Heard in New York

I don't know if anyone else found this online, but I thought it was pretty amazing.  T, which is New York Times style magazine, has a blog and guess what was posted on the blog... a review of the SCAD fashion show! Below is the link to read the blog post. Enjoy.

http://themoment.blogs.nytimes.com/2009/05/18/fete-accompli-scad-graduation-fashion-show/?scp=1-b&sq=scad%20blog&st=nyt

ReAlLy???

Speaking of Heidi, I can't believe that this is for real! 

Just watch and enjoy the laughs because the worst part about the video is that she was REALLY trying.  And it is obviously that Spencer is cheering her on from behind the camera.  What a mockery.  

Chelsea Who?

I absolutely love, love, love Chelsea Handler and I was totally having blogger's block when I decided to turn on her show. And that's when it came to me. I will write about Chelsea. Also known as Chelsea Lately, Chelsea Handler, or Chelsea the Great. She has written and published two NYTimes Best Sellers: My Horizontal Life and Are you there vodka, it's me, Chelsea? Both books are amazingly funny and I absolutely love her bluntness.

But, my favorite thing about Chelsea isn't her ability to drink and work, or her hilarious humor, or the way she can't stand Heidi and Spencer. My favorite thing about her is her little friend, Chuy. And she doesn't even refer to him in any sense of the political names for little people. Chuy is referred to as her nugget!

I want a nugget. Please.

Playing for change

I know this video is long, but it is amazing to watch and worth your time.

This is an amazing video.  It is a cover of Stand By Me and was recorded by completely unknown artists in a virtual studio all around the world.  The base track of vocals and guitar were recorded on the streets of California by a homeless guy named Roger Ridley.  Then Grandpa Elliot, a blind singer in New Orleans, added more vocals and harmonica.  Washboard Chaz's, a homeless guy from the same city added metal percussion to it.

From there the mix went all through Europe, Africa, and South America.  All done with a laptop and microphone.

The Infamous Z

This is my best friend Kali. I wish I couldn't call her that because we actually haven't talked in almost a year. I want her to be my ex-best friend.

But, regardless Kali is a big part of me life and we grew up together. We were inseparable throughout middle school and high school, and even lived together for a year in college. We even did the cute "next level of our relationship thing" and adopted a dog.

His name is Z and he is drop dead gorgeous. The only problem, Kali dropped Z off at the pound because she couldn't find an apartment that was pet friendly in Boulder, Colorado. I call bullshit on that.

But instead of calling me to see if I could take Z to Georgia with me, she just abandoned him along with our friendship. Just look at his eyes... so precious.

My Partner in Crime

Above is a picture of Bryce and me working the bar. How could you resist us? Gotta love him!

Bryce is my bar tending partner and my manager. He is the best manager one could ask for: he is funny, charming, fun, responsible, relaxed, and a good friend. I just wanted to dedicate a blog to Bryce because the other day he came across my blog. So, Bryce, here it is. A entire blog post dedicated to you--my Brycey Bear

A Broken Fairy Godmother

I believed.

I believed her. I believed what she said. I believed what she told me. I believed she had the gift. I simply believed.

I went to Mrs. Hope seeking adventure, not truth. But was amazed when she revealed things about me that only a best friend would know and other things that only someone that truly possessed the gift could know. I was a believer.

Then, she broke me heart and broke my trust and broke my dreams. She was a phony, just like the Easter Bunny and Santa Clause. She only existed in ambiguous ways now and I no longer believed.

When a classmate wrote an article about an attempted interview with Mrs. Hope all was revealed. The "psychic" revealed things about the classmate just as she had for me. The only difference was there was no difference. She had told us both the exact same scripted answers and I was disheartened by her scam.

I was amused by the way Mrs. Hope's closeted office held images of Christ and multiple colors of crystals. The massive bible on which a statue of Budha sat awed me. But, now that I know she isn't real these things disgust me. The way she removes Budha from the Bible to reveal cash from a multitude of customers neatly pressed between the pages infuriates me. She is using two contradicting religious symbols to house the scams of her innocent victims.

Mrs. Hope, if you are reading this (which since you have the "gift" you should already know what's been written without needing to read it) I advice you to quit your scam or get a new cash register.

Even a basket or stocking would work the same way the bunny and jolly man house our gifts. Pick something other than a bible.

For God's sake, use a plastic 8 ball as a bank. At least I would get some answers.

Show and Tell

SCAD09 Fashion show is over. I wouldn't say that it was flawless, but it was a success.

Backstage was crazy like always: models were tired and bitchy from being at the theater all day, hair and makeup artists were beginning to sweat attempting to finish everyone's "look", Catherine Boba was still changing/cutting/editing/accessorizing garments all while only saying two things: "Oh, no no!" meant she hated it or "J'adore, j'adore" meant she loved it.

And everyone accepted her sparse words and did what they were told.

The show began with a strange modern dance routine where the dancers were dressed as if they came out of the set of Ghostbusters, even clad in backpacks. The exception, big office laps were attached to the backpacks and extended over their heads.

Despite the uniform lacking in style, the music was particularly drab French beats, and the movements, while modern, where slow and lifeless.

Next, Paula Wallace (the second most-famous Paula of Savannah and our President) gave her blah blah speech which was followed by Andre Leon Talley's blah blah speech.

Wallace and Talley strutted cape-like outfits that hung in a blah blah way covering their blah blah bodies. While Paula's cape seemed to shrink her tiny 4 foot 1o body,

Andre's did the complete opposite. His large body appeared even larger, matching if not exceeding the size of his ego.

Then came the Toledo's, who surprised me and many others with their honest and sincere remarks. Isabel Toledo even came to tears while talking about her 25 year marriage and partnership with Ruben.

The show began with strong energy but slightly lost some of it's spunk about 2/3rds of the way in to only return and pass the prior levels of adrenaline with the finale. All in all, things went wrong, but no one in the audience could tell and the show has been quoted as "edgy and innovative".

I agree.

Double-Dipping

I still haven't figured out why I do it, I have just learned to accept it.

My mother had skin cancer, not once, not twice, but three times.  Songs are written about why we should wear sunscreen and plastic surgens make bank because of people like me.  But, I continue to tan.

I'm not talking about laying out at Tybee with my oils and lotions and embracing the natural sunlight and warmth that Savannah has to offer.  I'm referencing tanning salons.  They are one of my few (okay, maybe many) addictions and I can't say no.

I love being tan and enjoy instant gratification even more.  But, the other day I discover something new.  Titled double dipping. 

It's where you lay in the high intensity bed for 10 minutes then get sprayed by the Mystic Tan machine, only to return to the tanning bed again for another 10 minute dosage of melanoma.  

Could I ask for anything more?

Maybe to be just a bit tanner. 

WTF

The other night I was flipping through the t.v channels when something caught my eye.  It was called a stone baby.

The "pregnant" lady was a 76 year old named Zahra from a small village outside of Casablanca.

When she was 26 she was pregnant with her first kid and feared childbirth (who doesn't?).  So when it was time to have the baby she refused to go to the hospital despite her pain.  After a week or so of horrible pain, the baby stopped moving and the pain eased.  (What the fuck, what did she think would happen?)

She believed in the Moroccan culture that a baby can sleep in its mother for eternity to protect her honor and Zahra believed this is what happened.

She forgot about the unborn child (don't ask me how because her stomach continued to look like a watermelon was inside) until she had horrible pains when she was 76.  Her adopted son took her to the doctor where he told her she had a tumor and they would need to operate.

Still forgetting about her unborn child, she agreed to surgery. After a 4 hour operation the doctors removed a 7 pound calcified, rock-solid 30 year old baby!

How in the world do you just brush off the fact that a baby is inside of you and struggling to get out? Seriously. 

The (Un)Perfect (Cyber)World

I hate to admit it, but I just have to say it. 

Since we are required* to read every one's blogs in the class I have learned some interesting things about my classmates and their interests/hobbies/strange behaviors.  Some have used the blogging to reveal their daily adventures while others have used it to educate or get their work out into the cyber world.  

I have found some of the blogs interesting, some alright, and some just don't make my heart twitter (haha, I have learned that Elyse definitely has a twittering addiction from the blogging though!).  Anywho,  there is one blog in particular that I still can't quite figure out.

It's not because I don't read it regularly or that the writing or information is bad, it's just that I don't understand it.  Every time I read the "black sheep" blog I feel as though I'm reading the SAT's, but have to go back and read it about 4 times to understand it because my mind seems distracted.  

So, again, I'm sorry to say it, but as you all know I am pretty damn blunt and I usually just say what I mean without even thinking about it.  This time I have thought about what I wanted to say, but I decided that the thinking about it was pointless because I still want to say the same thing.  So here it goes....

Rita, I don't understand the point of The Perfect World.  And to be quite frank, I simply don't understand the point of video games.

There.  It's now off my chest and onto my blog.  Do with it what you want.

Mission Impossible

I was ready.

It was Friday morning at 10a.m.  The sun was shinning brightly and my black clothes were absorbing the heat.  I was wearing black sweatpants, a black tank top, a black sweatband, and red sunglasses.  A small, silver digital camera was wrapped tightly around my wrist.  A Glad freezer size bag was grasped in my fist.  10-4, I was ready for the mission.

I got into my Ford Focus and drove the six blocks to where I was going to find my story.  Across the street was a bank.  To my right was a dirty brick building.  Dumpsters were scattered like coins falling from a hole in God's pockets.  (I'm not sure if He has pockets, but if not, that is something I will bring with me to heaven, robes with pockets, what a great idea... and maybe that will help my chances of getting through those infamous golden gates.)  Anyways, I was confused.  Where do I start, which dumpster do I jump into first, how do I go about dumpster diving?  

I decided the best way to this was feet first.  I walked as discreetly as a 6 foot girl dressed in all black at 10 am could possible walk.  Once I made it to the lid a horrible foul smell consumed my nostrils.  I gagged.  But I must go on, any good reporter can't let spoiled eggs and rotten bananas get in the way of a story.  I throw the lid back fiercely and climbed in.  My feet sank about 2 feet deep into the waste.  "Shit", I thought. "I should have brought gloves."

I couldn't let that small detail stop me either.  I was on a mission and was going to succeed.  I managed to make my rounds into somewhere around eight dumpsters, digging through piles of paperwork (which was the easy part), dirty dippers, and decomposing mystery products.  And found myself left with nothing more than I started with.  A digital camera grasping to my wrist for its life, an empty Glad bag, and no story.

I wish I could tell you what I was looking for, but I can't.  It's not that I don't know what I was hoping to find, it's that I'm still hoping to find it.  So, stay away from MY dumpsters, and MY story or else you will have to fear the ambiguous giant girl lurking around in broad daylight.  

Burn, baby. Burn.

This is my dream car.  A 1954 Corvette in James Bond Blue (not really the manufactures paint color name, but I think it fits the car much better). I would call her Jet and she would be my best friend.  

We would go on long road trips together, let the wind blow our tops off, and keep on driving, all while belting out Ace of Base.  We would get waxes together and keep our paint jobs chip-less.  We would never need a counterpart, for we would be each other's soul mates.  Chrome would be kept to a minimum, but the sparkle would definitely shine brightly.  We would never wear bras, respecting our freedom.  

Someone, any one, any where, just tell me you know Jet and that Jet has a Craiglist "missed connections" listing searching for me.  Let her know I'm here, waiting bra-less, and can't wait to take our tops off and hit the open road!

Who's That Lady?

Many of us know of him/her, but many of us are confused as to what to call him/her.  Miss Jay Alexander of America's Next Top Model is here in Savannah teaching our own SCAD models how to rock the runway fiercely.  

Miss Jay is absolutely fabulous, not to mention crazy fun and totally out there.  

But, many of the models have been whispering behind stage debating a semi-serious question.  Does Miss Jay prefer to be referred to as a female (hence the Miss) or as a male (hence Jay Alexander)?

Undoubtedly, Miss Jay is gay (attracted to males) and is far from in the closet with his/her sexual orientation.  However,  even though I have worked with Miss Jay for four years now, received/given a few too many lap dances from each other, and even have his/her cell number in my phone, I have never built up the confidence to ask one simple question...

Are you a he or a she?

For the love of the Peacock

Recently I decided to add yet another tattoo, or should I say two, to my body.  I chose to get mirrored peacocks on each of my shoulder blades looking towards each other.  They look similar to this tattoo on the left but that is not them.  I will have to have someone take a picture of my back asap.  

I totally love them and have always had an obsession with peacocks.  They don't really represent much to me, but I do love that they stand out and they are extremely beautiful birds.  

So, I currently have four tattoos now, but can't wait to get more.  I have a viking ship drawn up for my left ribs(my right ribs are already inked) and am just waiting for me to get the money and time, plus the guts to have an 18 hour sitting...no fun!

I will keep y'all updated with any new additions to my body.

Mean Girls Rock

Another one of my favorite movies, which also includes a great dance scene.

What I like about you

Absolutely love everything about this movie and can never get enough!

Dazed and Confused

My flight was booked for 6:50 a.m. Friday morning.  I had to work until 3:30 a.m. Thursday so I assumed I would simply stay awake until I made it to the airport and on the plane.  My plan failed.  

I don't know exactly where my plan was faultee, but it seems it was somewhere between the multiple shots of jager and the trip to the strip club at 4 a.m.  I pulled up in front of my house at 5:15 and realized I had about thirty minutes before I needed to leave for the airport.  I walked in, threw the last bit of necessities into my suitcase, placed it by the front door, sat down on the couch, then turned on the t.v.  

I still swear that I didn't fall asleep, I think I just feel into a trance and before I knew it the clock had struck 6:30.  Fuck! I couldn't believe it, there was no way I was going to make my flight.  I looked up the next flight online--it was at ten.  This time I was going to be early.  

I left for the airport at 8:30, went through security, and sat patiently outside of the gate keeping my fingers crossed that I would make stand by.  

I did not.

I finally made the fifth flight out of Savannah at 4:45 and spent a total of nine hours at the Savannah Airport's only bar, looking like an alcoholic, drinking away my sorrows, my hangover, and my Friday. 

Home is Where the Heart is

I am exhausted with school and work, and really just Savannah.  So, I decided I needed a break and will be flying home to Colorado Friday morning.  I can't wait! Look at the beautiful view, can't find that in GA.  Below is a list of everything I plan on doing when I make it there:

Yum, yum...I want more sparkles!

He is wearing those amazing sparkly red Calvin Klein boxer briefs, I promise that's all I noticed ; )

Eye Candy

My therapist (yea, I know that makes me sound crazy, but everyone has one, right? Well, I'm going to continue to convince myself of that, and besides, Spencer's(blah) sister told Heidi that everyone in LA has one, so yea, I believe it... thanks - The Hills reference.) told me that I am distracted by the "sparkling" things in life. I'm not sure of exactly what he meant, but I will agree I love sparkles, and sequence, and rhinestones, and glitter, and crystals, and diamonds, and lip gloss, and bronzers, and... But, it is a fact that I like sparkly things. I like jewelry, and glassware and lamplight—all sparkly. I love to apply beads to costuming to give it extra . . . sparkle. I'm not sure if this is a bad thing, all things sparkly are gorgeously fun so I have chosen to dedicate this blog to those things. I hope you enjoy!

Higher Than High

I am flying high. This past Saturday I was invited to attend dinner at Elizabeth's on 37th with the senior editors of T (New York Times own style magazine!). Did I mention that I went to dinner with the SENIOR EDITORS?!! Not just one, but both. Sandra Ballentine sat directly across from me and Armand Limnander sat in the chair directly to my right (our feet and knees did touch occastionally). We indulged in a multi-course meal of champagne, wine, oysters, red snapper, cheesecake and chocolate.

The food was rich, but the conversation was richer. I was surprised by how easy going and open they were. I was hestitant with the idea of a classic New Yorker editor and all I could picture was me sitting in silence as the "Devil Wears Prada" rants and bashes everyone and everything around us. I couldn't have been more wrong. They were two of the coolest people I have meet in the fashion industry. We laughed about men wearing dippers as they ran in the early morning in NY, gossiped about the dirt hidden in the cracks of my prestigious college, all while sipping (o.k., gulping) sparkling wine.

Even better, we went to Club One after! What more could you ask for... a Saturday night filled with the excitement of dinner with industry people, comped wine by the bottle, desserts with more calories then I cared to consider, and...a drag show! My night was made.

Rock stars, Celebs, Rehab -- Old News

Recently I met a new guy. Not a guy that I'm crushing on, or a guy that I even recognized...but apparently he is "worth" knowing. We will call him Ty, and his status--he dated Lindsay Lohan while in rehab together.


What a reputation, and for that, he is a local celebrity.

I didn't meet him because of his reputation, I met him because I just thought he was a cool guy, which he is. As strange as it may sound, I feel bad for him. He has a great, crazy life as a guitar player in a successful LA/Atlanta band, has an amazing fiance, and is just loving life right now. However, I feel bad because in the few weeks we have become friends, whenever and where ever someone recognizes him, they always ask the same question... so, did you really fuck Lindsay. I'm not him, or his fiance, just a friend, but it gets under my skin and I can only imagine how old and annoying it is for him to constantly hear.

I wonder, where did the "hello, nice to meet you change to did you bang her?"

Apartment Search

So I have been slightly slacking on keeping up with my blog this week due to many things: facebook stalking, homework, working, shopping, but the most frustrating and time consuming activity has been apartment searching.  The thing about living in an old city such as Savannah is that you really don't know what is going to be hiding behind the old walls of the southern mansions.   

More than once this week I have eagerly opened the big doors of possible future residencies only to be disappointed by foul smells, dingy walls, and dark hallways.  Every place I go has something wrong with it.  It's not like I'm that picky.  I want an apartment that is clean, has good light, at least two bathrooms, and good closet space.  I could care less about a yard or a large kitchen (I am known to almost never enter that room).  So why has this adventure become such a dilemma?  

One thing that I have come to understand is that people back when ever Savannah was established didn't have as many shoes and clothes as we do now.  But, I know that somewhere out there, back then, there was a certain southern belle that did splurge on excess gowns, slippers, and accessories.  If someone could point me to where she resided I will forever owe you.  (Oh, and I ask for all of this at a reasonable price, thanks. ; )

Shoes!

One of my favorite things to do when it's raining (like it has been for the past three days) is shop! This clip makes me smile, laugh, and want to go shopping!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wCF3ywukQYA

Hells Yea I'm Fabulous

Sunday has always seemed well deserving of the title "Sunday Fun Day". For me and my "industry" friends, Sundays are usually the start of our party, because we all work at bars over the real weekends. This Sunday was no different. The day began with mimosas and bloodies at Lulu's and took off from there. After consuming all of the champagne and vodka that our bodies could (at least that's what our waitress said) we left Lulu's and headed down to River Street to indulge in the multiple flavors of frozen drinks at Wet Willies.

The weather was such a change from Friday and Saturday, so we couldn't resist driving the convertible to the beach and continue our day full of booze. After sucking down raw oysters and a few shots, it was time to hit downtown yet again. By the time we reached City Market our buzz was in full swing, and what better way to keep it going then attending a drag show at Club One; free admission, free pool, and men dressed as women!

We all exchanged twenties for singles and perched our sloshed selves at a table in the front row. Another round of drinks and shots were order just as the the lights dimmed. Men dressed up in bold colors, big wigs, and tacky jewelry flooded the stage while belting out Shakira. The strobe lights and disco balls were in full swing, making it hard for me to distinguish if the lights or the performers were more colorful.  All different shapes and sizes of drags took turns at center stage, including a massive blog of sparkles, studs, and stars shaking both Cindy Lauper and the floor boards.  The strobe light kept up with the beat, as did the consumption of our drinks.  

Before I knew it, the stage was empty of cross dressers and all that was left on our table was teetering towers of glasses.  This meant it was time for a refreshed cocktail, so I picked up my wallet and headed towards the bar.  Most of my friends looked a bit too tipsy for another shot, so I only bought two shots of Jack, one for myself and the other for Tara, my coworker.  Tara knew by the look on my face that the other shot was her's so she proceeded to stand up and walk toward me.  She was only about two feet away, with arms outstretched, when her four inch platforms gave way, causing her to loose balance.  My hands were full with drinks so I couldn't reach to help her from  hitting the floor.  She simply reached toward me, missing my arms, and grabbed ahold of my yellow tube dress.  

Tara never hit the floor, nor did the drinks, what fell was my dress.   Standing there for a split second, breasts exposed, drinks in hand, I found myself confused.  Drop the drinks and grab my dress, or chug the shot then pick up the dress.  I chose the later.  Just as I slammed the Jack and returned my dress to its rightful place, a bouncer walked up to me.  He wasn't happy and told us we had to leave immediately.  I knew not to ask why.  I choose to follow orders and Tara and I shamefully headed up the stairs and out the door.  

Lesson learned... I will wear a bra next time.

Time in the Closet

Despite the fact that I have died my hair dark brown, my brain still manages to have blonde moments.  Yesterday, as I was getting ready for work, a loud siren went off outside.  I live right down the street from a fire station so I naturally assumed it was coming from there.  My iTunes were blaring from my Mac as I was straightening my hair, preventing me from hearing the Madonna ring tone of my cell phone.  Over the music I heard the siren again.  

I looked at my cell phone to see that I had missed a call and had a new voicemail.  It was left by a friend in Tallahassee so I assumed it was just a "What's up?" message.  I was wrong.  He must have known that I would be completely unaware as to the reason for the siren and knew he needed to inform me as to its purpose.  It was a tornado siren! There was a severe tornado warning in our county and I needed to seek shelter immediately.  

Without a minute to waste I grabbed my computer, phone, and makeup bag and headed to the bathroom.  As I was preceding to apply my mascara I realized that when the tornado hit I would be that girl.  The girl that was blown away because she was too involved into applying just enough coats of the black eye makeup to realize that  she was standing in a top floor bathroom with a large picture window in it.  I grabbed my phone and headed downstairs to the storage closet.  I waited out the storm for about twenty minutes surrounded by spare paint and extra bedding.  

Even though a tornado didn't hit, at least next time that siren sounds, I will know what it means.  I wish it meant that sexy men where racing to dress, put on their boots, and slide down the poll, but no.  It simply means to take cover.  Not only am I now educated in tornado precautions, but I have "remodeled" the storage closet in case I ever have to spend time in there again.  Boxes have been pushed to the back and a plush beanbag chair resides in that prime real estate.  Next to the chair is a case of water, a stack of mags, and a nifty man-powered radio/flashlight thing I picked up at Restoration Hardware.  Next time, I will be ready.

Tramp Dandruff

The past weekend was the Ranger Ball so, again, I was forced to serve the respectable captains and lieutenants along with their wives.  They are not the ones I dread. 

 

I stand back from the well full of cheap liquor and watch in disbelief as hookers stroll through the heavy oak door.  One after the other glides across the room, appearing to be playing dress-up in sparkly prom dresses.  It's as if some advice column told them the way to look sophisticated is to cover your entire body in glitter, rhinestones, and sequence.  Somewhere one must have read the more you shine on the outside is directly proportional to your inner self and the only thought that ran through her mind was glitter.  

 

Not only were the dresses hideous, but everything in site was glossed by the stray "tramp dandruff".  However, it did make locating their dates very easy--all I had to do was look for the uniformed man coated in coordinating sparkles and play a matching game. 

 

From past experiences with glitter I know that it sticks and clings to everything, but the men didn't seem to mind their new Bedazzled suits (I'm not sure if Swarovski encrusted camo will work well in the military though).  One of the perks of all of the glittered adorned women may be the trophy status.  I imagine the men compare sheets in the morning to reveal the ones that scored with their hired dates or maybe its a challenge who's masculine body is coated in the most sparkle.  

 

Either way, I know there is know hiding it, and I understand there is no shame, so my advice to you unlucky patrons of the Ranger Ball--go to the nearest craft store, buy bulks of glitter, pour it all over your extra-long twin sheets, and roll around.  You too can go to work the next day and show off your glory.