TRANSFERENCE

Oh my. I decided to move to WordPress. 

Check back there from now on, please!

GYPSY TEARS

So I'm back in California... for the moment. I've seen friends, I've been to the woods, I've gotten drunk and acted like an idiot. It's good to be home!

So the question at hand is WHAT NEXT? Do I head back to New York like originally planned, try to make it in the big muggy city with a quickly dwindling bank account and no job?

Do I sink back into the Sacramento swamp and become again a motionless hungover frat girl? 

OR, do I follow Painfully Hip's Amber to Tucson, AZ for vintage clothing awesomeness, blog city, and prickly pear cacti?

Option three is mysterious and tempting.. plus it sounds amazingly affordable, full of promise and the perfect next step in my new life's goal: Gypsydom.

Eventually I want to settle down and make a home for myself somewhere, but not just yet. I just turned 26, so my mid-twenties crisis is in full swing and I have definitely not seen enough of the world or met enough of the world's people. (Also, when 'settling down', it is usually helpful to have a location in mind.)

So Arizona may very well be the next stop on the SC train. Only time will tell, since I am as indecisive as they come, but Fortuna seems to be pointing me there, just as it pointed me to New York in June. 

On that note, dont forget to check out concreteandcashmere.com to see me compete for the Alize World Championships. The episodes are available on YouTube now as well. 

Anyway. 

With that shameless plug out of the way, how about another??

My dear friend Rory from Awesome All Day recently interviewed me for his blog on my recent experiences in glorious Jersey City. 

Without further ado:

Sapphire Cordial: Concrete and Cashmere super style soldier.

So my good bud/personal hero recently competed in a fashion duel to the death called Concrete and Cashmere. She also has a blog and fashion line called Sapphire Cordial and I’m relatively sure she is planning on taking over the world using a mixture of charm/mega talent/and bone crushing RAW POWER. I got to interview her recently after she moved to New Jersey New York!

 

If this interview isn’t enough for you (and trust me I would not blame you in the least), check out her website and her internet celebrity… Or just stare deeply into whatever is going on in the first photo after the jump:

 

HIT THE MORE BUTTON!

 

 

 

 

AAD: You’re a busy busy bee, tell me about all the different projects you’re working on?

    Well as a brand new resident of New Jersey– um I mean New York City, my most immediate project is familiarizing myself with my surroundings and trying not to look lost. I had a moment of triumph the other day when someone in Manhattan asked me for directions, but alas, it dissipated quickly when I couldn’t help them.

    As far as work goes, I’m currently assisting stylist Brea Stinson with wardrobe for various photoshoots and appearances for her clients. We recently spent an afternoon backstage at Letterman (!) sitting in a hallway putting metal studs on the shoulders of a leather Philip Lim jacket worn by r&b artist Ginuwine.
I then watched his performance in the Late Show green room while inexplicably holding a carton of half and half. (I’d also like to note my ongoing quest to find a good Temple-grade cup of coffee without resorting to Starbucks, which I have only been able to accomplish so far in Brooklyn.)

    Brea and I are also collaborating on putting together a show for New York Fashion Week. We’re seeking out venues and models and other designers, and I’m working on my Spring/Summer 2010 collection for my clothing line, Sapphire Cordial.

 

AAD: You recently moved from Sacramento to New York, what spurred the migration?

    My life in Sacramento had been lacking in the creative motivation department for some time, and I had been wanting a major change. Unfortunately I lacked the funds and decisiveness to do that. One night I was um ..drunkenly.. browsing the SF bay area craigslist and came across an ad for an internet based fashion reality show called Concrete + Cashmere.
   The thought of applying for Project Runway had crossed my mind in the past, but I never pursued it. I don’t even own a tv, and reality television in particular has always made me roll my eyes. But something, perhaps the gin, made me fill out the questionnaire and start the application process, and somehow about a month later I was on a plane to NY. I met some really amazing people while on the show, and I decided that the only way I could try to make a name for myself in “the fashion world” was to climb up the Empire State Building with my bare hands. My bear hands.

 

AAD: You promised me at one point to make me a cape with pockets… Where is it? (Here’s a clue: NOT ON MY BACK)

      Rory, capes are very delicate creatures. They have to be coaxed, romanced even, into existance. Despite my kindest and most coercive techniques, your particular cape is being very shy about making an appearance. I’ve been very understanding. Some things take time. At this rate, you should have it by… when’s your birthday?

 

AAD: Tell me more about the contest you were just in, was it anything like “Mad Max: Beyond Thunderdome”?

      Oh, Concrete + Cashmere. Despite claims to the contrary, it was the most unrealistic month of my life. So in that way, it was nothing like MM:BT.
      C+C followed the reality show “challenge” format. The contestants (there were originally 8 of us) were given a series of tasks to complete in a limited amount of time, and then we were judged on our execution of these tasks. On top of this, we were all living together and constantly surrounded by alcohol, courtesy of Alize, the commercial’s- I mean- the show’s sponsor.
      So basically, I spent the majority of June drunk on a liqueur I had previously thought was pronounced “A-leez”.
It was definitely a great learning experience and I’m glad I did it, but it was exhausting. I got pretty ill near the end of the show, and all I really wanted was to get back to tomorrow-morrow land.

 

AAD: As a designer/seamstress you do an extraordinary amount of sewing, more then any mere mortal could possibly manage. Are you secretly made of spiders?

Well, my fingers are. The rest of me is made of pure white light.

 

AAD: What blogs/fashion resources/forbidden texts do you read?

One blog I love is this brilliant internet gem you may have heard of called Painfully Hip.. no? Really? Well, its probably the most inspiring/quirky/adorably on point fashion blog out there, so if you aren’t reading it, there is something terribly wrong with you.

I also peruse The Glamourai constantly. She is full of clever little DIY projects and she makes and sells her own amazing jewelry. Yay, entrepreneurs!

A few others I frequent:

Because I’m Addicted (because I’m addicted)

Ingrid Fur (from the ever inventive Amy Hemmens)

Post Secret (which is not a fashion blog, but nevertheless inspiring beyond words)

Style.com is of course a great resource, since it has full coverage of all the big shows. I always check up on Christian Lacroix and Roberto Cavalli, since their pieces are usually deliciously unwearable.

And I’m trying to better keep up on my own blog Sapphire Cordial ahem, shameless plug.

 

AAD: Sometimes I dream about moving to New York and starting my own clothing line, gaining everlasting internet fame, and becoming fabulously wealthy off the proceeds… Unfortunately, I’ve been denied these dreams. What I’m really getting at is, Do you think we were switched at birth in the first step of an ongoing conspiracy to thwart my ambition?

I was hoping you wouldn’t figure that out. Shit. But truly, what’s stopping you? The only person who can deny your dreams is you, my friend. Why don’t you just get over here and fight me?

 

You can find more awesome Rory at Awesome All Day.  You can find me here.  And at your local dive bar.

RED AND WILD LIKE AUTUMN LEAVES

I've had an on and off life-long affair with being a faux ginger all my life, and right now it's ON.

Now I just have to wait for it to grow and somehow cease being a frizzy disaster, then I can reach these heights, or ...lengths:

And then of course, as always my muse, the incomparable Natalie Ribbons. Though my hair is nowhere near the fantastic shade of hers, I suppose it is in part a tribute to my dear friend, a constant inspiration and a girl I miss like nobody's business. Natalie told me once (or twice) that she felt bright red was her natural haircolor, she should have been born with it. I've never known her with any other shade, so I second this wholeheartedly.

There is something to that though. I have gone blonde a few times, and every time I feel as though something is off until I go back to a darker shade. I don't feel like myself as a blonde, which I suppose is possibly the whole point. My hair was brown-black for a long time, in between bouts of red and blonde, but red was always the most entrancing, made my eyes light up the most when wondering "should I?' in the hair color aisle. Anyhow.

My locks, my eyes closed:

I love wearing neutrals and having my hair as the only pop of color. 

Although it sometimes makes for off-color comments, kind of like what happens 

when you walk through Jersey City to the train station wearing a skirt. 

God forbid! Such heinous crimes!

ANOTHER ATTEMPT AT CATASTROPHE

I left my friend's car tonight, a friend that would have driven me home had I asked (let me just note that) and walked 15 feet or so to the subway entrance to get on the PATH train from 14th st to Jersey City. Underground I discovered that the train was inaccessible from that spot, made clear by a huge blue sign telling me to cross the street and try again. 

On the other side the subway showed no hint of its promise. I, drunk and confused, looked around for a second, only to notice a man in a blue button down shirt and slacks asking someone who appeared to be an official of some sort where the PATH was at, since he needed to get to Hoboken. The uniformed man told Blue Shirt Man that he had to go to the subway on 13th st. I, needing the same train, followed BSM down to the next station. We acknowledged each other on the way, and our common goal: to get home and sleep. 

As we approached the next stairway, BSM noted that there was no indication that the PATH stopped here either, and announced he was taking a cab home, adding "I'm too wasted to figure this out", and threw his arm up in the air and toward the street sloppily. 

I turned away and descended into muggy mystery. I didn't think my desired train departed from here either, but I could take one from here to there and from there to the JC train station, and from there a $5 cab home. A long ride yes, but in total, one that should only cost around $8 total. Much to my surprise however, this subway station was taped off like a crime scene and I had no choice but to turn around and find a new plan. 

At the top of the steps I noticed that BSM had just finally managed to slump himself  into his cab. He noticed me and gestured clumsily for me to join him, a joint trip to Jersey. 

I thought several things. 

Is this safe?

Is this guy my future husband?

Am I getting a free ride home? Sweet!

I went with the third thought and jumped in. He told the driver Jersey Heights (where?) , but to take me where I wanted first. Unfortunately, once in the heart of Jersey darkness, the cab driver was lost, my companion (who's name I never got) was half-passed out, and I had to help him find his intersection with the GPS on my iPhone.  BSM payed his bill, a whopping $54, which he was none too happy about, grabbed his Gatorade, and turned to me with a meaningful look and slurred "Don't let him charge you to take you home." Uh okay. 

I did hold my own in the fare debate, I'm proud to say. The driver refused to go by the meter (said something about it being illegal?) and requested $40 to take me home. I countered that BSM has already payed to get to New Jersey, so I was only paying to get from wherever the hell I was to my destination, no tolls. I said I'd give him $20 and we settled (begrudgingly on my part) on $25.

15 minutes later, after a series of unnecessary turns, we pulled up in front of my house and I was all set to pay up. The driver then told me that it was a lot farther than he'd thought, so he had to charge me $35. And then, THEN, lo and behold, my bank card declined. I know for a fact my account isn't empty. I ran the card twice more for good measure, and then still drunk and starting to get upset, asked if he could drive me to an ATM. He kindly did, which is when I found out that the temporary bank card (still waiting for my real one in the mail) had expired at midnight like some Cinderella bullshit, and I was stuck alone with no cash and nothing to tell the driver. 

In the end I finally wrote him a fucking CHECK for $35. Temporary checks also, thank you very much. As in: no name, address, phone number or anything on the check. Dude was understandably a little suspicious. But what could either of us do at that point? 

By then we were a couple blocks away, but my street is a one way in the wrong direction, so I got out and walked the rest of the way. 

I can't wait to live in the city. This commute blows.

INSPIRATION SPECIFICATIONS

I was talking up my Spring/Summer 2010 collection several months ago, emphasizing the English Patient/archeology inclinations I was having. Those are still present, but a few new influences have sprung up over the last few weeks. 

There has been an ongoing theme of homesickness in my over-analytical thoughts as of late, the juxtaposition of being in a huge city and longing for fields of waist-high grass to run through, wearing heels to try and feel in charge and adult, while I daydream of being barefoot on riversides and hiking through forests, which brings us to New Inspiration #1: Koyaanisqatsi

The opposite draws of civilization and nature have always been equally strong for me, and never more intensely than now. It's as if I'm stretched out over the entire country, my feet in Kansas, my hands reaching out toward either coast. 

Growing up in the woods made the grass seem greener in Central Park, I suppose. But I haven't even been to Central Park since I've been here. Once Brea and I make our pilgrimage into Manhattan, hopefully I'll be able to spend some time at the oasis. Though don't get me wrong, the city has many a glittering light that I'm a bigger sucker for than any moth. There's enough artistry in architecture to keep me wide-eyed and dreaming for ages. 

Secondly, I have an overwhelming feeling that the fashion world will be paying tribute this season to our dearly departed MJ. I certainly don't intend on changing my entire aesthetic and suddenly bursting out with sequined and shoulder-padded pop-glam ferociousness, but at the same time, after his death, I couldn't help being seduced by a sudden urge to listen to Billie Jean repeatedly. Afterall, it used to be my ringtone.

 So my mini tribute to the King of Pop, who (although we are all understandably exhausted of the media coverage) undeniably influenced and shaped all of our lives somehow, is based upon Brooke Shield's Little Prince reference at his funeral*

The Little Prince has been my favorite book my ENTIRE LIFE. Not only has the story and its meaning always kept me humble and thankful, but it played a major role in a past love affair of mine, brought me calm security and hope in times of trouble, and has generally helped me understand the meaning of life. No small feat. Plus, how convenient, the book takes place in the Sahara desert.

So New York, I'm set to throw caution to the wind. This is going to be my all-out dream collection! I know, I say that every season.

*DISCLAIMER: Those of you who know me (and anyone that has read this blog previously) knows that I am not one for celebrity worship. At all. We are all just people, plain and simple. And I mean that about ALL people, not just in referenced to fame. Artists, mothers, policemen, world leaders, celebrities, truck drivers, heiresses, prisoners, everyone. We were all brought into this world the same way, naked. The fact remains that some people happen to have a spark in them that can light up the whole fucking world, even if only for a minute. So if a person, any person, effects my life, I'm going to show tribute, even in my own head.

ISOLATION 

A walk home through Jersey City yesterday accompanied by 'Ne Me Quitte Pas' by Nina Simone in my ears was gorgeous, with pigeons lifting into flight and the breeze blowing early fallen leaves across my path. The air was balmy and the street quiet. Its a rare occasion where you understand that you are the only one experiencing a moment, you have it all to yourself and it will never happen again exactly that way, for you or anyone else, ever. 

That is beautiful. 

But alas, my constant avoidance of human contact in this way-the covering up of my eyes and ears, headphones and sunglasses, averted eye contact and "oh I didn't hear that" is neither helping me feel at home here, or alive. Just kind of in limbo, inside of a plot-less film with a good soundtrack. Girl rides train. Girl walks through crowd. Girl looks up at tall buildings. 

I want to fully experience this city. The best way to do that of course, is with friends. And I do a have a few here, who I'm sure could introduce me to their friends, and it could grow exponentially. But for some reason, the thought of meeting new people that have already been briefed on my person and situation makes me nervous. 

Not that it should be difficult to live up to who I am. That should be the easiest thing in the world, despite the fact that even though I've been in this body for almost 26 years, I feel like a different person ever 15 minutes... But starting anew 3000 miles away from home should grant an opportunity to drop old habits, to grow, to be who I am RIGHT NOW, not who I was last week. Or half an hour ago. Right?

I'm trying to get comfortable. In Sacramento I had no problem going out alone, though of course here I can't just hop on my bike and be home in 15 minutes.  It requires a good half hour, at least one train and usually a train-cab combo to get back behind my barred windows. 

Sacramento of course is not the sugar coated candy land I have dreamed it is the last two weeks. If I had been truly happy there, I wouldn't have left. I had been depressed and lost for a long time, and it wasn't changing. It's very easy to stagnate in a town where you know everyone, where your rent is next to nothing and even if you pay it late, nobody seems to notice.  But its a strange trade-off. 

Give up all your closest friends, your whole family, everything you know, and in exchange you'll get the chance to work your ass off. And maybe just MAYBE, you'll be able to stay in the big city for a while and not come running home with your tail between your legs. If you can accomplish that, there is a tiny tiny miniscule chance that you might be able to make a living doing what you love. But its tiny. And by the way, completely selfish. 

Does that qualify as a deal with the devil? 

It reminds me of Morgan and Yew a little, which kind of makes me want to cry. 

I've only been in New York (or surrounding areas) for two weeks. Things are still new, I'm still finding my way. But of course I feel lost. I'm in the busiest and most crowded city in the country and I'm usually alone. 

It makes me start to wonder if no matter where I go, I'll feel lost in one way or another. Either isolated or aimless. Which is the lesser evil? I suppose right now I'm deep in the former, so I may as well make the most of it, use it to my advantage while I can, since in my experience, the presence of many friends in the past has greatly contributed to the latter. Which of course is no one's fault but mine.

I guess my question is this: "When and where will I finally be content?"

And my answer is pretty much the same thing I always remind myself: "Give it time, and stop being a pussy."

I AM SUCH A SUCKER

For fast talk. Why? Why do such strange characters have such overwhelming powers of persuasion? Aggghhhhhhhgghhhg

I had a simple task:

Go to Fedex, send a belt back to a jewelry company in Teaneck, NJ.

No problem. It was only 3pm, sunny, a 15 minute walk ahead of me. I was actually looking forward to it. A chance to get a little exercise and get a little more familiar with the neighborhood I'm currently staying in (though hopefully not for long), a run down shitty hole in the wall part of Jersey City.

I put my headphones on, hit shuffle and sail down the blocks in running shoes, a rarity for me unless Im under the "I want to get fit" persuasion, which is pretty fucking rare.

I make it to Fedex free and clear, observing silently the oddities I pass. I see a man walk a full block with a large plastic bag stuck to the bottom of his shoe. He doesn't seem to notice, despite the loud rustling sound. Several other wild-eyed scoundrels make strange sounds at me as I make my way home. I keep on my path, music in my ears.

Then as I'm hitting the home stretch, my attention is caught by a very large (possibly pregnant, though I doubt it) woman in a too small pink t-shirt and long black skirt waving at me. Knowing already that it's the wrong move, I take my headphones off and slow my pace with a questioning look in her direction.

"Do you have a minute?" She asks.

I'm already past suspicious. I ask "For what..?" , and she doesn't answer, just waves me over again. For some ongodly reason, I oblige.

"I see trouble on your face," she says. "I've seen you walk past here and I always try to stop you because I want to help you." I can feel my eyebrows raised way up, a little baffled, but I know what's coming.

"I want to give you a tarot reading--" she begins and I immediately back up and shake my head, but it doesn't work. She keeps talking and I keep listening. I can't help it. I ask her how much. $10. Ummm I'll have to think about it. Will you be here tomorrow? No? I have to do it now?

To my defense I never say yes to her, but...

She still ends up getting $19.25 from me.

What's wrong with me? Granted, I'm sort of a sucker for occult stuff. Just last month I payed $20 for the shittiest palm reading in history, even after the psychic answered her cellphone during my friend's reading. But did I learn my lesson? Fuck no.

This angel, who upon closer observation has a good amount of dark stubble on her chin, gets me to sit down on the steps of this random building with her, and without my agreeing to anything, proceeds to tell me my heart has been broken before and I have walls up. Is there anyone out there that this does not apply to? She tells me that I have business colleagues that are jealous of me. Really? Jealous of my non-existent job and current "residence"?

And then she says I'm going have twin boys by the time I'm 27. Okay, so I can't prove her wrong on that one for another two years, though she also added that it would be a long time before I fall in love again. She didn't specify how long, but I certainly don't intend on having two kids with someone I'm not in love with. Technically its possible,I might get knocked up by some loser and decide to keep it-I mean them-even though no one in my family has ever had twins.

I begin to realize that this little conversation is what she's expecting me to pay for. I stand up and tell her that I have to get home. She counters with "You have a very dark aura, a very dark aura. For $20 I can light a candle for you and things will begin to change for you. You've had a bad year, am I right?"

"No, actually this year had been pretty good."

"But last year was bad."

"....I guess."

"I'll go to the church and light this candle for you. I have to do it, I need to help you. I can see the pain in your eyes"

"Wait, I don't even get to keep the candle?"

"I have to light it for you at the church seven days in a row for it to start working."

Tragically, besides the obvious "this is bullshit" there is a little nagging voice in my head..

"What if she's for real? What if the reason I forgot to return that belt yesterday and had to Fedex it was because I was meant to walk by this obese bearded lady and her lighting of this candle will change my whole life?"

On the other shoulder, the voice of reason is shouting at me: "GET THE FUCK OUT OF THERE. YOU ARE THE ONLY ONE THAT CAN CHANGE YOUR LIFE AND YOU ALREADY HAVE, YOU JUST MOVED ACROSS THE FUCKING COUNTRY ON A LEAP OF FAITH. BE STRONG AND QUIT TAKING SHIT FROM PEOPLE."

"But what if I miss a golden opportunity? What if my whole life has been leading up to this moment?"

"YOUR WHOLE LIFE HAS BEEN LEADING UP TO EVERY MOMENT YOU LIVE, IDIOT."

"But she won't stop talking and I cant just walk away while she's talking!"

"STOP TRYING TO BE NICE. GROW THE FUCK UP. YOU ARENT 15."

Alas, then the voice of reason is overtaken with yammering candle talk again and she pulls the ultimate bullshit.

"Its usually $20 for the candle and $10 for the reading, but you know what, for you I'll do it all for $20."

"Wait, was that the tarot reading? You didn't have cards."

"You call me, we'll do the reading in a couple days at my house, but of course since its at my house you'll have to pay more."

"Why does it have to be at your house?"

"I'd do it at my office, but its being renovated."

Jesus Christ. The worst part of the whole thing is that it is so obviously a con, but I have so much faith in people that I want to believe in their intentions, and that wins out wayyy too often. I decide to ask her a couple of questions, maybe just to make myself feel like I'm trying to stand up to her. I ask her name.

"Christine," she says.

GOD DAMN IT. That's my mom's name. Even worse, I tell her this. The traitor part of my brain thinks it might be a sign. So I tell her I'll give her $10 for the candle thing. Also because on the tiny tiny chance that this psychic shit really is her profession, I feel bad that she gave me a "reading" for free.

Then I realize I don't have cash. She then talks me into going to the store and buying her a soda to get cash back. As we walk down the streets of Jersey City together, such an odd pair we must appear, her small son (who is probably some neighborhood kid she talked into masquerading as hers on the promise of future candy) runs ahead of us and she screams at him. He runs into a mini-mart (cash only) and she says "Just a second, I need to get him something to eat", and goes into the store.

This, I just want to point out, was my big chance for a prison break. I could have run down a side road and lost her. It would have been so easy... but then I realized I'd have to avoid her for the rest of the time I'm living here. I collided with her only 3 blocks from where I'm staying, so it stands to reason I will see her again, especially if as she claims, she's seen me before.

I can't win.

"Christine" comes out with her little brat, and we cross the street to another bodega. I take $20 out of the atm. I'm not handing this bitch a $20, so I tell her if she wants a soda, go get it.

She asks if the soda will be her tip. I say yeah, sure, whatever. A soda and $10.

For no fucking reason.

Then she reminds me that we agreed (did we?) on $20 for the 4 bullshit sentences she told me about my life and an imaginary candle.

I tell her I'm unemployed and can't afford $20. We settle on $15. And a motherfucking soda. I guess maybe after all this, I am just willing to pay her to get her to leave me alone.

So you may be wondering..$15 and a soda, that should be like $16.50, not $19.25...

Right. I thought so too. I'll have a few bucks left over after getting ripped off, and I'll get coffee with it tomorrow. I hate getting coffee with my card anyway.

So we get to the counter and she throws a fucking package of cashews on the counter with her fucking Orange Slice. What am I supposed to do, start an argument in this store over a package of cashews? I roll my eyes and don't say anything. Then her little brat reaches up to the counter with some of those sour gummy stick things in a gross little wrapper. She says no, and he starts crying and she instantly puts the candy back up on the counter.

I proceed to pay $4.25 for this trio of goodies. I take back my $15.75 in change and numbly hand her the bills. The cashier looks at us suspiciously, but I glance away in shame and exit the store. "Christine" then asks for my phone number, so we can make an appointment for a tarot reading.

FINALLY my instincts kick in and I refuse to give her my phone number. Swindle $20 out of me sure, but you aren't getting my number! Ha!

She gives me hers though, written on a receipt. She tells me to ask for Pauline? I don't even care enough to ask. I take the limp piece of paper and book it out of there, taking an alternate route so she can't figure out what street I live on.

I need to get my act together. If I want to make it in New York, I better toughen the fuck up and stop being nice. The problem is, I am a nice person. I like believing in people. I don't understand why the world forces you to be jaded and cold. Do I have to change who I am to get by? Granted, this is a small example. And I think if I had been in a different mood, I could have just said no. And that's not cruel. Thats not changing who I am. Its called not being a fucking doormat. I just want to see honesty in other people so badly that I invent it sometimes. That needs to stop. I'm a smart girl. I really am. I just need to start acting like it.

In any case, if anybody needs some spiritual guidance, to hear a human voice, or a reason to kill yourself, call 201-428-4223

So I moved. Across the country.