Samantha Ronson has never been someone that I cared anything about. She was first brought to my attention when rumors started swirling about some kind of relationship with Lindsay Lohan (back when she was interesting... was that a horrible thing to say? Lohan is only interesting amidst cocaine binges and legal troubles?). She's a DJ or something, sister of some hipster named Mark Ronson, related somehow to Charlotte Ronson (who has recently shown me the good side of tights). Once Lady Lohan was secured in the Beehive State, I basically forgot about anyone associated with her. Samantha Ronson disappeared into the cavern in my brain filled with useless trivia, shopping lists, and snappy names (which I have an affinity for).

I fell for the horn-filled, Motown-meets-swing style of Mark Ronson about a month and a half ago, after he was brought to my attention at the MTV VMAs (....I watched them, but only for Britney!... yeah, I kept watching) and subsequently realizing that he was responsible for the awesome Lily Allen cover of a Kaiser Chiefs' song that I love dearly (as hyped back in September). I got my hands on all of his music and am in the middle of a Mark Ronson revolution amongst my friends.

Long story short, I ended up on Samantha Ronson's myspace tonight, after starting out the evening "checking in with" some of my myspace friends and attempting to "check in with" ("stalk") some hipsters I ran across (Mark Ronson included). I turned down her music, checked out her top friends, her info, and then headed to the pictures to browse for a second or so.

What began as just an innocent "who is this chick?" scan became an intense roller coaster of struggling with how I feel about Samantha Ronson, from the scoffing stubborn beginnings to the exhausted eventuality that is the conclusion. Join me, won't you?


Ugh. She just oozes, "Oooooh, I'm a badass." Why do people care about her? I definitely don't, and I'm awesome at caring about people without any discernible talents. I hate this girl.


Psh. Look at her, all cool with her brother. He's attractive, actually. That shot is kind of cheesy, though, with the record. OHHH SNAPPP GET IT, THEY'RE BOTH DJS! Yeah, we know. Actually, it's not so cheesy. It's alright. At least she looks better in this picture than she did in the first one.


That's right, Ronson, milk what you got famous for. Sucka.


OOOH, JUST ONE OF THE BOYZZ, PLAYIN' AROOUUUNND. Seriously, though, her brother is hot, even though he's clearly plastered. And I kind of like her hat.


This is a cool shot. What does she do again? DJ? I could DJ. Yeah. Yeah, I totally could. I'd be an awesome DJ. I'd stand there, looking all important with those big-ass headphones and some kind of hipster accessory (a hat, maybe a tie, some kind of sweet jacket), the entire world of music at my fingertips. I'd nod at people who I deemed important enough, bring some random C/D-list celebrity up to the booth with me and push buttons for them. I'd be elite, slightly snobbier than I am now, and everybody would want me at their parties, wondering what awesome music I'd bestow upon them next. Yeah, fuck yeah, I'd be a great DJ.


She's rocking that hair. I hate it, but she's working it. Dude, I could totally rock that. Not the hair, of course, but the job. I'd need to learn the technology, but I have people to teach me those things. I should learn. How does one gain DJ-like credibility? I'd have to learn how to make those mash-ups too. Those aren't so popular anymore, but I suppose I'd have to learn, right? This girl is kind of cool.


Four pictures ago, I would have torn that pink jacket apart, but right now I love it. Look at her rock that shit.


LOOK! My signature pose! Loving Samantha Ronson right now.


Bad ass.

This tumultuous journey came to an end with me wishing I was Samantha Ronson, or just a cool gigging DJ (which I think I still don't fully understand what that means), or at least a badass who could pull off her kind of style.

Out of all the people I know, I'm definitely not the most likely to follow in her DJ-ing footsteps (ahem Mr. Chi-blog-o), but it's nice to dream. Especially when your dreams are about being a famous and awesome hipster DJ who is indirectly responsible for the downfall of a coked-out starlet. Or just a sweet DJ who stands in a loud club, under the spell of colorful lights and crazy dancing people, completely lost in the music.

PS: I have not yet listened to her music. I'll be sure to let you know how it is.

As many of you know, I'm pretty hooked on "Heroes." (This means that if you're an avid watcher and not current on the show, I wouldn't read this post.) Where to begin? The awesome intertwining storylines? The interesting characters? The never-ending mystery of who, what, where, when, and most importantly, why and how?? The undeniable good-looking men? The intensity of... well, everything? I love it.

So when I came across a few links containing some serious spoilers, my natural instinct was "HELL YES" because, if you keep up, this season is going very slow at giving us information. Here's a tiny bit of info... and then three more storylines pop up with barely anything to go on. As every episode ends, I find myself saying, "I CAN'T WAIT FOR NEXT WEEK!" and not out of giddy excitement, but out of "do I really have to wait, because I really think I could explode if I have to."

So I ran across this link full of big and epic spoilers and the subsequent excited and impressed reaction from the lukewarm posters, commenters, and lurkers. YES. I won't have to wait, motherfuckers. You try, you try to keep it a secret, but you know I'm impatient, and if I have the option, I won't.

As I moved my mouse hungrily towards the spoiler link, I hesitated. One of the highlights of my week is to sit down with my roommate Alex and watch "Heroes" at eight o'clock on Monday nights... to shriek, gasp, point, yell, "WTF IS GOING ON??" at least four times per episode, to conspire and discuss during the commercials, the general shock and surprise during (nearly) every episode... to yell "PETER, OPEN THE BOX!" and genuinely not know if he will, to say "YOU STAY AWAY, CLAIRE, YOU STAY AWAY FROM HIM, YOU'RE KILLING YOUR FATHER, I HOPE YOU'RE HAPPY!" and really not know what's going to happen.

But...... the link remains.

Rule #1 of getting information on the Internet is knowing that nothing is 100% true. (Except this blog, of course.) So I could read it and take it with a grain of salt, knowing full well that it could turn out completely differently. I could read it and completely ruin the surprise and shock of the moment. Or I could just chill the fuck out and be surprised. I haven't yet decided.

The link remains.
The link remains.



ETA, aka "My Further Thoughts on the Show:" Hiro needs to come back to present time. I'm seriously done with Fun in Feudal Japan. It's making me care way less about Ando, who I usually love. Also, I really REALLY need to know what happened to Nathan Petrelli during the last four months. And Niki needs to do something interesting, because hiding in the background of these episodes is getting old. Oh, and those twins bug me. Sylar doesn't need them. He needs to get rid of the two of them, Peter Petrelli's new girlfriend, Kristen Bell's dumb character, and that punk kid Claire's messing around with.

Just sayin'.

I've been working on a project for nearly 12 hours (minus travel time, meals, and "Heroes") and I need a fuckin break.

I want to talk about music. I want to talk about Halloween. I really want to talk about the Kerouac poetry I've been reading. I want to talk about design, photo projects, x-acto knives, ladybugs, jobs, secrets, love love love, love, Samantha P. Scott and Sarah Fuller, blue eyebrows, and my brother's gig.

Instead I'm going to post a few pictures from my phone in a visual round-up of my life lately. School is sucking my creativity dry.


That, my friends, is Boba Fett, made completely of Legos. Geek out.


That is Sonny Thompson. A living legend, playing in a dive bar in Navarre, Minnesota, with my awesome roommate (the blurry drummer). There was also an amazing bar fight that night involving a very old, very drunk man. (That's unrelated.)


That is my brother playing in a bar that's Frankie's-meets-Stoney Creek. That's the best analogy I could come up with. Dive, dive, Frankie's-type nasty bar, but... they've got stuffed wildlife everywhere, including a cougar. No lies. Also, there's a band called Old Yeller that I like very much. Just sayin'.


And finally, my landlords have gone all out for Halloween. This... thing... went up on the balcony sometime on Saturday, and I'm still not used to it. It scares the crap out of me at least twice a day, seeing as I live on the floor it inhabits. As I come home from school, I see it up on the balcony and freak for just a second. I enter the building and go up the stairs, put the key in the door, look to the left, see it standing on the balcony and freak for another second. It gets me EVERY time.

Four pictures cannot accurately capture my life in Minneapolis, but I'll try to do better soon. I'm very tired and I still have quite a bit of work ahead of me this evening. Bickety-bam, I'm an artist, I guess.

Love.

I never knew that I could love doing something so much.

I had my first critique yesterday. We had to present our project in front of the class - a project done with foam core and string. Most students' projects looked like something spawned from a sugar-induced kindergarten experiment, my own included. The class would pipe up with their ideas and suggestions, constructive criticisms, what have you, and they were great.

Well, almost great. Well, overall, yeah, it was great, it's just that there was this one dude. He's got bright red hair that's seven feet long. It's honestly about 3/4 his length, contained by not one, not even two, but four strategically-placed hair binders. (Off topic, I've been chastised by my La Crosse friends for saying "binders." What the fuck else are they called?? Seriously, I want to know what you call them. If not "binders," what? What, Jackie Richmond?)

His project was on red construction paper, mounted on a black piece of foam core. It was well done, but I couldn't really concentrate on his project because god damn it, his hair... god. It's frizzy and long and red and distracting.

A boy near the back raised his hand and mentioned that the red construction paper overpowered the white string. I wanted to mention that his red hair overpowered his entire project. Someone else suggested that maybe if he would have used less string, the project would have been a little more simplistic and clean. I wanted to suggest that maybe if he would have less hair, he would be less annoying and look a lot better. I don't even remember his subject matter, I remember his long-ass stupid hair.

Let me back up. I attend an art school. There are majors of many kinds here -- photography, graphic design, interior design, drawing, painting, culinary arts, animation, etc. We all take Fundamentals of Design because, well, we all design something. My class is filled will all of the above, but is overall Drawing students and Animation students ----- the gigantic geeks.

I'm not stereotyping. I know that not all Animation or Drawing students are completely socially-awkward boys with severe acne, bad hair, and a passionate love for Monty Python, Tenacious D, and their Playstations. 100% of the Animation students in my Fundamentals of Design class are such, however, along with probably 60% of the Drawing students.

Really, I'm serious. For example, one guy in my class once played all of his Playstation games beginning to end in a marathon week. Red let the class know early on that he's been growing his hair for seven years. Granted, I'm not one to judge the geeks -- I have the Imperial March from "Star Wars" as my ringtone and the second Death Star made of Legos as the background on my phone (....TMI), and once upon a time, someone wanted to crochet HTML into a pillow for me. These geeks, however, are in a class of their own.

It makes me feel better about my own geek status. While they are playing every Playstation game they own, and calling people "platypus" (I'm so serious), I am getting hair cuts. And at least I use two hands to adjust my glasses. I've got them there.

I left the apartment at a run today. I had lost track of the time and already missed the early bus, and if I didn't hurry, I would miss the late one too. I clicked the eject button on iTunes to "safely remove" my iPod. It was taking much longer than normal, so I sighed and ripped it out of the computer. I never ever do this, but I figured it would be okay just this once.

I ran up 27th and across Hennepin, leaping onto the 6. I settled in and unzipped my backpack, ready to listen to some Van Halen and re-organize the haphazard folders and papers. To my dismay, the screen was still lit.

DO NOT DISCONNECT.

...I'm pretty sure the iPod was disconnected from my laptop when it was on 25th and Hennipen, zooming towards downtown Minneapolis. My father's voice echoed in my head, telling me to hold the center button for twenty seconds to reset the iPod. I pressed the button and sucked in my breath, holding them both for about thirty seconds. No response from the device, burning sensation in my chest.

Maybe it was the play button, I thought. I tried it, to no avail. I held them simultaneously, I held the menu button. I wasn't sure if my lungs could withstand another button-pushing trial-and-error, and thankfully I reached 9th street within moments of my frustration's escalation to a near-murderous rage. I decided that I'd figure it out in the lab and ran up the sixty-five (yes, I count) steps to the fourth floor, dashing into art lab. I pulled out my sketch pad, my 4H pencils, my big white eraser, and my iPod. It was still lit.

DO NOT DISCONNECT.

It's lucky that my professor loves the Beastie Boys. It's unlucky that the speaker on my side of the room was shot. I found it hard to concentrate without my music, especially with Ill Communication crackling in and out, but I managed to pull seven sketches out of my ass before class was over.

Two and a half hours later, I found myself in the library -- er, "Student Resource Center" -- trying to sketch something else. (I'm doing a lot of drawing for school... who knew?) I was creatively banging my head against a brick wall, and the silence was deafening. I pulled out my iPod and hoped for the best.

DO NOT DISCONNECT.

It actually made me angry. I wasn't bummed, I wasn't disappointed, I was angry. What the fuck, iPod (or iTunes, whichever was to blame)? Don't you realize I came up with a fantastic idea to sketch Bach's "Toccata and Fugue" in a line? How can I sketch "Toccata and Fugue" when I can't fucking listen to "Toccata and Fugue" at all? That's a little difficult, isn't it, iPod/Tunes? You creatively-hindering sons of bitches.

I finally came to my last assigned sketch and wrote a letter to Steve Jobs.

Dear Steve Jobs,
You suck. How can I disconnect an iPod from a computer that is two miles away? I CAN'T. When you figure out how to make that happen, I'd love to see it, but for now, I'd really just like to finish my sketches and listen to my iPod. "Toccata and Fugue," bitch.
Sincerely yours,
Bitter Anne

I ended up walking about twelve blocks after school without my iPod and really, it was terrible. I had to listen to this woman on her cell phone ramble on and on, "omg omg omg lol idk my bff jill." I didn't want to hear her shit, I wanted to hear Van Halen.

When I got home, it had finally run out of batteries. I plugged it into the computer and held my breath one final time... and to my delight, it began to glow back to life (and is now safely charging under my watchful eye).

I amended my letter to Steve Jobs, vowing to never again remove a USB Mass Storage Device without properly disconnecting it first, and apologizing for my tone. And for calling him a bitch.


PS: If you haven't heard, I got a ridiculously awesome job. I start tomorrow night.
Also, if you know my brother, be sure to congratulate him -- he's employee of the month.

...these are some of the things I've been working on.

I have so many things to talk about, seeing as I have been blogging so little lately.

First and foremost, of course, is Minneapolis. The city has swallowed me whole. It's a sponge and I'm allowing myself to be absorbed into all the little holes. I feel like I'm in the right place doing the right thing at the right time, but most importantly, I feel like I've earned it and now I've got to work my ass off to keep it. It's really an interesting feeling, but a good one, one I've never really felt before: complete independence, mixed with a renewed determination, a hard slap of reality, and a nice feeling of maturity. Oh, and if you were wondering, I really enjoy my school a lot.

Second is "Heroes." I don't know what's with me and jumping on the bandwagon WAY too late, but I'm in love with this show. It's really not the perfect show or anything, but the writing really has me hooked. I really like the big gigantic ensemble cast and the interesting intertwining story lines and the inevitable cliffhangers at the end of each episode (which forces me to stay up yet another forty-five minutes later than intended). The eye candy doesn't hurt anything either -- Peter Petrelli is cliché-hipster-hot, Sylar is just straight-up devastatingly attractive (despite that whole psychotic serial killer thing), and I've got a weird crush on Matt Parker too. It's a curse. Anyway, I'm quite enjoying it, and if you haven't checked it out, I recommend it, albeit not without a thorough wikipedia brief if you're starting season two, or just going back and watching all the episodes online. I'm on episode 12. No spoilers, bitches.

Last but not least, are my fantastic friends, roommates, family, and all the support I've been getting. Big special thanks to Sarah Fuller for her wonderful blog shout-out and the various other dear friends who have called, texted, etc. like they were my parents: "How was your first day of school, honey?" Fantastic. Thank you very much.

Big things are happening on the creative front, so keep an eye out in the usual spots. I'm returning to my regularly scheduled blogging. And yes, I alphabetized the links, Samantha Scott.


Also, if you live in the Minneapolis area and know of a job opening, hook a gal up, because I'm wholly unemployed.