emilyrems.com

Jayne and Anton, originally uploaded by emilyrems.

My ever-awes friend Joe, maestro of the Pioneer and ultimate film fanatic, sent me this AMAZING photo of Jayne Mansfield and Anton LaVey in the wake of our excursion to Film Forum to check out the new 35mm print of The Girl Can’t Help It in all of its cinemascopic glory. I CHALLENGE anyone to find me a more fascinating photo. Seriously, I just freak out every time I try to look at it. This picture is so rad, I’m afraid if I stare at it too long I’ll go blind. Or I may die, and subsequently be sucked into the very hell fire implied by LaVey’s most diabolical countenance. Death by awesomness. Too bad. So sad.

IMG_0581, originally uploaded by emilyrems.

I got to work kinda early this morning, so I was all alone in the office for a while as workmen swarmed around on the fire escape outside the windows, doing something to the facade or whatevs. At first it felt weird, like I was some sort of fish floating placidly behind glass while the world was doing real work on the other side. Then I got all caught up in what I think it means to do “real work” and became even further enmeshed imagining how much more money the construction dudes surely make than I do, considering they are probably in a sweet NYC trade union while I labor in the money-free trenches of feminist journalism. Is it worth it just to get a cozy desk and plus ones? Is my work more impressive because I can point to my name on a page? Besides probably making more than I do, those dudes can cruise all over the city and point to countless exteriors and tell their friends what they did. How they fixed things up. How they repaired countless cornices and edifices and moldings on concrete canyons all over the island. My work has most likely ended up lining a hamster cage or two, or perhaps provided the material for a lovely pinata. I guess as long as its important to me, I shouldn’t worry abut what’s happening outside my window. Besides, I definitely couldn’t hack it as a construction worker - too afraid of heights. I guess as Labor Day approaches, I’m one of those nerds who actually thinks about different kinds of work, and how fragile and arbitrary even having a job can be.

Ma Rainey, originally uploaded by emilyrems.

O.M. G. I got an email today that made me scurry to the toilet IMMEDIATELY because I was so excited my bladder almost failed me! Royal Pink has been asked to represent Ladies Rock Camp at a star-studded benefit in the Spiegeltent on September 25th!

Here are the deets:
Willie Mae Rock Camp for Girls and the Black Rock Coalition present
A Tribute to Black Women Songwriters
Monday, September 25, 6 p.m.
Spiegeltent (at South Street Seaport)
$30
http://www.spiegelworld.com/

It’s gonna be huge and so, so awesome, and for our tribute song, we’re gonna rock out with some Ma Rainey, which you KNOW is gonna be fierce-o-la!!!!!!!

Can’t wait to debut my new sparkly drumsticks in the tent! Hopefully by then I’ll have the skills to support ‘em.

X-tra Help, originally uploaded by emilyrems.

This sign has been up in the ladies locker room at my gym for at least a week, but I don’t think sfgoogle likes to work out very much because if she saw how it looks now, she probably would have taken it down. I know what y’all are thinking, but I swear it wasn’t me. For those dying of curiosity, for our anniversary LCF gave me a new set of sparkly-blue drum sticks and a black stick bag covered in cute skulls, and a Diamanda Galas T-shirt. Dreamy! I got him a pocket-sized version of Grey’s anatomy, and an anatomically-correct heart charm he can wear around his neck, and a wooden artist’s drawing model and a book of Alex Grey prints. I think tonight we’re gonna grab Cuban food at that new place on St. Marks and drink plenty mojitos. Perhaps if we get rummy enough, I’ll be able to convince him to serenade me with Karaoke versions of Elvis songs at Sing Sing. At the very least, maybe he’ll watch my purse while I butcher some George Michael ballads or something. I’ll be all like, “But teachuuuuuuur! There Are Things! That I DON’T WANT to LEARRRRRRRRN…” Sexy right?

IMG_0193, originally uploaded by emilyrems.

Thanks to my BFF, it was brought to my attention that Forbes Mag eats ass (surprise!). Their offices are only a block away from mine, so I’m trying to get a rowdy crew of “career women” together to egg them in a blatantly immature display of righteous indignation. If you’ve just consumed poison and must instantly barf to save your life, I suggest clicking here to read Michael Noer’s oh-so-insightful splatter of rancid journalistic garbage imaginatively titled “Don’t Marry Career Women.” It’ll do the job faster than Ipicac.

Bright Ass Flowers, originally uploaded by emilyrems.

LCF was supposed to be staying in Long Island the whole week, but his work on his momma’s house got done early so he called and said he’s coming home this afternoon sometime instead. Hooray! Now I can stop watching Gilmore Girls on DVD like its my job. Aint love grand? If tonight is like last night, and I wake up at 4 AM all bent out of shape because I dreamt that a French performance artist asked to borrow my glasses for his act and then wouldn’t give them back, at least he’ll be there to carefully analyze the situation. Plus, our two-year anniversary is coming up on Friday, and he says he has a surprise for me! Hmmm…What can it be???

Also - mad props go out to Han’s husband Colin who helped me change the color and stuff at the top of my blog today. Thanks dude, and happy almost-birthday!

P.P.S. Here’s a totally typical tidbit I overheard behind me at a press screening this afternoon on 53rd. St.:

Yenta #1 - “I don’t go to Brooklyn. It’s like leaving the country for me, even though everything I used to like about my neighborhood has moved to Williamsburg.”

Yenta #2 -”You should go! Brooklyn is only 1/4 of a mile away from your place.”

Verdad

Julie Johnson, originally uploaded by emilyrems.

I’ve been on my own for the last couple of days while LCF earns son-of-the-year points fixing up his momma’s house in Long Island. So last night, I used this rare moment of girly alone time to bake a casserole, listen to the Be Good Tanyas, and rent a truly vaginal flick. One that no dude could sit through in a million years DESPITE the fact that Lili Taylor and Courtney Love have sex with each other in it. This film, my friends, is Julie Johnson. Wow. What. A. Bad. Film. So bad it made John Mark Karr re-think his Bangkok sex-change operation because it makes all those who posess vaginas appear incredibly fucked up, spineless, and sad. To be fair, the weiner-havers in this celluloid abortion didn’t fare too well either, as they were saddled with the gross indignity of both slathered-on Hoboken accents and unflattering slacks. (Except for Spalding Gray. That suicidal scamp had style.) But still, this chick flick was especially brutal to the fairer sex, and should only be watched by sickos looking for more reasons to hate Mischa Barton. Perhaps my excellent movie judgement will return when my loverman does.

The Jew Crew, originally uploaded by emilyrems.

The moment my deadline ended on Friday, I busted a move uptown to my Auntie Bev’s house to hang with the mishbucha aka the Jew Crew aka my family before my parents headed back from whence they came. There have been two or three of these gatherings of the clans in the past year or so, because my dad keeps digging up new family members with his genealogical research and likes to introduce us all to each other periodically while amazing us with the latest family history tidbits he’s been able to find by scouring the world’s oldests and mustiest archives. This time the guests of honor were a very nice cousin one-billion times removed visiting from Holland with her husband and three squirming kidlets. I actually liked watching the kids run around screaming at each other in three different languages while tearing apart my Aunt’s upper east side digs, but they left early since the kids were so crazed. A bunch of other people I’m somehow related to but don’t know at all followed in their wake until it was just the core four you see above (l to r: my Grandfather’s cousin Libby, my Dad, me, my auntie Bev) and my mom who took the picture. I like the small group that remains at the end of these things the best. Inevitably, my Auntie Bev will pull out the old photo albums so we can all gasp at the ancient wedding photos and marvel at how my grandmother looked like a silent film star, and how my dad’s mean-spirited uncle got away with murder because he looked like Errol Flynn. Maybe super-futuristic Jews will see my picture decades from now, and talk about how I look like a Far Side cartoon or something.

Robo-P.S.-5000: For those of you who wish to ROCK OUT, click here to listen to me drumming with my band Royal Pink on MySpace! We’re taking over the woooooooooorrrrrrrrllllllllllllddddd!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Washington Square Fountain, originally uploaded by emilyrems.

The city gets so hot in the summer, that as soon as a public water source appears, people with no access to the Hamptons go buck wild and start wading around in places that would make bathers in the piss-filled Ganges cringe. Case in point, the fountain in Washington Square Park. LCF and I were there a couple days ago, and the pit was filled with unsupervised diaper-wearing toddlers, dogs, bikes, junkies in the full-flower of their junky love, and other assorted shoeless punks trying to get their kicks in the slimy spray. It was all very cool and egalitarian and whatnot, and I’m glad there are still places where THE MAN stays out of everyone’s way and leaves us to our own filthy devices, but sadly I just can’t enjoy park wading as anything more than a spectator sport. If I want to expose myself to every form of bacteria known to human-kind, I’d rather do it in the doomed bathroom of CBGBs.

IMG_0473, originally uploaded by emilyrems.

If an earnest soldier for the lord in a polo shirt and khakis handed these two items to you on your way to work, would you eat God’s bribe? And call me a paranoid Jew, but considering all that super-scary host business, would you wonder which parts of Christ’s anatomy had possibly been transubstantiated into this Chewy Low Fat S’mores Granola Bar? Maybe it’s just me, but I’m definitely looking this gift horse in his smug Quaker mouth.

The Death of Hollywood Video, originally uploaded by emilyrems.

I tried to go to the gym at 7 AM this morning, but when I woke up, my insides felt like the interior of the Hollywood Video store that LCF and I always used to go to on 3rd ave until it closed last week. Now it looks like this. Like my insides. I actually made it all the way to the gym and through stretching before I started to cry. Then I speed-walked home with a concerned-looking LCF, puked my guts out, cried some more, started sweating and shaking, and got my temp taken, which was exceedingly low. Then I took a shower, went to work, and tried to forget my aching guts in the name of deadline. Hopefully in about a half-hour I’ll be able to go home and sleep it off. I guess there could be a bunch of different reasons why this is happening:
1. A very potent drink I drank last night involving Pomagranite Liqueur and Bourbon to get through the nervousness of a dinner wherein LCF was meeting my mom.
2. The simple potency of LCF meeting my mom.
3. The simple potency of my mom.
4. The nervous combination of diet coke and performing with my band at the Parkside Lounge in front of LCF and my mom (see above.)
5. My fathomless burning hatred of the gym.
6. The fact that my overdue interview with John Cameron Mitchell was due today but it didin’t get done over the weekend (see above.)
7. Aunt Flo.
8. Sleep Deprivation.
9. I suppose I could be sick.
10. All of the above.

The best (and by best I obv mean worst) part of the whole scenario, was when I ran weeping into the locker room to grab my stuff at the gym, and a serene, well-meaning, yoga-toned chick who couldn’t have been more than 25 followed me in there to offer words of encouragement. She cornered me as I was stuffing my Fiji water into my bag and kept telling me that I was beautiful, and that I shouldn’t cry, and that all I had to do was keep coming back EVERY DAY and everything would be fine. If I could have projectile-vomited in her face it probably would have made me feel better than going to the gym EVERY DAY. Unforch - I don’t have those mad bulimic skillz, so I just side-stepped her and lurched up second avenue towards my own private hell at home instead.

Hot Boys Working, originally uploaded by emilyrems.

After an endless day slaving in the feminist gulag, I came home last night to find LCF, his godfather, and his godfather’s BF all worked up and sweaty building lofted shelves in the front hall of my apartment. Sweet! To aid in the construction effort, I recounted the harrowing tale of my walk home. The story involved me getting cut off in the crosswalk by an overzealous BMW, which I then proceeded to hit with my purse while yelling curses into the window at the offending driver, then me trying to outrun a lightening storm quickly approaching down the canyonlike expanse of 14th St., and then me slowing down when I almost physically ran into the guy with no nose that I always see somewhere around Walgreens. The hunky handymen were kind of too distracted by actual work to appreciate me for the inimitable raconteur that I am, so I ordered pizza and sodas, and admired their collective bulging biceps from the comfort of the couch. Aw yeah - its a feminist’s life for me.

Collage2, originally uploaded by emilyrems.

There is something very self-indulgent and teenage and satisfying about ripping apart every magazine in the house and gluing together shreds of unrelated material until it makes sense to you and only you. I made this panel because my self-help book of the moment told me to, but it’s creation also seems to coincide nicely with the impending arrival of my very awesome, yet emotionally provocative parents. (Jewish parents provocative???? No way!!! Shut up!!!!) Seriously though, they’re gonna be in town for a week, and I’m excited to see them, but kind of in a way that makes me have to nervously pee, like, every 20 minutes.

In other news, it looks like the benefit dealy I mentioned yesterday isn’t gonna work out - but not for lack of trying. Royal Pink does, however, have a few other tricks up our collective pink and black sleeves, so stay tuned and sign up to be our MySpace friend, lest you miss one minute of our E! True Hollywood Story as it decadently unfolds.

PS - I believe I saw this man on on the corner of 14th St. and 4th ave. For real. I swear I would not joke about something like this.

IMG_0518, originally uploaded by emilyrems.

Holy ulcer Batman! Royal Pink is only a week and a half old and already we’ve been asked to play a fancy feminist benefit in Chelsea! Unforch, this also means that we have to start figuring our how to get my gynormous drum kit downtown from the heights of Harlem. Umm ladies? Do any of us have a car? Or, more importantly, do any of us drive? How does one transport drums? Or take them apart? Or put them together? Sadly there is more to rock than rocking out. I know we’re willing to play for free, but can we also afford to scrape up the cash to rent a van to play for free? Sorry - I’m spinning out. Some of us have reached others of us, but we’re all working gals doncha know, so consensus is tricky. Plus, have I mentioned I’m on deadline, have two more stories to write, and the diks ship out in a week? Yup - totally spinning out. No doubt about it. The good thing about all of this is that I don’t have to deal with it alone. Mah gurlz got my back. I guess if this one doesn’t work out, there’s always next time, but I gotta figure this stuff out sooner or later if I’m gonna play drums, so I may as well just dive in and try…

Candace Hilligoss as Mary Henry, originally uploaded by emilyrems.

I finally got around to watching the movie Carnival of Souls last night, and I can’t stop thinking about it. It’s so great on so many levels, and has a surprisingly feminist tone, which is amazing since it was a low-budget cheapy made in 1962. The film’s protagonist, Mary Henry (played by a totally mesmerizing Candace Hilligoss) is one of the most complex and nuanced horror heroines I’ve ever seen, a woman who, even in the throes of her own terror, never stops looking for answers. As the sole survivor of a tragic drag-racing accident, Mary pulls herself out of the wreckage and tries to move on with her life. She moves to Utah, gets a room, gets a job as a church organist, and basically just wants to be left alone to work, shop, and poke around an abandoned amusement park which seems to be the only interesting feature of her town. Much to her dismay, however, she’s constantly being hassled by skeezy guys, both of the supernatural and standard garden variety. As she goes about her business, a tightassed preacher, her slimy neighbor and a handsy doctor all get up in her grill about why she’s so antisocial (re: independent) and in her own way she manages to tell them all to fuck off. Only when her physical safety gets threatened by a gothy stranger does she let down her guard and come to each of them for help, and it is these scenes, not the blatantly supernatural ones, that are the most scary. Throughout each forced social exchange with these dudes, she visibly seems to be squeezing herself into a mold of womanhood that she thinks will please the men enough to convince them to protect her. Ultimately though, her disappointment at their impotence in the face of her fear makes her an even steelier individual than she was before. In many ways, Mary represents the new breed of feminism emerging out of the muck of the 1950’s. She’s strong, intelligent, independent, and talented, while still retaining the fab fashion and social graces of the era. Plus, she enjoys her own company, and finds satisfaction pursuing her own inclinations and curiosities alone, despite being constantly encircled by sexual predators. Sure Mary meets a bad end, that is, after all, the point. But unlike most scream queens, she’s never stripped of her dignity. She meets her fate like she met her life - head on, and fully clothed.

padded room, originally uploaded by emilyrems.

After a two week hiatus, I went and got my head shrunk this morning. Now all the stuff I’ve been trying to keep smushed down inside while reveling in the infinite distraction of my new band is all ugly and on the surface. I guess that’s why I go, but still, ouch. I’m in a world of hurt now and am having trouble concentrating. When I get my head shrunk, I sit in the brown chair in front of the abstract squiggly white thing. Sometimes I avail myself of the tissues on the small table beside me, but usually I just mess around nervously with the precious objects de arts on the table’s lower shelves. I’m always expecting my doc to lay down the law and make me quit it once I start palming the porcelain vase one-handed-stylie, but she never does. She’s chill like that. My doc is way preggers right now, so today she had a bunch of cherries with her in the big blue chair and made an interesting looking pile of pits and stems on the blue foot rest while I talked. Also, the baby was moving around in an uncomfortable fashion, so she did some of my session standing up. We’ll be taking a longer hiatus once she goes on Maternity leave around LABOR DAY (for real - I couldn’t make shit like that up) so beware all ye who attempt to interact with me this fall. I’ll be in the unsupervised crazy zone.

Vibration at Fontanas, originally uploaded by emilyrems.

My obsession with being in an all-girl R&R band reached almost pathological levels last night as I watched the Vibration completely tear the roof off Fontana’s. We’ve listened to their new album a bunch at work over the last few months, but nothing could have prepared me for how rad they are live. After the show, I was gushing shamelessly all over their bassist Antonia and threatened to cut my hair exactly like hers at any moment because it looks so damn cool, and then drummer Allison came over and I embarassed myself even further by tipsily giving her a play by play of my weekend at band camp, which I’m sure was extra hilarious to my Royal Pink bandmate Stacie who was also at the party. Allison was super-sweet and encouraging when I told her I was trying to be the drummer of a rock band even though I just started learning on Friday. She said I can totally just add in parts to basic beats as I get better, so that’s my plan and I’m sticking to it. My first post-camp Royal Pink rehearsal is tonight in Harlem and I’m counting the minutes. Plus, I got to walk to work with drumsticks in my hand because they wouldn’t fit in my bag, so I felt like a #1 badass. Also at the party, Antonia and I danced together to the sultry french sounds of headliners Nous Non Plus, so I’m hoping that some of her magical rock girl dust flaked off on me or something. Eew. That sounds sick, but you know what I mean.

Xiola, originally uploaded by emilyrems.

…but sometimes she can get wikkid intense about the remote control.

Can’t write too much today because I’m boiling alive inside my own skin. But if anyone out there feels like comparing pit stains with me over free drinks tonight, you can snag all the deets for tonight’s party here.

yumm. scorn., originally uploaded by emilyrems.

My freshly-baked scorn now comes in a variety of flavors.