Tears. Streaming down my cheeks. Semi-hysterical laughter. Gasping for air. After reading the first paragraph of this.

Okay, maybe I over reacted. But I have been recalling this moment of laugh, laugh, gasp, laugh, cry as I negotiate the other yuk, crap things that fill the day. Remember that moment.

Hey, in nine days I'm on an airplane on the way to JFK. Yes, a Friday night arrival.

A steamy, hot, murky-skied Friday night.

I may have to start smoking when I get to New York because the roof-top garden of the loft where I'm staying screams out: SMOKE A CIGARETTE, SIP ROSÉ WINE.

What will I be doing there? There is a list. One must have a list. It includes Diplo and Santogold at SummerStage on Sunday. Nothing wrong with that. Koons is at the Met. Henry Moore is at the Botanical gardens. Tom Sachs is at Lever House. A train ride to DIA:Beacon is in order. There are several interesting group shows. There are several interesting meals.

I'm totally buying flats. Shocking. I will NOT be tromping around in four inch heels on a ninety degree, sixty percent humidity day. Sweet, slim flats for me, me, me.

Already ten days seems too few? And it begins too far from now.

Hi.
Hi.
What are your shoes doing way over there?
I don't know.
Did you put them there?
I really don't know.
Did you take them off over there?
I have no recollection, whatsoever.
Hmmm.

Uh, the hard drive of the desktop computer started making sounds that reminded me of popcorn in an aluminum pan over really high heat. This is very, very bad. This is very stressful.

That same day I reached under my bathroom sink and discovered a truly hideous, rank mess that has something to do with rotten fiberboard and a leak that has been dripping for who knows how many years.

And there has been a gut wrenching discussion with no conclusion.

All of which is to say that my lazy, hazy, fa la la days of summer vacation seem to be over.

Then again. What fun I've had the past few days.

Kaboom fireworks of the more celebratory kind, dinner with friends, a rockus pool party in the country with little kids with curly hair throwing sparklers at each other. Lots of wine and too little water. I ate skirt steak and it was so good...it had a spicy rub. And a lamb sandwhich with arugula and garlic aioli. And roasted piggy.

It's been a very meaty week.

The heat, the heat and a ruined pedicure. And a sexy dress. All will be fine, fine.

At the gym today I was  running on the treadmill (don't tell my cute blonde knee surgeon) and at about mile 2, gasp, my boobies felt a little too, uh, free-to-be. I suddenly realized that my jog bra had come unhooked. It's of the halter variety. Oh my. Near flashing. And crashing. And breaking of my neck as I tried to hook it while keeping pace. Hilarious. I laughed out loud and loud enough to hear myself through the headphones. Through Megasoid pounding away in my eardrums.

How can running three miles be bad for me when it makes me feel so good and laugh so loud? Answer me that.

Canelé is on the Planet Green channel's Alter Eco.

Witty name, right?

Corina gets asked very, uh, serious questions by a super-model about her special trash separating techniques for Tara's composting project. It's an odd sequence, but of course Corina rocked.

Later in the show a fat, red worm is extolled, a French red wine is drank, organic pillows are purchased, and a super-models bounds up stairs in Silverlake.

In other nature news, today I got stung by a bee on the knee while lounging in the living room. I don't know.

Allergies are totally effing with my rock 'n' roll lifestyle this morning.

I finally made it to the new Broad building at LACMA on Thursday. I don't understand the purpose of the architecture (so peacocky, those red beams), but I love the art.

Immersing oneself in stuff of beauty, by the way, is the perfect anecdote to the overwhelming desire to pummel the asshole who shattered the driver's side window of your car in the middle of the night.

I'm just saying.

It's the first day of summer and I got out of bed at eleven. The big kick-off. Ta da. Roar.

(And a few lazy, but maybe satisfied but maybe bored yawns.)

After being out last night I had to stay up really late watching Top Gun, which turns out to be pure GENIUS filmmaking.

Filmy making. 

Film with a make out scene. How badly does whatshername not want to be kissing Tom Cruise. Hilarious.

I made this pact with myself that I couldn't buy any books until I finished a book and wow, that is hard.

And yet so easy. Because people like to give me books. Which included a book which is both on my summer TO DO and TO READ list:  Everyday Drinking by Kingsley Amis.

And then, there is the library. That isn't really breaking the rule, is it, checking books out of the library. In fact, it is quite admirable of me.

I am soooo civic minded and bookish and sexy, smart it is ridiculous.

What I got: Beautiful Children by Charles Bock and All the Sad Literary Men by Keith Gessen. The latter of which features a character named Keith who is sad and literary. It's witty. There are some good lines.

In between lovingly reading American Visions by Hughes, I'm dipping into the witty lines about the lives of sad, smart men.

It's good timing because in Hughes' masterpiece it's 1885 (the chapters are arranged chronologically) and Thomas Eakins has just completed his own masterpiece, Swimming. Oh my.

It's so super hot full moon sticky summer right now.

It was a late night and I slept in til 10 this morning. Awesome.

It's not JUST that I've been lazy.

That's not the complete bloggy-break reason.

The network tubes/wires/no wires/stuff in the house is effed. Thank you, AirPort Extreme and Express for shaking me from my internet habit. Even my Mac Genius friend can't figure it out.

(But how boring is it to complain about technology. Or anything.)

It's summer. Any moment now I'll get serious about something. Like the shape of my eyebrows, which I am a little disappointed in.

In brighter, heart-swelling, smile-inducing news: my X-acto knife wielding hero, Tony Fitzpatrick, is featured on Artnet.

I'm feeling a little sensitive today.

My mother called me after last night's ridiculously frustrating game (her sister called me after the big win on Tuesday--that's funny) and suggested that I take a book and a glass of wine to bed to get my mind off of it.

Bubble bath and tequila. Sort of worked.

And I know I should not have admitted this and should not repeat it, but I switched over to Miami Vice in the middle of the game. I mean, they were up by 24 effing points. Liam Nesson was a bad guy in a pale blue suit. It was a hot, humid night. There was even a bedroom scene--he took his shirt off. Oh no. I will not take personal blame for the suck-i-ness of the home team.

It is totally Liam's fault.

I will never watch Love Actually again when it shows up on Lifetime Network. He wasn't even hot in that movie. Was he hot in any movie? Colin Firth was cute-ish. And that guy that doesn't get the girl was too. Even though he did that dumb Bob Dylan thing. Why do they keep putting that in movies? I first saw that movie in Arizona in a dark hotel room with a bunch of hungover chicks. That was awesome.

What am I talking about.

Eff.

Yesterday was a good day for Eero fans: the answer to 35 down and the subject of a Slate slide show.

I finished Monday's puzzle over one cup of coffee and felt very Miss Smartypants Ha-ha and then pretty much have sucked since then. Who sang "I Am the Poetry Man?" I'm almost happy I didn't know the answer to that. And yet I can hum it quiet well.

In the hub-bub of the Napa Valley Wine Auction events last weekend I went to Bruni's darling, Ubuntu wherein the bartender answered "Yes" to this question: Is the Domaine Carneros sparkling a blanc de blancs or blanc de noir? Thinking that perhaps she did not understand my question, I asked it again and she again answered "Yes." I then asked to see the bottle so I could discover the answer on my own and she ROLLED HER EYES at me. Very un-yoga like of her. And so deserving of that 5% tip I left.

Tonight's game was the opposite of last night's movie.

Lakers / Sex and the City.

I keep saying IN instead of AND.

Okay, some similarities...I was surrounded by weepers in both instances.

(And I must admit I shed a tear when Carrie got the card from Vivienne Westwood. I mean...come on. A handwritten card from V.W.??)

Actually, my favorite part about sex AND the city was the drinks and trash talk afterwords. Oh sure. That what it's all about, right.

The poor boys were so under-represented. Mis-represented. Side-view, naked shower scene represented. Hello.

It's a fresh week and I'm getting serious today, for sure. It's ten a.m. and I'm drinking coffee, thinking about my future.

But this picture is totally distracting me. Why is that lady upside down with her mouth open and eyes closed? Why?

It's hot. And my Lakers are cold. Ugh.

I have a fat lip. Tender and puffy and extra pink. 

Actually. It's kind of cute--maybe I understand why people pay money for puffy puckers.

Okay, here's some advice, don't go to a barrel tasting on an empty stomach.

I will not whine about all the wine I drank.

Oprah was there. She wore yellow. I said hello. She said how are you there, young fellow?

None of that part happened, but she did wear yellow and had gigantic hair. Huge.

I thought it was pretty cute that Thomas Keller was walking around offering people cookies from a silver tray.

I think I need to stop being on summer vacation very soon. My constitution can't take it much longer.

Or maybe not. This will continue to be the blog of my hangovers.

Lot's of fantastic, fat-lip inducing things happened yesterday, but Oh my god the worse thing also happened. At the big party another dumb lady had the exact same dress on as me. Totally avoided her even though I was assured I wore it much better. The gold-toned fishnets and tie-up heels helped my cause.

And I've got this great new cuff that is apple green lace and leather that pretty much makes everything better.

I woke up this morning (woke up? maybe?) and I was still wearing the cuff which helped take away the groans.

As the French say, I've awoken with a "hair ache." Or so the New Yorker says the French say this. I've never actually heard a Frenchie say this.

J'ai éveillé avec une douleur de cheveux.

Put another way, as the Danes say, I've got “carpenters in the forehead.”

I think maybe I drank an entire vat of wine with a nice boy named Oliver who is on vacation from New York and has a fancy convertible Z4 rental car. Which he called his mid-life crisis rental, but that doesn't make any sense because he is thirty-one.

Oh my head.

I plan on being altogether together in time for the Laker game. So don't you worry. Rally hat on my hopefully no longer aching head.

Phil Jackson had to plead for a five dollar bump in his per diem. Hee, hee.

In other exciting, victory filled news, I've confirmed my loft-sitting, pretty kitty-loving gig for July 17-27 in New York. At which time I will not have a fancy rental car to zip around kind strangers who pay my bar-tabs. 

The subway and my prettily polished feet.

And taxicabs. In which I will always, always wear my seatbelt.

Although I should refrain, restrain, I have been invited and accepted an invite to the Napa Valley Wine Auction and will brave the drive and traffic to that faraway, quaint town of St. Helena tomorrow to sip and swirl with la-ti-da's with purple stained teeth at the barrel tasting.

Actually, I'm not driving. That's part of the invite.

And I'm not wearing white. A silky black floral patterned  dress will do.

And I'm packing toothpaste in my purse. Or maybe those Go Smile sticks.

I've been to the auction a few times, but it was years ago when I was a member of The Trade (so droll). I think my traveling per diem was equivalent to Phil's back in 1984. Did I pay for my own flight from LaLa? And I stayed at friend's condo. I think he picked up my bar-tab too.

Oh my god, I feel better already. 

The weekend felt like a summer kick-off.

It was all about denial, laughter, sunshine, a bbq party, nights out, margaritas on the patio during the day, gardening in short shorts, a sunburned nose.

Totally effed my manicure and managed to give myself a blood blister on the tip of the finger that I almost cut off a couple of weeks ago. So butch.

Around town I wore strapless and strappy.

No sunblock even though I know I need to because I'm getting old. But that healthy glow...I couldn't resist. 

And I started reading a new book. Well, an old book that is new to me, Robert Hughes' American Visions: The Epic History of Art in America. I'm loving it.

Writing about folk art by unknown artists in the late 1700's he notes:

The idea of the "anonymous" folk artist is a figment of the sophisticated. One sees why as soon as one asks, "Anonymous to whom?" Things become "anonymous" when they leave home and drift into the market, because they lose their domestic history and cease to be triggers of memory...To call things "anonymous" merely because they are unsigned is implicitly to collapse the social space around them.

Yesterday at the bar, sipping Kuentz Bas, I had a funny riff with Kevin about summer reads which ended in me agreeing to read a book about the orgin of cocktails and him agreeing to read The Infomation by Martin Amis.

Smart, literary men make me swoon a bit.

My math tutor Mr. Love and I went to a party last night where people queued up to get raggedy pieces of sushi and rice wine mojitos.

Cute calculus tutors aren't just for math lessons, they are also nice to bum cigarettes off of and chit-chat about art and skateboarding.

We left early-ish and then I dropped him off at a guy friend's house before they headed off to meet some chicks for a double date. Which kind of made me feel like Mr. Love's mother.

Or hot older sister.

That's funny isn't it--cocktails with me before heading off on a double date. Yeah--the hot older sister version is a better one.

Speaking of being in your twenties, twenty-eight out of thirty is what I got on my calculus final. The prof upgraded my grade because I am such an effing math genius that I may have to go back to school and get my master's degree in science rather than art.

This is how a day in the life of a college grad goes on week one of summer vay-cay:

the usual sleep in, coffee, etc. and then
to the gym (pilates class and forty-five minutes on the elliptical, most of it with my eyes closed as I envisioned running and running and running)
shower, primp, dress (slipped on the great new casual black cotton tunic that I may wear everyday for the rest of the summer)
and then a mani/pedi (Chick Flick Cherry on the toes and pale pink on the fingers)
and then rose wine and hamachi in the afternoon
browsing around a bookstore (I need more books, right)
and then an artsy party with a smart boy 
and then a quick stop at my fave spot before heading home to watch Tivo and my Lakers KICK ASS.

Sweet.

The party raged.

Does calling myself a college graduate begin on the day of my last class, the day of the ceremony, or the day I get the certificate in the mail?

Can I just say that from now on I will always have a DJ at my house parties. Always. And DJ's named Dominick in particular.

And he must always set up in the tightest spot in the house because who doesn't like to dance in a pulsing, hot, disco-lit room'?

Effing-eff.

This new me, the me that is a college graduate, shall I

I was going to say "Tell the truth?"

But then if I'm going to gossip (tell the truth) about my own party and the people that read this bloggy are the ones at this mentioned party then maybe: "No."

Raged.

I had a conversation a couple of days later. It goes like this:

So. How do you feel?

Fine. Okay. Good. Fine.

Do you feel accomplished?

(nothing)

Feel like a smarty college grad?

No.

Do you feel like making art?

Hmm...no.

Do you feel like making stuff?

No.

What do you feel like?

The maid.

What?

Like the maid.

In a daze?

Yeah. In a daze.

Ha ha. In a daze.

Yesterday I went to Barney's because I decided that having a party to celebrate graduating from college is a fantastic reason to buy a party dress. I was going to wear this yum thing I bought last year.

But something fresh and new seems better.

More appropriate.

For my fresh and new life.

What the eff am I going to do with my life.

And besides, I wore that dress to a Bastille Day party and people at that party will be at the upcoming party and mmm...won't my dress look familiar.

I mean, it will look good...well great actually, but so familiar.

Barney's Barney's Barney's.

Well. I didn't buy a dress. But I did buy the most effing sexy fantastic CoSTUME NATIONAL shoes. Swoon worthy.

I'm going to have a naked except the hot shoes party.

Not really. Don't show up naked.

On the last day of class Jake said that he didn't like platforms and I said, Huh? And he said he just didn't like them and that you could tell a lot about a person by their shoes.

Duh.

But I was happy I wasn't wearing platforms. Though I still think he is nuts.

On Wednesday morning when I woke up at six I rearranged the bookshelves again. That is satisfying, let me tell you.

When in doubt as to what to do with the rest of your life, rearrange books.

My mother's childhood friend and lifelong member of the Bad Girls Club (they were a wily bunch) sent me a homemade card that reads:

...his whole heart blazed up
and turned towards some kind of light,
and he wanted to live and live,
to go on and on along some path,
towards the new, beckoning light,
and to hurry, hurry, right now, at once!

Could this be from my favorite book of all time? Yes. Yes it is.

She addressed me as Sacha Halona.

That e.e. book up there in the picture is not really a library book, but it is a gift from a librarian.

Did Trent steal it?

Actually I remember now that the library was getting rid of it. What is that about.

I'm very upset with Trent. He will be my friend for ever and I love him like I love no one else, but still I cannot believe he will not be attending my graduation party.

The party where I will be wearing the most rockin' shoes ever.

He said, We've got the kids...Those fucking kids man...they are messing up my lifestyle.

He really said that. But if you know Trent you know that he has the biggest potty mouth of any librarian I know.

I agreed with him. I said, Trent those kids are effing with your rock n' roll lifestyle.

But still. Dude. Get a babysitter.

I have to dash. I've got party stuff to do.

Fin.

KATN on my final presentation last night.

Lots of accolades and interest and congrats. And some stunned and scared looks too from a couple of less ambitious students. Really, the room was buzzing when I was done. I was the Tough Act to Follow presenter that the next guy hates. 

No imagining of naked people in the audience (thanks, Clos) on my part. Overall I was pretty smooth in the delivery with a few hiccups here and there. At about fifteen minutes into it I suddenly did that stupid thing where I stepped out of myself and observed.

Know what I mean?

But then I looked around the room and everyone was looking up at me with smiles or eagerly sifting through the fanciful packet I had given out, and... voila: I was back in it.

Over the past two weeks (I presented on the last day) every single person, without fail, ended with "that's it." When I got to the end I said to myself Don't say it, don't say it.

I didn't.

I did use the words dilettante and diplomat. That was fun.

And I looked good. Not a stitch of black.

So this morning, the first in what, years, that I have no school project looming--no panic in my gut about a deadline or paper or presentation or an exam--this morning I woke up at six.

 The laughter and joy inducing pleasures of the day:

Oh Pentagram, my glyph-using heroes. It's almost criminal how good they are. When I grow up and have to get a job I think I would be happy sharpening Paula Scher's pencils.

Yes. Then there is this essay about tattoo selection as a moral imperative:

(as a bonus the author, Chris Adrian, has just solved my "what to read this summer" dilemma)

And oh my god, how completely fantastic is Jason King's twelve year-old nephew's blog. I now have a crush on a literary genius tweener.

And the Sunday paper horoscope always seems to have a crush on me:

I actually ended up not wearing the hot Dolce G rip-off dress last night because, How do I write this diplomatically, it is a bit too breast friendly.

Sometimes you gotta just scale stuff back, you know what I'm saying?

Especially if you are having dinner with an old boyfriend. Dining with old boyfriends whom you want to remain as such requires restraint in dressing. Restraint in particular parts.

It was totally the right decision too because when he came over I was listening to the song quoted below and he said No way. I was just thinking about you and that song and I suddenly realized the song is about you. That song is about Sacha, I said.

So not wearing the hubba hubba ooh la, la dress was the right move. For sure.

Oh my god, what am I talking about.

At dinner Leslie asked me why I wasn't wearing the dress and I did not really tell the whole truth. Because it is also a good idea to not talk about how awesome certain aspects of your anatomy look in the company of old boyfriends.

So many rules.

She was wearing this super cute dress from Forever 21 that reminded me of the uniforms of the Hot Dog on a Stick places. Or what's the place that serves those funny orange drinks? The dress was kind of like that. Les is gorgeous though, so she can wear a plastic bag and look fab.

I wore my red TopShop dress. Blazing.

Leslie ripped a Dolce and Gabbana ad out of Vogue and sent it to her sister and a week later a totally awesome dress showed up in the mail. So maybe having siblings has its perks.

Les says to me, So my sister made me this dress and I think you should wear it to your party.

And this would be the appropriate time to point out that Leslie is a five foot two dancer/pilates instructor. Me, I'm a five foot nine excellent dancer and pilates class taker.

She insisted I should try it on. And sure enough, it rocks.

Yes, very ooh la, la and makes me think of that first song on the Darjeeling Limited soundtrack (which is in constant rotation) by Peter Sarstedt:

You talk like Marlene Dietrich
And you dance like Zizi Jeanmaire
Your clothes are all made by Balmain
And there's diamonds and pearls in your hair

You live in a fancy apartment
Of the Boulevard of St. Michel
Where you keep your Rolling Stones records
And a friend of Sacha Distel

You go to the embassy parties
Where you talk in Russian and Greek
And the young men who move in your circle
They hang on every word you speak, yes I do...

But where do you go to my lovely
When you're alone in your bed
Tell me the thoughts that surround you
I want to look inside your head, yes I do...

I've seen all your qualifications
You got from the Sorbonne
And the painting you stole from Picasso
Your loveliness goes on and on, yes it does

When you go on your summer vacation
You go to Juan-les-Pines
With your carefully designed topless swimsuit
You get an even suntan, on your back and on your legs
When the snow falls you're found in St. Moritz
With the others of the jet-set
And you sip your Napoleon Brandy
But you never get your lips wet

But where do you go to my lovely
When you're alone in your bed
(Won't you) Tell me the thoughts that surround you
I want to look inside your head, yes I do

You're in-between twenty an thirty -
A very desirable age
Your body's firm and inviting
But you live on a glittering state

Your name is heard in high places
You know the Aga Khan
He sent you a racehorse for Christmas
And you keep it just for fun, for a laugh ahaha

They say that when you get married
It'll be to a millionaire
But they don't realize where you came from
And I wonder if they really care, they give a damn

Where do you go to my lovely
When you're alone in your bed
Tell me the thoughts that surround you
I want to look inside your head

etc.

The dress has a brown bikini-like top that ties at the neck and dips low in the back with a long, flowing skirt. Brown and orange paisley.  I think it must be about eight inches too long for her.

Breasts are an issue too, but I'm not sure how to diplomatically write about that.

She's letting me keep it for a bit. I'm wearing it to dinner tonight. Before she cuts the bottom off of it and buys a good strapless bra.

This is the smoking guy who hooked me up with other smoking guy who helped me pass me calculus final today.

Did you hear me?

I passed my calculus final.

Hooray for me and for my smart-at-math boy-friend friend-of-a-friend.

Today I shed some tears over the death of Robert Rauschenberg. 

As Nora texted me, Let's raise a glass.

What an inspiration. He has been my favorite living artist for as long as I can remember thinking about art.

(And, by contrast, does only skimming over the seemingly daily headlines about victims of natural disasters make me a complete ass?)

I'm anxious. I'm not sleeping well. But I'm also humming nice, pop-y songs when I wake up. (MGMT is my new Vampire Weekend.) And everyday there are lots of fresh visuals. And grins. And sometimes tears. I'm nervous and maybe I have been biting my lower lip. Not enough food and too much coffee. Six is the number of days left to the term. Just don't ask me what I'm going to do next. Or you are totally dis-invited from my graduation party. To which I am going to wear a super-fabulous dress.

For being math, there sure are a lot of words involved in those problems I'm suppose to solve.

I can do it, I can do it, I can do it.

Thursday. 3:30.

The calculator is cool. My tutor is a genius with a perfect name. I like pencils with nubby erasers. Some problems are just like crosswords with numbers. Linearly is funny-hard to say. Those are positive thoughts, right?

Hours and hours and hours of preparation.

Other super positive, calculus-solving thoughts welcomed. Telepathically. Or. Sitting in the classroom with me. Guiding my hand. Kind of way.

Goldenfiddle is effing hilarious.

And Tony Fitzpatrick is effing awesome.