gumnut

From Craigslist:

I have a three year old Koala Bear named GumNut, that I'm desperately trying to find a new home for. I bought him back in January figuring it would be an awesome pet that would enjoy living in my greenhouse, sadly I was wrong. I paid $3200 for him back in January and I'am not sure what the used Koala Bear market is like in a good economy or the one we have now; so I'am open to offers. Please use some common sense before contacting me, don't be an idiot, I'am not interested in trading my Koala Bear for your busted up 1980's Camero, pictures of your naked wife, or an offer to paint my garage door.

GumNut's Stats:

The Good

*He is somewhat housebroken, uses a cat box most of the time.
*For the most part he is very quite; this also falls into the bad category which we will touch on in a moment.
*He eats spiders, (not kidding) we haven't had a spider in our house since we got him.
*Hates watching Desperate Housewives, used to be my wifes favorite show until GumNut bit her for changing the channel from Jeopardy, to Desperate Housewives.
*Gets along well with one of my two dogs.
*Loves to go for car rides.



Now for the Bad:

*He eats a lot of eucalyptus, which is not as cheap as I expected.
*Apparently eucalyptus is like a drug for Koala Bears, when GumNut is coming down from his high he becomes very violent and aggressive.
*He raped and killed my wife's cat "Miss. Kitty'" (Honestly, I wanted to put this in the good section because I've been trying to find a way to get that worthless cat out of our house for two years, thanks GumNut.)
*He does not like Asian's, I have no idea where this Koala was raised but someone of Asian Decent must have really mistreated him.
*Loves Vin Diesel movies, not sure why, he just does.
*Has extremely sharp claws and teeth which he uses often.
*Loves shiny objects, steals and hides them frequently in my dog's ass.
*He is quite, and as a result has snuck in on my wife and I during intimate moments. I mind him watching; maybe it won't bother you as much.
* GumNut smells terrible and is not easy to wash. I had to hold a gas soaked rag over his mouth till he blacked out to get him in this tub for a bath.


*Once he is in the water he is fine, getting him into the water is a challenge, he will scratch you, he will bite you, and you will bleed.

• Location: Aurora
• it's NOT ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests

PostingID: 1398158266

If this is real, my faith in humanity is restored.

Hey Freshmen

Now begins my posts on my beloved, soon-to-be Alma Mater. Now that I'm a senior at Columbia, I've gone through all phases of jaded Columbia Student and want to offer wisdom and anecdotes until I'm an alum and no longer relevant.

The 2013s galavanting on campus with none of the big folks around brings back so many old memories... It was like yesterday that just because I lived in Furnald people wouldn't talk to me, and that there was actually rivalry between two floors of Carman (9?)

But seriously, people will find it very difficult to accept you if you live in Furnald. In John Jay, you get the true nerds mixing in with the occasional really hot, probably rich and possibly European kids walking half nekkid to the men's bathroom and equally as occasional slut who brings back a different douchebag every night of orientation. There's plenty of camraderie and always an awkward conversation going on in the doorway.

Possibly one of the shittiest experiences I've had at Columbia involved me as a freshman venturing into Carman or John Jay parties and being given the stink eye for not living in either building. The only friendly encounter I had was with one drunk specimen, shirtless and strumming guitar in the hallway in Carman. That guy was definitely dtf, f standing for fornicate. Not that I had that kind of encounter my freshman year.

Oh the good old days...

Nostalgia Series Part deux

How can one forget the tamagotchi? Japanese faux animals were really à la mode in this era, and each trend had a wonderfully synergistic effect on the next (Don't get me started on pokémon)

I forgot how demonic the little hatchling tamagotchi was - I mean doesn't that black face scream baby lord voldy in Harry's kings cross station limbo heaven meta Dumbledore? I mean.. what?! I have no knowledge whatsoever of my livelihood growing up that reprehensible children's fantasy novel series.

Back to tamagotchi. I was the king. .. Of compulsively pressing buttons.. But seriously folks, I'm going to base all of my mothering skills on this little widget - I didn't get the special alien stage for nothing. How my children will enjoy producing hersey kisses instead of normal shit like other kids, I'm not sure.

Procrastination

On this day today, I wasted 1 whole hour looking at cute boys

In other news, I am in the news. Newsday to be exact.

Pink Enemy

Hi Pink Enemy,

You are awesome. Please remix my songs when they are recorded. Pink Enemy's remix of N.A.S.A.'s "Watcha Doin" is going to be my favorite dance song for a very long time.

Love,

Alice

the smoking diet

I really think its their secret. But you can't go the carcinogenic route without a good glass of red antioxidants a day.

The Nostalgia Series part 1

I was recently reminded of Homestarrunner (phonetically that's "homestawunnow") during a conversation about what was cool in middle school. Basically Homestarrunner was that funny as shit but under the radar website whose existence you didn't really acknowledge except amongst those who were awesome enough to know all the parts to Strong Bad's techno paradigm. I even wrote Strong Bad a couple e-mails. I suppose my feigned stupidity that he loves to mock was too contrived.

I have yet to encounter the same level of genius as is found in the Teen Girl Squad sketches. Mostly terribly morbid, partly witty reference and mostly rad. I remember boys in particular had a hard time admitting they liked homestarrunner - it was mostly the semi-androgynous Daria types like myself that often acted like dudes to combat the onset of boobs and underarm hair.

Let's have a boy/girl party!

delayed reaction

Is it just me, or (to borrow from Gollum) is the pollen being tricksie this year? Last spring in the last two weeks of May I got seasonal allergies for the first time ever, right in time for finals. The combination of Zyrtec and little sleep didn't really work in my favor. But things were alright immediately following those two weeks - it was like nothing ever happened despite my going back home to trees and flowers USA long island.

This summer however has been a mild day of allergy season. Everyday. The itchy eyes are especially annoying because I'm only 50% sure it's allergies and not another cornea infection (thanks, contact lenses). Dr. mom says it's the unusually high rain fall and their mold accomplices. But maybe I'll just go blind. I mean it's definitely the next trend. Fall 2009 no eyebrows; Spring 2010 no eyesight. At least it won't be as silly as harem pants. (and no, that is not me.. although there is a striking resemblance)

MOCA

Played a show at MOCA at its new location the other day with the lovely Cynthia Lin. Let's just say it was an older crowd with the exception of my Harvard friends. People were seated as if I were about to give them a lecture, but it was a nice opportunity to try out my new songs.

I made the unfortunate mistake of going to the Proenza Schouler sample sale earlier that day, and after figuring out a particularly complicated dress with the help of the salesgirl, I was flattered into buying it. I wrote it off as a 21st birthday present to myself, but I really do need to stop being so unrealistic with apparel.

1) I can't stop buying white and sure enough, this impeccible dress was black and white
2) I can't buy casual things and forget that most of the time I am a bleary-eyed Columbia student and not gallerina that can flit about in fabulous heels and dresses like an editorial spread all the time.

I went to topshop for the first time too. I think it's overpriced for the quality, but I have to admit I would like every single thing in the sequin category I saw...

narcolepsy then

I've become a full-fledged narcoleptic. I can't eat or sit down without falling asleep. Still hermit crabbing it at home. Being at home is like being in a hardwood floor cave.

Twitter Twatter

I remember the good old days when Columbia's Academic Advising center invited us sophomores to join this thing called "Twitter" to keep up with their updates. Nobody knew what that fuck twitter was or how it was supposed to be useful if we couldn't rebuild our facebook connections on it, but alas I joined and never looked at my account again until about a year later.

I always tend to miss out on this internet shit because well, I really hate the way that the internet is ruling my life. I signed up really early for twitter and a film makers/actors/producers etc. online community Massify and could have totally Tela Tequila'd the crap out of the sites and reached god like status if it weren't for my internal struggle with technology.

I constantly sign in and out of gmail, facebook and now my work e-mail, but I kick myself both when I leave things open and when I waste time signing in and out several times during a session on el Firefoxo. The open gmail tab almost guarantees that my eyes will flicker between it and what I'm actually trying to focus on, and you know my ass goes straight to my inbox as soon as I receive a new e-mail, which is usually from Ticketmaster or Urban Outfitters.

Let's go back to AIM. I want to find love at first a/s/l?

Now I'm going to be a hypocrite (a rather common occurrence) and provide my twitter link for you to follow.

Wilco the album

I love Wilco. To death. Ever since a certain ex boyfriend introduced me to them (as well as the whole genre of not-classical music), I will never tire of their stellar musicianship.

I was however not entirely pleased with their latest release. Jeff Tweedy explained in an interview that the self entitled album was everything that "sounded like Wilco", and doesn't have the same kind of defining characteristic like Yankee Hotel Foxtrot or Summerteeth. It was a mish mash of everything they've used in past albums.. but I suppose they already started moving in this direction with Sky Blue Sky. Doesn't mean I'm not going to buy it though.

I was disappointed with Fleet Foxes' follow up single "Mykonos" for similar reasons. I guess I don't like talented artists and bands to sound like "themselves". I can only hope to achieve the neverending inventiveness of Radiohead...

July makes you buy stuff

Every summer I spend at home, there's always one point at which my hormones get low, suddenly God turns up the humidity while my parents scowl at the idea of putting in the air conditioners and the shade of the trees loses its charm when I can no longer enjoy the evening temperature drop off as the mosquitoes stake their claim on my ankles and arms.

This, coinciding with my continued subscription to Vogue that I can't seem to run away from, without fail stirs up the materialistic creature purring in the depths of my well-stocked closet. First, too lazy to leave the house in search of satiation, I ransack my mother's wardrobe even though I already know what's there. Half of what I wear the most now is hers anyway. My search for the navy blue sweater with the perfect amount of box in the shoulders was futile. My house seems to eat up clothes.

Now I've suddenly developed the urge to update my makeup inventory, which I have to say is rather pitiable. Yesterday the kind people at abc.com provided my eyes with an attractive ad for the makeup artist collaborations with Target. Afterall, Target is where I first discovered the UK brand Boots. Jemma Kid, Napoleon Perdis and Petra Strand are all happy accomplices with the fancy mart called "tar-jé" with a variety of decent products but should I really be paying $20 for cheek tint? Yes I understand its aloe vera based but aren't these things supposed to be more affordable when you've got the red and white bullseye on your side?

Then again I know next to nothing about makeup. My entire inventory is borrowed save the one foundation that I live by - Almay's magical smart shade foundation. Lip and eyes add up to under $30. I have one shade of peach blush that I use from a pallette from lord knows how many christmases ago... I don't think expensive makeup makes a difference, but all the same a decent copper eyeshadow, some brown liner and mascara and an actual separate blush couldn't hurt right? Perhaps I'll do as the parisian girls do and leave my makeup subtle but tease my hair like mad. I will have to work on a sufficient cigarette replacement to achieve the limp hand.

Kollaboration New York 2009

[Photo courtesy of Paul Kim for Massive Photography. See the youtube video of my performance here!]

Kollaboration New York was one of the coolest things I've done in a long time, and for the first time I truly realized how supportive and cool the Asian American community is here. I have all sorts of mushy gushy feelings for you golden coloured ones, and I am proud to call you my brethren. Basically Kollaboration is an orgiastic showcase of up and coming asian american artists around the U.S. in which people dress up in gladiator costumes and fight to the death contestants compete for a cash monay prize.

'Twas the 27th of June on a pleasantly hot New York day. I arrived at 11 am for my soundcheck for the 8 pm show. fml. No it was cool. In my off time I made the mistake of trying Dunkin' Donut's egg white sandwich, hung out with Marie Choi's band boys, bought a bilingual version of Les Femmes Savantes by Molière at La Librarie de France in Rockefeller Center (which closes in September wahhh), discovered that Pedelson's closed, ate a subway sandwich and had me some times with Alex of our youtube video fame in Washington Square park.

Next we did a red carpet. It was all shipped in from Caleefornia (d'après Arnold) and in front of one of those white tarps with logos. The level of hardcorety made me real nervous in front of the cams and my smile was that convulsing smile you get when you smile while nervous and I couldn't move my arm from its stupid akimbo position but alas at least it wasn't outside in public. The abcnews.com/allkpop interview was amusing. Among the usual questions musicians are posed there was the "what's your favorite asian food" question. I believe I actually ended the interview with "SIGN ME", with every intention to address the record companies that I mean to whore myself out to later this year.

Although I didn't actually introduce myself, Yin Chang of bespectacled fame on Gossip Girl was a total sweetheart and brought her adorable siblings and mother along to watch. She also looked smokin' hot and definitely a lot prettier in person without the rediculous nerd glasses. I rather fancied telling her I once upon a time got a call back for her part during the Kati Farkas era of token asian girl on Gossip Girl, but then I found myself irrelevent and digressed. Besides it's Nan Zhang I should smite. Just kidding let's have tea sometime.

The show itself was incredible - NYU's Skirballs center was sold out and the 800 people made quite the energetic audience. The comic relief in the form of PK and Eliot Chang made me pee my Cheap Mondays several times over, which was bad because they're white. The jeans that is. Everyone sounded or danced fabulously from what we could tell from the rehearsal room screen. I had the good fortune of meeting Alfa, this seriously talented girl who sounds like Sarah Borellis and is terrifyingly like myself in life situation. Bollywood Axion and Project D were crazy free stylin' and sweating up a storm. If you want to know what Bhangra freestyling is like, you can't. It's indescribable happiness in dance form.

In the end we did a tribute to Michael Jackson, and COBU, a traditional Japanese dance group, took home the big ass check. The afterparty at newly opened Hells Kitchen was a bit of a bust since the free beer and soju didn't show up, so I dragged my new Korean posse to Beatrice only to discovered it had closed. We ended up at Pop burger - which houses delicious but rul expensive burgers, fries, shakes etc. Ok fine... the fries were worth it. There was also a club in da back.. which was odd for a burger joint.

All in all, awesomeness. Thanks Kollaboration! Who knows.. maybe I'll be the next BoA.

In other awesomeness, my myspace likes to be clicked.

"finger-lickin' good"

The coast at Casablanca.

And so begins Day 2 in Morocco

We had our complimentary breakfast overlooking the patio and breezy coastline. Within ear shot was an extremely french couple, the woman skinny, gazelle like and head to toe in linen. The man was wearing thin rectangular glasses that I have been pining after as of late - mine are I must admit gargantuan. They ate like birds of course and probably smoked des cigarettes après.

At first we were intimidated by the hordes of young Moroccans playing soccer on the beach, but the black and red sands, expansive sky and threat of rain moved us onward. We walked as close to the water as we dared - every so often the breaking wave would rush on so quickly and so uniformly across the beach that you actually had to run away from it. Aside from the teams of boys and men bright soccer shorts, there were a few groups of teenagers lounging in the sand.

As soon as we checked out and haggled for a reasonably priced cab fare, it was pouring rain and they had to shut down the mosque, a cool and vast place of marble nonetheless. Unable to find another cab to the train station for quite some time, we trekked through the rain with our cumbersome duffel bags but did see a good portion of the city. Much like the mosque there was a pervading marble color to the tiling, palm trees everywhere, carts heaping with tantalizing fruits, fresh bread or vegetables.

Suprisingly dry we kipped into a random café near the train station for lunch, again filled with Moroccan business men. The chicken tagine was to die for - by far the best tagine we had in Morocco. Our train ride to Marrakech was like a waking dream, transitioning from idyllic poppy fields and sheep flocks to what looked like Jurassic park. Whilst reading jihad, I unfortunately fell asleep and happened to be sitting next to a scholar of islam. I definitely missed out on what could have been a rousing discussion of Sayyid Qotb.

After dismissing a faux guide who had suspiciously perfect english, we once again walked to our destination. The wide avenue in the new city was strongly reminiscent of a grand boulevard in Paris and a stark contrast to the bustling medina in the old city, where the stalls boasted anywhere from fresh goat head to moutains of mint leaves. It was utterly hopeless trying to find the nook our hostel was in, so we paid a teen to show us the way.

Riad Massin was by far the best riad in Marrakech - unlimited mint tea, loving people that treated you like family, free internet use (a community laptop), organized excursions, beautiful, clean and really really cheap (I think it was like 11 euro a night).

We had dinner at "the stalls", basically glorified picnic tables at the main square called Place Jemaa el Fna. The stalls were lined up in succession - some had only locals, some had only tourists. Each stall was manned by a loud, multilingual dude that yelled stuff at tourists to attract them to their stall. Our favorite was the one who used "finger-lickin' good" on us KFC-loving americans. Everything was a bit flavorless and disappointing except for the fried eggplant, which was delicious. We were too intimidated by the stalls with all locals. This was compounded by the fact that the menu signs were in arabic and not french.

And so ends day 2. Many more pics on my flickr.

I'm BACK. For good.

(view from our hotel in Casablanca)

After a stint in candyland in which I lost my internet savvy, fear no more I am back in the U S of A and ready to go BLOGCORE.

I have my itunes on shuffle, Beck is serenading me and I am ready to climb the formerly insurmountable mountain of a task that is recounting my time in Morocco from April 15th - 22nd.

But first, there are a few things you should know about Morocco (from my interpretation at least) before delving into my memoir:

1. Morocco is a muslim country in North Africa. This means droning prayers throughout the cities several times a day. The women are liberally

2. Morocco was formally a french colony, thus many of its inhabitants, especially the younger generation, speak french. Even the smaller towns have chairs spilling out of the cafés onto tiling. The entire country is very clean... for this and its convenient location it is what I dub "the white man's" vacation in Africa

3. 11 dirhams to the euro. Pretty sweet exchange rate.

4. Every price is negotiable. There is not a single thing bought without bargaining.

5. Moroccans are some of the most hospitable people out there.

Day 1

My friend auspiciously chose one of the nicest hotels in Casablanca, which the cabbie informed us was located on the "Champs Elysées of Casablanca". Indeed it was on the nicest road with all the other hotels and nice restaurants along the coast, but even then there was gravel everywhere. Aside from the palm trees, the beautiful mosque and the beach, Casablanca was vaguely polluted, open and desolate. The night was chilly, windy and moist and salty from the sea air.

We shied away from a rather nice restaurant that french tourists decided on and went with another that was more of a hashisha bar. The waiter outside was very convincing. As we would soon find out later... there's always a welcoming borderline obnoxious man trying to flock you into his establishment. We descended the stairs to find live music (which is generally traditional arabic music + a dude singing it), moroccan business men sitting at white clothed tables and certainly no tourists. The effect was instant - we definitely looked odd amongst them.

About halfway through our meal of probably the best couscous we had our whole time Morocco, heavily made up women wearing tight clothing and stilettos, basically walking ads for baby phat morocco, strutted in accompanying older, portly moroccan men. My companions were convinced they were paid escorts, but I like to think that the generous wallets of their men guided them into the state of holy matrimony.

We ended with mint tea - about as omnipresent in Morocco as Speidi in fine media outlets. Since I was lame, tired and still feeling the heavy weight of my epic jihad paper, I read jihad by gilles kepel (excellent but damn near killed me) and my companions frolicked on the coast.

So ends day 1.

So how's the weather

Take the most beautiful spring day you can imagine in New York, slap on vibrantly blooming flowers, gardens everywhere, winding streets, cobblestones, actual warmth and sunlight, translate that day into everyday and you have Paris in April. And May I'd imagine as well. When it rains the streets breathe and scintillent

Leaving for Morocco tomorrow. Hitting up Casablanca, Marrakech, Fez and Ouarzazate. Oh yea and the Sahara desert at night. I'll be MIA for a week. Piccies when I return.

Once upon a Behati

Once upon a time I went to two gallery openings in New York one balmy winter's eve with my good friend Reni Lane, newly signed to Custard/Universal/gloriousness. If you're out there somewhere in Brooklyn, tu me manques à Paris.

The first one we went to featured sexual themes and willy wonka-esque colors. The artist was a middle-aged man who I guess overcame his crisis. I think he was a teacher beforehand. After gorging ourselves on mini cupcakes, we were getting bored and decided to venture into utilities closest from which many people were curiously flitting in and out.

We found ourselves amidst piles of Jeurgen Teller issues, gigantic rolls of bubble wrap and a bunch of new york art scenesters getting high on that cat nippy herb whose name I fail to remember. There was a nice girl there with a floppy rastafarian hat getting very cuddly on some boy. She introduced herself as Behati, which meant nothing to me until Reni informed me that she was some big model or something. Well this model person left her auburn calvin klein sweater behind in her spontaneity. We took it for safe keeping and it was passed onto me.

Dear Behati,

If you miss your sweater. I have it if you ever want it back.

This is not a fashion blog. Damnt I swear! But seriously I had a rough half month. Stay tuned for my various revelations on life.

youtube symphony orchestra

I would SOO go see this if I were in New York

Your greatest revelations will be in the park

So that's why I don't want to sit on a pyramid...

M.I.A.

Since the boat party and prodigy concert that smacked my ears up:

- went to l'opéra garnier and listened to a Greek tragedy in Italian to the stylings of Mozart with French subtitles. Moving but too many languages. Will definitely return to the opera. Bought someone else's tickets for the first time - for some reason the woman selling them targeted me and only me. Perhaps my munching on an olive roll made me look box worthy. A lot of gold and fancy shmance.

- Saw the Eiffel Tower up close and personal. Yes can you believe it's been this long? Saw the Andy Warhol exhibit. Nipples and color.. not a big fan of pop art but at least I know what he was all about now. Commission. Saw Ave Montagne - Chanel, Prada, YSL et cetera and the glitziest hotels in the brilliant sunshine. Sat on a green green lawn near Trocadero with the gamins and smelled the pollenated air of spring. Watched them be all entitled and carefree. Walked along a rooftop park. Went to a bio market with meticulous mountains of strawberries. Went to Palais de Tokyo. Hipster art abounds. Space Invaders! Search for them.

- Had a hearty lunch at American Breakfast in Paris. Loved making 75% of the noise in the room with the posse without feeling loudly inappropriate Americans. Huge pancakes. A fucking veggie burger. VEGGIE burger. Well more precisely tofu. Went back to Le Potager du Marais. Vegetarian food! Quinoa croustillant. Fabulous.

Less M.I.A. and summarizy post this post.

Manish Arora pics

Check out fashionista for Manish Arora pics or my flickr for other pics as well. According to fashionista, I happened to stumble upon the best show of the bunch.

And so begins my electro filled week-end: First stop a red boat on the Seine that is also a club. A boat club. Called Le Batofar. Then Prodigy on Sunday. I should totally do some tectonic to prepare myself.

Owen Wilson, PWNED

I pass this work of art almost everyday. I couldn't resist..

What really surprises me is the fact that the ninja mask wasn't pulled over the face of that woman

I actually went to a fashion show

Manish Arora. 3ème Paris. It was a lovely grey afternoon when my companion and I decided to try and get into a défilé, french for fashion show avec catwalk. My other friends had already succeeded in getting into Yohji Yamamoto three days prior, so to be safe I picked a designer I had never heard of before.

I'm not sure how strict it is in New York, but it was pretty easy to get into the shows here (at least the 'smaller' labels... a couple of my friends are trying Chanel tomorrow morning.. we'll see how that déroules for them). At Yohji my friends split up and waited until the very end of the admittance when the door people started letting non-invites in. Some said they were fashion students and the others claimed to be buyers for obscure New York boutiques. But in the end they heard the glorious "allez-y".

For us we didn't have the luck of having two separate entrances for buyers and press to linger by at a distance to see what plan of attack to use. The garage door on the street opened up to rather small courtyard with another garage door at the end. One entrance. Fuck. It was quite amusing watching the people stream in - a lot of enthusiastic japanese people with odd hair and bright accessories, non descript behind the sceners and that curious old woman in the elevated black veil/hat/witch combo that I also saw at John Paul Gaultier. About an hour later we had moved right up to the enemy lines and then all of a sudden non-invitees were being let in. The great thing was that we didn't even have to pretend to be students, just waltzed right in at the sound of "allez-y" and climbed an ascending concrete path to the catwalk.

The show itself was amusing. It opened with some kind of african dancer getting all tribal on the catwalk. Overall the collection was super-saturated and multicolored with some fantastic displays of tigers, a 3D moose, a mechanically whirring headpiece, stravinsky's firebird, japanese slicked hair and bright eyemakeup that resembled masks. The dresses were beautifully crafted and all very structural. It was interesting to see the crazy mix of patterns, colors and materials in a very strucural form. Very Hindu, reincarnation-worthy fantasy vibes. I believe the Manish Arora is Indian if I'm not mistaken.

Outside I even got my picture taken. I was very pleased that my go to ensemble of frilly white chiffon dress, motorcycle jacket, grey tights, domanatrixy boots and slouchy camel bag was picture worthy. Not gonna lie though, I was so tempted to Satorialist every wench queuing outside. Alas I resisted for fear that such an act might diminish my chances of hearing those magical words: Allez-y!

Après we found a café on a main boulevard after torturing my 4-inch heeled feet a bit more, sat outside under heaters, drank wine, people watched and argued about whether Paris or New York had more variety. I think I won on the accessbility factor - you can definitely get a kick ass meal or what have you in New York for a lot less money and a lot less effort than in Paris.

On a side note, among the many observations I've been accumulating about Parisians, one of them is their method of appraisal for restaurants and cafés. The more people outside, the more likely it is they will stop there and boire un verre. If there are only a few people inside, even if it's a potentially good place to eat or drink, it's automatically nixed.

Comme toujours, allez voir my flickr for more pictures. This time around though you're better off looking at the runway pics somewhere else. I am uploading many more pictures from earlier, non-fashion related me related events.

The 50% Rule

The women of Paris are beautiful does with chic clothes, perfectly-coiffed (or perfectly haphazard) hair, pretty brooding faces, pretty bodies and mannerisms that would make finishing school graduates in the states cry. That being said, however beautiful the women are, I have to say that the men win. At least in the area of demographics.

The 50% rule is as follows: whatever public space you find yourself in, whether it be on the metro or in the streets, at least 50% of the men will be incredibly good-looking, tall, skinny, well-dressed, well-groomed and never chauvinistic. If you happen to meet a not so cute French guy, statistics say that at least half of his friends are dashing chanticleers. It's so bad(good) that I've been completely desensitized to the fleet of glorious male models struttin around gettin up in my mojo. That being said, I will allow that they are a bit feminine. Leg crossing is a common practice among the male species, and most of the time their hair is long and falls at all the right angles.

French men also have no problem with touching and kissing each other a lot when they go out. I suspect this goes for all Europeans but it greatly confuses us American women because we think you're all gay or bisexual. But hey I think it's great. It takes a lot of confidence in your manhood to sit on your friend's lap, cross your legs, wear long hair like it's nobody's business, dress better than me, and wear pointy shoes all at once. In summation, take the lead singer of MGMT, multiply his attractiveness by a factor of 3, add a cigarette and times that by 1/2 the population of Parisian men and you get the picture.

Oh yea did I forget to mention that they love dating? Like, LOVE. Oh yea and hand holding. And PDA. All the shit that I thought disappeared with the invention of the telegraph.

I can't wait to get back to the beer-loving mysogynistic relationship-allergic lazy brotastic unrefined ungroomed darlings back home (I kid I kid.. but seriously free t-shirt + that one pair of jeans + sandals does NOT = outfit. EVER)

how to dress like a parisienne: winter edition

Refer yourself to this. The top half is pretty accurate with the exception of the outside the coat rule (see 1a).

1. a scarf

• Typically a thick knitted one with lots of texture. Most commonly grey over a black coat, black over a grey coat or some kind of off-white. This is absolutely essential. You will rarely see a Parisien, man or woman, sans écharpe. I literally have not seen the same scarf twice with the exception of the grey knitted ones. Definitely an investment piece - I saw one such hoe cost over 100 euro au bon marché. H&M should do the trick though.
  
• Always outside of the coat
• Typical wrapping techniques: Around the neck twice and finished with a half-shoelace

1a. tuck hair with scarf into coat

• self-explanatory. Very necessary for long hair - it's instant chic if you can deal with the ticklies associated with tucked in hair
  

2. leather bag

• It is SO easy to get a nice leather bag in Paris - whether it be vintage (the big ones range from 25-50 euros) or at a department store or boutique. I highly recommend the boutiques. Even the shitty ones have kick ass leather bags
  

3. booties

• Contrary to what sartorialist makes you think, most Parisiennes sasha fierce down la rue with short, flat booties with a lot of ankle slack. Only the truly fabulous have time for heeled booties and heels in general. Again neutral colors..
  

4. tights

• this one's obvious. They are well accomplished at wearing brown tights - something I never achieved.
  

5. mini-jupe (short skirt)

• or something to show off those svelte legs
  

6. short locks

• very à la mode right now - instantly solves the tucking problem
  

7. a well tailored coat: either form-fitting or with an interesting shape
8. lipstick

• red or an interesting shade of salmon will do. Recently I've become a big fan of lipstick. Really wakes everything up. My preferred technique is dabbing and blotting so there's just a stain and not a layer.

Et voilà. Follow these steps and you'll be effortlessly chic even on your tiredest of days.

Episode Review: Vintage in Paris attacks!

Episode; 16 Rue Tiquetonne 75006 Paris.

Pros: Big, bright and well organized; Price - everything excluding the accessories ranged from 10-25 euros.

Overall: A plethora of 80's gear for guys and gals.

Finds: A lot of hats, a rack of woolen, high-waisted shorts, two racks of sequin capulets, outrageous theatre costumes, an overstock of gas masks (really), a small but interesting selection of bags, some good pairs of boots (that applies to most vintage haunts in Paris though) and quirky t-shirts.

Cons: When I say mostly 80's I really mean it - unless plaid is your thing

Up Next: Kiliwatch, Free'p'star and designer vintage

To Quoi or not To Quoi, That is le question

Welcome to the first edition of What they didn't teach you in French class

There are two classes of French speakers. You either add quoi all the time or you don't. Now we aren't talking about the functional quoi here, the one that means "what", for example in "t'as fait quoi hier soir?" (what did you do last night)

This quoi is devoid of real meaning and is added to the end of any ole sentence for flavor. There is no equivalent in English - the closest translation I can think of is ", right?" but even that doesn't encompass the full spectrum of quoi-ness. I know this because on the last episode of Lost (which in desperation I bought off of itunes), they decided to do a little featurette on Danielle and the French scientists with subtitles. Bitch went crazy. Apparently she's also been wearing the same sweater for 20 years while everyone else on the Island gets shipments from JC Pennys. Well maybe not Sawyer. Wardrobe goes to PlaidsRUS in a little place called Williamsburg for his git ups. Hot shit models for Davidoff, no way he was going to accept the JCs

When one of the dudes said something (probably about the fucking smoke monster..mentioning the smoke monster, where has home slice been lately? I miss his human pulverizing ways) that went like "....sentence in french, quoi", everything was translated except for that one little dinger at the end. Furthermore Lost is right about everything, so I consider this indisputable evidence that quoi is meaningless.

Don't get me wrong though, quoi maybe meaningless but it's intensely satisfying.

Flea Market: Porte de Clignancourt

At the very end of the 4 train at Porte de Clignancourt in the 18e you will find a flea market. If you can brave the beggers, riff raff and general seedyness immediately surrounding the métro, you will find diagon alley "les puces" - literally "the fleas". Oddly enough, "ma puce" is a term of endearment which translates into sweetie. Oh btdubs happy saint valentin. If you're on the same boat that I am, I'm sure your day sucked too.

According to my friend who embarked on this journey, antique dealers and wholesalers come to this flea market to presumably make a huge profit off of their finds. The section we walked into (of which there are many, I'm told) mostly comprised of open air booths strongly reminiscent of chinatown, but being Paris and all there were many gems along the way. The vintage clothing booths are great - we found one with endless one of a kind blazers, burberry raincoats, very nice boots and other stuff you would actually want to wear. There was a booth filled with beautiful mahogony leather bags that were all very well crafted. Mentioning leather, there were a lot of leather jackets in great condition too. African furniture and Senegalese fabrics were a plenty, as were the obligatory generic clothing booths. A vintage book "librarie" heaved with shelves of quizzical publications and even had newspapers from 1914 pasted on the walls. Scattered about a table were photo albums from not this century and postcards from french people in the yester-years. The upside is you can pretty much find anything. The downside is, just like a night on the champs-elysées, you will probably be harrassed a little bit. Especially if you're speaking english very loudly. Although we were too cold and nancy-pantsy to stay and really look, apparently there is also incredible designer vintage clothing and jewelry in one of the many sections. With that said, I will definitely return on a warmer spring day.

How to get free drinks in Paris

1. Wear heels
2. Go to the location of tables, inebriated rich/good-looking people and bottles in ice (If you timed it correctly, follow the booze with the sparkler in it)
3. Shamelessly dance up on the boys
4. Attack the shirtless one who is clearly looking to bed someone
4a. Make out with said boy to make him think he will get your american ass into his lit
5. You don't even need to ask for a drink, it will be freely flowing and offered to you
6. Hand off drinks to your thirsty friends (me for example)
7. Et voila. Free grey goose and moet the entire evening morning. Case in point: refer to image above taken at le cab.
8. Leave boy hangin - you're trop classe to go back with him

Been trying to pounce on the most typically dressed parisienne. Will succeed even if I die trying.

La Sorbonne en grève

Oh La Sorbonne, how pretty you look in the morning. I would have tickled pink to attend my 8 am Contemporary Arabic Society class if you weren't so damn apt to go on strike...all...the...time...

My real classes started this week. Want to know how many I've had? One. Well two if you count "TD", which is the french version of recitation only it's a separate class with its own requirements. Upon reaching the Sorbonne Wednesday morning, I was greeted by striking hippie students handing out fliers. I had luckily stumbled upon the right wing and floor of the building, the plan of which by the way makes no geographical sense. Many classrooms simply have names like "Picard" (who is this Picard person and why is he everywhere?) and you just simply have to know where they are. When my professor entered the lecture hall I thought, oh sweet, she's not on strike. Instead she took up the microphone and proceeded to explain the reasons for the strike in rapid fire french worthy of speedy gonzales. Then another hippie student stole the microphone and I lost the ability to faire attention. At the beginning my TD, before the class had settled down and just after the professor had entered, another hippie slouched in her seat cheekily demanded why this professor wasn't striking. Apparently he can agree ideologically but still do his job. The TD was very stimulating (and intimidating) except for the part where the prof singled out all 10 americans in the class with one fell swoop.

I arrived at a different campus of the sorbonne for my music class only to find it was on strike indefinitely as well. My advisor informed me later that this would be a safety issue because this campus is the center of many demonstrations..

If this were Columbia I'd be rejoicing. But it's not Columbia, and not knowing when I'll ever have class the whole entire semester is weird. It's pretty fucking hilarious though how much French people strike. The only Americans self-riteous enough to greve it up would be greving against homosexuals and abortions, not changes in the educational system.

On a completely unrelated note, check out this article on what technology is doing to our attention spans:

http://blog.wired.com/wiredscience/2009/02/attentionlost.html

Summation

Last Last Weekend: Happy Chinese New Year! Parades and people crowding around hôtel de ville and chinatown. Dragons, banners, firecrackers, painted chinese peoples and many curious french peoples. Met my biology tutor. He's the awesomest. My host mom hit my last nerve by officially ousting my two things out of the shower and yelling at me for not asking her to if I could put something in the fridge. Basically my old host fam was mad bourgeois.. old, beautiful appartment with a piano. My desk was a veritable bureau from olden times. Everything they bought was "bio" (translate, very expensive). I had lamb, veal and rabbit for dinner. Too many rediculous rules (can't use the piano when they're home, can't keep anything in the fridge or freezer, can't eat breakfast after 11 am without being scolded, can't go out without being criticized) and general hostility towards me.

Chapter 2, last week: Monday I got out of that shiz. Basically sneak attacked my host family by giving them exactly one hour notice I was leaving. Then I was gone. Let's just say I felt awkward. There's no word in french for awkward. The french are never awkward, always right. Did you know that there is no such thing as a synonym in french? Multiple words only exist on differing levels of sophistocation. Drove by the eiffel tower at night in transit. It was all blue and sparkly. It was surreal, like being on LSD. I felt like Carrie Bradshaw, without the dog poop on my louboutins. New home: 16e - by far the most chi chi residential neighborhood. New host mom is really nice and extremely lively. She has a fat bulldog named Maidemoiselle Zou Zou. TV, my own entrance and bathroom and half a wall comprised of window looking out onto the beautiful, bright terrace.

Last weekend: Excursion to see les chateaux de la loire. Frolicked Complained in the snow at Cheverny. Bought almond cookies to share. We heard one of the precocious royal children playing the grand piano upstairs. Excited the hunting dogs, one of whom thought my umbrella nub was a delicious nipple. Next castle: Blois. Grounds sucked so we did a guerilla fashionshoot (translate: stalked my friends with my camera). Stayed at the town of blois. Went ghetto and brought bread, cheese and yogurt for dinner. Stayed in the hotel room and told stories and blagues until we cried. The next castle was Chenonceau. Breathtaking and finally the castle we had been dreaming about. Misty woods and deathly quiet trails. A 16th century farm with inhabitants intact. River running around the castle, gardens, labyrynth and topiary were all there. Discreetly beaconed the mules over to the fence so we could kiss them. Tried to steal.. too big. Fed Nikos a cracker instead. Only thing missing was the distressed maiden and a chauvanistic dragon. In the last town of Amboise (see photo above), we saw leonardo da vinchi's house and invaded private property - houses growing out of the mountain sides. Cobblestone roads and chickens cooped up on the door step. Sang "Oops I did it again" in french on the bus ride home. (Up, je l'ai encore fait..)

This week: Finally started real classes yesterday. My advisor put me in the hardest level of academic writing. Knew it wasn't meant to be when we were informed our whole semester would revolve around Jean Paul Sartre (see: existentialism) and a paper due every week. Definitely dropping down a level. Made a jog in the woods by the 16e (Bois de Boulogne). Went back to fripstarr (detailed review later) and bought interesting silk scarves for 1 euro each. Got a cute camel leather purse for 5 euro.

As always, see my flickr for more pictures. Or facebook for people and me as a muppet.

Stay tuned for How to Dress like a Parisienne and chronicles of designer and vintage thrifting.

general upheaval

So. This week was a bit of a whirlwind of crazy that involved very little time at the computer. My classes are starting this week so regularity will bring daily blog posts je te jure. Basically I moved in one day away from my terrible host family to the 16e arrondissement, one of the chicest neighbs in paris. I spent the weekend looking at castles, taking rediculous pictures and faire-ing many lols. But right now I'm about to snooze on myself so I'll post deets concerning my crazy ass week tomorrow. And oh are there deets.

On the street....that bag, Paris

Jean Paul Gaultier Show.. or my day as a pappa(rat)zi

So what exactly is Kanye West doing in Paris? In addition to being great, he's OBVS here for the couture edition of fashion week. Or mens fashion week or something too schmancy for me. However easy he is to poke fun at, I must admit that he's a smart mofo. Instead of rollin' up to the main entrance where all the other hot messes were arriving, he decided to go 'round the side, resulting in my comrades and I turning around and finding none other than KWest the duke of greatness ferretting into JPG. "Wow, I could have just touched Kanye"

The picture above is courtesy of my stylish friend Kipling, who has a far superior camera to mine. This is Lou Doillon, daughter of Charlotte Gainsbourg. She was such a darling, posing for the papparatsmears and graciously obliging a fan photo, to which I yelled " T'es trop gentille!". Dig the red lips and hair.

Basicsly, me and some expats decided to crash the Jean Paul Gaultier show today. By crash I mean take pictures outside and make fun of ourselves. Kipling and I took it upon ourselves to take many pictures. I took it upon myself to yell profanities and odd things at the well-dressed people. It was kind of awkward when people got out and the paps didn't go ape shit. There were a lot of fake tanned people and a couple bitches who looked like they stumbled out of Jersey (the rich parts). Here's the list of people we recognized:

kylie mynogue, empress of munchkinland
carine roitfield, editor of french vogue
jourdan dunn and chanel iman, recently did a vogue editorial shoot together
lily donaldson, burberry face 2008
catherine deneuve, legendary french actress. doppleganger stars in grey's anatomy private practice
emily blunt, don't you find it so ironikal that you're at paris fashion week (sorta) when your poor same-name character who gets hit by a car in the devil wears prada was pwned by anne hathaway for the coveted opportunity to wipe fictional anna wintour's ass all day?

(Go to my flickr for fotos of many of these fairies)

The paps did go ape shit for kylie and kanye though. We thought something was amiss when we were almost crushed by french dudes yelling "keelie! keelie! s'il vous plaît!". You would think they would have gotten "kanye" right.. the name having obvious french origins and all. But I think the lack of the é confuses them. Or maybe its the many titles kanye has aquired from his surfs and vassals. We also thought that we maybe saw the sartorialist man ("but he's too orange to be the sartorialist guy!). I wanted to take a super meta photo of him, critique his outfit then proceed to e-mail it to him. Lily Donaldson was all late and stressed out with her cockneyed exclaimations that she forgot something as she was stepping out of her horsedrawn carriage limo. She made it though. Did you know that fashion shows are like.. 5 minutes long? It's like a greyhound race except with beautiful, leggy coat hangers.

pâtisserie

Today I finally indulged in a pastry from a honest to goodness pâtisserie on one of the teeny side streets off of Montparnasse. Just the right combination of flaky, buttery sheets of pastry, pear and chocolate. 1.80 euro. Love it. Right afterwards my guilty conscious and I arranged to go jogging three a times a week with a harvard lass in the Tuileries.
*edit in light of recent events, tu sais*
I'm thinking of going on a sartorialist rampage in the spring via telling people I work for the blog.

But that's so... American

Want to know every Parisien's dirty little secret? Well, I'm sure they have many that I have yet to find, but one of them is DEFINITELY Picard. Imagine an entirely white store filled only with Jetson worthy freezers and gourmet frozen foods in neat packages. At first glance it looks like a Pinkberry with large washing machines. That's Picard for you. They have anything you could possibly want meal-wise. The desserts are mouth-watering too.

Isn't it a bit ironic that a people that are willing to go to a boulangerie, butcherie, épicerie and fromagerie everytime they want to make a single meal also frequent possibly the most convenient and americanized food store imagineable? Everyday I see people with those clear snowflake plastic bags with Picard boxes in one hand holding a freshly baked baguette in the other. But whatever. The american in me was estatic to find a Picard just a couple blocks from my home. I bought 5 meals worth of food for ~ 7 euros. Fancy that.

flickr
myspace

la nuit paristech; less naked people

Welcome to the Paris métro. Clean, efficient and right on schedule. On every platform there's an LCD screen with the arrival time of the 1st and 2nd closest train. I spend a lot of time on the métro - he's a good friend of mine. He's an interesting fellow with doors that you must open manually with a lever and folding seats by the doors to save space. I just wish he wouldn't close so early - taxi fees add up and the noctulien (night bus) gives me the heebeejeebs. Each métro line is owned by a different company. Apparently different lines like to go on strike arbitrarily here and there. That will suck a little bit.

Last night was another night to remember. It was my first night out with only french people - specifically awesome grands écoles parisiennes who really know how to party. First stop was another grands écoles party, but this time it was at a club (not a nice one mind you). I have honestly never seen so many people my own age lined up outside or inside a club. The guys were surprisingly rowdy and pushy. What's great about clubs here though is that people actually go, not just nasty ass guidos and skankalicious hoes. People, especially guys, have almost no reservations about dancing their asses off and really having a good time. In true college spirit, paristech handed out cups and condoms to each atendee. Next stop was a friend's appartment, which had lovely wood framework in the ceiling and two GIANT lofted beds. After that, an australian bar where dancing on the tables is normal protocol. We ended the night with a heart healthy meal of fries and I'm not sure what else.

Far from being rude or impolite, I've found french people to be incredibly generous and loyal people. Even though I'm just some rando american student, these girls took me under their wing and really cared about my safety and how much fun I was having. My friend's host mother as well goes wayyy beyond what is required of her and often cooks incredible meals for her and her friends.

As always, see my flickr for more pictures. Until tomorrow my babies.

more naked people. (france's feature leaders)

As always, go to my flickr or facebook for many more pictures. The story behind this picture goes this: for all of you who aren't aware, France has a very different education system. Everyone with a bac, essentially a highschool diploma that you have to pass a test for, can enter University. The creme of the crop, essentially ivy leaguers, must go through rigorous preparation (two more years of prépa usually after high school I believe) to maybe get one of the few coveted spots at the private schools - les grands écoles. This little gem was taken at a party at one such grand école, ENS (Ecole Normale Supérieure). ENS churns out France's future professors and big shots. Although it's very difficult to be accepted to one of these schools, once you are, you're pretty much set. This is pretty sweet I must say - I wish my Columbia degree could give me that much power after I graduated.

The little lady here proceeded to whoopsidentally let her leopard print bra come off and the nice young man spent many a several minutes with his pants down. The mec in the middle is a charming young bloke whom I met that night among a group of frenchies I've been fête-ing with. Although I highly doubt the people sandwiching my innocent young friend were étudiants of ENS, it provided endless entertainment for the huge dance floor, which brought me wayyy back to middle school. The gaggles of french nerds were quite endearing.

In other news, I've been in my mandatorialist intensive french grammar class everyday for three hours. It's great but confuses the heck out of me. I must say my favorite part of this whole language thing is learning slang. Generally counterintuitive but an integral part of spoken french. I've been eating very, VERY well... but I don't think this whole multi-course meal thing is working for my figure. It's pretty awesome being a student here as far as food is concerned - in any given cafeteria you can get a really decent meal for 2.80 euro. It's been a week since my last post.. but that will change! Tiddlebittles everyday (or nearly), I promise! You know you got to get into that whole rhythm thing.

museuming, café-ing, gay clubbing

Chocolate cake from café des poètes - a café featuring candle lit poet readings and curiously fragant tea run by a wonderful couple and their little boy who can recite rimbaud by heart. The cake was absolutely delicious - soaked in chocolate but light as a feather. Parfait! The little boy was the most precocious thing - just like other french children. French children dress and act like mini adults - it's possibly the cutest thing ever.

Today marks the end of an epic orientation - 4 days of museums and free food. Many an encounter I did not expect to see. As always, go to my flickr for many more pictures. The museums were interesting and it was my first time at the louvre. It was vraiment surreal to see pieces like michelangelo sculptures in real life. I have to say the mona lisa (la jaconde) kind of sucks though - there's about a 15 foot radius around the painting, which is itself very small. The rodin museum was great too - the sculptures had an intense sensuality that quite frankly made me mal à l'aise.

On my first night out, I happened upon a gay bar (my first time surprisingly). In Paris the gay bars truly serve that clientèle - there were very few women. There were however a few vultures who had come to take the couple of straighties by surprise. About 1 minute or so after entering said bar, we noticed that there was a clear shower in the room. This shower featured a man in his delicates who proceeded to take a shower. The rest is history... whatever he was doing is DEFINITELY illegal in the states.

Hopefully my next nights en ville won't involve so many publicly naked men.

Paris finally and a free EP download!

Bonjour tout le monde,

It's my second night in Paris and I'm exhausted out of my brain. Right before I left I finished my self-produced EP, "New Romantics", avail for free download at mon site Web tranquil http://alicehumusic.com. The EP is mad revamped from before - new vocals/instrumentals/mixing - the works. Above is the album artwork I did for it. It depicts a good-looking urban outfitters-clad dreamboat guy holding up a boombox for the ladies whilst standing upon a gargantuan crescent moon about to fall on the mountains below. It's basically my fantasy. 'Twas completed at 5 am in the morn.

Also I think I inadvertently made Ezra Koening my EP cover. I mean, doesn't it just scream Cape Cod Kwassa Kwassa? For you lazies, click on the image below to download the EP. You can preview it either at the website the image is linked to or at my MySpayce.

Now une petite histoire of my past two days. Let me just say that the flight was nothing short of epic. British Airways really likes treating people like the delicious cattle that they are queues, so much so in fact that every single person has to wait on long, several hundred people-long lines to check their baggage or change a connecting flight. When I arrived, half of my baggage managed to escape me and it was delivered to me this morning.

My host family is très gentille - they're an elderly couple and both professors. Tout va bien. My room is belle - there are two huge bookcases with everything from Sartre to "motorcars of the golden past". All the furniture is old school and just like the rest of Paris, cauched in the city's history. Refer yourself to my flickr for pix. (Blogger is being testy - is there a limit to the number of photos you can put up?) All the differences I expected to encounter I did - smallness of just about everything, formal dining, du fromage and du vin. Luckily my host mother is an excellent cook.

Today was orientation at Reid Hall. It vexed me slightly as to the obstinate usage of English by my Reid Hallmates, but I will be equally as obstinate in speaking le français. Reid Hall is an interesting sort of creature - a labyrinth of tight hallways and small classrooms around a central, very pretty courtyard. Aside from practical matters we learned that indeed pretty young lasses are often approached by french men - especially american women because well.. I don't think I need to explain. Apparently un parisien can tell an american even from behind - by the way we walk and dress. Perhaps also they compare the ratio of ass to torso, which is most likely larger for us américains. Also, it was encumbent upon one of our professors to inform us that French people never smile, even if they're ectastically happy. I wonder what they do instead?

I'm shooting for a story a day to give you a glimpse into my life in Paris. J'espère que ça souffi. Much museuming this week. And fête-ing this weekend.

baisers,

Alice

Urban Dictionary this

Many boys I meet in their collegiate-verging-on-twenty-somethings can name pretty much every indie-riffic band I heard about while interning at The MuseBox, sweating and scowling at wayfarers and cut-offs in Brooklyn and skeptically surfing the blogosphere. They vehemently denounce 'mainstream' music and hoard an impressive number of albums of bands that the average person will never hear about. Meanwhile they will converse with you (briefly) on the street through the din of their impossibly hip headphones.

The music snob.

Yes you know who they are. They are usually boys. They usually live in New York. They don't actually play an instrument. Two chord changes throughout the whole song is genius. Fuck buttons - I'm coming for you. One such music snob boy I know even admitted to being pretentious...and loving it. Needless to say there is good music out there; good music that isn't plagued by the business aspect of the music industry.

But please, before you become a music snob, pick up a guitar and play a chord. Better yet listen to some Beethoven or Chopin. Now there's some damn good music.

P.S. I know I said I would post often and I will. Lack of activity due to wisdom teeth removal post traumatic stress.