Noise Pop 2008 Pop & Shop

I haven't been posting cuz I've been hella busy making jewelry for the event shown below. Come spend some money! There's going to be lots of great stuff.

Ceci n'est pas what I expected to see on the wall of kiddie art.

Yer damn right that's not a pipe, kid. It looks like a malformed Tylenol. Oh, who am I kidding, this drawing's effing adorable! In much the same way kids are cute when they dress up in grown-up clothes, my nephew's foray into Surrealism is weirdly touching and almost made me coo myself to death. He's, like, four years old and in some pretentious pre-school art appreciation class, which is the kind of thing that usually makes me retch. But now I'm kind of hoping he gets into Dada and steals my brother and sister-and-law's toilet for his next exhibit.

Insults: better when expressed in the spirit of LiteBrite.

This post is a thinly veiled excuse to make LOLart.

Once upon a time, I had a shitty, shitty boyfriend. He was in a band and those of you who have dated musicians feel me when I say he was an emotionally stunted jackass. Breakup time came and I fell into a slight depression (psychotic tailspin). So, in a histrionic act of "Why doesn't he just fuck his guitar if he likes it so much?" combined with "Who says Art History majors can't make art?" I created this painting:



If it looks like a guitar with boobs and a vadge, that's because it is. See, so he can have sex with it! YEAH! It's not a tasteful nude. After I was done, I was super embarrassed by it and I threw it out. Unfortunately, my mom dug it out of the trash. And because I was still playing cello at that point, Mom mistook Vagina Guitar Lady for a cello. A tasteful nude cello abstraction. Never mind that it has a weirdly blurry, yet single sound hole found on acoustic guitars rather than the f-holes (seriously, that's what they're called) that you find on a cello. Never mind that, hello, it was in the trash. Probably there for a reason. Mom actually took it in to have it expensively framed, and now it hangs in the front hall of their house, at the bottom of the stairs, where Mom points it out to dinner guests, and where I've had to look at it every time I come home for going on, oh, ten years now. My asshole ex-boyfriend's anthropomorphic, fuckable guitar. I still haven't been able to tell Mom what it really is:

Pageboys on Dudes: Who Wears it Best?

Happy Thursday! There's a new trend afoot and it doesn't involve visible ears! Which of these sexy sexpots rocks it best?

Javier Bardem in No Country For Old Men?



Or the Little Lad from the Starburst Berries n' Cream ads?

David Lynch says "fuck" a lot these days.

My love of David Lynch began retardedly early in life. It all started when, at age 10, I watched Blue Velvet with my family (Uncut. On Easter. Discuss.) and I was completely taken. In 9th grade English class I wrote a paper about Twin Peaks, in which I asserted that Lynch was re-defining the Horror genre through his use of lighting (though I probably didn't use the word "genre.") In my presentation, I made my classmates watch the scene in which the otherwordly killer, Bob, appears in a vision to Maddie while she's sitting with friends in a well-lit living room after singing a 50's-era rock n' roll ballad. He walks toward her in slow motion and climbs over the couch to get to her. I still contend that it was absolutely one of the most horrifying moments in film or T.V. Lighting changes everything, people.

Anyway, so no one got what the fuck I was on about and then in college, David Lynch came to give a talk and was forced into this Q&A session at the end, which he clearly abhorred. If you've seen his films, you can imagine how it went: "What was the meaning of Agent Cooper's vision of the ring in scene 8 of episode 3 in the second season?" He basically told everyone to shut the fuck up. I asked him something about how his films revisit the themes of good and evil, blah, blah, blah. He said "I have no idea what you're talking about." It was awesome.

If you follow such things, you'll know that Lynch has recently founded The David Lynch Foundation for Consciousness-Based Education and Peace, which supports transcendentalist meditation in classrooms. I'm not sure if it's in spite of his embrace of transcendentalism or because of it, or maybe because he's just becoming a crotchety old man, that he has been doing a lot of swearing, albeit succinct to-the-point swearing, to the media lately. Consider:



Also, this iPhone commercial spoof, based on a Q&A in Berlin (Q&A's put him in a seriously bad mood, obvs) featuring similar sentiment:

The Tattoo: Phase 2

We're making progress. Green, yellow, purple and pink progress. This took a while, and I thought I was doing really, really well handling the pain like a pro and making witty banter with Rocio. But after 2 and a half hours I started to notice I was saying things that made no sense. It was like having the bends, for you divers out there. I felt fine, but I clearly was not. Who knew the effects of an endorphin deficit mirror those of nitrogen narcosis? NOT ME! (Am I not making sense again?) Anyway, back to work.

Lost in translationseseseses.

After looking at this, I don't think I will trust any subtitled movie, ever again. Granted this is a translation of a translation (English --> Chinese --> English), but still. How does "premonition" become "pregnancy"? And why does the word "fuck" turn up so much? And where the hell did the reference to the Presbyterian Church come from?

Christmas 2007

I'm not a very good photographer, so I was excited this turned out so well. At the Christmas party for work, my charmingly inebriated co-worker crashed a pre-dinner opera performance of "Mama Mia"(no, fo realz). "Did I really do that?" he asks me. Yes. Yes, you did.

"At least it was in my district."

California State Senator Don Perata was carjacked yesterday in front of my old apartment building. Derrick and I were passing our old place on the way to the freeway, when we spotted a police car sitting in the middle of the lane with its lights on, an older man with an Oakland A's jacket leaning in the window and speaking to the driver. When we got home, news about the carjacking was on TV. Turns out Perata's car was targeted for its fancy 22-inch rims. Which begs the question: what was Don Perata doing with 22-inch rims? Then I Googled his car, a Dodge Charger, and was further amazed:



It was also revealed that Perata usually carries a (legally) concealed weapon because of past threats on his life, but on this occasion, he wasn't packing. Wow, this man really does live and breathe Oakland. But in a good way? A bad way? I'm not really sure.

I've never been less convinced to buy an overpriced designer good.

Today I was reading the December issue of Allure (yeah, I know) and there was an article about materialism by style writer Amy Larocca, in which the question was raised “Is materialism bad?” and then answered poorly. Where to begin. Here, Ms. Larocca describes a comment made to her by the disapproving mother of an ex-boyfriend:

“’I knew you were a writer,’ she told me on our first meeting. ‘but I didn’t know you wrote about hair clips.’ She said ‘hair clips’ in a tone that I usually reserve for words like ‘genocide.’”

Um, you say “genocide” with disdain? Your tone of voice conveys that you think “genocide” is frivolous? Confusing! She is not winning me over with her thinking so far, and we haven’t even gotten into WHY she thinks people call chicks with $5000 handbags materialists. First up: she gets all defensive! She says people who call other people materialists are just haters:

“It’s easier to insult what you covet than to confront covetous feelings.”

It's also easier to get defensive when people insult you for over-spending than it is to confront your over-spending.

Next up, shopping is in our chromosomes! “…one of the treats of being female is the enjoyment we get from a gorgeous dress, an elegant pair of shoes….” We should all just give in to genetics. Like the Nepalese women Larocca met abroad! They bond over sari-shopping! This kind of feels like a feeble attempt at saying, well the Buddhists shop a lot and they're all, like, enlightened, so I should just go ahead and buy those shoes.

But the kicker is when Ms. Larocca tries to convince you that shopping is good for you. Science proves it!

“Two leading brain researchers at Johns Hopkins have concluded that shopping requires a trifecta of healthy behaviors—physical activity, decision-making, and a positive self-image—it might actually help you live longer.”

You know what else requires physical activity and decision-making? Um, everything, basically. Like choosing between Cuervo and whiskey, then dancing on a bar table with your skirt over your head. Don't think anyone would confuse that with healthy behavior. And you know what doesn’t require a positive self-image? Shopping! I’ve totally bought “fat jeans” when I was feeling bloated and ugly.

And the crowning gem of Ms. Larocca’s argument: Without fashion, people might run your ass over!

“…psychologists at the University of Leicester, in England, claim that being well-dressed can protect you from being hit by a car. (Drivers, apparently, are more likely to stop for you in a crosswalk if you’re looking sharp.)”

“Is that Gucci?…no wait, it’s Forever 21! Gun it!” Seriously, if anything, this is an argument for not going around looking like crap, which you can do without spending a fortune.

Anyway, I’ve exhausted my indignation. I’m going to go drink beer and think festive thoughts.

The Braff Wars

So the other day I was talking about The Office with my co-worker, Young. I happened to mention I thought John Krasinski was cute. Which led Young to mention something about how he's on those big posters the hang in the windows at the Gap. Which led me to say "What? I walk by those every day and never noticed!" Which led him to IM me the picture. Which led me to say "I thought that was Zach Braff!" Which led him to yell "Jocelyn likes Zach Braff! Jocelyn likes Zach Braff!" Which I DON'T. In fact, I find him kinda gross. But too late. Young started doing things like this:



Then he moved on to defacing my work:



And defacing my husband:



So far, I've only managed to do this because I've been WORKING:



Also, it bears mentioning that last week he did this:



Update: To get Young back, I offered him one of his favorite foods (cranberry trail mix) marinated in Zicam (he's been taking Zicam mouth spray all week and complaining about the taste). Unfortch, the boy will eat anything. And he ate the entire bowl, even choking down the bits at the bottom that had the highest Zicam concentration. Really took the wind out of my sails.

Update #2: Young has a stomachache. Yesssss, it was worth it after all. Also, he shows no signs of a cold.

Behold the awesome power of our holiday cheer.

This is how JPMorgan Chase decided to decorate their lobby this holiday season. Sorry the photo is so bad--I was forced to take it through the window because they wouldn't let me in the building. So I wasn't able truly capture the grand scale of this thing. Seriously, I don't think I've ever seen a Christmas display this devoid of warmth. Leave it to a bunch of i-bankers to suck the humanity out of the holidays. Do children cry when they see this? Oh wait, they don't let children in. I like how the ribbon quality of the sculpture makes you feel like it could come crashing down at any moment. In fact, maybe that's the point. Maybe it pinpoints bankers who haven't made their numbers with a hidden animatronic eye and then crushes them under two tons of jingle bell.

The Tattoo: Phase One

Okay, Mom, don't freak out. At least not yet because it's not even that "shocking" yet. This is only the outline. Once it's filled in, it'll be mostly gray shading with some green and purple coloring as well.

I have to say, I love Diving Swallow. It's very mellow and it's pretty much all chicks. I especially loved that the other woman who was in there getting some work done on her leg was reading "Eat, Pray, Love" the whole time and occasionally dozing off. Yeah.

Gingered yams dominated my Thanksgiving experience. How 'bout you?

I am never eating yams without ginger ever again. They are amazing. My friend Shannon, who hosted dinner this year, says you simply prepare mashed yams as you otherwise would, but add carmelized onions and garlic, ginger POWDER (!!) and dried currants. Fucking delicious.

Other highlights:
_ Stephanie bought new brown boots. I happen to have a huge fixation on brown boots and am really, really jealous.
_ Steph and Andy would not tell me who wins Project Runway. Apparently, they won't know until like a week before the rest of us (you mean it's not fixed?!). Last year, Andy was nominated for an Emmy for his editing work on the show (Screw you, Amazing Race!). He said that two seasons ago, he also cut the final Runway episodes, but had to do it around the clock over a period of 3 days, and then he came down with rheumatic fever.
_ At one point after dinner, three people were on Mac laptops and one person was on an iPhone. The room was completely silent. That made me feel uncomfortable, sad and nostalgic for the days before social networking sites. It also made me wonder how many kids think Steve Jobs is president.
_ Friend Shannon is a theater professor at Cal and she's up for tenure this year. I'm thinking about starting a letter writing campaign to the department head. Something along the lines of "Shannon Steen is the only thing standing between your program and irrelevance." Wanna lend your voice? Please direct all letters here.
_ Andy pointed out that me and Stephanie always say "No, yeah" or "No, it's true" when we agree with someone. No, yeah, it's totally true. Is it a Midwestern thing? Are we retarded? (Incidentally, using the word "retarded" in casual conversation is something we also do frequently. Midwest thing, or just insensitive?) We finally decided that we just really like saying "no."
_ Um I should probably post photos or something. I forgot to take any.

I am getting a tattoo.

I've always had major tattoo lust but abstained for the usual reasons, like "What if I don't like it when I'm older" and "it just seems so permanent." I do have a tattoo on the small of my back that I got in college—what's now referred to as a "tramp stamp." I don't regret this tattoo one bit, but neither do I ever really get to look at it. A few months ago, I gave in and decided on a swirl of birds for my upper left arm.

There are several things that changed my mind about getting a major tattoo: 1.) Since so many things in life are frighteningly permanent, the permanence of a tattoo seems trivial, 2.) the body is ever changing, and it will eventually become something we don't even recognize, so what's so frigging sacred about the flesh? 3.) there will likely be many things I won't like about my body as I age that, again, worrying about not liking my tattoo seems trivial, and the most compelling argument of all, 5.) Eh, fuck it. You only live once. Also, my tattoo artist rocks the bird tattoo. I'm very, very excited.

I've even decided on a second, much more minor tattoo that I want next: The word "Contrary." I've been called this more times that I can count, and I figure maybe it's time to let strangers know what they're getting into with me.

Creepy, beautifully done interactive Arcade Fire video.

Haven't posted anything in a while (sorry Mom). Funny how writing for a living sometimes saps your desire to write on your spare time! Anyhoo, take a look at this incredible vid for "Neon Bible."

UPDATE: Uh, actually, this video is also on the Neon Bible website. OOPS. It is entirely worth exploring and done by the same guy who did the video. In this site, as on the Neon Bible Album, Arcade Fire stays true to the theme of "Don't you miss being a kid?" (my answer is no, for the record) but also explores religion and evangelism in America. Wait, are nostalgia for childhood and our yearning for the paternalism of religion CONNECTED? TELL US, ARCADE FIRE! Also, I am drunk.

Love, Jocelyn

Ensmarten yourself, help others.

Just discovered a site where you can broaden your vocabulary AND do your part to end world hunger. It's in the same vein as the grow-a-mustache-and-help-support-gifted-youth nonsensical, yet somehow totally compelling and fun approach to money raising that seems to have taken hold in the world of worthy causes. At freerice.com, for every word that you properly define, 10 grains of rice are donated to the United Nations World Food Program by advertisers. It's all multiple choice and the difficulty of the words adjusts as you go along. It can keep you occupied for HOURS when you should be doing other crap—yet, for once, you don't have to feel guilty.

Babies!Babies!Babies!—Notes on a Farmer's Market

Derrick and I try to avoid going to the Rockridge Farmer's Market on Claremont. We only go if we miss the one on Saturday morning in our own neighborhood. The reason is the babies, the many, many babies. It's not that I'm against babies, it's just that this particular market is so saturated with high-tech strollers and families 4 or 5 children deep that I sometimes start to hyperventilate, worrying about the overpopulation crisis. Derrick has had to unlatch my hand from his arm, prying my fingers off one by one. "It's Rockridge, honey. What were you expecting?" Yes, yes, I know this neighborhood is where the rich come to reproduce, and if you took away the double-wide strollers with the SUV suspension (and probably better safety ratings than my Corolla), there'd probably be a lot more room to move freely between stands. Maybe I'd be able to reach the zucchini without accidentally stepping on tiny Crocs. Maybe the market wouldn't seem so densely babied.

Today I managed to forget my anxiety for a few minutes while I checked out (from afar) the new arm sleeve tattoo of a woman I always see around my neighborhood. I see her at the gym, on the street, everywhere. She's maybe in her 30's like me, not particularly punk or hipster, but she has tattoos all over her body. Not unusual here at all, but there's always been something about the arrangement of her tattoos, the sort of strategic placement of them that has made me feel like they are more about covering up an unloved body than a passion for ink. There's nothing cohesive about them, they're more like tattoo islands. Then today, when I saw her at the Farmer's Market, she had this new opaque, black sleeve tattoo, sliced into segments by curving paths that revealed slivers of the old tattoos hidden underneath. It's like she's layering. Like the old tattoos weren't hiding her enough, and now she's covering herself in black. It made me feel sad for her. I got that same feeling you get when you see an anorexic, that "Oh, honey. Just looking at you hurts." It's entirely possible that I have this woman all wrong. But I doubt it. It kind of made me want to give her a hug.

Running out of things to buy?

I know! I hate it too! There simply aren't enough consumables on the market these days...which is why I am now selling my jewelry on Etsy. There are only three items up right now, but I'll be adding new pieces quite soon.