Thing of the Year: The Time LJ Went To Liverpool; Clothes Clothes Clothes, Music Music Music, Boys Boys Boys; John Waters Etc.

LJ'S THING OF THE YEAR: The Time I Went To Liverpool & Listened to "I'm Set Free" by the Velvet Underground While Sitting by the Mersey River

I went to Liverpool on the first day of September. I had recently broken up with my boyfriend. I was all by myself.

        Mark and I got back together a few days after I came home to London, and I believe that on some level the Universe catalyzed our brief breakup so that I could experience Liverpool to its fullest. I swear to God Liverpool is the greatest place in the world to be sad.

        I boarded a Virgin train at Euston Station in London. I sat next to a Japanese girl who had packed her own Bento box meal featuring three scoops of rice sculpted into a bear’s head and two ears. Several hours passed, and I read several tabloids. Eventually, the train pulled into Lime Street Station, John Lennon sang “And she never walks down Lime Street anymore” about a girl called Maggie Mae inside my head, and I started to cry. For me, Liverpool is Mecca. "This is where they're from!" I thought to myself, "This is where my heroes are from." I didn't have to think anything else except that. It did the trick.

        Outside of the station I caught a cab to my airbnb and the cabbie asked me where I was from. I said Toronto but that I live in London and he snorted at the thought of London and said "Welcome to civilization," which was inaccurate but cute.

        The street my airbnb was on looked like it was from a British children's TV show and made out of claymation. The houses looked like they felt sorry for themselves, like they were apologizing for looking a little on the derelict side of things but I did not mind it one bit. I knocked on the door to my airbnb and my host let me in. She had a little dog named Jody or Jolly or Julian or Christopher or something equally awkward. The dog looked like a runty Jack Russell terrier but with very sparse white fur exposing its cow-print skin. I told it it was a Tootsie Roll Pop.

My airbnb host had recently written a children's book about the benefits of a plant-based diet. She gave me a postcard advertising the book and I acted like it was a pretty great gift. When I first emailed her as a prospective airbnb guest I'd mentioned that I was coming to Liverpool to do research for a Beatles-themed novel, and now, today, she was very inquisitive about my Beatles-themed novel. But I was very shy to talk about it and ended up answering almost every question she asked with "I don't really know" and I think it seemed like I was lying about writing a novel. Finally I told her "My boyfriend and I broke up two days ago" so that she would understand that I was in an emotionally weird place and hopefully leave me alone. I forget if she did or not.

        I left her house and took a bus to the city centre, which had been redone since the last time I was in Liverpool, in 2007. Liverpool was voted the Cultural Capital of Europe and got a bunch of funding from the EU or whatever and then spent it all on building a new Topshop and Urban Outfitters and Apple store and New Look and… one of every store, really. All the stores.

        All the buildings were sleek and glass and blueish. The stores made me feel like I wasn't good enough and would never be until I spent all my money on new clothes, I walked into a Topshop and out of a Topshop, wandered out of the city centre and walked past a pub that I poked my head into and rejected on the grounds of my worrying that I might feel like a fish out of water there. All of the patrons looked like characters on the TV show Coronation Street, which I’ve never seen, so that statement might not be true. I walked out of the bar and a man outside smoking said “Why don’t you go on in? It’s a good place! It’s a good one!” and I said “I don’t know” nervously and he said, “Nah!” and brushed his hand against the sky to brush my nervousness away. He said “Go on in!” and gestured toward the door of the bar as if to say: “Ladies and Gentlemen, may I present to you… the door of this fabulous bar!” and I walked through the door of the fabulous bar. The floor of the bar was carpeted in burgundy paisley and smelled like a thousand peoples’ lives. I drank a couple syrupy glasses of Blue Nun. The buzzy noise at the end of the Beatles song “Long, Long, Long” is a vibrating bottle of Blue Nun on top of a piano. I wished I’d never quit smoking. 

I ate Chinese food buffet for dinner and walked over to the Cavern Club. The Cavern Club the Beatles used to play in, the real Cavern Club, burned down, but then they rebuilt it: “brick for brick,” they like to say. I walked down the spiral staircase and I wished somebody was with me but I couldn’t choose who. I bought myself a glass of white wine, and the bartender asked me if I’d like Chardonnay or Sauvignon. The way he pronounced Sauvignon was extremely far away from the way I’d pronounce Sauvignon and I didn’t understand what he meant so I picked Chardonnay. It came in a mini-bottle. It was the one with the kangaroo on it.

        I sat at a little table and watched a John Lennon impersonator sing a John Lennon song. He was dressed up as Rain-era John Lennon, with big sheepy sideburns and a silky psychedelic-print button-up, which I thought to be a very “refreshing” look for a John Lennon impersonator. John finished singing, and was replaced by Paul. The Paul impersonator was better than the John impersonator. His voice sounded so much like the real Paul’s voice. He was pudgy, and wore a nubby pilly sweater. I wanted to hug him and burrow my head into the nubs and pills of his sweater which I imagined would smell like smoke and dust and laundry. I wished I was the type of free-spirited person who'd go up to him after he finished his set so I could charm him with my charm and he’d buy me a couple of pints and take me home and the next morning I would wake up in his bed and think “Oh my God, I slept with a Paul McCartney impersonator last night” and then I’d get to tell all my buddies the hilarious story of the time I went to Liverpool and ended up boning a Paul McCartney impersonator. But in real life I cringed at the thought of waking up tomorrow morning swathed in the Paul McCartney impersonator’s scratchy stinky bedsheets next to the reality of the Paul McCartney impersonator, who is more than just a Paul McCartney impersonator. He is a real man. He is not Paul McCartney. 

        I slunk out of the Cavern Club and did not hug a bronze statue of John Lennon, because some Scandinavian people were busy taking selfies with it. I went home and slept and woke up the next morning and decided that I was going to treat myself to a really excellent meal at what I can only imagine must be the best restaurant in all of Liverpool: Jamie’s Italian. Ha ha ha. I ate a beast of a mushroom-stuffed hunk of Porchetta that looked like a Swiss roll. It was like 10:45 in the morning. I'm nuts. I was depressed out of my mind and then it became time for me to have my usual “being in Liverpool” revelation of realizing that the Beatles are from a way crappier place than I am and that the Beatles are even more impressive than you thought they were because they transcended it. I wasn’t thinking that hard about it. Mostly I was thinking about how terribly I wanted to smoke a cigarette. I drank an espresso. It tasted like Porchetta.

I left the restaurant and walked down to the river. I was carrying my stupid rolly suitcase. The pathway was made of cobblestone and disrupted my stupid rolly suitcase’s intended smooth trajectory. I had a metallic taste in my mouth and I did not want to drink a drink. I played the game where I ask myself “If you could do anything in the entire world right now, what would it be?” and then once I figure it out, I do my best to replicate it while bearing the limitation of my present surroundings in mind. Here is what I did:

        I asked a teenage punk girl if I could trade her a pound for a cigarette and she just gave me the cigarette. I sat on my rolly suitcase and gazed out across the Mersey River, past a long and skinny houseboat George Harrisonily named the Om Shanti. The boat reminded me of a weiner dog. I listened to the sad and beautiful Velvet Underground song I’m Set Free and smoked my cigarette and cried. I got high off my cigarette. I tried to hype myself up by imagining my hero John Lennon sitting and smoking right in that exact same spot feeling just as sad as I did but it didn’t really take. The moment crazily didn’t have a whole lot to do with the Beatles and I wasn’t going to be a lame-o and try and force it. Who cares?

        I didn’t; the Beatles don’t. It was mostly the water that made it. 2014 was the shittest bad vibes year ever and I want my Thing of the Year to honor that. I’m Set Free by the Mersey River was the moment this year's trademark shitty energy was at its most resplendent and most profound. Like I said: Liverpool is the greatest place in the world to be sad.

LIZ'S THING OF THE YEAR: Clothes Clothes Clothes, Music Music Music, Boys Boys Boys

Last night I got home from Christmas and L.A. was pouring rain, which was fine, because I knew it would stop overnight and today would be smogless and perfect. I unpacked and called Mae Ploy and ordered a thing of Jungle Curry and then there was a knock at the door. A guy was standing on our porch, in the rain, in the dark, and when I opened the door he handed me a copy of a book named Clothes, Clothes, Clothes. Music, Music, Music. Boys, Boys. Boys. It's a memoir by Viv Albertine from The Slits and I'm already up to page 141, because it's fantastic. So far my favorite part is when Viv meets Mick Jones at art school and punctuates the story of their meeting with a photo of 17-year-old Mick:

I can't remember if I forgot that Viv Albertine and Mick Jones went out, or if I never knew in the first place. But either way it's serendipitous that Clothes, Clothes, Clothes. Music, Music, Music. Boys, Boys. Boys showed up last night, 'cause on the plane yesterday I was thinking about what I was going to write for Thing of the Year, and I knew I wanted to talk about Mick Jones and how he was my favorite person in 2014. One of the things I love most about The Clash is that they help me transcend the part of myself that likes to be a complain-y baby-jerk about a lot of things - but in a way that makes me feel protected, like a really great big brother might. Mick Jones is my favorite person in The Clash because I relate to his being both goofy and industrious and one of those people who smiles all the time. I also like when he gets shit-talked for being a prima donna and a stoner, I think that's a cool dynamic. But more than anything I feel very connected to this 14-second-long video where he says how he's not punk but he does have a bad attitude, and then laughs his cute laugh at the end:

Where I am right now in Clothes, Clothes, Clothes. Music, Music, Music. Boys, Boys. Boys, Viv's hanging out with Sid Vicious all the time and seems to have forgotten about Mick, but so far he's completely surpassed all my expectations of wonderfulness. There's a chapter where Viv decides she wants to start playing guitar, and she's all nervous about telling Mick, she's scared that he might tease her about it. But Mick's so into it! He's so psyched to have a guitarist for a girlfriend! They go to a guitar shop and Mick helps her find a guitar and she buys a Les Paul with her inheritance from her grandmother and then starts a band, with Sid Vicious on saxophone. It's all very sweet and exciting; Mick Jones is so earnest and such a romantic. Here's another amazing picture with him in it:

Apart from Mick Jones, my other thing of 2014 is the San Fernando Valley, which I fell in love with this year. The most important thing I do every day is work on my book, and since the Valley became my favorite place in Los Angeles, my book makes so much more sense. Everyone in it got less good-looking, for one thing, which is important to me. A lot of the Valley feels like it's stuck in 1982 and it's seedy and sleazy but there's an innocence to it too, and something about the overall vibe of crushed hope mixed with interminable starry-eyed-ness is really inspiring. And I don't believe in the shirt Diane Lane's wearing here, but I still totally want it:

And I made a Spotify playlist thing that's meant to encapsulate my 2014 - it's here, this is the tracklist:

1. "Valentine" by The Replacements

2. "Grateful" by Blake Babies

3. "Hateful" by The Clash

4. "How Can You Really" by Foxygen

5. "Are You Looking After Yourself?" by Courtney Barnett

6. "Aloha & the Three Johns" by Jenny Lewis

7. "You Ain't Going Nowhere" by The Byrds

8. "Country Queen" by Night Moves

9. "Crabtown" by Throwing Muses

10. "Heather Angel" by Sonic Youth

11. "Wild America" by Iggy Pop

12. "Xtatic Truth" by Crystal Fighters

13. "Red Eyes" by War on Drugs

14. "War Paint" by Ex Hex

15. "Ride" by Lana Del Rey

16. "You've Really Got a Hold on Me/Bring it on Home to Me" by The Zombies

My last Thing of 2014 was this thing Mary Timony said when Ex Hex was on WFMU in November. She was really tired and the DJ acknowledged her tiredness and Mary said something like "I feel like I've been in a war, like a rock & roll war." My point about that is I want to be a soldier for Mary Timony.

JEN'S THING OF THE YEAR: John Waters etc.

1.  Finding out that tumeric is actually spelled tuRmeric. This was major. I’m still having a hard time coping with it.

2. Seeing John Waters a million (3) times. Taking a picture with him at a book event. I wore my Comme Des Garcons fashion witch dress. I thought maybe we’d talk fashion but I froze. I couldn’t say anything besides my name and thank you. I tripped over chairs walking away form him.  Two more John Waters things:

3. His book came out.

4. The Lincoln Center Film Society complete retrospective of his work. I SAW EAT YOUR MAKE UP AND HAG IN A BLACK LEATHER JACKET!!

5. I went to Iceland and found out about Gryla and the Yule Lads. I also saw majestic landscapes.

6. Spaghetti squash was my favorite squash of 2014.

7. The return of The Best Show. Tuesdays from 9pm -12am ET at thebestshow.net. Get with it, everyone!

8. My doctor I love.

9. I went to a lavender field on Long Island, then a rosé winery, then bought North Fork potato chips at the farm I get all my vegetables from and ate the chips while looking at sheep.

10. David Lynch was in conversation at BAM. I went. I was waiting for him to psychically sense my presence in the audience and ask me to meditate and drink coffee with him but he didn’t.

11. Cool inspiring projects with cool and inspiring people.

12. Christine McVie is back in the Mac.

13. Edgewise this great book on Cookie Mueller was published.

14. Charlotte and I started reading about Ayurveda together. It’s called Ayurveda Night.

15. Because of Ayurveda Night I drink water out of a copper cup in the morning.

16. Weed Hounds album was released!!!!!

17. Steve Buscemi’s look in Parting Glances:

18. Other things probably.

All The Songs We Loved In November

WORDS BY ELIZABETH BARKER & LAURA JANE FAULDS, ILLUSTRATION BY JEN MAY

The Cranberries, “Dreams” (LJ)

A girl I know from home wrote Songs you will never ever get sick of even though you’ve heard them thousands of times and will probably hear them thousands more on her Facebook wall as a way of asking all her friends “Which are yours?” It was late and I was drunk and I started writing down the names of a bunch of different songs into the pale Internet-blue box but when I got to and dreams by the cranberries to be honest Mark asked me to be quiet. He was not being an oppressor by asking me that. It was late, he had to wake up early, and I’m a very loud typer.

        Dreams by the Cranberries isn’t cool, I know that, but it doesn’t sound uncool to me— I’m just saying it’s uncool because I know that it is. It just is. I don’t hear it and think “This is really cool,” mostly I hear it as sounding delicate and spidery and ephemeral the same way a piece of white tulle would be ephemeral. It sounds like the life journey of a piece of white tulle, or lavender-grey, or cream, or rose gold tulle that started existing as part of a ballet costume at the end of the 19th Century in either Austria or Germany but has by 2014 faded away entirely. Not decomposed but what’s the other word? I want to say evaporated, since I am thinking of something so light. But the word I am looking for is disintegrate.

        I’ve loved it since I was nine. It was on the Boys On The Side soundtrack, and I would rewind the cassette tape so we could listen to it over and over again. I was in my mother’s car. There were pool noodles in the back of the car.

        I Tweeted about Dreams once. It was the winter I lived at my Dad’s apartment and worked overnight shifts at the Gap and my knuckles were always chapped and my lips were always bleeding. I worked out at a little gym across the street that still sends me pleading emails asking me to come work out at it again. I know I could and probably should unsubscribe from the gym’s email list but my time is really precious to me and I feel like it’s more the gym’s responsibility to notice that I’m a lost cause and deal with it than mine. One probably depressing afternoon I worked out to Dreams over and over again and then came home and Tweeted about how when I work out to Dreams by the Cranberries I feel like I’m wearing a t-shirt that says I’M WORKING OUT TO DREAMS BY THE CRANBERRIES across the front, because I was younger and cared more about whether things were or cool or not, it embarrassed me to be listening to such an uncool song, but that was the tail end of me caring about whether a song or something was or wasn’t cool, that’s how old you are when that impulse evaporates and decomposes, twenty-five I would say— and a girl I knew replied to that Tweet, I don’t remember what she said, but she’s dead now. She died a few weeks ago.

        Home is so weird now that I don’t live there. It snowed there, and then they had a warm day, and I don’t know if any of my friends are happy or sad, and everyone is dying. No young person died the entire time I lived there, and then I moved away, and everyone started dying. My dentist died.

        I really liked my dentist. Once my dad and I went to the liquor store and my dentist was outside the liquor store smoking and it turned out the liquor store was closed so my dad and I walked to a different liquor store and then we ran into him again, and we joked about it, how we all wanted to get drunk bad enough to go to a second liquor store rather than just give up and not drink. Another time, he said to my dad, “I get you, you’re like my dad, you’re a laid-back dude.” He was my dad’s dentist too.

         I listened to Dreams by the Cranberries the next day, not the day after my dad and I ran into my dead dentist at the liquor store (though maybe that day too), but the day after my boyfriend asked me to stop typing loudly at three in the morning. I was walking to the Drapers Arms to go meet Vanya; the Draper in Drapers Arms refers to the old-timey profession of a retailer or wholesaler of cloth but I like to imagine that it is Don. Don Draper’s Arms. I took a detour to holler at 157 Hemingford Road along the way— that’s where the main character of my novel lives. There was a little pale aqua Volkswagen Beetle parked out front that I’d never seen parked out front of it before, which was a nice touch. The little pale aqua Volkswagen Beetle is parked out front of 157 Hemingford Road on Google Street View, too, in case you need to see it to believe it, or just want to.

        I was wearing a chartreuse turtleneck. The lady from the Cranberries breathe-sang about her life changing every day in every possible way and I wanted to cry but didn’t, since I wasn’t actually sad. I was significantly less sad than usual. I felt very conscious of, and very grateful for, gravity. For my feet being planted firmly on the ground. I felt very earthy and solid; I was a Taurus for a second. A few days later I was thinking about my parents on the bus, about how weirdly well your parents know you— you forget it about them. My parentes knew me when I was a baby and then they watched me turn into a child and then a teenager and then a grown-up, nobody else really did that, observed the narrative of my life from the vantage point of already being an adult--

        I have some friends who I’ve known for a long time and they’ve also seen the whole thing unfold, but they were just little kids and little teens the whole time too. They wouldn’t have been able to put it into a proper context, wouldn’t have been able to decipher the relationship between the way I was growing and the way I was aging. I guess I feel like Dreams can see me the same way. It knew me when I was nine and pool noodles were an object I interacted with, when I was fourteen and pretended to like anime because… I don’t know. I don’t know why I ever did that, when I was twenty-five and worked out at a shitty gym, when I was twenty-nine and looked at a house on Hemingford Road I didn’t live in but still could remember living in it because I am a fiction writer and my weird brain works like that. And that was a beautiful feeling, nothing at all like a piece of flimsy fabric decaying. I felt like I was my own little planet. The world around me was the flimsy thing.

Kurt Vile, "Puppet to the Man" (Liz)

A few Fridays ago I got to go to a special screening of a movie called Cake, starring Jennifer Aniston. Jennifer Aniston was there and she did a Q&A afterward; she was very fluttery and Rachel Green-y and stunning in her smart pink dress, which you can see in this mediocre photo of mine. After the screening there was a Kurt Vile show at a church in Koreatown and I really wasn't in the mood: I wanted to bask in Jennifer Aniston's pink-and-golden movie-star glow a little while longer and then go home, but in the end I sucked it up and drove over to the goddamn show. The thing about seeing Kurt Vile, I remembered, is that as long as you can find a place to sit or a wall to lean against, you can just zone out and be off in your own world, but in a way that's enhanced by Kurt Vile's cool draggy voice and spacey vibes. It's restorative, like communal naptime, only with pretty guitars and no post-nap hangover.

        Anyway, Alisa and I drove to the show separately and I got there first, so I went to the upstairs bar and paid ten bucks for a glass of bad white wine. The opening band wasn't my thing so instead of watching them I went to a nice little room outside of the women's bathroom and charged my phone. There was a vanity there and I touched up my eyeliner and lipstick and drank my wine and responded to some texts and Instagram interactions, and by the time Kurt Vile came on I was all refreshed and ready to go. I felt entirely accommodated by my surroundings, and I decided that's going to be thing for 2015 and beyond: total accommodation at all times, no matter how unfavorable and potentially irritating the circumstances. All you need is some imagination and willingness to look like a weirdo, and fortunately I've got both those things in spades.

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

WORDS BY ELIZABETH BARKER & LAURA JANE FAULDS, ILLUSTRATION BY JEN MAY

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.

1st COURSE: FRENCH ONION SOUP

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

BY LIZ

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: