on being neal cassady

"Neal Cassady was beloved for his ability to inspire others to love life." I scribbled that on a napkin moons ago and hung it on my fridge: a friendly reminder to make others know how talented/wonderful/beautiful they are while casually reaching for my orange juice each morning.  At the time, reading that one sentence about the beat generation's muse illuminated something in me.  It made my heart sing a little.  A lightbulb went off. I made a conscious decision for that to be my personal mantra: inspire others to love life. That is what I'm put on this earth to do. Nothing would make me happier.

How lovely it is to make others feel as elated as they're supposed to feel just being alive!  And not just any others, specifically, close friends. Parental encouragement begins to lessen in meaning around age 20.  We realize our parents aren't superheroes and their judgement calls are as human as ours.  Plus, they're our parents. It's their job to think we're the most thrilling thing that has ever graced this earth. It's science. We all need to be reminded of our light once in a while; just a match to ignite a toasty, crackly stream of warmth. That means more warmth in the world - the heat isn't contained in the flames.

Well, that's worked out well for me.  I've always felt happy being a shoulder to lean on, an open ear, an inspiration, a muse, your own personal cheerleader.  Whatever you need to feel your worth, I've got you covered!  And for real. I'm a deadly combo of opinionated and horrible actress - I look like a deer in the headlights when I lie.  Careers in politics / theater were out for me, long long ago. But a life coach? Promising!  It's only recently that I've realized that to execute my mantra in the most pure, genuine way, I have to be able to do that for myself first.  It seems counter inuitive: in order to be generous, you first have to be selfish. In order to give, you first have to take. But it's quite the opposite. To love and strengthen someone wholeheartedly, you have to have enough to give. Meaning that you're running on full internally - not just havsies, giving out tiny bits and pieces to every single person you know and living your own life on fumes.  Branches grow best when there's a sturdy trunk, roots firmly planted.  And for all of us cheerleaders, we know that sometimes you give so much that you don't even know you're depleted until one day, after a pleasant Sunday brunch, you get in your car and start driving, only to then pull over and start weeping. Like, hysterical ugly crying, complete with a swollen face, hiccups and a subsequent call to your mother. Hypothetically speaking, of course.

The thing is, I'm good at encouraging.  I'm good at pep talks. I am always willing to lend an ear and like to think I give pretty ok advice too.  I will ask you 5 million questions, Barbara Walters style, because I'm genuinely interested. My actual paying job involves promoting others and helping them make their dreams come true. And you know what? I love it. It's so satisfying to watch that happen for someone and to think you had some part in it all.  But the trouble comes when you neglect your dreams.  When you spend so much time being someone else's support that you forget to be your own.

From the day I put that napkin on my fridge, I've always thought "I'm OK being Neal Cassady.  I don't have to be Ginsberg or Kerouac. It's rewarding enough to be someone's inspiration. Selflessness amounts to freedom from ego. " But I only now realize that that's not me being selfless - that's actually me just being scared.  It's much more difficult to decide you want something and start doing it, rather than just supporting that notion.  Being great is a burdensome responsibility. Exposing everything you have to offer is terrifying. What if it's not good enough? What if you lay it all out on the table and it gets rejected?  What are you left with? Most people shy away from their own light - it's much easier to be...you know...average or just to not even go there at all. To say "oh yeah yeah...I've got this brilliant talent. I just haven't unleashed it yet. But I will someday." This is why Beyonce has millions of fans but there is only one Beyonce. (Any opportunity I get to bring Bey into the conversation, I take. Deal with it).

Until recently, I had actually forgotten (FORGOTTEN!) how much I love to write.  How satiating it is to share thoughts and stories with someone you may never meet. More importantly, to describe a situation that resonates, that moves and stirs, that makes someone feel they're in the middle of your avalanche, your war, your circus. Little me would be disappointed with recent me: what about the codependent relationship you had with your typewriter at age 10? (All those introverted years!) Getting carsick on family vacations because, despite your mother's wishes, the nose wouldn't leave the book?  All the musicals and plays you'd write and perform on holidays with your friends? Little me is now shaking her head and taking her anger out in an awkward little haiku. (Friends, this should explain a thing or two about me).

I've just reminded myself so I'm reminding you too: we are all talented. We all have something to offer. We can all be creators, thereby, connecting us closer to God. He's the most creative one of all, right?  It doesn't benefit you or the world to piggyback on someone else's desires. Yes, we should all support one another.  But we should be authentic in our contributions.  If your dream is being a talent manager or a promoter or gallery director - that's amazing! Go with that. But if you're doing something simply because it's easier than fulfilling the wishes of that 10 year old, think it over.  You may be depriving the world of something great.

chloe

The crisp night air was foggy and intoxicating.  A few cars flew by on the normally bustling street.   Typically, the fluttering metal saturated the corner where her tidy building stood, drivers in a scurry to some important destination with headpieces and honking. But tonight there was stillness, with a few sporadic footsteps and headlights.  She wished that she had kept this evening to herself to tackle the literature her mother ambitiously sent or perhaps drink sangria at Granada, exchanging witty anectodes and sex stories from the crypt with Jane.

She stepped out of her building, first through the dark jail-like gate that left everything but the hallway light visible to the outside world, then through the noisy garden gate, guarding all but an actual garden and open to anyone over 5'10 with common sense.  There he was.  Prince Charming #5, holding his arm out for her hand and gesturing into his old white Hyandai, with a Free Tibet sticker nonetheless.  His eager expression coupled with his nervous hand immediately triggered her pesky inner voice that usually makes its way into later portions of the evening.

She let out a noiseless sigh and though knowing she should give a cheerful smile like you do on a first date, she gave a somewhat smug, somewhat smirk, lowering her eyebrows in a way that unimpressed young ingenues do on the red carpet after they've been nominated for their first Oscar. "You look nice," he said, hugging her perhaps accidentally, as she sunk into the car. "Thanks, so do you."

Prince #5 was Max, an aspiring TV writer from Islington in East London with neat pastel colored sweaters and an embarassed, nervous disposition she accepted, assuming most British people are slightly embarrassed and nervous.  The ones she had known anyway.  He asked her out in a sweeping statement at a tacky dive bar, which she found admirable and brave.  "Excuse me," he interrupted the table of six somewhat intoxicated girls, drinking Shiraz, smoking Marlboros and being generally loud, "but I would really like to take you out.  This is awkward.  I'm sorry. What is your name?"

At this point, the lights were coming on and all the drugstore bought Tiki accents, Mexican wrestling masks and 70s porno posters showed in all their glory.  The appeal of authenticity loses its luster upon well lit examination.  "Chloe." "Chloe would you mind giving me yo numbah? I think you are beautiful."  His voice sounded urgent, not warm.  Presumably because the bartender started yelling "go home!" with salty glances toward their general vicinity.  Normally, she'd say no or make up some lie about an ambiguous boyfriend named Ryan or Brian: no one questions the Ryan or Brian scheme.  But this bravery needed to be rewarded.  Men had forgotten what it meant to truly earn a woman.  She felt it was her female duty to encourage this behavoir and oblige him.

And now as she rode in the stale smell of cigarettes, a bevy of scattered notebook paper and an awkward gentleman gripping his steering wheel as if he was about to have high tea with the Queen, whites of his knuckles evident to her lowered eyes everytime they passed a streetlamp, she was rethinking this decision.  It wasn't that Max wasn't a nice guy or an interesting one even.  It was that Chloe had developed a pattern that she was simultaneously annoyed by but also knew was her destiny.  You see, she had already dated Max.  (Many times.) She knew it wouldn't work out. She would tire of his useless pieces of Beat Generation trifles, talkative temperment, incessant questions of her life back home and "how crazy" it was that she has no accent and how visibly uncomfortable he would get in front of her friends.

He would pry and try to worm into her life and her perfectly ordered routines, agendas, and ideas.  She would act oblivious and aloof, building another solid layer of brick around her space in fear of claustrophobia.  And after date #3, she would stop taking his calls and replying to his meticulously witty yet succinct e-mails that had the potent aroma of the sitcom he penned.  She would end it like she ends all the others.  Without notice. Not because she was heartless or cowardly but because she found it far less humiliating to receive subtle hints than to be told "I don't want to see you anymore."  Everyone is desperate for straight forward answers in matters of the heart until an undesirable one strikes like a fist,  an agonizing reminder that emotions and rationale struggle to coexist. Her actions were more inspired by empathy than traditional dating protocal.

But they weren't quite there yet.  Tonight, they were at a trendy tequila bar for tacos and margaritas,  with a side of forced interest and incessant nodding.  Between careful bites and salt crusted sips, Chloe learned that Max has a propensity to spend too much money on overpriced successories (the Moleskin scheme, he cleverly called it), was inspired by writers like Kurt Vonnegut and Hunter S. Thompson, and had developed a mild allergy to apples, although he loved them when was younger.  He had two older sisters and a happily married set of parents and grandparents, all still in the UK.  He found French new wave overrated and had developed an aggressive coffee and cigarettes addiction while studying at Uni.  Aside the boring writer cliches, Chloe was enjoying his quirks.  The nervousness turned from distracting to endearing. OK so this wasn't horrible.

photo: oracle fox

gold dust girl

I'm working on something. This is part of it and also, my happy place...

She jangled her foggy glass and tipped it back and forth in front of one opened eye, letting the clear rocks form a kaleidoscope with the tangerine sunset.  The ice had diluted the caramel liquid into the color of cola at the end of a thriller, touched only by its nervous owner's tight grip and foregone by his mouth.  Upon getting a satisfactory level of entertainment from her cocktail-horizon tango, she put down her arm on the stiff plastic and leaned back, closing her eyes.  The cheap rubber of her neon pink and white lawn chair squeaked the way new ones tend to and suddenly, she remembered she'd have stripes all over the exposed part of her summer skin.  

Those stripes, much like pillow cheek marks, were once something to be giggled at and giddily anticipated in the days of Kool Aid and cardboard boxes and fresh green lawns awaiting imaginations to turn them into faraway lands. Now, she sighed lazily.  That same imagination now tackled more practical topics, like what her thighs and back would look like with tiny maroon crevices in the neat pattern of a Walgreens chair.  Her sigh reminded her the smell she knew so well, having visited her grandparents' vacation home since childhood.  Not so much even the olfactory notes but the feeling of the dry, warm air in her nostrils.  There was comfort in the hot air that blanketed her and the sun browning her skin from milk to honey.  Tomorrow it would feel tender, especially in the parts that sunk into the crevices of the pink and white.  But the cold bourbon that  had just doubled as visual stimulation romanced her wits and convinced her this blissful moment would leave both her and her shell invincible...

you don't know jac

#stunner


photo: vanessa jackman

beats & treats monday blues playlist

As of late, I've had the privilege to contribute to You, Me, and Charlie, Dianna Agron's online arts and inspiration playground.  If you haven't already, mosey on over there - daily goodies carefully curated to spark, impress and amuse! Today's post was dedicated to Montreal-based musical dreamweaver Grimes, who is one part Lykke Li, one part Cults, one part underground DJ and all parts delightful.  (You can read the full entry here if you'd like...)

Writing about Grimes brought something to my attention: it has been ages since I've said a word about my most recent music crushes on my own blog, which defeats the whole "beats" portion of my moniker. Therefore, without further ado, I bring you a collection of jams for your Monday Blues. All the artists and songs I've been swooning over as of late in a nice, neat ongoing Spotify stream. (!!!)


beats & treats Monday Blues Playlist


What have you been listening to?


photo: ali mitton via oracle fox

andreea diaconu

Hi. I'm ridiculous looking. #seriously?

I dare you to name someone prettier.

photos: citizen couture, tumblr

the desert

My dearest Chelsea and I took a little day trip to Pioneertown on New Year's Day to start 2012 off with a rattlesnakey, arid bang.  We had so much fun exploring, drinking Hefeweizens, divulging what we hope for in the year to come and listening to live 'desert folk' music.  Teeny tiny adventures with your girlfriends are the best kind.

dia frampton the great

I can't get over how much I adore the Where the Wild Things Are / Lord of the Flies inspired video 'The Broken Ones' from the lovely Miss Dia Frampton.  The whimsical, storybook mood of the video matches Dia's unique, retro tone and airy, inimitable delivery perfectly. Plus let's face it, she looks positively stunning in it - the styling matches this Lost Boys tribal vibe impeccably. To see my snaps from the shoot, click click click.

Her album 'Red' is also definitely worth a listen - the quirky, folky-pop tracks include collaborations from Florence + The Machine, Foster the People and Kid Cudi.  My favorites are "Don't Kick The Chair," "Daniel," and "Trapeze."

i'll be home for christmas

By the time Christmas rolls around each year, I feel like it completely smacks me in the face unexpected.  Regardless of the holiday-flavored treats gracing every menu, perpetual stream of Christmas music in your ears and endless parade of merriments and holiday parties, it still somehow feels like it sneaks up on you - usually around the 22nd or 23rd.  But the greatest part is that all the scurrying and scrambling and holiday shopping and (GOOD LORD!) it always being the busiest time at work, the moment you walk in the door at home, the load is lifted.  My exhaustion typically pours out of me.

As soon as I sit down on my parents' couch, wine in hand, wearing the equivalent of childhood long johns, I sink and can't move for at least 3-4 hours. Sometimes I even get a mini cold - my mother calls this "the tired coming out" - all the better reason to continue not moving, except to get tea or take a bath.  After all, it's a rare moment of allowing myself peace and breaking the rhythm of productivity I know to be life.

This year was no different. The majority of time was spent sitting in dim lights, indulging in decadent snacks (HI. My mother literally purchases caviar and fancy truffles before our arrival. It's become somewhat of a silly tradition. This family loves being ridiculous.) and interchanging feel good movies with Saturday Night Live episodes.

I always get wayyy too ambitious too. Before I depart LA, I think to myself "This time, I shall go to Vail and take photographs with my father. Then I shall take my mother shopping and we'll get massages, followed by the best sushi in town.  Then, my best friend and I can go to all the Happy Hours in Boulder. Then it shall rain skittles..."  What ends up happening is me catching up on all the TV I never watch with my older sister, while we consume an absurd amount of snack food, tea and smoothies. (We both get excited at the thought of a blender but never buy one for ourselves.  Ah, adulthood.)

I must say: this Christmas was magical!  I had the best time simply doing nothing and by the time I got back to LA, I felt rejuvenated, shiny and ready for 2012. A good thing, considering New Year's is my favorite holiday of the year and it's much better to tackle the eve and prospect of a new chapter well-rested.  I'm excited for all the things this year: for more change, more challenges to tackle, more friends, more adventures to write about, more divine inspiration, more beautiful things to photograph, more recipes to try/interests to explore/hobbies to take on, more...JUST MORE.

Happy New Year's everyone! I hope 2012 brings you much cheer, victories big and small, new people in your life, exciting ventures, sparks of genius, laughter, courage and happiness!  I have a feeling it will be BRILLIANT...

Some snaps from home:

     Stephanie's tree.

   A brand new wall of photos for my BFF, including my favorite one of us.

   Cocktails at Capital Grille.

   ...followed by espressos at Capital Grille.

   Larimer Square.

   Neighborhood market.

   Me and all of the lights.

   Corridor 44.

   Champagne flutes: small, medium and large.

    Christmas pup.

this thing called love

Freddie was the greatest.

beats & treats: the 90s teen spirit

She's typically adorned in velvet, floral, ripped denim and/or flannel of some sort.  The crucifix is her go-to accessory and she listens to Sonic Youth, Nirvana and The Cranberries as if The Strokes, Arcade Fire and MGMT never happened.  She can likely play the guitar like a pro and outdrink most boys you know. If you want to spark her interest when it comes to fashion, just drop two words: Steven Meisel. She's the 90s teen spirit and there are eight ways to make that rare smile appear, without mentioning Jordan Catalano.

1. Good Girl Gone Bad Bustier, $48

2. Dior Vernis Nail Lacquer in 'Tuxedo', $22

3. 'Grunge' by Thurston Moore and Michael Lavine, $17

4. Stanley Classic Flask, $22

5. Doc Martens 1460 Worn Broken-In Boot, $130

6. MAC Lipstick in Cyber, $14.50

7. Christian Roth Tinted Sunglasses, $450

8. Asos Johnstons Merino Wool Hat, $44

beats & treats gift guide: the modern day marie antoinette

The self-described girly girl, this lovely lady buys roses every week for her apartment, bakes on the weekends and loves all things French, pink and gold.  She's known to be the hostess with the mostest, and to look utterly beautiful while doing so - charming and dainty and sweet.  Give this old soul gifts fit for a queen.

1. Chloé Rollerball, $25
2. Sacha Distel 'Best of Sacha Distel', $34
3. 'Le Petits Macarons: Colorful French Confections To Make At Home', $13
4. Steve Madden Karisma Bow Flat, $80
5. Slate Cheese Board, $48
6. Evie Envelope Clutch, $80
7. Lollia Butter Hand Cream, $24

beats & treats gift guide: the love child

I'm a little late on the train for gift guides but then again if my readers are anything like me, not really all that behind because let's be honest, all of my holiday shopping usually begins around the 20th!  So in this final stretch before the massive gift-giving bonanza, take a deep breath, go buy yourself a latte and if you want, don't even leave the coffee shop.  I've got the goods to complete all your holiday shopping needs on the WWW.  Read on for my first gift-receiving muse, The Love Child.

She reads Rumi, wears flowers in her hair and has always coined George her favorite Beatle.  She gives you sound advice when you need it, has a peaceful, easy air about her and loves Big Sur more than any other place on earth. If playing guitar and listening to records was a religion, she'd be a devout follower.  What's this modern day Stevie Nicks / Anita Pallenberg hybrid want?  Likely nothing. She doesn't need more "things" maaaan. But if you want to bring a little more holiday to cheer to this already love-filled soul, be sure you to her stocking with any of these goodies!

1. 'Nowhere Boy' on DVD, $18
2. Wildfox Road Trip Sweater Dress, $117
3. House of Harlow Robyn Sunglasses, $138
4. Luv AJ Spiked Headpiece, $99
5. 'Big Sur' 8x12 Print, $50
6. Nordic Sweater Bag, $68
7. Diptyque Scented Candle in 'Verveine', $60

the trouble with being nice

Don't be nice. Nice gets you nowhere.  Nice will get you trampled on, taken advantage of, and drained of any energy you have.  Don't be nice.  Nice won't get you the promotion, the guy, the group of friends.  You have to be aggressive, apathetic, unimpressed to obtain any of those. Respectively.  Vampires grow bigger fangs as soon as they see that you're nice.  And they can smell blood.  You'll be exhausted and disappointed time and time again. You'll question this whole "kindness" thing altogether and get mad at your parents for telling you that's the way to go. You attract more bees with honey than vinegar?  Let nice people go ahead and get stung then.  Who wants bees around anyway?

Don't be nice.  Nice isn't the first word you want to be described as.  You'd rather be talented, clever, good-looking, sharp, tall…any of those will do over nice.  Nice just conveys to people that you're a doormat.  That they can take what they want and not give you anything.  People will ask for favors. They'll borrow money.  They'll hit on your boyfriend.  They'll steal your friends.  They'll insult you under their breath, time and time again.  And you won't return the jabs. Why? Because you're nice.

You'll finish last. You'll cry. You'll feel beaten down and sucked dry.  You'll wonder 'why isn't everyone nice in return?'  You'll have high expectations that people simply cannot fulfill.  You'll call your best friend or your mom and get nostalgic about Disney movies - wasn't that supposed to be the way of the world?

Don't be nice. Nice means naive.  You don't know anything. After all, you're NICE. Nice people haven't been hardened by reality.  Nice people aren't well-traveled, well-versed, well-trained to bring it to this ring.  Nice people don't know that life will claw and scratch at you 'til you're thick-skinned enough that scars cover the once bloody scabs you got. Because you were nice, of course. Nice people don't know to protect themselves with indifferent glances and an icy demeanor.  They don't have any armor.  They're not prepared for this battle, or any for that matter.  All they know how to do is be nice.

Don't be nice.  Nice means you've never suffered.  Nice means you don't have a personal tragedy.  Because what kind of superhero are you, exactly, if you can muster the strength to let yourself be vulnerable after a massive blow like that?  Not a nice one. No. Kindness means weakness.  When you're not nice, people understand that you're seasoned.  That you've been run over, dragged in the mud and buried before rising back up.  Nice people haven't had that happen yet.  Otherwise, they'd have much less enthusiasm.

Don't be nice in a relationship.  You'll never have the upper hand.  You'll never play the game right if you're nice. You'll have your nice little heart broken and you'll weep and wonder why you loved so hard if you didn't have a stamped love-back guarantee upon entering this agreement.  You'll get left behind as the broken hearted rather than the heartbreaker. Terrible position to be in.  Why did you expose that chest cavity to begin with?

Feel sorry for nice people.  They'll wear their heart on their sleeve - they don't know how to play it cool and so, they'll never be cool.  The opposite of that would be…warm?  They'll laugh so hard that their drink comes out of their nose.  They'll tell dorky jokes everyone has already heard. (They don't really care that everyone's already heard it.)  Conversely, they'll give a courtesy laugh to someone whose joke wasn't at all funny.  You see, they'd rather take on embarrassment than see someone else feel embarrassed.  Their eyes will sparkle and they'll smile like an idiot from ear to ear when they walk into a fancy event: they've never seen anything like this before.  They don't know that they're supposed to act like this is an everyday occurrence.  They'll get starstruck and giddy if they have a run in with someone they admire.  And the poor fool will probably tell them too. They'll waste a lot of valuable time at the grocery store, asking the clerk how their day is going and striking up conversation with the produce guy about what he's doing for the holidays.  They'll go their whole lives feeling empathy toward people they don't even know.  They'll be all their friends' personal therapist, shoulder to cry on and 4 AM call if they're in trouble.  They'll pull over and help someone change their tire or lend them jumper cables and make everyone late to the party.  They'll embarrass themselves with grand romantic gestures.  They'll cry during JIF and Rice Krispies commercials because they can't wait to have kids of their own and teach them to be nice.  Poor kids, right?  They'll lose sleep thinking 'It's been a while since I've called my parents. I hope they know I still love them.'  They'll worry about someone overseas who wasn't born on this side of the hemisphere.  They'll love unconditionally, even if they don't get anything in return.

So if you want to live a life where you're prepared, guarded and taken seriously, don't be nice.  If you want to be seen as cool, smooth, mysterious...like you've got something up your sleeve (even if you really don't), don't be nice.  If you want people to know better than to mess with you, don't be nice.  If you want to give off an air that you're better than everybody in the room, definitely don't be nice.  But if all of these things don't matter that much to you and you're ok with feeling a little exposed, it's likely that pangs of loneliness will plague you much less frequently.  It's likely that along with being described as "nice", you'll have qualities like "magnetic," "charming" and "generous" circling you too.  It's likely that you're ego will shrink and your heart will grow. More than anything, it's likely that you and nice will have one magical life together.

julia restoin roitfeld x kiki de monparnasse

The lovely kin to French Vogue's former editor, Carine Roitfeld, has covered many grounds: model, muse, perfumista, street style inspiration..general heartbreaker.  So it should come as no surprise that her next territory is uncharted for the 31-year-old, however, fits organically in this realm of romantic occupations most modern ladies fantasize about.

Roitfeld had little experience in lingerie design but was certain she wanted each piece to fit a womanly body, while feeling alluring and timeless, a fitting demand of the luxurious, vintage-inspired Kiki de Montparnasse. Mission accomplished.  Every item looks as though it could easily be worn by a classic pinup or 60s film icon. And the photographs are beyond sexy, regardless of era.  I can hear my wallet weeping and the treadmill calling my name at the same time. I'm also interested in some fake eyelashes while we're there.

Elle got the first look.

photos: elle