I went to see Catfish this weekend, and although this photo is not of a catfish, I think it’s okay because the movie really isn’t about catfish either. It’s about Facebook. And full disclosure, although I’m not Facebook friends with the main character of the film, Nev (857 friends), I am Facebook friends with Henry (713) and Rel (854), the filmmakers. But even if I weren’t, I’d still be telling you that Catfish is enthralling and that you and all your cyber-friends should go see it, stat. And yes — it’s real.
I’ve been driving around and parking in Los Angeles for a little over a decade now and I still get tickets for random, minor infractions of the law. Since I have neither the time nor the money to fight a ticket, I’ve opted to send a message to the city (attached to my check, naturally) in the most effective way I know how—via hot pink, passive aggressive Post-It note.
When did I get so bougie? On Saturday I biked down to Ditmas Park, a beautiful South Brooklyn neighborhood with tree-lined streets and massive Victorians, and now I am coveting real estate in the dirtiest way. As a teenager, I imagined my mid-twenties would be an endless cosmopolitan party filled with good music and bad choices. Instead, here I am on a Sunday night browsing the Times' real estate listings and doing mortgage calculations. At the moment, my savings would enable me to put a down payment on a used double wide somewhere near the airport, but there are others deals to be had in Ditmas Park. Take, for example, the $10 pint + bouquet at Sycamore, a charming bar/flower shop on Courtelyou. If I can't have a house with a garden, at least I can bring the garden to me (and kill a couple of beers in the process).
In the world of the occult, fortune cookies are arguably lower on the totem pole of credibility, particularly when held up to more interactive forms of future prediction such as astrology or tarot cards. That being said, I’ve always wished them to be of more significance…until this weekend. Maybe it was referring to something other than my teleliterary aspirations, but after spending the entire day writing, it was hard for me not to take this little piece of paper as a blow to my self-esteem gently tucked into a cavernous little cookie. I’m choosing to believe it was just encouraging me to take a break.
Like 8.4 million of our neighbors, Morgan and I suddenly realized that New York is a horrible, horrible place, and this Labor Day weekend we fled the city for… a slightly smaller city. Philadelphia, however, has fewer obviously crazy people and smells decidedly less like poop. Plus, a short 30-minute bus ride west of downtown is the charming township of Lower Merrion, home (for now) to the Barnes Foundation and its inimitable collection of Impressionist art. I discovered several things during our tour of the gallery and surrounding gardens. 1) I don’t care for Renoir, instead favoring 2) Modigliani and Rousseau, and 3) my boyfriend’s a real weirdo (see above).
While searching for a parking spot on the CBS lot, I came across a familiar vehicle that made me stop in my tire tracks. Had I passed through a rip in the space-time continuum via the fourth floor of a parking structure in Studio City and been transported to the East Coast? Unfortunately, that wasn’t the case, as I saw many other prop vehicles nearby. Sometimes I really miss New York, not just because of the friends I left behind, but because everyone is who they say they are and everything is what it appears to be.
The Battle of Brooklyn, in which the colonial army was thoroughly routed, was the largest battle of the Revolutionary War and took place practically in my backyard. Friday marked the 234th anniversary of the historic defeat, so this weekend a motley crowd of curious hipsters and weirdo history buffs gathered at Greenwood Cemetery to witness a reenactment. There was musket fire, lots of “huzzah”ing, and excellent fashion (you’ll definitely be seeing oversize, drapey blouses and fur details in my fall wardrobe). Best of all, the reenactment was mere blocks from a secret Mexican joint we’d been wanting to try, so we cheered on the patriots with our mouths full of chorizo cemita. Historical anachronisms can indeed be delicious.
While California has done everything within its power to discourage drivers from talking and texting when behind the wheel, it’s done nothing to combat the phenomenon that is flirting while driving. It’s the original speed dating! Case in point; this guy. While stopped at a red light snapping a photo for le blog, this sassy young gay immediately struck a pose, then demanded I click him all over! We actually held a pretty fun conversation for a few blocks before he turned onto Fairfax, speeding out of my life just as quickly as he entered it. As silly as it sounds, it can’t be any worse than trying to find love via the internet—it’s just on a different kind of superhighway.
I’ve been vacationing like it’s my job this summer — Colorado, South Dartmouth, Maine, Fire Island — but my trip de résistance was a week-long jaunt to Oregon, family in tow. My cousin Max got hitched in Portland, so the whole Chung clan descended upon the city — including Grandma! Grandma’s been dead for seven years, but she’s very much alive in our hearts and minds, so much so that we have a life-sized cardboard cut-out of her that we bring to family events. Since we didn’t want to purchase a seat for her on the plane, I improvised, and boy howdy did she have a blast in the City of Roses! You can check out some more photos on her Facebook profile.
For the second summer in a row, I went to Provincetown with my gays and had what was—quite possibly—the best time of my life. I drank, danced and laughed more in a single week than I have so far this entire year. Some highlights? I stood on my head and did the splits, rode a guy in the Army Reserve like a mechanical bull, flirted up a tropical storm and did it with an Italian guy named Gary Spumoni. I seriously contemplated suicide before returning to Los Angeles because there is no way my life back home can compete. Until next year…
The Brooklyn Museum has a show up featuring Warhol’s later work, including a wall of Interview covers from the late 70’s and early 80’s. Just like I picture the 1930’s and 40’s in black and white, in my mind’s eye everyone in 1980 is airbrushed and 2D. This one’s for you, Marcos.
Spent the weekend in Newport at a beach house with the ‘rents and found this scrumptious little paperback on the nightstand. It’s like the universe is validating my life choices via trashy supermarket literature. Needless to say, the classy book (Amy Hempel’s “Tumble Home”) I’m in the midst of reading took a backseat to this little gem.
On Sunday I pregamed for the World Cup at Meatopia - a bacchanal of carnal love out on Governor’s Island - cause that’s how gluttons roll. If you’ve never experienced the meat sweats, I recommend you man up and and buy yourself a ticket for next year’s event. Above you see Mary’s little lamb, naked and oh so succulent, courtesy of Seamus Mullen from Boqueria. Speaking of things from Barcelona, INIESTACULAR finish by my boys in red. Now what do I do for the next four years?
I live in what my elitist city friends like to call, the burbs. Or more specifically, I don’t live in San Francisco, so my city is irrelevant. Rather than fight the stigma I’m trying to embrace suburbia with open arms. This means I spent my weekend in Target and Costco buying in bulk, alongside screaming babies and a lot of fellow Israelis. Of course, Sunday was dedicated to the World Cup. This is a shot of my indoor-mediterranean-picnic, complete with cous cous, hummus (pronounced hoo-moose with a throaty Hoo, not hum-us) topped with olive oil and paprika, carrots, Israeli chopped salad, pita chips and a little smoked gouda for good measure.
This week we’re bidding Dax a fond farewell (for now) and welcoming new guest blogger Shanee. Shanee calls Silicon Valley home and literally blogs and tweets for a living, so I imagine she’ll tear this shit up NO PRESSURE OR ANYTHING. We’ll be starting things up again on Monday.