Movin on Down, to the South Side...

In one of my more earlier submissions, I mentioned moving to Savannah, Georgia. Initially, I thought of this as a romantic joke - I mean, really, can Jews like myself survive the humidity? There's a reason why I've only been to South Beach a handful of times in my life. But now, the more that I think about it, I believe it to be the best idea I've ever had.

Los Angeles is simply everything I expected it to be. I'm relaxed, calmed by the Pacific Ocean breeze on the PCH, spending my nights drinking wine with friends and eating delicious caprese salads, and spending the occassional night out. I expected this all.

What I didn't expect, truthfully, was how unhappy it would make me.

Some people thrive when in a routine. They enjoy knowing what's coming next and they need the comfort of preparation. Me? I'm never prepared, I like not knowing a damn thing, and I appreciate spontaeinity. Where better to find this then to move to a completely unfamiliar place?

I hope to make this move within the next year or so. I will get my BA first and if Grad school is in the cards, then I will try and find a college that coincides with my southern comfort.

the other night, while chatting with a girl that i'd just met from chicago who is studying at fidm, we both came to the conclusion that the united states may not be for us. don't get me wrong, i love the good ol' us of a, but if mccain is elected then the country will spiral deeper into social and financial ruin.

so many options, so MUCH time.

It's been a long, long time. I've been absent for a while due to the fact that I had to adjust to my LA lifestyle once again, especially without those who I used to allow it to include. Though last summer was fabulous and wonderful in it's own right, it was a fleeting, temporary situation saturated with plastic friendships and peeople who are so selfish and unimportant that the only thing i can feel for them is...pity. what a sad, sad feeling to have.

Life is tolerable at the moment. Though my move back to New York is immenient, I am allowing myself to enjoy what LA has to offer. I am enjoying the company of people that I never thought I would; I'm relaxing and living my life in a seriously different manner, which gives me incredible happiness; I'm learning to grow up, which is scary and wonderful and perfect and incredibly hard to articulate all at the same time.

I will make a conscious effort to post some interviews in the near future, but this week gives me no peace.

Soon,
FS

Who Gets What?

It's important to note that relationships --under any given circumstance-- are never balanced. I've struggled with this fact my entire life, as I've always felt that I give more to my relationships than the other person involved. I don't doubt that I'm not important to my friends, but I always seem to make myself more available, cater to and shift emotional and physical energies toward the aforementioned. After months of thought, I believe the reason to be my physical insecurity. I know I'm not the sexiest, most attractive or desirable person, and I've launched those feelings into a sick, self-depreciating tug-of-war between me and my friends. How important am I? Will you stick around if I don't satisfy or service your every emotional whim? Probably not, if you're as selfish as I've anticipated. But it seems that I've recently developed relationships that nullify my argument. My closest friends, currently, are truly close friends. Of course, there are moments of disappointment in which the inherent rules of a friendship shift dramatically; but for the most part, I'm content with the relationships I've created. Though, my friend and self-proclaimed fruitfly has brought up a rather novel concept - the friendship pre-nuptial agreement.

I've gone through terrible relationships with friends. In fact, my most recent wound, one that still hasn't completely healed, is due to my close friendship with Savannah, a staunch Republican who cites Ann Coulter and Rush Limbaugh as strong, upstanding members of the American community. Our friendship, while open, honest, and incredibly humorous was destined to fail from the beginning. We tried to steer clear of political discussions and enjoy the other facets of our de facto relationship, but in the end it simply became a matter of character and moral code. In simple terms, she believs that gay marriage isn't something to support, and this is simply a deal breaker. I thought it wasn't initially, as she claimed to always support my decisions in life...no matter what. But could she support my chosen partner's? A friend of a friend's? A lose acquaintance? A homosexual enemy? No. It simply wouldn't have ever worked out, and had we both known that from the start, a lot of pain, agony, stress and angst could have been avoided.

I don't need my future friendships to be indoctrinated, but the idea of knowing potential pitfalls before they happen is incredibly thought-provoking. But, then again, what's a relationship without the lowest lows? Would the highs be as memorable? Would they feel as good? Though fighting is emotionally taxing, isn't it necessary to deepen the friendship's roots? Or can a relationship survive on a thinly vialed happiness? I couldn't tell you.

Music Minute: She's Just Being Miley

More indepth piece later, but, for now, listen to Cyrus's latest release 7 Things

anxiety is the new black

it's been a while, so there's a lot to report. too much, in fact, so i will not be able to go into very much detail. but here's a quick lowdown of recent events:

1. met khloe kardashian. it was as magical as i'd hoped it would be. i cried in my matzo ball soup.

2. i may be quitting my internship with the mag. more later.

3. fruit fly returns tonight. epic.

4. my parents have left for europe. i am so anxious i could die right now.

maybe there wasn't a lot to report.

the khloe story will be coming soon.

Coffee Stories

I am well aware that my addiction to cigarettes can be offensive to those who choose not to smother their lungs in tabacco-y goodness. And despite my extremely confrontational personality, I'm even so aware of how much it may bother somebody that I am [usually] more than accomodating to those who bitch and moan about the smoke. But not anymore. I'm sorry all, you can blame my newfound aggression on one snarky, ugly, stick-figure cunt and her crippled friend.

Yesterday, while enjoying an afternoon of Spicy Tuna rolls and shopping, my friend Nicole and I decided to sit down for a much needed coffee break. After grabbing my coffee, I quickly grabbed the only available table left outside of the establishment. As I motioned for my lighter, I could feel someone's eyes piercing. As I pulled out a fresh cigarette, I could feel the glare intensify. And finally, as I lit the beautifully crafted cancer stick, it happened:

"Um, hello? Hi. You know, I'd really appreciate it if you could put that out. My friend here just had surgery and I don't even know what that smoke will do to him. THANKS."

Two things immediately ran through my head: Would smoke affect somebody post-surgery? I couldn't figure out how. And also, didn't the Farrah Fawcet feathered hair look go out in the 90s? I was immediately defensive by her cadence and offensive choice of dress.

"Oh, I'm sorry, I would, but my friend is inside and is coming out shortly, and we'd hate to try and find another table. I apologize."

"You vile creature."

Cunty then preceeded to talk about me (using words and phrases that would make Joy Behar blush) and attacking me to her sugar daddy elderly companion. Without hesistation, the following is exchanged:

"Look, Miss, I'm aware you haven't eaten in weeks, but that's no reason to get huffy."

"I hope you die."

"Thanks! I'll keep your opinion in mind the next time I go to the doctor."

Nicole: "Is she serious right now? She's insane."

She proceeds to move to another table, but not before cursing us just one more time. She also called me a character in a bad movie. I was extremely flattered.




I applied for a summer job at Starbucks one hour later.

The Grass is Always Greener

This summer has been one of intense reflection. Though my return to LA has been fun and, for all intents and purposes, fairly exciting, I am not happy.

I thought that coming back and exploring LA's social aspects would leave me gleeful and hungry for more, but the sad truth is...LA is sort of like Manhattan's daughter trying to walk in its mothers heels. Though glamorous and sexy in her own right, LA can never really mimick the distinct swagger and appeal of its east coast counterpart, and i'm slowly but surely starting to realize this fact. I am hoping that once I begin my semester of school, I will feel more at home; for now, though, like I told my mother, I feel like a stranger in my hometown. I feel like Carrie Underwood might feel in Borneo.

Last night, I spent time with my first gay(s) of the summer. I trucked it over to my good friend Ryan's apartment in Hollywood and spent the evening drinking wine and discussing Dina Lohan with him and his gay from J Crew. Both of their fag-hags were in attendance. (note: I have developed great distaste for this term, but it really does apply - fruit flies are rare and beautiful creatures - they are not common). Though fabulous and incredibly funny girls in their own right, the two ladies clearly followed the lives of their gays; they surely did not lead, but followed.

But anyway, I am very seriously considering a move back to NYC in the spring. Though the chaos of the city is what drove me away initially, I am slowly starting to realize that it is also what brought me immense joy. We shall see what happens.

In other news, Kathy Griffin has disappointed me. Her show, while still sort of funny, is not as enjoyable for me as it once was. Ryan and I came to the conclusion that this is because she is no longer d-list, and appears to only be taking gigs for the show, and the episodes no longer contain elements of her [once] real life status. Now, Griffin can be seen in Chanel garments, traveling via private jet, and demanding upwards of $650,000 per stand up routine. I miss the old Kathy - the one who wore hot pink prom dresses and walked in puppy fashion shows. Come back, KG!

Barack is the new Paris (Hilton)

Did anybody catch Barack Obama's latest cover on Ebony magazine? He looks so glamorous.

Jake Gyllenhaal once made a comment saying, "It's a sad day when actors become politicians and politicians become actors." Food for thought.

Hopefully he'll be able to lead the country AND do magazine covers. I'd hate for his being the leader of the free world to conflict with his budding social calender. That would be so unfortunate.

Music Minute: Heidi Montag

I've spent the last year in the closet again. Not due to my overwhelmingly obvious sexual orientation, but in regards to my most recent musical addiction: Heidi Montag.

I've hid my passion for her tranny club beats with unnamed playlists on itunes; I've hummed the melody to "Body Language" in the comfort of my own room when nobody's home; I've even claimed to dislike her raunchy tunes in public just to save face. But I can't hide it any longer. I LOVE this bitch!



There's no question that Montag is a controversial artist. She quickly rose to fame on MTV's The Hills, a program that follows the trials and tribulations of a group of young, [relatively] attractive single girls in LA (all except for Montag, who's been in a relationship with pug-faced Spencer Pratt for the majority of the show's run). Montag became the stand-out of the show for a few reasons:

1. Speaking

2. Not staring

3. Having a personality

Now, as the show enters its fourth season, Montag has branched out into other things. By marrying her fun, sexy personality with her incredible vocal prowess, Montag has stomped her way onto the music scene.

She had her first musical slip-up with Higher, her first widely released single. Vocally straining, Rhytmically challenged - the song was doomed for failure from the beginning. But recently, Montag has released a slue of club anthems that are certain to launch her into the musical stratosphere.

Body Language, Montag's first creation, was slow to gain an audience. Marinated with an 80s flavor and strong bass syncopations, Body Language is undeniably catchy. The song possesses a meaty hook, strong layered vocals, and a pretty vile rap from boyfriend and unknown specimen, Spencer Pratt. Despite Pratt's vomit-worthy segment ("From Paris to Beverly Hills, we that ill"), the song is a gem. A gift.

Montag's second musical treasure, and most recent release, One More Drink, is probably her best yet (we've deliberately neglected mentioning Fashion - a song we'd like to forget about for our own sanity). Strong, sassy, upbeat, and incredibly GAY, Montag's latest attempt at tackling the club jam is more than successful. Listen for yourselves:

http://youtube.com/watch?v=4tNbWtgiwF4

In other words, Montag is poised for stardom. Though her start has been rocky, her determination and positive attitude are unparalleled. She is my muse.



Kudos, Montag!


<photos courtesy of google images>

Music Minute: Katy Perry

Hello all,

Here's to this blog's first legit music corner. I will be focusing on the lovely and talented Katy Perry, Perez Hilton's seemingly nauseating protege and publicity whore. I don't want to like her, but I do! Can't help it!

Perry's been in music for a lot longer than most think. She never had a hit as a Christian Contemporary artist (kel suprese!), so she decided to do a career 180 and become a faux-lesbian (or is it a bisexual? or is it a drunk USC party whore? Whatevs) and release the rather catchy, Avril/Ashlee/Fiona hybrid that is "I Kissed a Girl." I saw the video for the first time last week, and I must admit I'm a little disappointed. Where's the girl on girl action? All she's doing is laying down, playing with a pillow, and dancing around with a bunch of women in the background (who are curiously rocking out to the tunes without interacting...). Katy Perry, here's some advice: if you're going to try and make a song about hooking up with a girl, hook up with a girl! And if you're adverse to a little tongue action, at least play a little grab-ass! Ugh!



You can catch the video here:

http://youtube.com/watch?v=tAp9BKosZXs

I wish I knew how to upload videos from youtube or something. I'm such a lameoid with technology.

I think the thing I like most about Katy Perry is that she has a sense of humor about herself. People who take her too seriously are squares. (Hint: peep the iTunes store and check out the comments made about her and her hit single. It's bizarre!)

Soon,
Fuego starter


<photo courtesy of google images>

Worst Fear Confirmed

I miss New York.


Fuck.

FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK.

I don't exactly know how to tell my parents that I'd like to go back. Now.

Maybe a visit would be enough to sustain my craving. Maybe I don't really want to be there permanently because, as I remember it, I wasn't all that happy. I mean, for a little bit I was...but not enough to warrant a permanent arrangement. Oy.

I'll just work on a visit.

Self-help

As I sat down with a friend for coffee yesterday, not to do hang-out, really, but to instead discuss her 17th round of relationship woes, I realized something fundamental to my unhappiness: I am too preoccupied with my friends' romantic trysts and relationships. I used to think it was because I was too afraid to invest in one of my own, but now I've gotten past that fear and am O-V-E-R dealing with other people's relationship issues. It seems that my entire life has become a one-way street. I'm tired of being the emotional punching bag and, conversely, the propelling agent of good faith. I'll say it as bluntly as I can, so as not to confuse anyone: I don't care about why "X" hasn't called you in 2 hours and I don't really care how that makes you feel. At this point, what's talking to me about it for the 80th time going to do? Relationships are difficult, no question; but if you're spending all of your time contemplating the one that you're in instead of enjoying it then, well, that says something. Right?

I think I'm just tired of being ignored emotionally. In recent evaulations, I've come to see that I tend to act as the healer in most of my friendships - that's not to say in ALL of them, thank god for the handful of you who actually think outside of yourselves - but in most of them, I do all of the listening. All of the helping. It's done and I'm tired of that routine.

So I won't. No longer will I burdened with the emotional baggage of my friends whose lives aren't really all that terrible. I just spoke with Courtney and a friend of hers died - to me, that seems way more severe than a friend calling me in hysterics over a boyfriend issue. People just can't learn to not sweat the small stuff. It's frustrating.

Tonight, I have to attend a screening for "House of Bunny" for the magazine. Rumor Willis, Katharine McPhee, Beverly D'Angelo (of Chevy Chase Vacation films), Ana Farris (of the Scary Movie franchise and Smileyface) are set to star. Ha, I'll enjoy writing this review.

We Rock!

A lot has happened in the world of entertainment, in the past few days. I'll break the major events down numerically, for your convenience.

1. Heidi Montag released a new single: Fashion. Rhythmically, it's a gem. Lyrically, not so much. Though I still appreciate her inadvertent shout out to Hedwig and The Angry Inch in how she tackles the vocals. It's delicious.

2. Camp Rock, the new Disney channel film, starring Jonas Brothers frontman Joe Jonas and Miley Cyrus impersonator #3, Demi Levato, came out. I watched it yesterday while weeping in my oatmeal. It was, in a word, lifechanging. And much better than High School Musical.

3. Jaime Lynn had the baby. It's a girl. Britney Spears is an AUNT. God, what I wouldn't give for B-Spears to be my Aunt. A lot, probably.

That's all for now. It's 11 and we worked a loooooong day today. We're ready for bed.

But before that, it's important to me, readers, that you check out my friend Charlie's blog: throwahandup.blogspot.com He's funny and updates regularly. He also knows a real life Joe Jonas. Need I say more?

<photo courtesy of google images & javagirl.org>

All my love, G

My entire freshman year of college was spent hating my friends who spent every single Saturday night at Misshapes, the once popular NYC hipster haven that housed the fashion priveleged and celebrities alike (Hilary Duff, Madonna, Dakota Fanning, Lindsay Lohan, Nicole Richie, the Olsens all made appearances on various Saturdays). The three boys whom I spent most of my time with (except for Saturday nights) were skinny, fashionable, and well-connected. I was none of those. Not until much later anyway (still not skinny, but working on that everyday). In any event, I always thought, from the way that they made it seem, I would never get in...so why try?

Fast-forward to September 2007: Misshapes was having its last party, its last Saturday get together for a long while. The fruitfly and I decided to bring a few friends and try to go anyway. We put some good outfits together, grabbed cash for a cab, and trekked to Don Hill's, Misshape's venue in SoHo. Who knew, the doorman remembered me from a previous party and called me a bitch.

I was let in immediately.

The famous white wall.

The party was a celebrity fuckfest: Agnyess Deyn, my favorite model of the moment, stood at the bar, clad in almost nothing, and smiled at hipster passerbys; the DJs (Geordon, Leigh, and whatshisface) didn't actually DJ that night - instead, they spent the night drinking at the VIP booth and getting their pictures taken. They're vile creatures.

Sharmaine, a friend, came to the event dressed as Al Sharpton. It was fantastic.

So it is truly an end of an era. Misshapes, through all of your faults, through all of your disgusting stereotypes and hangups, you will be missed. See you in Europe.

Agyness Deyn

Fruitfly

G

Leigh

<photos courtesy of Misshapes.com>

Beep, Beep.

I write to you, my faithful readers, in my office desperately awaiting the season premiere of Kathy Griffin's My Life on the D-List. I will post a substantial read tomorrow morning, assuming that I'm not out and about. I feel as though I've been neglecting this too much - don't worry, I'll make a concerted effort to change that.

Soon,

Firestarter

Back in Black

It's been a while, dear friends. Ever since my return from NYC, I haven't felt like myself and, thus, haven't felt the need to blog. I don't miss the city, I don't miss the people, I don't really miss anything at all right now. This always happens when I cross the continent - I get into a sort of existentialist funk. The past few days have been spent listening to Jennifer Hudson's new single, lunching with my mother, indulging in Dina Lohan's insanity, drinking cosmos (i know, how thoroughly disgusting of me) and flirting with the idea of forgoing my education entirely and moving down south, to Savannah. My days would be spent sitting on my porch, drinking mint julips, raping the old southern honey bee next door of all of her wisdom, and wading in creeks. To me, that sounds much more enlightening and worthwhile than rotting in a classroom all day.

I've become so bitter. My salvation is my job (thank you, US Weekly). My intern cohorts are incredibly savvy, incredibly sweet girls. My boss, Jenny, is a gem. I feel blessed to be working in an environment that I value.

I will be writing my first film review tomorrow, I think. I've been so boring lately, I haven't been seeing any movies or seeing any human beings. Note to [fabulous] self: don't become a hermit and answer phone calls.

For now, though, I'm enjoying my own company. I haven't been alone in a while, a long while, so it feels nice to just be...exactly that.

Alone.

And the Winner Is....

WHITNEY THOMPSON IS THE WINNER OF AMERICA'S NEXT TOP MODEL!!!!!!!!

After contestant Fatima Siad was eliminated, models-in-the-making, Anya and Whitney, strutted their stuff head-to-head in a Versace fashion show. I was shitting my pants with excitement, hoping Whitney would pull through. And she did! SHE WON!

High fashion hopeful, Anya, though talented, didn't deserve the title. Girlfriend looked sort of busted and sounded like a retarded panda when she spoke. She's still gets our props, though:

CONGRATULATIONS, WHITNEY!

Celebreality

Celeste is at home, shaking in the austere cold of her Manhattan apartment. Although chic, Celeste's shoe box isn't presentable to the city's social elite that she entertains. Her friends, all students at NYU and The New School, are regular twentysomethings by day, writing papers and taking tests just like the rest of us. But by night, they are party girls: stick-thin, beautified glamour gods in their own right. Celeste, though, could hardly be considered stick-thin. Though she dresses and acts like her attractive, city-conquering cohorts, Celeste constantly battles her insecurities. While her friends spend their day in class before heading to Butter for drinks with their [much older] male escorts, Celeste can't bring herself to leave the bathroom of her [still] freezing apartment. She stands in front of her floor-length mirror, naked and exposed, shaping her spare tire, pushing and pulling it until her stomach turns bright red. She's ashamed of the cheeseburger and fries she'd eaten last night, since it's quite literally gone to her thighs. She's embarrassed, unable to embrace her womanly figure. She wonders why she can't simply ignore her cravings like her friends. "I need food," she tells herself, her head bowing in disappointment, her hair tied back in a ponytail, greasy and unkempt. But she can only contemplate her body issues for so long, as it's now 8:00 PM and she's due at Cipriani for drinks in an hour.

Incredibly, Celeste begins her transformation. She springs out of the bathroom and swings open her closet door. Though most consider picking out an outfit a considerably difficult thing, to Celeste, it is an ordeal. Minutes later, her room is covered in a sea of designer treasures - Yves Saint Laurent blouses, black Prada pencil skirts, Comme de Garcons jackets, and enough Chanel accessories to sustain a third world economy cover the hardwood floor. After an ensemble is chosen, her next job is to apply herself. Literally.

She plants her ass firmly onto her vanity chair and lays out her tools - brushes, mascara, and what appears to be seventeen different shades of lipstick, each compatible with her various looks. Celeste is a chameleon. She reinvents herself each and every night. Madonna doesn't have shit on Celeste.

After applying her foundation, Celeste twists the top off her Dior mascara, minding her manicured nails, and slowly and mathematically decorates her eyes. "One, two, eyes open, three, four, perfection," she chants. She enjoys a dark, harsh eye.

Next, her lipstick. She settles on a Chanel rouge hydrabase - a cherry red blend that claims to last for hours. She applies it directly across her upper lip, and paints a swift line across the bottom one. blot. a tissue is used to remove excess from the sides of her mouth, something that typically escapes her, and now focuses on her hair.

The bathroom is now covered in a mist of hairspray. Celeste curls her hair, pushing it up into a modern 1980s inspired 'do. She cracks a smile and escapes to her bedroom to slip into her costume for the evening.

Black, opaque tights make their way up her perfectly shaven legs, a bit tight, but fitting nevertheless. A white, ruffled blouse which buttons in the front is put on next, taken from YSL's 2007 fall season. Next, shoes. Celeste, much like Carrie Bradshaw of "Sex and The City", is forced to place her foot ornaments against the bedroom door, as her closet could only house twenty-two pairs of her well-crafted, leather items. After a lengthy deliberation, a pair of black, Giuseppe Zanotti double buckle mary janes make the cut.

After draping her neck in black and white pearls and slipping on a chunky red Lanvin bangle, the outfit is complete. As she pours her wallet, loose change, cigarettes, tampons, and condoms (just incase) into her quilted Chanel bag, she has just enough time to hail a cab on sixth avenue. "West broadway, please. I'm going to cipriani," she explains to the driver. "Yes, Ma'am. Hey, you look beautiful," he gushes. "Oh?" Celeste inquires, "I just sort of threw this together." And with a quick smile and a sigh of relief, the night is just beginning.

"Henceforth, you are FIRESTARTER!"

I've never been good with introductions, so I'm just going to jump right in.

My name is Jake, but I go [almost exclusively] by Firestarter. Last year, while at a bar in The Meatpacking District, a 60-year-old Hungarian disk thrower approached me, drunkenly, and insisted that I go by the name Firestarter. I don't know about any of you, but when a drunk, seven-foot-tall viking tells you to do something, you do it. The name's stuck ever since.

I'm from Los Angeles, California, and the youngest of five children. We're Jewish. All I need is Sarah Jessica Parker and a general conflict and I've got myself a 90s romantic comedy. I know, right?

My mother, Barbara, is a woman of many layers. Ruthless, lovable, dripping in diamonds and red sweater vests from Saks, Barbara is a woman who enjoys glamor and green tea drinks from local LA eateries. She enjoys traveling, film, writing, and sporting various haircuts of GlamRock from the 1980s. Currently, she's rocking "the Bret," inspired by the incredible Bret Michaels.



My father, a doctor based in Downtown, is a simple man. He spends his days watching Fox News and playing bongo drums. He likes washing his car in very tiny swim trunks and running away from people.

Picture later.

I've always liked writing. For a while now, my interests have extended into the entertainment field, with a minor interest in fashion. I've contributed to several local papers and school-related bullshit, but in two weeks, I will begin an internship with US Weekly. Um, I know, you're jell. It's cool.

I will be posting my writings on daily life in NYC and LA, respectively, fashion-related events and mishaps, nights out and nights in, and the general fabulousness of my existence. Only, sometimes, it's a bore. And when nothing's going on, just read my very good friend Courtney's blog. It's cute.

More later.

But, for now, I leave you with a photo taken during Halloween of 2007. Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you, my beacon of light, costume designer and creative diety, Pat Field: