my favorite bag

Monday, mar. 17, 2008   |   0 comments

My favorite bag of all time is this green rip-stop pocket-crazy thing I bought at Marshall's for $20 in 1998.

The original perfect bag

But finally, after years and years of use, and many replaced seams and velcro, the bag started to fade and bulge in sad and worrisome ways. I searched and searched for a replacement but I couldn't find anything that met all my many weird requirements: I wanted an easy-access zip-close top with no cumbersome flap or magnets (magnets erase my BART tickets), an accessible and gently padded pocket for my Sidekick, and a main compartment that's big enough (but only just) to fit my 12-inch laptop.

Finally, the glorious Cinnamon Cooper of Poise stepped in and offered to recreate my perfect bag. After much back-and-forthing, in which the design was streamlined, a new color was selected, and difficult strap decisions were made, the bag arrived in my hot, somewhat mannish hands. And as you can tell by the following photo sequence (which should only be viewed with Madness's "It Must Be Love" playing in the background), my new bag and I are already spending unwholesome amounts of time together:

Marbles is perhaps the slightest bit jealous of the bag, what with all the many things it can hold in its pockets.

There's plenty of room for my laptop, sunglasses, Sidekick, and birthday iPod (a ridiculously generous gift from the one and only Gene), plus all the sundries, like a wallet and...

...lipstick...

...and a regretable amount of not-nearly-as-exciting-once-you-get-it-home beach glass.

Who was it who wrote the song "Me, My Favorite Bag, and a Starfish," Carole King?

Bag and the City!

You can't quite see it here, but the bag takes accessorizing well: Here we see it adorned with a Antonin Artaud pin, a relic from my dad's 1970s residence at Project Artaud.

It even makes the Golden Gate Bridge look good.

And soon you too will be able to buy one of your very own! Once all the production kinks get hammered out, the bag will be available at the Poise shop for somewhere between $65 and $75, a portion of the which will go to 826 Valencia. See that? Everybody wins with The Perfect Bag Two, Electric Boog-a-deux!

bon voyage, pug boat

Sunday, mar. 16, 2008   |   0 comments

We were all very sad to see Zelda go back home, with the exception of one very happy, sunshine-toasted cat:

mrs. c

Saturday, mar. 15, 2008   |   0 comments

y very first LA star-sighting was that woman who played Richie's mom on "Happy Days." She was being mobbed, clothes this close to being torn off, by a huge crowd of people. Uhhhmmm. Perhaps she had a made-for-tv movie coming out. Or maybe that whole retro thing has finally spiraled out of control.

the facts of life

Saturday, mar. 15, 2008   |   0 comments

indy Cohn of you-take-the-good-you-take-the-bad fame snuck up on me. I only recognized her when I turned to fetch her joe and heard her making intimate comments to her four yapyap dogs. Her voice transported me to days of flu-inspired TV marathons. And, as I handed over her double tall non-fat no whip cocoa, I saw that Natalie's cute, mild-mannered reporter, chub-chub face had been stretched and deformed to fit the face and body of an anorexic of LA proportions (35-15-20). Christ.

twinkle twinkle

Saturday, mar. 15, 2008   |   0 comments

eing a NoCal girl at heart, I'm not yet jaded by Los Angeles' own breed of astronomy. Sad but true, I still get a little rush when I encounter the likes of Adam Rich, Christopher Guest, Mindy Cohn, Rutger Hauer, Marion Ross, Scott Baio, or Tori Spelling.

I have also encountered a fascinating hybrid of the star-sighting: seeing "people" from The Real World. This genre is particularly unsettling, since your initial reaction to these specimens is to think that they're someone you know. A friend of a friend. The receptionist at your gynecologist's. You walk towards them, tentative smile in place. You begin to sense you don't like them, yet you fear they might be important. Could this be an integral link in your job-seeking network? Finally you realize just who the fuck they are. This realization is followed closely by other thoughts: "My life must be really sad if I actually watch the comings and goings of this null set" and "I must smash my television and enroll in grad school." You feel nothing but scorn. But by that time it's too late, your stares have already pegged you as an adoring fan. You leave the encounter depressed. They leave with a stoked ego.

Similar, but different, was the time I served the C&R Clothiers guy buttered popcorn. Since I just couldn't place him (actor? no. politician? no. high school counselor? no.), I gave him the one-eyebrow quiz look as I "buttered his kernals." And then he just said it: "I guarantee it." His face was as still as a wax sculpture, nothing moving but his lower jaw, and he bored into me with his hypno eyes -- just like on TV! I shot him with my finger, right from my polyestered hip, and gave him that popcorn gratis.

But my very bestest star sighting was the one and only Fonz.

No, this is NOT one of those county faire "use the magic of computers to insert YOUR head on cindy crawford's body and then make it look like you're on the cover of vogue" dealies. And no, Fonzie 'n' me aren't having an affair (how you flatter me!). I hate to burst your "evany vs. pinkie" bitch-fight fantasies, but Mr. Winkler was merely a guest director on Clueless (the so-cheesy-I-can't-believe-it's-still-on-the-air TV show that's based on the people-say-it's-based-on-austin's(jane not powers)-emma-but-I-can't-see-it feature film), where my fine friend Sophia works in the costuming department.

And then I once had the pleasure of sitting next to Diamond David Lee Roth at Crazy Girls (in Los Angeles), the strip club. But, unlike the Fonz, Dave was too busy getting a free lap dance to pose with me for a picture. Dick.