachael Yamagata - Sunday Morning

Word daggers: 

I'm not gonna live for you/ or die for you/ or do anything anymore for you/ cause you just keep me here on the other side/you keep me here on the other side.

Why it rules:

No one sings about pain better than Rachael Yamagata, she's the poet laureate of heartbreak for our generation. I ugly cried at her concert. True story. It was embarrassing, but whatever.

Bonnie Raitt - I can't make you love me.

Word daggers:

The whole fucking thing makes you want to kill yourself.

Why it rules:

Sometimes you need to hear the truth over and over again until you've cried so hard your outside looks like what you imagine your insides look like at that moment—A mushy fleshy pile of hot rotting garbage.

Kate Nash - Nicest Thing

Word daggers:

I wish you had a favorite beauty spot/That you loved secretly/Cause it was on a hidden bit/That nobody else could see/Basically, I wish that you loved me/I wish that you needed me.

I wish that without me your heart would break/I wish that without me you'd be spending the rest of your nights awake/I wish that without me you couldn't eat/I wish I was the last thing on your mind before you went to sleep.

Why it rules:

She says what you're thinking/feeling/reeling, word for word. You want them to love you like you loved them and you're always hoping they're off miserable and drowning in Vodka, or the like, in order to get over the pain of you not being in their life. Mine couldn't drown in vodka because he couldn't drink. He was probably drowning somewhere in stranger vagina while wearing a snorkel and a smile. Cool.

There are five billion others, in fact here's the spotify link to the audible liquid pain that I listened to for months:

LIES AND OTHER DAGGERS

And HERE * is the song that my ex wrote about our break up.  

*Not sure the link will work. It will probably download onto your computer and then you have to open it in Quicktime or something. Feel free to skip this part or delete it immediately afterwards. Sorry, he's not famous enough to have a YouTube clip of it.

Why it sucks?

Think about it.

[thetilt]

TILT(S) : It's good to be back.

Things I've Learned This (Sabbatical)

It's been a while and I've learned a whole lot more than this, but here are some things that came to mind.

- I really miss writing. 

- I share too much and most people can't handle it.

- I don't miss working out.

- Walking home from work is a splendid perk of living in this city. 40+ blocks in good weather should be considered "working out"

- Raines Law Room is a really fun speak easy, but feels a bit masculine.

- The Book 50 Shades of Grey is brain toxin. Don't get me wrong, I love a good erotic tale, "good" being the operative word. I  wish I could just accept that absurd amount of fiction* and unnecessary use of synonyms but, I really can't.

*Men feeding mouthfuls of wine to their "lovers/subs" like a momma bird will never ever be considered sexy in my book.

- Hemingway is the man.

- I have an uncanny ability for finding gorgeous men to ogle at on the internet. ie: THIS  , THIS, and THIS TOO. 

- If you're not going to answer my questions or be a shady fuck, I will figure out the answers on my own.  (Psst Instagram can unlock clues to things too.)

- Curiosity and the ever-lasting spiral of assumption makes me nuts. I prefer bold hard honesty.

- Picnics in Central Park are not to be missed or taken for granted. Ever.

- If he's not trying, he's just not that into you.

- Just because they SAY they're into you doesn't mean shit. Actions Actions Actions.

- Just because his actions show you he's interested in you today, doesn't mean he will be tomorrow.

- The restaurant August in the West Village is delightful. Try the foie gras and pair it with a nice little glass of Saturn (wine not planet)

- Alcohol on dates can induce premature sex and crying. Don't get wasted on dates, dummy. (note to self)

- Sometimes people cry after sex. It happens. Emotions are all intense and your body is pumping hormones and adrenaline and things can get all messy and blurry in there. It's not a big deal. It doesn't mean you're a nutjob. It just means you can feel. Embrace it. You could be a drone like 90% of the people out there. Just try not to get caught! ::wink::

- Bad cocktail of illicit drugs can make you into a raging face-eating psychopath. Don't do drugs.

- Playing "the game" is exhausting to the point of atrophy.

- I like to push people's boundaries.

- I rarely think of the EX anymore (this moment excluded). Except when certain songs poke at the memory, but it's tolerable now.

- Laughter in the company of someone who understands exactly what the fuck is going on is the greatest laughter in the world.

-The ride on the tram to Roosevelt Island takes a few minutes, costs the same as a subway ride and should be ventured for the view alone. Once on the other side, get an ice cream, relax and watch the crazies go by.

- I have a few love affairs/crushes/flirtations going on with men that don't live in this city. I believe the geographical distance is precisely the reason those even exist. There's safety in distance.

- SCREW BRUSSEL SPROUTS.

- FUCK TOFU.

- ZESTY SALSA WHEAT THINS FTW.

- I'm God awful at Math.

- I shouldn't have to do math at work. Period.

- Being a Miami Heat fan is healthy. The games go on when they say they will, they're a reliable form of entertainment. And even if they're disappointing one day, you can bet they'll redeem themselves soon enough. The Heat is my boyfriend.

- Just once I want a man to look at me like their world would cease to hold any joy and completely fall apart if I weren't in it. Just once.

- "Happiness in intelligent people is the rarest thing I know"* are the truest words I've ever known. *quote by Ernest Hemingway

and this just makes me laugh.

[thetilt]

TILT: The Downward Stare

TILT : Things I Learned Today

When I moved to this city I never understood why people would walk around looking at the ground. Almost as if they were blind and could navigate the streets by mere sensation. As I got off the train to my apartment this evening I realized that I too was staring at the sidewalk and suddenly it became clear to me. I was staring at the sidewalk because that sidewalk could be anywhere in the city, as long as I intently stared at the non-descript pavement I wouldn't have to look up at the ghosts that fill the streets. The ghosts of the recent past, where we stood, where we laughed, where we kissed. With eyes averted I didn't have to look at the bodegas with endless flowers for sale. The very flower shops that he used to frequent to surprise me with a simple bouquet to make me smile for no reason at all. The blue box where we used to pause for a midnight cigarette. Or our patch of "nature" across the street, which was just a tree lined ledge by the Chase bank. We'd go "camping" there, or just sit and pretend. A watermarked space, two blocks, that flood the mind and heart. 

See, the pavement is unfamiliar to me. During those days I never noticed it because I was too busy looking forward, looking up, looking at him, and taking it all in. 

For now there is comfort in the downward stare. I understand now, New Yorkers. I'm one of you. But I look forward to the day when I can look up again, wave fondly at the ghosts of that delightful time, or just see something new.

[thetilt]

TILT: Life Ruiners - A (dis)Honorable Mention

Jordan Catalano "The Dumb Hottie"

It was the 90's and MTV was still moderately cool and came out with a show that has molded pretty much every girl I've ever known including myself. (I own the DVD box set, btw, and watched every episode again in my 30's)

My So Called Life made me believe that even weird girls with burgundy hair could somehow catch the eye of the hottest most unattainable guy in the whole school, hell, the whole world. Enter Jordan Catalano. 

Now, here's the thing. A lot of people have asked me why I didn't include him originally, we all loved him, he was super dreamy and is a total life ruiner. But is he? Let's explore...

Even though I had the super duper hots for Jordan Catalano because his eyes are what Unicorn tears are made of, I never convinced myself that he was anything other than a total 100% douchebag. And he was duuuuumb. Fuckable, for sure, but  the most we could expect from him is that he could tone down the douchebaggery for about 30 seconds in order to say something remotely nice to Angela—which, ultimately, Brian Krakow wrote for him anyway. So very "Cyrano." Sigh. 

There has never been a more obviously flawed character in the history of pop culture. There was no redeemable quality in this guy then or in retrospect, besides those goddamn eyes that I want to swim in like warm sex pools. And that face…Someone resurrect Michaelangelo so that he may sculpt it in all of its perfection.  But really, once we get past that what else did he have? Mystery? No, he was just stupid so we're glad he didn't talk much. Remember his song? About his car? Good grief.  Was he funny? Um…never. Did he love Angela like no other? Uh, no. She basically wore him down with her obsession. And once she finally tired of him after he fucked her best friend (classy) THAT'S when all of a sudden, Jordan, convinced himself that maybe he actually did like her? YAWN. 

So although we'd all like to go back in time and fuck Jordan Catalano senseless in that boiler room (which he hid in to make-out with Angela because he's ashamed to be seen with her, btw, um…cool) We should take a step back and thank baby Jesus and the orphans that this guy has never entered our life. Well, at least not mine.  Because letting a guy that lame and stupid ruin my life would be more shameful than that damn song about his car.

Oh, and he's short.

[thetilt]

TILT(L): Special Edition - The Life Ruiners

TILT (L) Things I Learned This Lifetime.

There's been a series of "life-ruining" activities lately from a gaggle of misguided males, guys, boys, etc, within the lives of myself and a few of my female friends. This is a sad fact of life, but, I'm not here to bash or point fingers because that's just not my style. I've taken the opportunity to place the blame where the blame is inherently earned. And take an introspective look within myself to figure out…Where did it all go so very wrong?

I will now introduce you to: THE LIFE RUINERS.

#1 Luke Skywalker "The Reluctant Hero"

I was taken to see the Star Wars movies as a very young child. I think I saw Return of the Jedi when I was 6 years old. I fell immediately in love with Luke Skywalker. At the time I saw him as this heroic cherubin-faced do-gooder who wielded a light saber and championed his love/sister Leia as if she were the greatest thing since sliced braided bread. Well that's all it took. 

I realize now that Luke is a pussy. He's a wavering soul that couldn't make a good life decision if it light-sabred him in the balloon knot. Lost, as lost can be, in outer space. He's got a conflicted home life (to say the least). And I'm pretty sure he actually had the hots for a blood relative which is also something I've endured. But, I digress. As the hero archetype he basically represents EGO, however the hero archetype is often dumb since he doesn't have the knowledge of the collective unconscious. He sets out to please himself and his ego and ultimately walks off without the girl, or anyone else really. 

This particular guy has shown up in my life, definitely once. Perhaps twice. Certain aspects of this guy in many familiar faces. Your first love will always come back to haunt you. Luke, I'm looking at you. The others, you know who you are.

#2 Danny Zuko "The Cool Guy"

I was in the first or second grade when I became unwaveringly obsessed with the movie Grease. So, I was about 8 or 9 years old. Still a hopeless romantic at that tender and awkward age. And by "awkward" I mean "tragically unattractive." I watched it every single day when I got home from school because I was infatuated with, of course, Danny Zuko. He was the coolest guy in the whole world. The leather jacket, the cigarette, the T-Birds and the weepy rendition of "Sandy" that he bellows at the drive-in. This guy was a dreamboat in my pre-adolescent eyes.

But let's take a closer look shall we? Danny Zuko is the biggest dick on this planet. He falls "in love" with some chick on the beach because, let's face it, she has an accent and that's just oh-so-exotic! She's leaving back to a foreign land after the summer so a commitment is inherently out of the question…bonus! How predictable. He's got it made until she shows up at his school that year. "Oh, fuck!" And what does Danny do? He rejects her in front of a bunch of strangers, humiliates her, and cuts her up in front of his moronic entourage to show what a swinging dick he really is. But then in a zippy twist Sandy realizes he sucks and starts dating the nice, albeit rather boring, jock—who takes her on actual dates and treats her like a human being—and then suddenly Danny wants her back! Of course. Dance numbers and singing happen because love is so hard, blah blah and at the end of the film she dresses up like a hooker to impress him and  they end up together. Or do they? I'm pretty sure he cheats on her with some skank immediately following the return of their flying convertible back to the school parking lot after Sandy takes off her painted on pants and gives him her "virginity."

We've all been there.

#3 John Bender "The Bad Boy"

I'm old. Which means that John Hughes films have shaped my life in a very profound way. The Breakfast Club being the one that really had the most impact. When I was about 14 I saw this movie for the first time. I was IN LOVE with it. Everything about it spoke to my inner soul—which has always been more angst ridden than my age required it to be. (Please note I fell in love at age 3 with my imaginary friend that didn't play with me…that story is reserved for the book) Anyways, it took all of about 12 seconds for me to hone in on John Bender, the dreamiest bad boy I'd ever seen. His clothes, his sarcasm, his looks, his "Who gives a fuck" attitude and charm is what wet dreams were made of, and they were. John Bender is the man that I would look for for MANY years to come. He was the begrudged know-it-all mysterious brooder that I would look for with my eyes wide shut or bulging open within any male that came close to me, for years.

Now all the qualities I thought were the living-end for most of my adolescence are those belonging to nothing more than an insecure underachiever. Good looks and a sharp tongue can only get you so far. John treats everyone like crap drowning them with is bile which is just his way of overcompensating for the fact that he's too wrapped up in his self pity to find the balls to overcome his circumstances. These are traits of a weak man. A weak man draped in bad boy savoir faire, is a mistake I've made too many times to mention. He convinces the hardest p*ssy to tame—within the slim pickins of the detention hall—to hate and love him all at the same time. Weak men love the hardest conquest—FACT. It makes them feel like they've achieved something. And that's what he does, and what does she do? She gives him a diamond, because girls love to GIVE to the one's least worthy of their time, affection, and financial nurturing. He's a rebel and she's got something to prove. This NEVER works out. John Hughes doesn't make sequels…for a reason.

Bad boys are bad. Period.

#4 Lloyd Dobler "The Hopeless Romantic"

Who doesn't love Lloyd Dobler? Put on this Earth to love ONE woman. That's what he's good at. The nice guy with a heart of gold. He manages to grab the heart of the "smart girl" a noble quality by any standard. I was the "smart/funny" girl for a long time before my boobs became more "boob" than "fat" for many years, and that's why Lloyd filled me with hope that someone would and could love me some day. He writes her a letter after having sex with her that said " I'll always be there. All the love in my heart, Lloyd." This brought Lloyd to the level of greatness, he was no longer just a "guy." And of course let's not forget the boombox scene with Peter Gabriel's "In Your Eyes" blasting in the early morn. That scene will be ruining lives for years to come. It ruined mine, that's for sure. I've only had one boom box experience and it was a day late and a dollar short. 

Sure, Lloyd sounds perfect. Until you reach adulthood and realize that Lloyd was scared and lazy. He had no aspirations, he had no life of his own. He wanted to be a kickboxer? That's cute. Cute and hopeless. Diane had dreams, goals, and aspirations as any good woman should. When you get over the whimsy you realize you want someone that is going to be a partner, not just a mooch with good intentions. This takes a LONG time to realize. Of all the dreamboat mistakes, Lloyd is the easiest to forgive, but still…get a life, Lloyd. It takes more than loving a woman to be great. Be a MAN that loves a woman and we'll talk.

My "Lloyds" always show up when it's too late, when they've annihilated all the love I had to give with their whimsy and laziness and self-doubt to be bothered by it anymore. It's a shame though, really is.

#5 Troy Dyer "The Untamable Philosopher"

Reality Bites came out in 1994. I was 16 years old. Is there a more fucked up age than being 16 and female? Probably not. When I saw this movie I couldn't believe how crazy in love I was with Troy Dyre. He was smart, funny, sarcastic, cute—in that unwashed musician/coffee shop attendee sort of way. He was unlike any boy in my high school and he was all I wanted. After all he really "loved" Lelaina, he was just ill-equipped to show her his feelings because he didn't know how, right? That friendship was too special, his feelings were frightening and he didn't know how to "deal." How noble.

 "You, me, and five bucks" are words that ring in my ears to this day. I want so desperately to believe that's all you really need. And from time to time, I've found some semblance of it, but it's usually fleeting, much like Troy's true appeal. Just because a man reads books and knows the meaning of "irony" at the drop of a hat doesn't mean he's a life partner. Troy is anguished by life and how he sees the world. Defined by his cynical view of the the world and everything in it. Lo and behold he's a musician, coincidence? Probably not. Troy only gets the nerve to go after Lelaina AFTER she's met a suitable match (much like Danny Zuko) then it's GAME ON. Suddenly his jealousy can't be masked and in a weak moment Lelaina gives in, much against her better judgement. And then, before the sun comes up Troy bails on her. Freaking out because he actually had a genuine emotion and boy, those are scary and scary is sticky and sticky means stuck and stuck means "LET'S GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE AS FAST AS POSSIBLE" And so that's what he does. He eventually returns once his dad dies and he's got nothing left in the world so he seeks comfort in the one woman that's always been there for him. La di da.

Umm…yeah. Been there. Done that. Moving on. I still love smart boys with sharp tongues, I just expect a little more than the bare minimum. And if feelings scare you and you gotta cut and run, well fuck you too. Feelings are scary, but with great risk comes great reward.

#6 Russell Hammond "The Rockstar"

Oh Lord. Russell Hammond. Almost Famous changed my Universe when I saw it. I've always loved music and musicians. Since I could remember a man holding an instrument sent shivers down my spine. It started with my father, the violinist, he was the bees knees as far as I was concerned, until he bailed on my mother and I when I was 7. Setting off to find his true happiness in anyone and anything that he could. We were better off without him. That kind of selfishness can never lead to anything good so I wasn't that sad to see him go, to be honest.  Anyways, I've always fancied myself a respectable groupie—loving the musician for more than their presence, but for the gift of music they were giving me and the world. I never gave in to tour bus shenanigans. I have far too much self worth for all of that nonsense. Penny Lane was my hero and Russell, well, Russell was the most desirable man on Earth. The wily and misunderstood artist who just wanted to be "real."  He was sexy and smooth and said all the right things even when they were dreadfully full of shit. And he LOVED, Penny. In the end he saw the error of his ways and set off to find her, right?

WRONG. That is what I wanted to believe so badly. So so badly. But let's face it, Russell is the epitome of a musician. He's defined by his music, his band, his instrument, his persona. He lives for the adoration of strangers and it's never enough and it never will be. He's married and he's cheating on his wife with the most notorious of all groupies. There's no doubt he fancies, Penny. Who doesn't? And while he's lonely on tour he has the company of a feral nymph, how exciting. But once Penny shows him her true feelings, forcing him to confront the reality of the situation he pussies out and sits there with his wife and lets Penny look and feel like a total asshole. This is the man that sold her to Humble Pie for 50 bucks and a case of beer. Sigh. ::heart breaks:: Once his wife divorces him, I'm sure, and the groupies are all lackluster, he realizes that maybe, just maybe, he made a mistake, perhaps, and gives Penny a call. But time has given Penny wisdom and she sets him off to make other wrongs right. I used to think that after he talks to William he gets in a cab to go find Penny, but that's just naive romanticism. Penny leaves to Morocco and Russell rejoins his rockstar life as if it never happened. That's a tragedy, his ambivalence is a tragedy and it's heart-wrenching disappointment is comparable to any and all the forlorn love stories of our time.

I found my Russell once, and now he's gone. Just like that. And maybe I wanted it to be something it never was, or maybe he came into my life to teach me that there is no amazing love story set out for us. Even if it is four years in the making. That just because you want someone or something doesn't mean that it's going to work out, and that I shouldn't believe that  everything that glitters is a "Golden God." 

I haven't really figured out what it means, just yet. What I do know is that I will be retiring my groupie shoes and swearing off musicians from this day forth.

#7 Ryan Gosling "The Perfect Man"

RyGoz is a true life-ruiner. It's not his characters, although, Noah in The Notebook is a notable life ruiner for sure. Who loves like that? No one. He's pretty dreamy in Blue Valentine as Dean, even with his receding hairline. (I haven't seen, Drive, yet, but I'm sure he's ridiculously hot and heroic in that too) So, fine. It's no surprise to anyone that Ryan is the most talked about dreamboat out there these days, he's good looking, respectable, talented, funny, charming, witty, intelligent, loves his dog, his mom, babies and children, not afraid to commit when he finds a special lady, shit, he's even a real life super-hero fighting crime on the streets of NYC. The man is everything a girl could want. And this is precisely WHY he's the epitome of a life ruiner, reigning supreme amongst all others.

Ryan, God love him, is only one man. Elusive yet approachable, you think you could have him if you were lucky enough to meet him and you were having an exceptionally "cute"  and clever moment that day. But the pressure is too much, because, let's be honest with ourselves, you're not going to run into Ryan Gosling. And if you do, you're not going to be cool about it. You're going to flip out and act like a nerd, and though he'll be nice about it, you're just ONE hot chick in a SEA of hot chicks out there that want nothing more than to love him with all your guts. 

Another drawback here is that he's a method actor. I once dated one of these that broke up with me for a short stint, stating that he had to "explore his role," this of course was code for exploring his co-star's hole while they were doing a play together. It's no surprise that Ryan falls in love with his co-stars, after all he's really INTO his role, right? Yeah. This is not good. Not unless you're his co-star for that brief and fleeting moment, and even then, if you had the love of this man for 5 minutes how could it not tear you up to lose it once the martini shot was wrapped? Exactly.

Ryan Gosling is too much, he's too great and he sets an expectation in us all for a kind of greatness that is not easily possessed by mere mortals. He can not be the bar because we will for sure be destined for all sorts of disappointment. 

That said, I'm waiting to bump into you at Max Fish or the Food Emporium some day Ry Ry, and although I can't marry you because I've sworn off artists for the rest of my life, I can go have a drink or coffee with you and woo you with my wits and then I can bang you within an inch of your life. And mine. And I'll be totally Ok with that.

So, for now, I sleep diagonally in my bed until it's filled with the next mistake or Mr. Finally. The journey to the final frontier continues...