The City of the Future

When did New York become Tokyo?

I'm sorry, I just don't want to live in the city of the future.

New Crush

I have a new crush.

I want him to be my boyfriend.

Then I can dress up as his tattoo for Halloween.

Marc Jacobs

Is anyone else sick of seeing Marc Jacobs shirtless?

Aseptic New Year

New Year's Eve, the ball drops and people kiss and embrace, throw confetti, blow their cardboard horns and make a whole lot of noise and one hell of a mess. Then, everywhere, all over the world, cell phones start vibrating. Calls from loved ones, text messages from friends in far off places, people you haven't spoken to in years spontaneously resurface throwing all kinds of warm wishes and sentimental nonsense at you, that lands with a thud of guilt as you realize just how wide that gap between us really is. It falls around you like so much sodden confetti, clotted with sticky spilt Champagne. All those untidy, over-dramatized emotions suddenly gushing forth for no good reason.

Well, I'll tell you something, I'm not doing it this year. My cell phone may have rung, buzzing and twittering like a retarded digital insect, but I wasn't answering. It's not that I don't love you too. I just can't be bothered to experience emotions in such an unnecessarily overwrought fashion. I cannot participate in these sentimental displays.

I've decided to leave the emotions behind in 2008. I crave an antiseptic new year, something WASPY and entirely more efficient. I would hate for you to think that I'm bitter. I'm not. I'm leaving the anger behind as well. It may be cold outside, but my 2008 is no barren wasteland, no arctic tundra. No, my new year is a clean white room. Clinical. Neat. Comfortably air-conditioned.

Should you find your way into my white room, don't be afraid. I'll greet you with a polite smile and ask if there's anything I can do for you. And then I'll send you on your way with a peck on the cheek and a no lingering glances as you leave. And if you think you want to stay, I'm very sorry, but there's no loitering here.

Just remember, I'm perfectly fine, and none of this is about you.

White Trash Christmas: Aftermath

People talk about "The Holiday Season" and frankly I have no idea what they're talking about anymore. They probably mean that feeling kids get around the end of November, the anticipation and the swirling, engulfing, all-encompassingness of Christmas. You know, back when Christmas was a whole season and not just a day filled with obligaion that speeds towards you and leaves you exhausted and empty. I think people who talk about "The Christmas Season" are just longing for that feeling they remember from childhood and think they're supposed to still have. As if anyone with a job and a life actually feels that.

I don't mean to sound cynical. I've tried so damn hard not to be one of those now horribly clichéd people who hates the holidays. I've tried to be enthusiastic and throw myself into it with an open heart and warm intentions. But for me, Christmas is one of the great disappointments of adulthood.

The weeks slip by filled with crowds and soul-less marketing nonsense. Everywhere you look people are frantically purchasing meaningless gifts for people they barely know and don't seem to like all that much. It's a time of consumerist panic, as we try to fill the gaps between us with stuff; not heartfelt tokens of true affection, but stuff. Stuff we don't need and don't want. Stuff that makes us wonder if the people we love know us at all. Stuff that we now have to lug home in overstuffed suitcases that are over the airline's maximum weight limit for checked baggage, costing us not only emotional distress, but also $80 extra in traveling expenses!

The orgy of gift receiving is over and the hollow places inside me seem to be expanding. That imagined feeling of home and safety, of a family brought together in love and peace by the holidays is replaced by freshly minted memories of sniping and bickering, of impatience and dissatisfaction, of spoiled children, glassy eyed with greed, screaming and throwing tantrums. Of imperfect people incapable of putting their petty disagreements and resentment aside for this one day.

White Trash Christmas: Part II

Uncle Joey walks out on his wife of six months the day before Christmas Eve. There was a fight over someone's prescription pain killers, so he shows up at your house with his eight year old daughter—he's trying to get custody from his ex-girlfriend, who was arrested a few months ago in Ohio for child neglect and endangerment—in his white work van, and proceeds to have a shouting match with your grandparents on the phone over the dubious affect this may have on the greater custody battle.

The general consensus is that everyone—those of you merely involved by way of blood relation—should just ignore the situation.

White Trash Christmas: Part I

Mamma wants you to know she just can't get over those Coach pocketbooks in New York. We don't have nothing like that here in North Carolina. Maybe a few styles, but nothing like the selection up there. Of course, Kate Spade is her absolute favorite, but the Belk store in the mall won't carry them because they wanted to put them where the Coach pocketbooks are displayed. She hates Dooney & Burke, though. They're so heavy!

They're opening up a new mall sometime in the next year or two. Mamma just can't wait.

The Goddess’ Chosen People

I was at a party last night, and there were all these Radical Faeries there. It was at this really swanky place near Gramercy Park, where none of us belonged. But the place smelled of cat piss, like some senile 76-year-old lady’s apartment. People kept complaining and wondering if maybe there really was a cat somewhere like at the corner bodegas, you know? To catch mice and rats and whatnot. But then I realized, no, actually it was the Radical Faeries and all their unwashed beards and fake feathers and cheap fur. Cause you know these guys glam it up—they turn. it. out.—but they don't wash the shit!

This guy came up to me and started talking about something or someone, and I was just baffled by what he was saying to me—I don't even remember what it was.

"I'm not a faerie," I said.

And he looked at me and said, "You're not? You don't feel a deep centered, primal connection to the earth? You don't feel the goddess calling you and manifesting herself through you to be a gatekeeper to the spirit world on this plane of existence? You don't feel that in your heart?"

I said, "No. I live in New York."

Dior Spring '08

Ugh. Seriously?

Kris Van Assche bores me to tears. I want Hedi back.

Thom Is The New Tom

I'm gonna go ahead and say it: Thom Browne is the new Tom Ford.

Only less annoying and more interesting. I saw him on the subway once and I thought, "That man is either poor, crazy, or wearing a Thom Browne suit."

Now I want to marry him.

Dior Homme

Buy me all of this. Thanks.

White Chalk

Just when you think she can't get any more amazing...

Seriously. This album is brilliant.

I'm feeling really fragile and hung-over today. I'm going to listen to this and cry a whole lot.

Menagerie

Max is surprised. “That guy? Really?”

“Yeah, totally.”

“Huh.”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“I’m telling you. I don’t have a type. It runs the gamut.”

There’s a pause. “They kind of all look like woodland creatures.”

“What do you mean?”

“Kind of shaggy and scruffy.”

“Yeah, I guess I like guys who look sorta...”

“Mammalian!”

“...like animals.”

Too Much Birthday

This is kinda how I feel right now.

This Week...

Thursday. Friday. Saturday. Sunday.

This weekend just might kill me.

Who's a Hot Mess?

Hot Mess last night. I'm crippled by some kind of weird phantom hangover today. Which is weird, because I didn't really drink that much.

Sometimes I take photos of myself before leaving the house. You know, just to make sure. That's Thomas on the right, a.k.a. Lusty Charms, our little Irish go-go boy. We had a contest where some dudes got up on the bar and competed for a date with him. I picked the contestants.

Lady K and...uh, that guy. Tranny gots to beat 'em off with a stick, I'm tellin' you. And Logan being Logan. As Logan as he can be.

And the boys were cute too. Lil' Presto (a.k.a. Jason Preston, the former Mrs. Marc Jacobs) brought one of the Pussycat Dolls. She was cute, but I don't think anyone was star struck. On the left: Kirk, whose life has been ruined by Harry Potter. On the right: Ben Andrews, porn star, and possibly more well known that that Pussycat Doll, at least at this party.

FYI: Tommy Hottpants was bartending for us and let me just say that I want to bite him. Everywhere. Like, everywhere on his body. And also, everywhere in the world.

Mika

Using an essentially queer, Post-structuralist concept like the rejection of labels to excuse your reticence to come out of the closet because of the negative affect it may have on your marketability and money making potential? Lame.

Unisex Salon: Acid Crisis Center

This is where you should be tonight. You're on Lusty J's list!

No One Belongs Here More Than You

You should read this book right now. And then comment about it here. It'll be like a book club. Like Oprah's, only way more nihilistic.

Our first title is a quirky collection of short stories by performing artist and filmmaker Miranda July. I think "Birthmark" is my fave. What's yours and why?

Nearly Perfect Lemon Risotto

Nearly perfect lemon risotto is no small feat.

So why can't I make you love me?