Would You Order This?

June 8, 2015

From a menu on Delivery.com.  In case you can’t see, the description is: “Too difficult to put into words but highly recommended.”

Well, if it's HIGHLY recommended...

Well, if it’s HIGHLY recommended…

A Christmas Lament

June 3, 2015

A young editor I once met at a party where we made gingerbread houses (Brooklyn is so weird) emailed me the following, when I reminded her of our initial introduction:

(Man, gingerbread houses: I could really go for one of those right about now.)
(Although, you know, what a tragedy they are, ultimately. Right? Like sand castles. Or sand mandalas. Anything made out of sand, basically.)
(And is all of that stuff actually edible?)
(Like, isn’t there glue and stuff, usually? I seem to remember this from childhood. You’d spend all afternoon building a g’bread house and then the teacher-type-person would be all, No, don’t eat it—it’s just for decoration. Which is like, teacher-type-person, have you ever met a child? I mean, seriously.)
(Forget it. Gingerbread houses are clearly the worst.)

Cats

May 26, 2015

Watercolor black cats by Endre Penovac.  I love ’em.

endre-penovac-01

endre-penovac-05

endre-penovac-09

To Andre Balazs, C/O the Chateau Marmont

May 18, 2015

Dear Andre,

May I call you Andre?  Fantastic.  I have zero complaints about your hotel except that I have to leave it eventually.  I’m sure I will be homesick for room 24 for the rest of my life, which is a very dismal fate if you think about it.  I’m sure someone has suggested this to you before, or perhaps you’ve even done it, but I do think you should consider having a writer-in-residence, which is a very trendy thing to do these days.  A few examples of places where they’ve recently had writers-in-residence:

1. Heathrow Airport

2. AmTrak Trains

3. The Betsy Hotel in Miami

4. Governor’s Island, NYC

#3 I participated in last year, and I begin a residency at #4 in about a week.

Now I get that you and your venerable institution are likely above trends, but hear me out: despite being mostly poor, writers are terribly cool, and, as F. Scott Fitzgerald said (somewhat despairingly) they “can cause trouble like no one else can.”  Take me, for example––I am fantastic both personally and professionally, and if you’re thinking it’s sort of gauche that I just came right out and said that, let me assure you I can back it up.  I’ve been python hunting in the Everglades, serenaded by Tony Danza playing the ukulele, and written about Anne Sexton (poet, suicide)’s long lost rock band.  I’ve lived in a bookstore in Paris, written for [redacted], and composed hundreds of letters like this, in which I laid bare my foolish heart, full of lust for old hotels.*  I’m obsessed with religion but I write a mean snarky blog post.  I have no social media.  Most likely an intern will read this (I’ve been there, my unpaid friend!) and scoff at my stupidity, but this pool, with its trees full of fat lemons, has an Elysian quality to it, which means that if this residency doesn’t work out, I’ll perhaps get a chance to come back here when I die.

Love,

ID

Somewhere

Somewhere

*As regular readers you will notice that I have only about five good stories, which makes me uncool, but Andre doesn’t need to know the truth.

Los Angeles Dispatch

May 17, 2015

The below happened at the Hollywood Roosevelt, but I think everyone should know that I’ve officially died and gone to hotel heaven, which for me means: Chateau Marmont.

I am reading Blackout: Remembering the Things I Drank to Forget, by Sarah Hepola, poolside around 4 PM.  Techno is booming.  A pale guy sitting on a lounge chair diagonally across the pool spots my book, and when he catches my glance, says sorry.

Pale Guy: We were just admiring your book!
Me: Oh.  Yeah.  It’s good!
Pale Guy: Is it a galley?
Me: Yep.  Are you in publishing?
Pale Guy: Nope.  But I am an alcoholic.

Twenty-First Century Anxiety Dream

May 8, 2015

The other night I had a dream that my iPhone screen cracked in a million places, and I was super upset about it, and I realized (mid-dream) that it might be the modern equivalent of dental problem dreams?

Lottery Winnings

May 6, 2015

A few years ago, we got lottery tickets at work as Christmas gifts, and I was really convinced for a bit there that I Was going to win the lottery.  Herewith, what I planned to do with my earnings (and my former coworker’s list, because #2 is really funny):

1. Donate to the Help WOD Quit His Job fund.
2. Pay off my student loan –– in one fell swoop
3. Dry clean all my fancy clothes
4. Buy tickets for upcoming trips I would like to take –– to Utah in January and Miami in February (other locations tbd)
5. Get a cleaning lady to come to my house on the regs
6. Pay the $15 I owe to my roommate for spotting me for laundry one day
7. Buy a new apartment, maybe?
8. Take boyfriend to India or something –– on a trip to some place he’d like to go
9. Get all my random pictures framed
10. Buy this rug

WOD’s list:

1. Charitable donation to ID, obvi.
2. Quit my job and buy 2 bulldogs, named Steve McQueen and Ted, and hang out with them like all goddamn day.
3. Buy a sweet-ass house in some place that isn’t NY. Maybe Cali or Texas. Said house will have a pool and a bowling alley and a movie theater. Unless that gets too expensive. So maybe it won’t have all that stuff.
4. A metric shit-ton of records.

A Project That Almost Certainly Wouldn’t Be Worth It

April 29, 2015

So you guys know I’m moving to England, right?  It’s true––beginning early May, Itinerant Daughter will be… well, really fucking itinerant for a quite a while.  Oh, backing up: that’s because I’m traveling a bit before moving, to, among other places, Charleston, Ohio, Los Angeles, Rhode Island, Italy, and then the big move happens in mid-August.  So I’ve been thinking a lot about what to do with my books––not surprisingly, I have about four thousand of them––and am wondering if now is the time to make good on that idea I had, which was to bar myself from buying new books until I had read all the ones in my library I haven’t read.  I probably won’t make good on this idea because whenever I think about it, I immediately frown and consider all the books that I have that I legit don’t want to read (my fiance’s legal books––do my fiance’s books count?––as well as The Flamethrowers, because my interest just waned over time, Clarice Lispector’s An Apple in the Dark, Tolstoy’s The Kingdom of God is Within You, Henry James’s Daisy Miller, My Lunches With Orson and countless reference texts––do those count?) as well as those I should want to read but don’t (The Magus by John Fowles, Last Last Chance by Fiona Maazel, The Russian Debutante’s Handbook, Rosie Schaap’s Drinking With Men, Anthropology of an American Girl, which I almost immediately regretted buying as if I foresaw this very issue.)  Then I think about all the books I’ve read pieces of––select essays in an anthology, maybe, or a few stories by Vladimir Nabokov and Kafka out of their collections, and very occasionally books I began but didn’t warm to, like John Gregory Dunne’s Vegas––and whether I would have to read the entire text over again or parse out which sections I had read and which ones I hadn’t.  And then finally, I consider the fact that this would probably take me any number of days and result in a piece that I could sell only to The Paris Review and be paid $200 for, which if you calculated it out would mean I had made something like ten cents an hour.  So I guess I’ve decided not to do it.

If I had time (which I don’t, because I’m actually making headway on some books so GOSH leave me alone) I’d write an essay called “The Fascinating Religious Themes in the Bruce Jenner Interview.”  Did anyone else notice how many times they used the word “soul?”

Letters of Resignation

April 20, 2015

I do not even want to tell you how many times I’ve tried to make my own “letter of resignation” and failed miserably.  At least fifteen.  Based on the drawing, you’d think it would be kind of easy, no?  You’re totally wrong.  Go on, try it.

I quit!

I quit!

And WHY DID JOHN WATERS NEVER WRITE ME BACK?

There is Something Strange Happening Here

April 16, 2015

April 26th, 1889: Ludwig Wittgenstein’s birthday

April 29th, 1916: Wittgenstein is shot at while fighting in World War I

April 28th, 1951: Wittgenstein loses consciousness, and tells friend “Tell them I’ve had a good life”

April 29th, 1951: Wittgenstein dies

April 28th, 1984: I am born