Monday, June 13, 2016

I MOVED!!!!!!




I don't really know why I decided to switch. I thought maybe wordpress would have cooler options but so far its really been kindof a let-down.

aaaaand...since fucking stupid wordpress doesn't let me use 8tracks this is going to be my last mix.

It was inspired by the Governor's Ball in NYC last weekend.I hope y'alll enjoy. and thanks for coming to my messy, unorganized, fun loving blog.

Current Obsession with Tropical House

I've been listening to Thomas Jack, an Australian DJ who specializes in Tropical House for a while now. What is Tropical House? Well:
Tropical house is to dance music what The Beach Boys’ “Kokomo” is to rock music. Characterized by loping tempos, cheery sheen, and an infatuation with saxophone solos, the genre was only coined in 2014, but has since stacked up gargantuan numbers on streaming services, launched the careers of Kygo and Thomas Jack, and has even manifested a strong influence in pop music, as evidenced by the Caribbean pluckings and liberal use of pan flute on Justin Bieber’s “What Do You Mean?”
But what I can decipher about Thomas Jack is that he is a bit of an egotistical prick with no real appreciation for his success. That or he's just too cool for anything.

In fact, a Noisey Music for Vice article headline reads:


Read this and hate him even more:
“Tropical house was two years ago, y’know?” says Jack, animated as always, in between tequila cocktails in downtown Los Angeles. “Then a lot people started copying off it and started changing the style of it. People would go grabbing, like, 90s pop songs and putting fuckin’ flutes over them,” he says, before dropping the definitive blow: “It became so annoying that I’m over it and I don’t even wanna do it anymore.”
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That being said he has these great collaborations every week and this one's guest was Robin Schulz, another of my favorite DJs. Here is their collaboration. I have to admit. it's pretty sick.

1. Invincible – Di-Rect
2. Dangerous – David Guetta ( Robin Schulz Rmx )
3. Down The River – Felxprod
4. What I Might Do - Mandeh & GuitK
5. With You - Embody ft. Barnaby
6. West Coast – Lana Del Rey
7. Interstellar – Kiso feat Neven
8. Four By Four – Robb
9. Something New – Axing ( Robin Schulz Remix )
10. Headlights – Robin Schulz feat Ilsey Juber
11. Klanga – Gostan
12. Chandelier - Sia
13. Save Me – Listenbee
14. The Last One Standing – Tep No
15. They Don ́t Know - Disciples
16. Sun Goes Down – Robin Schulz feat Jasmine Thompson

Sunday, June 12, 2016

EDIE SEDGWICK: the first "it" girl

I don't know what sparked my interest in Edie but I know i'm not alone. There seem to be hundreds of young girls that seem to relate to this troubled girl. Something about the poor little rich girl really resonates with me. not to mention she was a great beauty. 

In any case, can't believe I haven't written a post about her and only her since she was my fashion muse and general hero for so long. So here it is. I"m sorry if this is a little long but there is a lot to know. 

"Her fog, her amphetamine, and her pearls..." With three nouns, in "Just Like a Woman" (said to have been inspired by her), Bob Dylan deftly summed up his friend Edie Sedgwick, the wayward princess of Andy Warhol's multimedia Factory.
Here is a poem Patti Smith wrote and read at Edie's Wake:

Seventh Heaven

Seventh Heaven by Patti Smith

“Edie Sedgwick (1943-1971)

I don't know how she did it. Fire
She was shaking all over. It took
her hours to put her make-up on.
But she did it. Even the false eye-lashes.
She ordered gin with triple
limes. Then a limosine. Everyone
knew she was the real heroine of
Blonde on Blonde.
oh it isn't fair
oh it isn't fair
how her ermine hair
turned men around
she was white on white
so blonde on blonde
and her long long legs
how I used to beg
to dance with her
but I never had
a chance with her
oh it isn't fair
how her ermine hair
used to swing so nice
used to cut the air
how all the men
used to dance with her
I never got a chance with her
though I really asked her
down deep
where you do
really dream
in the mind
reading love
I'd get
her move
and we'd
turn around
and she'd
turn around
and turn the head
of everyone in town
her shaking shaking
glittering bones
second blonde child
after brian jones
oh it isn't fair

how I dreamed of her
and she slept
and she slept
and I'll never dance
with her no never
she broke down
like a baby
like a baby girl
like a lady
with ermine hair
oh it isn't fair
and I'd like to see
her rise again
her white white bones
with baby brian jones
baby brian jones
like blushing
baby dolls”
― Patti SmithSeventh Heaven

According to some crazy old saying "American aristocracy ruled that a lady's name should appear in the papers only three times: when she was born, when she married, and when she died." Edie Sedgwick changed that. As well as publicizing her appearances in underground movies, her numerous committals for mental illness and drug addiction were widely reported. She met her future husband - a fellow patient - in the psychiatric wing of the hospital where she was born. On the last evening of her life, in 1971, she appeared on television, and then went home to die of an overdose of barbiturates. She was 28.

Edie's troubles began long before she was born. Her distinguished New England lineage (a Sedgwick was Speaker of the House of Representatives under George Washington, another edited the Atlantic Monthly for a generation) was also distinguished by hereditary madness, as far back as the Speaker's wife.
Edie's father (whose own father had moved his family to southern California) had two nervous breakdowns soon after leaving university, and his wife was told by her doctors that she must never have children. But the rich do not like being told what to do, and the Sedgwicks were rich-rich (not only had Edie's family inherited millions; oil was discovered on their property, enough to sink 17 wells).
Mrs Sedgwick defied doctors and fate and had eight children, two of whom died before Edie - one hanged himself, the other rode his motorcycle into a bus. As a father, Francis Minturn "Duke" Sedgwick was larger than life and much more terrible. A career as a monumental sculptor and owner of a ranch that was his own little dukedom (the children were tutored at home, and seldom left it) did not exhaust his energies. He seduced, or at least made advances to, his wife's friends, his children's friends and, Edie said, to her.
When Edie left California for Radcliffe, the women's college of Harvard (the Sedgwick alma mater), she had already spent time in mental hospitals, suffered from anorexia and had an abortion. What men saw, however, was a delicate beauty and an appealingly vulnerable quality. "Every boy at Harvard," said a former classmate, "was trying to save Edie from herself."
The less high-minded boys flocked to Edie for other reasons - even at wealthy Harvard, there were not too many students who drove their own Mercedes, or were so uninhibited. At one boy's Sunday family lunch, she left the table, walked out on to the lawn, stripped to her knickers and lay down to sunbathe.
Bored in Boston, Edie decided to swap the role of college girl for party girl and moved to New York, into the 14-room Park Avenue apartment of her obliging grandmother. At 21, she came into money of her own and got a flat - and clothes, clothes, clothes. Her stick figure, huge eyes and chopped-off hair suited the style of the early Sixties - Jean Seberg in the movies, Twiggy in the glossies- and Edie was, briefly, on the fashion pages.
Life magazine said she was "doing more for black tights than anybody since Hamlet". The Vogue empress Diana Vreeland praised her "anthracite-black eyes and legs to swoon over... She is shown here arabesquing on her leather rhino to a record of The Kinks." But, well before heroin chic, her drug-taking was becoming so notorious that editors stopped calling.
In 1965, Edie met an impresario who was more her style: Andy Warhol. Warhol and Edie were, horribly, made for each other. The Pittsburgh boy, son of Polish immigrants, wanted the Wasp heiress's company more fervently than any straight man wanted her body; the neglected daughter craved the obsessive attention of a famous man who demanded nothing from her in return. "If you had a father who read the paper at the dinner table," said Viva, another of Warhol's film-stars, "and you had to go up and turn his chin to even get him to look at you, then you had Andy, who would press the 'on' button of the Sony the minute you opened your mouth."
Edie introduced Warhol to her real father, but their one meeting was not a success. The artist thought Duke Sedgwick the most handsome older man he had ever seen, but the rancher said afterwards: "Why, the guy's a screaming fag!"
Warhol's clothes became smarter under Edie's influence, and she dyed her hair silver to match his. "I thought at first it was exploitative on Andy's part," says the photographer Fred Eberstadt. "Then I changed my mind and decided, if it was exploitative on any part, maybe it was Edie's."

"Edie and Andy," the non-couple, were the couple of the moment. She took him to parties where everyone else was listed in the Social Register; he stage-managed her appearances, pushing Edie to the cameras and the microphones, where she was white with fear but loved every minute.
Edie became an habitué of the Factory, Warhol's loft papered in aluminium foil, where the daytime was spent churning out silkscreen prints and the night on parties that mingled guests who contributed flash, trash and cash with a smorgasbord of illegal stimulants. (Some left the place in limousines, some in ambulances, a regular said.)
Flash-bulbs popped and crowds on the wrong side of the rope screamed when Edie turned up in leotards and her grandmother's leopard coat. The Velvet Underground, Warhol's rock band, wrote a song, "Femme Fatale", about her. Warhol put her in a movie called Horse, which, contrary to what one might have expected from the title, was actually about a horse. The actors, in cowboy gear, were brought together with the stallion and a placard was held up that read: "Approach the horse sexually, everybody." Edie was lucky for once - the indignant horse kicked someone else in the head.

*** BEAUTY 2
Edie appeared in Beauty Part II, her nervous radiance apparent from the first. George Plimpton, a fellow aristocrat (who, with Jean Stein, later put together the oral biography Edie) remembered seeing the film, in which Edie, in bra and pants, lounged on a bed with a man pawing her, while an offstage voice gave her instructions. "Her head would come up, like an animal suddenly alert at the edge of a waterhole, and she'd stare across the bed at her inquisitor in the shadows... I couldn't get the film out of my mind."
Other films included Restaurant, Kitchen and the cruelly titled Poor Little Rich Girl, with Edie back in bed in her underwear, putting on make-up or answering offscreen questions in an offhand way. Her dreaminess, like her hysteria, was fuelled by cocaine, alcohol, uppers and downers, alone or combined.


Edie's favourite was a speedball - a shot of amphetamine in one arm, heroin in the other. Several times she fell asleep while smoking in bed; once she was badly burned as candles toppled while she slept. Even then, her imprimatur was one the fashion world was eager to claim. "When Edie set her apartment on fire," said Betsey Johnson, "she was in one of my dresses."
Edie moved to the Chelsea Hotel, famous for its artistic clientele, where she met Dylan - whose song "Leopardskin Pillbox Hat" she is supposed to have inspired as well - and his right-hand man, the record producer Bob Neuwirth, with whom she had an affair.
However, Jonathan Sedgwick, Edie's brother, says: "She called me up and said she'd met this folk singer in the Chelsea, and she thinks she's falling in love. I could tell the difference in her, just from her voice. She sounded so joyful instead of sad. It was later on she told me she'd fallen in love with Bob Dylan."
Some months later, he says, she told him she had been hospitalised for drug addiction and that when doctors discovered she was pregnant, they carried out an abortion, over her protests. "Her biggest joy was with Bob Dylan, and her saddest time was with Bob Dylan, losing the child. Edie was changed by that experience, very much so."


Dylan's lover of record at the time was Joan Baez. Soon after they broke up, he married Sara Lownds; Edie was said to have been devastated when she heard the news from someone else.

Even with her inheritance gone, and unable to count on money from home, Edie wouldn't economise. In all the time she lived in New York, she took the subway only once - to Coney Island, in a feathered evening gown over a bikini. The rest of the time it was limousines. She would never even settle for a taxi.


At the end of 1966, Edie went to California for Christmas. At the Chelsea, they were relieved to see her go - there would be terrible scenes in the lobby when she wasn't able to pay her bill, and she never could stop setting her room on fire.
As soon as she got home, her parents had her committed. And as soon as she could, she ran back to New York. But the spotlight never again turned her way. In 1967, her father died. A friend said: "Finally. Thank God. Now, maybe Edie can breathe."

But she became more depressed. Her money was gone, and she returned to her grandmother's apartment, to steal antiques which she sold for drug money. After eight months in increasingly grim and frightening mental hospitals, in the last of which she was made to scrub the lavatories, she returned, in 1968, to the ranch. But her drug habit had not ended, and she took up with a motorcycle gang, trading sex for heroin. "She'd ball half the dudes in town for a snort of junk," a friend said. "But she was always very ladylike about the whole thing." She did get married to a man she met in California in the rehabilitation program. 


In Edie's last film, Ciao! Manhattan, whose scenario was even more formless and bizarre than her 
own, she played a topless hitchhiker living in a tent in an empty swimming pool. There was a non-simulated orgy in a (full) swimming pool, fueled by amphetamines and tequila. Not just Edie but the whole cast were on speed; the film-makers had to find a co-operative doctor and set up a charge account.
Edie showed off her new implants, but ascribed her larger breasts to diet and exercise. She pretended to undergo electroshock treatments - to which she was soon after subjected for real, in the hospital used for the filming. She also recreated being given a shot of amphetamine by one of the swinging doctors of the period, having to lie down because she was too thin to take it standing up.

Roger Vadim and Allen Ginsberg, the latter naked and chanting, turned up for some reason, and Isabel Jewell, the tough girl of such Thirties films as Times Square Lady and I've Been Around, played her mother. Edie would sometimes have convulsions from all the drugs she was taking. The director of the film ordered his assistant: "Tie her down if you have to."
In July 1971, in white lace, Edie married Michael Post, a student eight years younger, whom she had turned from his vow to remain a virgin until he was 21. Some guests threw confetti; one threw gravel. Edie could not live alone, she said, and would not live with a nurse. Post's job was to dole out her pills.

*** DEATH 

On 14 November, she went to a fashion show where she headed for the cameras like a woman dying of thirst to an oasis. A man she met that evening said she asked to come and see him the next day for a chat, but they would need to have sex first, otherwise she'd be too nervous to talk. The next morning, her husband woke to find her dead beside him. Whether her death was accident or suicide, the coroner was unable to determine. 
When Edie first crashed and burned, such stories of a misguided search for freedom and self-expression were rare. By the time she died, they were becoming common. Now, of course, there are too many to count. But the carefree innocence and optimism of the early Edie's photographs and films still resonate. "She was after life," said Diana Vreeland, "and sometimes life doesn't come fast enough."

Saturday, June 11, 2016

How to Throw the Perfect Dinner Party ala EMILY POST

To start heres a quote from EP:

"Manners are a sensitive awareness of the feelings of others. If you have that awareness, you have good manners, no matter what fork you use.
Nothing is less important than which fork you use. Etiquette is the science of living. It embraces everything. It is ethics. It is honor.
To do exactly as your neighbors do is the only sensible rule."

So going with the last post about Emily Post I decided to delve a little deeper and put my knowledge to work. Wow. there are a shit load of rules. There are rules for guests and hostesses below. In all honestly i'll never throw some awesome dinner like that but how much better does it make you feel that you know how?

And one more rant: I am sick of people not following Emily Posts rules. especially during weddings. its like.. heres basically a handbook on how to make your wedding or dinner party or tea time perfect and yet you refuse to read it saying that its some feminist bullshit. Whatever the events inevitable turn into a mini shit show. not my problem.. and i'm working on that but it still really gets me every time.

So here are the rules for a good dinner party:

Guest: Do not arrive early. For this there is no exception. Lizzie Post is very clear: “Walk around the block, go pick up some fresh flowers, anything. It is rude and it puts your host in an uncomfortable position, so whatever you do, do not arrive before the time listed on the card.”

Guest: In the (regrettable, but likely) event you are running late, be up front with the host about your E.T.A., perhaps even overestimate. Many a data plan has been exhausted with minute-to-minute updates about getting on fictitious trains or phantom pileups on the F.D.R. Be brief and honest and leave the protracted sagas to Tolstoy. Also, give the host permission to proceed without you, and if you’re going to be more than an hour late, Post advises, “Ask the host if it’s better if you just don’t come.”

Host: Be ready when you said the evening would begin. It sounds pretty simple, but it’s a common mistake, Post laments. “One of the easiest mistakes that hosts and hostesses make is that they’re not ready on time. Let’s say you told people to arrive at seven. Chances are people will get there between 7 and 7:30, but you tell people to arrive at 7, and at 7, you’ve still got way too much stuff on the stovetop and you haven’t laid out the hors d’oeuvres or drinks.”

Guest: As many etiquette conventions have fallen away, this one is timeless: do not bring someone unless you have cleared it with the host first. Even if it is not a seated dinner, it is not a barn raising. More than likely it will be fine, but who are you to decide? If an unexpected plus-one materializes, Post offers, “The good gracious host is going to welcome the uninvited guest in. They’re going to figure out how to rearrange the plates, add an extra place setting, and make it work. Make an uninvited guest feel just as comfortable.” Cher Horowitz grandstanding aside, the more may be the merrier, but it is not your call as a guest.

Host: Lively conversation will no doubt wander to the realm of politics in the coming year, and whether it’s divisive or just plain dull, a good host can reroute a boring or inelegant conversation on a dime. The best way to steer the conversation if it goes into politics, religion, or someone’s burgeoning sex life is to politely interject and offer, “Sorry to interrupt, but I was wondering if I could get everyone’s opinion on X,” and, says Post, people will be happy to oblige. “You invite people into a topic that’s about you and it’s a clear note to the offenders to change course,” Post adds.

(p.s. my mom has major issues with that. She has been known to throw conservatives out of our house during a dinner party. so not EMILY.) Hope this was helpful in anway. xoxoxoxoxo

Emily POST and how l need to learn a few things about on etiquette

Since the last post was about rules... today's lesson is about Emily Post. the New York queen of etiquette and social rules. 

For nearly a century, one name has been trusted above all others when it comes to proper decorum: Emily Post. Her book is in its 18th Edition of the classic Emily Post’s Etiquette on the mantle is picked up by the great-great-grandchildren of the First Lady of Etiquette, who tackle the latest issues and demands of the twenty-first century—from texting and tweeting to iPhones, Facebook, and all forms of social media. 

There is no reason why you should be bored when you can be otherwise. But if you find yourself sitting in the hedgerow with nothing but weeds, there is no reason for shutting your eyes and seeing nothing, instead of finding what beauty you may in the weeds."- Emily Post

Far from being a proscriber of minutiae, Post the philosopher offers a way of living: “Manners are made up of trivialities of deportment which can be easily learned if one does not happen to know them; manner is personality—the outward manifestation of one’s innate character and attitude toward life.” Post gives us thousands of tips on correspondence, wedding planning, party giving and conduct in every public or private setting.

For those of you who wish to read on: here is some exerts from her book on the perfect society:

“SOCIETY” is an ambiguous term; it may mean much or nothing. Every human being—unless dwelling alone in a cave—is a member of society of one sort or another, and therefore it is well to define what is to be understood by the term “Best Society” and why its authority is recognized. Best Society abroad is always the oldest aristocracy; composed not so much of persons of title, which may be new, as of those families and communities which have for the longest period of time known highest cultivation. Our own Best Society is represented by social groups which have had, since this is America, widest rather than longest association with old world cultivation. Cultivation is always the basic attribute of Best Society, much as we hear in this country of an “Aristocracy of wealth.”


  To the general public a long purse is synonymous with high position—a theory dear to the heart of the “yellow” press and eagerly fostered in the preposterous social functions of screen drama. It is true that Best Society is comparatively rich; it is true that the hostess of great wealth, who constantly and lavishly entertains, will shine, at least to the readers of the press, more brilliantly than her less affluent sister. Yet the latter, through her quality of birth, her poise, her inimitable distinction, is often the jewel of deeper water in the social crown of her time.


  The most advertised commodity is not always intrinsically the best, but is sometimes merely the product of a company with plenty of money to spend on advertising. In the same way, money brings certain people before the public—sometimes they are persons of “quality,” quite as often the so-called “society leaders” featured in the public press do not belong to good society at all, in spite of their many published photographs and the energies of their press-agents. Or possibly they do belong to “smart” society; but if too much advertised, instead of being the “queens” they seem, they might more accurately be classified as the court jesters of to-day.


THE IMITATION AND THE GENUINE  New York, more than any city in the world, unless it be Paris, loves to be amused, thrilled and surprised all at the same time; and will accept with outstretched hand any one who can perform this astounding feat. Do not underestimate the ability that can achieve it: a scintillating wit, an arresting originality, a talent for entertaining that amounts to genius, and gold poured literally like rain, are the least requirements.


  Puritan America on the other hand demanding, as a ticket of admission to her Best Society, the qualifications of birth, manners and cultivation, clasps her hands tight across her slim trim waist and announces severely that New York’s “Best” is, in her opinion, very “bad” indeed. But this is because Puritan America, as well as the general public, mistakes the jester for the queen.


  As a matter of fact, Best Society is not at all like a court with an especial queen or king, nor is it confined to any one place or group, but might better be described as an unlimited brotherhood which spreads over the entire surface of the globe, the members of which are invariably people of cultivation and worldly knowledge, who have not only perfect manners but a perfect manner. Manners are made up of trivialities of deportment which can be easily learned if one does not happen to know them; manner is personality—the outward manifestation of one’s innate character and attitude toward life. A gentleman, for instance, will never be ostentatious or overbearing any more than he will ever be servile, because these attributes never animate the impulses of a well-bred person. A man whose manners suggest the grotesque is invariably a person of imitation rather than of real position


Etiquette must, if it is to be of more than trifling use, include ethics as well as manners. Certainly what one is, is of far greater importance than what one appears to be. A knowledge of etiquette is of course essential to one’s decent behavior, just as clothing is essential to one’s decent appearance; and precisely as one wears the latter without being self-conscious of having on shoes and perhaps gloves, one who has good manners is equally unself-conscious in the observance of etiquette, the precepts of which must be so thoroughly absorbed as to make their observance a matter of instinct rather than of conscious obedience.


  Thus Best Society is not a fellowship of the wealthy, nor does it seek to exclude those who are not of exalted birth; but it is an association of gentle-folk, of which good form in speech, charm of manner, knowledge of the social amenities, and instinctive consideration for the feelings of others, are the credentials by which society the world over recognizes its chosen members.

Friday, June 10, 2016


I don't know about you guys but for me, 2016 is turning into a real shit show. Here are some rules to follow to keep yourself out of trouble. 


This is way easier said than done but sometimes compromise is necessary. I never like to compromise, it implies that you were a weakling or wrong in some way. Plus, compromise with a less than desirable person can be almost like pulling teeth. But, according to some legit studies you need to adjust the way you think to fit each moment if you want to survive in this world.  You also need to be able to move on- which makes invention possible. I hate change.

You can worry all you want but staying optimistic can prevent you from getting wrinkles and allows you to avoid those nasty frown lines. If you believe you can get out of any situation you find yourself in you're probably moving in the right direction.
According to a bunch of studies you are actually a healthier person if you're optimistic. I don't really know how they would measure that. And I don't know how you measure optimism either, but i'm just including this bc its obviously a good thing to be.

Eve knew what she was doing when she took that apple. I think. In any case, it was all Adam;'s fault. Even if people think your instincts are bizarre and strange tell those haters to be gone.
Here's something weird I found on the topic- its totally new world weirdo shit but.....:

Here are seven ways I've learned to uncover and trust in my intuition:
1.     Identify and release your core-beliefs.
1.     Let go of childhood hurt.
1.     Listen to your gut.
1.     Forgive self-harm.
1.     Break the bonds of attachments and resentments.

Nothing good comes from stress. Even doctors will tell you that. Cher reminds us how to relax when she described her father's 50th birthday and people came that like DID NOT RSVP.

So like, right now for example. The Haitians need to come to America. But some people are all, "What about the strain on our resources?" Well it's like when I had this garden party for my father's birthday, right? I put R.S.V.P. 'cause it was a sit-down dinner. But some people came that like did not R.S.V.P. I was like totally buggin'. I had to haul ass to the kitchen, redistribute the food, and squish in extra place settings. But by the end of the day it was, like, the more the merrier. And so if the government could just get to the kitchen, rearrange some things, we could certainly party with the Haitians. And in conclusion may I please remind you it does not say R.S.V.P. on the Statue of Liberty. Thank you very much. "

Working hard gives you a thick layer of confidence that obviously will work miracles in the rest of your life.

Working hard is also important when you are hazing freshman girls by throwing condiments on them and then driving them through a carwash. Then later you should still work hard at having the best night at an impromptu party at the water tower.

You should definitely work hard when you are trying to advocate for the rights of blacks and you should work hard when you are just trying to be a bad ass. Basically: Just always work hard.

You can't get everything right all the time but you have to keep trying.  Kate tried hard to beat obesity and won that battle!

No for real, we fall plenty of times and thats not the really bad part. the really bad part is when you stay down.
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