Archive for July, 2013

Meh, Buzzfeed

July 12, 2013

Buzzfeed posted a list recently of “19 Successful People Who Had a Rough Time in Their Twenties,” and while it’s mostly nice (who doesn’t like to hear about people having a hard time?) there’s one entry I would like to take exception with, and that is the following:

Also, I think he might be a douche.

Also, I think he might be a douche.

See now, they’re saying he had a tough time because he bounced around punk bands but a) he also had an enormous opportunity at 22, which would have provided an ego boost on which to coast for at least a little while, whereas a lot of the rest of us do naught but contemplate suicide or religious service for five-ten yeras and b) he founded DFA Records at 29, which technically is still a part of one’s twenties.  The biggest annoyance here is that HE WAS OFFERED A JOB WRITING FOR SEINFELD AT 22!  That’s not exactly a “rough time,” regardless of whether or not you accept the job.

Raw Materials for a Theory of the Young-Girl

July 11, 2013

Prepare for me to sound very self-important in this post, or at least drop a bunch of terms that are designed to not-so-subtle way to inform you that I am important:

My agent was brainstorming things I should write about or muse on because my thoughts are just SO in demand, and she came across the above-titled excellent manifesto, which was written in the late ’90s by a French art collective called Tiqqun Tiqqun.  The manifesto seeks to explain the imperialist system’s creation of an eternal adolescent female as the ultimate consumer.  It’s kind of frightening to read it when you have some Young-Girl qualities yourself, or were perhaps a quintessential Young-Girl once, but then again, it’s very Young-Girlish to see yourself in everything, so I’m just trying to not let it drive me to endless introspection.  You can download the whole thing here.  An excellent portion:

“The Young-Girl enjoys speaking of her childhood with great emotion, to suggest that she hasn’t gotten beyond it, and that fundamentally she’s remained naive.  Like all whores, she dreams of innocence.  But, distinct from them, she demands to be believed, and believed sincerely.  Her childishness, which is, in the end, but a fundamentalism of infancy, makes her the most cunning vector of the general infantilization.

For the Young-Girl, even the meanest sentiments still have the prestige of their sincerity.”

I am fucking. riveted.

Two Things, Unrelated

July 10, 2013

1. This lingerie is stunning.


It’s called the “Fuego” set.

2. Is it just me or is Miranda July’s latest “art” project just an extended, highbrow version of the weekly photo montage in Us magazine entitled, “Stars! They’re Just Like Us!”?

Reality Check

July 10, 2013

Last night, while watching Born Schizophrenic: One Year Later (I’ve been following Jani’s progress for a while now) I had a somewhat disturbing thought.  When the parents said they had a hard time getting out by themselves because they couldn’t find babysitters equipped to deal with their 10 year-old schizophrenic daughter and 6 year-old autistic son, I said to myself, “I’ll do it!”  As I started planning my introductory email to them and thinking of how to finance my plane ticket, I realized that maybe this was a little unusual.

Passage Out of Context

July 9, 2013

“The professor tied Baby Winkie with twine to his desk and offered her a wide variety of foods, of which she would eat only cheese balls and chocolate-covered ants.  He had had to walk a dozen miles to procure these for her, and he placed them before her each morning and afternoon in two gold-leaf bowls.  But Baby Winkie’s whimpering didn’t cease.

For many days she sat on top of the desk staring out the dirty window at the woods, murmuring, ‘Papa, Mama, Papa,’ as she used to call Winkie when she was helpless and tiny, when he nursed her night and day with his own breast.  She kept waiting for Winkie’s face––the one face like her own––to appear in the underbrush.

Instead, the professor’s plaintive eyes and neat gray beard loomed over her night and day.  ‘Shh.  Shh,’ he’d whisper.  Occasionally, though she knew it was useless, she bit him.

‘Now, now,’ he’d mutter, rapping her smartly on the nose.  ‘No!’

Baby Winkie despised these attempts to ‘train’ her, especially since the stinging blow was a relief compared to her bereavement.  Three times a day she squatted over the side of his desk and let the shit drop to the floor, and three times a day he slapped her for it, shoving her toward the litter box he’d purchased and shouting, ‘In the box!  Go in the box!’ as if she hadn’t yet understood.  After maybe the hundredth time, she turned to the professor and said, quite distinctly:

‘The cycle of prohibition: Thou shalt not go near, thou shalt not touch, thou shalt not consume, thou shalt not experience pleasure, thou shalt not show thyself; ultimately, thou shalt not exist, except in darkness and secrecy.’

Unknown to her captor, when the cub wasn’t grieving for her lost parent, she was reading.  She had taught herself in a day; desperation had made learning easy.  She read by moonlight while the professor slept.  Within a few weeks she had skimmed through all his notebooks, hoping to discover some news of Winkie, and then gone on to assimilate all the knowledge contained in the hermit’s jam-packed bookshelves.

It wasn’t that she hoped to reason with him––she understood this was impossible––but that her despair, which had grown day after day, simply required utterance.  Her own words being too good for him, she chose others’; playful even in misery, the child simply said the first thing that came to mind.  ‘Foucault,’ she added now, in a weary parody of a proper citation.

This last touch startled her captor, but only for a moment, and then her unexpected venture into speech was swallowed by his many theories about her.  These continued to fever his mind, perhaps even more so now that he possessed her.  He took out a fresh notebook and sat down to observe his pet, as he did each morning.  He wrote: ‘Cloth and stuffing––vegetable.  Metal and glass––mineral.  Biting and defecation––animal.  Speaking and singing––human.  Existence––impossible!’

Seeing what he’d written, and his evident satisfaction with it, Baby Winkie rolled her eyes.  ‘Do you think that anything that is not beautiful is necessarily ugly?  And that anything that is not wisdom is ignorance?  Socrates, as reported by Plato.  Why is there more craving than there is in a mountain.  Why.  Stein.’

The professor experienced slight discomfort at this last utterance, but shook it off.  He noticed only that her eyes looked sad and ancient.  ‘Old, yet young,’ he noted.  ‘Compelling, yet scary.  Cute, yet grotesque…’

‘Your tale, sir, would cure deafness,’ said his obsession coldly.  ‘What seest thou else in the dark backward and abysm of time?  Shakespeare, The Tempest.’

Now the hermit frowned.  ‘Disturbing,’ he wrote.  ‘Sometimes B.W. seems to micmic with an intention––as if she meant what she said, choosing enigma.  It’s as if she’s joking with me, at my expense.’

Baby Winkie went to her dish and disdainfully ate an ant.  ‘He made a collection of butterflies and asked his mother for arsenic in order to kill them,’ she said.  ‘On one occasion a moth flew around the room for a long time with a pin through its body.’  She sat down glumly.  ‘Freud.  The dream is made witty because the straight and nearest way to express its thoughts is barred to it.  Ibid.  Song of the bleeding throat!  Whitman.’

The professor had expected the little creature to be a pure voice of innocence in his life, yet she spoke in his own language, that of books, which echoed back to him across a vast sadness.  He continued uneasily: ‘Her choice of food, for instance: a genuine preference, contempt––or both?’

For a moment Baby Winkie tried to empathize with the hermit’s complete inability to empathize.  Peering into his soul, she saw a wall, behind which things seethed.  It made her head hurt.  ‘For free association really is a labor,’ she whispered, ‘so much so that some have gone so far as to say it requires an apprenticeship.  Lacan.'”

~Clifford Chase, from the thrillingly bizarre Winkie

This Would Have Been Awesome

July 8, 2013

For a 4th of July party…

Screen shot 2013-07-03 at 3.08.48 PM

Vegetable Dress!

Also, have been thinking about making a thimble hat––like, a really big thimble you just plop on top of your head.  Kind of like a fez.  Siobhan will be taking pre-orders.

Mara Wilson

July 4, 2013

Yes, yes, of Mrs. Doubtfire fame––I used to have a tiny grudge against her because I feel like she stole my chance at stardom by being cast in the Miracle on 34th Street remake (we’ll discuss over drinks, M) but now I kind of have a friend crush on her, to the point where I ALMOST DRUNK JOINED TWITTER TONIGHT AND DRUNK TWATTED AT HER to respond to the following post on her blog.  Excerpt:

When I was a child, Saturday was my least favorite day of the week. The Jewish sabbath day is supposed to be a day of rest, but to a child, rest is boring and boredom is death. We couldn’t turn on the radio or computer, and TV was strictly off-limits. 1 We had to go to temple and listen to prayers in another language for hours, which hardly appealed to me: I was a conscientious kid, but apparently not a very spiritual one. There was only one upside, and that was that my mother’s loose interpretation of “rest” meant we could have candy. She was strict about our sugar consumption during the week, but come Saturday, candy, cookies, and sweets of all kinds were no longer off limits. Judaism’s laws against eating milk with meat also meant we were allowed to eat chocolate before dinner. Jelly beans and gelt were given out in Hebrew School, and going to a Bar Mitzvah meant getting to eat the gummy candies that had been thrown at the boy who had just become a man. Every Sunday was spent in a sugar hangover.

There was little I wouldn’t do for candy in those days, and my peers were similarly desperate. We lived for candy-rich holidays like Halloween, Easter, or Purim, and teachers regularly bribed us with Warheads (which were sour until they were sickly-sweet) and Blo-Pops (which were far superior to Tootsie Roll Pops). It was pure cruelty when a substitute teacher bribed my class with two caramels, saying she would give them to the two quietest, most studious students of the day. 2 My parents also didn’t allow me to have candy on set, for fear I’d get too hyped up on chocolate and sugar and then crash when I needed to be focused on acting. This meant that every night, as soon I wrapped, I would raid the Craft Service table. We filmed Matilda an hour away from Burbank, and I often spent the nightly car ride back home in a backseat sugar orgy so shameless and desperate Lou Reed could have written a song about it.

My tweet was going to be:

@marawilsonwritesstuff –– watch Seinfeld’s bit about candy immediately if not sooner.

Mara if you read this, email Siobhan to set up drinks.

DIY Earrings

July 3, 2013
Le freak c'est chic.

Le freak c’est chic.

After I saw Moonrise Kingdom––which I consider to be Wes Anderson’s most successful movie in years––I looked everywhere for dead beetles with which to recreate the earrings that Sam makes for Suzy.

But sadly, all I could find were the wings of the beetles, and earrings made out of them, which were far less exciting than what I had envisioned.

But today, I got an email in my inbox commemorating the Evolution Store’s 20th anniversary (mazel!) and, intrigued by the maroon version of their signature tote, decided to give the e-stock a second look.  AND I’m not sure any of the options I’ve come up with are perfect, they’re as close as I’ve gotten so far.  You can buy me whichever one you think is the closest.

Sagra Femorata

Sagra Femorata

Sternocera Aqui

Sternocera Aqui

Chrysina Beyeri

Chrysina Beyeri

Cows on the Beach

July 2, 2013

In Corsica, cows sunbathe.



Liveblogging the Trailer

July 1, 2013

The first in a series!  Herewith, the trailer for Salinger: