Mollyblog

And I was quoted on NPR

Holy crap. My SB Indie story was quoted on NPR. And not just the story, but my name. My name on NPR. It's been a goal of mine for awhile to make it to NPR - who would've thought it would've been because of the Jerry Roberts story, a story I almost didn't do because of time constraints? Now all I have to do is write one <em>for</em> NPR. And, you know, do a cover story for Rolling Stone. Or GQ. Or Nylon. I'm easy...

Steve Says Anything

If you haven't seen it already, you should check out my friend Steve's piece about dating in the L.A. Times.

Not only is Steve a great writer (and good friend, and accomplished beer drinker), but his essay references Say Anything.

And that can never be bad.

 

The Good, the Bad and the Brilliant

Because every ego needs a little stroking (and every soul needs a little humility), here are the comments posted about my Suicide Girls story, as of this morning:

Comments on “Pretty Women?”

stupidddddddddddd.
Posted by jacoey | November 16, 2006 04:12 PM

Freedenberg is brilliant. Thanks.
Posted by cerise | November 16, 2006 06:42 PM

I thought it was very interesting. Great to hear a different point of view... not negative for the sake of negative or only all positive. More real.
Posted by mpcc | November 16, 2006 07:46 PM

Can you guess which is my favorite?

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.

 

Good Night and Good Luck

I've been a bit lax lately about uploading recent clips, or about updating the blog at all. But as I was sitting in traffic on my way to Coachella yesterday, I came across the following story in this week's copy of The Independent. Honest, candid and disturbingly accurate, this story hits the nail right on its commitment-phobic, drunk little head:

Singled Out

Recovering the Dating Culture

by Sarah Hammill

There seems to be a disturbing pattern in my love life these days and it regularly involves three main ingredients: nighttime, alcohol, and my bed. Oh, and of course, my paramour of the moment. But before you jump to conclusions, allow me to clarify. I’m not talking about one-night stands. That would be easy enough to figure out. No, the circumstances at hand are more complicated than a bed ’n’ run situation.

Let’s take the other night, for example. My friend Sean and I have been dancing around the topic of dating for months. The crush was there, but circumstances were never quite right. And then, suddenly, we were both single. What we had planned to be a friendly dinner turned into a quasi-date and four large Sapporos later, we found ourselves back at my house with Sean too drunk to drive home. I, ever the gracious host, offered to let him stay over as long as he promised to be a gentleman. Surprisingly enough, he was. We drifted off to the tunes of Her Space Holiday and in the morning he gave me a big hug and was off to work.

It’s been a while since that night and what was once a whimsical mistake-turned-romantic-evening has become an obnoxious holding pattern. The last two times I’ve seen Sean, the exact same thing has happened. Four drinks and he can’t drive home. We find ourselves in my bed, cuddle ’til morning — upping the physical ante each time — and then off he goes, only to arrive again a few nights later, bottle in hand.

Last night I hit my limit. There we were in bed; he’s holding my hand and nuzzling the back of my neck. I should be enjoying it all, but this voice in my head wouldn’t quiet down. Over and over it kept playing: This is not dating.

To read the rest, click here and scroll down.

Burners without Borders

When I attended the AAN (Association of Alternative Newspapers) conference in San Francisco last year, I'm sure my publisher expected me to spend my time in conferences and at business lunches discussing ways to make the newspaper more money. Instead, I met Steve Jones: San Francisco Bay Guardian editor, talented writer and burner. We hit it off right away; by the second night of the conference, we were bartending at a Burning Man party together until 5am. I missed half the seminars the next morning and just barely stayed awake enough to drive home for work.

It was a good decision.

A year later, I no longer work for that paper. But I still enjoy Steve's work (and his friendship, though we haven't actually seen each other in person since), as he is that rare journalistic creature with both experience and enthusiasm. (Most journalists lose the latter as they get the former.)

Here's an excerpt from his most recent story about Burning Man and how it relates to things that actually matter:

BURNERS WITHOUT BORDERS Burning Man, the giant art festival in the Nevada desert, has a reputation in some quarters as a self-indulgent freak fest. And for a lot of the people who make the trip, it's mostly a party. But behind the scenes, the event is a serious operation: Someone has to build from scratch and then take down what amounts to a medium-size city every year.

So Burning Man has spawned a large network of resourceful people with all manner of survival, construction, and cleanup skills — and when Katrina hit, during last year's festival, some people decided to put their well-honed community-building skills to work on the Gulf Coast.

Read the rest here.

For Steve's story about becoming a Lotus Girl, check out this site.