Los Angeles, Be Kind

Scott Hutchison lives in LA now. Did you know that? Why does this feel so important? Maybe because I actually think he's the wittiest person alive. Or because, like me, he feels in a kind of limbo between isolated, overcast coastlines and sunny hills. Somewhere between Hollywood and Hollyrood. 

His new project, Owl John-- which he says he hopes will appeal to people "who hate Frightened Rabbit"-- is my favorite album of the year. Of course, I don't hate FR. I would love any project of Scott's.

The last month or so has been testing the seams of the life I've sewn together here. They were always loose stitches and I wasn't sure the center would hold a few of those days. I have asked Los Angeles to be kind. And the world in general. I've felt sad about a lot, in a way I haven't done in a while. As you may have noticed, I haven't been writing much.

Luckily for me (and for you) Scott has been writing for me. 

Get Owl John. It's out now.

PS- Scott, now that you're here, let's be friends. For realz.

Such a villainous grace
Oh I don't know what you've done to your face
Some nights I can't figure out quite where your heart is

Oh Los Angeles, be kind
No more trouble or red lights
I can learn to love you in good time
Oh Los Angeles, be kind

I ♥ House of Hackney

With the return of Downton Abbey to British television this past Sunday, my deep longing for the United Kingdom has kicked in with full, panging force. All the more reason to pseudo-shop the new collections from House of Hackney. 

Hackney is one of the (best) boroughs in London, and my home for the time I lived there. In addition to being an up and coming, largely tube-free region of Northeast London, it's also the name sake of husband and wife team Frieda Gormley & Javvy M. Royle's (SO British.) two year old brand. With a flagship store in Shoreditch (jusssst on the border of Hackney) and placements in Urban Outfitters, etc etc, they've accomplished a lot for such a young brand. 

I was immediately drawn to the Dalston Rose line, Dalston being my primary hood. It's super girly, but I could see little flourishes of it even in very contemporary homes. Personally, I'd make tea every afternoon in that little mug there. But I also think the Hackney Empire collection has the most punch. 

In many ways, their home goods sensibility and aesthetic reminds me of Timorous Beasties. They seem to thrive on putting a modern and/or cheeky twist on what it quintessentially English or Scottish. The word they always throw around about both brands is "subversive." But in addition to home fabrics, etc, House of Hackney also does clothing-- something I just dream that TB will expand into one of these days. (Please, please, pretty please.) H of H describes themselves as Colefax & Fowler on acid... okay! While no one will ever replace TB in my heart, you know I can get behind a "more is more attitude."

LA Furniture Angel - Disregarden

Winter '12-'13 will probably go down in history as the winter of the Melrose Trading Post. I've circled that place with various friends nearly every Sunday of this colder than I'd expected Los Angeles season. The biggest score came the first weekend, though, when McC and I discovered Disregarden and we added a lovely hand painted dresser-turned-sideboard to McC's new dining room. (Which they so kindly delivered. Big news from a flea market.)

But Disregarden had so much more to offer. And if they'd had any piece I actually needed for my house, (or could have fit) I would have walked away with something myself. Disregarden is an adorable husband and wife team who source, restore and style awesome furniture pieces and accessories. Jessica not only has awesome taste and a wicked sense of humor (the quotes on their framed chalkboards were off beat to say the least. I loved 'em!) but also, curly blonde hair, which of course an early indicator of badassery. They do other stylings and even furniture rentals. So check them out. Because they pretty much rock. 

Home in Hollywood for the Holidays

Many of you have very kindly asked me about my new apartment and its on-going decorating. Well, I'm finally able to show you some of the lovely professional photos taken by Airbnb photographer Alex Staniloff. I'm still not 'done,' but I love my little place! 

It can be exciting (of course) moving all the time. But it's also melancholy and a little lonely. Nesting is the best part. Sharing it is the best part. 

Become You. The NPR version of You.

Pretty much all of my adult life, I've been looking to make my life circumstances align with my deeply-held idea about myself as an avid NPR listener. Only one other-- brief, beautiful-- time was I able to make it a real fabric of my day. That was when I was working my worst job to date: as studio assistant to a world-famous lighting designer in New York. 

For the months I had this part time gig (before she flipped out and called me incompetent for not reading her mind) I came to associate the morning pleasant lull of WNYC with the lighting designer being in a good mood. When she was travelling, I'd flip it on just for my own pleasure while I watered her ficus plants and cacti. Before that, in my childhood, I associated it with night driving and my father and laughing to Prairie Home Companion. Now, I equate it with the mental state I'm after. 

But Los Angeles. Oh, Los Angeles and my sunny Hollywood spot. My home now was made for NPR. Just today, my best friend Emily said, "Don't you love the NPR in LA? KCRW?" And I do! It's one of the few realities that live up to my fantasies of it. In my mind, I'd flip on an old radio to KCRW on misty Los Angeles mornings while I make coffee. I sit at my little kitchen table in my robe, taking my sweet time, and I laugh and am enlightened on all foreign policy and art issues I care about, but feel sometimes overwhelmed by, and I learn about all kinds of new things to hold my interest. The only difference between my fantasy and the reality is that I listen on my NPR iphone app. Sometimes I pick and choose stories and sometimes I flip to WNYC when I miss New York. But I am utterly happy when I do this. 

One of my favorites is The Moth. True Stories told live by artists and interesting people ranging from relative obscurity to relative and/or fading fame. Storytelling. Mmm. "Storytelling for everyday raconteurs." You go, Peabody judges. 

It's like a dream come true. They're all very real and basic and often simple and always poignant while revealing some mono no aware thing about living. Recently, I laughed in every room of my house while writer Walter Mosley told a wonderful and very real story about identifying language and its meaning. It is a delight. I cannot recommend enough. 

Also check out my old friend Suzanne Vega on Stage Fright. 

Sometimes, I lament that we have no BBC. But then I remember NPR and I am soothed again. 

Happy Thanksgiving! A Readable Feast

My second favorite holiday! Sending love your way on this great day of thanks from Los Angeles, Oceanside, Las Vegas. 

If you had asked me this time last year, when I was cooking a big Thanksgiving feast for all my Scottish friends (I think I'll forever associate them with giving thanks & also my ability to cook a meal of that scale), where I thought I'd be today, a year later, I don't think I would have imagined all the places I would have gone in one year. 

But I'm thankful for this past year--- it was sort of like an out of body experience. 

Meanwhile, I'm off to drive down the coast to see my mom's family. Wish me luck.

For this lovely holiday, I can't think of any better pairing than food and poetry. Check out The Hungry Ear, a collection of food poems. 

Small Girl Builds Large Furniture

I'm exhausted. Things are coming together, but I've been hauling furniture upstairs, lifting large slabs of glass and dealing with way more wooden dowels than I'm really interested in. But the good news is, all I'm missing is all the the things to sit and lie down on: my chaise, my bed, my mattress, and my chair! 

Oh, and all my stuff from London (remember when I lived there?!?) the delivery of which keeps getting pushed back. 

Sorry if my decorating story is on the more quotidien side of things for a blog, but I'm just too tired to think of anything interesting that doesn't pertain to this apartment. On the upside, today, Dena taught me how to switch out lamp harps to make sure the bulb holder doesn't show. Also on the upside, I have a large bottle of wine and I'm seeing Anna Karenin tomorrow with McC. Woo! See you tomorrow!

A Nomad Finds a Home in Historic Hollywood

You guys. After nearly six months of this year spent living out of a suitcase, schlepping via over night bus, etc etc, on Tuesday, I will move into my very own adorable vintage Hollywood one bedroom. Complete with original 1920's fixtures and all the charm of Old Hollywood, I could not be more excited than I am to get in some space of my own and feel truly settled. 

The view from my front door is the Hollywood sign. And I'm six blocks from Paramount, where my little townhouse was built in 1923 for Paramount workers. In addition to some original period features, it's been suped up with a bit of history, such as doors from the famed Ambassador Hotel: former home of the Cocoanut Grove Nightclub, the 2nd & 12th Annual Academy Awards (Where Gone with the Wind won 10 awards including Best Picture !!!), and tragically, the 1968 Assassination of RFK. It was demolished in 2005, and one of the room doors is now my front door. On top of all that, it's light and airy and even has a dishwasher. I didn't think I could afford to live alone, but sometimes, you just get lucky. 

And! And! I'm feeling even more lucky because the fabulous Dena is so very generously helping me decorate, so I can pimp the place out in the Hollywood splendor it deserves. Lots of whites and beiges and metallics and mirrors. A big cream Chaise and a mirrored desk. A regal upholstered bed-- the only thing that will end up fitting in my cubby bedroom. Even all my belongings from London will be delivered right to my doorstep next week! Happy girl right up over here.

When I Look Back On Those Neon Nights - Miss Atomic Bomb

Almost every song ever written by The Killers carries a kind of inescapable Vegas about it. They aren't just from here-- they radiate the ambience of here. A perpetual nostalgia. They also seem to understand the significance of their origin. They lean into it. Sam's Town. And this latest effort, our state motto: Battle Born. I wonder if that Vegas palate they paint with is detectable to anyone not from here. Once, in the radio station here, I told Kade that "When You  Were Young" was what growing up in Vegas sounded like. He thought about for a minute, and then agreed. 

"Miss Atomic Bomb" sees that feeling and then raises it with so much local specificity and ambience, it puts a squeeze on my heart a bit. My hometown band still has the same sound they've always had (there's a guitar homage to "Mr. Brightside" on "Miss Atomic Bomb," as if Mister & Miss were a couple) but I do think they've grown. Brandon Flowers has never sounded better. And this is one of the most beautifully shot performance videos I've ever seen. 

Franzen's House For Sale at Transport Group

While those in NYC start bundling up for Fall and Winter, I'm still sleeping with door open and swimming in my pool. I doubt I'll miss Winter in New York, but I will miss the start of this and every theatre season. I'm impressed with Broadway's line up this season. (They snagged Paul Rudd for...anything at all... so why complain?) There's always the spot of drama with some show never making it to performances. (Rebecca. In this case due to shady, dead investors, who, it turns out never existed in the first place.)

I've also been energized, and then of course, depressed that I would miss a few great off-broadway showings. I mean, Jake Gyllenhaal's stage debut alone was enough to make me question my decision to leave. But of all my celebrity boyfriends, no one gets me more turned on (theatrically speaking) than my very own personal abusive boyfriend, Jonathan Franzen. 

This season, one of my favorite theatre groups-- Transport Group-- is presenting a theatrical adaptation of one of Franzen's essays, House For Sale. 

Adapted by Daniel Fish, a man I think might be spying on my thoughts, is the same guy who adapted the strange and trippy stage incarnation of DFW's A Supposedly Fun Thing I'll Never Do Again. Fish's House For Sale seems to be along the same lines, with five actors interpreting the same essay "word for word" in different ways. I think Franzy's language stands up to repetition. I suppose I'll have to get someone to give me the recap. Theresa, I nominate you.

House For Sale starts this Sunday, October 14th at the Duke.
229 West 42nd Street

You can read the full essay House For Sale here.
Image via

House For Sale from daniel fish on Vimeo.

Reclaiming the Birthright Friday Links

One week from today, I'll be leaving on a jetplane for Los Angeles and whatever my new life will be there. I'm a bit more excited about it than I feel is prudent-- especially considering my track record with moves panning out the way I envisioned them. A part of me feels like I can't spaz out; I just have to keep my head down in solemn gratitude that I have the freedom to reconfigure the way I do. 

Although, it was really just the one move that feels... tender. And even though this was not the time for me and London, I don't regret it at all. (Much.) And some of those other whimsical, determined, seeking or free-spirited moves turned out better than I envisioned, so perhaps I'm even.  

Ah, but California. California is different. Los Angeles, with all its many peccadillos, is different. A promise is made to you by the city you're born in. It says, no matter your opinion of it, or how far you may wander, you can always come back there and feel brand new. Here is where you came into this world. And where I came into the world is a major artery on an oceanside highway that never ends. A place where the sun shines almost all the time and a place that respects itself enough to never take itself too seriously-- or care if anyone else takes it seriously either. California, in one week, I'm coming for my birthright. I hope you're ready for me. 

And I hope you, dear readers, are ready for your links:

- The Stranger shows us our Country. California. Mascot: Tom Hanks. Motto: "You're Fat!"
- My friend Dave Elzer's new musical opens in LA. Justin Love!
- You guys, I think the Les Miz movie is gonna be amazing-- whole-heartedly approve of the approach. 
- The Top 50 Most Romantic photos of all time

It's International Book Week, in honor of that, check out Give A Book charity. A very cool organization that gets books to the people who need them. You get to pick the books though. Check it out. I'm a big fan! Like them on facebook too!

Some Mitt Shit:
- Amy Davidson in New Yorker
- Fine. David Brooks. 
- A Buddhist perspective on Romney's gaff.

- A West Wing Reunion for a cause
- The Soul of Scotland in pictures
- A beautiful essay on traveling
- Women speak 75% less when surrounded by dudes...

- NYC vs. LA and the winner is.... 

A throwback for you all.

Battleborn, Or Be My Friend, Claire Vaye Watkins

Comparison is the thief of Joy. It's a lesson I've always had to learn the hard way. I'm hard on myself. Always. So I stack myself up against others all the time. I transfer my own judgement of myself onto my dealings with my family-- and make them the people who are disappointed in me, when really I am the one. It's me. I'm comparing me to others. Not them. 

In college, my friend Parisa had this great rule we always tried to follow whenever that feeling crept up on us about other women. Whenever you feel tempted to feel jealous or envious of another girl, you should immediately become their friend. Nothing will kill that jealousy faster than becoming friends. It really works and I've done it a lot. Some of my best friends came from The Parisa Method. 

It's also the inspiration for the series I do on this blog: "Be My Friend, So & So." I've talked about Liz Merriwether, Liz Gilbert, Allie Brosch and others.  So here's a new one in honor of Nevada writer, Claire Vaye Watkins' new collection of short stories, Battleborn. 

If you know your state mottoes, you'll see right away that these are short stories about our shared (ambivalently felt, in my case; less so, in hers) home state of Nevada. Drifters, wanderers, that washed-out old photo feeling that comes from the place... that's Battleborn. I'm only one story in, but that was pretty much enough. I'm sold. 

She has lots of interesting things to say about writing and the Battleborn State (NV was admitted to Union in 1863 during the height of the Civil War, thus the moniker) on this Granta podcast. The sound is rather low, so crank up that volume.

One of the things I like best about Claire is the free writers workshop she's put together for rural Nevada teens, The Mohave School. It took me a long time to own where I'm from (or at least accept it and love it as one of the places I'm from) but now that I've arrived in that mental state, I'd love to get involved in her endeavors there. The thing I could always say is that there are far more stories in Nevada than anyone would think at first guess. FOR EXAMPLE, in Claire's case, this little teeny tiny bio detail. My most extensive experience with Charles Manson was playing Squeaky Fromme in Assassins where I sang a love duet to him (while John Hinckley Jr. sang to Jodie Foster.)

Perhaps because that song is called "Unworthy of Your Love," that detail feels simultaneously like a joke and also massively significant. I suppose, I think it's interesting to look at the parallels and the diversions between any two people. Like me, Claire was born in California and thereafter moved to Nevada (Pahrump in her case.) Like me, she had an alcoholic mother (she describes her mother as "this incredible dynamo; a great bullshitter.") My father is the opposite of Charlie Manson's right hand man. Unlike me, she stayed in Nevada and went to UNR. We both did postgrad writing programs in places you might not expect.  

Bringing this back home to the beginning of this post, and in my continued effort to get really seriously real with myself and you on this blog,  I suppose I want to say this. (In addition to "Be My Friend, Claire Vaye Watkins.)

I want to say that Claire is two years younger than me and has been published in all manner of places I envy. The Paris Review. Granta. She gets compared to Cormac McCarthy and Annie Proulx and Joan Didion. My teeth hurt, I am so envious. But here's my confession: I don't even send my stories out anymore. I have been propped up and pared down so many times now, I don't know what to think. I don't send any fiction out into the world, save on this blog. I both know and don't know why that is at the moment. I have been hoarding. I have been waiting for people to ask. And when people finally ask-- and mean it; not just as a courtesy-- it feels like my heart is going to explode. I cry on the spot. 

I am trying to work through this unworthiness I feel-- with my family and with myself. And in the odd manner in which I choose and sometimes choose not to share my work with others. 

All photos from the author's (really beautiful) website

For Alyson & Dion, On Their Wedding

It was my great honor, this past Sunday, to stand under the chuppah with my best friends and say a few words-- some mine, some Don Paterson's-- about their great love and our shared experiences together over the last seven years. The two of them remain constant sources of inspiration to me to stay patient, to enjoy it all, and that loyalty to those you love really is its own reward. Here's what I said. It was a really beautiful day and I'm so grateful I could be a part of it. More from the wedding to come. 

For Aly & Dion

August 5, 2012

I spend a lot of time thinking about geography. So I'd like to say a little bit today about finding your way.  

There's a kind of emotional geography to these readings-- what you'll write and what you'll say-- in that, the spot on the map you're aiming for is the sentiment that is equally true of the bride and groom's relationship as it is of your personal feelings about them. That's why I'd like to start in New York City and end in Scotland, both old and new. 

New York is the kind of place where serendipity doesn't hide. It's right around every corner, on every subway platform, in every artistic partnership formed at a bar, in every answered craigslist ad. This is how we all came to be together today. Even though New York is on a grid system, it can still be remarkably easy to feel lost on occasion. It's the kind of place that serves as a proving ground that we are capable of making our way in the world alone....

But also that it is easier... and sweeter... when we go together. The way any number of people can see off the light of a single candle... and how that candle loses nothing by lighting others from its flame.  This is the best way I can think of describe both Aly and Dion. What they represent to me, to each of us here, and to each other. 

I'd like to quote my friend, the great Scottish poet (and rockstar!) Don Paterson: "And the true path was as lost to me as ever, when you cut in front and lit it as you ran. See how the true gift never leaves the giver; returned and redelivered."

For me (especially for me) and for each other, you have served as beacons-- lighting the path in front with your glowing, inimitable 'Aly&Dion-ness,' providing unparalleled comfort & relief, and signaling the way home. Which perhaps has never been a spot on the map at all-- never here nor there-- but which has always been together. 

The Comfort - Discomfort Zone Links

Most of the logistical issues I was initially worried about have fallen into place a bit easier and faster than I had originally anticipated. I don't want to jinx anything, but it sure makes it easier in my quest to try to enjoy this last time I have in the UK. 


I've been telling people a lot that thinking about leaving is sort of like a bad black hole for me, so instead I think of already being back in New York and being back in Los Angeles and that thought is thrilling. There's so much I want to be working on. So many people I want to be collaborating with. Anyone who knows me knows how much I hate the feeling of sitting on my hands. 


In any case, I feel like I've had bit clearer sense of purpose this past week: always a good idea. Here's what else happened this week. 

- Granta's The Londoners. I think it will be my final London souvenir. I'll imagine the life I could have had here and then let it go.
- If I had any money, I also wouldn't mind going to the author's dinner at Islington Metal Works.
- Some non-Starbucks options for your London "Third Place."
- While I find this depressing, here's why there was no Pulitzer Prize for fiction this year. 
- My old pal and LA On-Air personality Kade looks at some tracks from the Fleetwood Mac Tribute.
- A compelling conspiracy theory for why Saved By the Bell was all a dream. 
- Lest we forget the awesome power of Flight of the Concords + Broadway Musicals. 
- Been trying to track this down in the UK. Anything with my pal Johnnie Gallagher is ok by me. 
- Comedians & The rape jokes. This. "Your job as a comedian is to take us through pain, transcend pain, transform pain. And if you don't get that, you are a fucking bully, and I've got zero time for bullies." Boom. 


- Along those same lines, this. 
- Alex Carnevale on Iris Murdoch
- Damages is back! So far, so CRAZY!
- Is it weird that I like to watch Damages paired with Suits? Gabriel Macht. Le Sigh.
- My college roomie, Sasha Cooke, is at it again, being like the world's most amazing mezzo.  When she's not winning Grammys, she's singing with the Colburn Orchestra on this album. Check it. 


- I think I've been in denial about the odd, slow weight loss I've been experiencing for about the last 6 months. I've always been small and it doesn't feel like I've lost that much weight. The scale agrees with me. But none and I mean NONE of my clothes fit. They hang, they show my bra, I have to roll the waist down, they gape even in the butt.  I don't want to go crazy or anything, but I'd sell a kidney to just go into somewhere safe like, Gap Body and buy a bunch of soft things that actually fit me. That's how vulnerable I've been feeling. Screw comfort food. Yoga clothes that fit. That's my comfort. And, just to reiterate: Frank Ocean. 

Love Is Won - Lia Ices

It's no secret how much I miss the 90s. Not that I felt at home in my own life then. Just that I was too raw and too green to know that I would always feel that way. And something about Lia Ices reminds me of every 90s lady singer I cried to in my mountain view, periwinkle-hand-print-painted bedroom. (With some Weepies Deb Talan for good measure. )


And if you want your mind to be messed with in an odd, dreamy, creatures-of-the-forest-fairy-tale kind of way, go read the bio/short story someone wrote about her life on her facebook page. Alien. So, she's obviously based in Brooklyn. 


Her actual bio...where she's actually from...who knows. I was having a discussion about that this weekend. Bios. The Origin. Home. (I have this discussion frequently. Because people ask me where I'm from and I have a very difficult time answering.) We agreed, Erich and I, (that's who I was talking to) that we don't really feel like we're from anywhere. Up to and including this planet. No where is necessarily home. And no where necessarily isn't home. Just a couple of twentieth century nomads.


But I think it's an idea that is won in reverse, not by building, but by eroding. It's an idea that is, rather, nibbled away at, in sugar-cube sized increments, by eroding the need to control, by putting no parameters on a place, not asking it to fall in line, giving no time limits. The same as all important things: committing and being. Waiting and seeing. 


O love is won when we are not bound by time
O love is won when we don't need free to grow