Crazy how these foxes just roam around like a common house-cat!

Magic......and yet so many haven't experienced it across the pond!

Dear Ether, 

I couldn’t believe my eyes when I saw a fox for the first time roaming the streets in London.  To me, a fox was an animal you saw in a forest or a cartoon.  I never thought I would ever come face to face with one—especially one so bold as to stare me straight in the eye and then go back to rifling through the trash as if we were equals in this concrete jungle.  I was slightly afraid that a fox might want me for dinner, but my mates said that they could care less.  In fact, if I came too close, they would scuttle away.  I learned very quickly that the fox was as common as a cat patrolling the streets around the neighborhood.  

And just as I had been surprised by a fox being as common as a roaming house pet, I was surprised when I learned that certain things DIDN’T exist in ol’ Blighty that I took for granted in California.  English gent and I moved into a flat with a typical Victorian bay window that was bright and sunny (well, when the sun actually shone).  I told my folks that we’d finally moved up in the world (literally—we’d been living in a basement flat before) and they sent a hummingbird feeder to attract the lovely creatures so we would have a delightful view.  When I attached it to the outside of the window and proudly showed gent my handy work, he laughed.  He told me that hummingbirds didn’t exist in England!  I couldn’t believe it.  It was so foreign to me because I had grown up in a place where the sound of their buzzing wings and their iridescent bodies were so common. I was shocked to hear that many of my English peers had never seen one before.   I kept the damned feeder up for nostalgia’s sake, but it made me really think about how big the world is and how many things out there that I will never see that are magnificent.  

When English gent came to Los Angeles, we sat outside on the patio where we have a beautiful Cape Honeysuckle tree.  Its orange blossoms, though not fragrant, are vibrant and plentiful and are shaped like trumpets.  In the middle of lazy chatter, I heard the familiar buzzing of wings only a hummingbird makes.  I told English gent to quickly look over at the honeysuckle.  There, like a baby helicopter, it hovered.  He couldn’t believe its little body and long beak darting from bloom to bloom.  It’s chest reflected jewel tones of ruby and emerald in the sun.  He thought it magnificent.  

I love to travel and to discover.  And I hope that I will get a chance to jump back startled and then bemused by a fox like I did in London or have the same wide-eyed wonderment that English gent did when he spied the hummingbird. 

How vast a world we live in, eh? 

Dedicatedly yours, 

—One of 365

This is my tree. The very one that sits in my yard. I captured it in all its glory for the one week it explodes with blossoms. My very own winter in the spring.

Dear Ethers, 

When I was a little girl growing up in California, I always used to envy places where it snowed.  I would see the news and they would have pictures of the weathermen showing a wonderful flurry on TV in some lovely New England town where everything was sugar coated in white frost.  

I’d experienced snow.  My parents were from the East Coast and I’d visited many times in the winter, but I always wanted my own taste of it in Los Angeles.  I didn’t really care about the clothing that came with the climate change or the snowball fights.  I just wanted to look up at the heavens and see snowflakes dropping endlessly from the sky.  

We had a wonderful tree in our yard that looked like it belonged in a magical forest in some fairytale.  Its trunk was a black/brown that was twisted in knots and had puffs of moss that grew along its craggily roots.  And for one week, just a single week, it sprouted white flowers that were very delicate but too fragile for the wind.  And everyday after school I would run outside and lie under the tree and let the white petals cascade all over me as if I was having my own winter.  I would pray for a push of air so the tree would release more of its bounty and I would close my eyes and let the cool flowers fall on my face gently brushing them off as they warmed with my skin.  As I got up to leave after my time in the “snow,” my silhouette was laid out in the grass amongst the white that had collected. 

This is the tree I grew up with.  The tree I sat talking to for that week.  I fell asleep under it and dreamt.  I read books where I escaped into new journeys.  I imagined myself a grown woman getting married under its canopy that very week sometime in the future in spring with lanterns hanging from it in the dusk and my dress matching its beautiful array. 

The tree is at least 90 years old.  I stare at it now, leaves slightly turning red and gold for the fall.  And I think it will probably be about 150 years old when I die. When I try and conjure a happy thought about my childhood, my moments with that tree are at the front of my mind.  It was a place of thought, a place of magic, a place where a little girl could have her winter even though it was 70 degrees.  

I just wanted to share with you a beautiful memory about something that was special in my past.  It’s funny, later on in life, when I did live in snowy places, I always expected the snow to be like petals.  I always felt so sad when the flakes melted on my skin.  I just wanted to be taken back to that magical spot and look up through the trees branches, see the blue sky, have my eyes shaded by its branches and just be covered in a blanket of winter but have it really be spring.  

Dedicatedly yours,

—One of 365

As the world spins around and people live their lives, I wonder, where do I fit in? Where do I belong? I've been a nomad--a bit of a gypsy my whole life. So tell me Ethers, where AM I from?

Dear Ether,

People often ask me where I’m from. It’s so hard to say. If I say London, they’ll cock an eyebrow, wonder why I don’t have an accent, and when I explain I only lived there 8 years, think I’m affected. If I say I’m from Los Angeles, I almost have to cough it out. I find it difficult to believe. Half my life I don’t even remember spending in California, and the last 8 were when I was a teenager and didn’t really have freedom to see the city. I spent 3 years in CT and 1 year in NYC. So I guess I have to technically say I was BORN in Los Angeles….but really, where am I from?

When I close my eyes and ask this question, I picture myself with my face plastered against the grimy plexiglass of the last row on the tube being jerked to sleep by its stops and lurches on my way home from an exhausting days work. I see myself in a magnificent coat with a full scarf and a sugar-free vanilla skinny venti latte from Starbucks. I imagine great jeans, my All Saints boots and a fag in Camden heading to a freelance job walking to the beat of my own heart amongst the throng of other colorful people, all while seeing the florist set up her hut diagonal from the tube station. I visualize English gent and I on a night bus when we first met laughing before we cared about money and being adults, heading into the depths of ugly New Cross. The feeling of a cup of tea to soothe you after a bitter day and watching the rain pour down and just being so grateful to be indoors. And what about fingering the wares at a market stall and being called ”love,” or walking through the Sussex countryside and passing the same river Virgina Woolf drowned herself in all those years ago?

And what of Los Angeles? Again, I slam my eyes shut, feeling my lashes against the tips off my cheekbones, and I see memories too—just in different hues. Bright blue skies with sun that warmed your skin and made you golden after a day at the beach. Nights when my brother and I would be bundled into the back of our old station wagon and my mom and dad would take us to drive-in move theaters (relics now) in our pajamas. Every year on my birthday being taken to the same Mexican restaurant that had been around since 1927 and having mariachi’s sing to me and have my picture taking wearing a sombrero so big that it covered my whole face. Looking down at my feet and seeing the heavy tan line my flip-flops left on my feet. The smell of the gardeners laying down fertilizer in October for seed to grow for fresh grass. Pumpkin pie and gravy for Thanksgiving and catching my dog on the table while we were all in the other room having hour d’oeuvres. The overwhelming beauty of fuchsia bougainvillea growing wildly all over neighbor’s gardens. My darling standard poodle whom I used to lay out in the backyard with and talk to for hours until it got too chilly and then we’d go inside and we’d talk for even longer debating issues of the heart!

I now reside in Los Angeles, but in my soul I know it is temporary. I know I am bound for somewhere else. This place and I, it never had a connection. And being here, I remember that now. And I pine for London. But boy did she and I have our problems too. Where’s next? Where will I end up being from? I don’t know. I feel just because you’re born somewhere doesn’t make you from there. It just makes that the place you were issued your birth certificate. Like I’ve said before, I feel like more of a Londoner than a Los Angelino—but not according to my records or when I’m issued jury duty.

I always thought it was so funny that I was considered an immigrant. Me. A white, upper-middle class girl, with a Master’s degree and some cash in her pocket. Terrible. I know. That I should feel like I shouldn’t be looked at as the same as someone from Africa or Mexico. I’ll never forget sitting in East Croydon in the Home Office waiting for my papers. I was very nervous. I didn’t know if my visa was going to get reissued. A guy about my age from Nigeria spoke to me. He saw my passport in its clear folder. “You’ll have no problems” he smiled. “I don’t know, I’m really worried this time. I’m applying for residency.” He grinned and said, “You are white, American and a woman. Me, I’m black, a man and from Nigeria. I have been here 6 times. If I get rejected this time, I am out of chances.” I looked down to the floor and didn’t know what to say. He said cheerfully, “Don’t feel bad. Remember, you have a good home to go back to. I have a good family too. I just want a better life. Just remember, it’s all about where you’re from.” We chatted a bit more and his number was called. I wished him well. Then it was my turn to go to the desk.  I was shaky but determined. Within ten seconds I was approved. They were most concerned about how I was going to pay. I still wonder if 7 was that man’s lucky number and if he really meant what he said about remembering where you were from—that no matter where you are in the world—you can always go home again—wherever that may be.

Dedicatedly yours,

—One of 365

Celebrity is all a bit blurry. The girl in the picture has a stunning figure and stands out in a red dress, but where she's standing and what her emotions are seem fuzzy. What goes on behind the scenes of the rich and famous is an odd one. They will never fully be just like you and me. But when you get close enough and things become clearer some of the fantasy goes away and it takes the magic with it.

Dear Ether,

So, I covered a red carpet on Thursday night.  I can’t tell you anything (yadda, yadda…the close lipped contract….) and this entry isn’t going to be about the party itself, but about the vulnerability of the celebrity.

My job went as it should.  I did the normal carpet chit-chat.  Some celebs were better interviews than others.  The waifish ladies did their poses for the cameras looking confident and gorgeous.  And then they sauntered off into the affair itself.  After I was finished doing my interviews, I went into the party for observations, to grab a drink and take some visual notes on what the event looked like because sometimes cameras aren’t allowed in.  Also, you might get a chance to chat with a celeb a little more in-depth and get something juicy.  It’s also a fun perk (though I find it a little awkward because I don’t know anyone and hanging out with famous people for the sake of it has never been my thing).  You might also walk away with a goodie-bag and you are guaranteed amazing food and cocktails.  My favorite perk of going to V.I.P. shin-dig’s has always been that I get to explore a club or a hotel that you would normally never be granted access to.

But Thursday I had the strangest epiphany. As I was observing these make-up clad women and trendily dressed men that I had seen on the big and small screen, I realized that they were vulnerable.  I think all my life I’ve always thought of celebrities as being super men and women.  That they were touched by fairy-dust and were infallible.  I think some of these people think they are too.  Look at the classic case of James Dean.  But, I think as the walls are crumbling with privacy between the media and the public, stars are starting to realize that they actually are just like “us” with a bit more cash and possibly more problems (though don’t get me wrong, I’d like to have the problem of what dress to wear to the Academy Awards or what movie to choose from instead of how the hell I’m going to pay my water bill….).

I can’t drink heavily when I attend these parties for 2 reasons.  1: I’m on the clock so it would be unprofessional.  2: I drive and so I have to be sober come time to leave and go home.  But a lot of these celebs either come with PR people who drive them home, they have drivers or scarily, they might even take the risk of the road themselves.  So, if you’ve ever been to a party where everyone around you is drunk and you’re sober, it’s like walking through a madhouse of slanted eyes, cockeyed grins and loose limbs.  And that’s what I saw straight and clear with these well-known folks.  It was like a weird party at college.  Their eyes were darting around if they were standing around without anyone to talk to looking desperate and embarrassed.  They used the old texting on the mobile phone trick if they were sitting alone so they “looked busy” and they seemed jittery and had uncomfortable silences just like you and I would have at a party if we were in their position.  I was really surprised.  You always think they have a zillion people to chat with and are the king’s and queen’s of the balls.  Not so!

You know, when I went to parties for my previous line of work, very few of them were celeb functions.  They were mainly cozy press affairs so most of the people who attended were PR’s and fellow journalists.  Also, Hollywood is a whole different kettle of fish than London.  People are star crazy here.  The people who are reporters are so hungry for some sort of claim to fame that they froth at the mouth when they see any celebrity.  It just doesn’t do it for me.  Do I smile or chuckle to myself when I see someone famous?  Of course!  But these people—they will literally stab you in the neck if you get in their way of a possible meeting with anyone recognizable.  I find it really pathetic and it actually made me feel sorry for them.

But I digress.  When I saw the vulnerability and the desperation in many of these celebs eyes, and the look of being lost and not having anyone to talk to, I actually felt depressed.  I felt sorry for them.  I know I shouldn’t and I’m probably reading WAY too deeply into this, but it just felt like the barrier between audience and stage had fallen and I had seen the actor through their make-up.  It was kinda ugly.  I grew up in Los Angeles and my dad, as mentioned in earlier posts, was a TV writer.  I also went to a school that was laden with celebrity parents.  I used to go on studio lots and see famous people daily.  Fame is not anything terribly shocking or heart-stopping for me (except for Sienna Miller—and I keep meaning to explain that one—but alas, it will have to wait for another post).  But I can understand how people who aren’t jaded like I am are crazed when they see someone they adore in the flesh. A couple of the other reporters wanted to stay and try and see if they could hang out with some of the famous folks.  But as soon as my revelation came, I wanted out.  I busted a move, handed the valet my ticket and thankfully got in my car and was pleased to leave and get on with my work.

Look, I’m sure I am over-analyzing.  But, it really is weird when you see the mask fall and underneath isn’t the glorious face of Dorian Gray but the plain visage of John Doe.  These people get pit stains, spill on themselves, step in shit, and get lonely and lost at a party.  I guess the reason it made me feel so bad is because somewhere in me was the dream of wanting to be famous. The perks are great—the money, the opportunities, the chance to play roles in locations that are exquisite.  But a the end of the day, they go home and check their e-mail where they delete their spam about Viagra, open up the fridge and stare wondering what they want for a snack and cry when they have a down day.

Funny how one stupid event can just remind you of that, eh?

I love the magazine I’m working for.  I’m grateful for the opportunity and I adore the inside chances I get to experience and the interesting people I get to speak to.  But for some reason on Thursday something hit a bad chord in me and I had to share it.  I don’t know, I’ll let you know if the next one brings out these emotions in me.

In conclusion, flashbulbs and canapés, there will always be famous people.  And there will always be fans.   But there are very few people who actually get to see what goes on behind the curtain.  And you know what, a lot of their life is a big old set.  A fake reality.  Their truth is no different than ours.  So next time your eyes are darting back and forth wondering “why isn’t anyone talking to me” or “shit, I don’t know anyone here, I’m nervous,” just know your favorite celeb has been there too.  She’s just been wearing a designer dress that’s more expensive than you have on while doing it.

Dedicatedly yours,

—One of 365

Dear Ethers,

So, I found this really groovy store on La Cienega in West Hollywood en route to my gym which is on Sunset.  It’s the most amazing little place. Stationed between a car wash and a crummy parking lot, it’s the sleekest little boutique with a white awning.  Written in the coolest black lettering simply states the name Opening Ceremony.  I’d driven by a few times and wondered what this place was all about.  Was it a club, a restaurant?  The LAST thing I expected for it to be was the most unique clothing store I’d been to in Los Angeles thus far.  Opening Ceremony carries everything from their own label (which is very Euro-vintage) and Topshop to Acne Jeans and bonkers labels you’ve never heard of.  I was thrilled when I walked into their groovy labyrinth where their very attractive and well-dressed staff point you in all directions so you can get lost in this candy shop of clothing, shoes, accessories and more.  I was thrilled to see a whole rack of Topshop, though it was mainly the Kate Moss collection.  It was ridiculously expensive (Londoners, if you thought you paid through the roof for the scraggle-toothed waifs creations, try buying a tank-top for $100 where they even have the chutzaph to leave the UK tag on that says 25 quid. Um. No.)  So, even though I couldn’t afford a single thing in this hot-house for hipsters, I thought if they had a website it would be great to share their wonderful world with you.  So I was thrilled when I Googled the shop and found out they did indeed sell online.  Their collection is SO much more limited on their website then what they have to offer in store, but you still get the groove factor from the cool graphics, off-beat models and unique clothing selections.  If you’re looking for a brand that nobody else is really going to be sporting, or a label that is uber cool that you’d see the likes of Sienna Miller wearing, than you’ve hit the right spot.  Opening Ceremony likes to show that they don’t carry the regular stuff that your local mall does–but truthfully you’ll have to pay.  The stuff ain’t cheap, even on sale.  

The “Wish List” look this week is all about travel and getting upgraded to First Class when you’re flying.  Why shell out the big bucks on a plane seat when you could spend it on an outfit you’ll wear for ages!  Even if you spend 24 grueling hours flying, the amount of money you spent on a First Class ticket could buy you a runway look that will make you the envy of all your friends and may even get you snapped by “The Satorialist.”  I could have chosen a wack-a-doodle outfit from Opening Ceremony (and trust me, if you visit their shop or site, you can see nutty stuff.  Chloe Sevigny has her own label there, just to give you some idea!) but I wanted to pick something that was unique, still wearable, and that would be comfy to fly in. And when you nonchalantly ask the narrow-eyed flight attendant about being upgraded, she’ll take one look at you and say to herself, “yep, this girl is used to high-flyin’ style.” The only thing that it’ll cost you is the price of an economy class seat and some killer clothes from this choice selection. So, get out your passport, dust off your luggage and get your doctor to prescribe you some sleeping pills because honey, you are about to see some duds that will get you an oversized leather seat, champagne and rid you of that screaming kid who keeps peering over his chair making crazy eyes at you (don’t you hate that!).

I love this jacket because it sort of has that fencing coat feel, but also an old-fashioned bodice look to it too. I adore the darting. The lines will hug your body and show off your figure in all of the right places. The arms are cut long so they will give the appearance of elongating your limbs. The front zip is handy, making the jacket easy to take on and off. This is perfect for when you fly (the temperatures in those planes are so unpredictable!). The material is also great. A mix of cotton and rayon, this lovely jacket won't wrinkle too badly so you'll leave the plane as crisp as you entered it. G. V. G. V. Arch Braid Zip-Up Jacket In Beige, Originally $1,025 now $513, openingceremony.com

You're going to be in the clouds anyway so why not represent the mood of the flight? The attendants will appreciate YOUR appreciation for their jobs (okay, maybe I'm taking this a bit too far) but it is a cute thought, no? I just loved how light and airy this top was. It looked like a watercolor painting and I loved how the fluffiness of the blouse mimicked the fluffiness of the clouds. It's actually hand printed in Japan, and I reckon just a lovely summertime top. It think it will layer nicely under the cotton jacket because the fabric is so thin (the jacket really needs to not have anything too bulky underneath as it is so snug, it fits like a top in its own right). Made of silk and cotton, you'll be breathing fresher air in this ethereal piece of cloth in the front of the cabin then in the back, that's for sure. Wakana Koike Fluffy Cloud Blouse, $300, openingceremony.com

Don't these just look comfortable? The loose tied waist? The wide legs? The linen and cotton blend? The chilled out Japanese-inspired cut? You know they'll just sit well on you, be a great fit and won't make you sweat bullets in the summer heat but protect you from the sun. I think the cloud blouse would look lovely tucked into the trousers showing off the tied waist and I like the idea of the natural looking jacket and pants matching together to make a really "green" look. And if you spill champagne on these compliments of First Class, I bet you it won't even show! United Bamboo Baggy Pants, Originally $405 now $122, openingceremony.com

I really like these because they tie the whole outfit together in a glamorous way without being too "bling" but show you have style and know your fashion. They are architecturally very interesting with the layering of the suede. The heel is almost like a bamboo reed, and they just look comfortable. They work with the whole organic look of the outfit. It's like you aren't trying too hard, but you're letting people know you've got style. That's what the flight attendant's will pick up about you. That you aren't pushy, but you know what you want and you get it. They'll see you "own it" and they'll wanna give it to you. High-heels=high-flying. Hussein Chalayan Flap Boot, Originally $849 now $249, openingceremony.com

If you want to "bag the deal" you can't be schleping around a beaten up purse that says "there is a hole in the lining of this baby that has about $3 worth of parking meter change in it that I can pull out if I turn it upside down." You need to look like you're carrying important things in an important case. This will hold all of your key documents and even a small laptop. It goes beautifully with the colors of your outfit and is crisp and clean for summer. Want Les Essentials De La Vie Bag, $625, openingceremony.com

Any hot-mama traveller sports major shades. Even if it's nighttime. Crazy. I know. That's why these babies are good, because the tint isn't too dark so you won't look totally nuts if you have a evening flight. These vintage inspired sunnies are wonderful with the whole bohemian-sleek look of your outfit and just add that finishing touch to make you look polished. If you've had a rough night, they won't be able to see it in your face (these are HUGE) and if it comes to a stare down for that upgrade, you're hiding behind lenses and they're not. Who do YOU think is gonna win? Linda Farrow Vintage For Charles Anastase Sunglasses ca1-c6, $275, openingceremony.com