Thursday, December 27, 2012

Room 112

Sometimes I have to remind myself that being hungover at work is my god-given right as a Young Person

Monday, December 17, 2012

All the perennials that have grown too big for the space allotted for them

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Spam comments are fucking weird

from Minima Moralia by Theodor Adorno

Doctor, that is kind of you. – Nothing is harmless anymore. The small joys, the expressions of life, which seemed to be exempt from the responsibility of thought, not only have a moment of defiant silliness, of the cold-hearted turning of a blind eye, but immediately enter the service of their most extreme opposite. Even the tree which blooms, lies, the moment that one perceives its bloom without the shadow of horror; even the innocent “How beautiful” becomes an excuse for the ignominy of existence, which is otherwise, and there is no longer any beauty or any consolation, except in the gaze which goes straight to the horror, withstands it, and in the undiminished consciousness of negativity, holds fast to the possibility of that which is better. Mistrust is advisable towards everything which is unselfconscious, casual, towards everything which involves letting go, implying indulgence towards the supremacy of the existent. The malign deeper meaning of comfort, which at one time was limited to the toasts of cozy sociability, has long since spread to friendlier impulses. When in the chance conversation with a man on the train, one acquiesces, in order to avoid a quarrel, to a couple of sentences which one knows ultimately certify murder, is already an act of treachery; no thought is immune against its communication, and uttering it at the wrong place and in the context of a false agreement is enough to undercut its truth. Every visit to the cinema, despite the utmost watchfulness, leaves me dumber and worse than before. Sociability itself is a participant in injustice, insofar as it pretends we can still talk with each other in a frozen world, and the flippant, chummy word contributes to the perpetuation of silence, insofar as the concessions to those being addressed debase the latter once more as speakers. The evil principle which has always lurked in affability develops, in the egalitarian Spirit, into its full bestiality. Condescension and making oneself out as no better are the same. By adapting to the weaknesses of the oppressed, one confirms in such weaknesses the prerequisite of domination, and develops in oneself the measure of barbarity, thickheadedness and capacity to inflict violence required to exercise domination. If, in the latest era, the gesture of condescension is dispensed with, and solely adaptation becomes visible, then it is precisely in such a perfect screening of power that the class-relationship, however denied, breaks through all the more irreconcilably. For intellectuals, unswerving isolation is the only form in which they can vouchsafe a measure of solidarity. All of the playing along, all of the humanity of interaction and participation is the mere mask of the tacit acceptance of inhumanity. One should be united with the suffering of human beings: the smallest step to their joys is one towards the hardening of suffering.

Thursday, December 6, 2012


Wednesday, November 28, 2012

Nothing is sacred

Monday, November 12, 2012

Never going back again

About a year ago, I think, I was at a party in San Francisco where Sam and Aaron peed off the roof and the fog ruined the blow-out that I trekked all the way to Richmond to get and there was a guy in full "mixologist" regalia and I just wished he'd pour my fucking whiskey-ginger ale and be done with it and there was a giant pot of lentil soup (OF COURSE) and I may or may not have puked on a coffee table and in the morning we drove back across the Bay Bridge probably listening to that Lush tape and Sam and I went back to bed for several more hours

I liked that. Too bad for everything else.


I keep trying to transition this blog over to Tumblr and it never quite works out



"SO BASICALLY my life revolves around what to eat, where to eat and with whom to eat. What more can I say?"
I'm going through my old Livejournals and while a lot has changed (lol at all indie pop everything, being part of a community for "summer goths," and once being called "a brilliant student of literature" by one of my professors), some things have stayed exactly the same.

Saturday, November 3, 2012

Pecan buds doe

Saturday, October 27, 2012

On apathy

Every election year, there are people eager to proclaim, quite ignorantly, that they “don’t care about politics.” A response to them, from Noam Chomsky and Michel Foucault’s 1971 debate on human nature:

FOUCAULT: Your question is: why am I so interested in politics? But if I were to answer you very simply, I would say this: why shouldn’t I be interested? That is to say, what blindness, what deafness, what density of ideology would have to weigh me down to prevent me from being interested in what is probably the most crucial subject to our existence, that is to say the society in which we live, the economic relations within which it functions, and the system of power which defines the regular forms and the regular permissions and prohibitions of our conduct. The essence of our life consists, after all, of the political functioning of the society in which we find ourselves. 
So I can’t answer the question of why I should be interested; I could only answer it by asking why shouldn’t I be interested?
FONS ELDERS [moderator]: You are obliged to be interested, isn’t that so? 
FOUCAULT: Yes, at least, there isn’t anything odd here which is worth question or answer. Not to be interested in politics, that’s what constitutes a problem. So instead of asking me, you should ask someone who is not interested in politics and then your question would be well-founded, and you would have the right to say “Why, damn it, are you not interested?”

Sunday, October 14, 2012

'I don't know why we are here, but I'm pretty sure that it is not in order to enjoy ourselves."

Wittgenstein. Also, his Blue Book.


If you live in Brooklyn, go to the Brooklyn Comics & Graphics Festival on November 10th and tell Chris Ware and Tim Hensley that I love them

I’ll be here in L.A., crying into my unsigned copy of Building Stories

Friday, October 5, 2012

Éminence grise

Thursday, October 4, 2012

You only live twice

John Barry, "A Drop in the Ocean"

Between the devil and the deep blue sea

I rarely go to the movies but last night Andrew and I saw The Master and though I liked it I think I need to mull it over for a while. During the car ride home I went on drunkenly about how it was “totally Freudian” and I don’t know why I feel so embarrassed by that but I do.

Tuesday, October 2, 2012

Anne Sexton, "The Black Arts"

"A woman who writes feels too much."

America minor

October 13th, 2 pm, Brown auditorium, LACMA - Katy Grannan and Charlie White lecture. Go. I'll be there.

Beautiful, I just want you to know

Sunday, September 23, 2012

Like calling up thunder

Travel Almanac, Spring/Summer 2012

Sunshine or noir?

I tried all morning to find a PDF of Mike Davis’ City of Quartz and failed, so instead here is a PDF of one of my favorite chapters, “Fortress L.A.

Judy Fiskin, from her Stucco series

Cruel summer

Never has a season's mood been so perfectly reflected in its weather - this summer was hellish in both temperature and temperament and I will not miss it at all. When reflecting upon things I try to determine what I learned or what was gained, but the only thing this summer left me with is an anxiety disorder.

Monday, September 10, 2012

People who keep their honey in the fridge

Saturday, September 8, 2012

Gideon Rubin

Tuesday, August 28, 2012

George W. Bush, on his presidency

“Eight years was awesome and I was famous and I was powerful.”

Saturday, August 25, 2012




Wednesday, August 22, 2012

My nose got a sunburn

Griffith Park, Los Angeles, 1908

Sunday, August 19, 2012

Do you think you're better off alone?

Saturday, August 18, 2012

David Shrigley, who is also a secret babe

"The Muni system doesn’t appear to work very well, and it seems to be largely populated by mentally ill people who smell funny. That I don’t like very much. I’ve spent quite a few hours trying to go to places on the Muni system, and then I realized, you know what? Fuck the Muni system. I’m getting a cab."

Wednesday, August 1, 2012

As the world turns

Peter's Court, Palace, 1 August 1914
Sa Majesté l'Empereur

I received your telegram. Understand you are obliged to mobilise but wish to have the same guarantee from you as I gave you, that these measures do not mean war and that we shall continue negociating for the benefit of our countries and universal peace deal to all our hearts. Our long proved friendship must succeed, with God's help, in avoiding bloodshed. Anexiously [sic], full of confidence await your answer.

The above telegram is from Tsar Nicholas II of Russia to his cousin, Kaiser Wilhelm II of Germany, days after the Austro-Hungarian invasion of Serbia and the mobilization of the Russian, German, and French armies, i.e., the beginning of World War I. If we've learned anything from WWI and the first half of the 20th century, it should be this: beware of men with withered arms (see also: Joseph Stalin).

Sunday, July 15, 2012

Summer so far

Dancing to "Chick Habit" and getting burrito discounts and drinking vodka and...water? on someone's rooftop and the hour and a half commute to work and reading The Economist on my phone and "avocado al fresco" sandwiches from Whole Foods and backpedaling and eating not-very-good kettle corn because I was desperate and dipping my entire body in coconut oil and yellow legal pads and not sleeping and City of Quartz by Mike Davis and offline Spotify playlists and heels everyday and Tupac bandana ties and buying cigarettes from the donut shop and arguments and palm tree purses and heavy dinners and Culver City and being driven in someone's car very quickly down the freeway while I exhale cigarette smoke out the window and feel content.

Saturday, July 7, 2012

You shall above all things be glad and young

Last night Sam, Megan, and I went downtown and I drank Vitamin Water and rum and Newcastles and got a free pack of Marlboro playing cards and danced with a dude from Spain while listening to Jonathan Richman. I can't remember exactly at what point last night this photo was taken. My eyes look kind of droopy but in my defense I am very drunk.

Unfinished business

L.A. Forum

Tuesday, July 3, 2012

The only thing I'm wearing ever


"There it is. Take it."

Monday, May 14, 2012


Hand orientation is developed in fetuses, most commonly determined by observing which hand is predominantly held close to the mouth. [1]

Friday, May 11, 2012


Saturday, April 7, 2012


Arugula, shrimp, and avocado salads, going to Long Beach for no reason, scheduling and canceling and re-scheduling, finally signing up for Spotify but only really using it to listen to this one Smokey Robinson & the Miracles album, borrowing my grandmother’s car for a week while she visited family in Texas and finally being able to experience the pleasure of car chargers, two smoothies a day (at least), realizing how perfect my bed can be, Marlboro 27s for some reason, finally owning William Tecumseh Sherman’s memoirs, grocery shopping, learning to let go of palm trees, hating all of my clothes and my kitchen’s weird smell, waking up every two hours after I have gone to bed, a town (neighborhood?) called Naples that isn’t like the “real” Naples at all, Hite beer, the various pomades a man could have, making a note to buy a bottle of Dr. Bronner’s every morning after using my current body wash (it smells like Flintstone vitamins?) and forgetting the minute I step out of the shower, grabbing issues of L.A. Weekly but never reading them, Irish breakfast tea at home and coffee everywhere else but actually, usually, Sprite.

Friday, April 6, 2012

Alone again or

Friday, March 30, 2012

The Gulag Express

In spring we cross our foreheads with the holly

Dylan Thomas, "I See the Boys of Summer"

A process of individual museumification

I recently had a conversation about exploitation for the sake of art and it made me think of this post from my old blog:

Roi Vaara, "The Artists Dilemma"

"The secret story is the one we'll never know, although we're living it from day to day, thinking we're alive, thinking we've got it all under control and the stuff we overlook doesn't matter. But every damn thing matters! It's just that we don't realize. We tell ourselves that art runs on one track and life, our lives, on another, we don't even realize that's a lie."
- from "Dentist" in Last Evenings on Earth by Roberto Bolaño

Thursday, March 29, 2012

In a silent way

Albert Londe, Hysteria

Wednesday, March 14, 2012

Currently reading

Tuesday, March 13, 2012

Where I Wanna Be

That outfit, that drink

Saturday, February 11, 2012

One hundred percent stolen from The Awl

"Within her context, there was never a singing star who shone as brightly as Whitney Houston. The run was shorter than almost every one of her competitors, but diva greatness is not a marathon, but rather, a shining example of the possibility of the human being. There will probably never be another Aretha—certainly, the Beyonce BORG and the militias of teenybopper chart-toppers seem to indicate the end of her era—but it's probable that the never-to-be-famous next Aretha is singing in some church, somewhere. She exists but she simply will never be. Whitney, on the other hand, stretches what we can reasonably comprehend—how could we ever expect to see another with those pipes, that face, that knack for the moment, that personal drama, that incandescent potential?"


Friday, February 10, 2012


Last night I dreamt of the line, "Then one night, the goddess deigns to write to you!" It's a Rimbaud line. Someone repeated it several times, and afterward it floated in the darkness like a neon marquee. Does anyone else dream of words?

I find it funny, and odd, that even as I am making a concerted effort to Read Less Poetry (I bought a hard copy of  The Death and Life of Great American Cities by Jane Jacobs a few days ago and have been reading that), it has to remind me that it's still there, literally haunting my dreams.

Friday, February 3, 2012

William Carlos Williams, in a letter to his son

"You say you’d like to see my book of poems. What the hell? Let 'em go. They are things I wrote because to maintain myself in a world much of which I didn't love I had to fight to keep myself as I wanted to be. The poems are me, in much of the faulty perspective in which I have existed in my own sight—and nothing to copy, not even for anyone even to admire."

Sunday, January 29, 2012

And the sun drips down like honey on our lady of the harbor

Saturday, January 28, 2012

The emperor of ice-cream

I don't exactly know how to make the leap from all black everything to candy-coated but I am fucking down

Friday, January 27, 2012

Human league

Earlier this week I went to a job interview with mustard on my shoes from the street dog I'd drunkenly consumed on the walk home from the Short Stop the night before; it was washed away by the rain and then dried by the sun fifteen minutes later so by the time I'd reached the interview my shoes were fly and mustardless and that, you guys, is one of the many reasons why I fucking love Los Angeles.

Tuesday, January 3, 2012

Total anarchy: six months later

In 2011 I fell in love and moved away. It's hard to think about 2011 before that happened. I was with someone I didn't love and I was dissatisfied, not only with him, but with almost every aspect of my life. But, to borrow from Antwerp (again), "then came [June], and before I knew it, everything had changed."
Maira Gall