28 August 2009
19 August 2009
05 August 2009
So in typical 'Leti-come-lately' fashion I recently became obsessed with Russell Brand. It started with his interview with Terry Gross on Fresh Air followed in quick succession by his interview with Elvis Mitchell on The Treatment. (I have always been upfront about being an NPR podcast nerd.) So I decided to see Forgetting Sarah Marshall. Jolly good it were. (As Russell would say).
I wanted to read his book, but I also have my pride so I decided to wait for paperback and then one day I found a paperback copy of My Booky Wook (Uncorrected Proof NOT FOR RESALE) sitting on the street by my house. Obviously, the cosmos were in alignment for me that day. So I read it, and then I watched his DVD special and now I feel not only like I know Russell Brand all too well but sorta like we are good friends and I just wanna call him to go get some green tea. I guess I have to start reading his blog and following his Twitter now.
His life story is pretty entertaining, but I mostly like his grandiloquent use of language and all the funny Britishisms. That said dude does have some questionable taste. He definitely should have vetoed the bright pink brocade on the cover art (although that could have just been my nonofficial version. But I can forgive all that. I mean if Morrissey and Jarvis Cocker get a long with this dude, I'm sure we would get on fine. (Jarvs is apparently writing song for the Sarah Marshall spin off film Get Him To The Greek).I like this hair
But this, not so much
It's cute that he is hanging out with Britney Spears and an elephant though.this hair I do not like, but I do approve of the feathery necklace
Posted by Leti at 12:09 PM
02 August 2009
Lately I started spiraling down a creepy rabbit hole to a dark but fascinating place.
Early indicators were the morbid interest with which I read The Tragedy of Britney Spears, an article by the brilliant Vanessa Grigoriadis about Britney's descent into madness. It is from the Feb. 2008 issue of Rolling Stone but I just got around to reading it . (Thanks Justin)
It reminded me how much I love these David LaChapelle images from the April 1999 Rolling Stone.
I had the one above on my wall in college, not sure why I thought that was appropriate but I loved it.
Then Michael Jackson died. Which led to a fascination with this little guy.
Then came Paradise Lost: The Child Murders at Robin Hood Hills as well as Paradise Lost 2: Revelations and the West Memphis Three. Arrested and convicted for wearing black and listening to Metallica It's so creepy when they are interviewing Pam Hobbs, one of the mother's of the boys who were murdered, and she is obviously delirious with grief and probably drunk and she looks kinda like a girl gone wild. You can watch it here (at minute 4:08)
Damien Echols in prison, I hurt for him.
That said, my fascination with the case of Foxy Knoxy, accused of brutally murdering her roommate while studying abroad in Italy, was already well underway.
This haunting photograph of Amanda Knox stared out at me from Timothy Egan's New York Times Blog Story "An Innocent Abroad". And then there were all of these.
Weirdest case of a girl being described as 'a little spacey".
As well as horribly offensive pieces of yellow journalism like "Foxy Knoxy, the girl who had to compete with her own mother for men",Secret diary reveals Foxy Knoxy was 'always thinking about sex' andFoxy Knoxy claims female cell mate begs her for sex 'because I'm so pretty' from the Daily Mail. And the beginning of her trial where she looked all busted.
And also "The girl in the window" Danielle, discovered in Florida at age 7 just a few years ago.
Oh and then there was a foray into research on Feral Children. Starting with Genie
discovered at age 13 in the 1970s.
Erin was discovered in Texas in 1986
Yeah so that is the sinister inspiration board of what I have been in to the last couple of months. A pastiche of Metallica and Morissey with a little Pippi Longstalking and a dollop of the human condition. And NOTHING ELSE MATTERS. Enjoy!
UPDATE: To add insult to injury George Sodini shoots three women in a gym and leaving a diary that reads like discarded Morrissey lyrics.