Mollyblog

Me + Paris Hilton = BFF

Okay, so that may be an exaggeration. And thank god, because I can't stand that girl except in a morbid-fascination kind of way. But I found out today that Chris Applebaum, the brother of my childhood friend (their mom is one of my mom's best friends), directed Paris in the oh-so-famous Carls Jr. commercial. And in one of her music videos. Apparently, he's directed all kinds of A-listers in all kinds of stuff.

Which makes him almost famous.

Which makes me almost-almost famous.

I'm ready for my close-up, Mr. Demille.

Apparently not every story about a friend has to feel like suicide

Many many moons ago, I started working on a story about the Suicide Girls for the Santa Barbara Independent.

It was one of those stories that kicks my ass every which way and for every kind of reason: it was personal, it involved people I know and like , I respected the editors I was working with (and therefore wanted to do a good job), and I cared about the topic. Which meant I spent about a million and a half more hours on it than it probably needed - and about two million times more than I'd be getting paid for.

My main concern, though, was that what started out as a straight-forward story about Suicide Girls in Santa Barbara turned into a personal essay about my personal experience with the site - a much different undertaking and much scarier prospect.

I feared the day the story would come out.

That day was today.

I have yet to see the final draft, though the text is online here , but I'm already relieved with some of the feedback I've gotten. Most notably? A peripheral friend who called it "the most insightful, feminist article on Suicide Girls I've ever read." Most hilarious? The main subject's ex-boyfriend who called me to exclaim how weird it was to see his former flame plastered all over his hometown paper.

But the best thing is that, thanks to fantastic advice from my friend and fellow journalist Tom Schultz, I'd already shown a draft to a representative from Suicide Girls. Which meant I'd already gotten their reaction. Which meant I didn't have to wake up this morning, close my eyes, hold my breath and wait for a phone call ... naturally expecting the worst.

Nope. Not today.

Today I woke up feeling clean and prepared, curious but not the least bit afraid of how people would react.

Funny how easy that was. I'm going to pit it on my imaginary little list: Journalism Lesson Number 642 — Never let your story be a surprise to its subject. And a reminder to go back to Lesson Number 2, which I started learning in 2002 and seem to keep needing to learn every few months or so, — Don't write about your god-damned friends.

Llama Llama Bbo Bbama

And while we're on the subject of internet movies you should have already seen, here's a little tidbit I'm dedicating to the La Conchita Llamas . And to that spitting llama from that one Disney movie. Because everyone knows two-dimensional objects appreciate a good shout out.

Britney and KFed sitting in a tree, D-I-V-O-RC-ING

We all have our share of poorly chosen partners, the kind of significant other that your friends resent, your parents hate, and even strangers on the street can discern is the wrong guy for you. And most of us have at least one that is so bad, somewhere deep down, even we know it's wrong for us.

Mine was J.B., a perfectly lovely guy except for the fact that he brought his gangster friends (and their gangster guns) to my prom before promptly stealing $10,000 in video equipment from an elementary school and ending up in prison. During which time I not only stayed with him, but actually visited the jail.

So I can't exactly blame Britney for having hooked up with KFed.

Thing is, I'd like to think that most of us realize the error of our ways before we, say, get married. Or have two children. Or, if we're pop stars in the public eye (as so many of us are), before anyone on God's green earth finds out.

Not so for Britney. In fact, for years now, she's been carrying the Kevin's-right-for-me torch, much to everyone's dismay. If she'd even so much as admitted "Maybe I chose the wrong guy, but we're in it now and I'm going to try to make it work," perhaps I could've related to her. (And yes, I realize I'm talking about relating to Britney Spears. I have a sickness. So what?)

Instead, I've been relegated to appreciating the Britney of old, and hoping for some future day when she'd come to her senses and realize that even a life alone, even a life as a single mom, is better than a life with The Wrong Guy.

A day like today.

I'm not sure if Britney can ever return to her former glory as the deliciously superficial but oh-so-snazzy star who brought us Oops! and Toxic and that Hit Me One More Time song that everyone pretends they don't know the words to. But even if she doesn't, by divorcing Kevin she's brought herself up in my estimation from "dumb as a doornail" to "sharp as a marble."

And everyone knows it's better to be a marble than a doornail. I mean, marbles are so shiny...

Not all cute shoes are Froggy Galoshes

(I wrote this almost a month ago and forgot to post it. So sue me.)

And while we're on the subject of shoes, I'd like to mention my day, of which shoes played a major part.

Today I went to one of those radio station-sponsored multi-band music festivals featuring one-hit-wonders and the pre-teens who love them. I wouldn't have gone at all except that a work associate had free tickets.

In the old days (meaning ten years ago, when I was in high school), I often went to things like this. I'm not sure how much I liked them -- I always seem to remember being bored and tired. But I always dressed appropriately: sensible shoes, warm layers, make-up that wouldn't run. And I always managed to feel invisible. There were always the girls with more punk rock T-shirts, or the ones with tube tops and cute jeans. There was always someone two rows ahead of me who seemed to be living my summer concert romance fantasy, while I was stuck in my comfy baggy T-shirt and frizzy curly hair.

So today I decided I would move beyond that awkward teenager. Knowing that we'd have VIP seats, and that our chances of moving from them was pretty small, I decided to choose fashion over function. I wore my black round-toe frilly heels from Shooz, my favorite pair of non-galoshes shoes, and probably the cutest damn high heels I have ever had in my possession.

I realized the mistake within minutes of arriving at the Santa Barbara bowl. As I'd predicted, the shoes weren't exactly practical for hiking up the ashpalt hill to the ampitheater. But as I hadn't predicted, their inherent cuteness didn't make up for the
things I don't tend to like about such shows: the hours that drag on, the way so many bands (even good ones) seems to sound the same after that much time, the way I end up comparing myself to cute girls half my size (as I always did) and half my age (a new perk of being over 25), and the self-loathing I feel when I realize how truly not punk rock I actually am for thinking these things instead of jumping head first into the mosh pit (or beer garden).

So what that meant was I was tired, bored, engaging in some good old-fashioned self-esteem bashing, AND my feet hurt. A lot. All day.

The first time I showed my fashionista sister these shoes, she warned me they'd hurt and I'd have to bear it. The first time I wore them, I sent her a text message saying she was right. She wrote back, half jokingly:

Beauty is pain, my friend. Suck it up. Keep an eye on the prize!

I thought of this as I left the concert early, toddling down the hill towards the parking lot. And I thought of it as I took the damn shoes off and carried them as I walked, barefoot, the rest of the way home. Funny thing is, I was still happy to have them in my hands. The only thing better would have been to be wearing a T-shirt that said "Look at my cute shoes!"

Some email exchanges have to be recorded for posterity

The email my best friend sends me, complete with link to fantastic NYTimes Mag essay:

Subject: abrevs
Date: Fri, 28 Jul 2006 17:08:11 -0400

i saw this and it made me crack up, you too?

http://www.nytimes.com/2006/07/23/magazine/23wwln_language.html?_r=1&oref=slogin


My response:

ha! love it. 'specially since my boyfriend has started using his own new lingo, all revolving around the word "mayonnaise."

Wanna be creepy? Ask, "Do you like mayonnaise?" at innapropriate times.

In the morning or before bed, say "G'naise."

Refer to our friends Denise and Danny as, of course, Denaise and Dananaise.

Express the affirmation formerly signified with "right?" instead with "'naise?"

And last but not least, when you go to see a movie in the theater this summer, don't miss "SuperMayonnaise."

I love you.

- M

 

Coachella, The Festival: Variations on a Theme

Yes, I went to Coachella this year. And yes, I wrote about it. In fact, I reviewed it for two publications, with two different word count requirements. See below the short, tight, economical version in the SB Independent, or scroll down for the longer version in the alt weekly where I used to be a senior arts writer and editor, the VC Reporter. (Or, of course, just click the links and read 'em on line.)

Photo Envy of the Week
Santa Barbara Independent, 5/4/06

Capturing Coachella

I’ve always envied concert photographers: Not only do they go to shows for free, but they get the best seats. So when I realized my photographer boyfriend wasn’t coming to Coachella with me, and therefore his photo pass was up for grabs, I jumped at the chance to see how the other half lives. After years of festival frustration made up of heat and crowds and distance from the stage, I’d finally have the Coachella experience I’d always wanted.

Or so I thought. As it turns out, the other half doesn’t live quite as glamorously as I’d thought. The pit between the stage and the barrier is a strange place. For starters, it’s mostly men. And those men have really big cameras with even bigger lenses. Cowering there with my $100 Canon, I felt a little like the only boy in the junior high locker room who hasn’t hit puberty.

By the time Cat Power started, though, I wasn’t worried about the size of my equipment. I was too busy maneuvering around other photographer’s heads and arms and cameras to get a good shot, all the while trying not to get in the way of anyone else’s photographs. It was even worse at Depeche Mode, where videographers were on risers in front of me. I was lucky if I could see David Gahan’s foot, much less get an in-focus photo of him doing something interesting.

It was so distracting I hardly heard the music at all. And by the time three songs had passed and I was forced back out the chute and into the field, I was exhausted from all the striving and concentrating and fighting off testosterone. Maybe Coachella is best left to the professionals: those with the newest driver’s licenses, those with VIP passes, and those with the longest lenses. Next year I think I’ll stay home and watch the DVD.

(Two of my favorite of the photos I took  - the left because it's Chan Marshall and she rocks. And the other because that's JUST what my view was like during Depeche Mode. Plus, I have a thing for gothic fairy industrial rockers.)

Or if you didn't like that version, try this one...

A Snapshot of Coachella
Ventura County Reporter, 5/4/06
And after three years at Coachella, I can say it’s no different than most music festivals, except the stakes are higher: higher temperatures, better bands, more expensive beer, more innovative art. With a lineup reading like a list of this year’s critically acclaimed commercial hits and new cult favorites — it spanned multi-platinum icon Madonna to myspace phenomenon Octopus Project — Coachella sets up expectations that are pretty hard to meet.

Which is why, every year, I debate whether or not I’m going to go. On the con side? It’s hot and sweaty and crowded and exhausting. It’s almost a four-hour drive, not including the hour waiting to get into the parking lot. With big bands, you’re so far away from the stage you can’t see them. And while you’re busy checking out a band sure to be next year’s White Stripes in the Gobi tent, you’re probably missing the actual White Stripes on the Main Stage.

But on the other side, there’s Nine Inch Nails. The Pixies. Radiohead? Or, this year, Depeche Mode and Cat Power and Tool and The Walkmen. So I went.

It was just as Coachella always is. Beautiful. Picturesque. A cultural moment. But still, after three years of attending, just a festival. And as such, I was getting bored, which was too pathetic for me to accept. So I decided to entertain myself by making use of the photo pass I’d snagged when my photographer boyfriend decided not to come with me. I’d always envied concert photographers, not only for the glamour factor but for the fact that they could get close to the stage without actually touching anyone else’s sweat.

But it turns out that being a photographer was a lot more work than I’d thought. First of all, I was one of the only women in the photo pit. And while every photographer seemed to have a larger lens protruding from his dangling camera than the next, I was carrying my dinky $100 Canon. I felt a little like the only boy in the locker room who hadn’t hit puberty — or, at least, how I’d imagine it to be.

Once the music started, the pit filled up with other photographers. I was glad to see more women, until I realized that there were so many photographers that I couldn’t get a decent shot without a head or hand or camera in the way. It was even worse for Depeche Mode, where a row of photographers were on risers in front of me. I was lucky if I could see David Gahan’s foot, much less get a powerful photo of him.

By the time three songs had passed and I was forced back out the chute and into the field, I was exhausted from all the striving and concentrating and fighting off testosterone.

So I went home. Halfway through the Depeche Mode set, I decided it was more important to beat the traffic than to see Daft Punk close out the Sahara tent. Maybe I’m too old for this. Maybe I didn’t plan well enough. Or maybe Coachella is best left to the professionals: those with the newest driver’s licenses, those with VIP passes not connected to actually working the event, and those with the biggest lenses. Don’t get me wrong — I still love Coachella. I just think I like the DVD better than the real thing.

 

Exercise and the Idiot Box

By Molly Freedenberg (SB Indie, May 4, 2006)

I’ve rarely gone to the gym for good reasons like heart health or longer life. No, I’m all about vanity, fear, and the occasional bow to peer pressure. For a while, when I lived in a warehouse without plumbing, I even used the gym just for its warm shower and free Q-tips. But lately, my motives have sunk to an all-time low. I now go to the gym to watch television.

I was just about to quit my membership to Spectrum (née Gold’s), figuring it was silly to pay $40 a month to a place I almost never set foot in. But the day I decided to give the elliptical trainer one last shot was the day I discovered the best — or worst — part of the Spectrum remodel: individual televisions at each station. With cable. And personal remote controls.

I started ellipticizing and watched an episode of Making the Band (the one with P. Diddy, of course). And then, after half an hour, when I’d usually be more than happy to get off the machine, another episode started. “I can’t get off now!” I thought. “I have to know what happens to Aundrea!” So I punched in for another 30 minutes and got ellipticizing again. Before I knew it, I realized what I was watching was a Making the Band marathon and if I wasn’t careful, I was going to run one, too.

I decided to keep my membership. And now, whenever I don’t feel like exercising, I counter back with: “But do you feel like watching VH1’s Behind the Music?” or “How about The Fabulous Life of Paris Hilton?” And the answer’s the same as when I ask myself that question from the comfort of my parents’ couch: Damn straight.

Of course, I may pretend that I’m at the gym for the exercise, and the TV’s just what occupies my eyes while my brain is busy loving the burn. But it’s a façade. I’m there for the boob tube trash. The firm glutes are just a bonus.

Would you like fries with that scarf?

Next to the video of Steven Colbert at the White House Correspondents' Dinner I found at my guilty pleasure celebrity gossip site , this is the best thing I saw today:

And there's a whole website of food-themed knitwear. My God. And I thought Peep art was genius.

P.S. Just letting you know that I'm most definitely not going to make any tasteless eating disorder jokes here, about how I'm not hungry I'll just have a salad scarf, or about the advertising campaign that sells the ice cream pashmina as the kind of dessert you don't have to throw up. I would never say such things because, as an eating disorder survivor, I'm much too sensitive to those issues to make light of them. In fact, I'd rather starve than make fun of anorexia. And laughing at bulimics disgusts me so much it makes me want to puke.

I think the flute is affecting Alyson Hannigan's judgment...

(published SB Indie 2/23/06)

Date Movie (83 mins.; PG-13: crude humor, language)

Oh, Alyson Hannigan. What are you doing in Date Movie? You were so great as Willow on Buffy the Vampire Slayer. And though American Pie was beneath you, you were awfully cute as the band camp girl. But why, oh why, did you star in this disgusting, pointless, uninspired parody? Yes, date movies deserve spoofing. They’re unrealistic and sappy and give Hugh Grant way too much screen time. But movies like The Wedding Planner, Bridget Jones’s Diary, and yes, even Say Anything deserve thoughtful, cynical satire. They don’t deserve Date Movie. In fact, no one deserves Date Movie. And no actress as appealing and talented as you deserves to star in such a disaster. Comedies are fine, but this? Even the three-year-old next to me was horrified, and she still eats her boogers. This is a movie only a teenager could love.