blinking against the brightness

Tonight, If You're Around

2012-01-31T16:16:00.001-08:00

1.2012 Inspiration

2012-01-26T14:06:00.000-08:00

Blunt cut hair, menswear, girl-next-door Americana, unexpected pops of color. 'Bout sums it up.

Resources, clockwise from top left: Olsens Anonymous,

All The Pretty Birds, Vanessa Jackman, Refinery29,

Interview, Elle, Front Row Suit, Harper's Bazaar Australia,

Hanneli, unknown, Olsens Anonymous

Move Your Feet: A Wedding Reception

2012-01-25T11:34:00.000-08:00

Like any 20-something with close ties to college friends, I've been to my fair share of weddings. When one also factors in that a percentage of my job revolves around photographing weddings, well, I'm an expert on the cusp of unmitigated genius. More expert than all y'all. At weddings. And love.

Stop laughing. What's true about the above statements are that I've been in the presence of many weddings. In my experience, whether on the frontline or as a bystander, the best or worst part about a wedding is the reception. Best case scenario? You've got a DJ (or band) who understands that people just wanna dance--yeah, even Grandmother. He gets the flow, doesn't abort songs too early, guides guests effortlessly through a sonic whoop-and-holler that ends with more than a few folks sweaty, gasping for breath, chucking their shoes to the side of the dance floor. I may be pickier than most about which songs are chosen, but I can't deny that there are certain tunes that, loathe though they may be, are sure-fire boogie starters. Open bar also helps, but who am I to judge a wedding budget? (Hint: MAKE ROOM FOR THE BAR. No one but you and maybe one of your bridesmaids cares about your shoes. Allocate that money, folks. Trust me.)

As a photographer, I can also attest to the fact that the photos taken of a wedding guest while in the throes of "I Gotta Feeling" will be alternately the best and worst photos ever captured of that person. It's science. Naturally, I discreetly shuffle the worst of the bunch to the farthest hinterlands of my hard drive, never to see the light. But if you're a bride or groom and you're reading this, I guarantee you your photographer has a file somewhere containing the best/worst from the various dance parties he or she has photographed. Also, science. Science backs me up on most of my claims today.

All's I'm saying is, if the photographers united and made a book of all those photos, GAME OVER. You'll just have to accept the fact that you have a quad chin, manic bug eyes, and rubbery arms. Oh, and you think that as a photographer, I'm immune to the immortalization? Think again.

There are times when the receptions are bad. There are times when the receptions are so-so. But once in a great while, if you're lucky, there are times when the reception is a party that just. Won't. Stop.

So I tip my hat to Stephanie and Andy, whose wedding I shot with Dustin Giallanza, for throwing one of the best bashes I've ever had the privilege of photographing. You know what makes a reception work? When your guests are having fun.

Here are six of my favorite party shots, the first three by me and the last three by Dustin.

Notes From A Whiskey Tasting

2012-01-24T05:00:00.000-08:00

My collection as it existed over a year ago. It's grown considerably since.

I received the following typically-laconic text this Christmas Eve from my good pal Tyler: Let's explore whiskey together.

It's a Christmas miracle! was my beatific reply.

I'm ready, he responded.

It should come as a surprise to exactly no one (in the history of ever) that I'm an ardent fan of the ol' firewater. Though I love to sip on my own here and there, it may come as a shock that I'm actually far less the stodgy-middle-aged-aristocrat-slowly-becoming-one-with-his-tufted-leather-chair-in-the-west-wing-of-his-manse than some might assume. Actually, I'm quite extroverted, thank you, and my tufted armchairs are upholstered in velvet.

Ahem. What I'm getting at, of course, is that I'd rather enjoy adult beverages in the company of others than as a solo endeavor. Also, I prefer contemporary literature, so you can keep your Russian classics on the shelf of that expansive west wing library, SIR.

Tyler and I had our first tasting together a couple of weeks ago, a selection from his impressively growing personal collection (expect an LD LBC edition soon). We swilled from different shaped snifters, we sniffed and swished and I took the alliterations way too far, as I am wont to do. Because I am NOT, as previously discussed, a dusty old codger. No, no. I'm a fourteen-year-old girl busily crafting her first creative writing assignment and alliterations! Are meant! To! Be! Used!

But back to the part where I'm old enough to drink.

Doing a tasting can be a bit like an archaeological dig through the recesses of scent memory. Describing various notes is an odd reconnaissance mission, and too often I found myself with my eyes squinted nearly shut, combing through memories of aroma and taste, hoping for a match. I jotted down a few notes about what I tasted in most of the whiskeys we tried. It's a rough sketch, really, and I'm by no means a connoisseur. But if you've ever wondered about picking up a bottle for yourself or as a gift, here are a few worth trying.

Consider it the advice I'd soggily impart were I to corner you at a party, tumbler in hand and burning hot barley on the breath.

FAUXCHELLA 2012 INFO

2012-01-23T21:01:00.000-08:00

You might've heard me mumbling in intervals about a little thing called Fauxchella.

Yeah, click that link if you're looking for an explanation.

You know what else you can click? THIS. It's all the info you're going to need for Fauxchella V, as in, the fifth, as in holy COW, has it really been five years? Yes it has.

For the site, I compiled some photos over the past four years of Fauxchella weekends, and because I'm feeling magnanimous, I'll share one of them here, too. Head over to the official Fauxchella website to see the rest.

Get Outta Dodge: The California Desert

2012-01-20T06:00:00.000-08:00

I'm often asked for advice about where to go, what to eat, what to see and do and experience in Southern California. It's true that I love a good adventure about as much as I love a good drink, and I've culled quite a bit of information over years of exploration. Herewith, a new feature on Blinking Against the Brightness that I'm calling Get Outta Dodge. Where to go, what to wear, what to eat, what to drink...it's the blown leaves from my adventures, finally collected, piled, and presented for you to take a flying leap into.

Here's my guide to the California desert, a four-part series I've now collected in one place. Like what you see? Share it with your friends. No, seriously. Use your powers for good, O Children of the Internet!

Feel like chiming in? Don't hesitate. I've got a running list of uncharted territory and I'd love to add more.

Want to buy me a beer? Oh, you SHOULDN'T HAVE. You rascal.

Ready? Set...

Here we go.

(Click here)

Helpful links for Do: South

MAP

Ace Hotel King's Highway

Helpful links for Do: North

MAP

Hicksville Trailer Palace

All photography © Laurel Dailey 2012, unless otherwise noted. Repost, reblog, reuse only with permission from the author.
Special thanks for use of author photo taken by Adam Sjoberg. Product shots via Google images and Polyvore.

Get Outta Dodge: Part IV

2012-01-19T06:00:00.000-08:00

I'm often asked for advice about where to go, what to eat, what to see and do and experience in Southern California. It's true that I love a good adventure about as much as I love a good drink, and I've culled quite a bit of information over years of exploration. Herewith, a new feature on Blinking Against the Brightness that I'm calling Get Outta Dodge. Where to go, what to wear, what to eat, what to drink...it's the blown leaves from my adventures, finally collected, piled, and presented for you to take a flying leap into.

Over the next five days, we'll be exploring the California desert together. I should note that this is by no means exhaustive (though I may have called it definitive, but you'll understand I'm prone to hyperbolic proclamations about my authority), because there is always something more to discover. Feel like chiming in? Don't hesitate. I've got a running list of uncharted territory and I'd love to add more.

On Monday, I'll give you an introduction. On Tuesday, we'll tackle what to wear and what tunes to bring. Wednesday we'll dive in to where to go. Thursday will contain a cocktail recommendation, as well as the helpful miscellanea I've picked up along the way. On Friday, I'll do a recap along with a link to locate the entire series with one click.

Like what you see? Please share it with your nearest and dearest. Have something to say? Leave it in the comments. Want to buy me a beer? Oh, you SHOULDN'T HAVE. You rascal.

Ready? Set...

Here we go.

Get Outta Dodge: Part III

2012-01-18T06:00:00.000-08:00

Like what you see? Please share it with your nearest and dearest. Have something to say? Leave it in the comments. Want to buy me a beer? Oh, you SHOULDN'T HAVE. You rascal.

Ready? Set...

Here we go.

Helpful links for Do: South

MAP

Ace Hotel King's Highway

Helpful links for Do: North

MAP

Hicksville Trailer Palace

All photography © Laurel Dailey 2012, unless otherwise noted. Repost, reblog, reuse only with permission from the author.

Special thanks for use of author photo taken by Adam Sjoberg.

Get Outta Dodge: Part II

2012-01-17T06:00:00.000-08:00

I'm often asked for advice about where to go, what to eat, what to see and do and experience in Southern California. It's true that I love a good adventure about as much as I love a good drink, and I've culled quite a bit of information over years of exploration. Herewith, a new feature on Blinking Against the Brightness that I'm calling Get Outta Dodge. Where to go, what to wear, what to eat, what to drink...it's the blown leaves from my adventures, finally collected, piled, and presented for you to take a flying leap into.

Like what you see? Please share it with your nearest and dearest. Have something to say? Leave it in the comments. Want to buy me a beer? Oh, you SHOULDN'T HAVE. You rascal.

Ready? Set...

Here we go.

Get Outta Dodge: Part I

2012-01-16T06:00:00.000-08:00

I'm often asked for advice about where to go, what to eat, what to see and do and experience in Southern California (and elsewhere, as it were). It's true that I love a good adventure about as much as I love a good drink, and I've culled quite a bit of information over years of exploration. Herewith, a new feature on Blinking Against the Brightness that I'm calling Get Outta Dodge. Where to go, what to wear, what to eat, what to drink...it's the blown leaves from my adventures, finally collected, piled, and presented for you to take a flying leap into.

Like what you see? Please share it with your nearest and dearest. Have something to say? Leave it in the comments. Want to buy me a beer? Oh, you SHOULDN'T HAVE. You rascal.

Ready? Set...

Here we go.

All photography © Laurel Dailey 2012, unless otherwise noted. Repost, reblog, reuse only with permission from the author.

Coachella 2012

2012-01-13T13:32:00.001-08:00

Kathleen in Venice

2012-01-09T06:00:00.000-08:00

There are very few compelling reasons for me to go to the Westside (ahem, ever), but Kathleen is one of them. These days, you'd be hard pressed to drag a more worthy compliment out of me, so I'll let the photos speak for themselves.

She's a beaut.

All photography © Laurel Dailey 2012, repost, reblog, reuse only with permission from the author.

2011 in iPhone Photos

2012-01-04T06:00:00.000-08:00

Say what you will about hack photographers and their fancy iPhone filters. All I know is, I took more photos than I did calls last year.

Here are the times my phone filled in when my camera wasn't in hand.

*There are a couple of these that my phone didn't take, but they were in my album and I couldn't resist throwing them in. The first is the lake shot in the Christmas collage, which was snapped by Newbie's iPhone. The second is the blue googly-eyed shot, which was taken by Mr. Lewis.

Further Exploration

2012-01-02T20:55:00.000-08:00

Spent day 2 of 2012 in a very similar fashion to day 1: Exploring the Southland with good friends and bucketfuls of sunshine. Items checked off the list: Wrigley Mansion in Pasadena, Arroyo Seco Park (beneath the Colorado St. Bridge), Artisan House for drinks, and Bäco Mercat for dinner. Wham, bam, thank you, ma'am.

Chats with Byron: Cape Fear

2012-01-02T11:33:00.001-08:00

La Mer

2012-01-02T10:38:00.000-08:00

There will come a time when the portion of the week spent socked in with rain and clouds marginally outpaces the part spent basking in the sun's favor. There will come a time when even I beseech the sky to clear up, already, and give us a little Vitamin D. Please, Sun, do it for the children.

Now just isn't that time. Believe me or don't, but Southern California does have a (slight) winter. However, rather than a romantic dusting of snow in late December or fearsome storms from November till February, our winter hangs around in fits and spurts from late January till mid-April. It'll rain on a three-days-on, three-days-off kind of schedule till you can't handle having yet another waterlogged weekend.

But like I said, now just isn't that time. January 1st arrived with all the balmy, golden goodness of a tropical vacation. Because I and my nearest and dearest are coastal dwellers, as intrinsically bound to the sea as we are to the sun, we vowed not to squander what God gave us yesterday. And what He gave us was an Almanac-perfect day from sunup to sundown.

Here's a little moving picture show I cobbled together of our day spent seaside.

2011 In Review

2011-12-29T10:40:00.001-08:00

!!!

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

2011-12-15T23:49:00.000-08:00

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

2011-12-12T11:41:00.000-08:00

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

2011-12-06T12:46:00.001-08:00

For You, Blue Vol. IV

2011-12-06T06:00:00.000-08:00

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

2011-12-05T06:00:00.000-08:00

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

2011-12-03T16:18:00.001-08:00

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

2011-12-01T13:57:00.001-08:00

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.

How To Start A Blog

2011-11-30T00:25:00.001-08:00

I swear, it's just that easy.

LightWrite

2011-11-29T14:48:00.001-08:00

Of course Picasso did it better than every undergrad/beginning photographer who ever lived.

via Life Archives & Miss Moss

A Tale of Two Turkeys

2011-11-28T09:52:00.001-08:00

There were two, one was baked, the other deep fried. Both delicious.

How about my brevity there? Chew on that, Dickens.

Such is life in the So 'Hoe, guys.

One day when I write my New York Times best seller, I'll just roll the dice and pick one of the above for my novel's stellar opening sentence. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't secretly hoping it's the third one. But for the sake of not alienating every single person who ever dared glance upon my little Internet space here, I'll keep the narrative moving at a modest clip so we can get to the photos.

Thanksgiving in Lake Tahoe. We beat every single odd out there and actually made excellent time despite the fact that we left Long Beach at 4:45pm on Wednesday. The day before Thanksgiving. Did I mention it was 4:45 pee em? I was so wound up about the drive and the prospect of parking lot traffic that I'd even kvetched about the whole ordeal to my therapist. I should've known that circumstances would find a way to make me look like an idiot for even worrying at all. Traffic? At that time of day? Pssshhhh. Please. Let's just leave right at 5, because we're going to float above it all and arrive in South Lake Tahoe no later than 7:45.

Once there, Newbie (local celebrity that he is) delighted in showing us the sights of his childhood: the forest behind his house that, when buried in snow, allowed him to come skiing off the mountain and just swoosh right up to his front door like the snow bunny he is. The modest "fifteen-minute walk" to the lookout over Emerald Bay that ended up being more like a 30-minute boulder-scrambling expedition from one steep hillside to another, steeper cliffside. The local casino where the drinks are free and the betting's always good at the 25-cent horse races. The beloved breakfast joint whose owners talked of co-parenting his precocious high school-aged self. The precarious roads snaking the outskirts of Fallen Leaf Lake, thick with ice, on which we may have had a very close call.

In other words, it was a weekend without flaw, complete with good weather, great food, and better friends. Since I promised, on to the pictures!

Hollywoodland

2011-11-22T16:30:00.001-08:00

One of my former roommates has recently moved up to Beachwood Canyon in the Hollywood Hills. I visited her today for lunch before doing a bit of exploration. Didn't have my camera with me, so iPhone snaps will have to do for now. Expect a more thorough (and thoroughly documented) exploration in the coming weeks.

Views like this one are at once thoroughbred Americana and zany Old Hollywood charm. It's enough to make a broad like me start sassing off in that quavering 40's-era film voice. Oh, Clark, will you just look at that sign? So help me, Clark, when I say my prayers at night, I'm thinking of that stately thing! Say, be a dear and top me off, Clark? We wouldn't want my ice getting lonely now, would we?

A Passion for Fashion? Yawn...Part II

2011-11-17T10:35:00.001-08:00

You guys. Of course there had to be a part II.

Because despite the fact that I hurled down all kinds of barbs from my shiny ivory tower yesterday, I did also claim a certain amount of affection for fashion/personal style blogs. And while I'm certainly not going to wag any fingers at the disappointing blogs obliquely referenced in yesterday's post, I can do my part by illuminating a few of the bloggers whom I think are consistently hitting the mark. It's one of the rules of a good horror story, isn't it? What's left to the imagination is far more terrible than whatever your special FX team can cobble together for inciting visually-based heebie-jeebies. In the same way, you can let your little minds run wild about all the no-good, terrible fashion blogs out there but I'm certainly not going to name names.

Anyway, I'm taking a stab at positivity, for what it's worth. Here are a handful* of fashion blogs that top my list.

*In the interest of integrity, I'm leaving my blogging friends off this list. I've posted about them before. You know I like them. But they're also my friends...and wouldn't it be a truer testament to the fortitude of my affection if the objects of it are total strangers?

+++

STOP IT RIGHT NOW

Jayne with a Y tops my list (plz. She'd top any list I'd make, including, but not limited to: People Who Get Humor And Aren't Total Idiots And Also Dress Well And Also Have Cool Hair. Okay...they're short lists, but she's at the top of ALL OF THEM). Here's someone who just gets it: wicked style, a brain that seems to be perpetually in motion, all of the stuff and none of the fluff. Two thumbs up.

+++

THE(FASHION)HASH

This one's relatively new for me, but I appreciate a good coif when I see one, and Hannah's got an enviable mane. More than that, she epitomizes what I originally loved about style blogs: She likes fashion, she's got sartorial smarts, and she doesn't take herself too seriously. Plus, she drops pot references like acid. See what I did there? Double-drug reference? With the pot and the dropping of the--yeah, ok. OKAY.

+++

Vanessa Jackman

Not technically a personal style blog, but Mizz Jackman is one of the best street style photographers out there. Hands down. Bar none. I can't look at her images without seeing her palpable compassion for her subjects. I think Wim Wenders was the one who said that to see any photograph is to also see a reflection of the photographer, and what Jackman beams back is a mind uniquely devoted to drawing everything that's beautiful about her subjects right to the surface, so we can see it, too.

+++

Capture The Castle

Lastly but certainly not least, Hannah is from the land Down Under (the land I'm absolutely dying to visit because I envision a cooler, more European-minded Southern California, just exploding with light and surfers and vibe and kangaroos). She'll occasionally write personal outfit posts, but her blog is about so much more than that. She's a true fan of fashion, and she pens effusive posts brimming with wit, enthusiasm, and a gentleness (perhaps inclusiveness is a better word?) not usually found on style blogs. It doesn't hurt that she and I both harbor an ardent love of Isabel Marant, but then again, who doesn't?

A Passion for Fashion? Yawn.

2011-11-16T12:53:00.001-08:00

Jean Auguste Dominique Ingres, La Grande Odalisque, 1814

"[A woman's] own sense of being in herself is supplanted by a sense of being appreciated as herself by another." - John Berger, Ways of Seeing, 1972

Is it just me, or have fashion blogs gotten really...boring? Whether 'boring' connotes weariness, hollowness, or stagnancy, I've taken a hatchet to my Google Reader as of late and many of the blogs I've been reading (some since their inception) have gotten the cut.

I started trolling personal style blogs in 2005 when the list was relatively small and similarly guileless. There was the Sartorialist, sure, arguably the godfather of style blogs, but there were a host of others, too. Personal style from around the globe; Scotland, France, the US, the UK, and so on. More than anything, it was fascinating to see how stylish girls threw together looks on a daily basis. A few of the blogs rocketed in notoriety; brands began to take heed, the whole process shifting imperceptibly. It was gradual at first, an ecstatic post here and there about a designer sending an unexpected gift--a gift that was typically a standout in a wardrobe otherwise comprised of the typical mix of H&M, vintage, this & that. Somewhere in there, a pattern emerged and with it came a pompeiian cloud of capital-C Change. Call it fashion's New Deal: Bloggers became the face of brands, ambassadors of a new era; harbingers of an industry turned on its head.

Amidst the incessant brand courtship, squiring, and borderline-bribing, however, many girls seem to have lost their voice, the original spark that made their blog worth a glance in the first place. What used to be a haven for non-models, non-editors, and non-fashion pros to demonstrate their passion for personal style has morphed into something, well, weird. It's not uncommon to scroll through photo after photo (snapped by the blogger's rarely-credited boyfriend-cum-photographer, natch) of what should be a visual "what I wore today" diary and instead find a who's who of gifting and brand-sponsored bribery.

And what about the photos? The rule of thumb these days seems to be that unless you've mastered the wilted-flower-whose-bud-is-artfully-askance pose, don't even bother showing up. There's a feeling I get when I glance through a handful of blogs at once that, since I'm without a more appropriate term to affix to it, I'll simply use "icky" as a placeholder. It's something in the affectation, the studied poses, the self-possession--something I can't quite place, but as a spectator in the whole circus, it feels distinctly disingenuous. More than that, it reeks of consumption; rampant shopping sprees documented and similarly gobbled up, only to be shat out on Pinterest. Hungry eyes roving style blogs day after day and the willing participants who present themselves as the token offering. But what's that? A knowing glance over the shoulder, the piercing eye contact, the shattered notion that we've just happened to intrude upon a private world that isn't our own. No; that world has been created for us. Nom, nom, nom.

I'm getting away from myself here. There used to be a charmingly off-kilter quality about girls documenting their personal style for strangers like me to be inspired by. It seemed reciprocal, this process of inspiring and being inspired. It was more about the clothing, anyway. More about the way a girl might mix, match, and re-appropriate the contents of her closet from day to day on a lark. Without naming names (since the group includes roughly 80% of prominent fashion bloggers, anyway), this transparent DIY-geekery has evolved into a daily posting of photos whose pursed lip signature 'looks' seem to serve instead as a placeholder for the subject's thinly-veiled narcissistic tendencies. The audience has morphed, too, or at least the appropriate term for it has: what used to be a base of readers (however modest or bloated in size) now finds more secure footing in the realm of fandom.

And no, since it bears mentioning, I don't think the entire kit and caboodle reeks of narcissism. I know prancing around in a new outfit every day and documenting it might seem odd to some, but trust me--despite how it may sound in this post, I'm genuinely a fan of fashion/personal style blogs. But there's a line, however microscopic it may be, that separates passion from self-service, and many of the bloggers I once admired have blithely obliterated that line with one swipe of their Wang-gifted heels.

What's more, they're all starting to look the same. A knowing (and well known) look, a leg bent just so, a calculated-yet-scattershot combination of this trend with that one and a smidge of this gift and that shoe to frost the sartorial confetti cake and--wait, I feel like I've seen this all before. So much for inspiration; impossible aspiration has stepped in and usurped the role inspiration used to play, anyway. Gilded (or Gilted) lilies, all in a row.

And don't even try to tell me those towering 6-inch heels are comfortable to totter around in all day long. Sister, please. No one's buying it anymore.

**UPDATE** If you've wandered to this post via a different blog, welcome, and please be sure to check out my followup post here, featuring a few girls who hit the sartorial nail on the head.

Hummingbird

2011-11-14T20:51:00.001-08:00

So begins the Holiday season: I dusted off the Christmas albums today. And by 'dusted' and 'albums' I mean that I pressed the ol' Play button on my iTunes tried-and-true Christmas mix. Nothing says "Yule Be Glad I Didn't Make a Christmas Pun Here" quite like belting (and I do mean belting) not one, but both parts of "Baby It's Cold Outside." Move over, Ella and Louis. There's a new crooner in town. (Hint: It's me. The crooner is me.)

Say! Speaking of seasons, I'm on a fast track to my slow season. Not that glamour shots of matching Christmas sweaters aren't my thing, but--yeah, they're not my thing. During the next 2-3 months I'm going to be taking some time to rethink, revamp, redesign, reevaluate, and drink a helluva lot of wine during work hours. The blog, the Tumblr, the website, the whole enterprise will go under scrutiny while I gear up for 2012.

That's where you come in. I'm looking for feedback (I know, I know. All five of you just rolled your eyes in unison). Just kidding, I have more than five readers! That's a lot of eye-rolling. Personally, on a typical day of heroically slogging through all the Internet sludge there is out there, my peepers make more rotations than an engineer's guide to Six Flags. Hence, the feedback. Some of you are glancers, others faithful readers, and others still are maniacal stalkers (M. Wilson, I'm looking at you. You too, Mr. Price). Whatever your level of devotion, I'd be swimming in a sea of gratitude if you'd take a second to leave me a comment and let me know what you'd like to see more of. More photo posts? More rants? More writing? More fashion? More nonsensical rambling? More music?

Now's your chance to let me know what you think is working and what you'd like to see more of. I'm already bracing myself for the maelstrom of utter nonsense all of the Michaels I know might send my way (Posey, Hamilton, Ruffino, et al), but if any of you would actually like to be helpful, I would greatly appreciate it.

Don't be shy!

I swear, I'm nice at least 51% of the time.

(P.S. Here are a couple of photos. Unrelated, but I took 'em and I like 'em.)

I'm Just A Yank

2011-11-07T11:50:00.000-08:00

Have you ever been to a Scottish wedding? Well, they're fun.

Like, REALLY fun.

(Full recap coming soon, but I've been working on the Wing-MacDonald wedding this week and their reception was absolutely spectacular.)

It's Millar Time

2011-11-06T21:26:00.000-08:00

We celebrated Ashley's birthday this weekend with a night of chili, cocktails, and candles. Pardon the alliterative nature of the preceding sentence, but I can't help it that we had all those things in spades. For the shindig, I opted to create a cocktail in honor of the venerable Ms. Millar.

As recently as two years ago, Ashley appreciated fire water or Grandpappy's cough syrup about as much as a teetotaling newborn. Or, you know, about as much as my Mother does. She wasn't into rum, vodka made her roll her eyes, gin caused her to seize up, and whiskey nearly threw her into convulsions. Such is the case with many folks, though I'd hardly know it because I typically shun those philistines to the misty hinterlands of Who Invited THEM To The Party?

All of that changed, however, one fine May day a couple of years ago. As is the Millar tradition, we were flinging our kilts at the annual Scottish Festival when ~~I bound, gagged, and dragged Ashley~~ Ashley and I quite mutually and amicably decided to do a scotch tasting. The first pour happened to be an Islay-style whisky so smokey it tasted like using a piece of burnt drift wood as a tooth pick on the coldest, wettest, saltiest, farthest-flung island in Scotland on the coldest, wettest day of the year. Scotch has never been my thing (more of a bourbon girl, as it were), so you can imagine my surprise when, after taking one sip of her Assault On The Beach, Ashley's eyes grew round and glassy.

"Oh," she marveled, "This is good!"

One might never have guessed. In honor of her foray into the land of Dram and Honey, I created a scotch-based cocktail for the party that would be palatable even for relative non-drinkers. And because I'm nothing if not ~~secretly obsessed with marrying a Scottish man~~ generous, I'll share the recipe with you.

Hey, yo. It's Millar Time.

Orange-Red Lips

2011-11-02T21:44:00.000-07:00

Bare skin, orange lips.

On it.

First image from Pinterest, all the rest from Vanessa Jackman

All Hallow's Eve

2011-11-01T12:46:00.000-07:00

A couple from the weekend.

Fatal Attraction

2011-10-26T16:55:00.000-07:00

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

2011-10-25T10:33:00.000-07:00

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

2011-10-11T14:54:00.000-07:00

Don't they? DON'T THEY?

Graphic by Laurel Dailey

Big Plans, Big Bear

2011-10-11T09:54:00.000-07:00

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

2011-10-10T10:15:00.000-07:00

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

2011-10-09T19:00:00.000-07:00

Big Bear, CA

Bombs Away

2011-10-07T15:40:00.000-07:00

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

2011-10-06T14:25:00.000-07:00

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

The Unicorns Were Just Out Of Frame

2011-10-06T13:00:00.000-07:00

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

2011-10-05T20:25:00.000-07:00

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

2011-10-04T13:44:00.000-07:00

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

2011-10-03T15:34:00.001-07:00

Teetering On The Precipice

2011-10-03T09:49:00.000-07:00

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

Whole Foodies

2011-09-30T14:25:00.000-07:00

Well, it's true.

Bonnie + Crow

2011-09-29T14:26:00.000-07:00

Today's post is brought to you by my two Brooklyn pals Bonnie and Crow, who flew me out to NYC last week to shoot their engagement photos. I've known Bonnie for a few years (she was one of the original Long Beach residents, after all) and this was the first opportunity I've had to meet her paramour Crow. We spent the day together in Williamsburg, trawling through the stalls at the Flea, walking along the Hudson, swilling drinks at Cafe Colette, and bike-riding the side streets near Bonnie's apartment. Here are a few of my favorite shots.

2011.10

2011-09-27T15:18:00.000-07:00

Ignacio Torres

2011-09-26T15:26:00.000-07:00

Stellar. Pun intended.

See more here.

Keslie

2011-09-26T14:06:00.000-07:00

I shot these before I left for NYC last week. This lil' lady got married on Saturday, and her wedding was like a magical romp through a field. Would you expect anything less?

On The L

2011-09-26T13:36:00.000-07:00

Couple of shots from Brooklyn last weekend.

More to come.

Gee Willikers! Did I Do That?

2011-09-26T10:55:00.000-07:00

An excerpt from Mindy Kaling's hilariously incisive takedown of clichéd Hollywood romcom tropes:

When a beautiful actress is cast in a movie, executives rack their brains to find some kind of flaw in the character she plays that will still allow her to be palatable. She can’t be overweight or not perfect-looking, because who would pay to see that? A female who is not one hundred per cent perfect-looking in every way? You might as well film a dead squid decaying on a beach somewhere for two hours.

So they make her a Klutz.

The hundred-per-cent-perfect-looking female is perfect in every way except that she constantly bonks her head on things. She trips and falls and spills soup on her affable date (Josh Lucas. Is that his name? I know it’s two first names. Josh George? Brad Mike? Fred Tom? Yes, it’s Fred Tom). The Klutz clangs into stop signs while riding her bike and knocks over giant displays of fine china in department stores. Despite being five feet nine and weighing a hundred and ten pounds, she is basically like a drunk buffalo who has never been a part of human society. But Fred Tom loves her anyway.

Read the rest here.

2011-09-25T15:02:00.001-07:00

"Tip the world over on its side and everything loose will land in Los Angeles."

-- Frank Lloyd Wright

A Man, A Plan, A Canal, Panama!

2011-09-12T11:10:00.000-07:00

That, ladies and gents, is a proper palindrome.

In other words, a palindrome is a word or phrase that reads the same backward as forward. (Yes, I'll wait while you dissect the letters in the title of this post. See? Uncanny, right?)

Hannahs of the world, rejoice!

A few years ago when I was working for AA, I challenged myself and my coworkers to a new kind of mix-making competition: The Palindrome Project. The premise is fairly simple: Craft a twelve-song mix comprised of six originals and six covers of said originals that, when played from track 1 - 12 is the same as when played from track 12 - 1. It's a fun exercise because covers (whether decent or atrocious) abound for every great original song in existence. It's up to the mix-maker to determine what order the first six tracks (and therefore the last six tracks as well) are placed in, as well as concept or theme.

Fast forward to 2011, I posed the same challenge to a few friends to see what they'd come up with. While I'm still waiting on those mixes from my friends at the Kent House, I thought I'd share my mix with you in the meantime. You can download it here.

Conversations with Byron: Hail Mary Edition

2011-09-09T14:52:00.000-07:00

LD: So when are you going to Vegas, huh?

BS: 4pm, be there by 9 or so?

LD: Yeah, or 10.

BS: Yeah, depending on how the traffic goes...

LD: I mean, 4pm on a Friday...good luck. Is all I'm gonna say.

BS: WOW. You get out of here with your negativity.

LD: GOOD LUCK, IS ALL I'M GONNA SAY.

BS: Well, I'll say you're not "Your parent's Christian," is all I'm saying.

Thursday Linkage

2011-09-08T12:59:00.000-07:00

I've got three links to throw your way on this fine Thursday afternoon.

1. The first is from my good pal Dustin, who joined in my Labor Day festivities at the beach. He took a few images, and they're lovely. So head on over to his blog to see some of his work (including this shot he snapped of me on the drive home. Pretty much anything you need to know about yours truly can be surmised from this photo. Well, apart from the presence of a labrador or a bottle of beer).

2. Another friend of mine, Ben Bishop, is an utterly fantastic writer. Witty, thoughtful, insightful...I could wax rhapsodic all day long. He's started a web-based publication called Ragged Band that brings together interviews with creatives - artists, writers, thinkers, musicians, you name it. He interviewed me a little while back and now that interview is up on his site. Click here to read anything and everything you ever (or never) wanted to know about your girl LD.

3. Finally, here's a link to an article I wrote with the venerable (and hirsute) Scott Jones of We Love Long Beach about an upcoming holiday called Neighbor Day. Want to celebrate community with your fellow neighbors? Read on...

That's all folks!

Malibooty

2011-09-05T23:38:00.000-07:00

And just like that, September arrives on the coattails of a spectacular summer.

After all the travel, after the endless plane rides and packing, unpacking, and repacking, after the last remnants of my toiletries kit had been returned to the bathroom, after I eventually got groceries, and even after a couple of harrowing back-ups during which I couldn't see the Apocalypse coming through my rear window if I needed to, after all of that, I finally got my car washed.

And then last night, it rained.

So Fall's coming, and it would like to make sure you darn well know. Oh, I'm AWARE, thank you VERY much for your consideration, weather. Anyway, here are a few photos from Labor Day's activities. Malibu, the pals, and the sun. Oh, the SUN. Who are we kidding, anyway? Fall weather in Southern California only means that thousands of high school kids are really pissed about having to wear their khaki uniforms in 90-degree heat.

Sorry, kids. Them's the breaks.

David gets ICED.

Dustin Giallanza

2011-08-31T07:00:00.001-07:00

I love, love, love, love, love this guy.

(And he's a fantastic photographer, too.)

The Very Best

2011-08-30T22:18:00.000-07:00

Ran across this gem today. Graphic design + a former DJ + inventive playlists + great music. All the good things in life. CLICK if you know what's good for you.

Cinnamon + Kevin, 8.27.11

2011-08-30T18:31:00.000-07:00

With friends like these, who needs clients?

I met Cinnamon when we both worked for AA a few years ago. And let me tell you - that work environment acts as a super-strength adhesive when it comes to worklationships. It's a shared trauma; a knowing world-weariness. We're all vets of hawking t-shirts to hipsters. But Cinn and I also bonded over our shared talkativeness and our affinity for tiki drinks, managing to keep in touch over the years. So when she shared her ideas for her intimate sunset nuptials in the middle of the redwoods, I leapt at the chance to shoot it. I mean, who could blame me?

Cinnamon and Kevin are absolute mavericks when it comes to music - you can count on either of them to curate any given jukebox so keenly that it sets the emotional meter in whatever room they're in. And with the perfect song as a soundtrack, they'll likely have an arsenal of wildly entertaining stories from their lives (both separately and together) to unfurl until the last keg has been tapped. In other words, these two know how to throw a party.

Here are a few teaser images from their wedding this past weekend. With cocktails in hand, we waited until the sun's rays were the perfect shade of honey and Cinnamon declared, "This is it. Let's get married!"

That's my kinda couple.

Ryan & Jocelyn, part II

2011-08-30T12:14:00.000-07:00

I've been finalizing post on the images from Ryan & Jocelyn's wedding (remember?), and I kept running into images I loved that didn't make it into the first series. Here are a few of my (new) favorites.

Rocket To The Moon

2011-08-28T21:55:00.000-07:00

Question: What kind of wedding ends with the bride, groom, and family traipsing through a foggy cemetery at midnight to check out what photo opportunities might exist there? Answer: A totally bitchin' one, that's what kind. I'll certainly have more to share from Cinnamon & Kevin's nuptials, but for now here are a couple of shots I got at the very end of the night.

Heaven Can Wait

2011-08-26T06:28:00.000-07:00

SUMMER//SUNBURN

2011-08-25T15:10:00.000-07:00

I've been listening to The War On Drugs' Slave Ambient quite a bit recently, and aside from any apt Springsteen comparisons that would come to mind, the album has primarily reminded me of 2007. More specifically, it reminds me of what I listened to in 2007, itself more of an imprinted memory of time and place than an actual aural connection. As with most of the music I've listened to in my twenties as a card-carrying Los Angeles import, these memories mostly revolve around driving* somewhere (the aforementioned card is, of course, a driver license). As such, what Slave Ambient conjures in me is a flickering screen of vague, hazy memories. Memories of the way the air feels after the day's waning charred heat is replaced with a relieving twilight. Memories of damp hair on sweaty skin, of air rushing in open car windows, of a nighttime illuminated by vacated offices in skyscrapers. Of the ocean and of the city and of the desert, California's greatest assets arrayed neatly and backlit by the setting sun.

Anyway, I also remember specific songs from that Summer of 2007, and I began to wonder if the songs I've listened to at the burnt end of summer bear any resemblance to one another as the years have collected? It turns out, they do. August, like all the other Augusts before it, tends to be populated with music that is lushly and unapologetically pretty. It tends to swoon against a certain amount of nostalgia, conspicuously lacking the scurf of July's typically scuzzed-up adrenaline rush.

So here's a mix for the last days of August and for the first few of September. You can grab it here for a limited time.

*Here's an aside: Whenever I travel to a city whose primary method of moving bodies from A to B is through public transportation, I feel a deep and cavernous longing for my car. I realized it's one of the reasons I may never live (at least not full time) in a place like New York City, because I wouldn't be bidding adieu merely to my friends and loved ones in California, I'd also be parting ways with my car. And if, once all is said done in my life, my relationships were to be qualified based on loyalty, dependability, steadfastness, and time spent together, it might come to pass that my car is, in fact, the best friend I've ever had. So, there's that.

Soory Aboot That

2011-08-24T11:30:00.000-07:00

Despite growing up a stone's throw from Canada (relative, of course, to my latter-life location which is a stone's throw from Mexico), the only Vancouver I'd set foot in prior to this summer was Vancouver, Washington. As fate would have it, I've yet to set foot in Vancouver, B.C. (despite all the words Douglas Coupland has devoted to the subject), but I'm Canuck-shy no more. Armed to the teeth with satellite radio, iPads, and snack food, the Dailey family set the compass due north for a good old fashioned Summer road trip. Destination: Lake Louise, Banff, and Jasper--but along the way, I saw some of the most spectacular natural scenery I've ever encountered. This, too, from a girl born in the bosom of the Cascades; it's not a pithy observation I'm lobbing your way, friends. But I won't belabor the point further. Straight from the horses' mouth:

(Oh, and a quick aside about the water: That WATER. I can't describe the color, the lit-from-within, chlorinated, California-pool-from-the-window-of-an-airplane, David Hockney, tropical island, glacial runoff, milky, neon WATER. There you have it. All the words I can think of, arranged in no particular--or graceful--order. I'll let the images speak for themselves, even though my camera failed most times to accurately capture that water.)

The Canadian Rockies

Well, I won't pretend this image doesn't arrive on the utter conceit of bragging rights. It does. It's the view from our hotel room. Shrug.

At dawn we went canoeing on this lake to watch the sun rise. Absolutely stunning. The Fairmont Chateau Lake Louise.

The lake at dusk, from the hotel room window.

The Fairmont in Banff

Lake Louise by day

Louise + Andrew

2011-08-23T12:06:00.000-07:00

Couldn't resist posting an image from the wedding I shot last week in Oxford. Here goes nuthin'...

A Night At The Rough Luxe Hotel

2011-08-22T14:11:00.000-07:00

While the events of last week's trip to London are still fresh in my memory, I thought I'd take a moment to share one of the standout experiences I hauled home (and did not, I might add, declare on my customs form). My gracious hostess, traveling companion, and new friend Jen (of the blog Style Crusader) happened to be staying in London with her husband Fred at a hotel called Rough Luxe. Situated a stone's throw from the stately (and centrally convenient) St. Pancras Station, the hotel masterfully combines the contradicting ideals of roughness and luxury in one not-too-big, not-too-small space. Occupying a building whose age is imprinted in the texture of the walls and worn into its sinewy wooden staircase, Rough Luxe is a testament to the beauty of London's own conflicting culture of New versus Old. With thoroughly modern amenities deftly buoying its historic patina, the hotel provides a welcome sense of rootedness while still keeping an eye on the ever-shifting cultural current its guests are no doubt emerged in.

But let's cut to the chase: You could infer all that from the introductory paragraph on Rough Luxe's website. The experience I had staying there is the real reason for this post. Because while it might parade around as a hotel, Rough Luxe is really more of a B&B. With only eight rooms in the building, guests are known and greeted by name--a luxury usually reserved for elite guests at larger hotels whose credit card invoices precede them. At Rough Luxe, you will be treated not as a hotel guest but as a friend. When I met hotel manager Leo Rabelo, we immediately launched into a lively conversation about social media, Twitter,* and (naturally enough) the London Riots. I returned to the hotel the next day on the promise that I'd get to sample some of Leo's homemade baba ghanoush. Though Jen and Fred were the key-carrying guests of the hotel, I was treated like a friend and personal guest of Leo's, immediately included in the wining, dining, and conversation that followed.

In a culture that tends to prize exclusivity over inclusivity, competition over vulnerability, and adhering to a strict social who's-who code of conduct, it was an absolute pleasure to spend a few hours in the Rough Luxe courtyard with fellow travelers whose backgrounds were as diverse as our respective countries of origin. We shared wine, food, and discourse--and at the end of it all, greeted the dawn not as strangers passing through London, but as friends. There's no culture quite so ephemeral or transient as Hotel Culture, but Rough Luxe has emerged as a rare antithesis. Here, you will be greeted warmly, welcomed unquestioningly, and cared for graciously. The fact that the rooms are gorgeous is just the icing on the cake.

*And speaking of Twitter, at Jen's and my suggestion, Leo acquiesced to a Twitter account for the hotel. So head on over and follow Rough Luxe!

Do I seem thrilled? Because believe it: I was thrilled. Ecstatic, even

A view from the stairwell into the courtyard

Hotel manager Leo: delightful host, masterful concierge, erudite linguist, first-rate cook and all-around Renaissance Man

A prophetic inscription on the wall near my bed

Don't let the roll of TP fool you; this bathroom was top-notch

Clever touches abound. In this case, Gorey's sinister wit resides on the desk

Gilded and luxurious: Chinois at its finest

Leo relaxes in the Hotel's lobby

A view from the top

Couldn't resist another excuse to promote on of my favorite artists: Javier Piñon

Isn't she lovely?

A brief repose

It Keeps Coming Till The Day It Stops

2011-08-18T15:14:00.000-07:00

The words would be there, fluttering with confetti leaves on an aspen tree I happened to be walking by, each leaf upturned revealing its milky underside. Words, too, whisking by a moving car window at a slant. Words crowding the air, an invisible miasma of something that had spoiled from lack of use. Still, my pocket Moleskine remained folded, its tiny spine without a crease to show for its wear.

The worst part was when the words would take flight on the airstream of a song, matched infuriatingly with someone else's genius and erudition. My heart would lift, too, unsteadily on the legs of a newborn idea. But then the song would end and it would topple and when a word or two suggested immanent absorption into the pages of my notebook, I couldn't find a pen. Well, damn.

But my heart - Oh, my heart. So fragile these past few months, so many bruises impressed crudely on its emotional surface. So rent and so bashful. But the words it conjured were the saccharine ones, the maudlin ones, the ones befitting a sappy score and a smack in the face. The ones used too often by too many people to bear any potency anymore. Useless, flaccid words--semantically speaking--and I always found it so upsetting when I thought about how these voided ineptitudes are the words 90% of us use when our hearts are similarly anguished. The unfairness! Somebody get me a drink!

I'd search for the words in the darkened corners of songs, in orchestral swells and fitful guitar riffs. I'd find the emotions there, but they tumbled unaccompanied by any sort of tangible result until I felt as though cracking a puppy's spine with my bare hands was the only action that could reset my emotional meter. Seriously, where is that drink?

I probably listened to LCD Soundsystem's Sound of Silver a dozen times, but it felt like thousands. Bon Iver's "Holocene" resounded in the cavity of my head so loudly sometimes I'd have bet a million pounds (at a crappy U.S. exchange rate, so sure was I) that other people could hear it too. Odd companions for the Summer, maybe, but what was this summer if not a riotous mash of highs and lows? The stock market--oh, the Dow! The Dow understood. It crashed when I crashed, except when I shut my eyes and my fists in the room I grew up in and tried to subdue my thoughts with music, no one reported the devastating loss. And no one predicted when I'd bounce back again, regain composure, harness those thoughts, and once again hum with the productive whir of a machine without flaws.

The reckless youths of London understood. Galvanized by entitlement and bloated with gaseous rage, they took their unease to the streets. They set ablaze the notion that the proverbial lily still retained its gild. Looking in the mirror, as I would every morning of the past two months, I realized that my gild, too, has faded. Only blunted edges here. But that incisive demand to find the words--it julienned my reflection and left only a pile of freckles to bear any resemblance to this writer, this hack, this foolish warrior without his sword. I'd burn a building down, too, if it meant I could sift through the ashes and retrieve the right words. As elusive as the drink I believe I requested at least twenty minutes ago, in case anyone is still paying attention.

Here's what I needed those words for, anyway. I needed them for my grandparents, both now dead. I needed words for the enormous debt I feel I owe them now, and what cavernous shoes I am burdened to fill. I needed something for the sorrow, too, the velvety pall of grief, the way it clings and soothes and smothers. I needed words for the transcendent beauty of the Oregon, Canadian, and English countrysides, and I'd even have accepted similar words for all three. And, frustratingly, I still haven't found the right words for the color of the glacial water in the Canadian Rockies. What's clear, at least, is that David Hockney didn't gather the visual reference for his chlorinated turquoise pools from California.

Anyway, I needed words for the way Arcade Fire's "Neighborhood #3 (Power Out)," the London Riots, and my own funereal emotional state aligned pristinely, a cultural constellation requiring more than a passing glance from Nick Hornby, though I'd have accepted a nod from Chuck Klosterman as well. And furthermore, where were the words I needed when, after hours of laughter, 5 bottles of wine, pints at the pub, and a maelstrom of discourse, I collapsed into bed in London with the notion that community is one of the most sacred gifts we as humans can give to one another?

For all these things and for everything else I'll think of after this page has been written, I needed the words. But they weren't there. Even now, the notebook remains lazily stowed in my bag. To concur with Justin Vernon's confession, at once I knew that I, too, was not magnificent.

But I could see for miles, miles, miles.

LCD Soundsystem, "Someone Great" by user6199338

A Day In California

2011-08-18T13:27:00.000-07:00

Wow, it's a good thing I didn't watch this stop-motion photography video by Ryan Killackey at any point in the last three weeks, or I'd have boarded the first plane back home. Here's an absolutely stunning tribute to my Golden State:

A Day in California from Ryan Killackey on Vimeo.

Have Specs, Will Travel

2011-08-18T08:56:00.000-07:00

The loveliest of traveling companions one could ask for, Jen, posted a few cell phone pics of her travels over the past few weeks over at her blog, The Style Crusader, and I thought I'd share two. The first is me, drinking a beer. Which, when all the photos taken over the course of my life are finally tallied (I'm thinking for the post-funeral three-hour-long slideshow and interpretive dance/cocktail hour, of course, so like, waaaay in the future), will most likely be in a dead lock for the "Picture Taken Most Often"prize along with me, petting a dog.

Readers, I re-scanned the above paragraph and I cannot make sense of it. But it's not even 9am and jet lag dictates that I've already been awake for three hours, so I'm not changing a WORD.

Enjoy these. Oh, and the second shot is the interior of the church where the wedding took place. EVANGELICAL MODERN AMERICAN CHURCHES, TAKE HEED! As it turns out, you DON'T actually need to carpet the walls or sling a basketball hoop over the pulpit. The mind boggles.

LONG BEACH I LOVE YOU!

2011-08-18T08:47:00.000-07:00

Oh, And...

2011-08-10T23:29:00.000-07:00

...I shot this last week. We made eye contact. It was special.

Glimpses

2011-08-10T21:31:00.000-07:00

Off to London for the week. Had just enough time to compile a few old iPhone snaps I ran across last night. Glimpses of the past year.

August 3, 2011

2011-08-08T00:46:00.000-07:00

Exactly one month to the day after Grandpa passed away, my Grandma joined him. July 3rd found me at a BBQ in California, hanging up the phone and slightly short of breath, swirls of laughter nearby. On August 3rd, I was in Alberta, Canada when the call came through. And so it goes.

Death has a way of calcifying those brief moments surrounding news of its arrival. There's an oversimplification of emotions, those ones not yet refracted through the prism of discourse (at least for a verbal processor like me). What do you feel when a loved one's essence has been robbed of them, stolen swiftly and mercilessly by the cold fingers of dementia? Do you allay your grief, drawing it behind its subject, long and thin like a late afternoon shadow? Or do you dispense of it prematurely, around the time her eyes are no longer lit by recollection?

Speaking of shadows, we entered the hospice center a few days prior, with the late afternoon sun tossing a slant on the hedges that buttressed the parking lot. She was lying on her side, recumbent with morphine and weariness. Not here, not for years, but still physically present, her skin having settled in the valleys of her cheekbones. There, in place of physical recognition, I filtered the contents of the room through a filmy muslin of memory. She took shape as a wraith, settled on her burnt orange love seat, but very much alive. Emotions are hardly simple then, in that moment, when you finally understand the purgatorial plaque that had accumulated over the last ten years. When your eyes look their last, a faint miasma of ammonia clinging to the drapes. When you choke on your own tears and you feel embarrassed. When you're face to face with The Final Moments and you chicken out. Things are not so simple then.

But they feel simple when the call comes through. When the news spills. When you finally exhale and the burden of sorting through those infinitesimal emotions is temporarily lifted.

Soon there will be more words, better ones, ones befitting the life my Grandma lived and the memory she leaves behind. Soon there will be a lighter spirit, a wry and brassy tribute. But for now, there's this. A muddy rumination on what it means to lose someone.

Countries

2011-08-06T15:39:00.000-07:00

...Did I forget to mention that I'm essentially out of the country for three weeks?

I think I may have. So...that explains why the blog has been so quiet lately. In my absence, here are a few photos snapped while in Canada last week to tide you over till the REAL images surface. Because, you know, I'm not actually one of those folks who confuses Hipstamatic for actual photography. Take that, Instagram. How about you throw a vintage filter on my FIST while I PUNCH you in the FACE?

(I really can't explain the sudden surge of violence except that I've been in a car for the past seven hours, 6hrs and 59mins of which were spent playing Settlers of Catan on an iPad. In that time, I only won twice, bested at least a dozen times by a computer player named Mary-Ann who would whine every time I stole her resources even though she KNEW she'd beat me NINE TIMES OUT OF TEN. So maybe that has something to do with it. Oh, and the fact that I just realized I'm a lonely nerd who shall remain so forever and ever, amen. Violence. Natural bi-product.)

Here's a picture of a picture from my other camera. Just LOOK at that view!

Snapped this beaut from the window of our room at the Chateau Lake Louise.

The digs in Jasper. Reminded me of Dirty Dancing, minus the part where I sport a frizzy perm and carry a watermelon and fall in love, of course.

Found this little hummingbird skull necklace at a tourist stop on the way to Jasper. So great.

I picked wildflowers along the way on a hike and stuck them in my braid. Couldn't help it.

The Kids in America

2011-08-01T07:00:00.000-07:00

As promised, here are some shots I did with a few lovely Click models last week. West coast cool meets a hot American summer.

All photography by Laurel Dailey. Styling & grooming also by Laurel Dailey. Photo assistant Dustin Giallanza.

Teaser

2011-07-25T08:00:00.000-07:00

Couldn't resist throwing a teaser image your way from a project I'm working on. Here's Madeleine from Click LA. Hair, makeup, styling, and photography by yours truly. Check back soon for the whole shebang.

I Store My Tweets In His Spare Pocket

2011-07-20T18:33:00.000-07:00

Got into a lovely little discussion via Twitter today with Byron and Jen about cargo shorts. Conveniently spaced so you can read things top to bottom:

Oh, and I discovered that the H in Laurel H. Dailey apparently stands for Henrietta.

When Someone Great Is Gone

2011-07-17T21:58:00.000-07:00

Call me ASAP.

That was the text from my Dad on July 2. I was at a BBQ, woozy with an alchemic storm of heat, people, and drinks. I knew what the voice on the other end would say, knew it was coming. Funny how it still socks the air from your stomach, though. My Grandpa was gone. I stared hard down the slope of Kent St, glared at a tangle of roses to my right. Somewhere, birds were singing brashly, unaware of their impending doom or mine, or anyone else's. I sipped my beverage and listened to the birds, as mellifluous and ignorant as ever.

Bob Hjort, a name only half as Norwegian as they come when you consider that his father's name was Halfdan Hjort. One can almost hear Vikings somewhere bellowing their approval. On July 2, 2011, he went to be with Jesus. Bob Hjort loved to garden--took utmost pride in it, in fact. As kids, we'd get lost in the orderly rows of marigolds, we'd rest in the shade of hydrangeas, we'd run our fingers along rows of corn and fill our bellies with raspberries. We'd forage through Grandma's dress up box, and once clothed in fluid chiffon, we'd gallop into the garden where another imaginary scenario awaited our full attention.

Grandpa liked to beat the sun in rising every morning, finding it perfectly acceptable to take the dog for a walk at 4am and then retire with an English muffin and coffee to the living room where the sun would greet him listening to the police scanner for signs of life in Keizer's predawn hours. He had a copper mug filled with pesos, the exotic equivalent to gold doubloons to our young eyes, and he'd offer us a bounty if we refilled his water glass or returned his used dishes to the kitchen. I used to dream of Mexico and how I'd spend the money someday.

I'll miss him, but I wouldn't trade every minute I spent at his house, in his garden, taking predawn walks, for anything in the world. While home this past week, I got to see a bunch of old slides from his younger years, when my mom and her siblings were itty bitty. When I saw the photo below, I audibly gasped because not only is it an incredible photo, but I feel it represents the way Grandpa lived: Freely, full of verve and life and humor and gusto. Exactly how a life should be spent.

Oh, and the little girl on the right with the stylin' side pony at the beginning of this post? Yeah, that's me.

Graceland (Paul Simon Cover)

There Will Be Snacks, There Will!

2011-07-16T23:14:00.000-07:00

For those of you not paying attention, I've been doing a bit of road tripping over the past week with the usual suspects. We drove to Oregon and back, and a plethora of places therein. Around hour 14 of our drive north last week, after an extensive span of relative carpool silence,* Ashley spoke up from the back seat: "Do you guys think I should get LASIK?"

There was a beat of silence while we individually tried to surmise the impetus for her question. One of us might have shrugged in the dark or maybe nodded in the headlights of a passing car because, taking it as her answer, Ashley heaved a monstrous sigh.

"It's my one downfall," she stated.

"Uh...sorry, what?" I (or someone) asked in bewilderment.

She sighed again, this time impatiently. "If I were stuck on a deserted island or in the apocalypse, that would be my one downfall."

Oh. Of course it would be.

"You don't think that maybe having a period once a month would also be a drawback?" I asked, ever the voice of feminine reason. We proceeded to spiral down a rabbit trail of apocalyptic hypothesizing until coming to a startling and ultimately disheartening conclusion: In the event of an island deserting or apocalyptic armageddon, I wouldn't make it fifteen minutes. Maybe not even fifteen seconds.

The reasons are myriad and each is more damning than the last. First and foremost, I have absolutely no skills that aren't strictly first world, Internet-age, entitlement-engendered Millennial hoo-ha. Seriously. Can't identify poisonous plantlife from its edible counterparts (Jon), can't run fast or climb or roundhouse kick my way out of anything (Ashley), can't yell loudly enough to create a diversion from a pack of ravenous zombies (Mike). I don't employ a great deal of logic in my thinking, so I would be the last person to know what to do if Wikipedia wasn't available for the asking. To make matters worse, I have terrible balance, and I don't think very quickly on my feet. Which are flat, by the way. As if it couldn't have been any worse.

Think about it: What would I have to offer at the apocalypse? A quick wit? A perfectly made cocktail? Oh, I know: I'll take a PHOTO of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse shortly before they scythe my head from my shoulders. Great idea. Oh, and then I'll BLOG about it! Even BETTER! The Antichrist has unleashed a pack of killer zombies onto the scorched plains of planet Earth and what's my response to it all? Hysterical hyperbolizing in ALL CAPS on what's left of my melted iMac.

The worst part is that none of my dearest of friends disagreed with me. At all. If anything, they were all too eager to heap yet another bit of evidence onto the pile of Why Laurel Wouldn't Last Five Minutes In The Apocalypse. Jon suggested with a chuckle that if it were an Antichrist kind of apocalypse, I'd meet my maker after the dark anti-lord requested a cocktail made with something silly like Baileys and, by way of a snarky comment, I sarcasm'd myself straight to the grave. Because that's EXACTLY how I'd meet my end, and we all know it. He Who Shall Not Be Named throws me a bone and asks me to mix him something fruity, and what do I do? I make a snide comment about it.

But since Carmageddon is the worst of our worries this week and the calamities of 2012 have only come to fruition in a John Cusack-led stinker, I'll offer you one of my pithy skills by way of a few photos of our trip. Peep 'em while you still can, folks. There's no telling when the zombies will come growling up my front steps and I'm the idiot who asks them if they're on Twitter yet.

*Let me fill you in on an unexpected quirk particular to our jaunt up the 5. Those who adhere to certain psychological crazytalk are savvy to terms like "verbal-" or "internal processor." That is to say, I'd lend a considerable amount of credence to these ideas because it's been my experience that most people fall into one of those categories, so best know where your mind hangs out the most, right? Anyway, it probably won't surprise you to know that I have been crowned Prom Queen at Verbal Processor High for the past 28 years. In my thirties, I'll probably graduate to Mayor or maybe just Czar. By the time I reach my late-ies, I may as well be referred to as Most Immanent One Who Benevolently Presides Over Our Humble Land, Verballsia Processia. And I don't think that's overstating things.

Well, I so happened to take a weeklong roadtrip with not one, not two, but three internal processors. That's three folks who are so content to hang out in the dew-glazed meadows of their minds that we'd drive hundreds of miles without so much as a topical exchange from front seat to back. Try and sympathize, if you can, because let me tell you: by day 9, I felt like every thought in my head had curdled into a petrie dish of OVERTHINKING EHHH-VERYTHING. What's that? Eat at Baja Fresh? CAN'T YOU TELL I'M IN THE MIDDLE OF RE-EVALUATING MY ENTIRE BELIEF SYSTEM? No? Well, excuse me while I pitch a HISSY over here in the Chevron parking lot!

So...something like that. Their minds are dewy unicorn-infested meadows of sunshine. Mine's sort of like the moldy back corner of the grossest fridge at the messiest bachelor pad you can imagine. Oh, and? The power went out like, three weeks ago.

A Glimpse

2011-07-14T22:12:00.000-07:00

Here are a few iPhone shots I took from my trip to Oregon this week. I brought the big guns as well, so stay tuned for more photos of lovely sights and lovelier people.

A controlled burn along the 5 North

Our first glimpse of a REAL mountain: Mt. Shasta

Exploring a lava cave in Central Oregon

A few of the Cascades

A painted street near SE Belmont

Tasting the goods at Breakside Brewery

Lineage: Norwegian, Swiss, and J's pronounced like Y's

Miles, Miles, Miles

2011-07-12T23:30:00.000-07:00

We drew to the crown of a hill overlooking the Willamette Valley. Ash-grey clouds impressed crude bruises on the summer sky, deliberately sponging the vibrant greens from the ground below. Beneath the green, the dirt stained our shoes a bloody russet and congealed into muddy clumps around sparse grass. A single rosebush festooned the head of each grapevine which trailed behind it like the fingers of a comet. Row after row after row, neon streaks slashed into the ground, trails of thought interrupted only by ponds, and more rose bushes. I could see the thatched pattern of diverging rows of vines, and where those vines nipped abruptly at the feet of a new crop - wheat, this time. Other times, the rows bowed to a riot of blackberry brambles, thorny fingers and thorny hands folded in the lap of the hill. I could see the inky outline of fir trees in the distance, rendered nearly colorless beneath the overcast sky. I could see houses, roads, and still more crops, more ponds, more vines, receding from view.

The vines had yet to yield a crop for the season. Clusters of future grapes merely flowered bashfully from their buds, hinting at a Fall harvest, perhaps late October. I walked down a row flanked on either side by vines, and I crushed the pungent yellow heads of dandelions beneath my feet. Jon stood at the top of the hill, Ashley to my right, and Mike further along a neighboring row. Someone observed the skyline and asked if that was fog rolling in. Without looking up, I could hear the rain fluttering onto the leaves of vines thirty seconds ahead of us. It's not fog, I said, and with shrieks we turned toward the car. A curtain of water nipped at our heels and we weren't four seconds to safety before the rain crashed freely on the windshield.

I guided the car further up the hill, to the highest point, where we could see everything through the fogged glass, the rain eventually obliterating our view until the windshield wipers cast it aside. In five minutes it was over, and sunlight lanced the cloud cover at the base of the hill. We chased the sun, pausing to pick lavender, dandelions, daisies, queen anne's lace, and black-eyed susans. The blackberries aren't ripe yet, I said, and we continued onward to the base of the hill, to a wheat field, where we listened to the contented hum of grain murmuring its salutations to the sky.

Mike said it was a first for him, being in a vineyard, and in a wheat field. I thought to myself it was a first for me, too, being grateful to see it rain.

The Sacred

2011-07-06T13:10:00.000-07:00

Amongst the tangled thicket of topics in mind today, I'll pull one out at random and ask that you simply try and do your best to keep up: There is nothing, and I do mean nothing, quite like an Oregon summer.

The days are hot and dry with each possessing properties wholly unlike neighboring California's summers. The daylight is vast and in abundant supply with a languorous twilight following. There's a moment at the end of every day when the sun extinguishes itself in the inkwell of the horizon, before the stars flicker to life, before the shade of evening has insinuated itself into the ground, when the sky settles into a limpid, blown-glass shade of green. It's a moment of forced clarity when trees and houses and anything in the foreground recede bashfully into silhouette and all that's left is translucent green horizon and the smell of freshly shorn wheat fields. Very occasionally there's a summer storm. But mostly the sky shivers its final breath of daylight before that searing, neon twilight sputters to life.

Tomorrow morning I'll be hitting the road with three of my closest friends, bound for Oregon. The past week has been a knot of various events, occurrences, highs, lows, and emotions. There are new faces, a shifting community, one roommate moving on while another one moved in, visitors from out of town, and in the midst of it all, the death of someone whom I love very much. I've been carrying the weight of it all with as much grace as I can manage, but when I pause to imagine where I want to be in order really process everything, I see myself in the passenger seat of a car, in a womb of upholstery and junk food and an unending succession of tunes slipping lazily from the speakers. There's a certain freedom in casting one's thoughts into the arms of foothills. There's something sacred about making confessions to the bright altar of the dashboard.

But there's nothing quite like an Oregon summer, on a scoliotic country road rendered by the roots of trees and undulating earth. If you ever find yourself in such a place, roll the windows down. Sing something loudly and freely, howl into the nighttime air. This week I'll be in just such a place. Safe, and home.

Born In The U.S.A.

2011-07-05T14:35:00.000-07:00

Words...insufficient...still recovering...from...the...

...weekend.

[The author of this blog has collapsed in a heap of exhaustion. I, the computer, have taken over the completion of this post. I hate adjectives so in the interest of brevity, I'll simply say this: There were four days contained within the past weekend and every single one of them was full of BBQs and activities. That is all.]

Punctuation Police

2011-06-30T12:18:00.000-07:00

iChat transcript with Byron:

B: Have you heard of Speculoos? The Dutch spread. I think it's my alternative to NUTELLA!!!!! I had it on waffles the other day and I think I'm all about it.

L: What is it? I mean, what's it like?

B: It's like GRAHAMCRACKERS!

L: Ok what's going on with the overly-emphasized European spreads here? Are those exclamation points really necessary? I mean, choco-hazelnut is pretty magical, but shouldn't you at least save ONE exclamation point for something more pertinent like, say, "BY JOVE! MY LEFT HAND JUST SHRIVELED UP AND FELL OFF!!!"

2011.9

2011-06-28T17:27:00.000-07:00

A Space

2011-06-28T17:22:00.000-07:00

One of my dearest friends Ham drew this image of our house a few weeks back. I love it. (The house, Ham, and his sketch, all in equal measure.) In fact, I love it all so much I'm willing to overlook the sly hipster comment.

Update: Ham left a comment about this post that got me thinking. He said, "I'm touched. :-) [sic, you guys know how I feel about emoticons] I sketched the porch and porch roofline while it was daylight. When I ran out of daylight and finished the rest of the house, I lost perspective, which is sadly apparent. Oh well."

The thing is, while the house itself isn't rendered with the same accuracy as a photo, one of the things I enjoy most about the sketch is the way in which certain planes seem to recede aslant as the fidelity of memory is tested. Ham's memory of what our house looks like exists as a wonderful testament to the aqueous nature of even our best recollections. Planes start to shift, angles jut in opposition with reality, the entire endeavor starts to slip, to liquify, to reform, and from the jumble one is able to cobble together a reasonable facsimile, a carbon copy writ by the shakiest of hands: One's own perspective. A memory is ultimately an unfaithful partner to reality, but instead resides as a secondary layer of emotion.

Which is why I love this sketch so much. Because it doesn't depict our house as it sits on Obispo Ave, but as it exists in Ham's mind (to be fair, the contents of Ham's mind are as catawampus as an Escher sketch, but we'll forgive him of that for the sake of this train of thought). It's a loving tribute to a space that contains memories and emotions and a perspective that is hand-colored by Ham's own experience.

I've quoted this portion of one of my favorite novels too many times to count, but such is the nature of a book that forever redirected the way I thought:

In any war story, but especially a true one, it's difficult to separate what happened from what seemed to happen. What seems to happen becomes its own happening and has to be told that way. The angles of vision are skewed...The pictures get jumbled; you tend to miss a lot. And then afterward, when you go to tell about it, there is always that surreal seemingness, which makes the story seem untrue, but which in fact represents the hard and exact truth as it seemed.

While Tim O'Brien is talking about war, isn't it true that he's also talking about love, and memory, and loss, and art, and life? It seemed that way to me as a seventeen-year-old in Honors English and it seems that way to me now. So whether Ham's sketch is accurate or not isn't really the issue, not to me. I'll take the slip n' slide porch and angularly menacing rooftop over a photo snapped with someone's iPhone any day.

Mulholland

2011-06-28T17:09:00.000-07:00

Explored the Hollywood Reservoir yesterday. Perfect day for it, all sunshiny and hot and thirsty-feeling.

You can probably tell by my lack of posting lately that I'm feeling rather uninspired. Can't seem to craft a decent sentence, take a decent picture, or cobble together a decent list of links to other people's genius. Dog days of summer came early, eh? But that's how inspiration usually works, isn't it? I try my best to harness it and squeeze a drop out in times of drought but the truth is, despite my most disciplined efforts, it's still sometimes merely ebb and flow.

There's quite a bit of traveling in my foreseeable future, so I suspect after I make it through this creative lull, I'll come back swinging. Photos, words, links, run-on sentences...the whole gamut.

You'd best be ready.

Hey-Ho! Let's Go!

2011-06-19T22:16:00.001-07:00

Went camping this weekend with a handful of my nearest and dearest, the dearest of which was actually a yellow lab named Winifred. We bonded despite the fact that most of the time she seemed blithely unaware of any physical space I took up (whether in the car or sleeping in our tent), and would heave her blonde self wherever she pleased. On the drive up, I even got head-butted a couple of times. Thanks, Winnie. You're a peach.

Here are some photos I took of the weekend and those who joined me in the mountains and valleys of Santa Barbara.