So, I was driven to this place where these people are going to do this thing (top secret) and God, sometimes Los Angeles is pretty. I love Downtown when it’s dusty.

The Coachella Holiday Weekend was lovely. While I recover, recuperate and re-up, here’s our impromptu practice run:

I’d said something earlier in the night about a project I’m working on, and how I’m going to photograph J Brand Dolls and knickers. Sophia decided I should photograph both items with her in them at the time, and then suddenly the Studio Eliza Fay Babygirl Lingerie/Swimwear Edition Shoot of the Century broke out. Seriously, kids, I don’t ask them to do this stuff.

In hindsight, we were practicing for the Get ‘Em Out for MIA Dance Party 2008 (no, there are no photos of that). God, if we were taking our shirts off for MIA, it’s a good thing Spank Rock flaked on Coachella…

Geneva Jacuzzi likes to be lit by rainbow-coloured neon bars scattered across the stage. That I can just about handle. Indian Jewelry, on the other hand, prefer pitch darkness punctuated only by the two strobe lights at their feet.

It was so dark I couldn’t get the camera to autofocus, but I couldn’t see to manually focus, either, so I just kept shooting while twirling the lens back and forth like an idiot. I couldn’t read the screen to check my shutter speed, either, so just kept going slower until it felt right. It was wonderful. I want to do it again.

Thank you, Indian Jewelry, for making me step it up. I get lazy sometimes.

Are you ready for Naughty Bodies Be Good Volume Three? We are.

Took a long while, but it finally occurred to me that everyone loves this picture of the Citibank building on Sunset in Echo Park. I go by it at least twice every day and somehow I’m not sick of it yet. Anyway, it’s finally on etsy so you can take it home and snuggle up to it.

(A true story from The Olden Days.)

The other night two middle-aged men propping up the bar across the street were ranting at length about women. It wasn’t the usual “women did all this bad stuff to me and are mean to me, therefore all women suck” bitter nonsense, it was a sociopath-level tirade.

There weren’t many people around yet so the primary misogynist was using Brenda, Sally, Maria, Vivian and me as his proof of everything that was wrong with women, I mean, “the undersex”. “Look at them,” he said. “They’ve never read a thing in their lives besides overpriced glossy magazines with lots of pictures. And they spend all their time and money on their appearance. With the amount of money women spend on make up and clothes and shoes, you could save other people’s lives. How many hours do you think they spent on their appearance, just today?!”

At this point I turned around and said “ten minutes, actually,” to which Mr 50-Year-Old Virgin replied “yeah, it looks like it. Try 20 next time, you might feel better about yourself.” It’s always amusing when thoroughly pompous idiots entirely contradict the point they were trying to make (that women should spend less time on their appearance) in an effort to be insulting, and make a tableful of girls giggle in the process. (Come to think of it, that was probably the most attention he’d received from women in recent memory. Good for him!)

He went on and on for far longer than I could be bothered to listen (we had hot topics like hurricane weather patterns, viral infections and the recently discovered gaping hole in the universe to discuss) but it was hard not to overhear him yelling “I HAVE A BEAUTIFUL PENIS” repeatedly. Eventually he picked up his small backpack, but it on and left with his little friend.

PS — As I was writing this, Sally walked out of the shower (because cleanliness is important, kids) and said in a high-pitched, whiny voice: “How many hours do you think they spent getting ready?!” See, I’m not the only one who woke up still amused. Thank you, Mr 50-Year-Old Virgin!

…and the signs are popping up already. See?

Everyone here thinks tea is the archetypal Brit-girl drink, but I never really drank it ’til I hit SoCal. Perhaps I was too young back home; maybe it’s age that gives me the patience to boil water and steep leaves. I couldn’t've sat still enough in London.

I was 21 when I left, and lived on smoothies. Since then, life slipped tea-wards. Between Russian classes sitting in the kitchen gossiping bilingually, (smart-girl-pretending-to-be-a) party-girl-detox frenzies in the early hours, health-conscious coffee-quitting coworkers mid afternoon and the near-constant sore throats caused by sleep deprivation and daily use of public transport, tea has become a staple.

I finally understand the theory that putting the kettle on is the answer to everything, or at least what you do while you’re waiting to come up with the answer to everything. It’s deliberately inefficient. It’s how you welcome someone in to your home, because once you’ve got the water going you might as well sit down for a bit. Tea’s like speed bumps — slow down or else.

PS — The subject line’s not just an adjusted Raconteurs lyric. I really do have a green Japanese teapot. Making tea with it feels magical. (Drinking whiskey from the little bowl cups feels sacrilegious, but that’s not entirely a bad thing.)

Islands have a new song called Creeper that makes me dance on my bed in my underwear.

You can hear it on Prefix (note that the review’s illustrated by one of my pictures from Mess with Texas) and do the same.

Seriously, in your underwear.

Please.

“An alcoholic is someone you don’t like who drinks as much as you do.”
—Dylan Thomas