29 August, 2006, 819 pm
Filed under: Uncategorized

If you like classy indie style or Delia’s and you have an “apple” body and you feel fat and/or icky, then you’ve come to the right place.  Normally, when I’m shopping at Delia’s, I’m apprehensive…I lean towards the tee-shirts and maybe like shorts, but that’s it.  I also like their thermal tops.  Nice and flattering.  Yesterday, though, it was my birthday, so I was looking for something special.  And I ran into this one shirt, and it was calling to me, “Paige, screw those tee-shirts; you already have enough.  Buy me!  Or rather, get your mom to buy me for you in a Medium and we’ll be best friends!”  So I didn’t even try it on; I thought, “What the hell?” and my mom got it for me (birthday).  I let it sit around all night and this morning, I decided to try it on.  Now, I don’t know about other “apples,” but I have boobs.  It was a little awkward trying to get the shirt on, since it’s fitted, and I was afraid it would be too small and look trashy on me, and I also worried about getting it off.  So…I was naturally shocked when I looked in the mirror…and it made me look ten times longer and leaner than I ever have.  I looked French.  It was hot.  I love this goddamn shirt.

By the way, if you’re not sure if you’re an apple…Drew Barrymore is an example.  Generally, you have skinny limbs and then you have a stomach.  Everything else about you is thin or normal-sized.  Just, your stomach is misproportionate.  So…this shirt evens you out and just makes you look skinny,  I’m in love with it. OR just go to a Delia’s store.  That’s all, folks.

23 August, 2006, 1111 pm
Filed under: Music

To be honest is to see both sides of something. To be able to relate to either, but to choose one side. Just one. You can’t be honest and gray. It’s black or white, but you can be honest about not being sure. This sort of honesty, though, is only in being honest to yourself. It’s impossible to be fully honest to other people anymore because they won’t take your word for it. And words can’t speak loud enough anymore, anyways.

I feel sort of guilty for liking Matt Costa. I feel like his sound is something that all those Q94 (holla Richmonders) kids should like, someone all the polo-wearing, ponytailing, light pink-loving chicks should be swooning over. Sort of the way I swoon over Ben Gibbard’s voice (I do, I do) instead of over his sex appeal. But it seems like somehow, even with “Cold December” being up there on my playlist with popular songs like “Neighborhood #1” and “Take It Easy (Love Nothing),” nobody knows about Matt Costa. I figured, “Well, he’s probably a 30-year old like Daniel Powter, minus the little bit of sex appeal Dan has.” (Originally, I wrote that Daniel Powter was a 40-year-old, but I had to look it up to make sure nobody got mad at me. He’s actually 29 and a half as of Friday.) For me, the only exterior things about an artist that matter are his/her eyes and hair. It’s 1/3 voice, 1/3 lyrics, and 1/3 eyes/hair. I’m one of those junkies who thinks that Ben Gibbard is “cute” because of his eyes. They’re very bright, as in glowing and intelligent. I think Elliott Smith’s scars add to his appeal, and his hair is adorable (not in the Jesus hair phase). He was gorgeous. I didn’t really care about Matt Costa’s eyes or his hair or his age; I just wanted to see what he looked like for the hell of it. I’d read that he was a skater. That actually turned me off a bit, considering that skaters turned singers are normally full of themselves and overly attractive, as in they have no flaws to make them handsome (for me, flaws in appearance are a turn-on; they mean the guy is real). I’ve never really heard of a skater turned singer; I just know that singers with the badass mellow skater attitude normally suck. I didn’t want Matt Costa to be like that.

I expected blond, shaggy hair and huge blue eyes framed in tons of eyelashes, and probably a 6-pack and tan skin. That or a bald, pale head and biceps and a guitar in hand. Two extremes. What I got was Matt Costa.

Matt Costa with gorgeous hair. Lookswise, he’s sort of…reminiscent of the ideal indie guy. I wouldn’t date the ideal indie guy. He’s luscious. But I’d rather be his sidekick or his best friend. His good looks make me a little wary. Am I supposed to like the music of someone so undeniably attractive? But in being honest with myself, I’ve decided that it’s the music that matters, and it’s supposed to be 1/2 voice and 1/2 lyrics. So in being honest with myself, I’ve decided that looks and sex appeal are for pussies and MTV lovers, so I like Matt Costa a lot. It doesn’t matter if he’s got a sound reminiscent of teeny boppers. He’s too good for them.

On a different note, I’ve been lusting after Little Miss Sunshine for a good time now, and wondering why it’s rated R. Turns out, it’s only because of the word “fuck” and because of the grandfather’s heroin addiction. And that’s about the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard of. No lie. I will see it, though, if it’s the last thing I do.

23 August, 2006, 431 am
Filed under: Uncategorized

“To me, cruelty is the worst of human sins. Once we accept that a living creature has feelings and suffers pain, then by knowingly and deliberately inflicting suffering on that creature, we are guilty, whether it be human or animal.”
-Jane Goodall

She’s my hero, too.  My other hero.

P.S.  Like I said, I don’t hate An Angle.  I obviously like their sound; you can’t like Bright Eyes as a whole and not like An Angle at least a little.  Their attitude is a little too copycat for me, though.  Just putting that out there.

20 August, 2006, 1144 pm
Filed under: Music

I officially love Marc Spitz.  End of story.  And I’m not talking about the Olympic swimmer, Mark Spitz.  I’m talking about the amazing author of How Soon Is Never? and Too Much Too Late.  Also co-author of We Got The Neutron Bomb: The Untold Story of L.A. Punk (with Brendan Mullen).  I haven’t read that one yet.  He also writes for Spin magazine.  Just…he reads my mind.  Years in advance.  He knows what I want to read before I’ve even figured it out myself.  Pages in advance.  Mere paragraphs.

“Wouldn’t it be nice if this book mentioned Jenny Lewis or indie rock?” I thought as I threw on my gray Death Cab for Cutie tee shirt.  Pages later, I found this exerpt, no lie…

“Rivers Cuomo of Weezer,” Tracey said out of nowhere.  “Was one of his legs too short or was the other too long?”

“Huh?”  Harry was clearly puzzled.

“Too long,” I answered.  “He had to have it shortened.”

“Ah . . . you’re an optimist.”  Hillary nodded approvingly.

“Why can’t the Postal Service and Death Cab for Cutie tour on opposite coasts at the same time?”

“Can I get another stuffed artichoke?” Ben asked, oblivious to their oddly spontaneous trivia game.

“What television show did Rilo Kiley’s Jenny Lewis have a role on when she was a child star?”

“Hillary, are you giving us, like, a test?”

“No.  I’m just getting to know you.”

“What is the secret ingredient in this salad dressing?” Tracey asked, as if to make light of their poorly received pop pop quiz.

“It’s anise,” Ben growled.

“Fair enough.”  Tracey nodded.  “A gourmand.”

Out manager stroked the edge of the bat grip.

Marc Spitz has it.  Not only does he have it, but he has it.  I want to write like him, with the passion he has and the cleverness and the somewhat unintentional sarcasm.  He writes like he’s talking.  He writes like I talk.  He knows things.  And I’m not sure if he’s insulted or embarrassed that 16-year-olds are such huge fans of his books that were probably intended from reformed New Wavers…I actually don’t want to know.  It would hurt my feelings too much.  Because I actually put Marc Spitz up there with Jenny Lewis and Conor Oberst.  The only difference is that I could become Marc Spitz…or at least something like him.  I know I’ll never be a singer, and my musical skills (come on–oboe) won’t get me anywhere in life, but I can write.  I’m writing now.  And I think that Marc Spitz is probably my first real idol.  I also think it’s especially cool how he does not demean the blogger.  Motorrrju, Natalie Levine…she’s a 16-year-old chick with a powerful blog.  Motorrrju gives me something to stive toward today(although I don’t think I’ll ever want to write using the internet lingo she always does).  Marc Spitz gives me something to strive toward in twenty years.

So I now have about three or four new heroes.  Marc Spitz, Motorrrju aka Natalie Levine, Joe Green, and Harry Vance.  Three of whom are fictional characters.  God, I love reading.  Reading and Jane Asher and The Smiths.

Jane Asher : 1960s :: Jenny Lewis : 2000s.

See what I mean?  The resemblance is uncanny.

13 August, 2006, 1134 pm
Filed under: Music

This is my life right now: I’m numb, and I did something I probably shouldn’t have because of raw, mortified instinct, but I have nobody to turn to and I love not a soul, not a single adult in the world, because someone turned them all against me so that they are immature, drunk, and unable to handle the situation.  The only compadres I have are my sisters, and of course they see eye to eye with me, and that’s what everyone will say: we’re sisters. But while they even have a little love, I feel just the same as that kid that Blake Sennett croons advice and pity to.  Just the same, only there’s no Blake to turn to.


Pull the ripchord
the ship has lost its sail
your mama’s got a new man
your daddy always fails
and you’re eating again
at them
’cause nobody loves you

and even fancy things
have finally lost their charm
wine and diamond rings
they never get you anymore
you’re sleeping again
’cause nobody loves you.

they should have seen you,
should have known you,
should have known what it was like
to be you

so come on kid
look at what you did
I don’t know if you meant it
but you did yourself in
and I was even having a good day
when I’d found out we lost you.

she said it was in the singing and the strumming,
oh man I even saw it coming!


‘Cause he would listen.

9 August, 2006, 553 am
Filed under: Music

This woman right here is amazing.

She is the epitome of original cool and red hair and defying the stereotypes and being soft and sexy but tough and a feminist and standing up for her rights and her being a female without being stupid or slutty.  I love her.

Seriously, who doesn’t love the pink Power Ranger?  Say what you may about whoever, Rachel Bilson, Lauren Conrad, maybe, maybe even Bright Eyes.  Maybe even Conor Oberst, although I would give your ass a good beating for unjustified smacktalk about him.  He’s a boy, though, and he can shrug it off.  Jenny Lewis is different territory.  You do not speak ill of Jenny Lewis around me.  I’ll leave this at “Or else.”

Why, though, would anyone hate her?  I’ve never heard of someone who didn’t like Jenny Lewis.  Everyone admires her tastefully short, retro dresses and the way she pulls off long, feminine, red, curlyish hair with bangs.  Her voice can go to the extremes–from tough single woman feminist to soft sheltered young girl suffering under the weight of love–in a flash.  She is what girls should want to be as well as what guys should want.  Why don’t they; why isn’t Jenny the poster woman for the epitome of the perfect woman?  Obvious.  She’s currently an “underground” indie goddess hit and not enough people have been exposed to her yet.  But I promise her time will come…It’s just the bittersweet matter of wanting to expose the uneducated to something great like Rilo Kiley and at the same time wanting to keep them to ourselves.  Oh, how I hate situations like these.

In the meantime, though, before we decide whether or not to let the n00bs in on our secret, let’s admire her workin’ it as an incredibly successful woman who’s only managed to break through and become more awesome as the years passed.

7 August, 2006, 1204 am
Filed under: Barrels of Fun, Music

Bleh. Conformity makes me a little ill. To every question we ask at band practice, the answer is, “To make everything look the same.” Why do we have to wear white tee shirts/Why aren’t there different parts?/Why are we using that mortifyingly crappy “TSS!” sound instead of our typical beloved but hated “Benton Hut!”?! It’s almost like DR is turning into a Catholic school. And I know Richmond will never be outdated; it’ll always be dull yet bursting from the seams with pop culture and a deep passion for sameness (and saneness). I have a feeling that after this year, I may be forced to quit.

Oh yeah, and did I mention we’re supposed to go to London this year? Wait, yes, clarification for the confused–I do mean this place…

Yeah, that London. The one with these cool contraptions:

and these transportation units:

Oh, and there’s also an abundance of these hot pastries:

(Yes, that is a male.) So you can obviously see why I’d want to go to London. I forgot to mention these spicy fixtures:

Them minus, of course, Lucille and pre-2000 Christina Aguilera.

Or my own version of them:

Yes, that’s right, Britiain lovers: Spice Club. Or The S-Girls. Whatever. Note that Bradley is blacker than night, Scary is picking an eensie wedgie, Jo has a static fro, and Posh looks constipated.

That’s right, Victoria Beckham is constipated. And in her little Gucci dress, too. Also…in case you missed it…minor detail…Britney Spears was sort of in the picture…sort of like a walk-in, and definitely not something you’d pick out if I didn’t say anything…but here it is again; see if you can find her.

Aah so that’s why I want to go to London. Okay, maybe I lied about wanting to go for old time’s sake like S-Club 7 and the Spice Girls…and Britney Spears…I totally wanna go so I can feed the scene boys lacking in food. But it costs in the $2000 ballpark. Even with a job, I couldn’t earn that much. My dad makes that much in about a month. So…no way. And they’re trying to get all these extra people to go, and Mr. R is like, “Yeah! Mow some lawns and walk some dogs! We need 30 or 60 more people to be able to even go!” Try asking for California or D.C. kids, Mr. R, ‘kay?! You’re not getting any more kids because it costs so goddamn much.

We’d better go somewhere cool next year for “spring” trip.