ny is killing me

bikini

 Bikini

Bikini's EP cover art for RIPJDS, by Nate Lowman

With cover art by New York City artist Nate Lowman, an album named after one of the most famous American authors of the 20th century, and a video, "ACheerlaeder," that borrows its visuals from Woody Allen's Celebrity, Bikini draws inspiration from the best that culture has to offer.

Did that sell you? Click away to read the interview I did with Bikini, via email, over the weekend.

the lees

Spike and his sister from the same mister, Joie.

I watched Do the Right Thing for the first time in a while last night for an essay for my 'Visual Culture of Crime' class and fell in love with it "two times," no "three times." I need a Spike Lee marathon ASAP, SVP. (So. Many. Acronyms.)

sun, sand and spare time

My other home (that I've only been to once)

Remember these? I used to make them in elementary school, months in advance, to countdown for summer. I've resurrected it, simply because I'm that desperate for the 3 S's: sun, sand and spare time. SO, as of a few seconds ago, 2153491 seconds left until St. Martin and Miami.

midge

Midge in Hitchcock's Vertigo

Since late August, I've been looking for the perfect pair of glasses that don't make me look like I'm trying too hard. Okay, maybe I haven't started looking IRL at all, just on websites and in movies and in my imagination. I want something Spike Lee-ish - he has the best glasses too, no?

grunge love

Naomi Campbell and Kristen McMenamy, 1990-ish

rad

Rad Hourani Spring 2011 film with Tanga Moreau

So simple, but so crazy. My eyes legit hurt after watching this number. But that could also be because of my dirty contacts.

brand-new-old-soul

Photo: Analog Giant.

Check out a more in-depth analysis of my interview with Aloe Blacc, featured in the McGill Daily, November 15, 2010. Oh yes, and his Montreal show is tonight. Finally!

i digress, baby

I listened to this in bed this morning, before I even had my coffee, so I was adrift in that awake-sleep state that's full of possibilities, full of drowsy fears. Wanda Coleman is new to my ears, but she's a longtime L.A.-based poet and writer with a backbone stronger than mine. It sounds so small, but Jonesed is the reason I got out of bed this morning an hour or so before I really had to, and it has put into words the reason why I try my very best not to guilt myself into a slow, slow death. Can you dig it?

heavy metal

 

Stolen Girlfriends Club's video, directed by Kiwi filmmaker and photographer Derek Henderson, for SGC's 'Heavy Metal' jewelry collection. I like the literalness of the sex sequences, the music and the name of the line.

aloe blacc

Photo: The Maroon Cafe.

Click here for my interview with one of soul's finest living artists, Aloe Blacc, on social consciousness, mainstream success and his "brand-new-old-soul." Annnnd, there will be a more in-depth look at Blacc in the Daily next week before Blacc's  Montreal show with his band the Grand Scheme.

last year

Last year, I was ten pounds lighter and ten times more miserable. Still miserable though.

irving penn archaeology

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The Poor Lovers

Irving Penn's lesser-known archaeology still-lifes, photos from the New Yorker Photo Booth.

little krista

My teeny-tiny prose piece in the McGill Daily Literary Supplement, published on November 4, 2010.

facade

Cute lil' image from this cooooool blog called Paris vs New York, a tally of two cities. Check it out. It's so fun. I mean that, just look at the tags.

relevant

Model Hanne Gaby Odiele, posted on The Imagist, with the following caption: "She's relevant because she has a fashion sense that is seriously in sync with contemporary art values. She's relevant because she's building an awesome archive of contemporary fashion (Her Balenciagas are to be seen to be believed) and I know one day she's going to be a great fashion editor herself." Yes, yes, yes. Oh so relevant.

blame

He tells me he'll love me forever and I fucking believe him.

It's in the shower on the floor of the bathtub where I sit ritually every single day with beads of the hottest water peppering my back. I viciously crave all the things I "quit" -- the drugs, the drinking, the cigarettes. The things I've quit one hundred and one times. Oh, how the bathroom steam fogs my reasoning. Not even the speakers, balanced on the toilet bowl, and the beats skanking away can make me feel hopeful. I cry and I cry and I cry, mimicking the shower's incessant pouring. When my fifteen minutes are up, I crawl out carefully. I tell myself to shake it off and say so long to the tears I've kept captive. See you tomorrow, shower. See you tomorrow, sadness.

He tells me that I look beautiful with tears in my eyes. I tell him, fuck you.

There are days when I think it's all worth it, when the highs surpass the lows and I get good grades and my hair cooperates and I feel like I have friends. But some days, I float through things I think I'm supposed to be doing. I hang with friends that I'm not sure I like, never mind trust. And then I'm back in the shower. So most of the time, I blame the shower or I blame my romantic idea of crying in the shower. Either fucking way, I'm not blaming myself.