Eating Highlights From My Holy Grail of New York Trips

(above: me w/ Lexy, my Holy Grail of beloved pals. 
I don't think I've ever gazed so adoringly at another person) 



I woke up early in a hotel room on Wall Street, well off Wall Street, but it sounds nicer to say Wall Street than the actual name of the street, which was: William (boring). My mother and I went downstairs to eat continental breakfast in the restaurant attached to the hotel but it was a terrible vibe. The only free thing was cereal and the entire operation seemed to be entirely unmanned. I saw a Dunkin Donuts sign flashing outside the window and snapped/sighed, “Let’s just go to Dunkin; you can get a bagel there.” I said the thing about a bagel like an accusation, ragged capitals carved into a speech bubble made of metal. I am a stone cold bitch before coffee and also after. 

We did not go to Dunkin. We went to the place next door to it, which was one of the classic New York deli-bodega hybrids that serves like hundreds of different types of sandwiches on assorted New Yorky breads and also boasts a hot buffet and salad bar. I ate the same breakfast every morning of my trip: an everything bagel toasted with two fried eggs. On the second day I started asking for a bit of salt & pepper on the eggs but I dared not desecrate that sacrosanct breakfast with any further accoutrements. I am feeling aesthetically austere this November and I prefer for my food choices to compliment my life concept.

We ate lunch at the Moma café. I actively loathed it. It was small and phony-Yoko white and I felt like the whole thing was jammed into an awkward place, physically an awkward location at the museum, like they built the entire Moma and then it was a couple days before it was set to open and someone realized that they forgot to build a café so they just crammed one in wherever they could find. The waitstaff were all wearing Keith Haring t-shirts and I thought, “If I never had to see a picture of one of those fingerless faceless Keith Haring little guys again in my life, I would not shed a tear.” I ate a dessert for lunch, a moderately-tacky dessert that was lush as fuck and I adored the act of eating it, I loved assembling all the different parts into different-tasting bites. I love eating with a dessert fork, so delicate, it’s like hugging a thin dog.

The only downside of my dessert is it was a bit too on-the-nose about its having an autumnal flavour profile: pumpkin tart, ricotta cream, toasted marshmallow, praline. Like we get it, pal: you are a campfire, a mitten, a burnt leaf. The pumpkin filling and the ricotta cream were oddly, awesomely savoury— they had a dullness to them, a cardboardy thump. I hadn’t been needing to taste sugar too terribly, it was just that nothing else on the menu sounded very worth eating and dessert tends to be a safer bet than non-dessert if deliciousness is what you're chasing. Whenever people come into restaurants I run and order dessert to eat at the same time as the person they’re dining with has their regular main, I think: You are my people. I feel the same way about any person drinking a glass of white wine alone, or a woman crying across the table from her boyfriend. Asking for the bill early and storming out.


Thing of the Week: Nicotine Withdrawal Day 2K16, Fetishizing Laziness

LJ'S THING OF THE WEEK: Nicotine Withdrawal Day 2K16 

ABOVE: Some1 being a sad saddo on Nicotine Withdrawal Day :(

I quit smoking last Friday night at 1 or 2 in the morning or something. I smoked my last cigarette sitting on the square foot of sidewalk out back of my dad’s apartment where I used to smoke my seven billion cigarettes per average day. I felt shameful about the way that little patch of land was always littered with my Benson & Hedges Menthol Lights 100s butts and would brush them up into my hand and dispose of them upstairs so that the ex-convict whose community service gig was sweeping them up wouldn’t judge me.

I barely even cared that I was smoking my last cigarette as I was smoking it. I was too distracted by listening to the shitty demo Matt & I made of the song Good Morning Wolf Girl I wrote about my friend Eli and taking selfies of myself. The next morning I woke up and felt a bit weird and antsy and drove up to Prince Edward County to hang out at vineyards with my father all day, which was nice. 

When I woke up the next morning the quitting smoking being hard part of quitting smoking started. It felt so bad. I wanted to crunch up cardboard boxes with my hands and rip beautiful flower-heads off their stalks and slaughter some stupid animals and burn Beatles records and bite people’s wrists until they bled. I wanted to kick walls until I broke my own feet.

I was being stabbed in the brain by all the different kinds of headaches. I was spacey as fuck, could not formulate proper sentences, felt like my whole face and head was barriered off into little sections separated by panels of frosted glass so my brain and my mouth or ears, nose, etc, had no ability to relate or communicate. I spoke quietly and slowly and couldn’t think of a single interesting thing to say or even a non-interesting thing to say. I hated all my friends and my phone became disgusting to me. Like it had this really evil energy about it that still hasn’t completely worn off. Any time I received a text message I wanted to impale myself on whatever impale-able thing was nearest by and whip my phone at whoever the annoying phone wanted me to know was trying to tell me something via some stupid social media platform and in doing so fuck their face up. You have no idea how terribly I wanted to fuck everybody's face up. All my best friends' faces. I wanted to hurt them so badly.

I guess maybe you’re wondering why Nicotine Withdrawal Day is my Thing of the Week when it was very clearly and obviously one of the worst days of my life. That’s a good question. I guess I just like it a lot, in my memory, because it was so different from all the other days. It was very unique unto itself, and made a very big deal out of being itself in a way that I respect. It was no wallflower, nicotine withdrawal, that's for sure. 

ABOVE: druggy face-vibes on Nicotine Withdrawal Day, starring Laura Jane Faulds as the owner of her own druggy face

On Nicotine Withdrawal Day my poison headache & I watched the Zac Efron/Seth Rogen vehicle Bad Neighbours at 6:30 in the morning while eating raw raspberries smushed into peanut butter on an English muffin because I’m trying to avoid the sugar in jam. I was jealous of Zac’s inguinal ligaments and wanted to beat the fucking crap out of Seth Rogen for having such a stupid ugs voice that sounds like if a yellow lab with thick spit and bluish gums could talk. It also co-starred James Franco’s brother as a different frat boy who looked like a ceramic figurine of a squirrel. He was my favourite character in the movie.

After it was over I screamed at my dad for a bit maybe and then went for a run. A lot of the time when I tell people I went for a run I am lying and actually just went for a jog, or like a slow walk, but this time I fucking RAN. I ran like I was fighting with the air, like I was trying to teach the air a lesson, or do something to it: make it not be air anymore. Or turn myself into being air too. I felt like my lungs were faring better than their usual smokery selves, and that was a very good feeling. I want to say I transcended but realistically I was too spacey from the nicotine withdrawal to transcend; I opposite of transcended, landed back inside myself. I probably cried. I like and liked life, I love and loved life, it felt good to know I’m probably not going to die of lung cancer, I’m going to run really fast and far forever. I ran along the side of the lake past the hotels and into the financial district which was grey and dead on a Sunday. I listened to Psychotic Reaction over and over and came home and signed myself up to run a half-marathon next May either 7th or 17th and then felt like shit and wished I was abusing my loved ones again.

I don’t remember what clothes I wore. I showered and walked to Zara and tried on a zippery rose-gold leather bomber jacket that looked cartoonish on me. I walked to the convenience store on the corner of Queen & John so I could buy a bland square of carrot poppyseed cake wrapped in saran wrap. I used to eat those squares for breakfast when I was ill and depressed the winter I was twenty-two. I bought one and and a Fresca and sat and ate them on a bench in a parking lot listening to Syd Barrett and either crying or trying not to cry. I walked over to Kritty’s house and some new neighbour I’d never seen before was standing outside her house repairing a fan or something. He asked me if I lived at Kritty’s house and I replied so quietly he couldn’t hear me so as not to further fuck my brain up— my voice, out of all the voices, was the most abrasive voice of all. The yelpy sound of it made me want to beat myself up. 

Kritty has a little lock-box with a key in it on her front porch so I can let myself into her house while she’s not there but there was a bike blocking my normal route to the lock-box and my brain was too muggy and slow to know how to deal with it. The dude was like, "Can I help you with something?"- I think he thought I was high on drugs. I said some mean things to him. If my voice were in an Archie comic it would have been surrounded by a speech bubble that looked like it was dripping with icicles. My head felt like I’d just smashed it into something. I ignored the guy and walked away. I forgot to mention that I hadn’t brought my phone with me because its evil energy was just too horrible for me to deal with. So I couldn’t text Kritty to say I was out front, so I didn’t. It was so weird of me to do that. I walked all the way there, and then just left.

I was too distressed and disoriented to listen to music so I didn’t. I walked to a movie theatre and learned at the movie theatre that Joseph Gordon Levitt is an actor in a movie they've made about Edward Snowden even though Edward Snowden’s story isn’t even over yet. It’s so stupid, how desperate they are to make a movie about fucking anything. That was really upsetting to me, and I couldn't make heads nor tails out of what any of the other movies were about, so I walked all the way back home and lay in bed and cried and my dad was very nice and hugged me and told me I could do it but I really had my doubts at that point. I was angry with cigarette companies for being evil and angry at every smoker and at every non-smoker. I was angry at my little kid self for having absorbed pro-smoker rhetoric at such a young age, I kept remembering this memory of being at daycare and watching a group of punk smokers who were teenagers smoking beneath a tree. I knew then, when I was five or three or whatever, that I'd grow up to be a cool smoker myself one day. 

"This is what has become of that day," I thought. The start and end of the same story. I couldn’t move or barely breathe or think. I dealt with it as actively as I could, because that's what I do, and made a little movie on my phone for myself to watch any time I ever want to smoke again in the future. Here is a very earnest excerpt from it:


That night I blew off all my plans and put my phone on airplane mode and walked down to Sherbourne Common, the little park by the lake where the fountains look like brontosauruses. Brontosauri. I swang on a swing and listened to my favourite song Miss O’Dell by George Harrison.

In the song George is living in Los Angeles and feels isolated, struggles with relating to his peers, and wishes a girl was calling him on the telephone, which all sound like negative things to be dealing with but the song is very chilled and easy and he laughs a lot in it. It’s the most perfect song I ever heard and it always helps me understand why I’m alive. I didn’t choose to listen to it, my iPod shuf just played it for me. Swinging felt good because the air was a little bit astringent the way it whipped at my face and my legs were pumping back and forth, I was eating up some energy. I was doing something.

By the time I got off the swing the worst of it was over. My legs felt a bit shakey and I walked down to the lake. I tranced out into watching the white & navy tie-dyed waves, looked at all the yachts and schooners and wished I was on one. I never used to look at the lake before I moved to England but then I came home from England and now I look at the lake all the time. It’s a beautiful lake, just like every lake. I'm going to die old, I think. I'm going to look out at so many lakes, and I'm going to take all the money I save from not buying cigarettes, I'm gonna buy myself a boat. 

LIZ'S THING OF THE WEEK: Fetishizing Laziness

The other morning I started thinking about how it'd be nice to be lazy like Neil Young, or like one of those super-lazy Neil Young songs, like "Round & Round" or "Out on the Weekend." I'm rarely lazy; I work a whole lot and when I'm not working I try to spend time doing things that keep my head on straight, like hanging out with pals and going running or for big long walks and reading good stuff, and trying to write good stuff too. It doesn't leave much room for true laziness, which I want to clarify as different from that thing of working too much and then collapsing into a heap and Netflix-ing for like seven hours straight.* That's just exhaustion, or at least the performance of exhaustion. Boring.

To me lazy means living according to your own easy-breezy pace instead of conforming to the pace of the world. (Or to the pace of people in the world, I guess is what I mean- I think the actual world wants us to be lazy more often; that's why there are meadows and beaches and other great expanses of natural beauty to wander around in.) It's a state of existence that's conducive to a deep and heavy zoning-out, the kind where you're not even monitoring your daydreaming for possible material to use later on. You're just on another plane, and magic things happen there, and they change your head in a really cool way.

In one ideal version of my life I'd live right by the sea, and on a weekday I'd wake up whenever I felt like waking up, and spend a lot of my morning drinking coffee and reading the paper on the porch. And then I'd take the dog for a walk, and the dog's an English sheepdog, because recently I decided that when I'm older I'm going to go Full Paul and get myself a Martha.** Work itself would be writing things I wanted to write, possibly at some crazy old writing desk, and while writing I'd drink about 800 cups of Christmas tea (which is black tea with cinnamon and cloves and tiny pieces of orange peel) and probably eat a banana or a Pink Lady apple. In the afternoon I'd take a break and make myself a great sandwich, like a walnutty chicken salad on crazy-thick brown bread from the bakery down the road, which also would bake some killer pineapple scones or maybe raspberry muffins. And then my Martha dog and I would walk the beach some more, and then I'd get a little more writing done, if I felt like it. And in the evening there'd be hanging out at the kitchen table with sweet people, and drinking halfway-decent wine and eating an amazing dinner that someone else cooked for me, and listening to the kind of music that people listen to in reasonably perfect lives- like Astral Weeks, or The Hissing of Summer Lawns. That'd be my Monday, or my Tuesday: by far the most high-stress day of my week.

I like my job and I keep getting better at it. The other day for work I met a band for lunch on Ventura Boulevard; the singer boy was a total angel and ordered a grilled cheese sandwich and told me about listening to the Cranberries with his dad when he was little, and about how he wants to make songs to help shy goofs believe in love. I was like, "I can't believe this is my job, to talk to this adorable kid and then write some paragraphs so that people will pay attention to his record." Not a bad gig at all.

But it's also the kind of gig where you've gotta work a lot to make any real money- and I need real money, which means a lazier life feels very far away from me. It's not likely to get all that much closer any time soon, so for now I'm trying to slip into little moments of laziness whenever I can. And when I can't do that, I rely on fetishizing the laziness of others, like Neil Young in 1969 or 1972, or Keith Richards sunbathing at Nellcôte, or Paul McCartney hanging around with good ol Martha. Paul is the best because you know he's a total go-getter and an industrious weirdo, but he's also so good at cultivating a happy-lazy vibe, like the vibe of Ram. I used to believe in "I'm gonna make a lot of money, then I'm gonna quit this crazy scene," but now it's more like "I'm gonna make a medium amount of money, and then go hang out on my Scottish dream farm a while and eventually write 'Uncle Albert/Admiral Halsey.'" Dream Farm Paul is my number-one laziness role model. He totally happens on a pineapple-scone level.

*I'm not anti-Netflix or anything, and mostly I'm telling you that so I can work in a line or two about how in love I am with BoJack and how, the morning after watching the most recent season finale, "Stars" by Nina Simone came on my iTunes at the gym and then I had this cool moment of getting all teary-eyed on the treadmill, especially at the "And the latest story that I know is the one that I'm supposed to go out with" lyric; OH MY GOD

**I want to acknowledge that my English sheepdog obsession was also very much inspired by a dog named Rocco Roni, who I first discovered via this wonderful video wherein Rocco tries to climb up a chair but keeps slipping off. Rocco is an excellent Instagram follow; so many of his posts are focused on his butt, which is fantastic - both the choice to be butt-centric, and the butt itself.


Thing of the Week: The Night LJ Got Back To Toronto, "Your Summer" by Strawberry Whatevs

LJ'S THING OF THE WEEK: The Night I Got Back To Toronto

I arrived in Toronto last Sunday evening after an arduous plane jouney that, while arduous, was less arduous than anticipated— the itinerary the plane company sent me listed my Toronto arrival time as 10 PM, but they meant 10 PM London time, not Toronto time, which was confusing and irresponsible of them. Also, one of my two layovers turned out to not be an actual layover but rather just a brief interlude of plane chilling on tarmac for twenty-odd minutes during a crew-change in Halifax. But to give credit where credit is due, it was a bullshit fourteen-hour commute, the only bright spots being 1) the blueberry & Greek yoghurt-flav Tim Horton’s bagel I ate during my layover in Newfoundland, 2) the little caper I got to participate in with myself after briefly misplacing my luggage during the aforementioned Newfoundland layover, and 3) the time on my London to Newfoundland flight when a man passed out and the girl sitting next to me, who had evidently seen a movie in her life, took it upon herself to be the hero who stood up and shouted, “IS THERE A DOCTOR ON THE PLANE???”— when no one replied, she muttered “This is ridiculous” to herself— that was the highlight, not the man passing out. That was sad and sort of scary. I just really dug her “This is ridiculous”; it was so unnecessarily dramatic. Like, dude, it’s not ridiculous. There just happened to not be a doctor on the plane. You can’t blame people for not being doctors. You’re not a doctor either. Anyway, the man was fine.

Matt King met me at the airport and we had a cute little bit where I was waiting for my luggage to arrive on the conveyor belt and then the automatic door to the Arrivals hallway opened and we saw each other and I ran to him and we hugged and he said “I can’t go in there, and you can’t come out here,” and then he gave me a Grande iced BAM.
        I met back up with my disgusting heel of a cumbersome suitcase, who was named Barry, and Matt & Barry & Abigail (my other suitcase) & I commuted from the airport to my dad’s flat apartment. While walking Barry & Abigail from Union Station to my dad’s, Matt & I had a cool conversation about the lyric from Fun, Fun, Fun by the Beach Boys that goes “It seems like she forgot all about the library like she told her old man now,” the crux of our discussion being how fair it was of the Beach Boys to give Fun Fun Fun-girl the benefit of the doubt in the situation— “it seems like”— rather than straight up accusing her of lying. But the following day we realized that the next lyric goes “You shouldn’t have lied,” so it "seems" like we were giving the Beach Boys unwarranted credit on that one.
        At my dad’s I drank a glass of white wine and we listened to Rhapsody in Blue on his tricked out stereo system. I changed into the t-shirt Ivy gave me in Barcelona that says “New Experiences on Old Hardware” and announced that my t-shirt was a metaphor for how I felt about being back in Toronto. Matt and I peaced out, took the King streetcar up to Bathurst, and walked to the new Nando’s that just opened up on Queen Street West. Toronto felt clean and spacious. It didn’t look as ugly as I’d thought it would. I felt further away from London than I could have imagined while living in London and trying to imagine how being in Toronto would feel, I felt released from the weight of some shitty ghosts that had been mutely haunting my life without my noticing it, and it was summer, proper summer, and I said “I feel like such hot shit in Toronto.” Matt asked “How so?” and I said “Well, my hotness just goes further in this city. Like, Sienna Miller doesn’t live here.”

We met Kritty at Nando’s and there was a whole annoying debacle about their credit card machine being down. I was hungry and snapped into Type A personality restaurant manager mode so we could get our food faster. While we ate, I thought, “It’s so nice not to be the only boorish North American at the table who eats with her fork in her right hand.”
        We went back to Kritty’s and drank white wine and listened to rock & roll music and talked about whatevs in her backyard. I reacquainted myself with the drunk-rich-old-lady vibes of my beloved Canadian cigarette brand: Benson & Hedges Menthol Light 100s. Kritty referred to all people who read books as “nerds” and I felt very, very faraway from Southeast London. I felt like the shooting star emoji.

I feel very lucky to have met the sparkling handful of deep homies that came into my life in London- creating the relationships I’ve created with those people has been fun, and cool, because I like new things, and it’s thrilling to feel new to someone, to have a person feel new to you. Conversations are spent piecing together the puzzle of what that person’s life was like before they met you, and all your tiredest old anecdotes get a second wind. You meet each other and you’re not yourselves yet, you’re a picture of yourself, a picture of the other person, until eventually you’ve hit a point where you’ve said enough words to erase the picture and then the person knows you, you know them, and that procedure’s thrilling too.
         But there ain't nothin' like being back with the people who know you best. There is never new news, and everything everyone says is hilarious not because you happen to share fundamentally similar senses of humor but rather because your senses of humor have spent the past decade developing concurrently: they are literally the same thing. It’s not a cool coincidence that you’re able to have that ridiculous niche conversation about Fun, Fun, Fun; you’re able to have it because that’s the kind of conversation you have, because you’re Matt King and Laura Jane, and the dynamic has already been established. You never have to think about anything. Nobody cares.

We moved indoors, to Baby Pineapple Studio, which is what Kritty’s studio is called, and I played the bass for the first time. Since that night I have played so much bass, that’s my main vibe right now, becoming a bass player. In Barcelona Ivy called me a “latent bass player” and now it’s all bubbling up to the surface. I have worshipped the bass for fifteen years and I can’t believe how lucky I am, how cool it feels, learning to speak this new language. Basslines are snakey sneaky little stories that meander underneath the rest of a song, they are punchy and crunchy and don’t have to resolve themselves but when they do it’s a treat.
        After we left Matt King and I went into the Queen & Bellwoods 7-11 and I checked out all the cool beverage options I’d forgotten about, made sure they still sell those cherry crullers I’m so obsessed with (they do). I bought a grapefruit Perrier and drank it while walking back to my Dad’s listening to music I forget now. I listened to all the basslines and knew that in some amount of time I’d be able to make sense of those sounds the same way I can make sense out of letters and words and spaces. I thought of London and how scared and sad I’d been the last couple weeks, how irritated I’d felt by the inconvenience of having to uproot my entire life simply because of the cosmically arbitrary event of my Visa expiring.
        I didn’t have to feel like that anymore. It was over, the ghosts were gone, and when the sun woke up it would be shining. It was eleven PM in Toronto, the air was swampy and I didn’t need a jumper, which is called a sweater again. All my friends in London were asleep.      

LIZ'S THING OF THE WEEK: "Your Summer" by Strawberry Whatevs, A Tulip of Pineapple Cider

I was going to write a thing about summertime and romance and rock-and-roll but instead I just want to share three things, the first being a passage from Life After God by Douglas Coupland. I underlined all these sentences when I was 16, and just reread them and realized it's maybe the most formative paragraph-and-a-half of my whole crazy life:

It's from a beautiful heartbreaker of a story called "Patty Hearst," which you can read here, excerpted in a 1994 issue of Spin with good old Evvers Dando on the cover. Beauty all around.

The second thing is this poem that a robot made by using words from Strawberry Fields Whatever's Twitter account:

If we were going to workshop this poem, I'd suggest making a few tweaks so it reads like this:

Covered in 1000-island dressing
Butters & sunshine raspberries
What else would I spend my time doing?
Stars, society, and bunnies

An extremely disgusting apartment
Paul Simon, Jack White, T. Rex, and MORE
*chill sommelier* movement
Kim Gordon in the Marc Jacobs store

Being the Norwegian Wood of her,
I'm just gonna be a DESSERTS-WRITER
Plus some cool news about Jen and Cher-
Shit, is there anything better

But it's basically all there. The robot poet really nailed it. The William Blake of robot poets, seriously.

Apart from "Your summer," my number-one jam of summer 2016 is "Higher" by Nice as Fuck, which is Jenny Lewis's new band:

Also I think my summer drink might be pineapple cider? I had a tulip of that last night at Mohawk Bend, and mid-tulip the bar started playing "Gates of the West" by the Clash, which is definitely some kind of sign. Pineapple cider + Mick Jones deep cuts forevs <3 <3


I Gallantly Handed Her My Mulberry Blast Piece of Gum

Literally Every Single Thought I've Ever Had About
Fourth Time Around By Bob Dylan 

I don’t know where Bob Dylan lives, but I’d like to live there with him. I’d like him to live in upstate New York, in the Catskill mountains, in a log cabin of moderate size. He’d have a fire pit out back, and we’d sit around it in the evenings, and we wouldn’t have a pet, though sometimes stray cats would wander by. We’d feed them the traditional cat treat of a saucer full of milk, or maybe a can of tuna— not in a bowl, just an open can. We wouldn’t name them anything. Bob Dylan would think it was pointless to name an animal.
        Bob Dylan would call me Laura Jane: never Laura, never LJ. Laura Jane would sound girlish and old-fashioned to him, like the name of a girl in a Woody Guthrie song. I would call him Bob Dylan, or, if I was feeling playful, Bobby. Our relationship would be entirely non-sexual, since he’s mad old, but I’d probably marry him anyway. I'd want to experience the glory of having every person I’ve ever met find out that that’s what I did, that’s what happened to Laura Jane:
        She literally married Bob Dylan. They had, like, a wedding and shit.
        Marrying Bob Dylan would coax out my latent flair for handiness. As Bobby’s wife, I’d always be doing some odd job: fixing a leak, painting a wall. I’d wear one of those carpentry belts, with a tape measure tucked into a loop, and I’d have splatters of paint, and grout, on my jeans. I’d dress exclusively in Bob Dylan’s clothes from the 60s and 70s that didn’t fit him anymore: plaid button-ups, denim vests, suede trousers, desert boots. I’d always be carrying around a mug of something: hot cocoa, maybe, with mini-marshmallows in it, or more realistically black coffee. In late autumn, hot apple cider cut with whiskey, no— bourbon. We’d be big bourbon drinkers, Bob Dylan and I.
        It’s weird to think about what kind of food Bob Dylan likes to eat. I doubt he has much of a sweet tooth, except maybe for Crackerjacks, and candy corn in the fall. But at a restaurant he wouldn’t be tempted by, like, a slice of Oreo cheesecake or whatever, though on his birthday I’d bake him an apple pie, since there’s no way in hell Bob Dylan wouldn’t go in for a slice of apple pie if the opportunity presented itself. My pie wouldn’t be a massive failure but it wouldn’t be great, and we’d eat it with vanilla ice cream, the yellow kind.
        I imagine that Bob Dylan likes to eat a hamburger, with no cheese, only ketchup. For some reason I can’t imagine him eating chicken. He’d eat fish, but only if we caught it ourselves, and then cooked it over our campfire, and ate it with our fingers out of tinfoil.
        “I’ll debone it for you,” Bob Dylan would say, and I’d say “That’s what she said.”
        He’d eat plain buttered toast and a buttered baked potato, saltine crackers, tins of anchovies and sardines. Tuna melts on rye bread. He’d like Italian food, but he wouldn’t cook it himself— there’d be some mediocre red sauce Italian place in the tiny town closest to our cabin. Mamma Whoever, it’d be called, we’s go there once a month. Heavily-marked up Chianti of average quality and red & white checkered tablecloths, hideous gilt-framed paintings of Roman cityscapes on the wall. We’d share a plate of fried calamari with mayonnaisey sauce and fill up on bread— maybe he’d ask for butter instead of olive oil; I’d like it if he did. I don’t think we’d each have a go-to main that we’d always order; I feel like we’d switch it up. It seems likely that Bob Dylan is the kind of person who would always try the special. A steak maybe, cooked to medium, with a side of steamed veg and a sauce. Steak Diane, whatever that is.
        Those would be such special nights for us. They would always feel like holidays. I would drink until my cheeks turned red and he would tell me stories: the story of the time he became a born-again Christian, the story of the time he rode around London in the back of a limo fucked up on heroin with John Lennon and he puked and John Lennon didn’t. “Do you think John Lennon would have loved me?” I’d ask him, and he’d say “You betcha.” “What about George?” I’d ask, and he’d say “George woulda liked you just fine.” He’d say things like “Hell of a night, ain’t it?” and “Snow up to your knees out there” and “I don’t much go in for that sorta thing,” “Fat chance.” I’d make him read every word I ever wrote before I put it up on the Internet, but he’d never give me the reaction I want. His feedback would be scathing, and I wouldn’t take it well. “Okay, Bob Dylan,” I’d pout, “I get it. I’m a horrible writer, and I should probably just give up.”
        “Oh can it with the self-pity,” he’d tell me: “You got a helluva talent, Laura Jane.” 


My Barcelona Birthday



In Barcelona I lived in a little room that was also a house. It was connected to Ivy’s house, a regular house, through the back garden, and in the mornings I’d wake up later than I wake up in London but still pretty early for being a person on holiday, and I’d fix myself a cup of coffee and a bowl of Kefir & bran flakes and eat my breakfast outside, alone with my phone, the sunlight dissolving into my skin.

In 2016 my birthday fell on a Friday, which was also Brexit Day. I woke up and crawled across my mattress to go check my phone and the first message I read was from my flatmate Charlotte. She wished me a happy birthday and then apologized for her country being stupid, but my brain couldn’t understand what she was saying— I’d been so sure that Brexit wasn’t going to happen that my first thought was, “Well, Brexit obviously didn’t happen, but something else must have,” and then I looked at Twitter and realized that Brexit actually did happen, and I felt a lot of complex feelings at once, the most immediate being straight shock. I felt like a traitor for not being in England, which I realized that morning really has become my home. Then I felt a lot of personal feelings about Brexit’s relationship to my own moving back to London in the future, which were disturbing, and then I remembered that it was my birthday, and selfishly felt annoyed at Brexit for ruining my birthday. That feeling then mutated into my feeling perversely thrilled by the theatre of it all, imagining my future self telling an amusing anecdote about the time Brexit ruined my birthday, and then I felt guilty for being selfish enough to think such a selfish thought, and then I ate my breakfast and smoked a hundred cigarettes and settled into an awkward, hesitant state of acceptance. Then I went for a Spain-run. 

Spain-runs were some of the most beautiful times of my entire trip. I ran faster and harder than I ever knew I could there, I didn’t run I zoomed, a blur in the dry heat. The whole world flashed by me in a sassy color-wash of pastel peaches, seashell pinks & baby blues. I ran past orange trees and old people, I felt I was making a point about youth & the beauty of it: “Don’t worry, I’m appreciating this,” I wanted to stop and tell the old people, “My body is functioning marvellously. I am thirty-one years old today.”
        The whole world was so warm, the whole world had a tan. I thought, “This is why they named the Valencia filter Valencia.” The streets were made of sand. I thought about running forever, never stopping running, running til I died. I listened to Obviously Five Believers and then Otis by Kanye and, for my final leg, did the corny embarrassing thing of listening to Birthday by the Beatles on my birthday. I was in Spain. I thought, “This is why you have done everything you have ever done.” I thought, “Life has brought you here.” I thought, “I have brought myself here,” and then ruined the moment for myself by thinking, “STOP! Stop enjoying yourself. You’re not allowed to feel joyful. Think of all your friends back home in London. It’s grey and rainy there, and their entire country has just fucked itself; yours hasn’t, you're Canadian, you have a handsome young prime minister with a tattoo on his bicep that is ugly but hey, a tattoo’s a tattoo. His birthday is on Christmas Day, and soon you’re going to be able to buy pot at the liquor store, and it won’t say your gender on your driver’s license.”
       That was when I decided not to let Brexit kill my birthday vibe. I thought, “I’d choose Brexit Day being on my birthday over Brexit Day being not on my birthday,” and I felt grateful to have dodged the bullet of being in crap-vibes Brexity grey-day London for my birthday, and ran back to Ivy’s, and took a shower, and my hair looked fucking great that day. It had turned a little bit amber from the sun.


I Want To Be Mick Jones & A Dog Who Loves Pancakes


I had a hard time winding down last night. Yesterday was Mick Jones's birthday and I was in a very celebratory-of-Mick-Jones kind of headspace, which included allowing myself an indulgently long session of looking at Mick Jones pictures on the internet after waking up yesterday morning. I really hit the jackpot with this photo of Mick looking annoyed in front of a roller coaster:

After all that I got up and did my normal Sunday things, like going running and then eating some eggs and a cinnamon raisin bagel while reading the New York Times in the big chair in the living room, sitting sideways with my feet dangling over the edge (my fave Sunday-paper-reading posish). In the evening I went to Hotel Cafe for Tongue & Groove, where my friend Sarah Tomlinson read a really killer short story called "Andy Godmother" that I'm psyched to plug the hell out of once it's published. Another cool thing about Hotel Cafe was the bartender was the dude who turned me on to spam fried rice at Button Mash. I tried to think of a chill way to tell him "Hey I wrote a blog post where I called you a prince and one of the two Great Dans of My Life" - but I couldn't think of anything. Next time, maybe.

After Hotel Cafe, because I'm myself, I went to visit David Bowie's star and the Beatles' stars on the Walk of Fame. The Beatles' stars are all in a little row outside Capitol Records; the order goes: John, George, Paul, Ringo. Right now I'm in a place of loving the Beatles so much but in a low-pressure-y way where I don't feel compelled to make myself intricately themed Beatles playlists and then force the songs into coloring my world so that I can have all these grand revelations about the universe and life and love. I just really like the Beatles! The Beatles are just really cool. On Saturday night my friends and I went to El Chavo where there's this new dumb mural that I love, despite the fact that it's a ripoff of LJ's idea for us to open a Beatles-themed Mexican restaurant called "The Burreatles":

Anyway, many hours after the Walk of Fame, I retired to the bedroom and watched a lot of Clash things on my laptop - mostly the part in The Future Is Unwritten where Mick Jones dances goofily in a hallway in 1981 or something, and in a voiceover someone says how Mick's an idealist who's incapable of living in the real world. I watched that part like 500 times. It made me happy and hyper and I didn't feel like sleeping, though the hour had grown quite late. So I watched more Clash stuff and listened to the Clash and checked Instagram and even hit the goddamn explore button, of all things. Which turned out to be a brilliant move, 'cause that's how I found the best Instagram in the world. The account name is ortensia10 and it's about an apricot toy poodle who lives in Japan. I'm pretty sure the poodle's name is Mina, but I can't be entirely sure since everything's in Japanese. A major theme of Mina's Instagram is "Mina sitting at the head of table with a magnificent meal/dish/dessert laid out before her":


Thing of the Week: Walking To &/Or From Work, A Song + A Dress + Anthony's Shirt

LJ'S THING OF THE WEEK: Walking To &/Or From Work

It’s a few minutes past twelve on Wednesday night, and I don’t mean Thursday morning, even though Thursday morning is what I actually mean. But I just don’t buy that, that a new day starts when the clock turns to midnight. The new day starts when you wake up tomorrow morning. As far as I’m concerned, it’s still June 15th.
        I’m drunk on Verdejo, which, I’ve decided, is the best kind of drunk for me to be. Not on Verdejo, necessarily, but on a Spanish white for sure, made from some obscure varietal like Treixadura or Macabeo or Xarel-lo that nobody has ever heard of except for me, like twenty-five Spanish wine producers, and a handful of other weird nerds.
        I drank Verdejo in Islington tonight, at the Draper’s Arms, which is my favourite pub in London, I guess, or more likely isn’t, but sometimes is. Pubs in London are like Beatles songs— they all fulfil their specific function when you need them to. At the Draper’s Arms, I ate a piece of gold fish for no reason, I wasn’t hungry, but I saw someone else eat the gold fish and then I wanted it, it seemed stupid not to eat it, so I did. I shook Monica’s hand and told her I was going to move to Barcelona in January, because Monica told me to, and the last time I took Monica’s advice it turned out to be the best piece of advice anyone’s ever given me, which was to move the fuck out of the apartment I was living in with my ex-boyfriend, like, tomorrow. I did that, and that’s why my life ended up being what it became: a life I can’t deal with leaving. The life which I just shook hands on agreeing to leave.
        I was drunk and walked to Canonbury, the Overground station I used to walk to every morning, which wasn’t the morning then, it was the afternoon, because those were the hours I kept. The train came fast, and I took it to New Cross, which is not so close to where I live, but it’s close to where I work. I was happy to inconvenience myself, since I couldn’t bear the thought of making it through an entire day without getting to walk that walk.
        That walk is the number one thing that’s making me want to keep on living in London, and if Monica had never told me to move the fuck out of my old apartment I never would’ve gotten to know it. I wondered about what the Barcelona equivalent of that walk would be, and then I thought back to Toronto, about the walk from Palmerston Boulevard to Bloor Street station, and then I stopped thinking about any of it, because I was walking to New Cross to Brockley, and I was just so fucking stoked to be walking from New Cross to Brockley, drunk on Verdejo and listening to all my favourite rock & roll songs; I didn’t have to think about anything. I just was

1. Home to Work 

Walking to work doesn’t start when I start walking to work, it starts when I wake up in the morning, when I lie in my bed and take a moment to remember whether or not I got drunk the night before. If I didn’t, I’m sad for a second, because it means my phone’s probably not popping off. I look at my phone and am usually proved right. My phone is boring and I’m bored of it. But if I did get drunk the night before, I get to have my cool moment of remembering all the cool things that happened, and then check out my phone to explore all the cool ramifications of all the cool text messages I sent, and all the cool Tweets I wrote. It’s amazingly exciting for me.
        I make my coffee and my peanut butter, and I plan out my outfit, and then I put it on. Sometimes my hair looks great, but usually it looks bad. I walk out my front door, and listen to a song. The song I love the most that morning dictates what my vibe will be for the rest of the day. I start Tweeting inanely, and then I put my phone on airplane mode, so I can be rewarded for having walked to work when I arrive at work and take my phone off airplane mode and watch all the favs roll in. There are two bursts of favs every morning, one from all the London people at 9:30, and then again at 1:00, when all the Toronto and New York people wake up.
       The best song to listen to on my walk to work is My Generation by the Who It’s easy, it’s simple; it makes its point fast, and hard, and loud. It gets me hype really fast; I like to peak early, when I’m walking past the graveyard, past the KFC ad in the bus stop that I always want to Tweet is the best skinny mirror in all of London, but I never do, because it’s too niche. I don’t relate to any of the words in My Generation, I only like the parts when he stammers at the front of the sentences. Some information I know is that that sound is meant to mimic the delivery of a person high on amphetamines, who is so high on amphetamines that his or her teeth are chattering. That is very cool information to me.
        The Seeker by the Who is also a good morning song, and A Quick One by the Who can also be effective, though only when I do this thing where I bookend the first leg of my home-to-work walk and the last leg of my work-to-home walk with it, so I can think about who I was that morning when I listened to it, and then reflect on all the ways I’ve grown as a person over the course of the day.
        Mostly, the mornings are for Bob Dylan, because Bob Dylan songs always sound very fresh to me, just like the morning air. Subterranean Homesick Blues is always a safe bet, as are any of the Bob Dylan songs I designate as being “party" Bob Dylan. Blonde on Blonde’s a really “party” Bob Dylan album: Obviously Five Believers, Most Likely You’ll Go Your Way, Absolutely Sweet Marie. The one where he sings that he'd like to give Brother Bill his great thrill. The morning's when I make all my favourite “Bob Dylan inside jokes” to myself; the one I’m most amused by is when Bob Dylan sings “When you’re lost in the rain, in Juarez, and it’s Eastertime too,” and I say, “Really, Bob? And it’s Eastertime? On top of everything?”— it’s not a very funny joke.
        The past couple days, though, the Rolling Stones have been speaking to the morning. Yesterday, I got caught in a thunderstorm while wearing skin-tight trousers and a leopard-print button-up. I was wearing Beatle boots after a month of wearing flats, and I felt uneasy in them, tentative, like a baby giraffe wobbling on its twigs of legs. But then Stray Cat Blues came on, and I settled into my strut. This morning I was morose, listened to Ruby Tuesday twice and felt it but was too stupid to figure out that my today vibe was “Don’t question why she needs to be so free”/”When you change with every new day”/”Dying all the time” all along, a missed opportunity for which I have no one to blame but myself. And then I listened to She Smiled Sweetly, and walked past the gas station and thought about the time I came to Brockley to hang out with Livia last summer, on that one really hot day last summer, and it was the first day I’d ever worn my glasses and they felt foreign on my face. I walked past that Esso station and had no idea where I was, had no idea that a year later that Esso station would become as big a part of me as my glasses would too.
        She Smiled Sweetly had never sounded so beautiful; it was the colour blue, a greyish-blue that you could see through. Mick Jagger sang “And feeling good, most all of the time”— he sings the word time in a lower register than is naturally comfortable for him, and pronounces the vowel very strangely.
        I pretended that that word was the ocean, and drowned myself inside of it. In a positive way.

2. Work To Home

Either I am walking home from work or I am walking home drunk from whatever I ended up doing after work. But I'm not going to write about the drunk times, because it’s June 16th now, and on June 16th terrible things happened to the world, and it no longer feels relevant to write about the time I drunk-listened to the Who sing Cello cello cello cello cello cello cello cello etc etc etc You are forgiven you are forgiven you are forgiven you are forgiven etc and jumped up into the air and punched it when the guitars got bigger. That act was performed as a tribute to the world being a beautiful place. I feel stupid, now, for feeling like that ever.
        So I’m not drunk, I’m never drunk. I’m tired. I am acutely aware of the way the muscles inside my legs are moving. They remind me of the inside of a clock.
       All the streets look different when I’m walking from instead of to. There are certain street corners from morning and night that it took me weeks of walking to realize were the same one. In the night my feet feel damp in my shoes because water splashes on my shoes all day. I feel dirty, I need to wash myself. There is always a little container of food in my bag that I have taped up with masking tape. I’m worried that the food is going to spill inside my bag and mix up with the pre-existing mess of tobacco flakes, gum wrappers, and 75,000 quarter-full bottles of Highland Springs sparkling water. When I get home I’m going to eat the food and then exercise for twenty minutes and then it will be the actual night.
        The sound of songs sounding so good. The Rolling Stones have been speaking to the evening, too. Psychedelic Rolling Stones, mostly; that’s the vibe. Child of the Moon & Dandelion, 2000 Man, Citadel, She’s A Rainbow. I recently re-read a thing I wrote about She’s A Rainbow three years ago in which I trash-talked a thing I’d written about She’s A Rainbow four years before that. Seven years ago, I walked down College Street in the summertime and bought myself a waffle cone of one scoop raspberry and one scoop white chocolate gelato, walked down the street eating it and listening to She’s A Rainbow at the same time, and I felt like if 1967 Mick Jagger had seen me doing it, he would’ve written She’s A Rainbow about me, which bothered me. I felt demeaned by Mick Jagger, unimpressed by his having nothing better to say about the woman he loves than that that she wears clothes which are different colours and combs her hair. Three years later, I decided that I actually loved the line about the girl combing her hair. I thought it represented a very pure and true style of love: when you love somebody so hard and so much that even the dullest, simplest, most mundane things they do seem spectacular. When you’re so taken with someone that you can sit around watching them check their Weather app or scratch their elbow, and it’s the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen.
        I’ve never felt like that about a person in my life. Boring shit is boring, whether you love a person or not. Today I think the lyrics to She’s A Rainbow are fine, not really worth reading into, a series of mostly vacant sentences that do a great job of communicating a thing, which is exuberance, or joy, the zeitgeist of a time. It’s not a song about a girl, it’s a song about what songs sounded like in 1967. It sounds like being trapped inside a music box. It traps me inside myself, away from the world, and inside my head it’s always 1967. I wish it really was. I want to put a flower in a gun. 
       On the day we found out about Orlando, there was a leak at my work and we had to close down one side of the restaurant. It smelled really bad in the restaurant. Everyone was crying, I was crying. I went outside and told everybody “Fifty people died” and my boss said “I thought it was twenty” and I said “It’s fifty now.” I locked myself in the bathroom and cried hard. I wanted what happened not to have happened and felt selfish and babyish about the way in which I wanted it. I stopped crying, because you can’t cry forever. I sat on a bench with my boss’s three-year-old daughter and we watched a cartoon music video for the song B-I-N-G-O & his Bingo was his name-o together and I sang along to Bingo. The little girl put her hand in mine and it reminded me of a tooth, it was so tiny and light. I picked her up and ran around holding her and spun her around in circles. I was exploiting her, nourishing myself with her exuberant vibes.
        At the end of the day I had dirt all over my hands from cleaning out the extractor fans or whatever they’re called, and she sprayed the cleaning spray on my hands to wash them off. The cook asked me why I was letting her spray that spray on my hands, it’s bad for your skin, she said, and I said I didn’t care, because I didn’t. I hugged everyone and helped with the leak as much as I could and felt less like shit about things. It feels good to do nice things for people you care about. I thought, “Maybe this is enough, maybe I am doing enough, maybe I can’t do any more than this, maybe this— perceiving every moment of my life as an opportunity to give a gift to the world— is actually something.”
        It isn't. I don’t know how to say any eloquent or moving things about how fucked up the world is. All I can ever think to say is There’s nothing easier to do than LOVE but it comes off so naïve, which checks out, because I am naïve. I’m an idiot, like Ringo, who still always tweets about peace and love. I’m stuck inside the year 1967 in my head. I was born in 1967, and I’ll die in 1967.
        That night I walked home listening to She’s A Rainbow and it worked: just like hanging out with a three-year-old, or drinking a glass of Verdejo. Like kissing, like eating, like the summer, like the sun. Some people know how to write words that mean something real and other people know how to write words that mean something else. The entire world is crashing down in front of me, but if there is beauty to be found, I will find it.

LIZ'S THING OF THE WEEK: A Song, My Dress, Anthony's Shirt

Here are my three things of the week:


I accidentally downloaded this song very late on Saturday night - I’d gone to see Lloyd Cole at Largo, and he opened with a very sweet cover of “Sometimes It Snows In April,” and after the show I wanted to hear every jangly and heartbreaking song that was ever written. So I got myself a bunch of Posies songs, and their version of “What the World Needs Now Is Love” sneaked in there, which was a nice surprise. Then on Sunday I woke up to the news and decided to ignore whatever I’d planned on doing that day and just go to the beach. In the car I listened to “What the World Needs Now Is Love” lots of times and then I listened to it on the beach and then I listened to it on the pier. I talked to Emily Richmond on the phone and read the New York Times at Patrick’s Roadhouse, where I had a veggie omelet and a Diet Coke and toast with strawberry jam. Mostly I just felt like walking around forever, which is generally how I always feel, so when I got back to Echo Park that night I walked around more and listened to the Posies + Burt Bacharach and ate a Cherry Garcia pop. And then at home I watched the last 54 seconds of Lin-Manuel Miranda’s Best Score acceptance speech like 50 times and listened to “What the World Needs Now Is Love” once or twice more, on my earbuds in my room.

My favorite is the last minute and a half, where the song turns into a snappy little party full of flowers and fireworks and then gets all dreamy again, and then Burt Bacharach brings the house down with that last line. It's such a cool thing to be totally sappy but also unequivocally true in whatever you're saying. Let's have everything be sappy and cornball and beautifully mushy forever.


This is my new dress. I got it at Hutch, which is next to the Scoops in East Hollywood and maybe ties with Gotta Have It for my favorite vintage store in L.A. Everything’s under $30 and feels like it belonged to some groovy librarian from 1978. I had the upstairs all to myself and when I tried on my dress “Nothin in This World Can Stop Me Worryin ‘bout That Girl” came on the radio, and I knew I had to buy it: all new dresses should be about 
“Nothin in This World Can Stop Me Worryin ‘bout That Girl” in one way or another. I also got a beach bag that says “Victoria, B.C.” in beautiful grandmotherly cursive, because Wolf Parade are from British Columbia. And as I was paying the song on the radio changed to “Vincent” by Car Seat Headrest, and then later on I bought that too. Now I listen to it all the time, when I’m not listening to the Posies + Burt Bacharach or to Divine Fits’ hot cover of “You Got Lucky” by Tom Petty. My favorite "Vincent" lyric is “They got a portrait by Van Gogh on the Wikipedia page for clinical depression," which I'd bet is most people's favorite "Vincent" lyric. Whenever anyone sings intensely and dramatically about stupid things like Wikipedia, it cracks the world wide-open for me.


I love the shirt that Anthony wore for Carpool Karaoke. It’s got a flamingo and a tiger and a palm tree and says “TIME TO SUBMERGE”; it looks like it was made by a weirdo fifth-grader who’s blithely ignoring today’s art-class project in favor of working on her cool flamingo art. The new Chili Peppers album The Getaway came out last night and I’m so happy, I love my guys so much, my buddies and my brothers. One fun thing about there being a new Chili Peppers album is all the bores on the internet get to make a huge deal about how horribly the Red Hot Chili Peppers offend their incomparably refined sensibilities, and I get to scroll past their draggy bullshit and feel wildly superior in my chill joie de vivre. Another fun thing is that the Red Hot Chili Peppers are my favorite band in the world, and each new album always fortifies that joie de vivre and makes me feel like a 12-year-old goof again but also super-reflective and wistful and very chorus-to-“My Back Pages”-y. So in celebration of all that, I’m taking today as a half-holiday and going to eat an egg sandwich at a country store in the woods where they give you free cookies on your first visit. I'm going to wear my new dress and listen to The Getaway and probably "What the World Needs Now Is Love" and "Vincent" and lots of other songs that make everything feel as beautifully mushy and stupid and magic as the world truly is.