Smells Like Wig Spirit

After about two and a half hours of eating nutella alone in my kitchen this evening, I was a bit surprised to find Matt outside of my New York apartment, panting with excitement and bearing a box of gifts. As I had hoped and suspected, the little blonde number that transformed (and entranced) so many in Providence this weekend was included. Matt is beside me now, as I write in my mothy-smelling living room (it's a little unclear whether the smell is due to Matt or the wig), taking a breather after our hour-long, sometimes fruitful, sometimes harrowing photobooth session. The project was spurred on by Matt's tales of admirers at the infamous party this weekend who told him he looked "just like Kurt Cobain" (Matt was unfamiliar with the name). I insisted that we fully recreate the look, going so far as to apply liquid eyeliner on a trembling, but willing Matt. It so happens that he's growing quite attached to the look.


I also took a turn of my own with the wig, and out of this came some moments of creative brilliance which you can witness

HERE

I believe the piece speaks for itself, but I will say that the entire process was transformative -- for both of us.

EVENING PRIMROSE LIVE-BLOG

[Note from Matt: "Evening Primrose" is an obscure, artily muddled 50-minute television musical from the 1960s with music and lyrics by Stephen Sondheim.]

3:40 watching "evening primrose" with the best-ishs, matt and sara. the characters all sound like t george. i have nothing. I am egged on but then chastised for all that i produce. a genius misunderstood in 'its own time.'

3:45 main character dealing in poker and singing furiously in his own head while wearing a very long scarf. i'm reminded of a certain 1920's silent film star who shall not be named who met her end when an equally impractical piece of neckwear became entangled in the workings of her automobile and sent her to a better place.

3:47 confused by SCW's apparent attraction to the handsome and decidedly non-jewish lead. but he was apparently closeted so that it explains it all.

3:48 all the songs are the same

3:49 Ms. Monday is religious with crystals.

[Note from Matt: At this point, Jake Schorr abandoned his anemic little stab at liveblogging and took the nap he'd been threatening to take since he woke up. Apparently the soaring, tremulous strains of "Take Me to the World" pushed him over the edge. It's not much of a show--in fact, Sondheim's songs are the only points at which the actors melt, are allowed to emote. It's hard to imagine that Sondheim was once criticized as being cold and heartless. At one point in Primrose the male lead--a poet--struggles fruitlessly to find an appropriate rhyme for his true love's name.  He sings: "Ella, poets who suffer pain should fall in love with girls named Jane, not Ella!"  Beautiful, brainy stuff.]

3:59 Matt here. We are nearing the finale.
me: "I'm almost done with the note. Do you want to add anything?"
Sara (coldly): "I want to focus. (pause) Does that make sense?"

Glumday Morning

A sleepy coffee-less morn; Oscar hangovers abound.  (I trolled the web and found this Grease parody clip, apparently deleted from the broadcast at the last minute.  It's a little generic, but at least Franco and Hathaway are making eye contact.  It made me wonder why the writers didn't even attempt to give their partnership a witty, flirtacious vibe.  It could have been "the awards show as romantic comedy"--the relationship would deepen and deepen over the course of the show, finally culminating in a post-Best-Picture smooch.)

Anywho: the denizens (both paying and nonpaying) of 401 Wick are all asymptotically schlumping towards the kitchen table.  Jake in particular is quite groggy, having been up late wrestling.  I've been told to wake up Jamie at all costs, despite the fact that we're not much more than strangers.

Nicole and I angrily discuss a familiar topic: our disappointment with the self-seriousness of actors at Brown.  I divulge that my backstory for the chorus member I played in Leavittsburg was that he coached a Little League team and was possibly a child molester.

me: "Everyone in the cast was shocked when I told them that.  Because it didn't show."
Nicole (wisely): "It never does, does it?"

Then ennui set in.

Daniella: "I feel like I'm living week to week."
Nicole: "I'm living day to day."
(pause)
me: "You trying to top her?"
Nicole: "Yes.  I see your week to week, and raise you an even MORE unpredictable lifestyle."

OSCARS LIVE-BLOG

Greetings, "Clingees"!  As promised, tonight we'll be live-blogging the 83rd Academy Awards.  It's the usual assortment of dweebs here, joined tonight by $25 worth of mozzarella sticks and the late, great David Notis.  David was introduced to the blog this afternoon and was exceedingly tactful and polite when we quizzed him about "how he liked" every imaginable element of the blog.

But enough ado.  LET'S GO ON WITH THE SHOW!  (Stay tuned for relentless, interminable updates.)

8:35    "The monologue.  'Anne Hathaway isn't funny,' said Sara, and it's true; Franco and Hathaway are genial but essentially empty vessels.  Billy Crystal and Whoopi have sensibilities--tonight you can practically picture Bruce Vilanch crouching in the wings with his fingers crossed.  (Vilanch, of course, has been writing jokes for the Oscars for 21 years and is an all-around purveyor of schlock in general.  Here's a fascinating interview with him in which he rips into Gervais' hosting job at the Globes.")
-Matt


8:51     "Kirk Douglas is 91.  Our illegal web viewing of the ceremony has twice been shut down due to silly matters like 'piracy control.'  PAH.  We are now on our third live feed; whoever's doing it is very creatively toggling between channels so as to avoid detection.  (David: 'I feel like we're involved in the experience.')  Now we're on the third nom for supporting actress. Definitely don't know who the third and fourth nominees are. at all. As far as the general tone of the show goes, I think David said it quite aptly when he said 'doing too much old movie stuff.'"
-It Girl?


9:06  THAT LAST POST WAS HARDLY ME AT ALL.
- the TRUE It Girl?


9:07 Stifled again. The art of channel selection is passed on to Daniella.
"I'm messing everything up"- Daniella
-the TRUE It Girl?


9:13  "DANI HERE AGAIN!  I love Javier Bardem!  Though he's kind of chubby here.  Jake is licking and smacking his way through a half-dozen hot wings.  Sara is eating what looks like latke raviolis doused in yogurt.  An obtrusive pop-up keeps telling us to watch the Oscars at http://www.nwchd.net/.  'Bookmark it!' it says.  'Maybe we should bookmark it,' says David.  'SHEEP!' yells Matt.  The pop-up is growing larger, and is now obscuring the entire screen.  'I can't see!' says Nicole.  Anyway, I hafta go to a dance show, so this is IT for me." -Dani


9:23   "On to our fifth live feed!  We are now watching what looks like someone taking a video of their TV with a cameraphone.  We can hear two people making boozy, off-the-cuff comments.  It's rather like Mystery Science Theater.  Russell Brand and Helen Mirren are taking the stage.  Says the drunk: 'Oh my god, Helen Mirren is really hot.  Are they together??!'  I PREDICT THE ONE FROM DENMARK WILL WIN!  YOU HEARD IT HERE!" -Matt


9:30 I was right about the best foreign film pic! (Matt stole my suggestion). I love the Danes. She even used the term "morfar" in her speech (which means mother's father in Danish--thank you to Aliza CW who studied abroad in Copenhagen last semester). Reese is now presenting, and she looks great. Who saw How Do You Know? It was not great. Christian Bale just won for best supporting actor! "More like CHRISTIAN BEARD!" our fearless video-recording friend commentates. I have to say, I do not love the beard. Mark Ruffalo looked great. We have now turned to reading the chat box on the corner of the screen, so we could see what our commentator is angrily responding to. Matt has now joined in the chatting. David suggests we write positive things--and so Matt writes: YOUR COMMENTARY IS GREAT!... I CANT SAY ENOUGH ABOUT HOW PLEASED I AM WITH YOUR FEED... GIVE US A SHOUT-OUT!... IF YOU WERE A TRUCK I'D BE MAKING THE HONK-HONK SIGN...YOU ARE SADLY NOT A TRUCK. I WANT RECOGNITION...

This was interspersed with the angry cybershouts of our fellow stream-watchers. Now there's a commercial with The Wind by Cat Stevens! What a great night." --Sara


9:43    "Jake Schorr here.  I'm a first-time blogger (aside from this little number, which I created in March '09 in a fit of existential depression that started in '07 and is still going strong)--so be gentle with me.  What has disappointed me most about the ceremonies thus far is the appalling lack of GLAMOUR.  The hosts are waving at their mommies, and while I've certainly 'been there,' I don't think it's appropriate for a show of this caliber.  I mean, I didn't abandon my homework, put on my heaviest winter coat, and come downstairs for THIS shit.  Oof.  Jake Schorr Out."  -Jake Schorr Out


9:55    "I'm back.  Have been exchanging tense text messages with my sister.  It all started when I told her about this endeavor.  Her reply was swift.  'Haha what do you mean you're live blogging it?'  A brief discussion followed with my friends as to whether she was unfamiliar with the term 'liveblogging' or simply incredulous and concerned.  I sent her the link.  A few minutes passed, during which she was presumably catching up on our blog.  'How did you get involved in this?' she asked."  -Sara C-W, transcribed by Matt


9:59   ""That's old Hollywood"--N Carty (AKA It Girl?) on the winner's gloves. We just saw Cate Blanchett present Best Costume. What did you all think about her dress? It was quite unusual--very constructed, such intricate beading! Interesting and beautiful? Tacky? Bizarre? Commenter(s), tell us your thoughts.

The former 'best song' winners montage wakes up the crowd!!! We think it's a commercial at first, and then are roused to sing along with Celine--and what is an Oscar ceremony without Celine?!? Joyful shouts of AGHUGH reverberate throughout the living room at 401 Wickenden as BEAUTY AND THE BEAST comes on. It is at this point that I realize it's a montage of former best song winners. It also invokes a "BEAUTY AND THE BEAST!!!!!!!!" text message from Aliza. And then BARACK comes on. What a montage! The performances commence after an un-funny Kevin Spacey. Randy Newman thrills us, but Mandy Moore and Zach Levy not so much. One unnamed onlooker texts in her response: "Mandy! I'm too excited"

Matt's love for the song becomes apparent as he continues to sing the song as it cuts to a commercial break. And then the feed is shut down. We realize it's actually a lot more fun to watch the Oscars this way--more of a game." --Sara

forgotten, but too busy to care

while everyone has been getting deep into some solo-cup nostalgia and taking part in activities such as "stealing wigs" and "building towers,"
some of us have been adults.

my adult weekend consisted of working a shit ton of a lot. i went to film a benefit last night with the promise of meeting the "cast of 30 Rock," which ended up being a tacky signed picture of them. after discovering this, i proceeded to drink heavily. im pretty sure near the end of the whole thing i thought i wasn't recording whenever i was recording and vice versa, which will probably make for some interesting footage/experimental video opportunities.

since nicole isn't coming back, ive started to move my things into her/our/my room. it's nice to have a real bed.

i can't figure out how to watch the oscars/james franco so if anyone has tips please let me know. here is a picture of him.

any takers?

http://oscars.movies.yahoo.com/blog/103-8-reasons-to-watch-the-83rd-academy-awards?nc

"How come there're no pictures of ME on the blog?"

An alternate account

Friends: whilst my other contributors, shall we say, "poo-pooed" the events following the potluck's conclusion last night I must admit that my experience was rather different. Yes, though it was true the population by and large was less experienced in the ways of the world than the "Clingers", while my compatriots were sullenly thieving, I was being welcomed back WITH OPEN ARMS.

My arrival sent shockwaves of excitement reverberating through the crowd. Within moments I was enveloped welcomingly by the crowd of youngsters who all, seemingly simultaneously, came to the realization that I was the thing that could break the monotony of their lives. After being there for only seconds, they were embracing me both physically and emotionally--telling me their deepest most treasured secrets, giving me gifts and praise, begging me begging me never to leave them.

Ever.

Dear readers, I must tell you, such a reception even I, It Girl?, couldn't have possibly anticipated. Such a need. Such a thirst for my love and attention. My presence here is NEEDED. That is why I have decided to put off my aimless jobless wandering of New York City in order to bring a bit more joy to Providence's cold dark winter. They want me. They need me. They like me, they really like me.

Feats of Strength

11:57PM, post-potluck/rager, pre-Sam Loomie imitations


















At the request of Matt W.:
As our potluck/rager waned, we found ourselves faced with the Paradox of Choice. On what Jack deemed "one of the most poppin' Saturday nights at Brown EVER," we were faced with a

Q: What to do???

A: Build a tower!

AFTER the tower was built, we were ready to face the snowy night, to venture to parties full of people born in the 1990s, to steal wigs and clementines, to bob for apples, to grind, and to find our OTLs.

Go Wig or Go Home

DANIELLA HERE! BADABINGBADABOOOM. it was nice to talk to other people at the dinner party, other than rhea. lest i come off as a "bitch," i'll say here and now that that was simply a joke. I dont want to start anything.

BUUUUT SERIUSLIUY, hurrrs the deal. After the dinner party dispersed, Nicole, Matt, and I proceeded to a jam-packed birthday party in honor of someone I knew well at one point in my life. However, I'm a changed WOMYN. Matt later told me I was giving everyone knowing looks and refusing to talk. It's true; the party was hella bourgeois. Things took a turn for the criz-zayzy when Matt and I (looking for a "dance party" we'd heard tell of) ended up in the basement. Entranced by a battered old trunk, we popped it open.

What we found, dear reader, went beyond our most exuberant dreams. The trunk was overflowing with richery--from gold lame sweatshirts to rainbow bandannas. Most precious of all, though, was the booty we found at the bottom: what appeared to be seven to eight elaborate wigs.  DANG!

A brief moral dilemma followed: did stealing two wigs--clearly resigned to the basement, possibly decades old--make us "thieves"? What is the line between citizenship and criminality? Did RACE play a part? (Feel free to offer your thoughts in the comments section, Shruti!)

As you might have guessed, we immediately stole the two best wigs. Matt stuffed them up his sweater and we NONCHALANTLY returned to the party, where we beat-boxed for two hours alongside the stalwart Nat Rosie. Matt later told me that the wigs kept riding down and he had to keep reaching in and hitching them back up. Luckily Nat was in a druggy, benevolent frame of mind (as usual?) and just shrugged it off as "classic Matt." He later said that Matt perceived everything in terms of theatricality and, when Matt took issue, he frantically backtracked.

We scuttled home before anyone had noticed the missing wigs, belting "Part of Your World" the whole way. Thank goodness for these old thingees that make me a REAL person, living in the world, visiting the ole college, taking a liiiiittle leap into the FUTURE.

The dishwasher's belly is full-up. Everyone has left for Leg 2 of Saturday Night.

Hours ago, friends gathered at the Sharma-Schorr-Chimene-Weiss (and Jamie!) household for food and conversation. It smelled so orgiastic (Fitzgerald) in the kitchen, I had to sample some creations (Meara and Nicole's ziti con sundried tomates, saucisson, y cebollas caramelizadas and Matt's google I mean koogle) at 7:22, though the party didn't officially start until 8:00. By the time the guests came beaming in with bags o' beer, I was ready for a post-dinner perambulation.

Highlight: Mutt and Jack singin' and actin' "Moses Supposes His Toeses are Roses"

followed promptly by this:

followed by this:

Tonight the company was top-notch. AND! Nicole and Matt will come back from their parties and hop into bed with me!

Caught in the Act

1:45 AM, VGQ, Providence, Rhode Island

"This shirt looks better on me anyway."

OH day of days. OH night of nights. Hello all, it's It Girl? here. I had three enormous cups of coffee this morning so forgive me if this is a bit scattered.

Meara and I brunched this morning with some truly lovely "salt-of-the-earth" type people. We dined on oats and vegan pancakes and scandalously out of season watermelon. We discussed counterfeiting one dollar bills and had a lovely time with chalk whilst overcoming hangovers.

Matt was asleep for most of this.

Last night was sigh oh so refreshing. Seeing old friends. Seeing new people that pretended they were old friends (everyone wants a piece of It Girl?). Mistaking people for Annie Rose. Reuniting with Junior friends. Seeing none other than Phil Kaye on the mean streets of PVD (rather than the grimy one's of NYC where we both live. Most likely he couldn't resist the magnetic pull of It Girl? and Matt Weinstock (who he claims never to have heard of). Once again, everyone wants a piece.) Walking one endearingly British 'Enry Peck up and down the length of Thayer Street. Sliding gracefully on the neglected ice covered Providence sheets.

It was all just like old times.

As for now Matt and I are off on important caffeine-fueled driving missions.

A beintot!

Another Salute to the Man on the Deck of That Ship

I am now, inexplicably, the first one awake.

I may watch Corky Romano.

A Salute to the Man on the Deck of That Ship

It's 4:12, and I'm the last one awake in 401 Wick. I'm listening to the pulpy, grandiose score of Ragtime, and the scent of a long-vanquished omelet is still wafting through the house. It's been a night of heavy hobknobbing for Nicole. Even eight months after graduation, when people come into a Brown party and see Nicole there, they assume she's running things from under the table. "Good music," someone told her tonight.

Eventually the party was shut down and, as we filed out, everyone grabbed a fistful of Starbursts off the kitchen table. (It reminded me a little of the procession of departing chimneysweeps in Mary Poppins who, one by one, all shake Mr. Banks's hand.) While walking home, Meara and I drifted from group to group, swapping Starbursts with people. Nobody seems to care for lemon, so the lemon squares were worthless for bartering--they were like chump change. We'd try to offer people lemon and they'd laugh in our faces.

Jake is gone till tomorrow. Knowing that I've a fondness for snooping, he's speckled his bedroom with imperious little post-it notes. "THIMBLE COLLECTION: PLEASE DO NOT TOUCH!" reads one. "BOYS ONLY," says another. Charmingly, each post-it concludes with Jake's small, sloppy signature--as if he was afraid I'd think they were the work of an imposter.

Do Nicole and I feel like interlopers? I can't speak for her, but I don't. Like last semester, there are bastions at Brown. Meara, Jake, Sara, Emmett--they're like embers, the ruins of a once-great civilization.

Various Things That Have Been Weighing On Me

It's Meawa.

I am not here to apologize.

I'm just here to express how much I love olives, oatmeal, and films about polyamory. I love films with polyamory so much, in fact, that it should have been no surprise to Nicole and Matt that, when they lumbered into Providence an hour ahead of schedule, I was sitting in front of such a film, enraptured. After all, mere "friendship" is transient, but film--ART!--lasts forever.

It's not about priorities. It's about love.

It may not even really be about love.

When the movie ended and I arrived home, Nicole and Matt made no attempt to mask their fury. "Where were you?" asked a shrill, shrewd Nicole. "Look at you!" bellowed Matt. "Your hair's all askew, you're wearing a ratty old Jake Schorr sweatshirt, you reek of pot."

"Does she reek of pot?" asked Sara, who I later found out had been desperately placating Matt and Nicole for neigh upon an hour.

For the record: I did not reek of pot. But by then I'd poured myself a bowl of oatmeal and was contentedly munching. "Look at you," said Matt. "You're merry."

I left soon after, and made a solitary pilgrimage to the GCB. Well, let the haters hate. LET THE GREAT WORLD SPIN! I am Meawa. And that's that.

A Burrito Built for Two

Three hours and fifteen minutes into the Megabus ride, and spirits are flagging. I made the comment that "the word Kaela is almost exactly the same as the word koala," but it didn't take us the places I'd hoped it would. As soon as I said it Nicole pulled a burrito out of her satchel, as if to change the subject. When she began munching, a glob or two of sour cream fell onto my cardigan. "Oopsies," she said, as if her spillage was cute; in fact, it was infuriating.

By this point the blops of sour cream have melted, and that area of my cardigan looks rather like a dalmatian in reverse. Nicole and I have not spoken in minutes; we are clearly no longer "in cahoots." Instead, I'm flipping through Swamplandia! (a winning, propulsively jokey novel recommended to me by this bitch) and Nicole is looking mournfully out the bus window. "It's snowing in Providence," she says. "This was a mistake."

Will there be warm arms welcoming us when we arrive? And, more importantly, will there be pizza?

On Road.

Hello everyone! Glad to have you with us! Matt and I are speeding at a sensible 254 mph. We sit here and think of the weekend ahead and the glories and surprises that will inevitably occur.

This just in, for the remainder of our journey the "Clingers" will be hostin' a MIDNIGHT RAFFLE (location not to be announced. ever.)

Prizes may or may not include:
Coldplay tickets
Complimentary/complementary bowl cuts
Diatribes on the state of class warfare today in its multiple incarnations
A pack of as-good-as-new gum (from Tedeschi!)

Readers, sign up today by commenting on this post with something, anything you find alluring about your favorite "Clingers" (us).

High Hopes That Will Surely Be Dashed

Well, hiya.  It's 4:40 on Friday afternoon, and my pal Nicole and I are on the cusp of a very grand adventure indeed!  In a little less than an hour, we'll have whisked ourselves away from the soggy, demoralizing streets of New York City. (The other day on Rivington, a hobo began begging me for a AAA Duracell battery; he claimed he'd been in the final round of his Polly Pocket when the power fizzled.  "You don't need a Triple A battery to play Polly Pocket," I said.  He regrouped, saying "It must've been a 9 Volt.")

But never mind the hobo.  Why Providence?, you little guys may be asking yourselves.   Well, Nicole and I have been yearning (of late) to return to a simpler time--a time when our only worry was whether or not Emily Taylor could eat shellfish.

I'll be enjoying Providence's wiles till Monday night, and Nicole will be there "until the wind changes."  Why not join us?  We'll be live-blogging our experiences relentlessly; it's sure to be a weekend chockablock with frog nostalgia, elaborate photo shoots, and outings to the Rock.  We may even have guest-bloggers such as Jake S. (who'll discuss the gowns and frocks on display at the Oscars) and Susan and Emmett (who will publicly discuss what each sees as the other's biggest flaw).

Cheers!