As if sporadic, self-indulgent posts weren't enough of a slap in the face, I've now gone and blogged--gasp--somewhere else.
That's right, I Love and Hate Everything! You're not the only blog in my life.
And you know what? I don't care who knows! I can't be tied down!
Read about my top-three people-watching hotspots in midtown over at Metro EDGE's blog here!
And for those weary souls redirected to this blog, you can either elect to relink back to Metro EDGE, and so forth and so on, creating a never-ending blogging loop from which there is no escape.
Or! You can feel free to poke around these tawdry halls for nuggets from my own angsty and disorderly oeuvre.
Stop sitting here so woebegone and neglected, so cobwebby and stale. With your links, your self-reflection. Your judgment!
Yes, stop please. And start helping me with a more noble endeavor: Housing!
Were I able to move my IKEA bed and weathered coffee table into a sunlit corner of I Love and Hate Everything's cozy halls, I would. But I can't. So instead, this echoing chamber of snark and twentysomething angst will today serve as a community bulletin board.
And triumphantly tacked to it? A personal ad for that most personal of relationships: a roommate. _________________
That's right, long-suffering readers. Richelle and I--we of the hilariously juxtaposed height difference, the Kardashian impressions, the Press Club explosions--have had a great run, but will be closing the chapter on our co-habitation at the end of this month. She and her sister are joining forces in Boulevard Park.
And I, tethered to midtown by both heart and soul, must find new housing by the end of this month. As in September. As in 28 days later. As in ... zombies.
_________________
And so, readers, that's where you come in!
Please help me snag an awesome new living situation right here in midtown. Or East Sac. Or Land Park. I'm not terribly picky, I just know what I like.
If you know of anyone who has a great place in the area--and who is looking for a smart, hip (sometimes) blogger to share the bills with (who isn't, really?)--please pass along my info.
Ideally? Here's my wish list:
2 bedroom, 2 bath
$650 range, including utils, wireless, weekly masseuse (jokes!)
A clean, smart, sensible roommate
I'm looking to maintain a home, not just some place to crash and trash
Smoking's fine--outside
Doggies and kittehs are great, as long as I don't have to clean up after them.
A fellow young professional? Late 20s, early 30s. Meaning quiet time by 10 p.m. on weeknights
They should enjoy, or at least tolerate, the company of this one
I'm not necessarily looking for a BFF, just a non-creeper, non-psycho
Please have furniture and a TV, a modicum of taste, and maybe a Scrabble board.
So there you have it.
My first blog post in months and it's not all about me. It's also about my awesome new roommate.
I know s/he exists. Perhaps wishing, somewhere out there, beneath the pale blue sky, for someone like me to share a sweet midtown flat with.
So do your social media magic, reader. Your texting and your tweeting and your Reddit! Maybe an old fashioned carrier pigeon for good measure. I would definitely appreciate help in networking my way into a swell new house or apartment with an equally swell human being who can watch me blog about how swell it is to live in midtown with them.
_________________ In all seriousness, please keep your eyes and ears open for anybody in your network who has a two-bedroom in midtown, Land Park or East Sac, and needs a roommate.
I've got a few prospects on Craigslist, but thought I'd cast as wide a net as possible--with all four of my readers--in the paper-thin hope that my new dream apartment with perfect roommate accessory is just an email tip away:
jdschuller [at] gmail [dot] com.
And now, some picures!
It's as if these pictures say, "Look at my varied interests! My joie de vivre! My reliability!" Such a tolerance of popsicles and Dalmations.
As a testament to that fact, I still suppress a giggle when I hear the word "yogi." Because in my 12-year-old mind, it immediately heralds a terrible Yogi Bear impression ("Ehhhh Boo-Boo! Pick-a-nick baskeht!"), not the deep-seeded connectivity, respect and enlightenment befitting a dedicated practitioner.
Because I'm just not that guy.
I really have no idea what a chakra is. I try and leave my ego at the studio door, but that's hard to do when it's my ego alone that is preventing a cataclysmic fart during Happy Baby. And I spend most of the opening "Ommmm" sequence trying, unsuccessfully, to just harmonize with the rest of the participants. Needless to say, I usually fall flat.
But I love yoga.
There I said it!
It's strange. I've never been a devoted practitioner. I know none of the melodic Sanskrit names for its poses and movements. There is something so foreign about the whole wheatgrassy scene; but within that strange, musty world, there's also a welcomed sincerity rarely encountered in my day-to-day. Sometimes I'll go an entire year between sessions, yet the moment I root back into the mat, it's like I only just left.
Something about the experience keeps me dawdling back for more.
_________________
Who wants some overshare? You do!
In recent months, I found myself in the intoxicating throws of a new relationship. It was awesome. Sincere, heartfelt, wonderful. But like I learned through a Zuda Yoga session a few years ago, everything in life (love and pain included) is temporary.
Things crumbled apart in that sad, inevitable way that relationships do sometimes. A rift became a chasm, and before I knew it, another season had quietly passed and everything around me became sharp and silent again.
In the aftermath (the spesh past month or so), I found myself feeling a little lost in the settling dust. Work was annoying. I got horribly sick. It rained a lot.
My typical routine at Cal Fit provided its usual outlet for physical stress relief. But mentally, I needed a break. Bench presses and walking lunges are great. But I still couldn't shut out the cawing din of the hum-drum day (not to mention: his crippling smile) between sets.
I needed a workout that challenged both body and mind. An internal Spring cleaning, I guess.
If you've been to the MARRS building at 20th and K (other tenants include Newsbeat, Azul and Mr. Pickles), you've probably noticed the serene little studio tucked away into its concrete folds, right next to Lounge on 20.
They're offering an unlimited 10-day trial for $20 right now, so I figured I'd give it a shot. Clutching my new blue yoga mat from Target (so legit!), I shuffled into Asha for a 6 o'clock "Dynamic Yogi" class with instructor Linda Wagner.
Now, what always catches me off-guard in these studios is their strange, gauzy atmosphere. You know what I mean. It's always jarring, as an occasional practitioner and full-time young professional, to enter a space where everyone appears lithe and languorous--like they're floating around on their own personal clouds of organic fabric and self-satisfaction.
Simple concerns like time and space hold little meaning. Cares melt away. Chakras open.
Of course, it's about this time that Professor McJudgingpants began to rear his snarky head. It was about 10 minutes before my class began, so I decided to poke around the pastel-colored merchandise, trying to clear my mind (and my attitude) and not make snap judgment calls about the New Age self-help guides or the breathy desk attendant. It was like the place was in one continuous state of freeing exhale while I uncomfortably held my breath and, just barely, my tongue.
Then suddenly, as I ran an index finger along the spine of Khalil Gibran's The Prophet and listened in on the soft, lap-lappy banter of the gathering herd of middle-aged women, I decided this hempy bazaar was exactly where I needed to be. Anonymous, new and without pretext--I could safely leave my own reeling universe at the door for an hour and a half, embrace the sincerity and just breathe.
_________________
Needless to say, the workout was great.
I like the Vinyasa technique (practice? variation? style?) because it emphasizes strength training while still providing the connectivity and flow that yoga is all about. Within minutes, I was fully immersed: Down Dog, Cobra, Warrior I & II. Sweat poured over me, breath flowed from me, joints creaked and sighed into action--remembering their purpose.
But mostly, it just let me clear my mind.
Funny how a focused attention on breath and movement--the most primal and ancient of things--can be the key to refocusing thought. Everything had been so cluttered, so convoluted. Personal finances, the economy, deadlines at work, deadlines outside of work ... heartache. Unmoored, I was just adrift.
But in that sweaty, burning hour, nothing else mattered. My only job here? Focus on the movement, feel the breath. And slowly, for the first time in weeks, I felt the fog move away.
Each yogi has their own philosophy and personal approach they bring to their practice. Linda, with her plucky little walk and jovial grin, talked about the effortless change of the seasons. How a time of transition can be unnerving, but also powerful. Again, this idea of change and temporariness in all things. A cliche and sappy little morsel, sure. But important nonetheless.
_________________
So by the time Crow pose came around, I was emboldened enough to try something new. (BTW, I love the look on that guy's face in the link. I imagine he's thinking, "Oh, this old pose? I'm doing it in corduroy!" I really do.)
Crow pose for me has never really been an option. I think I once attempted the maneuver, only to collapse into a rickety somersault. Like my roommate, I usually just sit it out in Child's pose--a discreet eye fixed on the room for other hilarious attempts at flight. But on this day, it felt right.
Now just imagine, for a moment, me, in that position. All knobby-kneed and hairy, sweat catching the dim halogen glow. Six feet, three inches of man crouching nervously like some alien creature in cut-off sleeves. (Yes.) The other limber ladies in the room floated effortlessly into the fold as Linda sensed trouble on my side of the hardwood floor. Fluttering over, she talked me through the prep (knees up near your shoulders, arms slightly bent, fingers splayed, head up).
By this time, I'm pretty sure my various attempts qualified as a scene. I could sense the curious gaze (part horror, part wonder?) of the other students as they watched this gangly giraffe monster, this mess, begin its unnatural, lurching ascent into Crow.
Sensing nervousness, Linda asked: "Do you really want to do this?" "Yes," I replied. A bead of sweat puttering to my mat.
Slowly, ever so shakily, I eased into the lift. A heaving, quaking Celtic knot. Suddenly, I was there.
"You're doing it!" cried Linda.
Richelle asked me earlier what it felt like to hit the pose. Physically, it engaged every single muscle: arms, legs, core, back.
Mentally? I can only describe it as that thunderclap of clarity and wholeness that comes when you achieve complete balance. And I don't mean "balance" in some intangible, bullshit spiritual sense. I mean a pure physical-mental jolt of connectivity. When your body is fully engaged and completely in sync with itself. Mentally, that moment--a Nirvana of synapses and breath--ushered in a sense of clarity and peace I hadn't experienced in a long time.
Instantly, it's as if the tangled collage in my mind unhinged and fell apart. Pieces cracked and torn, sliding, fluttering downward: the searing email at work; the marbly rattle in an idling engine; a crease in the cotton where I still see him.
It all came apart.
_________________
Six seconds, tops.
That's how long I'm estimating I held onto Crow. Soon, I was back on the mat: shaken, enlivened, not really sure what just happened. From around me came the most earnest applause I've ever heard. The bendy, granola crowd was appeased.
_________________
Like I said, I'm no Yogi by any stretch.
But something always keeps me coming back for more.
How much have I dropped the ball around here? Answer: a lot.
There were promises of a post about my interlude with CariDee English (of ANTM fame) and Jonathan Waud from Make Me a Supermodel 2.
But alas, once my reality stargazing died down (after several Kamikazes), I began to realize any attempt to recap the Capital Fashion Awards would be like when someone insists on telling you about a weird dream they had once. The events are totally relevant and interesting to them. But you, their caged interlocutor, are now left to sit and listen to some wandering, subconscious narrative. And quench the hate-fire within.
So I'm not going to do that today.
Rest assured however that my experience as a last-minute presenter for Best Salon is definitely going on my life's resume. If only for the fact that my co-presenter was--just wait--Bobby Trendy. Yes, that Bobby Trendy.
Fun facts you may not know about BT: he is launching a celebrity dog-walking business; he invested his Anna Nicole money in real estate; he has a firm handshake; he's convinced I should move to L.A. and model, though I'm fairly sure the subtext was that I should just move to L.A. and walk dogs for him. (Which would probably be a pay raise)
And his outfit that night was apparently inspired by by this! Lepore lips and all. (Only slightly regretting my decision not to take him up on the offer for peppermint martinis back at his hotel room. Now there's a blog post.)
Also: I'M GOING TO AUSTIN THIS WEEKEND!
I will be at the wit and whimsy of Ms. Austin Eavesdropper herself (an old friend from the early days of Sactown). If you're not familiar with this fire-haired spirit, read this and fall in love, like everyone else, with Tolly Moseley.
So hopefully a weekend of southern comfort deep in the heart of Texas will deliver some great posts. Or a great post.
Preface: So I covered this for the mag on Friday and have so much to dish but oh my God can't seem to sew together a coherent narrative to save my life. It will come. Eventually. And then you shall hear about the supernova of specialness that transpired.
In the meantime...
If you're 40 and under, you should be coming to the first-ever "In the Mix" networking event hosted by Metro EDGE! I would post the flyer, but the file is being difficult and I'm running out of patience/time/energy/care. So here's the logo:
Metro EDGE is the new young professionals group launched through the Sacramento Metro Chamber of Commerce.
I sit on the communications committee because a) it's good to get involved with organizations and activities outside of work that don't involve my DVR and b) it's a fantastic opportunity to come together with like-minded YPs in the Sacramento region who want to have a hand in the future of the River City.
The event is open to anyone who wants to attend. Meaning you, player (I'm having a Carmen Sandiego moment).
So just because you're not a member yet doesn't mean you can't come and enjoy Happy Hour prices and delicious cocktails at Cosmo Cafe (10th and K). Coupled with smart, informed conversation with some of the city's top professionals, this is a great way to unwind from a long week.
I N F O Where: Cosmo Cafe (10th & K) When: Friday, Oct. 9; 5:30-7:30 Why: Because we're awesome. Also, 10% of all bar sales are being generously donated by the Paragary Restaurant Group right back to Metro EDGE.
Bottoms up, Sac YPs.
Addendum: CC's birthday celebration is this Friday as well. Which basically means that I'll be shedding any and all professionalism come 7:30 and gearing up for the mayhem at Social Nightclub later that evening. Dear Friday, come sooner.
Gone are the hot air balloons! And in like sin is my sweet new logo designed by Sactown's art director, Jason Malmberg. As I fiddle around with HTML and spacing, just think of this awkward phase as I Love and Hate Everything's version of the ANTM makeover. I'll chop some split ends, add a few extensions, play with colors. Cry.
I'm just hoping the final product isn't the blog equivalent of a white-girl weave.
Check the calendar. Because it's officially Autumn. So let's just pump the brakes on this bullsh*t triple-digit heat you're throwing my way this weekend and kindly S that D--shut it down.
As ever, Jon
That said, I'd like to announce a couple things. A) I'm clearly in a mood and B) I'll be volunteering at Soil Born Farms tomorrow for Hands on Sacramento Day. In 100-degree heat!
I'm not entirely sure what the volunteering entails (this one signed us up), but I'm imagining a gardening music montage with inner-city youth, so that's fun. Also, this? But really, I'll probably be shoveling manure.
In all seriousness, it should be a great opportunity to see how a working urban farm operates.
I like that they're committed to organic food production and spotlighting hands-on, community efforts at promoting local agriculture. Plus, gardening's fun!
I was going to close this out with some obnoxious kicker about sowing my wild oats and plowin' dat field, but it's been a long week.
Yes, that dark, bi-monthly shadow hath passed. The Oct/Nov issue of Sactown is at the printer and a sickly calm--not unlike a hangover--has settled in the quaking, twilight space that is our office for the remainder of this week.
Which is perfect timing. Because this happened last week on ANTM (the shorties season!):
That comes courtesy of the incomparable Rich at fourfour, btw.
Then this happened in the grand ballroom of the Elks Tower downtown last Thursday:
Which, *feigned surprise* birthed this:
That's right. Yuck it up, chuckles!
No go ahead.
I'll wait...
You good?
Great.
Now let me explain. __________________________
The premise: some local designer named Victor Louis patched together a charity fashion show for himself and invited eight student designers to present mini-collections, too. My friend, Kevin Roux, attends IADT here in Sacramento and was one of those students.
The event was called "One Night in Paris" (yes, like Wonky's sex tape) because Louis was apparently inspired by the City of Lights (groundbreaking) for his latest collection. But a choice quote of his from the Sacramento Fashion Week site should tell you everything you need to know about that:
"Ive never been to Paris; so I wanted to create the beauty of the land in my designs and bring Paris to Sacramento for one magical evening."
Never been to Paris. But creating the "beauty of the land" in his collection. For a magical evening. *Hand to forehead* Also, "Sacramento Fashion Week?" It was a whole three days. That's a fashion weekend, everyone. Not a week.
But snark aside, I guess I'm glad to see someone--however threadbare and tattered the effort--trying to bring some sort of fashion event to the River City. So fine, I guess.
Anyway: me!
So about a month ago, Kevin--who I haven't seen in months--sends me a random text asking if I want to do him a solid by modeling in his first collection. Could be fun, I thought. Plus it would be nice to see how Kevin is getting along on this new creative venture. My only apprehension shimmering just beneath the surface: I've never modeled. Anything, ever.
Now, listen. Here's the disclaimer. I'm not someone afflicted with false-modesty. I don't flutter about with breezy platitudes about how I could never be a model, etc., when I secretly harbor an undying desire to smile with my eyes before the camera. I really don't. I've been lucky enough in my career to have worked with some amazing modeling talent at various photo shoots for the magazine, not to mention top photographers, stylists, artists, etc. I've seen, first-hand, true modeling talent and potential. And as trite or shallow as it may seem, to do what (good) models do takes incredible nuance and skill on par with acting.
I'm just a fledgling writer who happens to be 6'3".
I don't know my angles. Nor do I want to take the time to get to know them. We're indifferent acquaintances at best.
So again, my true reasons for doing the show: A) It could be fun and B) I can help Kevin and C) I can blog about it. Altruism! Mixed with self-promotion.
As a reporter, I've covered local fashion shows behind-the-scenes. I know all about the energy, the anticipation, the creative collaboration. The tequila shots! I've witnessed surprising local talent and vision blossom in the most unlikely of places. I've also witnessed drunk models falling off runways.
Either way, that's a good night. __________________________
So, last Thursday arrived.
We were in the midst of deadline at work, but luckily the show was held in the ballroom on the second floor of the building. I got the semi-reluctant permission from my editors to skip out for a few hours, so at 5:30 PM, I dashed downstairs.
Back stage, natch, was a mad house. Clothes everywhere; dim lighting; Amazon girls teetering around in heels like bleating, newborn gazelles; stage hands moving things and yelling at people; hairspray and makeup saturating the air like mustard gas. Kevin had secured a more private fitting room below the ballroom in what felt like a lost catacomb from the days of Prohibition. I descended.
Now, I guess I always thought that since he had the misguided vision to cast me in his show, the other models would be of similar stock and status as myself (i.e., miscellaneous friends and misfits who happen to be tall). What I discovered was basically a shirtless buffet of languid-yet-chiseled Adonises sporting bronzer, innumerable abs and unaffected poses. And then me. A gangly, judgey blogger slowly realizing he has lost his mind.
So naturally I went to my one unnecessary defense mechanism in times of awkwardness: humor. I think my opener, as I cascaded into the meat market, was something like, "Oh, guess I missed the shirtless memo!" This was met with polite laughter--the emotional equivalent of a golf clap--before I was told to sit down, strip and get my hair done. At this point, my eyes also met with a bottle of vodka and the realization that maybe I should find other ways to relax besides this "comedy" business.
Which was helpful, considering Kevin had informed me earlier that day that I was to also be the finale look.
In fashion, designers and stylists, when staging runway shows, often structure their catwalk looks to form a type of blueprint--a rough, stylistic narrative often bookended with specific outfits that open and close the line that season. These ensembles basically serve as anchors for the brand and help the designer communicate both the DNA of their collection and their inspiration that season.
Backstage at these things is exactly what you imagine. Chaotic, yes. But there's also a palpable sense of creativity, too. Designers collaborating with artists, models, stylists and producers. Alterations, new ideas, creative camaraderie. There's an infectious spirit to it all. And one that, dare I say, eroded some of the irony armor of a certain participating blogger.
Perhaps in a move at self-preservation, I went into the whole experience with a bit of a smirk on my face. Thinking if I didn't allow earnestness to seep into my walk, if I shielded myself from taking the heavy eye makeup or six-packs seriously, that I could somehow float above the entire scene on my cloud of judgment. Aloof. Unconcerned. Fashionably detached. Safe.
But alas. Perhaps because this was for a friend, or perhaps because of all the creative energy and excitement of the hour, I found myself suddenly very aware that regardless of how I felt, I was about to be prancing down a long, elevated catwalk in front of hundreds of people and flashing lights.
And so, in the altered reality of that dressing room, I became a model.
By which I mean: cut to a scene of me now shirtless, downing several vodka shots out of plastic cups, bumming innumerable cigarettes from makeup artists, and amping up the laugh meter now with jokes about cocaine and not getting out of bed for less than $10,000. To anyone that would listen.
Soon, the frenzied dressing began. Thanks to a last-minute styling decision, I was now being chucked down the runway shirtless in a 3/4-length white coat with leather detailing and zebra print inside the hood. "The lapels aren't quite finished, so I need you to walk with your hands in your pockets and open up your chest," Kevin explained.
Great. The chest that hadn't seen a workout in over a week thanks to deadline. And I would be following a certain model named Charlie who shall heretofore be known as Pecs McGee. Insecurity! Coupled with unbridled narcissism. Yay, modeling! __________________________
I used to hate when I would cover these types of shows for the magazine and have to interview the models about their moment on the catwalk. "Pure adrenaline!" they'd beam. Or something equally as uninspired, like "It's all a blur."
But seriously. As I watched each model disappear through the curtain before me--that diaphanous portal!--a mounting fear reared its ugly head. When it was my turn, when my inevitable cue arrived, I can really only recall the soft feel of the fabric as I pulled it aside. Then a white flash of energy and adrenaline. Autopilot. Walk. Turn. Lights. Backstage. Finale. Applause. Done.
Like some tumbling fever dream, it was over before it began. I was hugging Kevin, congratulating him on a great show. I was high-fivin and backslappin, air-kissin and finger-snappin. But with the performance--the performance!--over, I also felt the bungee-snap pull back to reality. Suddenly, my only desire was to be out of those clothes and back in my blue jeans and flip flops as soon as possible.
I wanted to be back at my desk, fact-checking and copy-editing beneath the dim glow of fluorescent lighting. Where I belong. __________________________
All in all, a fantastical tableau--equal parts hilarious, inspiring and fulfilling.
I left out the part where I made the ironic, internal note to self about there being no mirrors anywhere backstage. But like how elephants can smell water from vast distances, I thought it was hilarious when all the male models suddenly crowded around the only semi-reflective surface in the room (a discarded glass tabletop laid carelessly against the wall), jostling--vying--to gaze upon their own specter-like figures in those last, spinning seconds before showtime.
Hilarious, of course, until I too was caught by my own smoldering, ephemeral stare in that dusty glass.
Smizing back at me with a smokey eye was some earnest d-bag who--if only for a fleeting moment--looked pretty damn good.
My friend Colleen pointed out this gem of an article from today's Bee about Sacramento's ladies of a certain age.
Apparently, the River City's single women in the 35-64 age demographic outnumber their male counterparts by nearly 20,000--the only metropolitan area in the West to do so.
So I learned that.
And also this: MiX Downtown offers over-30 patrons a "Dirty 30" card that allows them front-of-the-line privileges. Like an amusement park! For old people.
Also, this choice observation of one Christina Ragsdale, a 53-year-old divorcee: "Then she shimmied around the bowling alley in an exuberant, laughter-filled dance."
