Fatal Attraction

Don't let that posture fool you. 

To say that I'm not a cat person is akin to suggesting that the Media manipulates information from time to time.

You guys, it's totally TRUE. I know. 

In the same way that Cat People will swear up, down, and sideways that their Precious is different than Those Other Cats, most other cat haters (not capitalized because capitalization isn't really needed for a group that includes, well, everyone) will cop to a general dislike of feline creatures, but if a kitten is tossed into their mitts, their resolve suddenly atomizes into a misty pink cloud. 

But my fear and loathing of cats is as true as Elvis Costello's aim. That is to say, my boiling ire for God's Least Favorite Creation doesn't discriminate. Kitten, alley cat, fat cat, three-legged cat, siamese cat, cartoon cat, LOL cat...they're all the same in my book, the title of which begins with CATS: What Are They Good For? and ends with Absolutely Nothing! 

However, I'll occasionally test the fortitude of my compassion when it comes to God's Favorite Terrible Mistake because unlike other objects of my undying vexation (octopodes, melon, the West Side), cats do find their weaselly way into my path from time to time. 

Which brings us to yesterday morning, en route to my car. A grey whip of a thing was crouched near my house, looking all kinds of pathetic. I gave him a pat on the head because I was feeling magnanimous, because the morning had only just begun and the day's load of emotional erosion had yet to wear my good mood into a nub, because I'd yet to sink a few hundred dollars into fixing my car, and because - I don't know - I'd had a good night previously. Whatever the reasons, and I can supply many, I patted the mewling creature on his cretinous head and went on my way. 

When I returned to my car, he was there waiting for me. In fact, he was waiting at the back door for me every time I went within five feet of it. When I left said door ajar to let Abbot out for the day, the creature used his evil paw to enter my house uninvited (much to Abbot's chagrin). What's worse, any time I tried to hiss or shoo him away, he only blinked and looked at me, and while I'd have hoped for skittishness and fear, I'd have also settled for false contrition. But he gave me nothing: Utter nonchalance; complete disregard. 

Every time I'd leave or enter the back door, he'd be there waiting. Waiting for what, you might be wondering? Waiting to THROW himself at me, of course. Waiting to purr and grunt and fling his emaciated body onto my feet in ecstatic adulation. What, exactly, had I done to deserve such adoration? Absolutely nothing other than the basest level of carefree regard. Hence, my concern. Because his mooning quickly turned to churlish Halloween-style hissing as soon as I tried to reenter my house and used my foot to keep the artless, brooding wretch from following me. He sunk onto his haunches, bore his teeth, and proceeded to go completely apoplectic on my slipper.

BAD KITTY!

As soon as the Fury reared its ugly head it was gone again, replaced by cartoon-sized saucer eyes and a plaintive meow. But you're not fooling me, CAT. I saw that little hissy fit, you simpering interloper. YOU STAY AWAY FROM ME!

But stay away he hasn't, and now every single time I exit my home, I'm faced with wondering whether he'll throw himself onto my feet in the throes of ecstasy or attempt to extract my foot from the rest of my body with his evil, rabies-infected claws. Fatal attraction, indeed.

UPDATE: Based on the comments I've received from a couple of people, I thought I should clarify: This cat is stalking me. I do not own this cat. I do not love this cat. I have not fed this cat. I have glared at the cat and have asked it to leave me alone, to no avail. Just thought I'd clear that up. 

Seth + Megan

Shady's back, as they say.

Took a week or so off to ponder the meaning of life watch American Horror Story through my fingers like the little sissy I really am, among other things.

Over the weekend I accompanied a certain missus Lehua Faulkner, née Kamakawiwoole (Hawaiian for "Uh...what?")*, to the illustrious hillocks of Napa for the wedding of Seth** and Megan. I was background support for this particular venture, so you'll have to hit 'refresh' a few hundred times over at Lehua's site to see the whole shebang, but in the meantime, here are a few of my favorite shots from the day. 

*I may have just offended a good majority of Hawaiian people with that comment, which, when you consider that this is supposed to be one of those suuuuuper PC "YAY WEDDINGS LOVE AND MIRACLES AND HERE ARE THE VENDORS I WORKED WITH!" types of posts, is pretty impressive. I mean come on...celebrating love and pissing people off? It wouldn't be a typical workday if I didn't do at least one of those. 

**Speaking of scratching people's backs, Seth's also a photographer.***  Check out his work here. 

***Isn't everyone? Yes, as it turns out, literally everyone is. The difference here, of course, is that Seth is a good one. As is Lehua. Did I pimp you her site enough yet? No? Okay, HERE!

80% Of Your Facebook Interactions Look Like This

Don't they? DON'T THEY?

Graphic by Laurel Dailey

Big Plans, Big Bear

Well, folks. Under the guidance of a certain all-knowing Camp Dad, I did battle with the cold in Big Bear and I totally won. I'd also like to thank my Bromleigh peacoat, Pendleton wool flannel, and vintage fox fur, without which I'd have most certainly been chilly. Thanks, natural fibers, you guys rule. 

Not much else to say, I suppose, except that we camped, we drank, we explored, and we s'mored. Here are some photos.

Golden Moments with DKNY & B. Jones Style

A few weeks ago, friend and longtime favorite collaborator Beth Jones contacted me with an idea for a new shoot. DKNY had instructed her, as a brilliant fashion blogger, to create a "golden moment" in honor of their new fragrance Golden Delicious. But Beth had other ideas. Rather than devise a Golden Moment for herself, she decided to create one for someone else. And thus, our latest collaboration was born. 

Click here to read the full post with images over at Beth's blog, B. Jones Style. In the meantime, here are a few of my favorite shots (as alluded to earlier).

P.S. Our model, Emily, was an absolute trooper. She put up with wild animals, blistering heat, and vertiginous heights (and heels) with such grace and good nature. If I asked her to hike to the top of a boulder, she was like, "Sure thing, and also? I'll do it in 5" platforms." Just great.  

Photography by Laurel Dailey

Styling by Beth Jones

Makeup by Kelsey Moreau

Modeled by Emily Swan

Two From The Weekend

Big Bear, CA

Bombs Away

From last year's trip

I'm currently packing for a weekend camping trip in Big Bear and doing my best to pack whatever cold weather essentials I'll need as we're headed for a low of, ahem, 26 degrees. Lovers (or even mild likers) of mountainous photos and snow-capped mornings might appreciate the photos from last year's trek to Holcomb Valley. To wit, I obsessed endlessly about wild animals prior to last year's excursion, but it was the weather I was woefully underprepared for. Sure, a balmy daytime high of 60-something calls for nothing more than a sweater but once the sun goes down, all bets are off. I was prepared in theory for the frigid below-freezing temps, as I'd packed plenty of layers and pairs of wool socks and whiskey to get me through the evening. However, the crucial detail I'd overlooked was the temperature threshold of my sleeping bag. 

I've had my bag for years. It was one my parents had gotten for both Jody and I when I was still in high school. It was mummy-style, forest green, and until last year, a trusty companion on whatever trip I'd taken it on. I knew what the weather was going to be in Big Bear that weekend. I knew it would be cold. So when I asked Jody if our bags were cold weather bags, I never thought to question her when she affirmed that, in fact, they were. 

I spent the first night at the campsite in a tent by myself, freezing my everloving ass off. 

I emerged from my tent after ten restless hours that included many heat-seeking contortions but, mercilessly, not a wink of sleep, and there was snow on the ground. Jody, meanwhile, was borrowing someone else's bag, and had spent the night in the bed of a truck under the protective cover of a camper shell. 

The following night, after a full day of beer drinking and a giant pasta dinner, I climbed into a different tent between Tyler and Todd, both of whom had taken pity on my cold weather plight and offered to make me the sliced turkey in their man sandwich. Hey, I surmised, body heat. Right? 

Oh, body heat. And so much more. It turns out, body heat only gets you so far when the temperature hovers below freezing and your bag wimps out at 60 degrees. The real problem that night wasn't so much that I was still freezing, or that I didn't sleep. The crux of this tale comes midway through the night while I was rolled to my right side, facing Tyler. In the soundness of his sleep and in joyful response to the aforementioned day of beer and pasta, he let rip one of the most noxious, pickled egg farts in the history of gaseous miasmas. It came like a plume of smoke, funneling through the opening of his mummy bag and right into my face. 

Of all the horrors. Of all the roadkill and soiled diapers and rotten sink smells. 

Eyes watering, I shuffled around till I was on my left side, facing Todd--also sleeping like a swaddled baby. Not three minutes later, Todd's mouth opened and from the acrid hinterlands of his stomach cavity came the most ferocious beer burp in the history of barley-scented decay. A pungent cloud of stink filled the tent and I spent the rest of the night on my back with my mummy bag cinched tightly around my face. 

So this year, while I prepare for another chilly weekend in the mountains, I've wisely borrowed a friend's zero degree bag, because as it turns out, those are a lot easier to get ahold of than gas masks. 

Stevie Dance

Stylist and former editor at Russh. I absolutely adore her style.

The Unicorns Were Just Out Of Frame

A couple of weeks ago I flew to New York for this shoot. The plane landed during a gorgeous, pastoral sunset. At one point while the American flag-festooned wing drifted over cotton candy clouds, there was a rainbow off in the distance. A rainbow. And then I sneezed and glitter flew everywhere and Katy Perry started singing about fireworks and Charlie the Unicorn came galloping over the horizon. 

It was special. 

South Pacific

It seems LA's decided to play by the rules this year when it comes to seasonal shifts. Here we are, barely within the borders of October and it's already raining. I love the way rain changes the appearance of familiar sights. In most cases, cloud cover will blanch the color right out of a landscape, but sometimes leaves seem even more vibrant when they're slick with rain. 

I snapped a few photos, and now (predictably enough) I'll share them with you. 

Mama Wolf

Here's a teaser image from a shoot over the weekend. More details coming soon, but here are the essentials: photography by Laurel Dailey, styling by Beth Jones, makeup by Kelsey Moreau (link, Miss? If you see this, lemme know), and modeling by the lovely Emily Swan. 

2011.11

Teetering On The Precipice

Another excellent shoot with Mizz B. Jones over and done. Here's a peek. More coming soon.