We're Obsessed: 80s SoCal, Marc Jacobs special items, Lauren 'LC' Conrad

1980s Southern California

I decided to make "1980s SoCal" my own personal theme this week on the blog: First there was Missing Persons, then there was Logan Echolls (totally born in the 80s!), and just wait till you see which SoCal-connected songs you'll get from me in the jukebox tomorrow. I actually kinda wish I could make "1980s SoCal" the theme for my life in general: I didn't get to experience this little corner of the world firsthand till 2002, and the feeling of having missed out on many great and grand things is oh-so-bittersweet. Oh wellskis; I'll just have to make do with driving down that stretch of Ventura Boulevard where all of a sudden it's like "YOU ARE NOW ENTERING 1985," and watching more of the same stuff I've been watching (Valley Girl, Repo Man, Fast Times at Ridgemont High). I'm actually kinda running out of movie ideas though, and I'm at the point where it's like, "Umm, I don't know: Karate Kid?" Suggestions? I'm right here waiting. (Liz)

Marc Jacobs satin quilted limited-edition special items

By necessity I have to be obsessed with my upcoming film shoot this weekend, but I'm really actually obsessed with "Gossip Girl" at the moment. However, since that's getting monotonous, even for me, I can also tell you that I'm obsessed with the special satin quilted Marc Jacobs accessories, available at Marc by Marc Jacobs accessories stores. (This obsession will bear fruit in a special way soon.) The special items at the Marc stores are kind of their own cult, especially here in New York; I can't even tell you how many times you spot someone carry a beat-up canvas "Jacobs by Marc Jacobs for Marc Jacobs" etc. and ad nauseum around the city. You go down to the Bleecker Street store, buy a key chain or a pair of flip flops, get a cupcake from the overrated Magnolia Bakery, maybe head to Fresh to try out some new perfumes or to Corner Bistro for some French fries -- it's kind of a nice bougie West Village afternoon. I actually don't make it down there often, but one day I did and the whole store was taken over by gorgeous, gleaming satin quilted purses, totes, wallets, wristlets and the like. I picked up a nice little bucket tote in blue and bronze for my mom for Mother's Day, a nice dark purple wallet for myself and other quirky-glam sundries. The stuff is just REALLY CUTE and not so logo-y, which I like. Anyway, they were really nicely stocked when I was there but I am sure that they are running out soon, so what can I say? Some obsessions are forever and always, others just here and now, but I'm sure there will be another special item soon that will become the "in" special item and the cycle just never ends, it just keeps going and your thirst will never be quenched even if you join an ashram upstate and disavow material goods for life, and even if you don't go that far, you think you're over Marc but then he does something and you are SO NOT and you know what? It's okay, he's an institution and we should just accept that. But Marc, get yourself another diffusion line already! Or make the damn store bigger! (Kat)

Lauren Conrad

Always one for a little rule-breakin', this week I am opting to express my obsession through the ever-effective narrative device of:

AN OPEN LETTER TO LAUREN CONRAD:

Dearest Lauren,

Hi! Hey! What's up? How are you? Good, I hope. Personally, I'm pretty okay. So: the other night, I was lucky enough to score into watching a marathon of The Hills. I was lazing on the couch in my jammers, thinking about how terrific you are, when it occurred to me that, for all I know, you may very well be a reader of nogoodforme.com! I sincerely hope that this is the case, because there are some rather urgent matters that the two of us need to discuss.

Lauren, Lauren, Lauren. Where do I even begin? Well, here's a start: do you have any idea what an impressive and perspicacious human being you are? Sadly, I gather you might not, because if you did, you would realize how vastly superior you are to the majority of your social network and ditch those dimwits STAT. I don't know how much you're going to like this, Lauren, but I think you need to quit being on The Hills. It seems to be an unnecessary source of stress in your life. You really should not have to deal with all the shallow, meaningless Speidi bullshit that it has nurtured. It's too much for one person to deal with, especially considering how you are an Aquarius and probably struggle with keeping a level head about things to begin with, not to mention how inherently confusing I know it is to be in your early twenties, trying to figure your whole life out. You are so above all these squabbles and scuffles and scandals, Lauren! At this crucial juncture in your life, this US Weekly L.A. style of drama is the absolute last thing you need.

I'm only seven months older than you, so I really hope this doesn't come across as patronizing, but I think you could learn a lot from me, Lauren. I am a highly chill person, and I prioritize having fun and enjoying myself above everything else. You only live once, LC. Life is too short to waste time fretting over all the negativity these scumbags project on you. They only subject you to it because they're jealous; I understand, I'm pretty jealous of you myself. I mean, you're fucking fabulous! I generally try not to use the F-word on this blog, but I really required it for emphasis just there. Everybody needs a little flattery sometimes, so I may as well just come right out and tell you how incredibly gorgeous I think you are. Your icy-cool blonde beauty is reminiscent of Grace Kelly, a young Candice Bergen, and a whole bevy of other iconic WASPy babes. You're part of a tradition, girl! Also: your personal style is pretty much impeccable. You put all those other boring L.A. celebutantes to shame. I think you look especially pretty when you braid your bangs back into kind of a Heidi look- I mean the fictional Heidi who lived in the Swiss Alps, definitely not Heidi Montag.

So, Lauren, here's my big idea. I think it's time for you to take a little 'me time' to relax, unwind, and forget about all the bullshit drama you've had to deal with this past year. I think that you should come visit me in Toronto for a week; Oh my God, Laur & Laur, we'll have SO MUCH FUN. We can go thrift-shopping (real thrift-shopping, not just Decades or whatever), indulge ourselves in some decadent vegan baked goods (it makes me sad when you stress out about eating too many carbohydrates; your poor body needs carbs! Especially when they are healthy and whole-grain), and I have some records I think you might really like if you gave them a chance ('When I Think of You' by Twiggy; Something Else by the Kinks; Lizzy Mercier Descloux; All Things Must Pass; maybe the first couple Fiery Furnaces albums).

At night, we can drink cheap white wine out of paper bags in a park; it's really too bad that your life has ended up as such that you may not have gotten drunk in very many parks before. We need to change that, LC- it's about a thousand times more fun than table service at Les Deux, I swear it. Also, I know about seven thousand sweet dudes who would be totally into respecting and appreciating your beauty, intelligence and innate elegance. I don't mean to be intrusive, but I suspect that you've been so unlucky in love this past little while because you tend to pick boys who are beyond beneath you. I mean, I get the appeal of bad boys, but sometimes you have to prioritize sustainability over sexiness. If there is one thing I want to stress to you above all else, it is to CUT BRODY JENNER OUT OF YOUR LIFE FOREVER. Seriously, Lauren. I know the two of you have a spark, but really, that jerk-off doesn't even deserve to be in the same room as you. He's insipid.

So, if you're reading this, go ahead and drop me an e-mail: laura@nogoodforme.com. I know I'm being a little forward by pitching that you come visit some weird Internet girl who could be a total psycho, but we can take our friendship slower if need be. If you ever need somebody to talk to who isn't totally vapid and empty, I'm your man.

Take care of yourself, Girl!

Be well,
Laura Jane.

Cool Dudes Doing Cool Things: Jefferson Hack Wears a Derek Jarman T-Shirt, Ryan McGinley Wears Many Neat Outfits

The title of this entry really just says it all, doesn't it? I always loved Jefferson Hack, even before he got Kate Moss to be his baby mama. But this picture would be cool even if he weren't the Hack because he's wearing a friggin' DEREK JARMAN t-shirt as he DJs at the first night of The Hoxton Pony party. Being a film-type of human being, obviously I worship Derek Jarman as a paragon of experimental cinema, plus Jarman directed some Smiths videos and that kind of makes it all instantly, timelessly awesome. I now really want a Derek Jarman t-shirt, too. Thanks a lot, Jefferson, for ruining my sartorial Zen.

Now let's move onto Ryan McGinley, whom many of you know as an ace art photographer who is slowly infiltrating the fashion world in a quest for passive-aggressive visual culture dominance. Dude is everywhere, but when someone dresses this cool, ubiquity is almost like a public service. Here he does some fashion show-and-tell for Vice, and they don't make fun of him at all! That's because he can get away with a sort of Trash Can Sinatra-meets-skater-kid-meets-Wes-Anderson kind of thing. Oh, and I love his gold Dior boots that Hedi Slimane gave him. However, I don't have a yearning for them, which makes me feel a little more balanced about life.

This is McGinley wearing seersucker. He beats out even Chuck Bass in his ability to somehow subvert the preppiness, managing to invoke both Gatsby and anti-Gatsby at once. How does he do it, I wonder?

RIP Robert Rauschenberg

Last night, I was in a really rotten mood and watching a twenty-four hour news channel. I find that when I am feeling intensely angry at life for being so consistently unfair, the most reasonable coping tactic is to channel my rage into an over-the-top parody of spite and indignation. On this particular occasion, I did so by feigning profound horror and revulsion at every single item that popped up on the news ticker. Actor James Garner suffers minor stroke, a headline read. "OH MY GOD," I yelled, "THAT IS SO HORRIBLY TRAGIC. WHAT THE HELL. LIFE IS EVIL THIS IS A TRAVESTY!" punctuating my routine with some fake sobs.

After ten or twelve rounds of unsubtle though hilarious pantomime, good old life threw me quite the case of "Boy Who Cried Wolf" syndrome when the crawler announced, "Artist Robert Rauschenberg dies at age 82," and I gasped, genuinely upset by that slice of news. In actuality, it is in no way tragic or even sad that Robert Rauschenberg died. Eighty-two is a pretty respectable age to live to, and he certainly aced life compared to the vast majority of human beings. But Rauschie and I go back a long way, so it hit harder than it might've otherwise.

I spent three years of my life interning and/or working at a nonprofit arts organization that Rauschie founded in 1963 with two other mid-century art world heavy-hitters, Jasper Johns and John Cage. The absolute best part of that legendarily killer job was the fact that the door to our office was not only a functioning door, but also a Rauschenberg sculpture constructed from cardboard boxes and mailers. It was beautiful, and scrappily so. Opening a door that was also a one of a kind Rauscenberg certainly added an element of flutter and intrigue to one of the most boring and unexceptional actions of all life. It was hard not to think about what a very lucky girl I was when opening the Rauschie door, even though I lived in constant fear of tripping into it, ruining it forever and being $500,000 in debt to Jasper Johns.

Anyway, everybody and their brother loves Robert Rauschenberg. He's a real artist's artist- you could never look at a Rauschenberg and boringly ask, "Why is this art?"; more than most, it just obviously is. His work is aesthetically awesome in a way that would be as appealing to a four-year-old as it would be to a gutter-punk or my grandmother, but simultaneously cerebral enough to get Clement Greenberg all in a dither over it. He'll be remembered forever, so goody goodbye to you, sweet Rauschie.

Oh, and look what a darling little chicken wing he was in his youth!

nogoodforme superlatives: TV's most endearing assholes

Gossip Girl's Chuck Bass

In truth, there is nothing "endearing" about Gossip Girl's resident bad boy and king of smarm Chuck Bass, the good-for-nothing heir apparent to some corporate fortune and budding burlesque club impresario. He's just a plain old asshole. And there's nothing that really redeems him as a character; he's practically a date-rapist, for God's sake, and he boned his best friend's girlfriend after watching her do some sexy dance on a stage! He's also petulant, egotistical, conniving, bratty, slutty, greedy, venal and so many things that I'd find absolutely horrifying and puke-inducing if he were a real human being. Luckily, though, he's played by a preternaturally hot British actor with mystifyingly awesome hair, and he exists in stories so wonderfully, addictively trashy, dramatic and straight up fun that you can't help but be excited when he pops up -- because you pretty much know the party's about to start, and you know he'll get the best lines in the scene, which Ed Westwick delivers with such heavy-lidded flair you kind of can't help but swoon. But the best thing about Chuck Bass is obviously his fashion sense -- it's a real testament to your talent and style when you can wear such mind-alteringly bright clothes and such preppy bowties and seersucker and not seem like a marshmallow. He's on his way to icon status with such bold choices, and you know what else? He's only a junior!

The real question is -- when is he going to get back with Blair?!!!!!! Who cares about Dan and Serena?! SO OVER IT!!!

Entourage's Ari Gold

Ari Gold.

Are there any two more delectable words in the entire English language? I honestly doubt it. My love for Ari Gold is so deep, so true, so passionate, unending, and at times unnerving, that even just hearing his name makes me smile as wild as the man himself. If I could choose a song to sing to Ari Gold as a tool for communicating my adoration, it would be "Wild Thing" by the Troggs. Ari Gold, you make everything... groovy.

I barely even think its fair to call Ari Gold an asshole. Yes, it's true: Ari is brash, insensitive, offensive, shallow and obnoxious. But just because somebody's a loudmouth, it doesn't mean they're a bad person. I wish I could holler that exact statement to the world while wearing aviator sunglasses and a skintight black leather catsuit, standing upon an elevated podium a la Geri Halliwell in the video for "Spice Up Your Life" (if you want to know exactly what I mean, fast-forward two minutes and fifty seconds into this totally bone-chilling vid).

Just like Ari Gold, I have been forced to endure massive amounts of criticism and subsequent suffering in my life because the vast majority of the world's boring Normie population can't handle a little type A to "spice up their lives" (as it were). Well, they can all go to hell, Archie Bell & the Drells. If it weren't for termagant but pragmatic scoundrels like Ari and I running loose, there would be no world at all. Ari is the kind of a man who gets shit done. He makes it happen. And then, after he's done doing shit and having it happen, he hugs it out. Would an asshole ever want to hug something out? Obviously not. Assholes punch people in the face. Follow my train of thought? Ari Gold is a good, good man.

The captivating effervescence and appeal of Ari Gold mostly stems from the complex junction between good and evil that so defines his character. Ari Gold never bullshits. Ari Gold is the most honest man there ever was. He says exactly what he means: sometimes it's kind of nice, often it's mind-blowingly rude. But I'd rather be rude and trustworthy than sweet and phony. Which leads me to the crux of my pro-Ari argument:

Ari Gold and I belong together.

Don't worry, it's as surprising to me as I'm sure it is to you. But maybe you should stop being so surface for a second! Ari may not be fey or meta- or chiseled or play the bass in an obscure late-sixties baroque-psych band, but I know so deeply in my heart that our relationship would be as functional as either of we two firecrackers could ever manage. While I do think his relationship with Mrs. Ari is very cute, she just isn't enough for him. Ari needs somebody who'll respond to his verbal abuse with eloquently delivered Simone de Beauvoir quotes, throw a tin can at his head, or give him an Indian sunburn. Ari needs to meet his match. Ari needs me.

Ari Gold is the John Lennon of Entourage (in case you're wondering: Eric is Paul, Turtle is George, Vincent Chase is Ringo, and Johnny Drama is, I don't know, Neil Aspinall or Jane Asher or the Maharishi or something). Season Five should be all about his falling in love with a scrappy, whimsically-minded fashion blogger/conceptual artist, starring me as Yoko Ono/myself. Together, we would stroll seaside in matching all-white (as he so suavely wore in Season Four's Cannes episodes). Let's storm this beach like it's fuckin' Normandy, Laura Jane, Ari would say.

And then we would hug it out.

Thankfully for me, you, and everyone else on the planet, some genius made this ten-minute "Best of Ari Gold" video and posted it to Youtube for all the world to see. Check it out, and then pack that bitch, Chop Suey!

PS: What do you think Ari Gold's zodiac sign is? I kind of suspect he's a Scorpio, but that may just be wishful thinking on my part. (Laura)

Veronica Mars's Logan Echolls

I'm having a really hard time with this one. At one point I was gonna give up and write about Jack Donaghy instead of Logan Echolls, but then I realized that Jack's softened up so much over the course of 30 Rock This Town, Rock It Inside Out, he hardly even fits into the "asshole" category at all anymore. (Saint Jackie Boy? Seems probable.) It's all very odd, since endearing-assholeness is chief among my most valued personality traits: In fact, if I ever end up telling you, "You're such an asshole - but in an endearing way!", it definitely means I've fallen in love with you (whoops!).

What's the problem, then? The problem is NO ONE ON YOUTUBE posts Veronica Mars videos that appropriately honor the glory of Logan Echolls's psychotic jackassery. It's all these weird slo-mo montages of Logan and Veronica making out in the bathroom, set to wretched emo-pop or sometimes even George Michael's "Careless Whisper." And while I'll readily admit to actually gasping out loud the first time Logan and Veronica finally sucked face, I'm much more interested in watching him attack her Chrysler LeBaron with a crowbar. 'Cause without all that crazy violence peppered with the constant spitting-out of smart-ass one-liners, you're kind of left going, "Wait, why do I love this yellow-Hummer-driving almost-frat-boy in the puka-shell necklace?", and it just gets real confusing.

So here's the evidenced-nowhere-on-YouTube genius of Logan Echolls: Unlike all those teen dramas in which the bad boy ultimately reveals his heart of gold and finds redemption, this kid just kind of keeps fucking up over and over. He does some truly vile things (ringleading homeless-boxing matches, dating Paris Hilton), then later proves his valor (and, yes, utter gold-heartedness), only to turn bad again - then good, then bad, so pretty soon you figure out good and bad are inextricably, fantastically, and maybe tragically tangled up when it comes to this tortured little rich boy. That's we love our dearly departed VM - it's so slickly dark that you might not even realize how bleak the subtext is till you're writing a mini-treatise about Logan Echolls for your style blog. God, why'd it have to end??

Anyway, since you're not going to find the true spirit of Logan Echolls anywhere inside your magic computer, better just Netflix the whole damn series. At first you'll be like, "Dude, this guy sucks!" But at some point on the second disc of season one you'll learn what made Logan the irresistibly awful boy he is today, and from then on every time "Ventura Highway" by America comes on the classic-rock or oldies station your heart will just ache and ache. It's 9,000% worth it. (Liz)

Imaginary Shopping Spree: Givenchy sandals, new-wave accessorizing, problematically-named watches

Givenchy Lace Up Sandals, shopbop.com

This entry exists purely in the imagination, where money is no object and the ability to walk is not necessary. (I guess we all just float on a cloud of joy and prosperity in the imagination.) Anyway, these Givenchy sandals are a thing of beauty and an example of the intersection of extreme glamour and insanity, because who could stay upright in them? And what is up with Givenchy these days, anyway? I don't know what head designer Riccardo Tisci is doing there, but damn if I suddenly don't want nearly everything from the label these days. It's rock-luxe at its classical best. Everytime I think I'm over it, something like these just reel me back in. (Kat)

Missing Persons pin, Second Coming's Etsy shop

Yes, that's all: Just a tiny little $5 Missing Persons pin. What I really want today, if you must know, is a Plimsouls shirt. But apparently such a thing does not exist: I seriously can't find one damn Plimsouls tee in all the Internet. The reason I'm so obsessed is I just watched Valley Girl for the first time ever, and the "Million Miles Away" scene seems like the most romantic thing in the world to me right now, and I want to pay tribute. Plus I'd kinda like to be the girl version of Randy, though when it comes down to it I'm basically fine to just bask in Nic Cage's new-wavey dreamboatness. I'm generally not so new-wavey myself but I dig on Missing Persons, who've been on my mind grapes lately due to the vocal similarities between their singer and our new crush Santogold. Not sure if I'm crazy enough about them to actually fork over the few bucks for the pin, but if I did I'm sure I'd be truly dazzling. (Liz)

Elroy Jetson watch, tokyoflash.com

The formal name of this watch is actually "Pimpin' Ain't Easy," but I refuse to associate either myself or nogoodforme.com with the total lameness of that term's obnoxious colloquialization. Not to mention the fact that the design of this watch is in no way connected to any imagery I would ever associate with pimping or its potential difficulty/ease. I barely ever wear watches or care about them at all, since time obviously doesn't exist and is merely an illusion created by Hippocrates or Thomas Jefferson or Father Corporation designed to over-regiment the daily lives of human beings and discourage spontaneity. Therefore, I would only ever purchase a watch based on its aesthetic sexiness, allowing it to function more as a bracelet than a device for telling the "time." Most watches totally suck anyway: they all look like something Tory Burch would wear. This one is cool because of its gold overkill and how it is vaguely reminiscent of Josef Albers' Grid Mounted latticework. Plus, its particular method of time-telling is so unfamiliar, I would be even less likely than usual to fall into the evil and oppressive trap of "hours" or "minutes" or "days". That's it. I'm officially boycotting time. What time is it? NOTHING-o-clock. (Laura)

I'm so into Michael Showalter's new blog

For me life is funnest when there's lots of Stella-related things happening. Like when I went to see Michael Showalter and Michael Ian Black at the Ivar Theater last fall, and Showalter did a story about losing big in a poker game and then driving home in the rain to Radiohead's "Everything in its Right Place," and oh how madly we all giggled. Or when I was sitting in a coffee shop in Venice Beach last week and David Wain walked in and I fell off my chair in happiness (metaphorically anyway). And here's one bit of Stella-y goodness we can all enjoy: Michael Showalter's got a new music blog for Spin.com, and so far it's definitely the best music blog in the whole world. The first installment's a nice little round-up of superlatives, which is probably a tribute to nogoodforme's own superlatives column (right, Michael Showalter?). A few gems:

Least Favorite Band of All-Time: The Grateful Dead (Date-rapey dudes and rich girls in tye-dyes, smoking bongs that look like roller coasters at Great Adventure. Not cool.)

Best Kick A Rusty Can & Contemplate Suicide Song: "Wave of Mutilation" by The Pixies

Best Really Fast & Socially Conscious Fuck Music: Fugazi

+ Continue reading "I'm so into Michael Showalter's new blog"

Ch-Ch-Changes: We Got A Makeover!

If you haven't noticed, nogoodforme.com did some remodeling this weekend and now we have a new look to show off for it! We're soon to turn five (FIVE!) years old and thought we'd treat ourselves to a fresh new design as part of the upcoming festivities. We're still working out some kinks and you might want to pardon our dust here and there, but check out our makeover (including an amped up About Us page) and let us know what you think! (And keep your eye out soon for a fun giveaway and grooviness all around!)

Bits and Pieces: Donatemydress.org, Loyale at Coco's Shoppe, Chako Private Sale at Clarabella

+ Come on, now, you know you've got a bunch of old bridesmaid and prom dresses gathering dust in the back of your closet. Why not donate it to donatemydress.org and help make someone's night special and fun?

+ The spring/summer collection of one of our favorite eco-friendly lines, Loyale, is now available at cocosshoppe.com. Pretty sweet.

+ Chako makes purses and bags from vintage obi and kimono cloth -- and if you know anything about textiles, you know that this means gorgeous. Clarabella in NYC is having a special private sale on Wednesday, May 14, 2008 from 6 to 9pm, and wines and refreshments will be served.

+ Catherine Malandrino Sample Sale! May 14th -16th, 2008, Metropolitan Pavilion, Gallery 123 West 18th Street 4th Floor, MasterCard, Visa, American Express accepted. More info here: www.savvynyc.com.

A nogoodforme Magnum Opus: The Men, I Mean Dudes, Behind the Magic

We love doling out little hits of fashion, style, music and other goodness here, but sometimes we like to get a little in-depth and super-obsesso about our loves and passions. Until we get to publish our epic compilation essay collection, which will no doubt be jam-packed with the verve and eccentricity you've come to expect from nogoodforme.com, we decided to start a longer essay series, which we encourage you to print out and read on the subway, at the cafe, at lunch, or when you're at the library and want to look like you're studying instead blowing off your Western Civ paper. (Unless, of course, you're the reckless type who likes to read long essays straight off the computer screen. I know some of you out there live on the edge that way.) Today, Laura Jane will kick us off with a characteristically cynical-yet-saccharine ode to four dudes, four amazing records, and pop music's quadruply magical capacity for getting under your fingernails and transforming you forever. This "hyper-solo essay" is the culmination of a lifetime spent monomaniacally scouring the world for the most dashing, potent, transcendental and euphoric songs ever recorded to tape, and it is dedicated to all you other foolish geniuses who recognize the worthiness of such a pursuit.

Some Preparatory Listening Material:

Roy Wood, "Songs of Praise"
Matthew Friedberger, "Up the River"
Paul McCartney, "Dear Boy"
Van Dyke Parks, "The Attic"
Roy Wood, "Rock Down Low"
Matthew Friedberger, "I Started Drinking Alcohol at the Age of Eleven"
Paul McCartney, "Uncle Albert/Admiral Halsey"
Van Dyke Parks, "Vine Street"

+ Continue reading "A nogoodforme Magnum Opus: The Men, I Mean Dudes, Behind the Magic"

Snapshot: Listening, Watching, Reading, Wearing, Wanting

+ Kat

Listening: Portishead, Third (yay!); Madonna, Hard Candy (more yay!); No Age, Nouns (even more yay!); and to be honest, that's pretty much all I can handle these days.
Watching: GOSSIP GIRL. OMFG indeed!
Reading: I'm still reading Snow by Orhan Pamuk and it's pretty amazing.
Wearing: Daryl K tank top, J Brand skinny jeans, my trusty brown suede slouchy boots, the grey flannel schoolboy blazer I always wear. Dudes, I'm just trying to get through my week here.
Wanting: A real vacation, like for realz.

+ Liz

Listening: Madonna, Hard Candy; No Age, Nouns; Ver Sacrum, "Coco General Mdse."; a few tracks off Pacific Ocean Blue by Dennis Wilson; a few tracks off the new Oasis record. And for some reason I keep listening to "New Age Girl" by Deadeye Dick, that reason probably being the line in the chorus that goes "She don't eat meat/But she sure likes the bone" (yay for stupid genius). And this doesn't really make sense to include here, but can I just tell you how WEIRD it is when you walk past Hooters and they're blasting "Possession" by Sarah McLachlan???
Watching: Back to the Beach (BEST MOVIE EVER); the trailer for Pineapple Express
Reading: Rolling Stone's riveting feature on The Hills; The List still
Wearing: I'm pretty much still into that get-up I broke down for yall the other day: superthin green-striped deep-V-necked hooded sweater over Billabong tank + blue jeans + Converse Glitter Skimmer Slip-Ons. The shoes are funny: wicked ridiculous, and wearing them makes adorable English girls strike up conversations with me at traffic lights and adorable skater boys stop me on Vine Street to ask if I like their pants. Kinda fun.
Wanting: a chocolate peanut butter Moonpillow mochi truffle (it's "creamy chocolate-peanut butter ganache enrobed in cocoa mochi" - hello, heaven)

+ Laura

Listening: The Small Faces, Ogden's Nut Gone Flake; Curt Boettcher, Chicken Little was Right; assorted awesomeness and/or total garbage via the sweetest (double entendre!) mp3 blog on the entire Internet, Bubblegum Soup
Watching: Last Year at Marienbad; I rented Walk Hard: the Dewey Cox Story because I wanted to watch the Beatles part. The Beatles part was really good. I am now officially participating in a fantasy relationship with Paul Rudd as John Lennon. Our chemistry is off the chain.
Reading: The Great Gatsby; the RFK issue of Vanity Fair: for the RFK, not the Vanity Fair. VF sucks, but RFK is another fantasy boyfriend of mine, though in actuality I wouldn't want to have much to do with the Kennedy Curse. The Laura Curse is tough enough as it is.
Wearing: Beatle Boots; little boys' brown corduroy blazer (it fits like a dream, except the one downside of wearing so much little boys' clothing is that the sleeves are always too short!); my super cool hearts & keys headscarf from Amerikan Beagle Mousefitters- it's the prettiest raspberry milkshake colour. It really brings out the green in my eyes, in case you're interested.
Wanting: I want my beloved "In Memory of John" pin back. I lost it today, somewhere between Future Shop and the organic food store. I scored it in an aggressive eBay duke out a year ago and have managed to incorporate it into my outfit pretty much every day ever since (I enforce a "two pieces of John Lennon flair MINIMUM" rule within the madcap landscape of my personal style, not counting my Lennon tattoo). It has a lot of sentimental value and it breaks my heart to think that it's dying in a gutter somewhere, although maybe some other Lennon lover will find it and have the score of his or her life. See? The Laura Curse is real.

You know you love me:

RFK being hot:

Heavy Rotation: Jan & Dean, No Age, the Stooges + More

Death and sexual mayhem are the subtexts we're working with for this edition of Heavy Rotation. As always, the jukebox's on the homepage and the angst is in your heart.

Jan & Dean, "Dead Man's Curve"
I love surf a whole lot, but nowhere near as much as I'll love surf in a couple months from now: my annual bout of SoCal-centricity tends to reach its fever pitch around mid-July, for obvious reasons. Jan & Dean's tragically unrecognized Drag City is one of my all-time favorite records; its a proto-concept album about all the different types of cars (hearses, "schlock rods," Stingrays, Popsicle trucks) and all the different things you can do in said cars (drag race, give girls the time, drag race). "Dead Man's Curve" is one of the most breathtaking songs I've ever heard, and is easily the most melodramatic pop song of the sixties. It's one of my favorite songs to DJ- it's fun to watch people's faces go ashen at the theatrical intro, then flip out as it reaches its thrilling climax. This song is also pretty amazing to walk around listening to on headphones, if you're able to resist the urge to act out a pantomime of the hyper-engaging narrative. I rarely am. So if you ever see me running down the street punching the air and miming a car crash, you can safely bet that there I was, on "Dead Man's Curve." (Laura)

Kasenetz-Katz Super Circus, "Quick Joey Small"
This is the second-most punk rock song of all time, trumped only by Count Five's "Psychotic Reaction." That's all. (Laura)

No Age, "Things I Did When I Was Dead"
If you're into doing as you're told, you will have already purchased a copy of No Age's new record Nouns by this point. And if not, maybe this track will urge you in the right direction. You could get the record on iTunes, but then you'd miss out on its accompanying booklet of beautiful pictures, so better to head on down to your local record store or Insound or wherevs else you please. I fully guarantee that more of those slasher-movie effects and droney vocals and really pretty guitar will await you there, along with poppier/slammier stuff like "Ripped Knees" (which probably ties "Things I Dead When I Was Dead" for my personal favorite track off Nouns). It's all so triumphantly great, I've been spinning it even more than the new Madonna - and I LOVE the new Madonna!! (Liz)

The Beta Band, "Dry the Rain"
Speaking of record stores and Nouns, I was kinda hoping that when I went to dutifully buy my second copy at Amoeba on Tuesday, the checkout person would look at the CD and go "This is good," just so I could answer with a semi-smug/dickish "I know" a la John Cusack in High Fidelity. He does that a few times throughout the film, but the best is in the "Dry the Rain" scene. I'm not totally sure why, but that 30-second bit is one of my favorite parts in the whole movie - maybe it has do with my getting some possibly perverse pleasure out of watching people listen to music. I also adore that self-satisfied yet secretly curious expression on John Cusack's face as he glances around the store - totally priceless. Oh, and the song's just golden and so hopeful in that springtime-perfect sort of way. The Beta Band e bom! (Liz)

The Stooges, "Dirt"
I'm only doing one song this week, but it's like seven minutes long so it's like two tracks in one! How economical! Anyway, I feel like I should issue a warning before you listen to this. Don't worry, there aren't any really offensive lyrics or anything like that, unless the idea of Iggy Pop singing about how he's dirt but he's okay with it unnerves you in any way. Then you might not want to listen, because that's pretty much all he says here. No, I must warn you because this sexy, sweaty hot mess of a rock dirge might incite you to leap over your cubicle wall and make out with that guy from Sales or something. So be careful, okay? You never know what the Stooges will make you get up to or get down with; that's why they're so awesome. (Kat)

Sharon Tate's Threads

This is kind of intense, even for me: I was trolling the web in search of the latest "Gossip Girl" news (I'm totally hooked! Serena OMFG!!!) and discovered through this article that there's going to be an exhibition of slain actress Sharon Tate's clothes in L.A. later this summer. I don't know why this strikes me as really morbid -- most likely it's the gruesome constellation of facts surrounding Tate's murder in 1969. Tate was quite beautiful and fashionable back in the day, and it might be nice to remember her in ways other than the circumstances of her death -- but it still makes you go whoa, doesn't it?

We're Obsessed: Kate Lanphear, Brad Pitt of yesteryear, the healing properties of pop music

Kate Lanphear

I love how certain fashion editors inspire their own little cults. And while I obviously and enthusiastically love all the Vogue Paris ladies, I think I would apply for actual membership in the cult of Kate Lanphear, a senior fashion editor over at Elle. For one thing, her hair is straight-up awesome: it reminds me of this wickedly cute skater boy I had a crush on in middle school, especially with the super-blondeness and the way it hangs in the eye. And secondly, Kate has this kind of tomboyish, super-hot androgyne thing to her that actually looks fun and kicky without resorting to kookiness -- she's working with that strict fashion-ed vocabulary of little color and streamlined shapes, but it has a looseness about the way she does it that I love. And thirdly, I love that you see certain items she wears over and over again in her candid photos. That's just a cool thing. She's just a cool thing, you know? Total and absolute girl-crush. (Kat)

Brad Pitt

No, really: Brad Pitt! Not so much the Brad Pitt that actually exists today, although of course I give the double thumbs-up to his helping build sustainable homes in New Orleans. I'm thinking more like the pre-Brangelina Brad (Team Aniston!) - more specifically, the Brad Pitt who took on some real weird bit parts here and there, despite his heartthrob-superstar status. After writing about Snatch last week I went back and watched a bunch of his scenes and was charmed as hell all over again. And a little while ago I saw Kalifornia for the first time in maybe 10 years and got thoroughly creeped out by Brad as Juliette Lewis's drawling serial-killer boyfriend. And I always thought he was spectacular in 12 Monkeys, but no one ever agrees with me on that one.

My all-time favorite Brad Pitt moment, however, has to be his handful of scenes as Michael Rapaport's stoner roommate Floyd in True Romance. I was reading Entertainment Weekly the other day, and Judd Apatow was talking about how David Gordon Green's upcoming Pineapple Express was inspired by Floyd, which pretty much confirmed my suspicion that Pineapple Express might be the awesomest movie of the summer. Kinda sad that Brad-as-Floyd never got to have his own movie for reals, but James Franco's not a bad stand-in, and scenes like this one will forever live on in my heart. It's enough to make me wanna go dig up one of those "I <3 Brad Pitt" shirts they used to sell at the mall in 1993. (Liz)

Muxtapes, Music, Mania, May

Truthfully, I'm not all that obsessed with Muxtapes. I mean, I definitely think they're the coolest Internet phenomenon of the year (so far), and some of them are really good, but mostly I'm just obsessed with plain old music. That's always true of me, but sometimes its truer than other times, and this time of my life is probably the time when it has been truer than ever, not counting ages fifteen through seventeen, when my life was so utterly boring and unsatisfying that there really was nothing else to think about besides what my favorite songs on the Nuggets boxed set were. It just feels kind of redundant to have my weekly installment of "We're Obsessed" be "We're Obsessed: Music." It's kind of like, "We're Obsessed: Fashion," or, "We're Obsessed: Blogging," or, "We're Obsessed: We're Obsessed." I'm between jobs, between cities, between lives, closing in on a birthday that will leave me weirdly old, trying to quit biting my nails, and suddenly single. But guess what? I don't even care.

Escapism rules. Especially when your preferred form of escapism involves walking around listening to your favorite songs on headphones. I wanted to make the world a Muxtape composed of my killerest stash of "Walking down the street wearing sunglasses and ignoring everything in the world except for my own little zone-out bubble of hooky riffy melodication."

But, unfortunately for me (and you, by proxy), I have been engaged in a domestic dispute with muxtape.com all day long. For some reason, I am not allowed to make a Muxtape to share with all you fine nogoodforme readers. I don't understand it, and probably never will. Alls I know is that I have been pulling out chunks of my hair since this morning at eleven AM trying to make muxtape.com work for me, and it isn't.

Until my inability to functionally communicate with the Internet recedes, you can listen to Ver Sacrum's new song, "Coco General Mdse." It's a really good bad-day song, and can also be accessed and downloaded at Ver Sacrum's myspace, as always.

And, if my melodramatic ode to Depression-era East Coast living isn't enough for you, here are my three favorite Muxtapes of '08 so far:

1) My old DJing partner, Katie Rose, has an awesome poppy masterpiece up HERE (At very least, listen to "Hitchin' a Ride" by Vanity Fare; I swear it'll make your day)

2) Jackson's Muxtape is amphetaminesque as all get out and strikes a really tight balance between songs that make you want to "rock" and songs that make you want to "bliss out" via their melodic perfection.

3) Trevor's is really chill and perfectly mid-tempo. I'm all about mid-tempo these days. It sounds like life.

Enjoy, everybody! Feel free to send me your own Muxtapes- I'm always on the lookout for more gems to add to my Great May Distraction Soundtrack. (Laura)

Three things you absolutely need for sun protection

Summer's here! (Almost, anyway.) I couldn't be more psyched for many Saturdays spent frolicking in the surf at Zuma, but there's also that "eek" factor having to do with my intense of getting too much sun. The deal with me is that when I was 25 I had the worst kind of skin cancer, that very ugly word beginning with a very ugly "M." Blessedly, it was detected very, very early and everything was taken care of, which means now I've got some bad-ass scars on my back and could very well end up titling my memoir either Holy Moley! or Making Mountains Out of Molehills. Anyway, in my other life as a health writer, I recently wrote a story about skin-cancer prevention and learned a few new things that made me go, "Dude, if I don't already know all this stuff, what are the chances that most other girls do?" And so, here, I give you a little rundown of three things you absolutely need for sun protection. It barely covers all you need to know, and I'd strongly suggest reading this Green Guide story as well. (And this is probably the most important thing I've ever written here, even more critical than that bit about how Evan Dando and Bret Michaels are kind of the same person, so do listen up. Thank you.)

+ Continue reading "Three things you absolutely need for sun protection"

nogoodforme superlatives: Most Sartorially Inspiring Works of Fiction

Girl by Blake Nelson

Oh, how I love Girl! I can't even tell you how many times I've read this book; I could probably quote whole passages completely perfectly at this point in my life. It's got everything you'd want in a Young Adult novel: high school angst, minor drug usage, losing of virginities, breathless sentence construction and confusing identity crises, all set amidst a local music scene that smacks of the intersection of grunge and riot grrrl in the early 1990s. I find Girl sartorially inspiring less for its grunge aesthetic and more for its musings on fashion itself, delivered mostly through the main character of Andrea Marr, who finds herself navigating complicated friendships and high school loyalties, not to mention a wickedly fierce crush and affair with local rocker Todd Sparrow. (Todd Sparrow! How I wish you were real, because you are incredibly hot and Sean Patrick Flannery's portrayal of you in the iffy movie adaptation does not come close to rendering that at all!) In a quest to beef up her college app, Andrea starts working on the school newspaper, where she manages to write a fashion column that mostly documents her musings on style and the style of her best friend, the mysterious, enigmatic Cybil, the lead singer of local band Sins of Our Fathers. (I always envisioned Cybil a bit like Tobi Vail of Bikini Kill, actually.) There's tons of fun little fashion details, like how cool girl Carla wears saddle shoes, and Andrea's cow dress, and discussing the "cycles of cool," and going to the "right" vintage stores as opposed to the wrong ones. (It's those kind of details that make me marvel that Girl was written by a boy and not a girl.) The long and the short of it, though, is that I read something in Girl that encapsulates my entire understanding of fashion, which I always draw upon to explain the intensity of fashion to straight indie rock dudes, and which is this: And I realized the whole thing about fashion or writing about fashion or even thinking about fashion was confidence. You had to be confident and other people had to have confidence in you. Because it was all about intimidation and having the nerve to pull things off and daring to say, "This is cool and this is not." Fashion was sports for girls and that's why Cybil was so good at it because she was always confident and she always wanted to compete and she always won. It's enough to make me wonder if I'm channelling the voice of Andrea Marr when I'm writing this blog. Which I probably am. Her and Chuck Klosterman. (Kat)








The Dangerous Angels books by Francesca Lia Block

Yesterday at a newsstand by the beach I was reading Rolling Stone's review of a record you really need to buy right now, and the first line said something about how Los Angeles is supposedly the "center of plastic glamour." (This from a magazine with Heidi "Poster Girl for Natural Beauty" Montag on the cover - what hogwash!) Hackneyed though it may be, that shit always takes me aback - partly because I live in a part of town that's not so very plastic, and partly because some of my earliest and most enduring perceptions of L.A. glamour were largely informed by the books of Miss Francesca Lia Block.

In my late teens/early 20s I ate up Weetzie Bat and Witch Baby and imagined Los Angeles to be this magical land crawling with beach hippies and surf rats and old-school punks and Sunset Strip rock-and-rollers and "Lankas in spandy wear," all existing in the same space and getting their beautiful freakishness all mixed up together. I fell for it so hard, in fact, I ended up moving here from all the way across the country. (And I know I credit my L.A. move to someone different practically every week on this blog, but if I were actually capable of computer-generating a pie chart, the breakdown of cultural influences on the relocation of my life would probably go something like this: 66 percent to various testosterone-abundant rock bands fronted by surfers, 30 percent to Francesca Lia Block, and 4 percent to - of course - the movie Point Break.) Having lived here almost five years now and consumed at least one pastrami burrito at Oki Dog, I'm happy to report that, even though that plastic glamour is very much alive and kicking, so is that crazy mish-mash of beautiful freakishness. Sometimes you've got to look real close to pick up on it, but that just makes it all the more special for me. And so I'd never ever trade it for some other far less plastically glamorous city, or even for all the world.

And I was just about to clarify that FLB's no longer much of a straight-up influence on my personal fashion sense, but then I looked down and realized I'm wearing a half-grunge/half-garish green-striped hooded sweater over a Billabong tank top, with seriously beat-up secondhand jeans and glitter-covered Converse slip-on sneakers - so nevermind to that. I did give up wearing Crayola glitter glue on my eyelids sometime in 1997, however. (Liz)

The Group by Mary McCarthy

I devoured this 500-pager in a week last week; by the time I'd finished the first page, I was spellbound- hook, line and sinker. What a grand feeling it is! To read but one page of a novel and know, already, that you're reading one of your favorite things you've ever read. I recommend The Group to everyone in the world. This novel candidly discusses "things that happen to women" with a stark but objective accuracy and complete lack of pretense. I wish somebody had told me to read The Group when I was twelve or thirteen; it would've made the past ten years of my life considerably less stressful. Mary McCarthy's voice and style reminds me of a sassier J.D Salinger: her ability to capture the idiosyncratic beauty of daily minutae definitely parallels, say, Raise High the Roof Beams, Carpenters, but without the bitter, melancholic undertones that plague old Jerome David Sal. McCarthy's prose and narratives are celebratory. Her writing is light as bubbles blown from soap, buzzing along and off the page, like a flute of the rose champagne her "girls" would down at one of Libby MacAusland's famous soirees. There is no plot-driving device more appealing to me than "a bunch of women with constrasting personalities doing things": it's like a cerebral/feminist version of the Babysitters Club or Sex and the City. That sounds terrible, but really- the fact that I love Elinor "Lakey" Eastlake the best of all The Group is driven by the same part of me that encouraged my childhood adoration of Claudia Kishi and/or my teenage preoccupation with transforming myself into a regular Carrie Bradshaw (ew, barf- I can't believe I just owned up to that in a public forum).

The Group has taken over nearly every aspect of my life in this latter half of April 2008. Over the course of my reading it, the following has happened:

1) I've decided to put out a zine called Group Reduxion, which will be a collection of short stories loosely based on the members of McCarthy's Group, only based upon experiences from mine and all my best friends' lives.

2) I wrote a song completely ripped from The Group's dialogue; it's a Village Green-y ode to Depression-era New York, chock-full of references to the Astors and Rockefellers, The Boston School Cookbook and Lucy Stonerism.

3) I have successfully incorporated the phrase "Like it or lump it" into my vocabulary.

4) I've decided that if I ever get married in New York City, the whole wedding party is boarding the F-train to Coney Island in celebration, just like Kay Strong and Harald Peterson. Except for that in crappy 2000-and-whenever-the-hell, Coney Island is gone daddy gone for the most part, but whatever, so long as I've got the Wonder Wheel, I can cope. But seriously: an impromptu post-espousal jaunt to Coney? Could anything be more charming?

5) I watched Sidney Lumet's 1966 film adaptation of the novel:

It was pretty great, though I was pretty miffed by how Candice Bergen played Lakey, but they DIDN'T DYE HER HAIR BROWN. Now, Candice Bergen circa 1966 is, no exaggerations, the most beautiful woman in the world to me. I am 100% in support of her being cast as Lakey: nobody does East Coast upper-coast ice queen quite like the young Murphy Brown. But OKAY: Lakey is a BRUNETTE. That is SO IMPORTANT. Actually, she's not even a brunette; she's the brunette. Casting a blonde as Elinor "Lakey" Eastlike is about as dumb as casting a blonde as Veronica Lodge. NOT COOL.

6) Luckily for the world, I re-cast myself as Lakey about a week ago. I star in my own little adaptation of The Group every single day: smoking 100s, bothering to put lipstick on, forgoing Diet Coke in favor of soda water cut with vanilla syrup, which seems like something a Group member would drink. Doesn't it? In fact, I am so committed to looking like a legitimate member of Vassar's Class of '33 that a couple days ago, I actually TRAVELLED BACK IN TIME to 1934. The proof's in the pudding:

I bought my jaunty little beret, seen at left, at Mr. Macy's after a lovely tea service with Dottie Renfrew over at the Plaza. At right, I am sporting a genuine letterman sweater, which can barely be seen, because, I'll have you know, these photographs were taken long before the days of Photoshop contrast adjustments. My letter is "L," as in Lakey. And you will also notice the presence of my locket, which holds a picture of my beau, a fair-haired Nick Carraway type.

Time Travel-- if that's not devotion, I don't know what is. (Laura)

Soundtracks: Santogold

I wanted to be able to write a huge old beautifully-articulated magnum opus about Santogold and her debut record, so it is with great regret that I'm so crazed and manic these days with Life Outside the Blog that I'm reduced to reviewing her record in five paragraphs or less. Which sucks, because it's not often you come across a woman (of color) in the current musical landscape making genuinely interesting, insanely catchy pop music that's so good and smart, it deserves every bit of name-drop, blog-hype, tv-placement and boutique-wallpaper it gets. With her seductive, adroitly confident mix of everything from New Wave to dub to 80s British melancholy to pure pop id, she's revelation wrapped up in hooks and brutally infectious melodies. She's going to take over and your whole summer will be permeated with her music everywhere you go, and you know what? That's why your summer will rock.

+ Continue reading "Soundtracks: Santogold"

Imaginary Shopping Spree: Camilla Norrback, J. Crew, Skeem Candles

Camilla Norrback flounce top, kaightshop.com

In New York I'm constantly popping into Ekovaruhuset and Castor & Pollux to gaze longingly at stuff by Camilla Norrback -- I have such a clothes-crush on her line. This top by Swedish eco-designer satisfies my craving for all things perfectly simple yet gently feminine. Lately I appreciate things that have a certain gracefulness to them and this is what that feels like for me. I'd totally wear this with a beautifully dark, simple skinny jean and gold gladiator sandals (so it doesn't get too gentle, you know.) Throw on a sharp little jacket and it's perfect and easy, and man, do I ever need things to be easy these days. (Kat)

It's J.Crew time! Laura's picks for summer '08, jcrew.com

J.Crew is the best store in the world. As far as I'm concerned, it's cooler than Opening Ceremony, Colette, A.P.C, and Keith Richards put together. I don't even want to imagine how boring and bad my style would be if J.Crew didn't deal in surprisingly well-tailored Kennedy Compound basics, all waiting patiently for me to swoop in and J.Crack up their haughty good taste.

Here are my six most J.Crucial picks of the season:

(clockwise from top left):

1) I've recently fallen in love with sherbet-y pastel color palettes, so this little boys' paneled Oxford sportcoat really strikes the right chord (F sharp) in me. Good masc/fem balance.

2) The surf-scene mini would in most cases come across as stupid in a Hollister/Abercrombie way, but the appeal of J.Crew is that they always get it: the beachy-bie illustration reads as way more "milkshakes at the drive-in while listening to Jan & Dean" than "SoCal 16-year-old drinking keg beer out of a red plastic cup and grinding to Chris Brown."

3) Wouldn't the world be a perfect place if men weren't afraid to wear paisley batik-print trousers? Yes, but I've pretty much resigned myself to the fact that this will never happen. Instead, I'll have to make do with wearing them myself, paired with Beatle boots, a grey wifebeater, and...

4) A hand-painted enamel lobster bangle: this is what Ariel from The Little Mermaid would wear if she and Eric retired to Greenpoint and opened up a contemporary design shoppe. Clearly a look I'm always trying to cultivate.

5) This full-zip fleece hoody looks like the best-fitting hoody there ever was: it's hard to find the exact perfect balance of laziness and not-total-laziness in a hoody; I think this one hits it nicely.

6) If I had this whisper silk button-down to class up cut-off jean shorts and flip-flops, I'd be all set for the rest of my life. If you don't feel ready to take on the world in a metallic silver Oxford, you never will. Look how happy the model looks! It's not a pose. It's how anybody would feel wearing this shirt. Thank the Lord for June birthdays! Silver Oxford, we will be together soon, I promise. (Laura)


Skeem's Lantern Candles

I'm kind of obsessed with scented candles, which is a really cliched and dumb thing for a girl to be obsessed with, but there it is. Because I'm cheap sometimes, I usually end up buying less-than-gorgeous pillars at Target or wherever, but what I really want is every last candle from Skeem's lantern collection. They're nice and big (32 ounces), made from soy wax and packaged in beautiful silk-screened jars that are reusable as drinking glasses once the candle's burned down (just stick it in the freezer to get rid of the leftover wax). If you live in L.A. you can buy Skeem at lovely Le Pink; if not, get thee to Nooks & Niches. (Liz)

Snapshot: Listening, Watching, Reading, Wearing, Wanting

+ Kat

Listening: The Fiery Furnaces; the Wipers; Unwound; SANTOGOLD!!! which is utterly awesome and you can read my treatise about it next week; the imaginary soundtrack of the screenplay I'm outlining now which features everything from Sonic Youth to Bell Biv Devoe to Danzig. You can guess what kind of movie it will be. Or...can you?
Watching: A lot of short films in the Columbia University Film Festival. Go! Oh, and "Gossip Girl." Yes, people, I'm hooked!
Reading: I finished Jennifer Egan's Look at Me and I am really stunned by it. Not only is it an interesting novel of ideas about image culture and identity that would make Don Delillo proud, but it is set in my hometown of Rockford, Illinois. I mean, NO ONE writes about Rockford. It's amazing! I knew exactly what Egan was writing about in the novel when she mentioned something Rockfordian. It is a really uncanny feeling when you read a book that knows your hometown so well. I'm also in the middle of Raymond Carver's Cathedral and Snow by Orhan Pamuk. Someone wrote in once and asked me how I have time to read so much; well, I don't know -- I'm an insomniac and I read fast. That must help.
Wearing: Beau Soleil sweatshirt dress worn as an actual sweatshirt; Sworn Virgins leggings; brown suede slouchy boots.
Wanting: Oh, God, I cannot wait till I am done shooting my non-thesis film for school.

+ Liz

Listening: Richard Ashcroft, Alone with Everybody; Jane's Addiction; Cold War Kids; Bananarama; Roy Orbison; Yeasayer
Watching: Oh, mostly just Entourage and The Hills; what else is there, really?
Reading: I randomly picked up The List by Tara Ison off the shelf at the library the other day, read the first page, and decided to take it home. I like it so far.
Wearing: this dress
Wanting: a really old Jane's Addiction shirt and a tree bed

+ Laura

Listening: I woke up this morning and knew in my heart of hearts that nothing in the world would sound as good as Feelin' Groovy by Harpers Bizarre (the omission of an apostrophe in that band name drives me CRAZY, by the by), so I did, and guess what? I was RIGHT.
Watching: Eight billion episodes of Top Chef on Youtube; I hope Bravo doesn't read this and sue me.
Reading: A book so ridiculously uncool that I can't even talk about it for fear of damaging my reputation forever; The Penguin Pocket Rhyming Dictionary
Wearing: I am the luckiest person in the world because yesterday, after a lifetime spent wishing for a pair of legit Beatle boots, I found a pair for $40 at a creepy Payless knock-off-y place. So who even cares what else I'm wearing? I don't! I'm wearing BEATLE BOOTS!
Wanting: For my broken digital camera to be fixed so I can post the hundreds of thousands of No Good For Me posts that require its skills! And maybe an iPod Nano?

Santogold:

Liz's dream bed:

Here is a video of Harpers Bizarre performing "Feelin' Groovy" that will probably annoy everyone in the world except for me and possibly a few weirdo die-hard Harpers Bizarre fans who happened to stumble across this blog:

Heavy Rotation: Van Dyke Parks, Imperial Teen, the Black Angels + More!

We always take the "mixed-up" maxim of fashion at heart here at nogoodforme.com, and so we've got nearly everything this week: perfect pop gems from the 60s, sexy Euro faux-disco, straight-up rock stompers and French chanteuses. (Okay, we don't have everything, but one day one of us will find that perfectly compact black-metal-meets-Motown hit and then our Heavy Rotation collection will be complete.) As always, hit it up at the jukebox on our homepage and let us know what you think!

Van Dyke Parks, "Do What You Wanta"
This song exemplifies precisely why I am incapable of "getting over" the sixties. Songs just aren't this good anymore! I don't know- maybe all the A+ melodies that exist were used up forty years ago, and now songwriters are stuck with D-grade hooks for the rest of eternity? It amazes me that this little kicker is only one minute and fifty-nine seconds long; in a spirit similar to "She Loves You," it packs those two short minutes densely full of fun, folly, gaiety and unabashed positivity. Van Dyke Parks' intensely adorable speech impediment doesn't come across so much on Song Cycle, but on this 1966 single, his delivery sounds sweetly askew, as does a toddler's. His blissful pronunciation of "Waw-awn-ta" strikes a chord with my maternal instinct in a way that I can safely say no other rock song ever has. (Laura)

Mirwais, "Disco Science"
I haven't gotten the new Madonna record yet and I feel real bad, since it's been out a whole three days and all. Instead I'm revisiting Music, which was produced by Mirwais, whom I know virtually nothing about except that he's responsible for this piece of genius I scored off the Snatch soundtrack. Snatch is basically pretty bad (sorry, Mr. Madonna!), but I was mega-obsessed when it came out, mostly because I either wanted to be Benicio Del Toro or at least go out with Benicio Del Toro. Still, there's a whole bunch of pretty killer scenes, especially the Dog vs. Rabbit one that "Disco Science" plays in. Plus, all songs ever created should totally sample "Cannonball," don't you think? (Liz)

The Raveonettes, "Lust"
I predict I'm going to post nearly every song on this record eventually, that's how much I'm digging the latest Raveonettes record. This song is like a perfect introduction to this band: it has this sugary girl-group pop core, but it's dressed up in the noise of nihilism and despair. If that's too high-concept for you, here's a more poetic take: it sounds like L.A. at night, when you've got a sunshine hangover from the day and are settling into your desolate high-rise at dusk. And if that's too obtuse to get a grasp on: this song is great to make out to. If that doesn't help you grasp the gorgeous core of how this song works, well, I can't help you at all. (Kat)

Imperial Teen, "Yoo Hoo"
My favorite thing about Imperial Teen is that the one time I went to see them - fall of '96, opening for the Lemonheads in Providence - Roddy Bottum and I had the same shirt on. It was this ugly, white-stripe-collared, red polyester short-sleeve I'd found at a Salvation Army in my hometown, and somehow Roddy had chosen to wear the exact same thing on the exact same night. Magic! Anyway, they played "Yoo Hoo" during that show, even though What Is Not to Love was a few years away from being released - I remember staring up at one of the amazon girls in the band as she sang the back-up vocal, completely gaga for her. I've kind of lost track of Imperial Teen over the years, but this album and Seasick still sound boss to me. (Liz)

The Black Angels, "Young Men Dead"
I was going to post a Black Angels song from their latest record, Directions To See A Ghost, but alas, the opening section of it was so eerily similar to Liz's Imperial Teen track that it was weird. (Does this prove Laura's theory that top-grade melodies were used up four decades ago? I have no idea.) So instead I'll give you the opener of their last record, Passover, which is gloriously anthemic swamp-rock at its sexed-up best. You can debate all about the relevance of rock 'n roll and the death of guitar-based music or whatnot, but the song just rocks, and sometimes that is all you really need in a track. (Kat)

Sylvie Vartan, "Baby Capone"
If I were facing off with Frank Sinatra at a roulette table in Monaco circa 1963, I would tip the cocktail waitress and request she put this song on while getting me my next Bloody Mary. In this fantasy, my name would be Baby Capone, and I'd wear red lipstick and probably overdo it on the leopard print. This song is uncanny in its ability to evoke the semblance of a time or place that I can feel, though don't necessarily understand. I listen to a lot of music from The Past, and mostly it just sounds like "good" or "music" to me; this historical relic of a pop song, however, has a compelling and sort of spooky energy that makes you feel like you've been transported back to the days of jet-setting, white collar crime-heavy, James Bond-ian livin'. This single's B-side, "Zum Zum Zum," is equally nostalgically fascinating; perhaps more appropriate for soundtracking those hazy, lazy long-ago afternoons I spent tanning on a yacht wearing a white monokini while Dean Martin fed me strawberries. Oh, those were the days! (Laura)

To Go: Steve Glenn's LivingHome, Saturday in Santa Monica

L.A. people: Our pals at eco-beauty purveyors Josie Maran Cosmetics are co-hosting a little soiree this Saturday at the first U.S. home to be certified LEED-platinum. ("LEED" = "Leadership in Energy and Environmental Design," FYI, and platinum is the highest level of certification. We hear LivingHomes founder Steve Glenn's new abode has got all kinds of crazy green features, such as a rooftop garden, interior garden, solar panels, and siding made from sustainable cedar.) The event, which includes not only complimentary makeovers but also yummy vegan cookies, kicks off at 4 p.m. Check the flyer for more info:

We're Obsessed: Gwyneth Paltrow's Shoes, Letrasetting, mvyradio

Gwyneth Paltrow's new obsession with S&M-y type shoes

It's kind of postmodern, being momentarily obsessed with someone else's obsessions, especially when that someone is Gwyneth Paltrow, who often gives me hives for various reasons. But lately I have been intrigued by Paltrow's fashion and footwear choices during her recent press tour for Iron Man: crazy patent stiletto platforms, vertiginous heel heights and kind of bondage-y, buckle-y pumps. It's like she's been looking at way too many pictures of Carine Roitfeld and her Vogue Paris girl gang or something! I don't know, though -- I think these shoes are perfect for that crew, who cultivate a kind of dark, difficult aesthetic en masse. The "queen of darkness and perversity" approach to footwear strikes me as wrong on Gwynnie, who is, after all, a clean, classic Upper East Side girl through and through, no matter what cool neighborhoods she lives in or organic food she eats or whatever. Combined with her newfound penchant for short, short dresses and skirts, it's just a little much, don't you think, especially when she looks a bit awkward? (Hey, as I would, too -- I tottered on some crazy Givenchy sandals I was pretend-buying in a store awhile ago and was like, Who can even stand in these?!! Although I admit they looked super, super-HOT and I probably would've gotten them if I had someone to carry me around everywhere -- oh, and if I was really rich.) Still, she looks great. And as they say, don't hate the player, hate the game -- and when it comes to fashion, you can always just love the shoes. (Kat)

Letraset

I spend a lot of money on crap. It's "my thing". Since I never spend more than ten dollars on any given purchase, I am always able to justify spending money I shouldn't be spending, telling myself things like, "You don't eat meat. If you ate meat, you might spend an extra five dollars a day on meat. Since you don't, you are entitled to invest your spare five bones into day-glo jewelry, Quebecois history books, girl group 45s, and pot leaf lighters. You're supposed to." As you may have guessed, this rationalization is often problematic. All the cheap crap adds up, and then I find myself wondering why I didn't just spend it all on something that serves an actual purpose. But, being the world's foremost expert on obsessive-compulsive crap-compiling, I've learned to keep my eyes wide open for those impossibly sexy moments when my tendency to scour the world for magnificent curios pays off a millionfold, and I find some hidden-away treasure that, once found, I can't imagine ever having lived without.

A couple days ago I felt listless and decided to go for a headphones-walk, despite the fact that it was raining cats and dogs. I try to walk around in the rain as much as I can, to prove to myself that I am as cool as John Lennon ("When the rain comes, they run and hide their heads, they might as well be dead... rain, rain, rain, I don't mind"). Wandering and soaking can be remarkably soul-clarifying sometimes, but this time around, I felt like a dead rat and just wanted to go home and hide my head. I stopped into one of my favorite stationery stores for some momentary respite, and stumbled upon the #1 Junk Score of My Life: a bin full of vintage Letrasets in every font you could imagine, on sale for ONE DOLLAR EACH.

You better believe I bought twelve, and am planning on buying more. Actually, I'm planning on buying out the stationery store's entire inventory. Out of all the abandoned relics from the semi-recent past I can't let go of (Walkmans, typewriters, daily planners), Letraset are by far my most beloved. There is something so satisfying in scraping off the letters with a quarter or pencil or fingernail; the same feeling of rhapsodic fulfillment you get from peeling glue off your hands or paring potatoes. You can kearn and lead according to your own intuition, and the inky black precision of the final product is aesthetically unrivaled.
Souvenir demi-bold; Souvenir light; Avant Garde Gothic bold condensed; Avant Garde Gothic medium; Benguiat bold; Condensa; Clearface heavy; Helvetica light; Helvetica medium condensed; Alfac modern; Isbell medium.
Those words to me are like Mary Shelley to a Comp Lit major. Happy scratching, Laura Jane! (Laura Jane)

Rock radio for grown-ups

One day last summer while hiking through Topanga Canyon, my friend and I were playing a game called something like, "In the fantasy version of your life, what's playing on the stereo?" I can't really remember my response, but if I were to answer now, I'd totally say mvyradio. It's a station out of Martha's Vineyard, and I started listening online last winter during a heavy-duty bout of nostalgia for all my kidhood summers spent on Cape Cod. MVY was the only station my family ever played while we were at The Cape, and it still sounds the same today: lots of Dylan and The Dead, Rolling Stones, Van Morrison, U2, Lucinda Williams, Bonnie Raitt, Neil Young, and so on and so forth. It sounds like hanging around the back deck at dusk after a very long day at the beach, after dinner but before bedtime, the grown-ups drinking margaritas and the kids eating chocolate-covered Oreos (something I was only ever allowed when we were on vacation). That all seems like perfection to me now.

And now L.A., already home to the best radio in the world, has a new station called The Sound, which is kind of like the MVY of Southern California. One weird thing they've got in common is their tendency to play Crash Test Dummies with an unnerving frequency (and, really, who ever wants to hear Crash Test Dummies?). But without either I never would've known that "Invisible Man", the new-ish single from Joe Jackson (seen below, back in the day), is so epically lovely.

As for MVY, sometimes they spin stuff that's not quite my cup of tea, like David Gray or Dave Matthews or any 10,000 Maniacs song that's neither my prom theme ("These Are Days") nor a track off Blind Man's Zoo, but whatevs: It's really perfect morning music, I love all the DJs, and listening to the ferry reports always makes me feel homesick in the sweetest way. (Liz)

Naughty and Nice: Locher's

We get so much email that sometimes it's hard to wade through, much less read, but the press release from Locher's totally had me with this description: "[Locher's] new line captures the spirit of a rosy cheeked mountain vixen walking home after a night of rolling in the hay." Hmmm, nature nymphs, making out and rosy cheeks? Right up my alley, methinks! Locher's modus operandi is basic t-shirts, rendered in gentle shapes and colors, embellished with delicate touches of embroidery but spiked with touches of naughty cheekiness. A shirt by the Parisian label might have a gorgeous little flutter sleeve in dusty colors of candy, for example -- but also have a little phrase like "You suck" (or worse!) subtly embroidered amidst sweet little florals on the shoulder. The jewelry is also quite nice: very vintage-inspired and feminine, but with those naughty, potty-mouthed twists. In an era where a t-shirt is emblazoned with huge slogans, I love this subversively sweet yet saucy approach. It's charming and innocent but also devilishly flinty -- a rare combination, but perfect for rebellious sweethearts and charm-school dropouts everywhere.

nogoodforme superlatives: Weirdest Wardrobe Staples

Sworn Virgins bamboo leggings

I really have to eat my words when it comes to leggings: when they got popular again, I swore up and down I would never be down with them. But then, of course, I discovered that they are ten million times better than tights for the winter, and then I was hooked. But it's been an odyssey to find just the right ones, and I spent much of my 2007 trying to find a pair that fit well and didn't piss me off in some way or another. Like many people, I first went with American Apparel, who probably helped to spearhead the leggings revival with their annoying and ubiquitous advertising -- you know, all those ads with the chicks splayed out so suggestively you kind of forget they were advertising clothes, not phone sex. But like so much else of American Apparel, those leggings wore out fast, getting all holey and stretched out and basically untenable, no matter how many times I darned the damned things. Annoyed and refusing to give any more money to them, I went the old-school route and finally got Danskin leggings, which was like being in ballet class all over again. They were way more durable than American Apparel (since you know, actual dancers have to wear them, and not just phone sex models.) The only issue I had with them was that they were just a tad too short. (I like a longer leg.) This sent me on an odyssey to basically every mall chain that was selling leggings, ever -- only, you know, I'd find myself handling really cheap-o cloth and realizing I was this close to the dark side. But then, finally, like a light at the end of the tunnel, I discovered my perfect legging: super-soft, eco-friendly, and gloriously long, these Sworn Virgins leggings are so my favorite these days. Known for eco-friendly basics, I should've known the California-based company would come through in my Great Leggings Crisis of Late 2007. We've been good so far, these leggings and I -- no weird stretchiness at the knees, a nice retaining of fit, incredible softness and they haven't worn out yet. It's so funny -- I hated the idea of leggings so intensely at first, and now I just love these. Life is so strange. (Kat)

Zany J.Crew Cardies

In my opinion, if something is a) a cardigan, and/or b) manufactured by J.Crew, it counts as a neutral. These sweaters are my neutral. J.Crew makes the exact same cardigan over and over again in different colors and textiles every season; my wont is to purchase as many variations of said cardigan as possible, and to always opt for the wackiest available print. I have learned from leafing through enough waiting room copies of Glamour or whatever that a woman is supposed to choose basic, neutral pieces to spike her wardrobe with class and timelessness- I tend to do the exact opposite. It makes a lot more sense in the context of how I want to present myself to begin an outfit with something outlandish, then deduce how I can dress it down, sparing myself a potentially fatal overdose of loony-bin chic. I have no earthly desire to resemble Grace Kelly or Nan Kempner in any way; I strive for classicism in my