Tarhearted.

VINTAGE MODELS WORKED, HUNTY.

I finally started writing my musical for The Bushwick Starr, which opens in just over a year. It's a large scale horror fashion musical that takes place on a runway (maybe) and an expansion of my late night serial for The Bats, The House of Von Macrame, which ran for six weeks at The Flea this year. The plot revolves around a psychic model and a hunky fashion photographer who unwittingly become involved in a series of occult murders within the fashion industry. Think The Eyes of Laura Mars mixed with Suspiria mixed with The Rocky Horror Picture Show.

Anyway.

I've been watching a lot of vintage modeling, which is like heaven for me. Check out some of these awesome glamour sessions:

 

 

 

 

 

You're welcome.

 

THE SHAGGS, CRITICS, AND TASTE.

I saw The Shaggs at Playwrights Horizons, a new musical about a band that I've been obsessed with since I was a teenager. For the uninitiated, The Shaggs were three teen sisters in New Hampshire whose father pulled them out of school and forced them to start a band, squandering the family's savings in the process. The band never went anywhere and was relegated to obscurity until the early 80's when radio djs began to play the record as a joke.

It's a really sad story, and it made me glad that these girls didn't record their album in the world of today, with youtube and social networking everywhere. In that regard, they were spared.

But not everybody laughed at The Shaggs. Frank Zappa really loved them. So did famed music critic Lester Bangs. And so do I. And no, not ironically. Sure, they weren't the best songwriters or musicians but, then again, neither were The Ramones. The Shaggs managed to capture the innocence and sadness and anger and mystery of being a teenage girl all at once, and watching the play made me think of The Virgin Suicides and how that novel felt to read. This felt similar. There is something special and weird and wonderful about their music, but also something mysterious and dark too.

I was disappointed to read Isherwood's review in The New York Times. Not because he didn't like the play per se, but because of his glib dismissal of The Shaggs themselves. EDIT: I just read The wall Street Journal review, which is entitled"How Do You Create A Musical About A Terrible Band?" Sigh. I know I'm being sensitive, but The Shaggs mean something to a lot of people, myself included. It made me think about taste.

When I was thirteen I was obsessed with The Rocky Horror Picture Show. Like, really, really obsessed. it had just been played on television for the first time in history for its 20th anniversary, so a lot of kids my age were seeing it for the first time. And, mostly, the kids at school didn't like it. It was gay and weird and cheap (all the things that make it great) and the dumb kids at school just didn't get it. It hurt my feelings, but then it also became a barometer for me. A litmus test. I was simply unable to respect somebody's taste if they didn't like it. That, to me, was 101 shit.

When I was single I couldn't date anybody who didn't like rock and roll music. Why? Because it's just too important to me. Music and movies and plays and art are the most important things in the world to me (after friends and family.) I'm reminded of a quote from High Fidelity: "I agreed that what really matters is what you like, not what you are like... Books, records, films -- these things matter. Call me shallow but it's the f****n' truth." It struck me, reading Isherwood's review, how protective I am of these offbeat little things I love.

I remember seeing a play in the marathon at Ensemble Studio Theatre a few years ago and loving it so much that it's basically my favorite short play I've ever seen. I re-read the script all the time when I need a pick-me-up. I was shocked to discover later that this particular play upset people so much they complained or even walked out and I still fight people about it to this very day. (Later it really hurt my feelings when a few people acted the same away around my play, The Sluts of Sutton Drive. Hell, it was probably the same audience members.)

On the flipside, there have so many things that are universally loved that I just detested. How could anybody sit through Forest Gump? Who on earth would be seen in a Juicy Couture tracksuit? I'm constantly frustrated by other people's "common" taste. And you know what? That makes me an asshole.

This is a lesson I've learned over and over and over in life, but it never quite sticks. To quote my granny, "It takes all kinds." Not everybody can like The Shaggs or Rocky Horror or punk rock or the plays I write. Sure it'd be nice if they did, but they won't.

I don't want to call out Isherwood. I almost never agree with the Times, as their taste, to me, always seems a little stuffy and unadventurous. I don't want to argue the merits of this particular musical, either. I enjoyed it and found it moving, but who cares what I think?

All I want to say is this: let's be our own taste makers, yes? Let's all protect what's precious to us, advocate for the art we love, and follow our own taste. It's really the only way to find a gem.

KREAYSHAWN AND BASIC BITCHES.

Should we talk about Kreayshawn? Yes, let's. God knows everybody else is. I've seen this video on Gawker and Jezebel and more, so I'm pretty late to the game. But whatever. This is a personal blog. I write on my own schedule.

Kreayshawn just got a fancy record contract with Columbia, so good on her. Watch this video and come back.

 

First thing's first. Here are the things I like about Kreayshawn:

1. She's from Oakland. If you haven't noticed from my obsession with Hunx & his Punx, Shannon and the Clams and Nobunny, I'm totally enamored of Oakland and its scene.

2. Her mom is in a surf punk band, The Trashwomen. That gives her some music cred, as far as I'm concerned.

3. This is really shallow, but I love her look and overall sense of fashion. And I love her friend with the glasses.

4. The song, for it's simplicity, is pretty fucking catchy.

 

Here are some reservations I have.

1. At first glance I really like the anti materialism, anti conformity messaging.

Gucci Gucci, Louis Louis, Fendi Fendi, Prada
The basic bitches wear that shit, so I don't even bother

But, then, Kreayshawn contradicts herself and spits out the most common sorts of wealth flashing:

Young, rich and flashy I be where the cash be

So which is it, Kreayshawn? As my A.P. English teacher, Mrs. Ferguson, would say: "Stay on thesis."

2. This is a bit more complicated, and as a white man I may not be the best person to be writing about this, but when I see a white hipster surround herself with people of color in a rap music video, it makes me a little uncomfortable. Is she being ironic? Or is this who Kreayshawn genuinely is? Is this where she comes from? I don't know whether this is co-opting or the real deal, and it makes me feel uneasy. Am I alone in this? Maybe I am, since I haven't seen anybody else write about it.

The first time I saw a picture of Ke$ha, I felt similarly. I'd heard the song "Tik Tok" all over the place, and when I saw that the singer was actually a white girl from L.A. it gave me pause. That said, I don't know Kreayshawn or Ke$ha's personal histories and can't know what's in their hearts. I went to predominantly Black and Latino public schools in some of the cities I lived in, so I know first hand that there are white kids growing up amongst people of color exclusively. But I also know from living in Seattle and then Williamsburg that white hipsters will sometimes embrace parts of hip hop in a way that's semi ironic and pretty gross. Are these artists racist for co-opting what could be considered a "black" sound, or am I racist for thinking a sound is "black" or "white"? Are we ALL racists? I honestly don't know.

 

 

TATTOOS I WANT.

 

FALL FASHIONs.

The Harper's Bazaar movie from 1971 about the "new fall fashions" is heaven. What I wouldn't give to live in 1970s New York. And who knew Betsy Johnson was so adorable?

 

 

HELLO, MOM.

QUICK UPDATE.

I was just thinking that I wanted to make Hipster Grifter t-shirts that had Kari's face in a heart and then said, "Get it, girl!" God, I love grifters.

And then I found actual t-shirts. I wish I could design. Sigh.

Speaking of hipsters, my new tattoo is coming on Saturday. Hooray!

TATTOOS.

I'll soon be getting my third tattoo. My old friend Jen (one of the animators of The Venture Bros on Adult Swim!) has agreed to draw it for me. She drew my first tattoo, which I still love so hard two years later.

This time I'm getting the other shoulder done. I'm getting a portrait of my mother. jen is doing an illustration of my mom's school picture from the early 1960's. It's beautiful. It's in black and white and mom is staring straight ahead with her black bob and cat eye glasses without even a hint ant a smile. Oh, mom! You always bring the realness! I'll post the photo as soon as I scan it.

Anyway, I was trolling the interwebs for hot tattoos, which was fun, but then I found it more fun to search for busted, ugly tattoos instead. These are among the treasures I found:

I actually really miss crazy, bald Britney.

(These two are father and son, natch!)

And, just for good measure, I actually think this is a pretty awesome tattoo. Hell, why not have a sense of humor?

FASHION.

I'm bored of the way I look and I want a new hairstyle. Generally when i get my haircut I get some variation on the cuts these Burberry models are sporting (especially the one on the right):

Keep in mind that i don't look like that because I'm a regular person and not a model. Anyway, I'd kind of like to start wearing my hair in a more classic slicked back look like George Clooney in this photo:

Or fashion favorite (and boner jam) Chuck Bass in this photo:

Can I do this without being a douchebag? Can I pull it off? If so, is it an every day look or only for certain occasions?

Also, I just bought these glasses, which I plan to take to my optometrist to put in regular prescription lenses.

I love sunglasses turned into regular glasses. That's how I got these Ralph Lauren frames.

Also, I just bought a bright yellow coat that I may or may not be too shy to wear.

ALEXANDER MCQUEEN HAS DIED.

Ugh.

If there's a God he's totally selfish. He keeps taking the good ones. Zelda Rubensteing, JD Salinger, and now Alexander McQueen. He should even things out by taking some uggos now. I suggest Fred Phelps. Or even Pat Robertson. Or maybe that hog fart, Maggie Gallagher.

Goodbye, Alexander. You were too beautiful for this dreary old  world.

And we love you, Alex.