I think somewhere along the way I lost myself. It was about the time that I quit dating and quit working. Maybe five-seven years ago? I gave up. I let life convince me that I had no more pull left in me. I lost the excitement of the unknown. I resigned myself to living. But not fully living, perhaps "existing" is the word. It was the time I realized that, no matter how much I didn't want it to, money mattered. That I would truly starve if I didn't do "something." And, in that panic, I did nothing. I still do nothing. I haven't contributed to the world in years. I am the worst. What I have to contribute is not about money. I am about ideas. I am an ideal. Ideals don't pay. I hate PB&J, vegetable soup made from frozen vegetables and egg whites on toast. I want real food. I want a bed that I didn't buy from a bedbug-ridden bodega on Broadway. I want clothes that I didn't get free at some stupid party. I want to be inspired and earn a living. That is not happening for me. I hope someone reads this years down the road and I am super accomplished. I hope they see that every "artist" struggles. I hope that day comes. Why do I think it won't?

The Issue

Finally watched September Issue and all I really got from it was that, even if you're Anna Wintour, you'll still never be good enough and things will still fall terribly, horribly apart at the worst possible moment. Is there no hope for sanity? What of this elusive concept they call 'happiness'? Does life just suck? For everyone? Always?

xoxo,
Tiffany for a Stress-Free Tomorrow

Get Yourself Free

Just slip out the back, Jack
Make a new plan, Stan
Don't need to be coy, Roy
Just listen to me
Hop on the bus, Gus
Don't need to discuss much
Just drop off the key, Lee
And get yourself free

The time has come for me to make a leap. I can no longer deal with the petty arguments, torn Tarot cards, screaming matches, constant reprimanding, super snitching, mindless staring/standing that is my job. I don't have to. I'm smart, creative and efficient. Perhaps too much so and sometimes I fear that's half the problem. I would say that I wish I was stupid and had no options or ambitions but I don't. I hate knowing that I'm more than I let myself be but at least there's always the fact that there is more and all I have to do is want it bad enough, try harder and maybe win the lottery of life. All of that and more is completely possible. But only if I open myself up to it. I'm never going to publish a novel, meet the man of my dreams or rule the world standing in a retail store on Fifth Avenue checking bags day in and day out. Not going to happen. I have a much better chance accomplishing all of the above by panhandling on the train. I'm tired of making shiesty motherfuckers rich. Time to make me rich. Jump.

Snoop Bloggy Blog

This looks like my old roommate Andy. Mad creepy.

Hello. I've been drinking Pinot Noir by myself and "surfing the net" for the last few hours. Of course I'm bored to tears. And that's big coming from me as I subscribe to the belief that only boring people get bored. Someone's grandma (either a real life person or a character in a book/film) said that and I believe it. There's always some way to occupy yourself. I know because I am always alone, mostly by choice but often by circumstance.

Things I am randomly thinking about:
1) Do they make glass baby bottles?
Just brainstorming ideas for a local parenting magazine that needs a feature on babies for the July issue. I mean, if water bottles left in a hot vehicle are of concern to Oprah, why are parents still putting warm milk in plastic bottles?

2) Unpaid internships should be illegal.
Internships used to be called apprenticeships and included room and board. They also pretty much guaranteed you'd be taking over the business some day. Now its just a bullshit term adopted by capitalist Baby Boomers to get free labor. Those bitches didn't do internships.

3) Should the custom of arranged marriage be adopted again by society?
Now that the backlash against the Women's Lib movement is official, is it time to rebel against the idea of marriage for love? According to popular media, "our" problem is that we have too many options and can't make a decision. I agree. So, tell me who I'm going to marry and I'll just have to deal with it. Maybe their should be an opt-out clause though. Something super severe like being disowned and cut-off financially in there just in case you happen to find Mr. Right or your arranged husband/wife is hideous.

4) Why are people looking for roommates on Craigslist so worried about hoarding?
I can understand that New York apartments are small and there are people out there that save random shit like used razors that they're going to make into an installation in their dreams but is it really that common? Seriously, people. You weren't even aware of hoarding until that tv show. If you're that much of an idiotic sheep, I don't want to live with you. At last count there were six ads that banned hoarders in cheap Bushwick apartments alone. Lamest recent phenom.

5) I need to set up a personal/professional website ASAP.
I can market the shit out of everything but myself. And, half the time, I don't even realize it. Time to start, you know, building a career. I've done way more than just grace your social scene but no one knows and that's my fault.

6) Is there an intruder outside on the porch right now? Sounds like it.
Either that or a massive rodent. Which is worse and what am I going to do about it? I'm going to get attacked by a wharf rat or a migrant worker in, like, five minutes and these will be my last words. That's one of my most horrible thoughts yet.

7) Does drinking make my broken ankle swell more?
I kind of feel like it does and it would make sense but my ankle's not getting any larger. I can still feel the screw sticking out (new development). Maybe its just that it throbs a bit more because its hanging from this stool and I'm noticing it more because that's the kind of neurotic thing I do when I drink alone.

8) How could I have possibly let Camilo Villegas come to my town and leave without marrying me?
Let's be honest -- I love Colombians because they are arrogant assholes. This one also happens to be young, beautiful, rich and the perfect level of famous (not mobbed on the street but still respected and can score cool invites). Augusta is so freaking small and he was just here for Masters and I didn't find and seduce him. I fail at life.

9) What, exactly, are "American thighs"? Fatter than French ones and thinner than Russian ones?
Such stereotypes. Whatever. I heard a classic rock song that I'm sure you know that I can't remember the chorus to about American thighs today and I've been trying to envision them all day. I think they must be Midwestern thighs. You know, farm girl thighs. Like, I eat home-cooked meals with carbs and meat but I also chase cows around fields so I can wear short shorts and there's no cellulite.

10) If employers want employees that just follow rules and have zero input, why don't they just hire robots and do us all a favor?
90% of the jobs I see online are not challenging at all. Not that I want to be overworked and underpaid but I like to be working for a reason besides making money. That doesn't interest me beyond the fact that it keeps debt collectors from blowing my phone up. When I work somewhere it becomes I part of me, a representation. If the company sucks, so do I. Thus, I go above and beyond. Most people hate this. They want you to show up, do whatever menial task they have then leave. If employees aren't there to improve your business then why are they there. Like I said, hire a fucking robot and leave me out of it.


This post sponsored in part by Pinot Evil Pinot Noir. Its a screw top that's actually delicious.

Umm...and WHAT THE FUCK is this? No more Google image searches for me. Uggh.

Wabash, Robert Olen Butler

I found this paperback wedged between some picture books on the mantle in my South Carolina room. I've never read it. Well, I take that back. I think I may have read, like, the first chapter or two when I first picked it up at the Sandhills Writers Conference back in 2000. Guess I never could really get into it.

Every year Augusta State University hosts the conference and that year I just happened to be a student there. I was fresh out of 11th grade, definitely a little on the quiet side and one of the best English students they had. I was in pretty tight with my 101 professor, Ray, and his department BFF, Tony, so naturally I was on the author host committee. Basically I just had to escort the visiting writers to dinner at the Partridge Inn on opening night and probably man a signing table or two during the weekend. Easy enough. Unless, of course, you get partnered with Robert Olen Butler.

Not that the Pulitzer Prize winner was rude or anything. He was just, well, creepy. I'd read a few of his short stories and they were good. Really good. I hadn't read the one about the false eye that watched from a glass of water yet. Good thing because I would have really been flipping out. There was just something super disconcerting about the way he stared at people. It was as if he was trying to steal your soul or, at the very least, plot your decapitation in a dark parking lot. I don't remember much of what was said at that dinner but I can remember Butler's stare as if he were sitting here across from me right now. Strange how things like that stick with you.

Back in December I picked up his newest novel, Hell, while I was working at the Brooklyn Barnes & Noble. I would say don't read it but its actually very well written. Amazing imagery, satire and depth of emotion. But, as I worked my way through it on the N train to Astoria every night, I kept imagining that blood-curdling stare only to look up to see some random lady paying absolutely no attention to me whatsoever. I finally had to quit reading it because I was getting mega skittish and borderline schizo.

Moral of the story, Robert Olen Butler freaked me the fuck out in a way that no one before or since has. Maybe I'll meet him another day and I'll change my mind. When I do I'll definitely be carrying a crucifix or tiny bottle of Holy Water or something. I'm not stupid.

Pink Plastic Kazoo

Plastic Pink Kazoo now resides in the Land of Peaches.

When I packed a weekend bag to drive down to Athens two summers ago to see the Melvins, I had no idea who they were and really didn't care. All I knew was that I was nearing the point of insanity in Chapel Hill, a precipice that can only be reached when you spend every day in a hospital room, have little to no outside entertainment and a puppy eats your magazine article while you're interviewing the elderly director of Flipper outside on the patio. Enough was enough and since a music editor friend from Miami was driving up for the show, I figured they must be something special. Or least not horrible. Long story short, I didn't need much convincing.

Desperate to avoid the pitfalls that come with crashing on a friend's couch (more annoying canines), I booked a room at a shady motel on the hill. It was one of those $40 a night joints that is run by a creepy old man in coveralls, has scratchy starched sheets and a parking lot full of either migrant construction workers drinking Tecate or philandering drug dealers bumping T.I. in their candy-coated Cutlasses. Heaven.

At this point things start to get a little blurry as they're wont to do when weeks of deadening sobriety come to an abrupt and binging halt. I met up with the music editor, Arielle, and her co-conspirator for the weekend, Jessie, we probably had food somewhere very townie(the Grit, the Grill, Clocked, Five Star, fill in the blank), and started drinking. At some point we acquired one Paul Thomas, collector of all things obscure, former owner of X-Ray Cafe and MySpace friend of Arielle.

Actually, now that I think about it, we went to Paul's house to pick him up. His little white farmhouse off Prince is the quintessential Hoarders house. Amazingness was stacked to the ceiling. It's like a pre-museum of drugs, sex, rock and mysticism in there. Need a candid photograph of Mick Jagger emerging from a backstage bathroom with traces of blow still clinging to his nostril hairs? Paul's probably got it and he'll sell it to you if you're worthy. He's sort of a legend around Athens and, perhaps, beyond. They call him the straight Andy Warhol. But, I digress.


Paul Thomas at X-Ray Cafe. 2004.

Eventually we made it to the 40 Watt. I remember it being just packed enough to give Paul anxiety and relegate him to the sidewalk out front, where he remained for the entire show. I downed quite a few PBR Tallboys beneath the venue's colorful and haphazardly strung Christmas lights so I can't really tell you who opened or what they sounded like. I don't even remember hearing the Melvins. I'm not a huge punk aficionado as it is. All I know is that one in ten little kids that pick up a guitar plays punk and they do it just like their aging punk idols so when you finally see said punk idols they sound like the million plus MySpace bands that they've spawned. Being an originator or just too popular only devalues your work. So there's that.

Inside the show we met up with a friend of the girls. I want to say his name was Juan Montoya but I think I'm getting confused with the Princess Bride. Whatever. This is my story and his name is going to be Juan Montoya. He had only five fingers on each hand, waist-length shiny black hair parted in the center and was somehow connected to the Melvins or the opening band. He played second drums or back-up or something. Blurry, remember?

The lights finally came up, Paul Thomas had faded into the night and everyone staggered out of the 40 Watt except Arielle, Jessie, Juan Montoya and I. I suppose the bartenders, sound guys and roadies still remained but they're not really part of my story. Tired of waiting, we finally left too...only to return a half hour later. By then even the sound guys had packed up. We had a few drinks at the bar with the younger Melvins (that would be everyone except the lead singer guy) and that's when I found the plastic pink kazoos. Legend has it (ok, it was just the story of a lone bartender) that these were left behind after a hipster walking parade earlier in the day/week/month. I like parades, neon plastic instruments and, naturally, the beyond awesome spelling of 'kazoo', so I kept one for myself and passed the other to the cute Melvin with shaggy hair. I can't imagine he still has it but if he does that's like a cosmic memory connection and I should probably call (stalk) him, right?


Cute Melvin, Lead Singer Guy and Young Melvins.

Anyhow, the younger Melvins agreed to join us for an after-party of sorts in the motel room. They had a bottle of wine and I'd probably stockpiled Sparks as I was known to do in those days. And so the procession down Athen's side streets began.* Of course, I wanted to play a marching song on the kazoos. Only problem was that I couldn't get that plastic piece of shit to make any noise. The cute Melvin was only marginally better and couldn't adequately explain to me how to get my kazoo to make that squeaking hum he'd mastered.

This is where I become spiteful drunk Tiffany and commence with playground flirting antics that verbally equate to kicking cute boys in the shin and sticking my tongue out as I run to hide behind the jungle gym. Damn, me! I began an everlasting tirade about how the cute Melvin was obviously not a real musician if he couldn't even play a kazoo. I probably said some other pretty rude things because they left and without their half-opened bottle of Cabernet. Of course, it could've not been me at all. It could've been the fact that Juan Montoya was being a playground drunk too. This evidenced by the fact that he was super loud, jumping on the bed and ripped the cliche poster-framed landscape from above the king-sized bed and proceeded to smash it over some body part of his. No more young Melvins but, at that point, I was all "Good riddance and thanks for the wine!" out the door after them.

The next morning I woke up with a liquor>beer>liquor>wine hangover in a crappy hotel bed with three other people and a whole lot of glass. Despite feeling like absolute shit and being fiercely afraid to read the previous night's Twitter stream, I bucked up and headed to Potter's House in search of a replacement picture for the hotel. When I'm hungover I'm even more indecisive and cheap than usual so, naturally, I couldn't settle on one of the many, many ugly $10 options. When I returned to the motel to face my possible eviction, I found that the picture had been magically replaced with an exact replica. So I got to stay another night and I didn't even have to contact Juan Montoya for restitution.

Eventually I caught up with Arielle and Jessie, who were on a Paul Thomas adventure. He took them to a few thrift stores, Bell's (an old-school grocery store that has things like 50-gal vats of baked beans, pig's feet and row upon row of eerily identical white labels) and eventually they ended up at Western Sizzler in the nearby town of Winder. To describe their meal as anything but epic would be a disservice. As over-used an adjective as that applies in this situation. I mean, they sat there and ate/talked for five. freaking. hours. Naturally, their convo resulted in a lot of inside jokes that I didn't really get when I met up with them later. Like, apparently Paul Thomas had taken both Kurt Cobain and Nikki Sixx there and something about a train. Don't ask me.

By dusk it was time for the glowing graves. At some point Paul had described these to me in some detail so I was super excited. Having someone like him around can be extremely helpful when in search of the Southern Gothic. If he'd been around when I got lost in that cornfield looking for the Iron Horse I probably would have a better story to tell. As it turns out, the glowing graves were relatively modern and much less mystical than you'd think. They're basically solar-powered memorials in the shape of crosses. Well, except for the Disco Angel. That one has an angelic figure hovering above a, you guessed it, disco ball. Ah, southern religion. So the best.


Some random glowing grave. Winder, Georgia.

The Artist Formerly Known as TarFoot

Once upon a time in a land far, far away...ok, like, last year (give or take) in Miami, there was a fellow that took to calling me TarFoot. We'll call him Valentine because that's his name. This nickname that, thankfully, didn't catch on, came from the fact that the soles of my feet were always, always, always black. It wasn't like I didn't wash my feet. I did. It was more that I refused to wear shoes and that shit just takes a toll. I wore Havianas and, when I absolutely had to, heels. That's it. No boots. No tennis shoes. No flats. Just flip flops. And, on more occasions than I should even admit, not even those.

No big deal, right? That's what I was thinking (or not depending on my level of inebriation). But, I guess, it is a bit unusual to run around the city barefoot and people started to notice. I suppose I became just a tad bit notorious for going sans shoes...on the street, in clubs, you name it. Years ago I'd even check my way-too-tall stilettos at the DJ booth. Then one day someone (I won't mention any names) put my shoes on the shelf behind the bar alongside the Grey Goose and I spent forever searching under chairs and posting all points bulletins until finally, finally said DJ admitted the hoax. It was like Cinderella but so much more hectic because it was WMC (2003, I think) and I was wasted and the place was packed and those were my most favorite shoes of all time (which I can't remember for the life of me now). Now I just hide them in inconspicuous corners.

Then there was the whole injury thing. I've lost so many toenails. Twice at the hand (or should I say hoof?) of police horses. Yes, twice. Once in downtown Atlanta during that Y2K ruckus and then again in Savannah at St. Patrick's Day. You'd think I'd learn to move when police come storming through on horseback but, alas, no. And, once I sliced super serious at that suicidal celebrity's house on Fourth of July. I couldn't walk for a week. See photo above (so much nastier than it looks...trust me).

So, there's all that.

Now I'm in New York and its winter and I have to wear shoes. It's contributing greatly to my current SAD-ness. My feet feel trapped. I have to wear socks and I HATE, HATE, HATE socks. I get blisters and callouses and such.

Can't wait for summer. How do New Yorkers feel about barefoot bandits?