Pardon My French

“There is more to sex appeal than just measurements. I don’t need a bedroom to prove my womanliness. I can convey just as much sex appeal, picking apples off a tree or standing in the rain.” –Audrey Hepburn

Can you think of three people you’d like to have a dinner party with, from any period, dead or alive?

I could go so far as to tell you the single person who I’d like to spend an evening with. Hands down, it’s Audrey Hepburn.

One Hollywood’s greatest actresses, Hepburn was also easily one of the most loved. Sabrina Fairchild, Holly Golightly, Jo Stockton – even in 2012, these characters are relevant as authentic, interesting, strong and witty women. Audrey Hepburn was an incredibly talented actress who carried her sharp, yet sweet personality into every role she played.

Audrey was a style and fashion icon (and old photos of her still inspire the way I put outfits together), but she could have pulled off wearing a burlap potato sack. She was just so beautiful, no matter how many times I’ve seen “Roman Holiday,” I can’t take my eyes off of her whenever she’s on screen.

More amazing is the fact that interview after interview with the people she knew and worked with allude to the fact that she never fully realized just how beautiful she was–that, or she was very humble. When she died in her 60s, most women even half her age couldn’t touch her beauty and class.

A humanitarian, Hepburn spent her life working with UNICEF, working for the rights of children in third world countries, their survival, development and protection. She wasn’t inviting cameras along for the ride and, I think, most people didn’t realize the work she was doing until after she passed away.

In short, she’s a beautiful role model.

My boss, Juan-Carlos Costano knows how much I admire her. I don’t remember how it came up, exactly, but the two of us like to make mention of our favorite Golden Hollywood starlets–mine is Audrey and he loves Rita Hayworth. For Christmas he gave me a DVD copy of “Funny Face” and later burned me a copy of the home invasion thriller “Wait Until Dark.”

I was really thrown through the ringer, though, when I came into work one morning and there was an actual Kodak photo of her sitting on my desk and a sticky note that read “Have an Audrey Day!”

Apparently, he came upon it while he was sifting through some boxes from a time when he used to actively collect antiques and Hollywood memorabilia.

I gasped when I saw it. After he insisted that I have it, I gave him a huge hug and bought a frame for it on my lunch break at a nearby Bed Bath & Beyond. The photo sits on my desk at work and it’s one of my favorite possessions in the world.

I spent a lot of time as a child watching Nickelodeon. I’d actually go so far to say that the network actually played a role in raising me. My little sister Courtney and I spent most of our evenings eating mom’s cooking or Kid Cuisine in front of the television and every Saturday morning watching “Nicktoons.” All the while, we were memorizing these commercial jingles, making mental note of the toys we wanted to receive on our next birthday.

(Here I feel it’s necessary to pause a moment and note that I don’t believe that I watched too much television as a child and actually spent a lot of time playing outside.)

I am quite nostalgic for my classic programming. Bring up any of my favorite old Nickelodeon shows or icons (Stick Stickley’s Nick in the Afternoon, “Clarissa Explains It All”, “The Adventures of Pete and Pete”, “Are You Afraid of The Dark”, “Salute Your Shorts”, “Doug” and “The Secret World of Alex Mack” to name a few) and we could end up talking about Nick and only Nick all night long. It’s a weakness.

When I look back, these shows represent the tone of the 1990s and are symbolic of my childhood as a whole. Because Nickelodeon made such an impact on me, I guess it’s not surprising that I occasionally have dreams about it.

Last night I dream that my present self had acquired some bright purple Gak. For those of you who aren’t familiar with the stuff, Gak was a slimy, rubbery compound that you could squish in your hands, mold into objects, use to make gassy noises or inflate like a balloon. It came in a variety of different colors (and later smells and textures) and was packaged in a plastic, star-shaped canister.

The Nickelodeon commercial portrayed the stuff as being an endless supply of fun. It turns out, now unsurprisingly, that it just wasn’t as spectacular as your 6-year-old self had imagined it to be. The stuff was just a modern day (perhaps slightly less attractive) take on Silly Putty and only kept your attention for so long. If you forgot to seal it in it’s packaging, it would harden into a crumbly, unusable mess. Worst of all, in all forms, it could get stuck in and destroy the carpet.

In my dream, my modern day, 20-something year old self got this messy, gooey substance all over my circa 1993 mother’s living room. From here, I panicked and tried my best to unsuccessfully clean it up before my mom came home.

As a child, I basically, accidentally ruined my mother’s house, one room at a time. Spill a little Kool-Aid or track mud in the house, and the yelling would ensue. I love my mom, but she still to this day, is the thing that I am most afraid of in the world.

To children young and old: if you learn just one thing today, it’s that you should keep Gak (or whatever the modern take on moldable goo is) away from the carpeting. It could end up haunting your dreams forever.

As a child, I loved going to my aunt Martha’s house.

The place had a particular, sweet, cozy smell that would be impossible to describe or recreate. I just know that it was unlike any candle, perfume or baked good I’ve ever encountered in my life.

She would welcome us with warm hugs and we’d spend the rest of the visit eating $0.99 juju coins in her teddy bear-themed kitchen, exploring our “cool older cousin” Molly’s room and scratching off lottery tickets using coins and car keys. (Funny, the only times I ever remember my mother buying lottery tickets were during the 45 minute commute to Aunt Martha’s house.) Every once in a great while, it was a great adventure to stay the night and sleep on a sofa pull-out bed in one of the house’s front rooms.

While its been years since I’ve had such a visit, but I now know more about my aunt than I do her home. I now realize that my aunt is one of the most interesting, genuine people I’ve ever known. One thing I especially admire her for, however, is her thoughtfulness. She always seems to remember everyone’s birthday and sends the kind of gifts (not necessarily elaborate or expensive, I felt the need to note) that really reflect the recipient’s personality. These presents always manage to arrive on time, too.

During the last few years, I too have done my best to adopt this personality trait. Since I am so far away from my family, I sometimes send home a card, CD or little package, for no reason at all– just so that my parents know that I’m thinking of and appreciate them.

My mother is typically the most difficult person to shop for, just because she’s the kind of woman who, if she wants or needs anything, she simply buys it for herself. This past week was Mother’s Day and for the first time, ever, I didn’t struggle. In fact, I found gifts for both mine and Phil’s mother almost immediately.

For Phil’s mom, I found a mug with the letter “R” etched onto it (to represent her first name: Rosie.) and a stylish apron for her to wear in the kitchen. Rosie makes a lot of coffee and tea in her fancy, Keurig coffee maker. She loved her little coffee pot so much that she even gave us one of own just before we moved to Los Angeles.

We also gave her a really stylish apron, just because she likes to cook and bake and spends a lot of time in her kitchen.

From Court, Phil and Myself, I sent my mother this handbag, a canvas purse with silk flowers decorating the outside.

I knew she’d love the purse, but I decided to top it off by wrapping up a few little knick knacks, like novelty pens, gum and cosmetics, and then wrapped them up in tissue paper.

My mom seemed to really like our present, which I will certainly take as a victory. (I know she can’t help it, but she’s a tough lady to please.)

The only bummer was that neither mom’s gift arrived on time. Rosie received her gift too early, Wednesday of last week, and my mom got hers too late, this afternoon.

I’ll just have to keep practicing if I want to be more like Aunt Martha.

So there’s this website called “Michagone: Letters to My (Ex) State.” It’s a collaborative writing project that explores how native Michiganders feel about their home state, whether that be from the standpoint of a current resident or from the individual who has moved on to other places. All contributors are asked to personify their mitten shaped mother land and write her a letter.

I was recently asked to write a letter of my own for the website.

During the last couple of years, I’ve become very fond of my home state. It’s strange in a way, because from the time I first entered adolescence, I remember spending a lot of time with friends talking about how much I’d one day like to leave. It was after I shipped myself overseas for three months, and found myself adamantly defending my home state against Americans hailing from the West Coast, that I first realized how much love I have for Michigan.

I have a love/hate relationship with this city, but I do enjoy living in L.A. for the most part. I’m fortunate that I live in Los Feliz and in a really great apartment building to boot. I’m sure that if we had chosen any other neighborhood here, our experience would have been very different.

The fact that the sun is always shining, the mountains, the diversity and culture of the people and the fact that there are always things happening here are all reasons I’m happy to be in Los Angeles. I’m even starting to find the work that I hope will help me to grow as a writer and a reporter. Sometimes, though, I realize that I really do miss Michigan.

I walked into a Starbucks today and saw that they have put their seasonal Pumpkin Spiced Lattes back onto their menu. Back home, this has always coincided with a slight chill in the air and the first few colorful trees. Autumn is the time of year that fills me with happiness. I’ll be sad to miss it.

Go ahead and call me a music elitist.
Because honestly, that’s probably what I’m going to sound like to everyone as I attempt to explain why I feel that this new biopic about The Runaways isn’t a great idea.

The Runaways, a “queens of noise” 1970’s glam rock band that began Joan Jett’s rise to fame is one of those bands whose vinyl is lost in the generation gap that divides us from our parents–Vinyl that most of us (young 20-somethings) never heard, never knew anything about and realistically never were expected to discover (Because they were buried in some stack behind the sticker covered door of a downtown record store or perhaps somewhere inside of a cob web covered box in the attic.)

But, some of us did discover it. Some of us were even lucky enough to be raised on the stuff. It’s a feeling and a movement that all can relate to: the homemade fashion, vamp make-up, smoking, swearing, spitting, guitar thrashing angry rebellion–raw Rock ‘N Roll speaks to every angsty teenager, no matter the decade.

That’s why you must understand that Rock for all mankind is not the movement that I have the issue with. It’s the exploitation of it all that bothers me.

The film “The Runaways” based on the autobiography of singer Cherie Currie, received Joan Jett’s stamp of approval, who even went on to produce it. But, don’t let that fool you. This film isn’t some kind of recommendation for a full band revival.

It’s just one big commercial.

The billboards and posters seemed to pop up overnight in Los Angeles, and the more I found myself staring at them, the more clear it became.

For starters, the film has cast tween idols Dakota Fanning as Cherie Currie and Kristen Stewart as Joan Jett–Clearly, the movie isn’t made for the real fans of the music. It’s only about selling tickets.

The emphasis is on their clothing, rather than on the story of the musical experience or a chronicling of what these woman accomplished. It’s the thrift store treasures, homemade 70s Glam Rock fashion– leather leggings, ripped tees, combat boots, light denim, big aviator sunglasses—stuff that’s now being sold for top dollar in hipster chic clothing stores like American Apparel and Urban Outfitters. Stuff that people may magically be inspired to go buy after watching the movie.

(Mark my words: every 13-year-old girl in America will have a shag hair cut by summer time.)

It’s not just this movie that I have an issue with. It’s the million variations of the Rock Band and Guitar Hero video games and the store Hot Topic.

In the last few years, there boomed this movement to sort of “educate” the younger generations about Rock ‘n Roll for the small fee of $140 for the rock band set (drums, microphone, guitar, etc), $1.99 per iTunes download or $25 for every Ramones/Rolling Stones/Led Zeppelin/Etc. T-shirt.

My theory? In the time of internet radio and MP3’s, there’s so many different genres and artists, so much information on the web that it’s pretty much guaranteed that we’re all listening to different things. We’re not united by sharing these bits of culture, by “owning them.” Generation Y is a nostalgic group, buying our “My Little Pony” and Back to “The Future T-shirts”, Nintendo controller belt buckles and “Teenaged Mutant Ninja Turtles” on DVD– I can see how it would be possible to look to another time to find some overall identity.

I get that making money is at the core of everything. Even the music itself is about making money, selling albums, booking tours–for the record companies, anyway. But, what about that experience of the music–How it makes you feel? What it inspires? And what of the songs that never die? The vinyl you spin even years after everyone and their grandma owns an iPod? You can’t put a price tag on that.

These movies and video games make the whole rock experience feel programmed and plastic, a means for the big guy to make a buck–and that’s kind of ruining it for me.