Carpe D-M

Sense and the City (adiós, Blogger; hola Wordpress)

2009-06-12T20:37:00.003-05:00

Barcelona: a thousand times yes.
Barcelona in the summer: a thousand times yes.
A hilariously unfairly cool internship at a supercool Barcelona magazine in Barcelona in the summertime: a thousand times yes times a billion.
A new blog to start fresh and chronicle all this: Yes. Yes. Yes.

BAM.

2009-03-27T12:12:00.002-05:00

It's in. It's in. It's in.

The second and final submission for STA's World Traveler Intern 2009 Contest.

YESSIR THAT WATER IS COLD BUT DON'T YOU WANNA JUMP IN NOW TOO?

THIS IS IT.

2009-03-21T00:12:00.003-05:00

Ok, Guys,

As it turns out, I was one of the EXTREMELY lucky ones to have been chosen as a top ten finalist in the STA World Traveler Intern contest. I would type how excited I am about this, but I think the amount of exclamation points would just scare you away. And I especially don't want that right now.

This is the last bit of the contest; this week, each of the top ten is to create a new video, due March 27th. The winners and runners up will be announced on April 1st (I know, right? April Fool's Day? Really?). From here on out, it's happening fast and it's happening TOUGH.

This is likely the last time I'll be playing this shameless self-promotion card, because this is the last part of the contest. But YES, you can still help, and YES, I beg you to do so. Here's what you can do:

COMMENT.

Comment. Comment. Comment.

It can be a comment on my facebook wall, it can be on my STA travelers page, it can be on my blog, it can be on the youtube page for my video, or it can be on the STA Travel Wire blog's newest post, which lists the top 10 contestants (in fact, this one seems to be the hottest place at the moment, because you can view all the videos AND post comments on one page). And please spread the word. If you have a website, blog, facebook, myspace - anything - and feel so compelled to post a link to my video (either on the STA travel wire blog or on youtube), well, I'm not gonna stop yahz.

http://blog.statravel.com/index.php/2009/03/20/world-traveler-internship-top-10/

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lAjj-NJ_34o

Also: If there's another video you particularly like, please be so kind as to comment on it, as well - all of these people deserve compliments, and not to mention, it's two people that are going to win this contest, not one - so I'd be really really interested to see who you could see as a potential travel partner for me!

I'm not sending out these links to show off. I'm excited with my video, yes, but I'm sending them because garnering interest and "support along the journey" is not only legitimately part of this competition, it's also something that I will need to be able to do regularly if I'm chosen as one of the World Traveler Interns. It's part of the job, and I think it goes without saying that this is not only the very job I've WANTED my whole life, it's also the job that I am certain I would do the BEST at, out of any other job in the world. So PLEASE, bear with me - I promise that if I get this internship, I will not let you down...

Again, DANKE, GRAZIE, MERCI, ARIGATO, GRACIAS - cheers.

Big time love.

Kdm

http://blog.statravel.com/index.php/2009/03/20/world-traveler-internship-top-10

HEY YOU.

2009-03-08T09:15:00.005-05:00

I'm sorry I've been M.I.A. - I've been big time busy over here in Evian and in all my off time have been devoting myself to the production of THIS video, which you are going to watch right now:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lAjj-NJ_34o

.....thankyousomuch!!!!!!!!! PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE watch and if you like it, you might be so kind as to leave some positive comments!!!!!!!! Your support and encouragement and love and everything that you already do, my friends, means the world to me....and you know when I say "world," I'm talking business for realzies.

I will write soon, and I totestotestotes can't wait to tell you about all these things. All kinds of things. Alllllllll kinds of things. Just you wait!

Sad

2008-03-31T22:54:00.003-05:00

Today I really miss my buddies.

Alarms Going Off In My Head

2008-03-30T01:03:00.014-05:00

What kind of a video blogger am I, I missed out on filming the bike marathon fundraiser on the roof of Jittery Joe's.

Yes, I was on my way to my new second job yesterday (more on that later) and was sitting at the Five Points stoplight when I glanced lovingly at my place of work and noticed two Athens bikers, in full Athens biker garb, aggressively pedaling away on bikes, on the roof. The roof of a coffee shop. In the rain. I haven't used this word this way since high school, but um, random?

Granted, they were stationary bikes. But still, it was SO great! It was impressive, it was (somewhat) dangerous, it was a hysterical sight, but the GREATEST thing about it was that it was the first time that I have seen an Athens biker at 5pts that WASN'T IN MY WAY on narrow Milledge Avenue!!! It's like, come on man, I get it, you're on an earth-friendly bike, I'm in my Mazda, you win - but I've got places to go, too! At LEAST stick to the bike lane, I mean really. Man, I wish they would all just switch to stationary bikes and convene up on the roof of Jittery Joe's. It's not like they have places to go, anyway. Except maybe like, GNC, for their protein bars and crap. I would be willing to bring all the protein bars GNC has in stock to the roof of Jittery Joe's every morning so that bikers would flock there and stay out of my way. I would throw in some Nalgene bottles, too.

It's too bad I didn't get up before 2 pm yesterday due to X-treme Girl Talk hangover, otherwise I coulda gotten footage of the bike marathon and put some clever Rocky soundtrack tunes to it. But lucky for you, I have a pretty great video to post anyway. Girl Talk on Friday was, of course, a blast; it was an evening of rapid inebriation that I hadn't experienced since maybe Freshman year, followed by a dance concert with enough beats, flashing lights, and fanatical fools to make those "Krush Girls" look like the hired help at a retirement party. With the flashy lights and the ecstatic crowd, it was the closest I've ever come to a rave, and the closest I ever want to come. Sadly I feel like I've gotten too old to shake m'tailfeathers at a mashup dance concert, but it was worth it to sell myself out juuuust a little bit (I think I made something up about being a videographer for the city of Athens, which isn't a complete lie, if you think about it) to get onstage with Gregg, with Brooke and Jodi, and all the Day Glo-ed, American Apparel-ed 19-year-olds, because you know, those kids have heart. "Those kids." Am I one, too? Just a kid? Well, I sure never want to grow up, I'n tell you that much.

Ladies and gents, I present to you a small portrait of what I think it is to be a kid in Athens in 2008 (apologies if it induces seizure...):

On blogging and having nothing/everything to say: Suis-Je Normale?

2008-03-27T22:11:00.019-05:00

OkI'mPostingThisBlogWithAVideoBecauseIThinkThat'sMaybeAGoodDirection
ForMeToTakeWhatDoYouThink

Yo,

I'm not gonna lie and be like "OMGYOUGUYS, I AM SOOOOOO BACK YOUHAVENOIDEA," but I am gonna lie and be like "hey guys, what's up, I'm like, back."

Hey guys, what's up, I'm like, back.

The lie resides in the finality of that statement. I wish I could say that this time, the shit's for real, I'm 'on be layin' down some e-rhymes up in here every day from here on out. But just I don't know that I'll have the time to do that with everything going on these days (when am I ever not able to use the statement "with everything going on these days"?? My life is exhausting). Anyway, we'll see.

I need to web log because for God's sake, it's the easiest way to "connect with people," these days, the easiest way to "express yourself", and possibly the easiest way to "get discovered." (Those bits in the quotation marks sound like an ad for a career college, don't they? Connect with others! Do what you love! Get discovered! No thanks, U.Phoenix, I'm totally chill just rockin' my blog)

It's certainly the easiest thing to nurture. Personal blogs are maybe the chia pets of the aughts. Like, really, there's no point, more than likely no one gives about your chia pet at the end of the day, and if anything, they're making fun of you for having one. But it's a no-brainer to post a little something every once and a while, just as it is a no-brainer to sprinkle some water on your chia pet - and both of these things are, in their own ways, quite cathartic. I like to hope that people are still scribbling down at least SOME of the things they think about or find interesting, because if thoughts are contained exclusively within the brain, they're just going to fade away unnoticed someday, and how sad - might as well go all out and immortalize your thoughts online. Anyway, it'll be kind of cool to be able to say that you did your part in perpetuating one of the trends that will go down in the popular media history of our generation, this generation of useless information and largely unnecessary personal thoughts. Plus, admit it, you like the irony of keeping up with your "thoughts" via your computer or your iphone in your cubicle at work, in the same way you like the irony of keeping up with the marjoram growing on the terra cotta Garfield resting on your stack of New Yorkers and vintage Playboys.

What I'm saying is that whether it's Chia or blogging, everyone should discipline themselves with some kind of quotidian hobby, do it right, craft that shit, show some dedication up in HEA. It's a mediocre world, and while blog content is, admittedly, often mediocre itself, the heart behind it can at least be something worth talking about. And you know, the bit about people not caring isn't 100% true - in fact, as the popularity of blogs is on the rise right now, people might just care more than ever. So I say, blog away. Right?

Hm, look at that, I wrote much more than I intended. The whole point of the video at the end of the blog was to say what I was too lazy to type. Oh well. Guess I'll just have to do better next time. In the meantime, watch my vid if you have any interest in knowing what kind of miserable and pathetic senioritis-stricken life I lead these days. Is it really "senioritis," though, or are the symptoms of "senioritis" just eerily similar to my inherent personality traits and behavioral tendencies which are simply exacerbated by the approach of graduation? Suis-je normale??? Does it matter? Ha, and can I even call it senioritis if I am TECHNICALLY short of one hour to graduate, and won't be able to do so until further notice? (thanks a lot for that one, Univerisity of Georgia, by the way - real cool)

Please don't allow me to talk about myself or express my opinions in such a disgustingly self-induglent way ever again. I think I've done enough for one lifetime in this one blog entry. Ugh.

But, do keep watching the videos. They'll get better, I promise. And yes, less self-indulgent. Just remember: SENIORITIS.

Overheard in the Maceplace: "Disfunction Junction" or "When did my folks get to be so totally old and WHERE did my sister get that ass of hers?"

2007-05-07T12:28:00.000-05:00

Int. Maceplace Kitchen. Mom is at sink pouring more water into a temporary fishbowl for our fish, Guadalupe and Carlos. Cailin stands next to her (even though they were, only minutes before, screaming at the top of their lungs at each other from opposite ends of the house), pouring a bowl of cereal. Dad is leaning on island counter behind them, reading the newspaper. And I am seated at kitchen table to right, glued to my computer screen and typing away, ostensibly shutting out the real world in favor of the digital one. Dad has just returned from picking me up at the MARTA station where I had arrived from the airport, and is now about to take Mom and Cailin TO the MARTA station to get to the airport.

Mom: Steve, will you go dump the rest of Guad and Carlos' dirty water so I can clean it before we go?

Dad: Where are they?

Mom: They who

Dad: The fish!

Mom: They're in this bowl.

Cai: Sick!

Dad: Dodi! I use that to make salad! Have you used it for this before? It's probably got diseases growing in it!

Mom: Of course not. I'll throw it out after this.

Me: CAILIN, oh my God, do you remember when you used to name every goldfish "Sally?" Even the boy ones?

Dad: Cailin- oh, what was I going to say...OH, Cailin, your butt is getting big.

Cai: Yeah uh huh, kiss it.

Me: And you named every puppy "Ed" and every pigeon "Louie." That's so weird. But interesting, don't you think?

Dad, from outside, dumping water from dirty aquarium: It's from all that rice you eat in the morning. That's not a normal breakfast. You should be eating like, I dunno, whole grains, or something.

Me: I have quite a behind too, but, I eat ice cream for breakfast. All the time. Apparently.

All: What?

Me: Nothing, I just-- never mind.

Mom, taking now empty aquarium from Dad: Kelly, you have got to stop skipping breakfast.

Me: What? I just said I eat breakfast! Ice cream for breakfast! (a pause) Hurray!

Mom: Did you eat breakfast at Jeff's? People think it's weird when other people don't eat breakfast. It doesn't look cool, or anything. It's not like you need to impress Jeff for some reason. It's just Jeff.

Me: Mom, are you seriously still talking?

Dad, softly, to me: It's the chemo that's talking.

Mom: I heard that.

Dad: ANYWAY, Cailin, can't you eat like, wheaties?

Cai: Sick!

Me: Dad, are you like, a spokesman for bulimia? Cailin's practically already on the cover of Sports Illustrated, don't crush her dreams!

Dad: Well, I'm just saying...

Me: Oh, I don't really care. Cailin's butt is actually way bigger than like...4 days ago.

Cai: Smack that. (Without even turning head, smacks own butt)

Dad: Are those wheaties?

Cai, indifferent: Dad, stop it. I'm sick of you calling me fat. (Bites down on spoonful of Honey Bunches of Calories, walks out of kitchen)

Dad: Well, I guess I'm gonna get some McDonald's for lunch before I take you to the airport. You guys want anything?

All: (variations of negative response)

Dad: Alright, later. (Exits)

Cai, from living room, noticing that Mom has just cleaned and refilled aquarium and reintroduced G & C: Cool, Mom, Guad and Carlos' hooch looks so totally like, feng shui, now.

Me: I'm surprised you have that big word in your vocabulary, Cailin. Although I think you meant to say "zen."

Cailin: I don't speak Japanese, Kelly.

Me: How many times do I have to tell you that the Japanese language sounds staccato. Does "feng shui" sound staccato to you? Oh snap, you don't speak Italian either.

Cai: Moooom!

Me: I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm being a bitch. But-- it's not often I'm more witty than you, Cailin!

Mom, walking past and bopping me on the head with newspaper: Don't say 'bitch,' ya little twat!

Me: Wow. Wait - did you just wash that bowl? The one you used to hold the fish in? I thought you were going to throw that away.

Mom: Pfft. I do this all the time. Dad doesn't know it, but his favorite salad is goldfish shit salad.

Me: Mmm, goldfish shit. Mine too.

Cai: Aw, Sick!

Mom: Sorry girls, I shouldn't have said 'shit' just then.

Cai: Mom, you are so gay!

SCENE

Parliamo Italiano!

2007-04-20T12:28:00.000-05:00

Oggi, adesso in fatto, vado a "Tuscan Market," un piccolino ristorante Fiorentino/Toscano che vende panini e insalate squisiti, per fare domanda di un lavoro. Questo post esiste per mettermi nella moda italiana, perche il padrone è Italiano lui stesso, di Firenze in fatto - sigh! - e perche ho dimenticato troppo...TUTTO, persino... Buona fortuna a me...io suck at italiano. io fail.

Basically: is this story good?

2007-04-17T15:04:00.001-05:00

I want to submit a story of my experiences abroad to a travel website: is this one good? I think I'm going to keep writing stories like this until I run out of memories (as if that'll ever happen). Which is why I'll tentatively entitle this one:

It Was a One-Time Thing: Paris Happenings, Part I

In Paris, wine is both the go-to consumable for a momentous occasion and a momentous occasion itself. Parisians are existentialists who profit from their place in the present, consistently creating their own meanings, particularly when happening upon those "one time only" specials that arrive so often in Paris.

The first of these that I experienced occurred in a café I happened upon alone while wandering around Saint Germain, a left bank neighborhood known for its simultaneously lively and intimate feel. Although I didn't expect to interact with anyone that evening, I would, as it were, be toasting to post-impressionism and life with one Floriane, a young artist whom I'd never met before, and would never meet again.

She had waved me to her table, asking plainly what I wanted her to tell me about Paris. "Tout," I admitted. She grinned and nodded, pouring me a glass of ruby-red Hermitage.

"First you must know that there are many people who live in Paris, and always have, and don't like it," she told me, "but you must ignore them. There's no reason you should not love Paris and no reason these people shouldn't either. I was born here, and for me it's still the most wonderful place in the world." Her delicate gallic pronunciations were floating up to the ceiling like little butterflies.

Floriane had dubbed Paris a "place" rather than a city, and appropriately: "city" is just a political label for a place, but a place itself is much more. It could be anything to anybody, and to me, this place - this Paris - was everything. It was suddenly alive and essential as a surface beneath my feet. We discussed this romantic notion for what seemed like hours, and I just beamed helplessly: the idea that there existed people who shared my verve for Paris made my heart swell. Presently Floriane raised her glass: 'Au vin! Aux amis! A...Paul Sérusier!' And I raised mine. (Sérusier? Pourquoi pas.) It wasn't until I knocked my glass over in a paroxysm of laughter that I came out of my euphoric and (almost literally) wine-soaked reverie. This was no cliché Parisian fantasy. This was life.

Floriane left the café, and my acquaintance, as suddenly as she'd entered. We hadn't so much as swapped addresses, but something told me we weren't meant to. I finished my wine and left, enlightened and exhausted all at once. Outside, Saint Germain's fluorescent eyes were shutting along with mine.

There's a warm, existential feeling that comes from drinking red wine; the kind we experience when we are falling in love, fighting for love. Maybe its sanguine nature spurs it to find its way into our veins and to the heart, changing our time signatures and reminding us that we are alive. This must be why Paris has undergone so much revolution throughout its life. The beating of the battle drums in the love movement that is a Paris revolution echoes the heartbeat of its vinous people, a people who live for the moment.

Under a blue moon that evening, in a café inhabited by phantom barricades, revolutionaries, and lovers, I was alive for this moment: the company, the color, the french flowing as purposefully as the wine. And especially for Paris, inconstant Paris, where every moment is a revolution. Where things happen only once and last in us forever.

g2g pp brb

2007-04-12T11:33:00.000-05:00

I sometimes wonder how much stronger and finer my posterior would be if my mommy had trained me early on to squat and hover over public toilets, rather than to use toilet paper or a seat cover in order to sit down and pee. Would I be able to ride my bike more easily today, without huffing and puffing and feeling like I got kicked in the ass by a bronco later on? Would more skeezeballs "discreetly" spank me at Foxz Tavern on Karaoke night? You know what, I'm going to blame the fact that I always placed like 5th out of 6 in the 100 yard dash at my high school track meets on years wasted NOT toning my ass by doing the "public peeing exercises" normal girls were taught to do from the time they could reach the seat. I bet Jessica Alba's ass is the perfect way it is mostly because of the way she uses public johns. Huh. Well, better late than never, guess I'll start trying to mimic her there. I already drank a water bottle and a full mug of Moroccan Mint green tea today, so I'm sure I'll get lots of practice in.

NYFW (which of course was like a month ago): Musings on my Top 15 Collections (#12-10)

2007-03-13T10:10:00.000-05:00

#12, Y & Kei:
According to style.com, Hanii Yoon and Gene Kang (aka Y & Kei) drew inspiration for this collection upon admiring the apparently über-modern architecture of downtown Melbourne, Australia's Federation Square, but for the straight shooting Americans who couldn't give two damns about anything in fashion that isn't New York but especially not Australia, well I think we can safely say that Y & Kei actually got the inspiration for this collection from 1930s Deco. In NYC, obvi. Or maybe I'm just writing that because when I saw and fell in love with this collection, I was absolutely certain that its inspiration was Deco, and so certain that I was a fashion f***in' master, and so proud of myself for being so certain, that when I read the "truth" on style.com, I was crushed. I had so wanted to write things in my blog like "the not-so-subtle Van Alen references give the centerpieces of this collection a certain optimistic, well, progressive, and protective feel; but in the end, this feeling is deceitful, as the overall look eventually overwhelms the onlooker and becomes Big Brother just when he or she is falling for a modern Mother Teresa" while waving my imaginary ciggie in the air and using my Katherine Hepburn voice. Whoops, I did all that anyway...

#11, Temperley:
Temperley's disarmingly ladylike, polite looks for the healthy 'n' wealthy London termagant (yes, this collection debuted in New York, though Temperley is based in London), inspire me to take up equestrian. Actually, they inspire me to BE equestrian - or just equine. Just look at the black beauty legs on those ladies! And those gorgeous, sporty, platform mid-calfs - fashion horsepower. But you know, paired with the girlish elements of cornflower blue, 60's floral prints, shiny, exaggerated buttons, and silk organza, these horses are in fact ponies. Pretty, adorable, little ponies. MY little ponies. Oh, I want to be a My Little Pony! I want rainbows tattooed onto my haunches! I want sparkles in my eyes! I want a magical fast-growing mane! I want a comb to match my magical fast-growing mane! I want Barbie to ride on my back to far away lands! I want to have a really gay name like "Lady Daffodil Parade " or "Bunny Rabbit Sunshine!" I want my older brother's GI Joes to take advantage of Barbie and his dinosaurs to take advantage of me! I want my Brother to write "Sofa King We Todded" on me with a crayola permanent marker! I want it! And if I can't have it, I'll just have to have Temperley!

#10, Vena Cava:
Q: How do hipsters in New York City differ from hipsters in smaller towns (like Athens, GA)?

A: NYH's buy $60 product to give their hair the never-washed, just-out-of-bed effect whereas STH's simply spend too much time in bed and don't wash their hair, because all they do anyway is go to Goodwill and it's not like they need to impress anybody there; NYH's buy brand new Chucks and scuff them up instead of just buying used Chucks or knockoffs at Goodwill; NYH's buy $450 Marc by MJ coats and $175 Miu Miu glasses and Trovata this and Proenza Schouler that and the odd Junya Watanabe for special occasions rather than buying 90% of their clothes at Goodwill; NYH's have iPod Nanos rather than good old fashioned Diskmans that they got at Goodwill; NYH's eat whole meals at expensive organic restaurants versus just grabbing a bag of Doritos from the gas station next to Goodwill; NYH's have modern record players rather than used ones from Goodwill like STH's have.

These are New York hipsters.
These are small town hipsters.

If the New York hipster and the Small Town hipster did it, I imagine their child would look something like this Vena Cava collection. Hipsters unite!

NYFW (which of course was like a month ago): Musings on my Top 15 Collections (#15-13)

2007-03-01T15:09:00.000-05:00

#15, Michael Kors:

This look makes me want to take the city bus downtown to a UNICEF gala, to present 17-year-old João Fernando Gaucho of Brazil, this year's recipient of the "Voice of Youth" award for excellence in not being in a gang, to the audience. It should be known, however, that the only reason I would have agreed to present such an award would be to wear my immaculate, classy but (if we're honest here) slutty cropped Michael Kors wool blend coat situation, with the express purpose of crouching down a bit to kiss João Fernando on the cheek in such a fashion that he would not be able to avoid glancing down at my SICK hot Park Avenue thighs and lusting after me. And no one would be able to accuse me of indecency because I'd be in Michael Kors, for Christ's sake! In the hotel room that night, I would ask João Fernando what the most frustrating drug deal he had ever pulled off back in the favelas was. He would play a little game with me about it for a while, trying to act all "but I don't do that kind of thing," and "are you trying to bust me, mrs. Robinson?", but with some liquid and some sexual persuasion, he would tell me that it was that one time when the chupadors de caralho accused him of selling them Arm & Hammer. We would have a laugh about it, and then he'd pass out and I'd steal his passport and drug money.

#13, DKNY:

This season for DKNY, Donna Karan's more economical, youth-geared brand, the DeKe did the grey menswear look thing everybody else was doing, only hers stuck to more of a gunmetal grey theme, not a gray grey one, and though she used more masculine fabrics for these impish pieces, she once again used her magical Donna Karan hand - a hand which will mystically turn any basic staple item (shift dress, men's pant, work blouse) into the most well-fitting, "I Am Woman" piece of American Sportswe-

-oh wait, I forgot, you don't care about Donna Karan. But you WILL (or SHOULD) care about this bitch: Irina Lazareanu, the model wearing the hot DKNY look in the picture here. Irina is my favorite model right now. She is Canadian, but she was born Romanian. As a supermodel, it isn't acceptable have two nationalities, but you CAN have one nationality and have a name affiliated with another - i.e. Canadian Daria Werbowy (Polish name); French Filippa Hamilton (Swedish name); Brazillian Gisele Bundchen (German name) - in fact, if you DON'T have this, you might as well not even try. Or at least you should stop eating those saltines, fatty, or your feet will never come into contact with any runway. Stick to carrot sticks, but only if you ABSOLUTELY must eat something...

...But Irina's set. Not only does she not need to diet because of all the coke she probably does with Pete Doherty and Kate Moss (who took her under their wings, mind you; after being discovered by Kate Moss, Irina played drums in the Babyshambles for a short while), but she doesn't have to do anything about her name, it's already just pretentious enough. She has long brown bedhead, thin enough to grease 'n' piece for an effective heroin chic look for Calvin Klein shows, but enough of it to bouffant beautifully for a Moschino ad. She's totes more rock and roll than her BFF Freja Beha Erichsen, the other 'it' model of the moment (although, I admit, Freja's pretty damn rock and roll, certainly more rock and roll than Maryna 'Lightweight' Linchuk or Sasha 'Poser' Pivovarova or Raquel fucking Zimmerman). Even if the Babyshambles and Pete Doherty suck, Irina's still rock and roll. She's the type of woman who, upon encountering for the first time, you'd immediately want to fall into some tragic, Godardian relationship with. But you couldn't do that, in fact you would never even encounter her for the first time, because she's unattainable, and elite (the adjective, not the agency - she rolls with Marilyn, yo), and rock and roll, and Canadian/Romanian, and cool, and you are not, are you? No. And you never will be (at least until you stop pouring reduced-fat ranch dressing all over your leafy greens, honey, 'reduced fat' is for 31-year-old twice-divorced cheerleading coaches, not 17-year-old Romanian street urchin supermodels).

#13, Lela Rose:

Again, another youthful collection, but this time all girl. Everything was fun, cute, sweet, girl. This look in particular makes me want to work at a crayon factory. It could just be the waxy look of the fabric, but I like to think that it's just the fact that this model looks like she should still be using crayons to color in her Barney coloring book. Actually, in that adorable dark cerise dropwaist, she kind of looks like Barney! Or at least one of the little girls that Barney brainwashed I mean enlightened. I mean, look at the expression on her expressionless face. Sheer, guileless enlightenment.

New York Fashion Week Fall 2007

2007-03-01T10:27:00.000-05:00

Before I write about it...get a visual.
My top 15 favorite collections. 15 pictures from the #1, 1 picture from #15, etc.
(It's my blog and I'll cover the entire thing with expensive clothes if I want to.)

The Unevents in Kelly D-M's Life, or Why Dior under Galliano Owns After All

2007-01-29T17:23:00.003-05:00

I think the best thing I can say about my 2007 thus far is that Sundays have been significantly less depressing. Unfortunately, I know that this is only because I am leading a rather dull life this semester, and the days have just sort of amalgamated into a foggy gray drone of (and in this order):

My Radetzky March cell phone alarm at 7 AM; Green Tea or Chai Tea or Orange Spice Tea or Rooibus, depending on how dark the circles under my eyes are; vitamins; clumsy and unattractive early morning sprints to catch the bus; the green rays and the growl-squeak-growl of the copy machines at work; job ads; the daily "are you gonna take a lunch break?" "no." exchange between me and my boss; blogs, blogs, blogs, and gluttonous amounts of facebook; Nick Hornby and Haruki Murakami and James Joyce; the bleak 45 minute walk from work home that I take for my daily exercise; my salmon-colored room with its rainbow-colored string lights, that is always cluttered even when it is clean; whatever is on Travel Channel or National Geographic Channel before I go to bed; and finally, bed. All this underscored by the music played by my iPod on its shuffle setting, which obviously gets old considering I have been too lazy to update it with new music (I know it's hard to believe, but yes, even Chris Bridges, even Kevin Barnes will wear on you after a while).

Weekends are basically the same except my exercise doesn't come from sprinting to the bus and walking home by the intramural fields where the hot soccer players look at me funny because I am unconsciously auditioning for my own private (or not-so-private) iPod commercial, and I don't usually work but instead sit in my room writing notes to myself of things I should do but never do do because I am too busy writing notes to myself. So, because my life right now is so unvaried, Sundays don't seem particularly depressing in comparison to other days. I don't use them to wallow in the blues like I used to, but instead to wallow in that foggy gray of nothingness. But hey, feeling nothing is better than feeling depressed, innit?, and I prefer to think of this change-of-consciousness as a big step in the general direction of Mind-Over-Matterville, USA. Oh, boy! What comes after that? Vaguely-Useful-Member-Of-Societyville, USA?

For the record, today is Monday, not Sunday. My life is so dull that I am resigned to write about what didn't happen the day before rather than what is happening the day of. But you know what, I'm kind of exaggerating things; my life can't be that gray (even despite the gray of the sky in the dead of winter here), because this weekend I actually interacted with real human beings! And did cool stuff! For one, I ate an actual meal that wasn't a rice cake with peanut butter and raisins: a falafel plate at Clocked, mmm, me want more fried chickpea ball eat. Too bad it couldn't have been falafel from Lenny Kravitz' favorite falafelerie in Paris, but we're not pining away over Paris right now, are we Kelly-Welly? No we're not, because we're content at Copy Services in the UGA Library! Good girl!

Anyway, here's what I did that was awesome this weekend:

1) Went to my cozy little 5 Pts Joe's to meet with my lovely unique-named girlfriends, Bronwyn and Sodashi, to discuss sex and the 'situationship;'
2) discovered Target's new line of homeware; subsequently asked myself why I was teasing myself with Target's bounty in the first place;
3) had a movement-based callback for a play, during which we did lots of Tai Chi (who knew ol' Billy Shakespeare was into Tai Chi???);
4) did Ghostbusters and Hot Chocolate with my elitist-but-sweet-as-pie rockrrr pal, Ryan White;
5) went downtown and bar-hopped both Friday and Saturday nights, thanks to the 21st b*day of Brookie's pal, Cherish, and the almost impromptu but much-welcomed visits of one beautiful Moroccan/Israeli, Adria, and one beloved Scotsman, Andrew* (he'll kill me for saying this, but we even got Andrew to tag along to the new gay bar, Detour, and EVEN to dance to the ghastly, why-was-I-ever-born-into-the-free-world techno music they were blaring);
6) and finally, I sobered up - it took the entire weekend, and I'm still a little intoxicated - from PARIS. SPRING. COUTURE. WEEK. And JOHN. GALLIANO'S. INCONCEIVABLY. NO. OTHER-WORLDLY BEAUTIFUL. ART-FOR-ART. MADAME. BUTTERFLY. INSPIRED. MOST DIOR DIOR HAS EVER BEEN SINCE GALLIANO SIGNED ON. CHEF D'OEUVRE. SHOW. FOR CHRISTIAN. "NEW LOOK." DIOR.

......I will post on this tomorrow. I will post on this as it deserves, or I will find Galliano himself and tell him that he just may have replaced Tom Ford for YSL in my book. Maybe even McQueen? Maybe even the original Dior, monsieur Christian? Maybe even God. I don't know. The impossible handiwork and IIIIIIIMMACULATE hair and makeup (done by, I can only assume, Pat McGrath and Orlando Pita) and operatic presentation of it all have my ass knocked so deeply into the floor that I can't think straight. Anyway, I'll think on it tonight, calm down, clear my head, and tomorrow I'll post with slightly less zeal, OK, lunacy, on just why it is so brilliant. Maybe by then I'll even find a flaw or two. Oh, and I'll post on the rest of Paris Couture Week, too, and how excited I am about NY fashion week starting this Saturday!!!!!!!1 And then I'll get a job.

Cheery-Bye!

* Andrew "warmed the cockles of my heart," as a certain someone would say, this weekend with a Woody Allen quote (of course, any Woody Allen quote would make my heart melt, but this one was particularly good), when explaining why he so frequently made the 5 hour drive up all the way from south Georgia to Athens to see his friends: "Well, I don't think money and gas really matter in the end. There's this great Woody Allen quote that goes: '90% of life is just showing up.' I figure any true friends are worth at the very least showing up for." *Swoon*! Woody Allen, the king of quotations, would SO be proud of himself for that one.

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Song I will be making my iPod commercial to on my walk home today: Junior Boys' "In The Morning," which much to my delight the delightful Winston played at Go Bar on Friday. That catchy squeak synth part of the song plays in my head whenever I make a faux pas. So I hear it at least 21,657 times a day.

As your heels hit the floor to the blaring Division

2007-01-22T16:42:00.003-05:00

Well, for to satisfy no one's curiosity, I'm going to publish my top 10 album list of 2006, and I'm going to review one album per post, in no particular order, and it's going to be long and you won't read ~~all of~~ any of it. No further ado. Harumph.

# (?): Snowden - Anti-Anti

Here's where I make like the 40 Watt, supporting local music and screwing another good band out of a good spot: I have to give # (something) to Anti-Anti, the first EP by Snowden, a relatively young Atlantan (but almost Athenian) band led by a young Dorian Gray of a singer, Jordan Jeffares. I do so if only on the biases that they are local (repreSENT!); that they gave one of the most impressive performances I saw all year; that they have shared the stage with lauded (and good) bands such as Malajube, the Arcade Fire, Deerhunter, and the Junior Boys; and that some of their ATH friends are my friends. But that's neither here nor there. Anti-Anti really is a treat, and I can honestly say that it is one of my favorite records of 2006. But I probably would never have heard it if Snowden hadn't occurred to me one grungy evening back in October at the Caledonia Lounge. The Caledonia, mind you, is a puny little dive that often harbors surprisingly big sound (sometimes sandwiching it between lesser sounds); big sound that feels as if it should be spilling out onto the parking lot and into the much bigger 40 Watt Club, just a bop around the corner. Snowden's name had found its way into my awareness through indie osmosis, so when I saw their name on the roster for that night I did a bit of research, and, being bombarded with Interpol comparisons, i sighed (why are SO MANY BANDS today compared to Interpol? why don't you just make a White Album reference and call it a day?) and elected to go decide for myself if such a cliché comparison was defensible.

It was, and it wasn't. Both bands have the trench-scooping, staccato bass lines that invalidate any shoegaze classifications, and the washed-out, E-Bowed Les Pauls filling and breaching said trenches, that re-validate them. The vocals in both Interpol and Snowden, while not necessarily the driving force of either band, do make the ultimate call on their overall moods. Jordan Jeffares' voice certainly has a Paul Banks affectation, and everyone knows that Paul Banks' voice is an affectation of Ian Curtis' voice. But where Banks borrows both the impression of distance and the ennui from Ian Curtis' croon, Jeffares borrows only the distance. Joy Division is filtered out all the more, and thus if you just HAD to make some sort of an Interpol comparison, you would have to at least call Snowden an Interpol with a stronger sense of HOPE.

So how is Snowden NOT comparable to Interpol? In that they don't mean to be. It's as apparent live as recorded. If you lost the reverb you'd have a group of not-so-brooding, not-so-hardcore, not-so-Bowery Ballroom young musicians just tryin' to get by doing what they love best. Not-so-cool? Not necessarily. Just maybe not self-proclaimed cool. Even Corinne Lee, who may be the coolest, hottest, most badass female bassist I've ever seen, is as humble as the rest of them. No, I don't see Jeffares as lying around on his shag carpet listening to "Roland" on repeat, weeping with frustration as he struggles to figure out just how Paul Banks makes his voice sound so distant. I see him as listening to music, in general, in his car or on his iPod like the rest of the world, subconsciously drawing inspiration here and there, and it all just sort of seat-belting - and voilà - a band is born.

That night at the Caledonia, Snowden's big sound, as it turned out, did not spill out onto the pavement through the front and back doors of the Caledonia Lounge. It was contained, and potent, and effervescent, and and I drowned in sound and died happy. But if it ever were to burst through the doors, it would not spill out evenly but instead break apart, and each über-crafted bit would butterfly on in its own direction. Because Snowden's sound, while hauntingly harmonious, is a vulnerable one. It's one of those rare bands that could be described as "moody" or "atmospheric" and yet still be able to be easily broken down into four perfect plastic parts. If they were a compact 1980's toy, they'd be more of a Rubix Cube than a Koosh Ball. If they were a rock, they'd be sedimentary limestone long before metamorphic marble. If they were an abstract expressionist painting, they'd be a Rothko, not a Pollock (accordingly, Interpol would be an early Duchamp, My Bloody Valentine a De Kooning). Unfussily put for you.

But damn it! I forgot that this was an album review, not a concert review. You know what, though, in all honesty, Snowden's Anti Anti is a lot like a Snowden show. You've got a lot of warm, empowering waves moving around and through you, perhaps due to all the different kinds of electricity involved, or to the toxic blending of melancholic loops. Troposphere. Listening to, feeling these waves, you feel like you're being protected by your Rugby-playing older brother. You've got Chandler Rentz' FANTASTIC percussion, having quite the personality of its own, that he and the rest of the band obviously have so much fun with. If the Transformer played drums, I imagine it'd sound something like this. Stratosphere. You've got Jeffares and guitarist David Payne's doing all kinds of strumming and pedal effects, from buzzing to jangling (especially remarkable on the dead-in-your-tracks track "Black Eyes") to bell-ringing to telephone-ringing to siren-calling. You have lots of scary bass, minor chords, some first person plural, some syncopation, fun stuff like that. Mesosphere. And you don't need to see Jordan Jeffares' thrusting and digging man-movements as he plays and sings, or his soft, sweet, beautiful, romantic, mystifying, heroic, cherubic, no, almost Ganymedian, blond-headed face with its delicate, nuanced, sensual expressions...wait, what was I talking about again? Oh yes...You don't need to see Jordan Jeffares' decent mug with its decent expressions to know that I am a stalker. I mean, that he means what he sings. (!). No, you can hear it on the record, in the way he physically plays with his words, in the quietly embittered way he sings his anthems*, the unironic way he sings his diary pages**; so unironic, in fact, that it's Ironic***. Ah yes...magnetosphere.

Okokyeahyeah, I'm getting carried away. But you know what I mean: like, they're awesome. The only major difference between Anti-Anti played on your stereo and Anti-Anti played live (which is essentially what I saw that night) is that one is cooler to look at. And live, the bite is evenly dispersed throughout the evening, whereas en stéréo, it sort of fizzles after the 6th track, "Between the Rent and Me" (which happens to be the most effective track overall, if you ask me). Not to say that the second half of the album is bad, not at all, just that it doesn't quite match the magnificent production quality and presentation of the first. The songs become less intense, which would work if Anti-Anti weren't meant to be an intense album. But I'm pretty sure Snowden meant it to be so. Even two of the slows on the album, "My Murmuring Darling" and "Sisters" bite hard, if only in their sharp, if a little nouveau-goth, lyrics****. The other two slow songs, "Innocent Heathen" and "Victim Card,"*****, both second half songs, aren't so effective in this department or in any other department, really. But you know what, even if there are a few weak points, Anti-Anti is still a four star album in my opinion, and anyway, we can't all be as tough as Paul Banks.

Visit Snowden's myspace page to listen to some of Anti-Anti's highlights, and for a more extensive tour date listing than that on their website.

* "Like Bullets," "Anti-Anti," "Counterfeit Rules," "Kill the Power," "Victim Card." A bit of an overkill.
** This is where I realize/my trouble comes with bluest eyes/now when I walk in the room you know it's all I can do/to stare at the floor and not to look at you/I flavor to taste because taste is free/there are so few things between the rent and me (from "Between the Rent and Me")
*** Don't listen to me; I'm an idiot.
**** You've got a million things upon your nightstand/oh, I hate them/but it was in the pill I am swallowing still/'cause I messed up/so keep the lights on so I can remember why I came/sometimes I doubt you my murmuring darling (from "My Murmuring Darling")
**** A badass uptempo anthem version of "Victim Card" was the shining track on Snowden's otherwise mediocre 2003 self-titled EP; I really don't understand why it was slowed down for Anti-Anti, as the only thing it lacked in its original form was a little polish. It's unfortunate.

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How many minutes late I was to work this morning: 1 (!!!)

How many minutes late I am to actually leaving work because I have nothing else to do and because at work I have real contact with real humans and because I am actually a zombie and am going to eat some brains pretty soon: 1 hour, 23 minutes (...)

You don' KNOWWW me.

2007-01-16T09:22:00.002-05:00

By the way. My name is Kelly Doyle-Mace. I am a 22-year-old female, which is probably the most depressing age I've been so far (not in terms of how i feel at this age, just in terms of the age itself). I am a student at the University of Georgia currently taking a semester break from classes due to financial/existential crisis. I live in Athens, Georgia, USA, and sometimes I live in Cumming, Georgia, USA, but once I lived in Paris, Île-de-France, France, and i wish I still lived in Paris, Île-de-France, France, and I'm not sure if i'll figure out my purpose in this world until I am yet again in Paris, Île-de-France, France (just so you know, if you ever write a letter to Paris, Île-de-France, France, you don't actually have to include the province (state) name, Île-de-France; I just like to show off when it comes to my knowledge of the land of the frogs). This is my new blog, and at this point I'm not sure exactly what I'd like it to be, besides awesome. Which is the exact same way I feel about myself. Cross your fingers for my great success. And read often!

Some things that make me no-fail, consistently, inordinately happy:

Paris - Dogs and cats, and 99.9% of other animals, including and especially dinosaurs - Orbit Gum - Anthony Bourdain and Samantha Brown, and their respective television shows (really the only great shows on what should be a great channel, Travel Channel) - Love - Arbor Mist - Foreign Language of any kind, but especially French - Wireless Internet access - Gustav Klimt, Pierre Bonnard, John Singer Sargent - Bodies of water -The Apple enterprise - Wilco - Stuff that happens on a stage - Coming up with hypothetical bands/albums/songs - style.com - Fellini and Woody Allen films - Xzibit - Dancing, Driving, or Singing to extremely loud music - Ice Cream, and moreso, Italian Gelato - Marc Jacobs - Traveling - Magazines, the wittier the better - Making lists of any kind, as I'm sure you've already gathered

Things that make me inordinately, or at least somewhat unhappy:

Being from Florida (am I a southerner? am I a misplaced northerner? the jury's out.) - Ugg boots and fleece North Face jackets when worn out of context, Vera Bradley bags or anything embroidered with initials when worn ever (read: the University of Georgia sorority getup) - War - Salvador Dalí - Post-grunge music, which unfortunately takes up a vast majority of gigabytage on my sister's iPod Mini - Britney Spears' fall from grace (um you're gonna want to click on that one) - Mosquitos (though they sure do LOVE me) - Lazy Poseurs who put "anything" on their online profiles under "music interests" - Poseur hipsters who think that the rad thing to do is be standoffish and have the posture of a decrepit wizard and the lame thing to do is be friendly and enthusiastic and remember people's names - Cigarette breath or other essence of cigarette (but not necessarily cigarette smokers; most of my friends are euro-poseurs, after all) - Tori Spelling's omnipotence in otherwise good celebrity trash magazines - High Fructose Corn Syrup

Like I said, making lists makes me inordinately happy, and these lists could go on, and on, and on. But perhaps it would be better for you to pick up on what I like and what I don't like while reading my posts. The best things in life are slowly unfolded. Anyone who has ever lived in Paris, Île-de-France, France, would agree with me, oui?

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What I'd like to do for lunch today: Around 1:30, stuff a pocket pita with baba gannouj, smoked turkey, and romaine lettuce.
What I'll actually do for lunch today: Grab a handful of snapea crisps, a handful of grapes, and a bite of the chocolate cloud cake I made last night for the girls. It will be around 5 pm, I will ruin my appetite, and dinner (caramel rice cake with peanut butter sandwich, a yogurt, more cake?) will be around 11pm. I will be watching whatever is on Travel Channel at the time, and it will probably be a world poker tournament, and I will be mad.

Get Out of my Vernacular

2007-01-15T21:43:00.001-05:00

I don't believe in boredom, and along the same lines, I don't believe in the the act of attempting to explain your mental absence in an awkward protocol social situation on the pretext of being "out of it". Yeah, I say it myself; more often than I am comfortable with, in fact. It's become a default response for these situations, though; you can't blame me. But whoever came up with it, whosoever so deeply ingrained it into our social code* SHOULD BE SHOT. Like a dog. (Yo, who came up with that one? Wouldn't it be more - i want to write humane, but I would have red paint on me in like 3 seconds - hm, more appropriate to joke about shooting an animal like a possum, or something, for such a colloquialism? Is it just that we humans have more control over dogs than any other creature, or is it because a dog would die in an undignified manner? If that's the case, that's just preposterous; a possum would die with much less dignity than a dog. Did Koreans come up with "shoot like a dog?" Did Kazakhs?)

Anyway, the other night seated at Brooke and I's sturdy "outdated-country-home-with-lots-of-apples-and-tractors-stenciled-on-the-wall-somewhere"-esque dining table (no, there's really no goal behind that absurd description, it's just how I feel about it, ok?), Bronwyn, Brooke and I were shooting the shit**, and we started talking about this whole "out of it" nonsense for some reason. We all agreed that it is tragically overused. Sorry, I'm just really out of it today! Ugggggggggh. You know you're dull when. I HATE "I'M JUST REALLY OUT OF IT TODAY." And I hate the fact that "it" wears such a crown. Quel "it"? Listen, interlocuter? Don't believe a word I say, because I am not "out of" any "it". I am not out of time. I am not out of bounds. Certainly not out of style. Word- I am not out of context, sight, mind, proportion, the running, my element, my head, out of print, out of hand, out of tune, shape, sorts; i am not out of control. But know this over everything else: I am not even out of things to say to you, because in fact what I have in mind but am just too polite to say is I am interested in many things but not in having this conversation with you at this time.

So we came up with some good replacements for "out of it." They'll never be put to use in all hell, but wouldn't the world be more fun if they were? Here they are, and feel free to preface them with the words "I'm sorry;" I actually think they're even better that way, or if anything, more polite:

I'm sorry,

my potassium's really low; mercury's in retrograde; i'm on like, the 18th day of my cycle; i just realized one of my boobs is bigger than the other; david hyde pierce was on letterman last night; i met deerhoof earlier; i need to go exist; i need to go get really drunk; i feel like i'm going to be sick; i just this second got sick; i'm having flashbacks of 'Nam; i forgot to take my whipping this morning, i mean, my vitamins; i'm hungry for a knuckle sandwich, are you; i've been listening to too much math rock***; they just announced that dump trucks are the new coolest thing; do you have any hard liquor on you; girrrrrl, i'm thinkin' 'bout this freak nasty dream i had with you last night; i'm missing my favorite telenovela right now; son, i'm afraid things have just taken a Strindbergian turn for the worse; i'm drinking water right now; it's time for me to get a watch; i temporarily forgot my child; you aren't in my autobiography; don't you think salad is overrated; don't you think that heroin is underrated; there's a big dumb dragon flying through the sky; you remind me of a wagner opera in this light; my dog killed himself 5 years ago; i'm doing my exercises; i'm really important; i'm really into garbage right now; sand castles are fucking rad, dude; i'm watching this cockfight on the corner over there.

Collect 'em all!

* Other things that were set way too deeply to dig up and abolish directly: the standard men's dress shoe (UGLY. BORING. POORLY ARCHITECTED. EFFIMINATE.), the phrasal structure "such and such is AMAZING" (another one I'm guilty of, but I mean, I'm theater folk), the idea that "Casablanca" is the greatest film ever made (actually, it's as overrated as its male lead, mr. Bogart), LIFE (make love, not war, folks), yada

** Haha, shooting the shit...I love the idea of an english-learning foreigner reading and writhing with frustration, trying to decipher our idiom-riddled patois; sort of like me in my first attempts to be hip to the hippest magazine in France, Le Standard

*** Only applies if you live in Athens, GA