Friday, July 23, 2010
An Honest Connection: Nathan Veshecco Releases New Album, “Love, With Questions”
By Christine Deakers
Harrisburg, Pennsylvania—When intellect melds with thoughtful and soulful balladeer capacity, an audience has songwriting at its purest, where gimmick is left behind, and the stage is swept clean for just a voice and a guitar. A centered wordsmith who relies on what he knows, Nathan Veshecco, 27, questions as he composes.
“Love, With Questions” is Veshecco’s fourth album. This Rhetoric major from UC Berkeley puts his degree to work. His evocative lyrics link to smooth and catchy melodies with rifts that whisk a listener into the rhapsody of his velvet voice. Convincing, yet clear of disingenuous charm.
In his understanding and self-awareness he imbues songwriting with unpretentious poignancy. Perhaps this wisdom comes from experience. He’s proclaimed to have had a time where he felt like he had something to prove. Earlier records, he proclaims, were stylistically all over the place. But he’s pared away the excess since then.
“I've found a much simpler, more honest and hopefully, more humble way of communicating through song,” Veshecco says.
It’s his confidence that’s so appealing, and when it comes to style, “it's all about comfort… If [he’s] ironically fashionable or at least decent looking in the process, that's the cherry.” But his down-home, comfortable style isn’t the cherry on top, but rather the pit of his persona.
The found, and quiet confidence fills in the skeleton of “Love, With Questions” with muscular strength propelled by his inspirations that ever move and progress.
From a kindling phase where indie cerebral rock, like Rilo Kiley and Bright Eyes, bonfired an early foundation, he now says that stuff doesn’t do it for him anymore, but he looks back fondly.
He recognizes he’s changed, and possesses the power of his growth. An album based on questions, his inquiries on love and life do not pose as threats of incapability, but ways to understand.
For example, in his song “I Have a Question” he repeatedly refrains, “How do I lose love?” The line is provoking, being descriptive and intrinsic at the same time. These songs double not only as vessels for expression, but also vehicles to move forward. Veshecco uses the structure of a question to reconcile between his current emotions, and the struggle on how to be brave and start something new.
The jump between each of these ledges is the device of songwriting, in the work the sheet music, and reaching out to an audience. But where do these thoughts come from? Veshecco waits for them, as he says, like a teapot on the stove.
“The first idea is always inexplicable - it comes from nowhere, usually when I'm not looking,” he says. “It’s tough to force good songs. Most of my stuff comes in the shower or in the car. Once in awhile a conversation sparks something, or someone else's record, a movie, TV. So the bulk of my work is best described as ‘response’ to that initial idea.”
While the time, the talent, and the soul go into his work, these songs have a just scrawled on the edge of a napkin essence. “Love, With Questions” seems effortless, a compliment since the best always make it seem easy.
One song, in particular, entitled, “I’d Die”, is disarming and compelling for its relatable and light-hearted tone. It accounts the twenty-something, boy-meets-girl story, but Veshecco speaks his mind, without the sappiness. After a dynamic intro, a verse starts with, “You don't have to marry me/ Not tonight, it's not in sight/ Baby, believe my face/Things are getting hairy here/ Club is clearin', here come the lights/ I just wanna take you to my place.”
But quickly the verse transitions from bold audacity to a sincere promise as he addresses the listener, “trust me Girl, you can be free/ They've only given us this one life to fly”. His modus operandi is to encourage good songwriting, and he does so as he engages his listeners, and directly converses with them. He implores with an “us”, and suddenly the stakes are up, and the audience is involved.
Unique compared to many songwriters who almost sing like they are keeping a secret, Veshecco always wants his audience to be immersed, and in the know. Listeners are active participants with the music, and he never obscures his message, but always keeps people on their tapping toes with his fresh and forthright point of view on relationships.
Over Skype, in interview mode, Veshecco doesn’t take himself too seriously, in his bedazzled black-t, promoting a sparkling wine. A former wine specialist for J Winery, he sees his music like one of his idols, Marvin Gaye: through the grapevine. A lover of the “backroom” stuff, or in his words, "You know, we don't break this out for just anybody…" Veshecco is one of a kind. But when it comes down to it, he would like to be something for everyone. Veshecco’s a Pinot Noir at heart.
He says, “I'd want to be something that most people enjoy and have access to…I'd want to fit in well at my grandmother's highly Italian dinner table.”
The element that strings his work together is his independence from any bells and whistles. At its simplest form, the melody ropes him in. “It could be fifteen minutes of Flamenco Sketches by Miles Davis,” hey says, “it's still the notes that I care about way before I start thinking about motive, vibe, context, etc.”
His back to basics attitude lends itself not only to his music, but also to his personal life. It’s impossible to ignore that his connection to an audience may spring from his experience with his love life. “I can't tell you how much of my art has come from just beginning to understand the ways of being intimate.”
Collaborating with his girlfriend, actress, Taryn Sprenkle, they’ve seemed to have made a strong connection. Together on the album they cover the hit song from Broadway’s “Spring Awakening”, “The Guilty Ones”. Veshecco and Taryn look forward to new musical endeavors, no question.
Monday, July 19, 2010
Booty Pop infomercial/ commercial
The word "booty" and "bootylicious" has been used approximately 7,840,0293 times in the making of this commercial.
Is this honestly a joke? I'm not sure... I'm all for the padded bra, but this is sort of outrageous. I just may have to get one.
I'm sort of on the fence. While I want to laugh and throw those booty panties right out the window, I also want to slip them on, and try them on with the dress I'm wearing to my cousin's wedding...
How do you guys feel about the booty-popping derriere? The greatest thing to hit women's backsides since Flo Rida and Apple-Bottom Jeans?
Sunday, July 18, 2010
Designer Snuggie Commercial
My favorite quote: "When are you going to make something a little more stylish for me?"
A couple days ago, I was perusing my very favorite institution, Target, and realized the Snuggie is no longer just a Snuggie, but a Designer Snuggie. While this isn't hot off the presses journalism, it is a grand discovery for me. Perhaps if I just put "designer" in front of my name it would make it more valid.
Immediately I texted some friends with the news:
Press release from Deakers PR: Snuggies now have pockets. Function and fashion come to Target in holy comfort matrimony.
Responses were as follows:
"Have you come across luxurious microfleece with pockets? Heavenly!"
-Shannon Duggan, long time friend and fellow VIP
"Thank GOD! I've been holding out! Convenience finally meets perfection with Lady Gaga inspired R&R gear!"
- Lauren Klein, former roommate and first witness of my genius when I discovered the Snuggie could be used as a Lady Gaga Polar Bear-esqe cape from Bad Romance video.
"SNUGGIES WITH POCKETS? I'm so glad I've held off on buying mine because this is so much BETTER! GAH. I can't wait to parade around as gaga with you!"
-Dilara Cirit, soulmate, poet, and Snuggie enthusiast
"That is such fantastic news. Another thing to keep me from getting off the sofa...love it!"
- Haley, my incredible sister, and swiper of prized Zebra luxury.
"Holy shit."
- Graham Miller, long time supporter of my insanity, and aforementioned Beyonce impersonator.
Holy shit, is right. You may find the Snuggie to just be a piece of it-- just an over-size fleece robe. Or, we can exalt it for what it is: an extraordinarily ridiculous and simple invention functioning as whatever we wish it to be...ever changing, just how design always changes for our needs!
Monday, July 12, 2010
A Sickly Fashion Blunder and my Encounters with a Snuggie
*Warning: The discussion of bodily fluids occurs beyond this point*
I wish I were the type of person who would make trillions of dollars on something that had been soggy and hanging in my bathroom my entire life. Oh, it's so cold let me just slip this robe on backwards...BOOM. Cover of Forbes Magazine at 20.
My first Snuggie experience was a beautiful time in my life. While some first experience Snuggie with apprehension, discomfort, and, depending on the person, blood, I welcomed Snuggie with open arms, a deep burning desire in my loins, and serendipitously a little buzzed on Day-Quil, dressed as Cinderella in a Duane-Reade in New York City.
And so the genesis of my Zebra-print Snuggie begins....
Last October I went to visit one of my very best friends, Erin Douglass, at NYU for Halloween. I worked two jobs to pay for the trip all the while going to school at UC Berkeley, and living the "oh so glamorous" life that is Christine Deakers. One job was a PR assistant for a lovely bunch of Irish folk who had a great website company, and the other as a Security Monitor for the dorms. Yes, a Security Monitor. The latter job made me put oh so glamorous in quotes. (For the record, no uniform or sash of any sort was worn in the making of this cash money.)
Obviously, I was like any character in a J.Lo movie, a working woman, getting educated, and reaching for the stars to finally get to the Big Apple (cue montage reel as proof of my hard work, yet fiery personality).
I took a red-eye flight to NYC, got to Erin's dorm at the hairy arm-pit of dawn, and to my dismay, realized she didn't have a couch, but a pillow, 2-ply sheet of cotton, and a luxurious hardwood floor to sleep on.
But I was down. Nothing was going to change this trip for me. I had been looking forward to reuniting with my friends and gallavanting in NYC for sometime now. As the type of person whose New Year's Resolution is "be more spontaneous", I wasn't going to let this trip stop me from having the fun I planned, in my iCal, which I had printed out and made into an itneriery.
I was Mary-Tyler Moore throwing my hat in the air!
Now, cut to me waking up that first morning after our celebratory night of margaritas and Mexican food, pulling an Emily Rose right next to the mini-fridge. No this was not your run of the mill too much of a good time. This was your down home stomach flu, or what I thought to be my final moments on Earth. Alone.
Eventually, I flipped between dry heaving and spewing out what was surprisingly sweet bile over a communal sink. (I apologize for the location...I swear to god I cleaned up after myself, but as we universally have experienced, desperate times calls for whatever is closest!)
In between intimate sessions with any vessel to hold my own slop, I heard the pitter-patter of a beautiful Asian angel. This was it, the angel taking me away. She said her name was Boram, and I bowed to the ethereal creature, convenient with my crouching tiger hidden dragon position over the sink.
Later, I realized that Boram was none other than Erin's suitemate, who I so charmingly met.
The first two days consisted of Erin going to class, and me, Christine Rose inches from death, and mid-exorcism. I had planned on using those first two days to run in Central Park, go to the MOMA, and visit a former professor who now teaches at Columbia, but alas, I had barfing to do, people!
By the second day, of what I considered to be either a. a Guiness World Record, b. something to call the authorities on and 3. a budding past time, I thought, "Hey let's change it up, hm? Instead of expelling every liquid through the orifice that is my mouth, let's take something in, shall we?"
Operation Ginger Ale commenced. Here's a secret agent body scan:
Blonde maid's bun askew, (whipped up by what could be Wesson or my own lack of personal hygiene?)
Thick-rimmed glasses, of course, who are we kidding, at a time like this!
Berkeley crew-neck sweatshirt (I bring dishonor to the UC system...), navy blue, with yellow script, and UIS (unidentifiable splotches...)
Black American Apparel leggings, high waisted and to the ankles... not a good look.
To top it all off, I didn't have the strength to put on my own shoes. So I slipped on Erin's gold strappy Gladiator sandals, with my dingy socks, of course. At one time, probably circa 2006, they didn't look like Cujo had at 'em.
With a dollar twenty-fire in hand, I proceeded to the elevator. I was so close to my gingery goodness. Thankfully alone, I step in the car, hit the button to the cellar, and immediately regretted my decision to come to New York.
It was just within seconds of riding in the elevator from the 9th floor to the cellar that I cursed not only the God I believe in, but also technology, and the island of Manhattan. In the swirling mess that is my reality, I brought my unknowingly crunchy sleeve up my mouth as a preemptive protection of my humanity.
I got motion sickness between floors seven and six, and I was white-knuckling it.
The hell-damned elevator dropped me at the cellar, and as the doors opened I saw the illuminant contraption that cradled the elixir of fizzy life. Ponce de Leon could not find a better fountain of youth; mine lived in green rectangular beast with a neon aura.
But the ginger ale must wait, I thought. Now, on my knees, at the threshold, I crawled to my new place of refuge...the ladies room.
But oh my friends, I definitely did not feel like a lady, on my knees in a public bathroom (who would ever feel as though?). I was trapped with whom I considered to be my only companion, which, surprise, was my bile.
To say the least I was a weepy bag of slop, shamefully slipping my nickels and dimes into the coin slots and hitting some permutation of letter and number to get my bottle of Canada Dry. Did I even have the strength to twist off the cap to what could be my salvation, the grail I've been searching for?
When the elevator came back to pick me up from my utter demise, I didn't feel the need to explain myself to the non-descript, yet semi-attractive college boy returning from class. I was the poster girl of the Swine Flu. You could see it even in the corner of my mouth, the mist of ginger ale and saliva on my brim on my lip. Homeland Security was developing the "See Something, Say Something" photos for the subway stations across the nation. My face spread across every mid town bus. I could see it now.
"Woa," said the boy, whose face is rubbed out in my memory, "what did you do last night?"
I sighed, held onto the handicap railing, and braced myself for my trip up the ten floors. Although, it wasn't an easy trip up, I think the sheer fact that I didn't have anything left in my organs to shoot up my esophagus, left me thanking the Gingy Gods.
I left the blurry boy behind, just like the many Brawny paper towels I had used that week.
I made it back to the dorm, and lay comatose, until Erin came home from a day of classes.
Because I have incredible friends that do not shame me in my foreaken bodily functions, but who bring me soup, and fruit punch gatorade, and saltine crackers, Erin let me sleep in her bed for the spill of it all. Side note, never if under these circumstances eat Saltine crackers with any Gatorade product. No, you are wrong, it does not taste better the second time.
+
= NO.
A couple days after my Battle of Waterloo, my other best friend, Chelsea, arrived. I needed to start getting comfortable with the idea of sleeping on a hardwood floor again.
Chelsea was the priest to my exorcism, and brought a brightened attitude to the whole Christine Rose is no longer capable to survive on her own. The first full day she was there I was feeling like the flying Mary Tyler Moore hat. I was high. On Day-Quil that is.
But nothing a brisk walk in Central Park couldn't cure, a Magnolia's Red Velvet Cupcake, or a Kandinsky exhibit at the Guggenheim. Soon the three of us began our preparations for our Halloween extravaganza.
In the throws of it all, Erin dressed as a Nurse (a day or two late, and ironic to say the least), Chelsea as a Firefighter, and I as Cinderella. We sipped on our cocktails. Erin and Chelsea with their vodka and sodas, I, with none other than fists of Day-Quils and other cold remedies.
Other guests filed into the dorm room, one being a particularly good friend of mine my named Graham. He was dressed as Beyonce, from the Single Ladies video, and knew the entire dance to the T. How, you ask? He's been practicing it since June 2009.
Do I even have to mention he's a musical theater student?
A mocha colored foundation glazed his entire body, and a black leotard hugged and hid all the right places, if you know what I mean. When I saw Graham in that leotard with those stilettos on, I cursed the House of Dereon, for not giving me his legs, and an exact replica of the metallic claw Beyonce wears in the video. All made by his mother, biggest fan, Elaine, back home in California.
Whether it was the drag, the zombies that walked in, or my Day-Quil zingers, I needed to get out for some air. Chelsea so chivalrously accompanied me in her Firefighter costume to Duane Reade to pick up some cough drops, snacks, and anything we could find to make our Hallow's Eve slumber a little less spooky.
In the Halogen lights we meandered the aisles, searching for the aisle with "Inflatable Beds" headlining. We were down and out, just in the pits, looking for hope.
And there it was, in the bargain bin for $12.99. Dream in fleece and assorted colors. The Snuggie.
The embodiment of jealousy- yes.
As if it were match.com and Duane Reade knew in it's consumerism omniscience, Chelsea found a traditional, conservative, yet perfect pink, and I an alternative, yet down-to-earth zebra. Who knew that this trip would not literally be the time I come back to life, but find something I could spend the rest of my life with?
Chelsea and I didn't know what love really was until we swiped our credit cards with the Pirate's Booty.
Like we be in da club, I saw that Snug across the room, and then and there knew I was taking it home that night.
And yes, of course, right there we took those Snugs out of the box and wore them in the crisp October night. We figured it was Halloween in NYC-- we didn't look that crazy.
And so you have heard the tale of the great Snuggie. It still, to this day, travels by my side. From New York, to Berkeley, to now Los Angeles, the mythicism is ever potent.
Two semesters ago while studying John Keats and Palestinian education systems, I draped myself in my Snuggie as usual in my frigid apartment in Berkeley. As I took a break from the uplifting lessons that those former topics gave me, I decided to explore the world of Lady Gaga, and watch the Bad Romance video, for the seventy-third time that day.
When I saw how that Polar Bear dragged behind Gaga as she lit her lover on fire, I realized I had my own erotic, pyrotechnic costume. I flipped the Snuggie around like a coat, and walked the small length of my apartment like a queen. I insisted my roommate watch the genius I just unveiled. And then I asked her to watch again, with the music.
Once again the Snuggie has changed, once again, it molds to my needs!
But design always evolves. While I have the first generation Snuggie, times are changing, and with this ever burgeoning technology these days, the Snuggie geniuses have added to the fleece.
I wish I were the type of person who would make trillions of dollars on something that had been soggy and hanging in my bathroom my entire life. Oh, it's so cold let me just slip this robe on backwards...BOOM. Cover of Forbes Magazine at 20.
My first Snuggie experience was a beautiful time in my life. While some first experience Snuggie with apprehension, discomfort, and, depending on the person, blood, I welcomed Snuggie with open arms, a deep burning desire in my loins, and serendipitously a little buzzed on Day-Quil, dressed as Cinderella in a Duane-Reade in New York City.
And so the genesis of my Zebra-print Snuggie begins....
Last October I went to visit one of my very best friends, Erin Douglass, at NYU for Halloween. I worked two jobs to pay for the trip all the while going to school at UC Berkeley, and living the "oh so glamorous" life that is Christine Deakers. One job was a PR assistant for a lovely bunch of Irish folk who had a great website company, and the other as a Security Monitor for the dorms. Yes, a Security Monitor. The latter job made me put oh so glamorous in quotes. (For the record, no uniform or sash of any sort was worn in the making of this cash money.)
Obviously, I was like any character in a J.Lo movie, a working woman, getting educated, and reaching for the stars to finally get to the Big Apple (cue montage reel as proof of my hard work, yet fiery personality).
I took a red-eye flight to NYC, got to Erin's dorm at the hairy arm-pit of dawn, and to my dismay, realized she didn't have a couch, but a pillow, 2-ply sheet of cotton, and a luxurious hardwood floor to sleep on.
But I was down. Nothing was going to change this trip for me. I had been looking forward to reuniting with my friends and gallavanting in NYC for sometime now. As the type of person whose New Year's Resolution is "be more spontaneous", I wasn't going to let this trip stop me from having the fun I planned, in my iCal, which I had printed out and made into an itneriery.
I was Mary-Tyler Moore throwing my hat in the air!
Now, cut to me waking up that first morning after our celebratory night of margaritas and Mexican food, pulling an Emily Rose right next to the mini-fridge. No this was not your run of the mill too much of a good time. This was your down home stomach flu, or what I thought to be my final moments on Earth. Alone.
Eventually, I flipped between dry heaving and spewing out what was surprisingly sweet bile over a communal sink. (I apologize for the location...I swear to god I cleaned up after myself, but as we universally have experienced, desperate times calls for whatever is closest!)
In between intimate sessions with any vessel to hold my own slop, I heard the pitter-patter of a beautiful Asian angel. This was it, the angel taking me away. She said her name was Boram, and I bowed to the ethereal creature, convenient with my crouching tiger hidden dragon position over the sink.
Later, I realized that Boram was none other than Erin's suitemate, who I so charmingly met.
The first two days consisted of Erin going to class, and me, Christine Rose inches from death, and mid-exorcism. I had planned on using those first two days to run in Central Park, go to the MOMA, and visit a former professor who now teaches at Columbia, but alas, I had barfing to do, people!
By the second day, of what I considered to be either a. a Guiness World Record, b. something to call the authorities on and 3. a budding past time, I thought, "Hey let's change it up, hm? Instead of expelling every liquid through the orifice that is my mouth, let's take something in, shall we?"
Operation Ginger Ale commenced. Here's a secret agent body scan:
Blonde maid's bun askew, (whipped up by what could be Wesson or my own lack of personal hygiene?)
Thick-rimmed glasses, of course, who are we kidding, at a time like this!
Berkeley crew-neck sweatshirt (I bring dishonor to the UC system...), navy blue, with yellow script, and UIS (unidentifiable splotches...)
Black American Apparel leggings, high waisted and to the ankles... not a good look.
To top it all off, I didn't have the strength to put on my own shoes. So I slipped on Erin's gold strappy Gladiator sandals, with my dingy socks, of course. At one time, probably circa 2006, they didn't look like Cujo had at 'em.
With a dollar twenty-fire in hand, I proceeded to the elevator. I was so close to my gingery goodness. Thankfully alone, I step in the car, hit the button to the cellar, and immediately regretted my decision to come to New York.
It was just within seconds of riding in the elevator from the 9th floor to the cellar that I cursed not only the God I believe in, but also technology, and the island of Manhattan. In the swirling mess that is my reality, I brought my unknowingly crunchy sleeve up my mouth as a preemptive protection of my humanity.
I got motion sickness between floors seven and six, and I was white-knuckling it.
The hell-damned elevator dropped me at the cellar, and as the doors opened I saw the illuminant contraption that cradled the elixir of fizzy life. Ponce de Leon could not find a better fountain of youth; mine lived in green rectangular beast with a neon aura.
But the ginger ale must wait, I thought. Now, on my knees, at the threshold, I crawled to my new place of refuge...the ladies room.
But oh my friends, I definitely did not feel like a lady, on my knees in a public bathroom (who would ever feel as though?). I was trapped with whom I considered to be my only companion, which, surprise, was my bile.
To say the least I was a weepy bag of slop, shamefully slipping my nickels and dimes into the coin slots and hitting some permutation of letter and number to get my bottle of Canada Dry. Did I even have the strength to twist off the cap to what could be my salvation, the grail I've been searching for?
When the elevator came back to pick me up from my utter demise, I didn't feel the need to explain myself to the non-descript, yet semi-attractive college boy returning from class. I was the poster girl of the Swine Flu. You could see it even in the corner of my mouth, the mist of ginger ale and saliva on my brim on my lip. Homeland Security was developing the "See Something, Say Something" photos for the subway stations across the nation. My face spread across every mid town bus. I could see it now.
"Woa," said the boy, whose face is rubbed out in my memory, "what did you do last night?"
I sighed, held onto the handicap railing, and braced myself for my trip up the ten floors. Although, it wasn't an easy trip up, I think the sheer fact that I didn't have anything left in my organs to shoot up my esophagus, left me thanking the Gingy Gods.
I left the blurry boy behind, just like the many Brawny paper towels I had used that week.
I made it back to the dorm, and lay comatose, until Erin came home from a day of classes.
Because I have incredible friends that do not shame me in my foreaken bodily functions, but who bring me soup, and fruit punch gatorade, and saltine crackers, Erin let me sleep in her bed for the spill of it all. Side note, never if under these circumstances eat Saltine crackers with any Gatorade product. No, you are wrong, it does not taste better the second time.
+
= NO.
A couple days after my Battle of Waterloo, my other best friend, Chelsea, arrived. I needed to start getting comfortable with the idea of sleeping on a hardwood floor again.
Chelsea was the priest to my exorcism, and brought a brightened attitude to the whole Christine Rose is no longer capable to survive on her own. The first full day she was there I was feeling like the flying Mary Tyler Moore hat. I was high. On Day-Quil that is.
But nothing a brisk walk in Central Park couldn't cure, a Magnolia's Red Velvet Cupcake, or a Kandinsky exhibit at the Guggenheim. Soon the three of us began our preparations for our Halloween extravaganza.
In the throws of it all, Erin dressed as a Nurse (a day or two late, and ironic to say the least), Chelsea as a Firefighter, and I as Cinderella. We sipped on our cocktails. Erin and Chelsea with their vodka and sodas, I, with none other than fists of Day-Quils and other cold remedies.
Other guests filed into the dorm room, one being a particularly good friend of mine my named Graham. He was dressed as Beyonce, from the Single Ladies video, and knew the entire dance to the T. How, you ask? He's been practicing it since June 2009.
Do I even have to mention he's a musical theater student?
A mocha colored foundation glazed his entire body, and a black leotard hugged and hid all the right places, if you know what I mean. When I saw Graham in that leotard with those stilettos on, I cursed the House of Dereon, for not giving me his legs, and an exact replica of the metallic claw Beyonce wears in the video. All made by his mother, biggest fan, Elaine, back home in California.
Whether it was the drag, the zombies that walked in, or my Day-Quil zingers, I needed to get out for some air. Chelsea so chivalrously accompanied me in her Firefighter costume to Duane Reade to pick up some cough drops, snacks, and anything we could find to make our Hallow's Eve slumber a little less spooky.
In the Halogen lights we meandered the aisles, searching for the aisle with "Inflatable Beds" headlining. We were down and out, just in the pits, looking for hope.
And there it was, in the bargain bin for $12.99. Dream in fleece and assorted colors. The Snuggie.
The embodiment of jealousy- yes.
As if it were match.com and Duane Reade knew in it's consumerism omniscience, Chelsea found a traditional, conservative, yet perfect pink, and I an alternative, yet down-to-earth zebra. Who knew that this trip would not literally be the time I come back to life, but find something I could spend the rest of my life with?
Chelsea and I didn't know what love really was until we swiped our credit cards with the Pirate's Booty.
Like we be in da club, I saw that Snug across the room, and then and there knew I was taking it home that night.
And yes, of course, right there we took those Snugs out of the box and wore them in the crisp October night. We figured it was Halloween in NYC-- we didn't look that crazy.
And so you have heard the tale of the great Snuggie. It still, to this day, travels by my side. From New York, to Berkeley, to now Los Angeles, the mythicism is ever potent.
Two semesters ago while studying John Keats and Palestinian education systems, I draped myself in my Snuggie as usual in my frigid apartment in Berkeley. As I took a break from the uplifting lessons that those former topics gave me, I decided to explore the world of Lady Gaga, and watch the Bad Romance video, for the seventy-third time that day.
When I saw how that Polar Bear dragged behind Gaga as she lit her lover on fire, I realized I had my own erotic, pyrotechnic costume. I flipped the Snuggie around like a coat, and walked the small length of my apartment like a queen. I insisted my roommate watch the genius I just unveiled. And then I asked her to watch again, with the music.
Once again the Snuggie has changed, once again, it molds to my needs!
But design always evolves. While I have the first generation Snuggie, times are changing, and with this ever burgeoning technology these days, the Snuggie geniuses have added to the fleece.
Thursday, July 8, 2010
Seeing Life Better: Photography
Yesterday, I had my picture taken by an incredible photographer named Lisa Roah. She not only has this brimming enthusiasm that makes you so excited and comfortable, but she also has the sharpest eye when it comes to capturing the moment.
Just as I was peering over her shoulder, I saw a few shots and realized how vibrant the images were.
I haven't been a connoisseur of photography for very long, and my research of it isn't as extensive as say, theater... but after going to a couple galleries dedicated solely on photography I've realized that its a unique art in that it, yes, realistically captures moments of life; but more importantly, and beyond that obvious fact, photography reels your eyes to a composition where you see the world better. Beyond 20/20 vision, photography can help you understand an experience that you couldn't have realized without the help of the artist and the art form.
Photo-journalism's importance and poignancy is clear with that trait. We learn through frozen scenes. We experience through images that simulate what we could see through our own eyes, and in that, we live what's on the page.
Check out Lisa Roah and her extraordinary work at www.lisaroah.com
Below are a few photographs that I just loved when I went to the SFMOMa. I have a huge affinity towards landscape and political California photography.
Henry Wessel, Southern California, 1985; gelatin silver print; Collection SFMOMA, Accessions Committee Fund Purchase; © Henry Wessel
A Women in Berkeley, CA
Dorothea Lange's photography epitomized the depression along with the struggles of the "Oakies".
William A. Garnett, Contour Graded Hills, Ventura County, California, 1953; gelatin silver print; Collection SFMOMA, Accessions Committee Fund Purchase; © Estate of William A. Garnett
Now for some color!
These are by another fantastic photographer named Simone Anne... www.simoneanne.com
Just as I was peering over her shoulder, I saw a few shots and realized how vibrant the images were.
I haven't been a connoisseur of photography for very long, and my research of it isn't as extensive as say, theater... but after going to a couple galleries dedicated solely on photography I've realized that its a unique art in that it, yes, realistically captures moments of life; but more importantly, and beyond that obvious fact, photography reels your eyes to a composition where you see the world better. Beyond 20/20 vision, photography can help you understand an experience that you couldn't have realized without the help of the artist and the art form.
Photo-journalism's importance and poignancy is clear with that trait. We learn through frozen scenes. We experience through images that simulate what we could see through our own eyes, and in that, we live what's on the page.
Check out Lisa Roah and her extraordinary work at www.lisaroah.com
Below are a few photographs that I just loved when I went to the SFMOMa. I have a huge affinity towards landscape and political California photography.
Henry Wessel, Southern California, 1985; gelatin silver print; Collection SFMOMA, Accessions Committee Fund Purchase; © Henry Wessel
A Women in Berkeley, CA
Dorothea Lange's photography epitomized the depression along with the struggles of the "Oakies".
William A. Garnett, Contour Graded Hills, Ventura County, California, 1953; gelatin silver print; Collection SFMOMA, Accessions Committee Fund Purchase; © Estate of William A. Garnett
Now for some color!
These are by another fantastic photographer named Simone Anne... www.simoneanne.com
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