BRB

A Nice Thing That Left Vegas

Las Vegas is really dissimilar to the way its advertised. It's not dangerous or seedy, and aside from the capacity to order prostitutes, there isn't very much sinning going on. I daresay its the least wild place I've ever been. Because while most cities have a Disney World-style strip - New York has Times Square, Los Angeles has Hollywood Boulevard, Paris has the Champs-Élysées, Chicago has the area surrounding the Rock N Roll McDonald's - the entirety of Las Vegas is a Disney World, and upon visiting you are trapped.

Nothing happens in Vegas and the only things that stay are your gambled amounts of money and your loose stools stemming from any of the many casino-hotel buffets. Upon returning to Los Angeles I began to notice billboards in favor of the "resorts" in Vegas, recognizing each themed monstrosity by name. An ad for the Monte Carlo pictures a man and woman and a bottle of vodka and reads, Unpretentiously Luxurious, which, if you think about it, sounds like the wrong kind of luxury. "Unpretentious" means Not Smart and Not Thought Out Well and Not Culturally Significant; so when partnered with a word that means Feels Good, one could say that settling in for a night of animal porn and Oil of Olay sounds unpretentiously luxurious.

I went to Old Vegas, or Downtown Las Vegas, where all the famous moving florescent statues are: the cowboy giving the thumbs up, the cowgirl lifting her leg, the boy holding a disproportionate donut or burger over his head. It's the Vegas of Swingers and Honey We Blew Up The Kids, rather than of CSI: Miami in Vegas and The Hangover. It's slightly dirtier and has more sad alcoholics, plus many more penny slot machines (which make it impossible to win anything and are mainly in place for recovering gambling addicts). The free drinks were weaker so I liked it less, but I did chance upon a Native American supplies store. I found a pair of moccasins [or makasin, mohkisson, mokussin, makizin, Mi'kmaq, m'kusun or maxkeseni] in sandy, smooth leather. They have 'W's stitched on the top to help grip the slippers to my feet. They were the rarest, prettiest things in Las Vegas, and they had stayed there long enough.

This Is What It Would Look Like If I Was A Model

Weather & Lace

In April I went to London with Colby and his cousin Brad. We didn't see Big Ben or have tea or harass any stationary guards but chose instead to spend the days sleeping in the city's massive public parks. We never bought a map, probably on my bad advice and irrational thriftiness, so wandering lost became our normal form of transportation.

Looking for Abney Park, which features an old, overgrown cemetery, we went to the wrong part of town and then a localized public park. The park was lined on one side with Hasidic establishments, so we were able to eat bagels - a foodstuff that receives 0 recognition in Paris - before napping in the grass. The weather was windy and I only wore a t-shirt or tank top so we stopped at a thrift store (which obviously sold the belongings of dead Hasids). The shirt I picked was 7€ but I bought it on sale for 3€50.

The shirt is thick cotton with something elastic blended in, and long sleeves, all of which is printed with the animated image of lace. Parts of the pattern are studded with a single teal sequin. Lace was really hot in the streets earlier this year, so at 3€50 the shirt was a v practical steal.

Kitty Day

Right before Colby moved to Paris, when I still lived in New York, I would call him while he was at work to tell him Americans-learning-French jokes.
"Hon, I can only talk for 15 seconds," he'd say when he picked up. "What's up?"
"Honey, honey - why do French men only eat one egg at a time?"
"Uh, what?"
"Say why."
"Uh, why?"

Sometimes Colby would be in the midst of saying Goodbye and I'll See You Really Soon, and I'd squeeze in a quick, "So there were two cats that were racing along the Seine..."
"What?"
"And one of them was named Misses and the other was named Un Deux Trois."
"O.K. Hon, I can call you in a--"
"And you wanna know what happened in the race? UN DEUX TROIS CAT [Quatre] SANK [Cinq]! IN THE SEINE!"
"Bye!"

My favorite joke, which is decidedly the least clever and hardest to understand for both Americans and Frenchies, is:
Why is Easter a good idea?
Why?
Because it's a bon idée! [The answer, in some pronunciation, is supposed to sound like Bunny Day, somehow.]

I liked the joke so much that I tried to alter it to make sense.
Why is Halloween a good idea?
Why, Alaina, why?
Because it's a BONEY day! [This nabs the correct pronunciation but, as in the original joke, brings up an awkward and/or imaginary way of describing the fated holiday.]

But I didn't like my new version more. I liked the other one more because I liked talking about bunnies. Bunnies, kitties, puppies, duckies, even ratties, these things are common points of conversation for me. And I really liked saying, "Bunny day," even if it didn't form a sensible phrase. I began answering my phone calls from Colby as "Hello Bunny Day," much to his chagrin.

When I eventually moved to Paris, too, I didn't live with any pets. I would get extremely excited to see animals on the street, and from there began to call to French dogs passing by with, "Oh! Bon soir Puppy day!"

This habit has since spilled into my American life, often still with the parts of [poorly pronounced] French. I live with four adult cats and two extra-large dogs, but to me they're just a festival of puppy and kitty weeks. Prarie made a series of kitty day necklaces for a show we did at the house in New York, and when I returned from my Euro Trip one had come for me in the mail. The image of her black and white cat, Crybaby, appears in a purple teardrop gem with a hint of gold glimmering from the bottom. She has since made more necklaces in honor of her little honey. Yesterday, Mia asked if my necklace was of Socks: First Cat, of whom I had many t-shirts as a child. Prarie usually also mothers 2-5 fancy rats, so I'm hoping she comes out with thick rings or charm bracelets celebrating the ratty days sometime soon.

Tiny Tim

Google Image Search brought this to me and I realized this dog is named Tiny Tim because it limps like the sick little boy in A Christmas Carol. When I was little my family and I saw Tiny Tim near the baggage claim at JFK. My only memory is that he was wearing a suit with his pants pulled up high, and from there I could see his decorative, child-like socks. I didn't know to look for Miss Vicki and I don't know if she would've been traveling with him anymore, anyway.In middle school I heard about CelebrityMorgue.com from Howard Stern's radio show, which I listened to as part of my early-morning ritual. On the website I saw Tiny Tim for the second time in my life - arms crossed, in a coffin.However, it was not until his cover of, "Living in the Sunlight, Loving in the Moonlight," appeared in a sequence on the first episode of Sponge Bob Square Pants did I finally get what was going on. His ukulele and his falsetto and his song choice and the fake drum sounds were everything I needed. Tiny Tim was made for me to love him, and a powerful spiritual force had been trying to inform me for almost a decade. And who was I or who had I been, unknowingly or with good conscience, to turn away from the ordained? The man speaks quickly and with his listeners in mind; his minimal success coming from his work as a one-man midway. He appeared on network talk shows, putting forth a awkwardly meek but shameless persona, getting laughed at by the hosts and their studio audiences, and then taking his ukulele out of its case and playing to loud applause. While Tiny Tim was obviously in control of his weirdness, how much of it was natural? Past the spouting nose and dark, sunken eyes, did he find himself attractive with rough, unkempt hair and flamboyant clothing -- the way I see myself at my best? When he finally found love in a 17-year-old (Miss Vicki), did he see himself as pathetic, or just proven right?By the time he covered Rod Stewart's "Do Ya Think I'm Sexy," Tiny Tim was coffin-bound. The video came in the 80's, preceding the renewed popularity of the song as fostered by Ally McBeal. Tiny was bloated, wearing tight clothes in all-one-color, and surrounded by women with bangs and red lipstick. It was depressing, repetitive, and of home movie-quality. Soon after its release, Tiny Tim fell off a stage during a ukulele festival; he never really got back up.

Treat Me Rough (the complete collection)

Good evening, American roughians. This is Alaina Stamatis and you're looking at the complete collection of Treat Me Rough, my radio show through the American University of Paris. Alongside the links and their lengths I've included asterisks to indicate which episodes I recommend the most. Episodes 2 and 3 have an exceptionally low ratings because they were recorded poorly, and this post is the debut of Episode 9 on "v awesome fashions". So free up your hard drive, cancel your Friday-night plans, and enjoy a-little-less-than 9 hours of my thinned blood, caffeinated sweat, and tearful history.

Episode 1 (58 mins) ****
Episode 2 (57 mins) **
Episode 3 (55 mins) ***
Episode 4 (60 mins) *****
Episode 5 (58 mins) ****
Episode 6 (56 mins) **** (birthday episode!)
Episode 7 (52 mins) *****
Episode 8 (50 mins) *****
Episode 9 (51 mins) *****

Kool-Aid Mountain Girl

In childhood Colby's first father-figure was Steve. He was his mother's high school sweetheart, shaped most strongly by the rustic Maine lifestyle and his service in Vietnam. He has a thick Maine accent, which takes into account Maine's location - between Boston and Hallifax. It's easy to see that he views Colby as a son, and in turn has always opened his home to me.

In Steve's bathroom was a catalog of workmen's clothing that I continued to flip through long after I'd finished peeing. The standard leaf-and-trees camouflage was there, along with Timberlands and pocket machetes. There was, however, one shirt I had never conceived of. It came in neon orange and sulfur, with a breast pocket and suspender-like strips of reflective tape (which continued onto the pocket). In a non-rushed way I felt that I had to have it.

In the coming weeks I'd search for the shirt online and wouldn't be able to find it. I visited the L.L. Bean megastore and the employees weren't sure what I was explaining. Reflective vests are everywhere but a t-shirt was something I must had imagined.

In New York for a week, visiting friends and monuments, I tried to walk everywhere, especially on interborough trips. I walked from Williamsburg to Long Island City from my friend Jason's apartment to my friend Gabby's job. I followed Nassau Ave to McGuinness, where I looked for places to buy cigarettes. I got to a corner and got the green light to walk. I passed a store I'd seen many times that sells construction-site apparel. When I had crossed half the street, a car stopped to my left, I went to blink and the shirt glimmered behind my left eyelid. I continued and almost made it to the corner, jigged a little, and then turned around, ignoring how crazy I was about to look. I then jogged into the man's man store. In celebration of summer my friend Todd organized a BBQ on Rockaway Beach. I went and wore my brand-new shirt, bright and blaring as the sun. It brought me to the attention of strangers, who would narrate my actions: She totally just peed in the water. She has a beer in her pocket! She's been here all day.

In the evening I made a stop at San Loco (on the Lower East Side). As I waited for my food, sunburned and stinking of salt, a woman looked to me and said, "You look like you've been doing community service all day. Like that shirt, it looks like you're on parole."
"Yeah, I've been by the highway picking up garbage. And now I'm getting a guacoloco."

In a book I was reading today, which was lent to me by my friend David, a young mother on acid named Mountain Girl told a quick story: "We got 'em at the uniform store," she says. "Aren't they great! There's this old guy in there, says, 'Now, you ain't gonna cut them flags up for costumes, are you?' And so I told him, 'Naw, we're gonna git some horns and have a parade.' But you see this? This is really why we got 'em."

England's Rose and Floral Prints

Most want to say that the 1990's are back but I'd argue they never left; that the 90's, like the spirit of Santa, exists in all of us. We never stopped liking Nike or Clueless and never really wanted our men to stop looking like Kurt Cobain. Because 90's fashion was characterized by anti-fashionable behavior, it followed the belief that things that technically don't go well together or match at all... now do. And that clothing meant for lumberjacks and hicks are actually perfect for us. It was an unconscious reaction to the hyper-stylized 80's and an attempt to erase the trend of the decade uniform, while simultaneously inventing irony.

For this reason, I'm not buying the 90's revival. Newly-made floral skirts and expensive tube tops have no place in my heart. Most items of flannel can go fuck themselves, too.

However, if you still crave a style icon from way back when, definitely go with the Jackie Onassis of 1996 - Diana, Princess of Wales.

We're Still Having Fun And You're Still The One

A Night Without Armor

Jewel's book of poetry, A Night Without Armor, now available on Amazon.com for $.01, explores the fire of first love, the fading of passion, and the loneliness of living in a car following divorce. It was published a decade before she gave up pursuing pop music for the ever-easier-to-succeed contemporary country bracket.

In 1993, Michael Balzary (better known as Flea of the Red Hot Chili Peppers) met Jewel after he saw her perform at a local cafe. They went back to her van and she sang a few songs for him. He described her voice as being "beautiful" and "breathtaking."In 2007 Jewel was a judge on Iron Chef: America, in which Bobby Flay scorched David Burke. Since then, challengers have rarely decided to battle Chef Flay in order to save face.

Puddle Wonderful

When I see a puddle of gasoline on wet pavement I start smiling like a child. Most people feel excitement at the sight of rainbows but no one else I know wants to talk about how nice an oil leak looks or to take a picture of it for me.I was able to find some photos of oil rainbows on Google Image Search but 85% of them had been digitally altered to show excessive vibrancy. Flickr seems to favor images of nature so infused with neon that making an unauthorized inspirational poster for your local guidance counselor must be easier than ever! "The squeaky parking lot gets the oil spill." I'd much rather be looking at Lisa Frank directly.

Cinco de Mayo