It's the same picture I (almost always) take.

As far as I'm concerned flip flops are for post-pedi's and poolside. Period.

Unless of course one decides to walk six miles in the heat and humidity in new shoes (in this city, this city, this city that just makes you want to walk and walk and keep walking...and shoe shopping).

In such circumstances flip flops are, well, essential footwear. 

And how funny, perfect, ridiculous is it that last night in my feeling-no-pain state (maybe should have skipped that Tanquery at Blue Ribbon in the wee hours) I actually got a blister on a blister. Damn.

Foam debris, fake graffiti on toppled newspaper stands, chunks of pavement made of plaster, humorous looking lighting balloons, and cables, cables, cables. Stumbled across a movie set. Nicholas Cage is involved.

Last night's heavy rain took care of one of my loft-sitting duties: watering the plants.

But hooray, no rain this morning. I'm still going to wear those cute boots I bought yesterday though. Oh, but which pair? The black or the tan?

Pete was right, he said:" Forget about over-packing. Just bring an empty suitcase and head out to 5th Avenue."

Didn't really do that, but I did bring two under-packed bags. And headed out to Loehman's and DSW. (I have refined taste, but I'm totally a bargin shopper.)

The bag cannot weigh more than 70 pounds. Or it costs $100 more.

Got that?

But.

But how the eff am I suppose to pack 11 pairs of shoes and all those cute dresses and my favorite jeans and what-not (my god... the products) and then guess-ti-mate how much it weighs and then cross my fingers and hope it's a mere 69.96 pounds when I get to the airport tomorrow morning.

Fifteen plus one hundred bucks to check a suitcase will make me feel like a complete asshole. This will motivate a pare down of the big pile that is accumulating on the floor.

Or.

Or maybe I'll pack two bags? Maybe that's the solution. More shoes, more purses, more everything.

No.

Aliza stood next to a bright photomontage wall. All day. Because it matched her sweater.

I stood next to pretty shaped objects. All day. Because they matched my shoes.

"If there’s any solace to the Carradine story, it’s that hopefully less people will be tempted to stop chasing the “mort” and keep it slightly more “la petite”—because you can spend a lifetime building a legacy to be proud of, but it only takes one jerk-off session gone horribly wrong to enshrine you in the Hall Of Fatal Perversions forever. A sobering lesson, and one that others would do well to listen to; if only Oprah would devote a show to it, perhaps millions more would be saved." (AV Club )

 Marilyn Minter's Green Pink Caviar :

Reminds me of that passion fruit Romeo gave us at the Farmer's Market:

The colors are the opposite of what you think. Green when ripe, red rimmed orange when not.

Luscious.

Lake Show in five. Anxious, but it's sure to be sweet. Right?
Right.

The clothes at Dosa are hung in the same manner in which my books were once shelved. A deliberate, precious rainbow.

Bring on the chaos of mismatching.

Or maybe checkboarding. Or big blocks of contrast instead of this gentle, shy melt from one like color to the next.

The trend is beginning to look trite.

Picking it up?

Of course. What I mean to say is: I miss my books.

It's jarring, not having them around. When in doubt, all I had to do was flip through Cotton Puffs, Q-tips ®, Smoke and Mirrors and suddenly I'm inspired and the world is ready to be _______ with.

(A small stack has accumulated on my tiny bookshelf in the sweet cottage over the last two months: Already Dead by Denis Johnson (reading it, imaging P.T. Anderson directing it) The Paperboy by Pete Dexter, Black Swan Green by David Mitchell, Polysylballic Spree by Nick Hornby, a ripped up gay porn zine written in Spanish (but some words are universal), an Italian cookbook, and a very dirty Mexican comic book in full, lurid color (oh, I get it: that's not a rat tail, it's anal beads).)

ARTFORUM's are beginning to pile up. This helps.

A slow flip of pages through Larry Johnson images and suddenly a mundane picture of Savita's feet is transformed into a musing of personal ads.

Of course.

What I mean to say is: I miss making things.

Are you the type of person who finds the significant gap between the personal ad and its clichés both turns you on and bums you out, is hilarious as well as heartbreaking?

It's their hands and feet I can't stop looking at.

Intimate, taking the same form, as though in an embrace. The matching slouch of their hips; casual and open. It's tender somehow. Studded belt, cut-off Dickies, the bad tattoos-- but still he looks vulnerable, touching his own side, his friend's arm outstretched.

You never know what happens between people in a relationship. Even if it's your relationship.

Or I am I just being sensitive.

It's the fall-out. It's hard to take when I think of it too long and suddenly everything looks sad and misunderstood.

The bloggy has gone the way of Facebook .

Because it's so much easier. And people write nice comments about my legs and my new oh-so-cute cottage.

(And some not so nice things about The Lake-Show, but what do they know. Lakers in five, suckers.)

Tomorrow I'm being filmed at my fake mansion at a fake dinner party with my very real friends for an almost real tv show. So Hollywood.

This means that today I'm doing sit-ups and push-ups and a mani/pedi and practicing that new eyeliner technique I just learned. The plum pencil makes my green eyes greener.

Yes, I'll be ready for my close-up.

Today's hot, hot walk around the reservoir included passing a few peeps in funny conversation.

A twenty-something chick strolling along in a turquoise bikini top and short shorts was speaking loudly to a shirtless, heavily tattooed cute guy:

"If they have something about me--if they're hatin' on me, it's just because they hate themselves. You know what I mean? That's all it is. They have self-hatred. And they should just stop it. And then everyone would love me."

A fancy sunglasses guy slowed down in a zippy car when he saw a friend walking, shouted out "hello" and:

"I can't believe that I haven't sweated down to a Speedo body in this heat. It's Speedo season."

Well, it seemed funny at the time. As I was hoofing it on the dusty path. Sweaty. 

Go Lakers.

Let's Go Crazy: Sasha is killing me on his New Yorker blog.

Savita has pretty, designy things on her's.

Oh my god, Canelé is so totally on Facebook. Don't just eat there,  become a fan already.

Kickin' it in the van on a road trip in Texas . Ha ha ha ha ha. (Who's that handsome driver with the fancy neckwear?)

And speaking of road trips, a nice cruise to Lompoc, anyone? Cold Heaven is having a special tasting this weekend. Skip Coachella; drink viognier in the countryside instead.

See you at The Hitching Post Saturday night. Mmmmm...meat.

The cottage really feels like home now: I just broke my first wine glass.

A Riedel glass no less. And I only had one sip.

But don't cry over spilled wine, silly thing...just pour more. That's what Trader Joe's is for. Err, I mean Silverlake Wine.

And speaking of wine-y things, we checked out City Sip, a sweet little spot in Echo Park.

Design, well, not their strong suit, but a really lovely list of somewhat unusual wines at reasonable prices with tasty bits of cheese, charcuterie, etc. to pair your sips with. Or gulps.

The LATimes had a nice write up about City Sip a few weeks ago, which featured a cute pic of Ashley, the ever-friendly waitress at Canelé. (She totally has a crush on Ilan Hall. Who is totally crushable.)

And after a few of my own sips, I'm dreaming of the wine bar I would open. Where design would be a strong suit.

Oh, the posturing.

(And the posing. What exactly does the couple's pose indicate about their new nuptials. May we make some predictions about their future. He's casual, she dominates. Or he holds her up. Or they're bored already. )

It was March wedding bliss at the SLS Hotel and it's weird, I went back to Bazaar a few nights ago and those lampshades were still crooked. Hello, housekeeping?

Um, I think "passive aggressive" is the new "ironic." No one knows what the eff it really means or how to use it correctly. So. Don't use it. 

(Or like Corina said to the cute hungover party boy who asked me to move my car because he couldn't maneuver out of his space: "Don't park on The Hill if you don't have the skill.")

But what I really mean to say is: What a lovely, lazy, easy, breezy Sunday this is. Happy, happy.

The garden is the new living room and it's the best one I've ever had. (Garden blogging is the new cramped office blogging.)

Ten days in my new sweet cottage and life is exactly that: sweet.

The pool glistens, the breeze wafts, and my god: landlords that serve you margaritas on warm, lazy Sunday afternoons by the pool are, well, just the best effing landlords ever. 

And to answer the question that keeps getting asked: Yes, I get naked at the pool. Of course I do.

Hello, Los Angeles. I am (once again) yours.

The pod-man picked up my stuff this morning.

Lot's of good loud rrrrrrr and whirrrrrrrr noises and hyrdraulics and wow, how do they do that and I'm like a four year-old boy totally wide-eyed watching and smiling and jumping up and down a bit.

So cool. Is it too late to make a career change? Pod-woman.

Hmm. And their uniforms are totally hipster cool before that phrase even existed.

Okay, well actually, the pod-man didn't pick up my stuff, the podzilla did all the heavy lifting:

There goes my pod. Bye, bye. Good luck. Have fun. It's off to join other happy pods in Compton. It'll be a pod party.

Hello Friday and the sky is beautiful blue, blue. Not me though. I'm some kind of soft and fuzzy warm pastel shade of happiness.

And my eyes are green and smiling.

And my eyelashes are pale brown. But I wish they were blackish. Was my favorite mascara on Oprah or something? Can't find it. Anywhere. So weird.

And the PODS I ordered is white and huge and sitting in the driveway; all empty and longing. Fill me, fill me. 

Fulfill me.

Leighlan calls this time in my life "full frontal tumult," but this morning I've decided that I'm going for my St. Elmo's Fire moment.

You know: when the blonde chick moves into an apartment, wakes up in the middle of the night and makes herself the best peanut butter and jelly sandwhich shes ever had in her life. Because it's her place and her peanut butter.

That's what I'm tasting.

True, I woke up with at 5:30 with a completely different movie and scene in mind.

You know: Jeff Daniels in 2 Days in the Valley with a chainsaw, cutting furniture in half. That must taste pretty good too.

But a pot of coffee later and looking around and knowing that I'm a week away from my own place.

I'm tasting the most delicious pb&j ever.

Today is:

too early to rise, gorgeous sunny skies, dirty fingernails, sad phone calls, stacks and piles of pots and plates and platters and candlestick holders, packing tape, music, exhilaration, tears, dry sherry, nap. 

Drinking red wine at four in the afternoon is completely acceptable if one has been up since five. And it facilitates naps. Or next to naps.

 My Oscar sum-up? He blogs it best. 

Yeah, all that-- only I didn't see Wall-E even though you told me it made you cry. Or maybe that is the reason I didn't see it.

Yeah, all that-- and a few catty texties which involved:

• Reese Witherspoon's plastic bra straps and f-a-t and poor J-a-k-e
• the blond bonnet that Kate wore on her head--spring is hat season
  
• that guy just quoted STYK???
• did they keep her locked up in a dark closet her entire life? get Anne a spray tan
• SPJ suddenly has boobies and is wearing a gigantic skirt that is seven feet wide which makes Daniel have to stand far away stutter through his lines maybe because he is prettier and elegantier than her

Yeah. That's right. Boxes are sealed, the recycling bin is full, Salvation Army either loves or hates me.

My office/studio is packed (almost) and there's only the rest of the whole effing house to go. But really, this may have been the hardest room. It use to look like this:

Moving day is less or more than a month away, depending on when I decide to transition.

Sooner than later, I think. Lots of motivation to move.

And not just because the new digs are so totally fantastic: