It's remarkable how we share certain similarities, from clothing preferences to lifestyles of "the ambient issuemaker": pink pants, sequins, faux fur, sneaker collections, UNIQLO tops and inexpensively bought expensivities, tattoo'ed life manifestos, "Children of the Revolution" ideals misunderstood, wet dreams performed onstage, not wanting to study obsolete things, not exactly party animals, mannequin'ed bodies, carelessly strewn lingos. Our only difference is that he's got paparazzi and the media talking about his choices 24/7, while I get to be just as lackadaisical and crazy within the milieu that I safely belong- Sometimes I really wonder what his insides look like, without the fabrications, without the velvet trimmings, without the fan service, without the wrapping papers of sanity. My Lolita in Furs, in Puffs, in bouts of angst.

Brett Anderson and Bernard Butler by So-Rim Lee, Seoul 2005.

I was having a typical Friday night, listening to some alternative music from back in the 90's, fighting back the urge not to write my thesis, and taking two-hour naps every three hours.. when M. Lumiere texted me if I wanted to come out. It had been over a week since I last went to Cafe Lumiere, and of course I was glad he called me. I took out a bottle of heavy red wine, put it in a carrier, changed and washed my face, and in less than ten minutes, I was at the cafe. Everyone was glad to see me, and the evening turned out to be a banquet of Cinderella's dream come true: five-course meal starting with coq au vin and ending with a cheese plate with foie gras, three bottles of red wine from all over the world, and a bottle of my favorite sparkling white Moscato D'Asti. Four bottles of wine and all the things below finished up by two people. Fantastic date, I was so full by 11 PM when I stumbled back home and lighted my cigarette. That's when all the alcohol got into me, and I was knocked out on my bed until noon today. Thanks to Monsieur Lumiere and the entire Lumiere family, I now have an evening to remember.

I've become a tad more sarcastic lately, but really, that's all there is to it. To make my point, I post these pictures of me wearing a bathrobe-style coat I bought last year at the Dongdaemoon night market. I have no idea why, but people have been calling this frilly item "too girly" for me. Come on, j'adore hearts and flowers, I always have! Although, I must admit, I have a predilection for black hearts and slightly withered sunflowers. But, who loves everything that comes in a nice package? Let the wild ones rock.

The thing that bothers me tonight: fresh-out-of-the-college youngsters, barely out there for three years (which makes them kind of my age, 26-ish) and calling themselves Artists, Models, whatevers. I believe that a person can genuinely call himself a writer when he gets paid for his writings, i.e., when he lives off by his writings. And so is eveyrything else- just because you want a title before your name, (which can also be a pseudonym you'll want to change when you get a kid in ten years) you don't just tag yourself "artist" or "painter" or "choreographer" when you're actually paying someone to get those titles ahead of you. Actually, just like Warhol said, an "artist" is just a job name. It's not something fancy or high or Ivy League or postmortem Godard. Seriously, if someone wants to call herself an "artist," she should first redefine and clarify that term. To refresh my point, here's that favorite quote of mine that I think is pure genius:

Sue: What are you majoring in?
Joel: Russian literature and Slavic languages.
Sue: Oh wow, that's pretty interesting. What career track is that?
Joel: Cabby, hot dog vendor, marijuana delivery guy. The world is my oyster.

I don't get the hype (=fad, vogue, whatever you call it) of becoming an "artist" overnight, especially after you've failed being another thing for the last four years of your life, when you're still in your twenties. Say, if you have a company of a group of artists, and the people around you start calling you an artist, only then you're able to call yourself a genuine "artist" without guilt and embarassment for the things you crave to own. And for those "models" who pay their photographers to take some random pictures, my poor 20-something experience of life tells me that they're spoiled Hilton-wannabes. Paris, I mean. 'Tis a strange, strange world. I guess, "why bother?" Good night, River.