2011 In Review

!!!

Where has the time gone, you guys? Soooooo sorry for the lack of posting, I've been swept up in the Christmas spirit and haven't found ANY time to post! I promise I'll get back to my regular schedule sooooon though and I have sooooo many great things to share with you!

(Ahem. I could [and probably should] pen the meme S**t Bloggers Say, in the vein of this Interweb hilarity, but OMG I'VE BEEN OPENING SO MANY PRESENTS, WHERE, OH, WHERE HAS THE TIME GONE?! Also, SHOEZ. So many shoes.)

(Also, truly apologize for the implied ** up there, but it's a meme, guys, and that's what it's called. I try to keep things relatively PG if at all possible.)

Aaaand we're off to a fantastic start of what will likely be my last post of the year 2011. Unlike previous years, I decided not to throw my hat into the ring of year-end music lists for a few reasons, the top three being: 1) I am lazy 2) the Internet universe is already clogged with capital-O Opinions regarding Top Ten whatevers and 3) I'm a grumpy old curmudgeon who felt that 2011 severely lacked in great music. blank-wave, I'm looking at YOU. You too, crunchy, bedroom-recorded, faux-nostalgic, shoegaze nouveau, triangle-art-festooned musical schlock.  So rather than expound upon my general disinterest with the whole franchise (too late!), I simply opted out. (For the record, Tune-Yards managed to escape  my ire. So there's a little popcorn kernel of positivity for all you Glee-loving, Millennial bleeding heart types.)

But! I do love me a Year In Review post. The photos, the latent longing, the fond remembrance...can't get enough. So awriiiight, here's my year in review.

2011 As It Pertained To Laurel Dailey: Pictures I've Taken, Places I've Gone, People I've Been With

There's me at the Rough Luxe Hotel in central London, looking like the cat who ate the canary

The ever lovely Madeleine from Click Models

(Top: Lake Tahoe, CA. Bottom: Alberta, Canada) 

I might seem outdoorsy. Don't be fooled. Being in nature is merely an excuse to wear fur and cool hats. 

A small sampling of a few of the weddings I was privileged to shoot this year

(Top: Near Joshua Tree, CA. Bottom: Occidental, CA)

Did I mention that communing with nature is also an excuse to wear stoner hoodies?

A few of my nearest and dearest: Jess, Dustin, Charlie, David

NATURE! Clockwise from top left: Near Bend, OR; near Bend, OR; Icefield Parkway, Alberta, Canada; Cherry Hill Winery, Oregon; field walking in Big Bear, CA; Alberta, Canada; near Bishop, CA

A couple of my favorite portraits this year. Keslie & Charlie

A few beasts in their natural habitat, clockwise from top left: Canada, Malibu, Fallen Leaf Lake, Hicksville Trailer Park, Santa Barbara

Lastly, my loved and sorely missed grandparents, Bob & Darline Hjort, who both passed away this summer. To me, this exuberant photo proves that certain apples don't fall far from certain trees. 

It's been nice, 2011. Here's hoping 2012 holds every bit as much adventure, exploring, and wild bears. 

(P.S. It goes without saying that I, Laurel Dailey of Laurel Dailey Photography & World Takeover Enterprises, have taken all of these photos myself, save for the few I happen to be in, in which case, many thanks to Jess, Jody, Ashley, Jenn and anyone else I may have foisted my gear on. Also, I didn't shoot the last image, obviously, because it was taken in the 50's.)

No, I'm Just Like That

Michael: "So...your last post was sort of crazy. Really aggressive. You were under the influence of something, right?"

Me: "...Something like...?"

Michael: "Well, like drugs. You were on drugs, right? I mean, you had to be."

In The Pit Of My Stomach

It started with a choice. 

I'm choosing to blame In-N-Out. 

But I suppose it began with me choosing a mealy grilled chicken sandwich from Chick-fil-A instead of waiting in the interminable lunchtime line snaking around the corner of the In-N-Out on Bristol St. And I figured, okay, half a grilled chicken sandwich (which was all I could manage to choke down, by the way, because it was disgusting. But I was hungry. Whatever) is probably the healthier option here, right? Healthier than a delicious burger with the delicious secret sauce whose main ingredient, I'm pretty sure, is the single tear of a perfect white unicorn and certainly healthier than those delectable fries which are sprinkled with mirth and gold shavings from Heaven. Right? Plus, I was in a hurry, buzzing from the rental place to a job, blah, blah, blah, couldn't be bothered. 

Stomach, internal organs, just let it be known: I did it for your benefit. 

It may have been misguided but these are dark times, these weeks linking gluttonous holidays, and I've been fairly militant about what I will and will not consume so that January 1st approaches more like a genial wave and less like a brutal slap to the (bloated) face. So far, so good, actually. I've actually managed to avoid beer since Thanksgiving. Kaboom, gluttony. One point for LD. 

So this meandering preamble only serves to protect the inevitable, that being, I totally brought this on myself. 

I choked down the sandwich, shot all day, and went home fairly starving around 5:30. This is where my excruciatingly ballasted preemptive starts to crumble, because my resolve (for the first time in two weeks, I might add) utterly vaporized when I was presented with the option of drinks and a movie at Dustin's house. OMG, FROZEN PIZZA! To be fair, I still managed to stay away from beer and opted instead for a bottle of Pinot. Baby step forward, gigantic leap back, etc. I was triumphant, nay, even beatific when Dustin opened his gate and I jauntily held up the grocery bag containing my surprises: "Pizza! Wine! Woody Allen!" 

Oh, what a night. 

My first clue should have been the fact that the pizza didn't go down nearly as smoothly as I expected it to. In fact, I felt downright squeamish a few minutes after eating it, but I merely chalked it up to the fact that I hadn't really put anything quite so greasy into my system for the better part of two weeks. I gulped down a few glasses of water and hoped to feel better but when I went to bed that night, "better" was a few zipcodes away, in the next city, right on the northern edge of town, sort of in the rural area that no one ever goes to unless they know someone who lives there. What had shown up in Better's stead was Worse, and Worse was ready to party. 

I reasoned with Worse. "Here's the thing, if I just go to the bathroom this once, I think it'll all be over. It's my own fault, I shouldn't have had that pizza." Pizza. The very thought of it caused my throat to go dry. 

Worse laughed. "No way, brah. I'm here and I'm ready to BLOW THIS JOINT UP. Let's DO this!"

Sweat was starting to bead on my forehead. "Okay," I cracked, barely above a whisper. "But can you just leave me out of it? Like, party hard, you know? Whatever. Do illegal drugs. I don't even care. Just let me sleep, yeah?"

Worse shook his head. "Nope." 

Here's what transpired: Dance-off in my lower intestines to the musical stylings of Wham!, fifteen rounds of 151 in my throat, some sort of slam poetry throwdown in my stomach, someone lit the curtains on fire trying to make Flaming Dr. Peppers, and the cops never showed up to shut it down, so this party lasted all night long and tested the limits of the following day, as well. I'm pretty sure every single cast member of the Jersey Shore did a brutal fist pump to the lower half of my body. Talk about a hangover. 

When Worse finally packed up his DJ equipment and swigged the last of the Jager, he gave me one of those awful bro-chin-ups. "Hey, bitchin' party." 

With only one bleary, teary eye open and the rest crumpled in a ball at the base of the toilet I muttered, "Yeah. Holiday parties are the best." 

2011.12

For You, Blue Vol. IV

True story: I approached a friend at church yesterday in all my blazing red-on-red glory and when he commented at my sartorial festivity, I eschewed snapping, "It's for fashion, not for Christmas, idiot!" and instead quipped, "'Tis the season!"

'Tis, indeed. And you know you've bought into the whole kit and caboodle when you look down and realize that, in fact, you are Rudolph's nose writ large, replete with tinsel-glittered heels and wind-blushed cheeks. Irritated though I may be that my friends don't recognize a Street Style tip o' the hat when they see one,  I can't really blame them. Donning a uniform of holly berry red in the month of December is begging for a mixup.

HEY! Speaking of mixups mixes, it's that time of year again, isn't it? Time for LD's annual For You, Blue (And Santa Too) holiday mixtravaganza. Mixtacular. Mix-en-scène. Okay, last one: Mixcellent. Sorry. You can spy last year's playlists here and here, though there's quite a bit of overlap because I hate change, I'm a one trick pony, if it ain't broke, why fix it? I just love certain songs a lot. 

You may recall a post from a couple of days ago wherein I displayed the visage of my dearly departed dog Rosie along with a plea for the saddest musical schlock you could muster. It's true; I was looking for Christmas music that really gets to the gut, and nothing evinces sadness quite as effectively as dead puppies. Many of you responded through various forms of social media, and I'd like to take a moment to address a couple of the offerings: 1) The only thing heartbreaking about Wham!'s "Last Christmas" is George Michael's feathery coif. 2) "The Christmas Shoes" is clearly a form of emotional terrorism and should be banned from the shores of this great country forever and ever, amen. 

That aside, if you haven't already guessed it, then I'll spell it out for you: My Christmas mix is a stone cold bummer. Moody, tinged with longing, doleful and, yes, very blue. The explanation for this is that Christmas can be joyful, sure, but it's a joy that's colored with melancholy for many people. And while it's not my intent to galvanize a cadre of musical wallowers this Christmas, I do think it's important (even healthy!) to recognize and pay a certain amount of respect to sadness. It's not all jingly bells and brightly lit malls, not for me. Not for a lot of people. 

So if you've ever trudged through a holiday season with a cloud dogging you and a nagging sense that a majority of commercial Christmas offerings are seeking to drug you with false happiness, then this mix is for you. 

Get it (for a limited time) HERE. 

Black Eye Music // Mr. Mr. Michael

Michael Wilson will tell you that his music is depressing. 

No, not depressing. Darker. 

Melancholy? I ask. 

Well, maybe nostalgic. More somber. 

The conversations, at this point, are blurry. But there's a prevailing idea that these aren't strictly happy songs. Exultant, maybe. The melodies soar, beatific soundscapes layered one over the other, each barely a membrane, together forming a skin that bears its scars gracefully. Skin is hardwearing, but its cracks and fissures are only erasable to a certain point. And so, too, Michael Wilson creates noise at once elastic and resilient, damaged and marked. So, not happy exactly. 

It seems like an appropriate aural compliment to the 20-something conundrum: Horizons that were once limitless are beginning to encroach upon the idea that we've got our whole lives to figure something out. Turns out, those possibilities are finite. It'd be disappointing, really, if it weren't simultaneously so comforting. 

Michael may be in his twenties, but here's a guy who has managed to achieve the impossible: He's Facebook and Gmail free. And previously, his music fell into a similar black hole utterly devoid of technology. But we're all capable of growth, even once we've realized the future's not so bright anymore, and Mr. Wilson is no different. For the first time ever, he's staked a claim on his little corner of The Internet with Black Eye Music, a hub for his many musical projects (most notable is his personal work as Mr. Mr. Michael). 

I feel it's my duty to inform you that if you haven't already clicked over and started listening (give the floating, achingly pretty "Mr. End Of The World Everyday..." a spin), you're woefully bereft of a musical kiss on the lips. G'head. Give it a try. 

Michael Wilson may tell you that his music isn't happy, but the pure joy he exudes in creating it is palpable.

Big Red

Who says red should be used sparingly?

Come to think of it, I don't know whether anybody actually says that. But if they did, well, you know I'd stand to refute it with all this apparently unused vigor. Don't tell ME what I can and cannot wear! Bright colors for everyone!

Speaking of, I have been inspired lately by a bevy of intrepid women who have taken monochromatic dressing to the next level by pairing bold reds. So why not layer some of my best-hued brights, too? 'Tis the season, as they say. 

1. Sweater, Paul & Joe. 2. Watch, Seiko. 3. Nail polish, Essie. 4. Jeans, Madewell. 

5. Clutch, Celine. 6. Lipstick, MAC. 7. Foxtail, Modcloth. 8. Pumps, Miu Miu. 9. Bracelet, SATYA.

Images via (clockwise from top left): Hanneli, All The Pretty Birds, J.Crew, Isabel Marant, The Photodiarist 

Sad, Sad Christmastime Blues

What? That's my dead dog. What's sadder than that?

I'm in need of some heart-wrenching, tear-stained, punch-to-the-gut sad Christmas songs. You have your assignment, now gimme something I can use, people.