Girls.

I happen to think Lena Dunham's new series "Girls" is fucking awesome (and I don't use the f-bomb lightly in prose, people). The show centers around four friends living in New York--their pitfalls, laughs, disagreements, conversations, romantic calamities, and total clusterfucks (there's that word again). While critics have worried over PC concerns (where's the diversity in the cast? why is Hannah, the protagonist, so entitled? why are Millennials so obnoxious?), I've enjoyed every minute of the series. Finally: an authentic, witty, and garish representation of the post-collegiate bubble. Am I the only one who feels as if they know all of the "Ladies" on the screen? Sure, I'm blushing to high hell when Hannah gets it on with her eery sociopath of a lover but hey, I'd be lying if I told you I didn't know a few myself. The show is relatable and real, putting a positive spin on the malaise that characterizes the Millennial generation. Sure, we're educated and empowered, but we don't know what the f--- to do..or at least I don't. While I'm no critic myself, I am excited and proud of Miss Lena Dunham. Go on with your bad self because you really are "a voice of a generation," and we need you.

Hackers

I'd like to take a moment for Hackers, the 1995 weirdo classic featuring a shorn fem-bot called Angelina Jolie, a very blond Johnny Lee Miller, and a 14 yr old boy who smokes through braces. Let's not forget the Venezuelan guy with leopard pants and a trick for tricking pay phone operators, the hippie waif with braids and kitten sweaters (he's male btw), and of course, Marc Anthony. Yes, you read me right.

Why do I mention Hackers? what got me hooked? the rollerblading? the ninja-turtle style leather jackets? the fantastically 90's backdrops? Yes, all of it.

Hackers offers a deliciously ugly world of high school hijinks with a dose of total world domination. Think: sneaking cigarettes and computer equipment; running from parents, early curfew, and the FBI; and the occassional infiltration of the commercialized world from a stolen perch at the top of a sky rise.

This pod of ragamuffin dweebs want nothing more than to sit around reading thick computer manuals, drinking iced teas, listening to doped-up remixes. Call me crazy but I salute the Hacker life style. I think I'll braid my hair, buckle on some skates, and take over the world. I may even do the truly unthinkable and buy a metallic leather jacket..

The Cult of Beauty

"The hours when the mind is absorbed by beauty are the only hours we live." I saw that quote at a recent exhibit entitled The Cult of Beauty--an exploration of aesthetics during the Victorian Era. It might have been my mood on that Saturday (a triumphal blend of still nerves and electrical pulses, lemon tea and whistling pines) but that struck me as Pure Beauty, no questions, no further questions, contained, flawless.

Glorious Nonsense

A pal of mine (and a smart cookie) once used the phrase "return to glorious nonsense." He used it abstractly, perhaps before flinging his shirt off the rails in ecstasy, but the words stayed close. Lately, I can't help but think of that night on the balcony and of college--that messily constructed clapboard house filled to the gills with beer cans, books, basements, and debasements. College, the all consuming fire, the bullshit mess, the utter bliss of giving into our worst selves.

I know, I know: our futures are burning bright with success, discovery, piety. And college had to end. The luster of youthful splendor, idiocy, and Andre champagne had to come to a close and we're all growing up. And yet, I'd give my firstborn for one more night in a state of "glorious nonsense," for the peculiar paradise I called home.

I miss the shit out of college and I dare any of my college professors to challenge my grammar, the content of my prose.

Made in America

"Sweet baby Jesus, we made it in America." When it smells like piss on the 22 and my shoes won't keep me upright, I think of that. Am I making it? Everyday is a land mine, a discovery of Spanish streets and the realization that life is the time between Caltrains. Am I making it really? I think yes, if only by trying.

The 43

I rode the bus for two hours yesterday, the 28, the 43--jumping on at 19th and Taravale, off at Lombard and Filmore, on at Lombard and Divisadero, off at Masonic and Hayes in the hopes of a mirrored plateau for an upcoming nuptual.

I see everything on the bus, or everything I want anyway: the fog sweeping across the bay, little Chinese women with tasseled loafers and grocery carts, Parisian teenagers, surfers, Berkeley intellectuals, a sweet British couple, homeless men with shaggy hair who hound you for the empty water bottle at your feet.

The 43 is The Great Equalizer--a moment of agitated entropy when vegan and meat eater, rag doll and vagrant brush each other with every twist of the Presidio.

And even if you're afraid for your safety, for your belongings, for the preservation of your personal space, the 43 is throwing you into chaos, begging you to surrender as you roll up the hill. And sometimes, that's just what you need in the afternoon--a native surprise for two dollars flat.

Cloud Diary

"We wanted 24-hour room service. We wanted direct-dial telephones. We wanted to stay on the road forever."

I finished "The White Album" somewhere over America, dusty plains wrinkled like leather 200 feet below, with the curious feeling that Didion had intuited my need for her tale. This cloud diary about California, the mystical West, crab salad, and asparagus vinaigrette--wasn't this the life I would soon be living? Air crackling mysteriously in foreign locals, rotary telephones, dollar store rosaries hung from San Francisco windows?

I tore through my airplane cookies and airplane tea, savoring the American stills below our aircraft, drumming my fingers on the tray table, not sure of anything.

When we touched down in San Francisco, I closed my $2.89 volume and stowed it safely in my bag. "Good luck," the blonde next to me said. "I've never been to California."

I smiled, 24-hour room service waiting on my doorstep.