Since we’re technically talking about what’s in my fridge, I figured a good place to start was…my fridge. I like to think I live a curated life, and if there’s one way I describe myself it’s “particular." I think this is quite a realistic iteration of this. We have butter—Kerrygold, if you were wondering—simple syrup in the milk jug for making old fashioneds, a currently empty ceramic milk carton, six organic eggs, four cans of La Croix coconut-flavored sparkling water, and a bar of dark chocolate with sea salt crystals. I actually had a half dozen in there, but thought I’d try to make myself look less obese, by hiding five of them.
Now that we’ve rummaged through my fridge, I’ll give y’all the grand tour. When you walk in, there’s the classic bowl of keys. In this carved root platter, one will always find a partially burned stick of Palo Santo for magical purposes (it also smells fantastic if you ask me), the keys to the aforementioned Corvette, the key to my new 1975 Honda cafe racer (who you’ll meet momentarily), a tiny disco ball from Disco Dining Club, and my house keys with ear plugs attached, always. Gotta protect the moneymakers.
Then there are these two: Aflack and Smiley. This accidental still life is rife with enough art-school rhetoric, I could actually drown in it. Think words like “juxtaposition.” Let’s, for a moment, dive into the idea of a metaphor, where predator and prey live in harmony, or the reductive nature of post-mortem stillness. Blah blah, it looks cool, I’ve had them since I was a kid. I like to think that the weirdo kid in me turned out to be a somewhat interesting adult. Knowing these have been with me so long, kind of hits me in the feels.
And speaking of old friends, meet my phrenology head, and busts of Lincoln and Washington that are actually perfume bottles. Oh and of course, records, stacks of wax, because how would you know someone is an actual, bona fide, musician if they didn’t include at least part of their physical music collection. These are about a quarter of my collection of 45s, they’re mostly from Detroit and Chicago from ’45-’65—the music I grew up on, along with the contemporary hits from Technotronic and Alanis Morissette. Side note on the phrenology head: it’s strange when widely-accepted scientific knowledge ends up being based on some racist assumptions, but I’m mostly interested in the aesthetic merits of this bad boy.
Sometimes I wonder if I place too much emphasis on the olfactory portions of my life. I once wrote a paper in school about the connection of scent and memory based on brain physiology, and it’s stayed with me for years. In fact, the lyrics in the video “I smell the flowers through my broken car window” are to me, somehow reminiscent of Faulkner’s character Benjy in The Sound and the Fury—“Caddy smelled like trees in the rain.” In all honesty, this is a stretch, but let me have it, it almost makes sense. You can see the parallels, or perhaps smell them. Or not. Anyway, scent and memory are important to me, and that’s why I wear and cherish my Le Labo Rose 31 perfume. It’s masculine and feminine and complex and soothing and spicy and carnal, and that’s how I like to think of myself, so that’s the way I like to smell. Oh and candles, and lots of dripping wax, it’s cinematic and romantic, and I mean, who needs to explain candles?
And lastly my new baby girl, Richardine. My Corvette, The Bratmobile, has a new little sister. She’s a Japanese machine, with a black panther sticker (you actually can’t see it, it’s on the other side). She’s named after Richard Aoki, who was the Japanese-American minister of education for the Berkley arm of the Black Panther Party. He may have also been the first to arm the party. And Richardine, like her name, is a little butch. All in all, generally both smart and bad ass, those are things I am interested in.
Video premiere "The Night Air," Directed by Briana Gonzales. Published by RIS Labs: