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.

Step Ladder

Apologies!

I haven't written on my perfumed pig's sweet, earthy flesh because I've been on a roof. Yes, for a month I've been sitting on a roof, letting the San Francisco air whip right through me, so much so that I fell into protective netting and broke my hip and lay cradled there for more than a hot minute but less than an eternity.

Okay, this isn't exactly true.

But, for five minutes, sitting high among the spirals and California lights, I got the message and the code, the one augured for me by a woman with gold pendants and an office in the Catacombs. Because you see: the roof is the start of Joan Didion and slouching towards my own Bethlehem, engaging a new mysterious existence, eating fruit, swearing like a sailor, reading/knowing/writing all that has been unimaginable.

I was not on the roof for long but I know now that the roof is where it Begins.

Lacquered Love

"No, no, no, don't go away, oh you got my heart beat running away.."

While Nicki Minaj was shakin' her badonkadonk on the diamond mountain ranges of Mars (her native planet or so her catsuit would suggest), I was busy dancing to "Super Bass" in my mom's car. Yes, there I was, pounding the steering wheel and working it out like the yuppy cheesehead I am.

What can I say? I love Nicki Minaj. I love everything about her: the Barbie wigs, the thuggy voice, the two mile booty, the glitzy "schtickala" of Wonder Woman Gone Bad.

I'm a pop junkie and I can't get enough of Nicki or her superhero counterparts: Lady GaGa, Rihanna, and Robyn. These artists keep it real (to use the colloquial term) by tweaking the boundaries of the female form and pushing it to its sexiest limits, mp3 included. Their decadence--sartorial and psychological--is contagious, inspiring, a force of nature. GaGa's moods conduct the weather (I'm guessing Irene was an aftermath of her belch) and Rihanna's visage is glued onto the walls of shanty houses and trees in Africa--an icon of of the new revolution.

And let's not forget the music, the root of my obsession: fierce, transcendent, and reckless. The music-- a siren call of sex and lacquered love undercut by hot beats. I just can't get enough. I apologize if I sound like a lesbian/ amateur anthropologist/ or drug addict but the music, the women, the love! It's changed me. As Robyn says, "I keep dancing on my ownnnnnnnnn."

Now where is that leopard pill box hat?

Snip Snip

"It's good, it's noble, this whole business of trying to evolve your look. Here's what you do. You wash your hair, nothing too frantic, just work the suds until the grease is gone. Reminds me of washing the dishes sometimes. Okay, now blow dry the roots. Pull from the roots and lift upwards. Your hair is really curly so you've got to get the little fuckers at the roots otherwise you're toast. Use thickening balm, and don't be afraid of that word "thickening." Where was I? Okay, so the hair is damp but the roots are smooth. Take a break, maybe drink a cup of coffee or watch the morning news. Go back to the mirror and don't be afraid of your reflection. You look like shit but it's all uphill. You're a warrior, riding into the battle that is Hair Care. You're prepped and ready with a majestic victory in sight. Finish blow drying your hair. Then reach for your curlers and gently bend your hair around them. Did I mention my mom can do all of this in six minutes? Unbelievable, right? She hates my boyfriend because he rides a motorcycle and gives me leather jackets. He has a Napoleon complex but I kinda like it. He just tattooed my name on his breast. Okay, so take the curlers out and brush hair downward. You should be getting a sort of Botticelli wave. Believe me. You are going to look like the fucking mermaid emerging from the shell if you stick this. Okay! We're all done. How do you feel?"

I promptly threw up and then bought a curling brush. (FYI my hair looked damn good).

#Botticelli, blow drying, battle, feminine incompetence

Topography

Nothing compares/ no worries or cares/ regrets and mistakes/ they're memories made/ who knew how bittersweet this would taste

Adele, if you're reading this, you break my heart. And like a masochist I want it again and again. I want you to take my heart and smash it on the floor when you rush to the piano and feverishly get to playing, never caring that you're waking the neighbors and setting the roof on fire.

Let me explain.

I walk my elderly beagle, Patty, on the all-too-regular in Chicago's West Loop. We stroll through the alleys and freshly planted cabbage patches, through the urban wild flowers, and past the criminals smoking outside of Cook County's Parole office.

To ease the pain, I often listen to Adele and her heavenly piano rifts. When I do this, the urban decay transforms into a surreal opera in which the El tracks, hot breeze, and smell of fertilizer are all necessary and good--components of a life that refuses mediocrity instead of the non-life I fear is mine.

I'm not usually this dour, I promise, but I'm in the arduous process of putting my life together (college graduation!) and I need an inspiration and an idol. I need Adele's drama and heartbreak because otherwise I'm only partially employed, walking the dog, waiting for life to begin.

Adele's voice has its own topography, its own moons, stars, mountains, and I need to travel where it leads. I need the simultaneity of my life lifting and rising with her cadences, and the rocket trip to her universe. I need her adventure.

So thanks, Adele. Thanks for taking me with you. I really appreciate it. You couldn't know how much. And if you need an assistant, call me up. Seriously.

Summer Clothes

I'm an unabashed magazine reader and it usually results in tachycardia. My heart beats furiously, anxious to be united with the imagery: mermaids in their summer clothes, wine lips, garlands of peonies in infinite model manes, splendor and grass and striped umbrellas on the beaches of Marseilles. When I cycle through these portraits--immediate and gorgeous--I lust to enter the scene of the crime, to dip my toes into the emerald waters of the virtual beach. I'm perpetually inspired and energized, fizzy after drinking in the carbonated imagery of W, Elle, Bazaar, Vogue. I willingly suffer through the beauty that these magazines provide, just a hopeless supplicant at the altar of Fashion. I went quiet at the sight of this season's Lanvin rose-infused gown. Couldn't that be me in super-stellar dripping blooms with cascading hair and a face full of mystery? Couldn't it? My imagination runs like a race horse around a mud track. I want the photo, the glitz, the dress, the look, the locale, the dream, the mystique, the fantasy, the budget, the beauty, the life. Can I have it, the magical sartorial tutto? I don't know but I'll continue to bow my head in prayer, waiting for Lanvin to carry me to heaven or the golden wheat fields of Elle's location director.