@overheardla is consistently the most hilarious account on Instagram. 

I hitchhiked to L.A. at the first opportunity. When I arrived, the people were sun-kissed and the rampant depression was barely noticeable compared with New York. You can hide all manner of mental illness with a solid tan and veneers. I hopped in my car, got on the 405, and headed to the beach. I was stuck in traffic for six years.

Been meaning to post this gem for ages.

I am a longtime fan of the Dear Sugar column and book, so it’s surprising that it’s taken me so long to start listening to the Dear Sugar Radio podcast. I’ve since devoured many of the episodes and encouraged my friends and family to tune in, but the three-part series “Looking For The One” gave me pause.

In response to a number of letters from women asking “Will I ever find someone?,” the Sugars talk to a Stanford economist to determine whether a scarcity of eligible men is a real issue facing women today, rather than merely their perception. The reality is bleak. Yes, women do face scarcity and it only increases with age. His advice: Be less picky, especially as you get older.

The letters were from women who sound genuinely lovely—well-rounded, driven, sociable, living life to the fullest yet yearning for a partner. And the Sugars agree that they both know many women who fit this description. I do too.

So it drives me slightly insane when advice on this matter boils down to “Women shouldn’t be so picky and have such uncompromising expectations.” We shouldn’t dump guys for trivial things like not putting the toilet seat down or wearing bad shoes. I’m sorry, but never once have I encountered a female friend breaking up with a guy for a domestic bad habit or weak sense of fashion.

But what I have seen—time and time again—are friends overlooking or willfully dismissing red flags: shady behavior, lying, substance abuse issues, deliberately hurtful words or actions. Why? Because of this fear of being alone, which, as we learned, is not entirely unfounded.

I think the Sugars were left in a hard spot. It’s hard to calm anxieties when they are grounded in reality. And while I do believe they provided many valuable insights and recommendations, I wish we could let go of this idea of the overly picky single woman. I think it does a disservice to all the ladies who recognize that everyone is human, no one is perfect, and as the author of this refreshingly honest article points out, finding a partner is often a matter of nothing more than luck.

Abbi and Ilana share, basically, what a lot of young women—and young men—share in this age of delayed marriage and emergent adulthood and platonic roommates and geographic peripateticism and economic prosperity and economic uncertainty: a friendship that occupies the psychic space that used to be devoted to spouses and children. While the marriage plot may still, dissolved and distended, drive many of Hollywood’s cultural products, Broad City reflects friendship’s age-old, but also new, reality: The show is suggesting that its heroines are already, effectively, married. To each other.

Is it just me or have there been an unusual number of articles focusing on female friendship lately? I’m all about it, of course. The above passage is from “Broad City and the Triumph of the Platonic Rom-Com.” There’s also “What Women Find in Friends That They May Not Get From Love” and “Relying on Friends in a World Made for Couples.” 

I live in Williamsburg, Brooklyn, which is a very hip, cool neighborhood in New York. And really, all that means is that I'm constantly surrounded by pretty girls who wear defiantly ugly clothing and a lot of dudes who look like they're about to go operate a steam engine

Joe Mande via Vulture’s “150+ Classic Jokes About New York and Los Angeles” 

After spending time back home in Canada over the holidays, I felt the truth of this comment more than ever. 

Transformational Art of 2015

While reading Jhumpa Lahiri's recent New Yorker essay, I was struck by the following passage:

I think that the power of art is the power to wake us up, strike us to our depths, change us. What are we searching for when we read a novel, see a film, listen to a piece of music? We are searching, through a work of art, for something that alters us, that we weren’t aware of before. We want to transform ourselves, just as Ovid’s masterwork transformed me.

I felt a tingle of recognition in this statement. At a time when everyone is compiling the "best of the year" lists, I thought it would be more appropriate (and perhaps more telling) to create a list of artworks that transformed me in some way over the course of 2015. These could also be categorized under the label "Things I saw, read, heard, or experienced that I begged my friends to see, read, hear, or experience, so we could discuss at length." In no particular order...  

The Neapolitan Novels by Elena Ferrante. I had glimpsed rave reviews of these four books long before I picked one up, but was put off by the tawdry covers. But then a trusted friend urged me to read them, and I was immediately enamored by this epic story of a friendship between two girls growing up in Naples during the latter half of the twentieth-century. You know it’s good when you receive a text from a friend on a Friday night, saying, “OMG Lenu and Donato!”

Bob Moses, Days Gone By and All In All. Seeing Bob Moses perform a sunset set at Burning Man was quite possibly the defining moment of my entire year. And then the albums became the soundtrack for the rest. 

Pierre Huyghe at LACMA. I hadn't read anything about the exhibition before seeing it. So when I watched a film starring a white Ibizan hound with a pink leg and a then a moment later saw this very same dog wander by me in the galleries, it seemed like actual magic. 

The Humans at Roundabout Theater Company. Maybe the most compelling 90 minutes of theater I've ever seen. 

Parris Goebel's dancing/choreography. I was obsessed from the moment I saw the video for Justin Beiber's "Sorry." And then "Company" ceded my total admiration. Also, she describes her dance style as “combining sassy woman fire with aggressive inner strength.” YES.

Picasso Sculpture at MoMA. The exhibition that made me see Picasso (and his genius) totally anew.

Grimes, Art Angels. According to one review, the album is "superhero music for introverts" or "like being inside a vibrantly hued video game." Absolutely agreed.

Hamilton at The Public Theater. Winning $20 lottery tickets for the sold-out run was a highlight in and of itself. But the show itself did not disappoint, mixing American history and music in an entirely novel way.

Robert Gober: The Heart is Not a Metaphor at MoMA. The installation of this exhibition, which involved close collaboration with the artist, felt like a piece of art unto itself.

The Weeknd, Beauty Behind the Madness. I listened to "The Hills" on repeat, 24/7 for the entire month of September. Still not over it.

Chef's Table on Netflix. I love anything that is ostensibly about one thing (in this case, cooking), but is actually about so much more (in this case, art, relationships, ecology, gender...). I especially loved the first episode, a spotlight on the Italian chef Massimo Bottura and the story of his daring, contemporary art-inspired dishes.

It is a fact universally acknowledged that a woman in possession of an opinion must be in want of a correction. Well, actually, no it isn’t, but who doesn’t love riffing on Jane Austen? The answer is: lots of people, because we’re all different and some of us haven’t even read Pride and Prejudice dozens of times, but the main point is that I’ve been performing interesting experiments in proffering my opinions and finding that some of the men out there respond on the grounds that my opinion is wrong, while theirs is right because they are convinced that their opinion is a fact, while mine is a delusion. Sometimes they also seem to think that they are in charge, of me as well of facts.

It isn’t a fact universally acknowledged that a person who mistakes his opinions for facts may also mistake himself for God. This can happen if he’s been insufficiently exposed to the fact that there are also other people who have other experiences, and that they too were created equal, with certain inalienable rights, and that consciousness thing that is so interesting and troubling is also going on inside their heads. This is a problem straight white men suffer from especially, because the western world has held up a mirror to them for so long—and turns compliant women into mirrors reflecting them back twice life size, Virginia Woolf noted.

Rebecca Solnit’s Literary Hub essay “Men Explain Lolita to Me” is unquestionably the best thing I’ve read all year. It is everything I think and feel and notice but have never had the eloquence or ability to articulate so clearly and forcefully. Thank you, thank you, thank you, Rebecca Solnit.

The cover of Thursday’s Toronto Star gave me all sorts of feels. The front page editorial read, “Welcome to Canada. Ahlan wa sahlan. You’re with family now.” In a week when Donald Trump voiced the idea of banning all Muslims from entering the US, it was a bittersweet reminder of what it’s like to be part of a country that prides itself on being a friendly, welcoming place. 

Of course, I also had to laugh when my brother later sent me a parody article titled “Syrian refugees successfully integrate into Canadian culture, already hate Toronto.” 

I’m a huge fan of the show Master of None. I find it to be an uncannily accurate representation of life as a single young professional in New York, down to the restaurants and bars and places the characters frequent, which are all real places I often go myself. (Apparently, I’m not the only one to notice and enjoy this aspect of the series.) But I was particularly enamored with the final episode. Dev and Rachel attend a wedding in which the couple expresses vows of complete certainty and passion. Flash to an imaginary scene of Dev and Rachel reciting their own brutally honest vows, admitting their fundamental uncertainty about the decision to wed.

Officiator: Do you Dev, take Rachel, to be your partner in a possibly outdated institution, in order to have a quote unquote normal life? Are you ready to give up an idealistic search for a soulmate and try to make it work with Rachel so you can move forward with your life?

Dev: I do.

Officiator: And you Rachel, do you promise to make a crazy, eternal bond with this gentleman, who you happen to be dating at this stage in your life when people normally get married?

Rachel: I do.

It reminded me of the messages imparted by Aziz Ansari in his book Modern Romance. In discussing the difference between what our grandparents’ generation and our generation looks for in marriage, he quotes the psychotherapist Esther Perel’s TED talk:

Marriage was an economic institution in which you were given a partnership for life in terms of children and social status and succession and companionship. But now we want our partner to still give us all these things, but in addition I want you to be my best friend and my trusted confidant and my passionate lover to boot. . .Give me belonging, give me identity, give me continuity, but give me transcendence and mystery and awe all in one. Give me comfort, give me edge. Give me novelty, give me familiarity. Give me predictability, give me surprise.

I recognized myself an uncomfortable amount in this statement. (And for those interested, Perel’s Mating in Captivity was likely the most fascinating book I read all year.)

I know what it’s like to have the crazy, intense type of love. And I hate the thought of having to settle for something less if I want a long-term partnership. But I keep hearing the message (from family, friends, and the media alike) that passionate love is just not sustainable. Even in the final episode, Dev talks to his married friend who likens a good marriage to finding some kindling and building it to a blaze: “Long-term relationships are tough. You can’t just expect a big roaring fire right away. . .You can’t put the big logs in first. You gotta start with the small stuff, the kindling, right. Then you add that, then you put in the big logs, and then you have the roaring fire. That’s a good relationship.”

The thought of meeting someone without an immediate strong connection and then settling down with each other because we’re at a certain stage in life feels hopelessly unromantic to me.

And my anxiety about the institution of marriage in general is compounded by what I see around me (which rarely looks inspiring) and the lingering effects of watching the (highly recommended yet totally bleak) documentary 112 Weddings.

I was once struck by a passage in a New Yorker article quoting a scene from Ellin Mackay’s 1944 novel Land I Have Chosen in which the protagonist meets her love interest: “They stared at each other. This isn’t a meeting. This is a recognition.”

That’s what I want. I don’t necessarily need fireworks from the start. Or even an overpowering passion that lasts unabated decades, which even I accept is unrealistic. But I’d at least like some sense of recognition. The opportunity to experience something beyond. Is that possible to attain?

A couple weeks after I moved back to New York last November, I met my family in Phoenix for Thanksgiving. One morning, my parents and I went for a hike. I hesitate to use the word hike, as it was more like a lightly strenuous walk. But I nonetheless slipped, fell, and slid, bloodying my left forearm with a long scrape. I was a little shaken, but it didn’t seem like a major injury. My Dad bandaged it up, and I flew back east with some silver ointment in my pocket. A year later, a scar remains. I often catch myself in the mirror, surprised to notice the faded yet still visible mark reaching from elbow to wrist. I find it hard to believe that this relatively minor event left such an indelible impression on my body. And I can't help but think this slow-to-heal wound is a fitting metaphor for the past year in general. Leaving LA was akin to ripping off the top layer of my skin. I spent the winter wandering around New York with my nerves raw and exposed to the world. I underestimated how difficult the transition would be. And I underestimated how long it would take to recover. The scars have lingered way past the timeline I'd anticipated.   This blog is a living reminder of the time in my life when I wanted nothing more to live in New York again. To not be broken up with my ex. Now I'm back in the city. And so over that ex that I'm only now starting to get over the ex who succeeded him. For these reasons, I haven't felt compelled to post much over the past twelve months. But now on the occasion of my one year anniversary back in the city, I feel like I've finally reached the end of this particular journey. The past year was hard, but I've gained a lot from it. I've made some incredible new friends and experienced this city in entirely new, exciting ways. My optimism is restored, and I’m looking forward to the year ahead.

I have a lot of opinions about the so-called American Dream. So I was curious to read the article “How the World Perceives the New American Dream” in The Atlantic. The author delves into how foreign perceptions of the US are largely shaped by television and movies.

What bothers people in many non-Western societies is not some feminist or socially liberal message embedded in American popular culture, but its sheer callowness. Why, they ask, are Americans so obsessed with the stage of life between adolescence and maturity? Why do so many American movies and TV shows focus on characters who seem neurotically afraid of commitment and responsibility?

I couldn’t get these questions out of my head. Moreover, I couldn’t shake the uncomfortable feeling of identifying a little too closely with this stereotype of an adult resisting adulthood. Am I part of a sociological phenomenon or just shaped by the cultural fixation around me? And why indeed are Americans so obsessed with this one aspect of life experience? Is there a sociologist out there who can enlighten me?

Today I received a letter in the mail that made my blood boil. It seemed innocuous enough, just a slip of paper from Elections Canada. I’d read the news, so I knew what to expect: “This request is a result of a July 20, 2015, ruling by the Ontario Court of Appeals, which took effect immediately.” You see, the Canadian government decided to disenfranchise an entire section of its population—anyone living beyond the national borders. If you’ve lived outside Canada for five or more years, sorry, you’re no longer eligible to participate in your RIGHT to vote.

My grandfather was part of the Allied invasion of Sicily in World War II. He spent his early twenties in a tank, fighting for democracy. I cannot stress enough how important it was to him that future generations exercise their democratic rights. Since the age of eighteen, I have dutifully voted in every federal election, whether I was on Canadian soil or not. I voted out of respect for my grandfather and every other veteran, and as a proud Canadian, grateful to be a citizen of a democratic nation.

As an immigrant, my grandfather also fought for his children and grandchildren to have opportunities. Although I live outside of Canada, I do so in pursuit of opportunities that I cannot attain within my home country. I know my grandfather would approve, and I imagine he would be horrified by this recent turn of events.

Canadians have many reasons to be abroad, whether its educational, professional, or personal, but we all  have a continued stake in our nation and a desire to see it thrive. To say that Canucks around the world do not have a vested interest in Canada is patently false. It also disrespects the valuable work Canadians do abroad, which surely creates an impact back home. With Donald Sutherland and other prominent expatriates in agreement, at least I’m in good company.

Your life right now is as real as it will ever be. It won't be more real in the future, when you get into or out of college or into or out of a relationship or a job or a financial quagmire or a health problem. In fact, the things keeping you back—these embarrassing, boring, stupid obstacles—are the heart of what it is to be human. They're the whole reason for making and needing art

Miranda July in Akademie X: Lessons in Art + Life (via artnet News). 

The old New York-Los Angeles rivalry is changing, at least on the East Coast side of the equation. No longer do in-the-know New Yorkers reflexively parrot sneers like the old Woody Allen line, that the only cultural advantage of Los Angeles is the right turn on red. In some quarters, the scorn that New Yorkers once piled on Los Angeles is now sounding like envy.

The article that everyone in New York was talking about this weekend.

My Favorite LA

It's been three months since I relocated to New York, but the sultry voice of Lana del Ray and the beats of tropical EDM still make my heart flutter and yearn for the West Coast. Following in the footsteps of New York round one (eat part 1 & part 2, drink, and do) and Toronto, I hereby present "My Favorite LA" list.

EAT

Salt's Cure: Unquestionably my favorite brunch in the city. Maybe in all cities. My insider tip is to avoid weekends and go on a weekday to avoid the crowds. Order the All Star breakfast, including the oatmeal griddle cakes.

Manhattan Beach Post: My other favorite brunch spot (though it's amazing for a meal at any time of day). As an added bonus, it's located in the heart of Manhattan Beach, so a trip here can involve strolling the streets, the beach, and the pier of this gem of a neighborhood.

Cafe Gratitude: A must for all out-of-town guests eager for the quintessential LA experience. Organic? Check. Vegan? Check. All items on the menu are titled with names such as "I am gracious," "I am whole," "I am pure." You get the idea. After taking your order, the server will leave you with the question of the day: "What in your life is perfect right now?" or "What is your super power?" Bliss.

Grand Central Market: The best part about this downtown market is that the hip and bougie (Eggslut) are nestled alongside the authentic, longstanding stalls (think life-changing tacos). There's something for everyone.

Blockheads: Shaved ice! My personal favorite is strawberry topped with condensed milk and almond jelly. 

Kogi Taco Truck: Anything by celebrity chef Roy Choi is going to be amazing, but the short rib tacos are undoubtedly my single favorite food item in all of Los Angeles. Always worth the long wait. 

Sugarfish: Not just the best sushi in LA, but the best sushi of all time.

Other Favorites: AOC, El Compadre, Tasting Kitchen, Gjelina, True Food Kitchen in Santa Monica, Father's Office, Gloria's Cafe, Canters Deli, Commissary, and anywhere that serves "salad pizza."

DRINK

Pressed Juicery: Greens 3 FTW.

Om: My go-to cafe. All you need to know is: banana chai latte.

Hotel Pool Bars: Don't have a pool? Most hotels have amazing pools that are (somewhat secretly) open to the general public. All you have to do is order a drink. Mojitos at The Standard? Yes, please. 

Intellegentsia Coffee: Excellent coffee and slightly pretentious yet chill vibes. In other words, Abbot Kinney Boulevard (another LA highlight) in a nutshell.

DO

Hike Runyon Canyon: If you only have one hour to spend in LA, this is how I would recommend spending it. The views are stunning. The people watching is epic. And it's about as LA of an activity one can get. If breaking a sweat isn't your jam, check out the urban sprawl from the Griffith Park Observatory instead.

LA Conservancy Walking Tours: For history, art, and architecture nerds, these tours are the place to be. The art deco one is my personal favorite, but keep your eyes on the special event tours hosted throughout the year.

Stahl House: For fans of mid-century modern architecture and jaw-dropping views of the city, seeing this Case Study House (#22) is a must. 

LACMA: My favorite museum in LA also includes one of my all-time favorite piece of public art: Chris Burden's Urban Light.

Hammer: Another museum favorite. I'm also convinced that the Hammer hosts some the best public programming of any museum in the country. Case in point: I once attended a "scent concert" that took blindfolded attendees on a 16-minute olfactory journey to Japan. 

El Matador State Beach: The most gorgeous beach in Southern California. Enough said. Just a quick hop or arduous slog (depending on traffic) up the Pacific Coast Highway (another highlight) to Malibu.

Cinespia: Every summer Saturday watch an outdoor movie among the palm trees and tombstones in the Hollywood Forever Cemetery. Actually, attending any event at Hollywood Forever (concerts, festivals, etc.) is always a treat.

Desert Trips: My year in LA was the year I fell in love with the desert. Joshua Tree. Palm Springs. Indio. Most importantly: the sound bath at the Integratron. 

Other Favorites: Getty Museum, Watts Towers, Chandelier Tree, Bonfires on Huntington Beach, The Last Bookstore, Twilight Concerts at Santa Monica Pier, any concert at the Greek Theater, Hollywood Bowl, or El Rey. 

But what do I miss most? Honestly, many of my most cherished memories involve driving (go figure!) down the freeway with the sun setting and music blasting. Los Angeles, you're one of a kind.

A new range of colors, inspired by winter

My January. In a slightly humorous nutshell.