I long for the days
Of misspent Japanese youth
Parallel dreamland

Anywhere you go
Banshee sand echoes follow
Frozen petals wail.

I can't stop listening to this album.

Will Cotton, Churro Cabin, 2001.

Yes, that's a churro cabin, and yes I want to live in it. I want to sit atop the donut-rock while wiggling my toes in the chocolate milk river, daydreaming absentmindedly with powdered sugar fingers. Will Cotton's world is frothy and sweet--a billowy binge-world of swirly pink and melting cocoa--and, to me, it's what heaven looks like. Here's his take on Endless Winter.

Wouldn't these frigid temps feel better if spent in the shade of a giant cookie tree? Or how about curled up in the window of an ice cream cone and peppermint stick castle?

I could go for a quick swim in the Giverny Flan Pond, alternately floating and chomping on a flan boat ...

I'm a massive fan of Cotton's paintings and giant cake sculpture installations--they seem like the deliciously torrid love children of Damian Loeb and Willy Wonka. Mr. Cotton went to France to become a master baker in order to accurately (and tastefully) construct the confections that inspire his work. I had the pleasure of meeting him at his Partners & Spade bakery installation which saw the back part of the gallery transformed into a working patisserie. He explained that he'd spent years working to perfect the French macaron--my faves--and admitted he often had to throw away large portions of his batches, choosing to only sell those which were absolutely perfect.

When I said that I, too, was honing my macaron skills in my home kitchen and did he have any tips, Mr. Cotton said he was schooled at a little place in Paris called Laduree and was, thus, sworn to secrecy.

I read about a certain macaron baking secret from a certain American lady with a knack for, you know, secrets to cooking, and I ventured forth with what she recommended.

"Aren't you're supposed to leave _____ when you _____?" I asked him.

His eyes widened, and he winked. "Why, yes, you are ..."

Ah-ha! Your secret is safe with me!

I plan on spending these cold months indoors perfecting my own macaron skills. Either that, or I'll just buy some at Bouley Bakery, close my eyes, and pretend I'm floating on a warm, cotton candy sky.

Yes, folks, it's been quite awhile since I last blogged, but I'm back and ready to get this party started! I've spent the past several months cavorting with vampires, touching down in international waters (more on that later), and generally just devouring--and writing about--music and film as much as possible. Unfortunately, spitting out 140 character bursts proved easier than blogging in these hectic times, but as verbosity is my forte, I long to return to this handsome webspot to spill words by the thousands and images worthy of stealing.

Thus, please stick with me over the next few weeks as Verbose Coma goes through a bit of a redesign and I get this choo-choo back a chuggin'. Until then, a haiku for you:

The lonesome whistle
Desert train, tumbleweeds, rain
An eagle circles.

Train tracks in El Paso on a quiet Saturday morning.

Something new and improved is brewing. Please watch this space...

As I sit here in my apartment in New York, window open, people walking silently en masse to the subway, the Jackson Five's "ABC" blasts from a car sitting at a red traffic light. I want to lean out the window and tell the driver to turn it up.

Like many of us, I discovered music starting with Michael Jackson. My childhood was magical with his sound, his moves, his childlike energy. Every time I went to a tap class, I tried to imitate the toe stand or moonwalk along with the other girls who were allowed to watch MTV. We would chat about the "Thriller" video--which I never admitted terrified me--and I would come home everyday hoping it would be on. I must have watched it a thousand times, hands over eyes during the zombie close-ups, mouthing along word for word with Vincent Price.

The one song that touched me the most, though, was "Ben." To this day it makes me weep. I dreamed of marrying a guy named Ben someday just so I could walk down the aisle to that song. Instead, I sang it endlessly to my first love, my cat, while dancing around the room with her in my arms. Our awkward waltz always ended with me in tears clutching onto her fur desperately, my nose nuzzled in a purring neck. I understood the sound of that voice because it was the same as my own--a child's heart expressing unconditional love.

Despite the bizarre direction his life took, my heart always went out to Michael Jackson. As an entertainer, he always gave us what we wanted, and he still delivers. I DJ'd a rooftop party in Chelsea a few weeks ago. After the big hits had already exhausted everyone on the dance floor, my friend Chad approached.

"You need to play 'Man in the Mirror.'"
"I don't have it, and you can't really dance to it."
"Trust me, you need to play it. Make it the last song."

With that, he handed over an iPod with the song (it's funny just thinking about being able to hold Michael Jackson's entire catalog of music in the palm of your hand). We played it, and I swear the night shifted, lit up. The wind danced through the eaves, and every last person gathered in the middle of this expansive roof to listen ("I'm gonna make a change for once in my life...") and to dance. It was beautiful.

That's Michael. Always keeping us on our toes, making us sing along with our hearts.

Goths, Soviet teen punks, long haired guinea pigs, and "the most beautiful Burger King in the world." I'm LOVING Vena Cava's new blog!

A lovely collage courtesy of Viva Vena Cava

I will be back shortly with photographic memories of Paris and Tokyo (how I miss thee both). For now, take your own trip to Paris this summer with Lucy Knisley's delightful graphic novel French Milk:

My friend Jorge introduced me to Kitty, Daisy & Lewis recently, a trio of North London siblings who play in a vintage tinged band along with their parents Graeme and Ingrid (former drummer of post-punk band The Raincoats). I was immediately smitten with their whole Rockabilly-von-Trapp vibe right down to the chola-chic hair mixed with Ritchie Valens swagger and their hunched over, rip-roarin' sound. Influenced by everything from 50's rock and roll, jump blues, swing, Western, Hawaiian, and R&B, their music is all about the spirited amalgamation of any and every genre they favor with xylophone, double bass, ukulele, harmonica, and trombone thrown in for good measure. For some reason, they look familiar to me--what I imagine the kids hanging out in downtown El Paso might have looked like back in the 50's, when ladies at the bus stop wore kitten heels and leopard print while flirting with gentlemen in fedoras smoking cigarettes in the sun.

I adore them.

Here they are doing their own version of Canned Heat's 1968 ditty, "Goin' Up the Country." Enjoy!

Manhattan Friday
Cocktail doves, cafe lovelies
Pavement Lullaby

Some of my all-time favorite movies from the 80's (The Breakfast Club, Pretty in Pink, Footloose, and Mannequin) mashed up to my new favorite song. Ah, sunshine on this cloudy day! Also, why aren't we all dancing more these days? IT'S TIME TO DANCE!

Dear Sixteen Andi,

I know how much you love Bjork. Guess what? Someday your dream will come true.

Much love,

"Older" Andi