Today’s Theme: Workin’ hard and hardly workin’

Just wanted to share some music that I jam to while I’m doing research. This is what I’m listening to when I look at managing risk of customer due diligence in the base of the pyramid market by developing models to assess livelihood and repayment capabilities. This is what I listen to as I cry because I wasn’t smart enough to design a regression analysis. This is what I listen to when I realize that none of the money I ever make doing this will pay for the years of drastic plastic surgery that will remove the bags under my eyes.

Whatever. Work hard, party hard, y’all.

P.S. Like somethin’ you hear? Comment + right click and save.

I recently finished a site for my friends Jeff Porcaro and Stephanie Gordon: www.leatherlight.net.

I rarely ever work for free, but when I do, it’s for a slick concept, for good friends, or for something I love. In this case, it was for all of those reasons. Sam and Jeff have opened up their home and their arms to me in Los Angeles, and I can’t imagine their gazebo without Steph. When Jeff originally showed me the leather lighter case in San Francisco this time last year, I wanted one for myself and for every other smoker I knew. So when he decided to turn it into a business, I jumped at the chance to build him a website.

Jeff sent me a a Leather Light back in December, and it’s been a staple in my wardrobe ever since. Check it out! I’m sure you’ll love it as much as I do. And obviously, major brownie points if you decide to buy one and support my friends.

www.leatherlight.net
Like their Facebook page.
Photos: Felisha Tolentino

The Paradise girls, plus a few others–always my favorites.

Happy 21st, Claire!

When Greg laughs, his entire body moves. It’s the most graceful coordination of the human body I have ever witnessed, especially for somebody that is three inches short from being 7 feet tall. When we first met, I was half asleep, and asked him what the weather was like.

He was not amused.

And Greg is amused by almost everything.

I went to see his band (Black Cobra Vipers) play at the Classy as F**k Cinco De Mayo art show at SUBMission in San Francisco. The art space was a visual overdose in and of itself, but all my senses were going wild: the musk of San Francisco State hipsters as we danced along to French Cassette‘s bass lines, my hands fumbling as I held on to people, trying to stay balanced, the taste of tequila still on my breath, listening to the Black Cobra Vipers for the umpteenth time. They still surprise me each and every time and it’s always a pleasure to see ‘em live.

The entire show felt like when Greg and I just met, half-asleep, sleepwalking through this dream that was not real; too many of senses overloading at the same time.

Whatever. Enough of me stroking Greg’s ego. He’s a slut.

Historically, Stephen’s annual Classy Wine and Cheese birthday party gets as wild as any cocaine-fueled frat formal. It’s the classiest party that has ever been broken up by the cops, after all. This year, the wildest thing were my dance moves (don’t hate, I can have one claim to fame) in the living room, but it was such a fabulous break to my seven-days-a-week nine-to-five.

I think we break the record for number of two buck Chuck that can be consumed in one night, as well as number of different cheeses offered at one college party, and I think that’s a feat that Stephen Layton is pretty damn proud of.

‘Cause we’re the party people, night and day
Livin’ crazy, that’s the only way

So tonight
Gotta leave that nine to five upon the shelf
An’ just enjoy yourself

Currently: Waiting for this ugly clay mask to dry, adjusting to jet lag (even though I’ve been out of the country for nearly a month), wondering if #thirdworldproblems tweets are kosher

I’ve taken some precious vacation time to seriously mull over this past year, but cannot seem to remember anything notable. I worked a lot, played a lot, studied a lot, danced a lot, traveled a lot. I had an existential crisis or five, so much that it’s become one of the few consistencies I can enjoy and expect. Same ol’, same ol’ shit. Anyways, I’m not good with words, so I compiled a mix of all the songs I’ve enjoyed living to this past year. I’m literally an open book with this mix: these are the songs that I’ve danced to, sang to, cried to, sat on my apartment balcony belting, got fudged up to (whether good or bad), felt ambivalent about life to, listened to on my commute to work in San Francisco, or sitting around and chain-smoked in an ugly, hip as fug San Francisco apartment (sorry Greg, I love you), or while holding Jered’s hand during road trips, driving down the I-5, or on long plane rides. Et cetera. Basically my soul.

Song / Artist
1. Sutphin Boulevard / Blood Orange
2. FFunny FFrends / Unknown Mortal Orchestra
3. Girlfriend / We Are Trees
4. I Want a House / Twin Sister
5. Right on For the Darkness / Willi Wright
6. Set Me Free / The Kinks
7. La Belle Tocade / ME & LP
8. Chinatown / Destroyer
9. New Beat/ Toro Y Moi
10. Within and Without / Washed Out
11. All Around and Away We Go / Twin Sister
12. Just My Imagination / The Temptations
13. Miles Away / The Sleepy Jacksons
14. Son of A Preacher Man / Dusty Springfield
15. Stuck on The Puzzle / Alex Turner
16. Bellies Are Full / Portugal. the Man
17. Know No Violence / Spanish Prisoners
18. Civilian / Wye Oak
19. Friend Crush / Friends
20. Poor in Love / Destroyer

Frequently Asked Questions
1. What can I expect from this mix?
It’s not something you can party to or pre-game to, but it’ll be good for the morning after, when you take off your fake lashes and make friends with your potty.

A lot of chillwave and dreampop, more hipsterrunoff-approved/documented music than I’d like

2. So where’s Lana Del Rey?
Sorry I’m not sorry?

3. How can I get in the mood for this?
I suggest a car and a long distance to go. If you’d like, I’ll even burn you a copy and make ugly cover art for it. And maybe send one of my prints?!?! E-mail me at stella@daintily.org with your name and address.

Enjoy! Hope your New Years is filled with glitter and love, xoxo. Let’s get it right next year, yeah?

If you want to know why I’m borderline neurotic, read on.

–

Hey you,

Thanks for the quick reply. I appreciate your thoughtful e-mails, and I’m sorry that I’m terrible at replying to them.

I’ve been in the motherland–Vietnam, just in case you forgot what kind of Asian I am–and am feeling a rush of strange, inexpressible emotions. Could it be this sudden, acute consciousness of my mere existence? Don’t know, but I’ll let you play the shrink. It might be my lady parts to blame, but alas, I am a lady and I never think it’s my fault. Instead, I blame it on chillwave and Fredric Jameson.

I also apologize if my writing is shoddy; I haven’t spoken a word of English for a month.

So. Chillwave. Jered and I just introduced it into our relationship these past few months, the same way some couples reluctantly introduce doggie style into their relationship because they’ve been doing missionary since forever. We were sick of what independent music had to offer, and were scrounging around, only to listen to shit like Mumford and Sons (sorry if you like ‘em). Jered didn’t originally like this dream pop sound, but, save Bon Iver, there was nothing but whiney folk and everything else sound like a descendent of Kings of Leon. I tiptoed slowly, first Ariel Pink, then Toro Y Moi, and then Washed Out (like most do)… and kind of went from there. It is not a sound that I intuitively find myself attracted to, but it fell on my lap and I’m not complaining (too much). And then Jered couldn’t say no, because we have reached a point where Tycho was all that was offered. Correct me if I’m wrong.

It’s not like we settled for chillwave. It’s a good sub-genre on it’s own, and it’s what makes sense right now. Let me try to explain.

While on this trip, I’ve been feeling a lot of “what’s the point?” and “everything is meaningless”. For this, I blame Vonnegut’s Cat’s Cradle and Harry Chinaski’s dick (Bukowski’s Women). After seeing multiple episodes of nearly-anarchy here, I’ve become more and more aware of the fragility of the human condition. People don’t listen to the cops here. There are paved roads, but really no formalized rules and regulations for transportation. Some people are inhumanely poor, others are not. Women are treated like shit here sometimes, and I know this echoes through out the world. Men usually cheat on their wives. There’s the Occupy movement. Most of us will have a difficult time finding a job after college. There is no security, no fairness in this human existence–and these two factors scare me more than death. Nothing will guarantee me a life of (happiness, purpose, fill in the blank here), and I can work really hard to have my husband cheat on me, among other things. Everything is meaningless, and derivatively, nothing feels real, if that makes sense. And this world I come from–all these laws, these attempts at civility, these rules, these social norms, Hollywood, Jesus, and Santa Clara-is fake and attempts to palliate the awareness of my consciousness between now and death. To convince me that shit’s ok, when it’s not.

Maybe that’s why I search for authenticity. I can’t speak for anybody else. I’ve realized my mortality, and understand, somewhat, the finiteness of my life. I’m ok with death (not dying), but what do I do between now and death? As I grow into my mother, what do I do to soften the impact of growing into death, when everything is meaningless and fake? Maybe that’s why acts like Lana Del Rey scare me so much, not because I feel like she’s scamming me, but adds less meaning to my life, to my existence, makes me realize that nobody really gives a fuck. Maybe she scares me because I don’t understand her or her cultural relevance, why she’s here. Maybe she scares me, because she really is a reflection of where we’re at right now, as a society.

So. Back to chillwave. Chillwave appeals to me, not only because it’s the only sound I can find, but it reflects how fucking scared and numb and aware I am. I like chillwave because that same fuzziness–you described old-school Hollywood–brings me back to simpler, easier times when shit was real, even when shit was hard. The construction of chillwave as a sound and culture allows me to find a balance between the two. As the generation of the Instagram iPhone app, maybe we’re all tapping into this nostalgia because it is reminiscent of a past life that seems to be so much more authentic than our own. And maybe that’s why we’re all wondering if she’s real, because, as a generation, we’ve tried to find our own Vietnam War and Beatles and The Kinks, and we seem to make strides with acts like Radiohead, only to have her pop up.

I don’t know. Whatever.

Watch this video? I want to be friends with these people. People aren’t weird enough at Santa Clara.

As for Jameson, wanna read him with me?
It’s his “Postmodernism, or, The Cultural Logic of Late Capitalism”

http://www.amazon.com/Postmodernism-Cultural-Capitalism-Post-Contemporary-Interventions/dp/0822310902/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1324993072&sr=8-1

I miss you. Can’t wait to hear back, and I’ll be back in the States January 2nd if you want to chat. Tell me how Paris is.

Love,
Stella

I cannot find the words to adequately talk about my experience in El Salvador. To say that it was heartbreaking or eye-opening denies El Salvador the more holistic account that she so deserves.

I’ll write more about El Salvador later.

Retro Super Future’s Lucia sunglasses in Blonde Havana, $160

Jeffrey Campbell’s Kelly Oxford in Brown, $120

American Apparel’s riding pant in Taupe, $74

American Apparel’s oversized chiffon button-up in Bone, $58

Travel: Palm Springs, Chicago, The Valley, New York, and El Salvador, $xxxx

Working in San Francisco means (1) I’ve become a fixture at many coffee houses, (2) I spend a huge chunk of my meager paycheck funding Bart, the thrift stores in the area, Indian food in the Tenderloin, and (3) I’m gettin’ real good at jaywalking/dodging the cops.

The Lucias are coming in the mail; and I can’t wait until I can get my hands on those AA riding pants (courtesy of AA on Union Square, of course). God, I’m such a cliché. I mean, I wish I were tall, pretty, and cliché… but we can’t have it all, can we?

Won’t you hush, pretty baby
Don’t you cry

One of these mornings
You’re gonna wake up singing
Then you’re gonna spread your wings
And take to the sky

And no, my boyfriend did not piss himself. His shirt is wet because I — yes, y’all, make note of this — somehow had the hand-eye-coordination to aim and throw a water balloon.