The Strawberry Fields Whatever International Supper Club, Vol. I: French Onion Soup, Spaghetti, & Doughnuts


Welcome to our new column wherein LJ (who lives in London) and Liz (who lives in Los Angeles) will go out to eat and order the same foods and report back on those foods, from their respective continents. Here we are with French onion soup, spaghetti, and doughnuts/donuts.


LJ: When my Dad came to visit me in London we ate at Balthazar. On the morning of the day we ate at Balthazar we went to Kentish Town and one of my eyelids was swollen because I am allergic to my housemate Pearl the beagle's dander but I hadn’t figured it out yet so I spent most of the day freaking out about eye diseases. We went to the London Bridge and it was boring so we took a bus that started with the letters RV which I think stood for River which took us to Covent Garden. We were an hour and a half early for our reservation so I went into a store called the Astrology Shop while my dad stood outside the Astrology Shop doubting the necessity of its existence— personally, I sort of hated the Astrology Shop, but then I felt like, If I hate the astrology shop, then who does the Astrology Shop have left???
        After the Astrology Shop we went to a pub situated in the upper corner of a Flatiron-shaped building and my dad had a Jameson’s and I drank a cider. My dad had a nice view out the window and looked out of it, watching all the people do their things and live their lives. I had a nice view of my the guy sitting next to my dad.
        I spaced out and thought Cider is wine made of apples and I wished that cider would do a better job of marketing itself as apple wine but also, and probably more importantly, wished that I could hang out with my cool Jameson’s-drinking Dad on a more regular basis. I was angry with London for not being the place where my Dad lives.
        We left and walked through the part of Covent Garden that is a market. It smelled like the Axe deodorant body spray factory. We arrived at Balthazar a half hour early for our booking but Balthazar were cool with it. The dining room was sprawling and noisy and I felt tiny and useless inside of it, like an ant that is small for its age. I looked around. I will never be a rich person who is from Hong Kong, I thought.
        Our waitress was ugly in the purest sense of the word. She would have been well-cast as a no-nonsense peasant lady helping a cow give birth in Ireland circa 1875. Her ugliness made me think that she was going to be a really good server but she wasn’t. She was just about the brusquest person I ever met.
        Dad and I shared a half bottle of Chablis and it tasted like Chablis. My dad ordered cauliflower soup and the Dover sole, which he badassly de-boned himself, much to the chagrin of the Balthazar employee whose job it was to de-bone it tableside. My order was a no-brainer: French onion soup and a Nicoise salad. It would take a hell of a lot of extenuating circumstances to have me eat at a French restaurant and not order French onion soup and a Nicoise salad. I bet even on the day I was born my infant self knew in some vague way that I would grow up to be a person who near-exclusively ordered French onion soup and Nicoise salads at French restaurants.
        French onion soup is the exception to a rule: normally, I don’t have time for soup. (Another thing I’ve recently realized I don’t have time for: slicing my own pizza. You know, I wasn’t joking around when I grew up and decided not to become a pizza chef.) Ideally, when it comes to food, I just stab things with a fork and then shove them in my mouth. If the food is really good, fine, I’ll use a knife. But ideally I wouldn’t. Spoons are okay sometimes, like for yogurt or cereal. Yogurt and cereal are firm, and they don’t threaten to fall out of the spoon’s belly if you aren’t super confident and focused on the spoon’s journey from the bowl to your mouth. Don’t even get me started on pho— the dribbliest aspects of spoon usage mixed with the most labour-intensive aspects of using a knife, only they don’t even give you a knife! You could use the time it takes you to eat a third of a bowl of Pho to run, like, eight errands. I could maybe get on board with a bowl of minestrone but I’d rather eat all the chunky ingredients without the soup part. And pureed soups are just like, ugh. I grew teeth for a reason.
        But French onion soup is something different. When I was a kid I went through a phase of pretty much refusing to eat in restaurants that didn’t serve French onion soup. French onion soup (or, FOS) is soup with some real backbone. It’s got a really ursine energy to it, fat and meaty and brown. One of my favorite things is when dishes that don’t have actual pieces of meat in them still have meat in them, i.e. the beef stock in FOS or greens sautéed in bacon fat. And then it’s got soggy bread in it (I really like soggy food), and a whole sweet tangle of slithery dark onion bits that sink to the bottom of the bowl like buried treasure hidden at the bottom of the ocean. French onion soup has a real “Ariel from The Little Mermaid’s grotto” vibe to it. Oh and then there’s cheese! Heaps and heaps of burnt (I also love burnt food) and bubbling cheese. If there was one soup in the world you could eat with a fork, it would be French onion.
        The French onion soup I ate at Balthazar was the best French onion soup I’ve ever had. Guess what it had loads of in it??? No! Seriously! Guess. Just guess. Just come up with a little guess in your head. Try to think of the number one ingredient that could make the most soul-warming and nostalgia-inducing food imaginable even MORE soulful and evocative. Your hint is… Christmas.
        Okay! You give up. It was CLOVE. I wanted to curl up and fall asleep inside that clovey bowl of soup like a puppy in a velvet dog bed. It made me wish I was a little kid again, when all you have to worry about is which is your favorite kind of soup and the answer to some really easy math equation and your parents are always there and they keep you so safe and they love you so much and you’re not embarrassed about loving them back, which is cool. They own a house and a couch and a television and a million other things and you can use all their shit for free; in fact they want you to. You can curl up under a blanket and lie on their laps, and you’re watching either Frasier or Entertainment Tonight and it would be snowing out, but you wouldn’t have to leave the house unless you wanted to and even if you did it would be in a car that your mom already pre-warmed up for you so all you have to do is run from the house to the car and you can just sit and chill inside the cozy hot car while she scrapes the ice and snow off the windows with a scraper. If I could take that feeling and turn it into a taste it would be that clovey French onion soup, ideally accompanied by a glass of Beaujolais, because what can I say? I grew up.

LIZ: I ate my French onion soup at Taix, which is a French restaurant in Echo Park. I hardly ever go to Taix anymore but when I first moved to L.A., about 11 years ago, sometimes my friends and I would hang out in the lounge with these dudes who lived in our building. The dudes were all older than we were and musicians; they were in a semi-big-deal rock band in the late-'90s/early '00s, the kind of band that would get played on heavy metal/hard rock radio, if heavy metal/hard rock radio still existed today. I low-level-worshipped them because they'd devoted most of their lives to being in bands and I'd never really known anyone like that, and it all seemed very brave and glamorous. Their couch was a row of seats ripped out of their band's old van, and one time when the glasses were all dirty Stephen drank his wine from a measuring cup, and their cutely degenerate lifestyles seemed glamorous to me too. I used to refer to our building as Grunge Melrose Place, because our lives entwined and sometimes shit got sordid, and also because the building was disgusting and falling apart and we were all kind of slackers who loved complaint rock. I can't remember why Taix was the dudes' spot of choice, but I do remember going to see Matt and Mike's band play in the lounge one Friday night. They did a cocktail-jazz version of "War Pigs," and at the "Satan laughing, spreads his wings" lyric, they all flapped their arms like they were birds/Satan and their arms were wings. Cute move.
        But yeah, my soup. I went to Taix on some sort of weekday: I'd been writing work stuff in the coffee/ice cream shop across the street and on the walk home I decided What the hell and headed over to the Taix lounge and sat at the bar. Nearly everyone else in the lounge was a guy in his 50s and 60s, drinking post-work beers and chatting up the bartenders. On the bar were pencils for Keno, and the stereo system was playing Edith Piaf or some other melancholy/whimsical music to remind you that you're in a French restaurant that's very earnest about its Frenchness. I got a $4 glass of riesling and it was perfectly un-sweet. And then my soup arrived and it looked like this:

       Here's the part where I'll reveal that I was totally incompetent in my food journalism on my trip to Taix. I can tell you that the broth was vaguely winey, like it was made with the wine I was drinking, and that the cheese was overwhelming in a mostly enjoyable way. Each time I'd go to take a spoonful of soup, I'd start twirling the cheese around my spoon and get hypnotized by the twirling and just keep it going, twirling twirling twirling twirling. And each time I'd stop twirling and bring the spoon to my mouth, the very good-looking bartender would walk by at the exact moment that I was disengaging from the soup and trying to negotiate the strands of melted cheese stretching from the spoon to my mouth. It was little embarrassing but I didn't care. I was in another place. I'm not all that nostalgic for when I used to hang out at Taix with all those guys when I was 25 and 26, but I liked the feeling of sitting there at the black-leather bar and lazily recalling lots of moments I hadn't thought about in years. And then I got caught up in the idea that there are all these spaces you can go to trigger the memories you'd never retrieve on your own. It's kinda like tourism: visiting a place and taking what you need from it in a way that's both cheap and naive. It's unadventurous but cozy and maybe the easiest way to practice emotional manipulation on yourself. I'm into it. I want more.
        So anyway. Post-soup, I headed to the bathroom and took selfies for five hours. The Taix ladies room is gorgeous, all pink-and-gold wallpaper and golden lighting and fake pink flowers and stupid pictures of Paris. I like my shirt so much.


Hot-Pink Neon Climbing Up the Walls, and ASTRAL Music: My Perfect Week of Ex Hex


A couple days ago, The Hairpin posted an interview I did with Mary Timony. It was a super-fun gig for me; Mary talked about being obsessed with Casey Kasem in sixth grade and going to see Rites of Spring and Culture Club and pouring paint in her hair and teaching  girls to play "Dig a Pony" on guitar. The part about being obsessed with one of her English teachers in high school is maybe my favorite moment, and all in all it was a very giggly and wonderful phone convo. And if you want to come over and listen to the MP3 of the interview I'll totally let you, for a cover charge of eight million dollars.

In case you didn't know: Ex Hex's debut album Rips came out last week, and it's out of this world. When you listen to Rips in the car, ideally when the sun's just going down, it makes any night sound like it's a Friday and you're 17 and about to have a quintessentially exciting Friday-night-when-you're-17 sort of experience. Like it's summertime and you just finished your shift at a job that involves standing in very close proximity to frying food for hours on end, and the grease somehow altered the texture of your hair in an interesting yet disgusting way, and you go home and wash your hair with a shampoo that's scented with strawberry or coconuts and get all ready to go, and then your best friends come pick you up and you're off. Every second of Rips has all the hot happy energy of that anticipation: it sounds like the radio playing when you’re driving home from your hair-ruining job, the radio playing in the shower when you’re washing your hair, the radio playing when you’re getting your jeans and your lipstick on, the radio playing when you and your bros are on your way to the party or the woods or the show or whatever. It’s all those beautiful radios, all at the same time.

Apart from the interview, my big Ex Hex news is I saw them play on Sunday and it was the most fun show in the world. A couple years ago my pal Laura Fisher and I made this joke about starting a band called The Wellwishers, with the name referencing the fact that we're each exceptionally concerned about the wellbeing of the people who make the music we love. The part of my heart that plays drums for The Wellwishers was so elated by Ex Hex on Sunday night: I legit can't think of any other band I've ever seen have a better time onstage than those guys. Here's some pix I took at the show:


Here's a Weird Little Movie That Debbie Harry & Sofia Coppola & Anthony Kiedis & Sonic Youth Made for 'Details' Magazine in 1993


In the 1993 music issue of Details there was a fashion spread starring Anthony Kiedis, his girlfriend Sofia Coppola, Debbie Harry, Kim Gordon, Thurston Moore, and a bunch of beautiful drag queens. The magazine came with a pull-out poster for the make-believe movie that the fashion spread was supposedly based on; it was called Sick: A Love Story, and I kept that poster taped to my wall for all of eleventh grade. Anthony was my favorite (still is!) and I had a strange fascination with Sofia, who at that point was 22-years-old and mainly known to me as one of the disco-hippie girls eating bananas in the video for "Deeper and Deeper" by Madonna. Until last Thursday, when a benevolent stranger emailed me a link to the YouTube video below, I never knew that Sick really was made into a short film. It's directed by Paul Morrissey (who made Chelsea Girls and a bunch of other Andy Warhol movies), and it's so goofy and fun and absolutely worth waiting 21 long years for.

Something that's kind of a drag: in place of the actual audio for the movie, there's this super-bizarro mish-mash of George Gershwin, late-'80s Red Hot Chili Peppers, Jane's Addiction, and some insane metal/faux-opera hybrid that I can't and don't want to identify. Like, when Anthony and Sofia go to see Kim and Thurston onstage at some divey bar, the audio's queued up to a Chili Peppers song called "Nobody Weird Like Me," which I'm pretty sure Sonic Youth never actually covered. The notion of Sonic Youth playing a Chili Peppers song is mildly amusing, maybe, but mostly the whole audio sitch is annoying and distracts from the weird beauty of the movie. So what I'd recommend is muting the video and putting on something from 1993 that you haven't listened to in ages, like Saturation by Urge Overkill or the first Souls of Mischief record or whatever you feel like. 

The premise of Sick: A Love Story is that Anthony's an aspiring singer or something and Debbie's a crazy fairy godmother trying to make him into a rock & roll superstar. The first scene takes place in a Lower East Side crash pad where Anthony, Sofia, and about a half-dozen other attractive degenerates are sleeping the day away. Look at the sleepy kitties: 


Thing of the Week: The Wine Bottle with Our Names Written All Over It, 7 Crushes, Jen's Favorite Doctor

LJ'S THING OF THE WEEK: The Wine Bottle With Our Names Written All Over It 

(There is no picture of the wine bottle with our names written all over it. Here, instead, is a picture of the dessert called Ambrosia, or Ambrosia Salad.)

On Sunday night, three of us got off work early. We sat at one of the white picnic tables out front with our old manager; our sitting there was a celebration of his once having managed our restaurant, of his now having moved on to bigger and better things. I'm not sure what those big great things are but I appreciated that he didn't either yet was still willing to go for it and celebrate. This celebratory evening had been pitched to me a month ago as something I had to believe would be decadent, wild, legendary, etc- but now that that night was tonight, I had to admit to myself: it wasn't anything special so far. Just the four of us sitting at one of the white picnic tables drinking wine that was either natural or biodynamic but probably not both, a sparkling rosato that I like to describe as being Bone-ass dry. I like saying that, "Bone-ass dry," with the same tone and accompanying facial expression that I would use to say: "You're not even going to fucking believe this." 

Bone. Ass. Dry. Like literally sucking on a bone. But it's dark, salmon pink! You think everything pink is going to be sweet but sometimes it isn't. Sometimes it's as dry as sucking on a bone. Like eating a tooth. 

They brought us out some food and the sun set. Oh, the luxury of eating dinner in your own restaurant! Turmeric-scented cauliflower fried in chickpea flour. Salt cod, tomato pulp, fried chicken. It's nighttime. We were loud, unforgiving, we were laughing. We were getting to that point in drunkenness where you become stupidly, soppily candid: When I first met you I hated you more than I knew I was capable of hating a person I didn't know but now that I know you I love you. I always liked you. I always liked you too. You were kind and your kindness didn't smack of bullshit which is amazing. I like the sound of your voice. I find your accent amusing. I think the way you talk is really cute. There are four accents at the table: Australian, Belgian, Irish, and me: Canadian. When I first met you, I thought you were incredibly rude. 

That's because I was incredibly rude to you. 

Our second bottle: a Chenin Blanc from Anjou. Anjou is one of my top fifteen, maybe twelve, favorite words of all time. The wine tastes as good as the word anjou, and I described it as being "ambrosial." I said ambrosial to mean the actual meaning of the word "ambrosial": exceptionally pleasing to the taste or smell; worthy of the gods; divine, but inside my head, I realized I was also meaning it to say that it tastes like the dessert called ambrosia, a dessert I have never tasted or tried. But I know that ambrosia is a thing that exists and I know it's made of sweet syrupy fruit- canned peaches, cherries, pineapples- mixed into whipped cream, whipped cream that tastes like it's spelled "whip cream," like something people would eat in Hawaii in the 1950s. There's no bitter or burn.

It was like eating a fruit cup and then knocking back the juice. A little clear plastic thing of mandarin orange. You can mix marshmallows or sour cream or even coconut into ambrosia. This wine tasted like my dream concoction of ingredients that would make up my own dream ambrosia. Everything shitty about my life was swept away by a gold and glittering Tina Turner minidress curtain of tears and disappeared but then briefly reconstituted itself to take the shape of a clear diorama that I tore myself away from my wine to stare down and declare irrelevant. The wine was over. We ordered our third bottle. 

It was called Swimming Poule and had a Crayola-marker drawing of a chicken wearing far out eighties swimming gear (shades, patterned swim trunks, an inner tube) on the label. It reminded me of an elementary school French textbook. Of the province of Quebec. All week I'd been so bummed I missed the Swimming Poule tasting; I'd asked my Australian co-worker what it tasted like- "Kool-aid," she said, and was right. It costs so much goddamned money to buy a bottle of white wine that tastes as good as the cheapest dessert imaginable- imagine a Vouvray that tasted like a Twinkie! A million pounds a glass. I'd pay it. If I had it. Easy. 

After finishing the bottle we signed our names on the label. My stupid signature is just three scribbley lines. When I was a kid I would see signatures that were just a scribble and I decided that when I grew up my signature would be just a scribble and now it is and I feel ashamed of it. But the cool twist of my signature is that it says LF but it looks like it says L7. That weird jerk of the wrist that just happens, at this point, is me admitting to the Universe: I am, in fact, a square. 

(Two days later I was sitting on a ladder and had recently cried in the bathroom. I was wearing an apron, which is so symbolic of everything an apron could ever mean to represent, and I mean that as an insult. Like, in an oppression-y way. I am overqualified for my job, which is clearly a gigantic bummer. The sun was shining through the windows I was doing a shit job of "cleaning" and I wished it would be raining again.

I cannot even begin to communicate to you how ugly the sun was. How fat I believed I looked in my apron. 

I slipped my body down every rung of the ladder bum-first. I decided to polish the wine bottles we keep on display at the boot of the floor-to-ceiling windows to remind the strangers walking past that we sell wine here and there it was. The Swimming Poule we'd signed and dated two days ago. I'd forgotten we'd done that, and there and then it reappeared to remind me that I am, in fact, a person.

(I don't know what I'd been thinking I was- either a bone or a tooth?? Best case scenario a branch. Maybe a little chunk of plastic.)) 

LIZ'S THING OF THE WEEK: 7 Guys I Have Crushes On

Here are seven guys I have crushes on this week, in no particular order:

i. IAN SVENONIUSI lied about the "no particular order" thing - Ian Svenonius is absolutely my number-one crush of the week. On Wednesday afternoon I was driving home from buying nag champa and wine and when I neared the stop sign at my cross street I noticed a dude a half-block away; he had white pants and amazing hair. God that guy's hair's just like Ian Svenonius's hair...oh wait that is Ian Svenonius, I said to myself. So I did what any red-blooded American female would do, which was pull over and get out of my car and pretend to go to the coffee shop that Ian Svenonius was standing in front of, and then actually go to the coffee shop and get an iced tea with a shot of fresh-squeezed lemonade. On my way out I walked past Ian Svenonius and got a closer look at those pants (WHITE, BRIGHT BRIGHT WHITE LIKE LIGHT), and stepped right into earshot just as he was saying: "And then rock & roll happened, and blah blah blah blah." So insanely perfect: it's like I walked past Garfield the Cat just as he was saying "Oh hey, so I'm really into lasagna." Life is just that tidy sometimes.

ii. MARC MARON. I met Marc Maron last week; he was so nice and chill. I really want the universe to know that my experience of Marc Maron was that he radiated nice, chill vibes and had a surprisingly warm demeanor. Here's a picture of me and Marc and my pal Alisa; Marc doesn't look all that stoked but I'm sure he was just delighted by us. Total delight all around.

iii. ROB HUEBEL. The big thing I want to announce this week is that I'm so happy Transparent exists and is so intensely heartbreaking and happy-making, and that this interview with Jill Soloway is inspiring and fantastic. I really don't have a crush on Rob Huebel on Transparent, but he's generally very charming and handsome and probably my closest thing to a Transparent crush. Jay Duplass is a very distant runner-up, but in the end his character reminds me too much of too many men who irritate me in my daily existence, and I just can't. Sorry there Joshie.

iv. MARK DUPLASS IN A PEACOAT. Speaking of the Duplass Brothers, I started watching The Mindy Project and of course it's the best. "The Duplass Brothers as midwives" is a beautiful gag that never gets old on me - every single time they show up I'm like, "Oh my god it's The Duplass Brothers...but they're midwives!", and it's majestic all over again. I don't love Mark Duplass even half as much as most women my age seem to, but Mark Duplass as a midwife in a peacoat: stunning.

v. ELLIOTT GOULD. A few weeks ago I watched The Long Goodbye for the first time and now I understand that Elliott Gould is one of the best men who's ever walked the earth. I love how his Philip Marlowe is always lighting matches off unlikely surfaces; my favorite's when he lights a match off the stereo at the Malibu beach house. Also: did you know that Elliott Gould and Barbra Streisand have a kid and it's the wastoid boy from the party scene in Say Anything - the one with the crazy hair, this kid? They were the greatest couple too. Oh my god:

vi. DEVENDRA BANHART. I saw Devendra at the Hollywood Bowl two Sundays ago; he played with Andrew Bird and Caetano Veloso. All in all it was gorgeous and magic night and Devendra was such a goofball; his stage persona was very Lohanthony-esque, except entirely darling and benevolent. At one point he started talking about how he lived inside the Hollywood Bowl, saying something "I found it on Craigslist - it was cheap. Like me!" and then making this cutesy "Aren't I so adorable?" face/gesture. He was also wearing a really nice blue sweater, which you can see in this cute pic of him and Caetano Veloso. Such sweet little imps.

vii. OWEN WILSON IN THE INHERENT VICE TRAILER. I was so in love with the three seconds with Owen Wilson in the Inherent Vice trailer, I forgot to be in love with the three seconds with Benicio Del Toro. Owen's just blowing minds with that camo hoodie and facial scruff, and now I'm extra-psyched for my annual early-autumn viewing of The Darjeeling Limited, which usually happens on a Sunday morning in the first few weeks of October, in bed, with some milky/sugary black tea and a nice autumn-y pastry, like a goddamn pumpkin scone. Or maybe a chocolate pear scone, or an oatmeal brown butter scone - or just all the cinnamon scones in the world. To me it really doesn't get more classic-October-y than the Whitman Brothers + cinnamon. 

JEN'S THING OF THE WEEK: My Favorite Doctor

I saw my favorite doctor this week. He 1. noticed my haircut and 2. said it looked great. I'm also healthy or whatever.


The Iliad Bookshop is a Beatlesy Wonderland


The Iliad is a used bookstore on a very ugly and shabby stretch of Cahuenga Boulevard in North Hollywood. I love that stretch of Cahuenga because it looks like it's never going to get turned into something nice and shiny, and I think it's important that some things just look the same forever, especially in crazy old Los Angeles. I went to The Iliad for the first time last Friday, after meeting up with my writer pals for our writer-pal meeting down the street at a coffeehouse called Moby's, which I'm also newly in love with: it's in a strip mall next to a weed clinic and a taco place and everyone's so nice and they sell gigantic jars of iced coffee for $2.50 and have these out-of-control pistachio-carrot muffins and raspberry-frangipani pop tarts, plus there's a game nook and a table set aside for an in-progress jigsaw puzzle to which anyone can contribute.

Anyway, The Iliad: it's a wonderland. I want to live in it, just like I wanted to live in Book Den when we went to Martha's Vineyard. But whereas Book Den had a bit of a "woman's touch," The Iliad appears to be run entirely by dudes - specifically, cranky but sweet-natured middle-aged dudes who're probably way into music dudes like Warren Zevon and Randy Newman and subsist on dude foods like frozen burritos and Campbell's Chunky Soup and love dude movies like The Dirty Dozen or whatever. It's ramshackle and chaotic but totally lovely and cozy as hell; you could probably stay there all day long and no one would give a damn. I was there maybe two hours, and it wasn't nearly enough time.

When I first got to The Iliad, it sort of reminded me of the bookstore that Michael Caine and Barbara Hershey go to in Hannah and Her Sisters, the one where he buys her that E.E. Cummings book:

And then I tried to think of an L.A.-set movie with a romantic bookstore scene, and I couldn't think of any. Someone chill with a deep understanding of Los Angeles should really make a movie that's got some dreamy scene set in The Iliad, completely free of any hacky jokes about how L.A. people don't read books. We do. We read books all the time.

So yeah, books. Books! So many beautiful books. In the interest of starting somewhere, I'll point out that The Iliad has an amazing selection of rock bios. I was especially charmed by Our Own Story by The Rolling Stones - it's very amusing to me to think of the Rolling Stones speaking in the first-person plural, all five of them sitting down together and saying: "This is it, guys. This is our story." Obviously the Rolling Stones never actually did that. But the font is pretty cute and hot:

The only rock bio I ended up buying was this Fleetwood Mac book. It was published in 1978 and so far I've only read the intro, which is written in the second person and places "you" in the driver's seat of a car in 1975: You're listening to AM radio and your car speakers are kind of shitty, and after a few "disco McDonald's commercials" the DJ plays you "Over My Head," identifying the song as "the super solid sayin' somethin' sounds of Fleetwood Mac." Which is so cool! "Sayin'-somethin'" is a really fun adjective. I kind of want to use it in my own music writing, but ultimately I think maybe it's the sort of thing that should be left in 1975. Some things just don't need to time-travel.

Another fantastic thing about The Iliad + music: there's a whole huge shelf of books about the Beatles. There's gotta be at least a few hundred of them, and it was so overwhelming, and at first I grabbed a Red Rose Speedway songbook and was like, "I'll just get this!! I'll just get the Red Rose Speedway songbook and call it a day!!!!" But then I calmed down and put the songbook back and flipped through a bunch of picture-heavy Beatles books, trying to find some Beatles pictures that I'd never seen before. This is by far my favorite of all the new Beatles pix I discovered - I love how Paul's shoving his hand into his mouth like a cute pig, and how John's really chugging on that bottle. I wonder what they're eating? Hopefully something fried and fatty and doughy and wonderful.

I ended up not getting any Beatles books at all; I decided the only Beatles books I ever care to read again are the Let It Be Beautiful books by Elizabeth Barker and Laura Jane Faulds. I'm still agreeing with myself on that. Oh and for another great moment in Beatle eating, I recommend this "I Feel Fine" video of the Beatles eating fish and chips and riding a stationary bicycle:

Probably the best part of The Iliad is the shelf of rare storybooks. I really wanted to buy a Little Golden Book called Brownie Scouts, but instead I got a book from 1939 that's two Brothers Grimm stories in one: The Goose Girl, and The House in the Woods:


Thing of the Week: LJ's Cool New Wine Tumblr, An Apollonia Cupcake, 50 Years of John Waters

LJ'S THING OF THE WEEK: My Cool New Wine Tumblr

Last week I had the cool revelation that I am going to stop self-identifying as a Slytherin and start self-identifying as a Gryffindor. It's been really life-changing for me. Now that I'm a Gryffindor I have a really fantastic can-do attitude about life in general; my new motto is "Do EVERYTHING" and it's working out really well for me so far. I've thought about starting a wine Tumblr "forever but only got around to it once the Sorting Hat re-sorted me into Gryffindor. 

My cool new wine Tumblr is called Laura Jane Drinks Wine and you can find it at ljdrinkswine.tumblr.com. My intention is to use it a wine journal; I am going to try my best to write a little note about every single wine I taste but I think we'll all forgive me if I slack a little. Also, I'm me, so the writing will be personal and non-traditional and hopefully entertaining even to people who don't care about wine. So yeah! That is my cool news for today, I'm deliriously excited about it, please let all your wine friends know about the Internet's weirdest new wine blog. 

LIZ'S THING OF THE WEEK: An Apollonia Cupcake & Some Dogs

Last Saturday they showed Purple Rain at Hollywood Forever Cemetery. I don't think I'd seen Purple Rain in its entirety since Leah O'Leary let me watch it while she was babysitting when I was like eight-years-old, which was a pretty weird move on Leah O'Leary's part. (Leah also always had her boyfriend Craig over, and one time we all went outside late at night so Craig could shoot off Roman candles in the middle of the street - fast times.) Anyway, Purple Rain at Hollywood Forever was so super-fun; Questlove DJ'd before and after the movie, and the girl on the blanket next to ours gave me this fantastic Apollonia cupcake:

At the end of the movie, when "Baby I'm a Star" plays, everyone in the crowd got up and danced. Usually I have a pretty terrible attitude and get mega-annoyed in situations where large groups of extroverts congregate to loudly demonstrate their semi-ironic love of a particular film/band/what-have-you, but the "Baby I'm a Star" dance party had such good vibes. Prince took hold of our hearts and made everyone's love so pure and true. He really does have some magic power.

So all week I've been re-obsessed with the Purple Rain soundtrack and with how the songs are performed in the movie, especially how in "Darling Nikki" he mimes all the lyrics and then has sex with an amplifier, and also how in the bridge to the "Beautiful Ones" he sings really aggressively at Apollonia and collapses onto the stage and she cries from loving him too much. And the other night I listened to the "Do You Like Prince Movies?" episode about the 30th anniversary of Purple Rain, which led me to two wonderful things: (1) Spin's oral history on the 25th anniversary of Purple Rain, which includes the fun fact that Prince's favorite meal is spaghetti and orange juice; and (2) this video of Prince singing "A Case of You" by Joni Mitchell in 1983. Prince looooooves Joni Mitchell - there's this great New York interview where she talks about how he used to send her fan letters "with all of the U’s and hearts that way that he writes," and her office thought he was a nut and would throw them away. So sweet. Apparently Prince also loves Todd Rundgren. 

My second thing is these Australian shepherds, whom I found on the Cricket Press Instragram. Don't they look like some middle-aged husband-and-wife duo who were high school sweethearts, had a shotgun wedding the summer after graduating, and are still so crazy for each other? They totally have a Saturday night bowling league, and bring their own bowling balls, and the wife's bowling ball is hot-pink. Her name's Peg, and her husband's name is...Artie? Artie drinks beer while he bowls - probably MGDs. Every summer they have a tiki party: Peg always wins the limbo contest, she also makes a killer Planter's Punch. They are the dog version of my character and Owen Wilson's character from the amazing Wes Anderson movie Blurred Lines, and I hope they live forever.

JEN'S THING OF THE WEEK: Fifty Years of John Waters

As usual my Thing of the Week is John Waters related. There's a full retrospective of his films happening at Lincoln Center Film Society right now and it's one of the best things that's ever happened to me. The title of it all is: Fifty Years of John Waters: How Much Can You Take? For me, clearly, the answer is an endless amount. Last weekend I saw Polyester in Odorama (Scratch & Sniff). Heaven. I tried to see his Very Rare Early Shorts before Polyester. Tickets were free and only given out an hour before each show. I didn't get them. I stood on the stand by line and got very close - like, 3 people close to getting in - but I did not get in. I became instantly depressed. I HAD to see these movies. Hag in a Black Leather Jacket! Eat You Make Up! I could not live if I missed these. I complained a lot about how the people getting into the shorts did not deserve it. They were not even stylish AT ALL! I saw Polyester. It was great. I decided to run across the street to the theater the shorts were playing at later that night immediately after Polyester ended - like a maniac- to see if we could get into the 9:30pm Shorts screening. WE DID! Somehow, there was no line. I saw Hag in a Black Leather Jacket. I saw Roman Candles. I saw Eat Your Make Up. Was it everything I dreamed? Yes, kind of. He was a teenager when he made these and you can tell. They are tedious at times but magical. Divine as Jackie O during the Kennedy assassination in Eat Your Make Up - filmed in 1965! - is incredible. Truly.

Last night I went to Celluloid Atrocity Night. A screening of Multiple Maniacs, Mondo Trasho, and the Diane Linkletter Story with a little convo with John in between the movies. Everyone who works at Lincoln Center introducing the movies, making announcements etc called him by his first name only. John. It sounded very sweet and warm. John just left or we could ask him. John brought these 16mm prints from his attic. John will be back tomorrow.

At all of these screenings I start tearing up when Divine's name is listed and everyone claps. I am insane. I love John.


All the Songs We Loved in August


Harry Nilsson, “I Guess The Lord Must Be In New York City” (LJ)

Harry Nilsson is a weird and perfect guy. He’s a Gemini. I don’t relate to him at all.
       I’ve always loved Harry Nilsson or at least liked him. When I was a kid my mom would sing me Coconut but I’d never heard actual Coconut, just my mom singing Coconut, but I knew it was sung by a guy named Harry Nilsson. When I was fifteen my high school best friend made me a mixtape and she put Coconut on the mixtape, and The Drowners by Suede and also Good Day Sunshine by the Beatles. She bought Revolver on the same day I bought The White Album so we each had something the other didn’t but we were equal in our having and our not having, which is a beautiful equilibrium.
       Harry Nilsson was John Lennon’s best friend. I don’t know if he was John Lennon’s official best friend or not; I wish I could just ask him, “Who’s your best friend, John?”— I would be dissatisfied with any answer that wasn’t “An exact tie between Paul McCartney and Harry Nilsson.”
       My friend Kritty and I have a thing, an in-joke I guess, a weird fantastic in-joke, that we’re John Lennon and Harry Nilsson together. That’s the theme of our friendship, a never-ending Lost Weekend; I’m John and she’s Harry. Together we are surrounded by a general haze of being up to no good.
       Kritty calls us both beautiful geniuses and believes that we are. I’ll only ever call myself that if it’s really late and we’ve just killed like three bottles of wine in two hours. There’s a part in the Harry Nilsson documentary where a guy says: he was the best singer. Not just the best singer but the best singer. Eventually he fucked up his voice from partying too hard and that was a tragedy but who even cares. It’s not like he didn’t record all those excellent albums in the first place and at least he had a fun life and it’s not like he didn’t die anyway. When I watched that thing for the first time I texted Kritty to tell her: that’s youYou’re the best singer.
        Other than Nilsson Schmilsson I’d never listened to any full Harry Nilsson albums until I moved to London one month ago. I highly recommend intersecting your moving to London phase with your getting crazy-into Harry Nilsson phase if you are the type of person who’d be inclined to live out either. Harry Nilsson and London go kookily but decadently together like dipping bacon or crinkly-cut potato chips into a fountain of chocolate fondue. Harry is an American but he’s got a sort of jaunty Penny Lane Britishness about him, that whole Vaudeville soft-shoe nostalgia thing that came into vogue for about five minutes in the late nineteen-sixties because of Paul.
        I’ve been responding to music made by a Britishy American guy because I’m a Britishy American guy! It’s one thing to live in Canada and tell people you’re moving to London and have them say “Well you certainly look the part!” because your shirt has a collar. But once you’re actually in England it becomes really obvious that you’re, you know, not from around here. Nobody cares that you wore a vaguely British-seeming shirt that had a collar back when you lived across the ocean. You’re a foreigner who calls the pavement a sidewalk and pronounces her rs like a commoner and thinks a courgette is a gherkin. The only way to get through it is stumble through the confusion wide-eyed and exuberantly because who in the hell doesn’t love a wide-eyed exuberant person?
       I Guess The Lord Must Be In New York City was the theme song to my wide-eyed exuberant phase. It’s a bit of a bummer to admit to myself that my wide-eyed exuberant phase is over but like what do you even expect of yourself and the concept of life Laura Jane. Do you want to be Don Draper when he’s on the phone with Dr. Faye and she tells him she hopes Megan knows he only likes the beginning of things? Nope.
       Three weeks ago, it was still the beginning, and I didn’t realize it was the beginning or that the beginning would ever end, I didn’t have a job, and I’d just figured out how to take the bus. I’d sit on the very front seat of the upper deck and watch the city unroll like a carpet. Listening to this song. That’s the opening credits. In the movie it would cut to some shots of me looking dejected in the middle of an unforgiving Toronto while Harry says he’s so tired of his prayers going unanswered. Then it switches to the part where Harry sings, “Well here I am Lord, knocking at your back door,” which is not in the movie, because it’s just me thinking about it. But I like how knocking at the Lord’s back door implies that you are going about getting God’s attention in a kind of roundabout way. Being so sweet and bad that God can’t help but relent. You to him are like the best dessert, lard cut with butter laced with sugar, so fucking excellent and illicit that in the end even He has to admit you were the point.
       The nicest part of the song is when Harry Nilsson sings, “Ain’t it wonderful to be/ where I’ve always wanted to be,” which has been true for me loads of times and is still true generally, but was truest once. I was on a bus riding past a liquor store somewhere around Tottenham Court Road. The liquor store advertised all the cool weird whiskies it was selling in a well-executed window display, and it was sunny enough that I was wearing shorts but cool enough that I could wear a long-sleeved t-shirt. And I wanted to take my Dad there, to the whisky store. I wanted to show it to him like, “Hey dad hey look dad look at this wonderful place I live in, look how wonderful we have it here, this whisky store, I did it I did it, I made it,” but I didn’t write down where it was or remember where it was. I can find it again if I take that same bus and stare out the window the whole time until I find it which sounds like the dullest and lamest thing I could possibly do here. I would rather look for something new or ideally not even look for anything.

"Rock the Casbah" by The Clash (Liz)

The last time I flew from Boston to L.A., I watched the video for "Rock the Casbah" seven times. It was a night flight and the punk-rock couple behind me brought a box of Munchkins on board with them, which was so cute and inspired. The couple sitting beside me were not very punk rock but seemed vaguely with-it; I had some silly hope that they'd notice what I was up to and later say to each other, "How interesting, that the woman beside us watched the 'Rock the Casbah' video seven times during our flight. How very peculiar.'" Instead they watched every existing episode of Dating Naked, which is kind of like the opposite of The Clash. I don't think they picked up on my "Rock the Casbah" marathon at all - and that's all right, I got along fine without them. The "Rock the Casbah" video is kind of ugly but I love it intensely. These are some of my favorite things:

-Mick Jones's stompy/semi-aggro dance moves, and also the fact that he's wearing a veil. Before last month I hadn't seen the "Rock the Casbah" video in ages and misremembered it as Mick wearing a gas mask, so it was kind of a letdown to see that he's not. And when I got home from LAX at like 2 a.m. I Googled "why is mick jones wearing a veil in the rock the casbah video," and learned that it's got to do with Mick being a big prima donna and uncooperative brat, and then I loved him even more.

-the pool scenes. Cute that Mick is smoking in his inner tube. I really wish there were an alternate version of the "Rock the Casbah" video that was just "The Clash by the pool" 

-how committed and earnest Joe Strummer is about acting out the lyrics. The most earnest lip-syncher of all

-basically everything else except for all the stuff involving the Arab man and the Hasidic man and the armadillo. A few nights after my "Rock the Casbah" plane ride I had a nightmare that the "Rock the Casbah" armadillo bit my finger, which I feel like is a pretty unique nightmare to have

-oh and somewhere around my fourth or fifth viewing, I remembered how in ninth grade I had a crush on a sophomore boy named Dana, who was widely recognized as looking like a shorter, rounder-faced, slumpier Mick Jones. In 11th grade I worked at an Italian bakery and Dana would come in some afternoons and sit at the coffee bar and drink coffee and chainsmoke and eat cake, all slumped-over and probably stoned and not very Mick-Jones-sparkly-eyed - not in the slightest - but still totally sweet. He had a gorgeous sister who looked like a witch and a skater and had pictures of the Red Hot Chili Peppers and the Pixies up in her locker; I probably wanted to be her. Dana also had this long-sleeved black t-shirt that said "TECHNO" in big neon green letters, which possibly sounds lame now but at the time it was cool and exciting and just added to his beautiful mystique. Anyway what I'm trying to say is: DANA IF YOU'RE OUT THERE - no, I'm kidding. What I'm really trying to say is I'm glad I'm old enough for "looking like Mick Jones" to be a characteristic almost universally understood within my peer group. I started high school five years after The Clash broke up (eight years after Mick got fired), and I'm newly proud of how narrowly I missed "being in high school while The Clash were still together." It makes me feel so deep and wise.

Harry Nilsson, The Fifth, Sixth and Seventh Songs on the album Harry (LJ)

My favorite Harry Nilsson album is called Harry. It’s from August of 1969. On the cover of the record is a picture of little kid Harry. He is skinny and his head looks too big for his body. If he were a cartoon character his neck would only be as thick as one pencil line. His face is peaceful but in his eyes it looks like he’s trying to make you do something. You can tell that he’s going to grow up to be a genius which is probably why he picked the picture.
       I like the album title Harry for an album written by a guy named Harry. I wish there was a Paul McCartney album called Paul and a George Harrison album called George but for some reason it seems less cool to imagine a John Lennon album boringly entitled John.
       The first song on Harry is The Puppy Song and it’s great because a cute man saying “puppy” is a really lovely thing but the walk from my flat to the Caledonian Road & Barnsbury Overground station is only as long as the fifth, sixth, seventh, and about half of the eighth (or sometimes the whole eighth if I am in a particularly lethargic walking mood) songs on Harry and I usually sacrifice The Puppy Song to avoid potentially missing out on the end of number seven. Songs Number Two through Four kind of blow.

Number Five is called the Fairfax Rag and it’s pretty peppy but it’s about cops being jerks to you since it’s the sixties and you’re a scuzzy-looking dude who they suspect is a drug user and is probably/definitely a drug user. At the end he goes a little nuts and screams wokka wovva wah wah wah wah wah wah wah. He always screams it around the time I’m walking past a grey brick building called The Gin Palace. I don’t know why it’s called The Gin Palace but I’m happy it is. It’s beautiful.

The sixth song on Harry is City Life and it’s often about me. The city is London; the life is Laura’s. It’s about wishing you could catch a plane to your parents’ house and feeling guilty about how you don’t write your parents too many letters. There’s this part where he sings “Just temporarily” very smoothly in a way that reminds me of an elaborate calligraphic g or y or j. He devotes quite a bit of his time and self and energy to that “temporarily,” and I like that “temporarily” got to be featured in a pop song lyric for once in its life. If words were people temporarily would be a severely boring but ultimately well-intentioned nerd. All I want is the best for temporarily.
      Harry Nilsson singing temporarily usually means it’s about time to pop into Costa to get my coffee, an iced black Americano in the size “Massimo.” I have written extensively about how fucked up it is that iced Americanos at Costa are actually iced lattes and what the fuck, but as it turns out, they are not iced lattes. They just blend up the espresso with water and the oils from the coffee bean make it a little bit frothy. It’s pretty useless to do that but I accept and slightly prefer it. I do a lot of useless shit to make my life a bit frothier too.

Once I have my coffee it’s time to listen to Mournin’ Glory Story and walk past Her Majesties’ Prison at Pentonville which is pretty cute as far as prisons go. Everyone living in there must have been imprisoned for either stealing boiled sweets or treason. So old-timey. The prison’s bookended by a bunch of places with sun-bleached photographs of fry-ups taped into the windows, a place called The Breakout that smells like smoke and fat and ketchup, a tavern called Tawny’s painted in pastel lavender and toothpaste where a band that sounded like a rougher Pogues played on Bank Holiday Sunday. The words THE CALLY are painted across the Overground track in white on blue letters, Cally for Caledonian Road.
       Mournin’ Glory Story is the most beautiful song on the album. If it were flavors it would be: clover honey, vanilla bean, bruleed banana, macadamia nut. It’s an obvious rip-off of For No One by the Beatles but with a bit of a darker edge. In it he rhymes “dirty” as in dirty FEET with “seven-thirty,” which is obviously brilliant. I also like that he doesn’t specify whether he means seven-thirty AM or seven-thirty PM so you can decide for yourself. It’s a Choose Your Own Adventure.
       After Mournin’ Glory Story I get on the Overground and stop listening to music and do a bit of reading on the train, a book by a man who drove around France buying wine, and after I get off the train I walk to work in silence. I think about the people the man who wrote the book met and then I go to work. Work’s alright; it’s pretty good; it’s getting better. I work at a restaurant and I’m not in charge of anything and I don’t make a ton of money. Oh, city life. 

"Broadway" by The Clash (Liz)

The second week of August, my friends and I went out to Joshua Tree to see the meteor shower. The first night was the night of the perigee full moon, which was being a show-off and radiating its majestic supermoon-y light all over the sky and blinding out everything else, so I only saw one or two meteors. And the next night was so cloudy, I only saw one or two meteors then too. But the supermoon was something else; I kept telling everyone that it looked like a giant fluorescent light in the shape of a bloomed rose, and no one believed me about that but I stand by it.
        It was my third trip to Joshua Tree and we stayed at Hicksville again and went to Pappy & Harriet's and that Blake Babies graffiti's still on the bathroom stall. One of the other groups of people at the trailer park was a family from Hawaii; they had two little girls named Chloe (who was about eight) and Layla (who was probably eleven). Their last morning there, Chloe was crying because Layla didn't want to play with her; she'd taken her summer-reading book and put on these rad neon-yellow sunglasses and gone to sit in the shade of the Cramps-themed trailer and read. I felt bad for Chloe, but obviously I was on Layla's side. 
        Later on in the day, around dusk, I bought the Joanna Newsom album Ys on my phone because I really wanted to hear the song that explains the difference between meteors, meteorites, and meteoroids. But then I got a few minutes in and all I wanted to hear was the song that I'd wanted to hear my whole time in the desert, which was "Broadway" by The Clash. I put my earbuds in and sat on the little front porch of our cabin and listened to "Broadway" and watched the big pink puffy sky and felt a heavy kinship with the piano and with Layla and with all of the desert. The desert used to freak me out with its evil energy and Manson-y vibes, but somehow Joe Strummer made me feel completely safe. I love how he refuses to take responsibility for it being six o'clock in the morning.