ANYWAY.

I’ve been thinking about singer Lana Del Rey. If you don’t know who she is, that’s her over there (and also where have you been)? You can read about her here.

What’s the big deal about her?

Early on in the whole controversy (if you can call it that—I honestly don’t know; I’ve read more about people referencing the supposed scandal than about the scandal itself), a friend posted something about LDR on his Facebook.

“Aren’t I supposed to hate her?” I asked.

It was the knee-jerk reaction of a vaguely hipsterish Brooklynite. I didn’t know why I was supposed to detest her, only that it had something to do with a record label creating some hot-chick performer who could sing and didn’t always have inflatable lips or a self-consciously retro-inspired name but did now and wasn’t that terrible?

Let’s get back to that part about how she can sing—because she can. Or at least she seems to be able to, and if she can’t, well, we’ll know soon enough.

Aren’t artists like this created every day? (That’s sad, I realize, but it’s true.) And shouldn’t the fact that this girl’s got pipes count for a lot? Have a listen to “Video Games” if you haven’t already. It is a gorgeous, haunting fucking song. (It’s got the intangible vibeyness of LA—that je ne sais quoi I can never quite explain when I’m trying to tell somebody what it is exactly that unnerves me about LA so much, that seedy, creepy quality that I previously pointed to Mullholland Drive to explain. Now instead I’ll point to this song. It is seedy and creepy but also amaaaaaaazing. Like gives-me-chills amazing.)

But instead of focusing on that, bloggers are harping on all the superficial stuff (or at least were when this was a relevant thing to post about. Are they still? Hi, bloggers!!!) And I get that she’s not Katy Perry and she’s not Britney Spears and she doesn’t have that obvious plastickyness that we blithely overlook with them, but still: What’s the big deal?

Are people jealous that she’s hot? Because she is. Are the hipsters mad that she’s not genuine? That a few years ago she was called Lizzy and wore terrible clothes (and truly terrible ones, not self-consciously Elaine Bennis-inflected purposely terrible ones). Are people afraid that she’s not a real hipster? Is there even such a thing? I’ve got pale-pink streaks in my hair and came to work in bobby socks the other day. Is my look contrived? You bet. And guess what—tomorrow I’ll probably come in in leather pants and heels. What do you want? We reinvent ourselves. It’s fun. Maybe a record producer invented Lana nee Lizzy, but if Frankenstein gave us a monster that can belt out goosebumps inducers (in a world where this and this are actual songs that people listen to FOR SERIOUS–I’m not kidding, these are actual songs), I’ll take it. You should, too.

As you were.

xo c.

The latest pièces de résistance from the masterminds at this terrible vodka brand you’ve never heard of? “Christmas quality, Hanukkah pricing.” Seriously? I get it: It’s insidery, it’s New Yorky, and we Jews have a notoriously great sense of humor (if not generous spirits–right, Wodka)? But this is just dumb.

Images of the billboard are suspiciously nowhere to be found online, so if anyone has a photo, send it along!

Xoxo,

Carla

Otherwise, stay tuned: New Community recap coming later this week, and more other random thoughts and theories coming shortly before or after that, I’m sure.

Be good.

carla.

Yeah, I’ve already been out with that guy.

It’s a funny story, actually.

CFJ and I went for drinks and charcuterie (can I just says meats and cheeses? Charcuterie sounds so fancy) and then went for some more drinks. I think we were both iffy at first, but after a series of strange coincidences (we’re from practically the same town, he used to date the woman who cast my play), we started to warm up. (It’s worth saying that there’s only so warm I usually get on a first date. There’s a notable exception a few grafs down, but for better or worse, I yam what I yam. There’s a guard there that I’m aware of, and it’ll dismantle itself eventually, but I’m not going to be sitting in your lap on a first date. Wait, I’m never going to be sitting in your lap. Who does that? I am not some Vegas half-hooker! And should it be sitting on your lap? Oh, who cares. Where were we?) Ok, so: What I mean to say is, I was being as flirty as I usually get on a first date. Some arm-touching, some knee-grazing. All nice. All perfectly fine. Until.

A kind of groovy song came on (I can’t remember what it was) and I said, “Oh, I have the perfect pair of shoes to go with this song.” (That’s them, right there! Aren’t they awesome? They’re like, super platformy. Very Lady Miss Kier-ish.)

He apparently thought (or at least pretended to think) that this was hilarious. “You win,” he said. “You win everything. You win a kiss on the cheek.”

To which I responded, “I win a kiss on the cheek?”

“Yes,” he said. “A kiss on the cheek.”

He delivered my prize, and I responded with this delightfulness: “Wow, that was really sweet. And really weird.”

Oops.

Now look, I realize in retrospect that this was not the nicest thing in the world to say, and I don’t really know WHY I said it other than I DID think it was a little weird, and obviously I was nervous, ok? Didn’t you hear what I said about being guarded?! (Sigh.) I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to yell. But yeah, what I mean is, I’m guarded. And this had me stepping out of my comfort zone. But ok, we go on, enjoy the rest of our date, everything’s cool as far as I can tell, and then it’s time to go. Outside, I’m wondering if we’re about to make out when he says, “It was nice meeting you. Take care.”

Um.

I was flummoxed, nauseous, had no idea what had happened. But I sucked it up and e-mailed the guy the next day: “Hey! That was fun. Let me know if you want to do it again.”

He never responded.

So now, cut back to my friend, whose co-worker knows this dude. (Which, let’s get back to how amazing that is: In a city of 8 million people, this is the guy my friend comes up with.) (PS: Is this figure still accurate? My whole life, I feel like New York has supposedly had 8 million people in it. Can somebody check?) More important, though, I felt I had a unique opportunity in front of me: I could find out what had happened. Had my guardedness injured the fragile ego of the CFJ? Was I not pretty enough? Had I done something offensive? We’d been having a lovely time…and then we weren’t. What the hell had gone wrong?

According to the CFJ’s friend, I was “cute” and “cool,” but “not his type.”

Ouch.

First of all, I call bullshit. I was his type when he wanted to kiss me on the cheek (WEIRDO!). But that’s not the point. (Do I even have a point? I have no idea. I should go back and rename this post Tangenty Tangents.) Somehow this “not his type” was worse than any of the reasons I’d imagined. “Not his type” is so…average. So trite. So simple. And average, trite and simple are not words I like when indirectly applied to me. “Not my type” hit me where it hurt, knocked the wind out of my sails. (OMG, I am trite.) And I realized, in some sadistic way, I prefer to think it’s some bigger thing: That I am physically revolting to the guy. That my cruel, callous funny-girl wit injured this poor, fragile bearded hipster boy. But no. I was just not his type. He really wasn’t mine either. He was a little pretentious (he tasted 17 different wines before choosing one, then inhaled it for 12 minutes before taking a sip. Am I exaggerating? Only a little.). And isn’t this what dating is? Trying people on for size and seeing if they fit? So what’s my problem?

As my friend Bob said when I told him the story, “If he thought you weren’t his type, he should have e-mailed you to say so!” That’s a really good point. (Bob also called him some very colorful names, including a few I’m pretty sure he made up. “Pussyfart” comes to mind. Isn’t that disgustingly and disturbingly evocative? I encourage you to use it in a sentence today.)

I’m realizing now that I’ve veered away from my original point a little (ok, a lot, so what???), but that’s all right because this is a blog, right? You can veer on blogs. You still with me, guys? Guys?

So: The whole thing was that my friend tries to set me up with an available male in New York City and I’ve already been out with him. Weird coincidence, right? WAIT UNTIL YOU HEAR THIS!

Around Thanksgiving, I went on a first date with Soccer Guy. (I know what you’re thinking: Man, she goes on a lot of dates. It’s true. I do. Or at least I did. I was actively seeking a boyfriend the way some people look for jobs. Dating seemed like a good way to do it. At 34, the spontaneous date does not happen the way it did at 24. My only other options, I think, are going back to grad school, where dating is easier, or living somewhere other than New York, where dating is easier. In any case, all of this dating became something of a liability, I think. It numbed me, took my eyes off the prize, made me forget what it is I was looking for. Anyway.) After the first date, which was…fine (nice person, no discernible chemistry), Soccer Guy texted me to say he’d had a nice time and we should do it again. (Note: This is a lovely, old-school thing to do, and everybody should. If you had a nice time with someone, tell her. Ask her out again. Now. Thank you.) I texted back to say, “Sure, that’d be great,” and next thing I knew, my phone was ringing. It was him. “Hey, Soccer Guy said. “Something weird just happened.” [Beat.] “You were in my phone already.”

What. The. Hell.

That’s right, folks, we’d been out already. Only, neither one of us remembered the other. At least, that’s what we think happened. I guess we’ll never know. If we did date each other previously, we obviously didn’t make a strong impression. In any case, it’s hard not to feel like I’m actually running out of people to go out with. And what that implicates—that I’ve dated the entire male population of New York City with very little to show for it—does not feel good. It’s making me re-evaluate, which I guess is a good thing. Other than a few short-lived romances, all of my real relationships came about in a more organic, less cynical time, when finding a mate was less like online shopping. (I’m a really good shopper, incidentally, which may be a detriment when it comes to dating.) I could give you a reason for every single date (or six) that didn’t go anywhere. Maybe we just didn’t like each other. Maybe he liked me but the feeling wasn’t mutual. Maybe the reverse of that. Maybe it was more confounding. I have lots of experiences that fall in the confounding column.

I think of a guy I went out with four or five times in October-November. I liked him, and he kept asking me out, which signaled that he liked me, too. He was a slow grower, someone I found increasingly endearing and attractive the more time we spent together. But what also increased was the undeniability that this guy did not want to kiss me. Like, at all. On our third date, I finally just went for it. He stood with his arms at his sides and let me plant one on him (Oh, thank you! You are too kind!), but on our fourth date (I am telling you ahead of time that I am not making this up), greeted me by saying, “Air-kiss, air-kiss” (I told you I’m not kidding!) and at the end of the date LITERALLY ran away from me to catch a bus. (I should mention that I live in Brooklyn, not Insert the Small Town of Your Choice Here. This was not the last bus out of ’Nam. Running was really not necessary.) So what’s clear is that this guy was not that into me either—or was at least conflicted about it. But what was good about that experience for me is that it made me realize whatever was going on, it was him, not me. My inclination when things go south is to look for something I did, something I am that’s a turn-off (hi, inferiority complex), and Mr. Air-Kiss was obviously going through some stuff that had nothing to do with me. In the Air-Kiss-Off letter he eventually sent me, he said as much, and I respect that. (It’s certainly better than the CFJ, who said nothing and who, by the way, was not actually that F, though he seemed to think he was—OH, SNAP.)

And while we’re on the topic, what about the guy I went out with last week, who I had an unequivocally good time with—and he with me, I am sure of it—and a Taxicab Confessions–worthy ride home who never asked me out again. What happened to that guy? (No, really. Do you know? Because I’m curious. Ask him to call me if you know him. Thanks.)

So, what’s my point? I’m not sure I have one. I guess those are just some of my reflections on recent dating highlights (lowlights?). I don’t really know what to do with them. Do you? Let me know if you’ve got any ideas. “Dating highlights can be cooked up into a delicious, protein-packed stew.” “I like to knit together my dating highlights into a warm, colorful muff.” (That’s what she said?)

Did I mention how chilly it is in New York City? And how much snow we’ve gotten? My brain may be frozen. I might have Cold-Weather Post-Traumatic Dating Stress Psychosis (it’s a thing!). Every slushy corner presents a Choose Your Own Adventure challenge: A) take a running leap and try not to land on your face, B) wade through on tippy-toes and pray that the lining of your boots holds or C) climb the closest mound of snow, plant your flag at the top and hope for the best. (This is reminding me of a first date I had the other night—oh my god, will she not STOP???—when I slipped and fell on my ass. Not as mortifying as you’d think! It’s very slippery outside!) (I’m also noticing that I really like CAPS today. Who do I think I am, James Frey? I really enjoy James Frey’s writing, for whatever that’s worth.) (I’m officially starting to sound insane, right? You’re beginning to worry about me now. Don’t! I’m fine! I think it may just be time for a nap.)

Ok, if you’re still with me, THANK YOU FOR STICKING BY ME AND NOT RUNNING FOR THE BUS. I love you. Do you want to go out?

xo c.

I started the endeavor to read the book back in October. I made my way through Italy and part of India, then put the book down and never picked it up again. I did make some notes, though, while I was reading. Shall I share those? Let’s see if I can decipher them well enough to make any sort of sense.

I happily present to you My Annotated Notes on Half of Eat Pray Love. (YOU’RE WELCOME.)

Note 1

Take back the part about the advance….

This is about my discomfort (before reading) with knowing that Gilbert got paid for her enlightenment trip before actually taking it. It seemed disingenuous to me. But something made me give her a free pass on this one. I can’t remember what now. (Good job, Sosenko. A well supported point, indeed.)

Note 2

…but add smugness to the list.

Ah, this one I remember. Here’s what I wrote: There are moments of true humor and awareness, moments of really fine writing, but mostly I felt the same way I feel when I look at pictures of Ryan Reynolds: Gosh, he’s hot, but why is he always smirking at me?

Note 3

Gilbert strikes me as terribly fond of herself. I couldn’t help wondering while reading if she wasn’t very tired from all that masturbating.

Well look how sassy I am! I now worry if I wasn’t terribly fond of myself when I wrote that one. [Ba-zing!] The student becomes the teacher! Anyway, yeah, she’s an egotist. You can tell she’s psyched when she makes a particularly clever turn of phrase, and she is clever (sometimes), but knowing that she knows it is irritating.

She’s like the comic Marc Maron in that way, probably the most narcissistic, inwardly focused comedian I’ve ever seen perform (in a profession that depends on those qualities): Talented comic, but man, I hate that guy.

This makes sense: I had just seen Maron perform at Largo in Los Angeles. Now, I feel the need to disclaim that this was my penultimate night on a trip to LA, and I was starting to feel pretty disgruntled. I’d had a lovely time, but just five nights away from New York made me miss it terribly. LA makes me feel isolated and depressed (I’m sorry, those of you from there, I really am! I’m sure it’s lovely–I just don’t function as a happy person in LA.), and another friend on the trip was also feeling isolated and icky, and his isolation and ickiness were rubbing off on me, too, and then you add someone like Mark Maron and then add someone like Elizabeth Gilbert, and well, no one’s gonna get out alive. But yeah—narcissists, both of ‘em. And if there’s anything I can’t stand it’s a narcissist. (And it’s all about ME and what I can’t stand.)

Note 4

In the end, I’m glad I read it.

Aww, look how wide-eyed and optimistic I was then. I fully expected to finish the book. I’m older and wiser now.

Is EPL the worst book I’ve ever read?  Certainly not, not even close. Mostly it’s like riding an upside-down roller coaster [this note makes sense, too! I rode my first roller coaster while on the aforementioned California trip]: I’m glad I did it and now know what all the fuss is about, but I don’t need to do it again.

I find some of her descriptions beautiful, of depression in particular. But most of it is just too tidy. You woke up and loneliness was gone? I don’t think so, sister.

Some of my issues are personal and therefore not Gilbert’s problem (unlike all my other issues, which I’m sure she’s home tossing and turning about). But (I guess?) they’re worth mentioning: I can’t relate to women who haven’t been single since they’re 15, who “disappear” into their partners. These women freak me out. These women are as foreign to me as Italian once was to Gilbert (it’s not foreign anymore—she lived in Italy for a while, did you hear [ooh, burn]?). (If nothing else, I’m glad reading part of this book gave me the opportunity to use a bracket within a parens, whether or not I did it right. Look at all that fancy punctuation! Beautiful!)

I admire that Gilbert finished a book, that she has a strong sense of story (both are things I am respectively struggling with and struggle with always). But memoir is already a precious form. The last thing you want to do is make it more precious. I’m not sure she succeeds there. The dialogue was often intoxicating, but I didn’t buy most it. It was too perfect, too crafted. Every one of Gilbert’s myriad friends were fonts of wit and wisdom (though none quite so fonty as Gilbert herself).

They were all just filled with so much gushing love for her, and by the end (ahem, by the end of the middle, I mean), it was hard to imagine anyone adoring her, much less everyone. (Again, I’ll admit there is something about her. I understand why people are drawn in—at least I *think* I remember understanding–but don’t quite get why they stick around for the duration. She seems vaguely vampiric. Maybe I’m projecting. Maybe I worry that that’s how I can be–all show and no substance, all bombast and no gooey nougat center, all charisma and no cojones. Oh brother, I better quit it now. It’s 10:44 on a Sunday morning and I’ve only had two cups of coffee.)

***

Well, that was abrupt.  I unfortunately have nothing more to say because that’s where my notes end, and have nothing at all to say about Indonesia, because I never made it there. So I hope this will suffice.

And I also hope you’re all off to a lovely, fun, contentment-making 2011. I don’t really do the whole resolution thing (well, except for the one I just did, and I guess the one I’m about to lay on you right now), but mine is to blog more. I hope that makes you happy. And if it doesn’t, hey—nobody’s forcing you to be here, buddy!

The picture up top is from New Year’s Eve. (That’s my friend KP–isn’t she cute?) I like the unwitting colors in it: the blue lei, the pink straw, KP’s red lipstick. Can you see the enormous bow on the right side of my head? I really like that bow. I got a lot of compliments on it throughout the night but could never quite tell if those bestowing the compliments were genuine or mocking me. I hit the height of paranoia when I heard a group of people behind me on the street talking about a friend’s “beau.” But you know what? I didn’t care. Because I LOVE THAT SILLY BOW.

Happy 2011, y’all. See you soon.

[Jen] also lives in NYC, which I’m now convinced makes dating 5x harder.

As someone who also lives in New York, I have only one correction: I think it probably makes dating 10x harder. Like, fer reals. I used to think that I was so lucky to live in a city when it came to dating (and I am NOT hating on my city; I am a New-York-o-phile through and through). I just didn’t understand how people in suburbs ever met anyone, thought that if I lived anywhere other than a city I’d wither and die a hermit–and not even a hermit with cats because they make my head swell up like you ain’t never seen. (And, I’m sorry, they give me the creeps just a touch.)

But then I was in a restaurant in the Berkshires once and saw a couple on a date. And I realized: When you live in a small town, there are fewer options. But suddenly, instead of being a drawback, that seemed like a good thing. There are fewer options! So maybe when people meet and like each other enough, they, I don’t know, keep going out. Whereas in New York, there’s always the potential of something better around the corner.And if you’re online, forget about around the corner, there’s a thumbnail just below the guy you’re currently looking at who is probably the man of your dreams. And if he’s not, then hell, there’s a guy under him! I mean, my god–there are people (not me, certainly not me) who line up windows of Gilt Groupe and Ok Cupid and go shopping for fab reduced designer shoes and boys at the very same time! (Ok, me.)

Wow, was that a rant? I think I’m just wired. 14-hour workday + amazing response on Jezebel + Cookie Crisp (don’t judge) dipped in Nutella (well, whatever passes for Nutella at Whole Foods) = giddy. So.

Right. the Glamour piece. Exciting! I’m going to go prep for my inevitable sugar crash by crawling into bed and watching reruns of Family Ties (which ohmaga, Alex P. Keaton, where have you been all my life?).

Night, night.

PS: That picture? That’s my view. I wanted to give you a feel for New York. All those cars down there are filled with boys!

“I haven’t read it, but I hate it,” I said.

“I haven’t read it either,” she said, “but I hate it, too.”

There we were, two writers, hating a book neither one of us had read.

Which got us talking. What could this beloved story, this worldwide phenomenon, this book turned vehicle for Julia Roberts’ elastic grin have done to make us such haters?

Well I’ll tell you. (And Megan will tell you, too: here, on her fantastic blog, It Hardly Matters.)

First and foremost, there’s the culture-porn aspect, the idea that a woman can travel to Italy (where she eats!) and India (where she prays!!) and Indonesia (where she loves!!!) and somehow gain enlightenment. I suppose this could happen—and Elizabeth Gilbert and those who adore her would argue that this has happened—but there’s something about it that strikes me as the high-brow equivalent of celebrities strapping on a red kabbalah bracelet or getting cupped. It reads like exoticism. Maybe this is my own limitation—not being able to see transformative power and possibility is my problem, not hers—but there it is: I simply don’t believe it, not (as Tim O’Brien would say) with my stomach.

Something about the process seems inherently inorganic. Knowing that Gilbert sold her book on spec (and good for her—I have to fess up to some writerly jealousy), that she sold the idea of finding enlightenment before she’d actually found it, cheapens the experience for me. As in, well, of course she came out the other side a changed woman—how could she not? Her livelihood as an author depended on it. This is different from say, going off and having an enlightening experience and then selling a book about it. Seems like a nitpicky difference, but to me it’s significant. (And if I’m incorrect about the order of events, please tell me. I’m open to being wrong. More on that in a minute.)

And then of course there’s the business with the film. (This is the least fair point, but if you option your book for the big screen, I think you leave yourself open to this kind of critique. It’s worth noting, though, that a friend who loved the book finds the film commercials infuriating: “This is not a romantic comedy,” she says.) The ads for the film are joyous. They are exhilarating. The first time I saw one I stood rapt in front of the TV with a big, stupid grin on my face, kicking myself for getting drawn into what I was so hell-bent on despising. The use of Florence + the Machine’s “Dog Days Are Over” was a brilliant choice to promote a movie about a very pretty woman who decides to grab life by the meatballs and ride around on a bike and touch an elephant and meditate (unsuccessfully) and then meditate some more (successfully!) and get involved with a very hot young man but then decide that her life has always only been about being with hot men, so she leaves him but then happens to find a better, hotter, older man, and then she’s happy. She is content. She is enlightened.

Blech.

Now, let me say this. Everything I’ve said is unfair. All of it. Because I haven’t read the book. It could be a lovely book. It could be a wonderful, organic, moving book about a woman who is miserable in her life and seeks a way to become unmiserable. And I don’t want to seem glib. There’s no room for glibness when it comes to writing, which is precisely why the idea of Eat, Pray, Love makes me angry. It feels so glib. But Elizabeth Gilbert could be (and almost certainly is at least a little bit) suffering from the power of the backlash, from the cruel nature of the summary and the sound bite. I have no way of knowing, because as I said, I haven’t read it. And I will acknowledge that there is a sadistic joy in hating something that so many people love, seeing what is superficial and shallow and easy when others don’t and calling bullshit. (I felt that sense of satisfaction about the movie Crash all those years ago. It sounded terrible, and then I watched it and it was even more terrible than I could have imagined. I felt vindicated, smug and powerful knowing I was so much smarter than all those who felt like they’d learned anything interesting or profound about racism by watching two hours of very good actors spouting some of the worst expositional, on-the-nose dialogue in the worst faux-deep wannabe allegory I have ever seen.)

So.

To atone and (ahem) enlighten ourselves, we are embarking on the Eat, Pray, Love Project*. We are going to read the book and then reconvene, right here, to see if we were right (perhaps with some updates from the road). I hope we’ll be pleasantly surprised—though I doubt it! (Ha ha, JK, you guys—I’m totes keeping an open mind! For reals!)

I am not excited about this. There are better-sounding books that I would rather read, but if I’m going to be a hater, I want to know that I’ve earned it.

Here we go! Weeeeeee!

*Update: Megan is now trying to back out of her promise to read the book. I am working on her. Stay tuned.