Crazy Jane:

Hostel Roommates

Cameron & Sophia are from Atlanta. They got engaged last night over expensive whiskey and Cuban cigars. Then, they both puked.

Sophia made it to the ladies' in the bar, but Cameron let loose in the courtyard to the hostel, and then Sophia cleaned up after him. Cameron found it rather poetic, really; and they both figure it'll be a good story to tell their kids about the night they got engaged.

This morning, over breakfast, Cameron told me one of the most hilarious jokes I've ever heard, but you had to be there.

They rule.

Bournemouth By Night: Dreadful!

Oh My God, I Am So Not In Hell

So, here's what happened: on July 3rd, I hired a car in Brooklyn to take me to the airport in Newark. There, I boarded an airplane and departed the North American continent for the forseeable future. At this point, I am homeless, unemployed and living out of a suitcase in England, and for the record, it is totally awesome... minus an explosion or two in London.

Since I've been in England, I have been experiencing the most incredibly generous hospitality from the dearest people ever. First, I stayed with Greg, whom many of you know from Hollywood, but for those who don't, suffice it to say that he is positively dreamy. Greg's flat in London is lovely, and was an absolute haven to me for several days, and Greg's generosity and kindness will be rewarded in heaven, without a doubt.

I polished off part 1 of my visit to London with an episode of drinking far too much after my long hiatus from booze since I last saw one of the dearest creatures of my entire acquaintance: dear Matthew, from Prague, along with his friend Ketan. After an all-nighter of dancing and stumbling up a frightening, red staircase, we caught an early morning bus to Oxford, got a few hours' sleep, and then I was treated to more unbelievably kind hospitality from Ketan, who made Matty and I a lovely breakfast and walked us around Oxford to see the spectacular lawns of the Colleges. What a dear.

From Oxford, I boarded the coach for London, where I caught another, this time, bound for Bournemouth, on the southern coast, and the home of International Super Genius, Nathan Johnson. Upon arrival, I was given the choice of hanging out at Nath's to see if there was anything good on TV, or heading out to an all-night beach party. I chose to party, obviously. Duh! For those of you who are lucky enough to know Nathan, please know that here in Bournemouth, he has been leading the most miserable life possible, with a terrible flat, awful, revolting friends, a slavish job, and worst of all, he isn't in the slightest bit AWESOME, or anything.

MAN, it has to suck to be Nathan.

Just for an example, last night we went over to Nathan's friends' flat where a meal of mussels in white wine and cream sauce and a gorgeous variety of homemade pizzas and bread had been prepared. From there, we all went out to a park overlooking the seaside, drank wine and listened to Nathan and his horrid friend Chris play guitar and sing us songs.

There are loads more pictures on my Flickr, but I have to go have more fun now, so I can't be bothered to link them all here. As this blog's only recent topic, Trent Reznor, might say: "Help me, I am in Hell."

NOT.

National Gallery Loafers

Walter Benjamin & Naughty Nails at The National Gallery

From Walter Benjamin's "The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction":

"The uniqueness of a work of art is inseparable from its being imbedded in the fabric of tradition. This tradition itself is thoroughly alive and extremely changeable. An ancient statue of Venus, for example, stood in a different traditional context with the Greeks, who made it an object of veneration, than with the clerics of the Middle Ages, who viewed it as an ominous idol. Both of them, however, were equally confronted with it's uniqueness, that is, its aura. Originally, the contextual integration of art in tradition found its expression in the cult. We know that the earliest works of art originated in the service of ritual -- first the magical, then the religious kind. It is significant that the existence of the work of art with reference to its aura is never entirely separated from its ritual function. In other words, the unique value of the "authentic" work of art has its basis in ritual, the location of its original use value."

I spent the day first at the National Museum of Women in the Arts, debating the very raison d'etre of such a thing with my dear friend Matt Ambrose, who put up with my ranting on about the cloying nature of "women's art" with admirable equinamity. Then, the National Gallery of Art, where I saw a gorgeous exhibit of platinum prints by Irving Penn and a roomful of phantasmagoric El Grecos, among other things, while listening to the "Naughty Nails" playlist in the iPod. I'm sure those of you who know how naughty Nails can be can probably imagine. I felt like a predator stalking my prey in the sculpture garden! It ruled.

Pictures later, I guess.

Plus, PUBLIC TRANSPORTATION; and very hot, humid weather, which, surprisingly, as long as the evil fucking sun is not pounding down upon me using all of it's powers of torturous, superheated brightness, is tolerable... perhaps even pleasant.

Less than a week before I leave the continent.

Washington DC: Lines, Grafitti & Me

Plus, my latest contribution to The Mirror Project here. 

There Was a False Start, But I'm Fully Underway Now...

Ok, so here's what happened: I called the airline and asked for a ticket to travel from Los Angeles to Washington D.C. on Tuesday, June 21. On that day, I arrived at the airport with approximately 500 lbs. of luggage, my little dog, and the haggard expression of someone who was up all night trying to reduce the sheer volume of junk she needed to lug to a mere 500 lbs, and was told that, in fact, they had booked me for the same flight on Wednesday, June 22. AWESOME! My advice to you: read the damned e-ticket confirmation mail for correctness.

I shuttled it back to a streetcorner in my former neighborhood, since, at this point, I am officially homeless and don't have an address, dropped my junk off with my brother, burst into tears, and then went to get some coffee and chocolate to soothe my ruffled feelings. In the end, it wasn't so bad. I recovered, got some sleep, and my very kind brother drove me to the airport again the next day, and now I'm sitting in a lovely cafe in lovely Washington D.C. writing the first of many messages from the road, which will probably not be all that funny or entertaining, and my include the odd observation about Trent Reznor, so be prepared to hear all about it.

My flight was awesome, like always. I love that feeling of being in-between places, and having nothing to do but wait. I listened to my iPod, and more importantly, read another totally retarded article about da Brode, this time in Risen Magazine, which is beautiful and glossy, and featured a very entertaining little account of life on the road by Blink 182 fratmonkey Mark Hoppus -- who seems like a charming individual even if his band is not my favorite -- and positively gorgeous photography of da Brode, who looks all painted and emotional in every picture. In this episode in the ongoing trainwreck that is his PR, I have to say that he, himself, was significantly less retarded than the writer, who asked him questions like "What is the purpose of your life?" (WTF?!) and wrote the article like s/he wanted to make out with him real bad.

But, back to my flight. I had a window seat; and especially enjoyed the desert, dun-colored and speckled with the shadows of clouds, and the contrast between nature's forms and man-made ones: little rivulets where water has drawn its path across the dry earth, and rocky ridges rising out of the flats, next to the perfect rectangles of crops growing in that inhospitable landscape, and the straight lines and perpendicular intersections of roads. Beautiful.

Yesterday I spent some very happy hours with my Dad and his wife, Susan, my beloved friend Mr. Matt Ambrose, and my mom. I took some photos, and ate ridiculously scrumptious food while letting the fact that I am homeless, unemployed, and ON MY WAY TO PRAGUE sink into my surprisingly impassive brain. It hasn't hit me yet.

Anyway.

To all my London friends: I will be in your 'hood on the evening of July 3rd. I can't wait to hug you. Special message to Steve Hughes: Please e-mail me your phone number! It's a long story, but I got a new computer, and deleted my entire e-mail file and address book from my old one, like a big fucking genius. I will be miserable if I don't see you, so please be in touch.

I know this has been a rambling and discorganized update. I am a skatterbrain!

More later.