Welcome to another installment of Chili Padi! For VOL 4 I’m trying something different, coming to you as you wind down your weekend instead of turning up (also, I’m, uh, not great with structure).
Four might seem like a silly number to commemorate, lacking the heft of 5 (a milestone) or the novelty of 1. But as a child, it’s a number I was taught to fear. Growing up in Southeast Asia meant growing up part of a cultural mélange (they call America the Great Melting Pot, but until we’re getting public holidays for Chinese New Year, Diwali and Eid etc. on the reg, all I’ll say is mmhmm). This also means adopting whatever cultural superstitions my little sponge brain soaked up. In Chinese, (specifically Cantonese) culture, four means death. It’s often avoided in addresses and phone numbers and whole floors are skipped over in multi-level buildings (it’s not uncommon to go from Level 3 to 5). I’ve always been a little OCD and seeing the number 4 pop up on Caller ID or on a license plate could make my little heart race.
Numbers don’t scare me anymore (yes, I have a tax extension), but I still think about death a lot. If you know me, this might seem at odds with my personality (typically more Jlo-and-bombshell forward). I’m generally a sunny person. I wear color, never had a goth phase, watch a lot of kitten videos. But death constantly looms in the recesses of my mind. Maybe it’s because I was born under the 8th house, which in Western astrology, is associated with death and the afterlife (ironically, 8 is the luckiest digit in Chinese numerology, indicating prosperity and fortune). Maybe it’s because I’m a woman and we’re taught that death lurks in every dark corner, on every quiet street, potentially in every short skirt. Maybe it’s because it’s so deeply ingrained in contemporary vernacular (So dead! I’m dead!! DEAD). Or maybe it’s because I love storytelling and all stories must have conclusions. Death is the ultimate ending. It is the only guarantee in this life.
To override these thoughts, I push myself to lean into living. I try to eat up life, devour it even. I like things to be juicy, glistening, ripe and succulent. I try to soak up every ray of it that shines my way. So, when invited to see friends play Coachella, I got my ass to the desert, vibrating with excitement for hedonism and play. (Plus, as my friend Will rightly pointed out, “Jackson Maine played on that stage!!!” No way was I missing that!)
I know what you’re thinking - take a minute! Maybe re-balance that serotonin before soliloquizing about the afterlife. I’ll be honest- my serotonin hasn’t been balanced since puberty. Deserts are extreme by nature, where the lines between the living and the dead are blurred. Coachella itself is a perfect metaphor - it can be a heavenly oasis, or a suffocating-and-unnamed circle of hell. Gathering to watch music can be a transcendent, almost religious experience. It draws a wide cross-section of the living, it’s both elite and for the masses. It’s fantastical and dada but also incredibly basic. You’re judged upon entry, by who you’re seeing, yes, but also by the access you’ve been granted. Who do you know, what parties will you attend, where are you staying? It can charge your insecurities - there will always be someone hotter, younger and cooler. Even your taste is questioned- is that the ugliest thing you’ve ever seen or do you just not get it? Is it your mood, the heat or whatever’s coursing through your blood stream at that moment. Do you even have taste? (omg can you taste anything? I can taste colors!) And like in life, can you live in the moment or is there something else you should be doing/seeing? Can I get in there with these credentials? It’s both humbling and hilarious and probably best to be grateful for what you have. And
death, again, sits on the periphery - tampered drugs, heatstroke, ego death or maybe the worst of all - death by irrelevance.
To be clear - I had a fantastic time! This was my return after almost a decade which meant, apart from seeing my pals, I was there for the throwback acts: Justice (a heady reminder of running around Paris with an underdeveloped frontal lobe) and No Doubt (I can still smell the covert cigs in my car). But a few days of moving your body and acting a fool with your great friends, set to incredible music, is very life-affirming at any stage of your life. Yes, I came back tired, delirious and dehydrated, but I also returned deeply re-inspired.
Back to storytelling. As part of my recovery, I’ve been catching up on reading and was delighted to see Salman Rushdie’s new book is out. Rushdie has lived with death hot on his heels since 1988. After publishing his controversial book, The Satanic Verses, a fatwa was issued, calling for his death. He successfully evaded it until 2022 when, while delivering a lecture on-stage in New York, a man rushed on and stabbed him. Rushdie miraculously survived and documents this harrowing experience in The Knife. Still, even having come face-to-face with Death and living to tell the tale, he gears up to face it again this summer:
For a long time, my dad lived in fear of his own number: 60. My grandfather was a big man with a big life who was felled by a stroke, in the shower, just months shy of his milestone birthday. If I make it to 60, my dad, used to think, I can breathe a little easier (he’s in his seventies now). My mum lost her mother while in her twenties - one minute my nani was laughing at family dinner, the next complaining of shooting pain in her arm. She had “a bad heart” and that night it turned on her. Death doesn’t care what your plans are tomorrow. So how do you deal with the inevitable? For my parents, I see two people who’ve chosen to live their lives. They’ve called three continents home, adopted crypto. They incorporate new pronouns into their vocabulary. They might not always understand but they ask questions. They might misstep but at least they try. They stay curious and engaged when they’ve earned the right to sit around, only mainlining bad soaps and playing golf. Evolve or die.
I’m now closer to the age my parents were when they had me than I am to that kid singing along to Tragic Kingdom, or even later when I’d weep to it in my Jeep post-bad-breakup. This makes me feel infinitely more mortal. But I still feel vital, excited to see what’s next, to say yes to spontaneous invites, do the things that may start feeling “age-inappropriate”. I think that’ s the only way to really live.
Let’s end on this on a lighter note. I keep thinking back to the big screens all over the festival. In between acts, they project info, advice, whatever, I’m not sure, I wasn’t really paying attention. But I do remember something along the lines of “Remember to hydrate. Have fun but be safe. Take good care of each other.” Sure, it felt corny in the moment, but weirdly poetic in hindsight. Not terrible life advice - and a little something to take into your week ahead :)
CATTY SUNDAY
Another day, another abomination.
Haven’t we, as as a society, suffered enough? We are living in a drought, a drought, of beauty. These are unholier than The Omen baby. I’m not opposed to a comfortable shoe but in my experience, sneakers and loafers are exactly that on their own. I don’t know who needs to hear this but not everything needs to be a combination Pizza Hut Taco Bell.
PALETTE CLEANSER: TONY KANAL
Unbothered. Moisturized. Happy. In his lane. Focused. Flourishing.
Love an Indian king thriving. Seeing No Doubt live was a major bucket list ✔️ (I think Just A Girl is the first song I knew every word to). My bindi and I shot into outer space the second Gwen & gang hopped on stage but my eyes kept going to Tony, glowing in the manner of a man who ‘s living a hella good (forgive me) life, perhaps in a gorgeous midcentury, jogging the reservoir, drinking a daily Erewhon smoothie (what I’ve imagined for him anyway).
CHILI METER RISING: DELIGHTFUL THINGS
Crap Eyewear Funk Daddy - I’ve pretty much exclusively worn Crap for the last decade (yes, I’m biased*) and these oversized wraparounds are my current favs. Sliding them on teleports me to nineties Paradise Cove, pina colada in hand. These kept all that Indio dust and sun out of my eyes, and the cherry cola color feels cheeky and fun for summer.
Motel Renata dress - Yes I have SATC brain rot but I like taking styles cues from Carrie because (besides being a toxic queen) she’s roughly my height and size. This dress is very S2E15 with its snug fit and boat neck. The low back is not bra friendly but the mesh keeps it supportive and breathable. If the length gives you pause, I suggest throwing on a pair of these lace-trimmed cuties under. Bonus points for being named after my fav Big Little Lies character.
On that note, the Vincent Lérisson-designed Justice set is Aleksandr Petrovsky coded and I wont hear anything else on that.
Peaches - Anyone serving drinks at Coachella deserves a shoutout but sneaking in your own Tajin and chamoy? Who’s doing it like Peaches, bar none the best bartender on the fest grounds.
Michele Lamy’s 80th birthday - Naked go-go dancers, mezcal shots & caviar sandwiches at a rave in Venice? I know that someday Ms Lamy too will have to shuffle off her mortal coil but until then, you’ll have a hard time convincing me she’s a mere human. A 20/10 fete.
This NYT sheet pan recipe - A lazy-but-gorgeous-girl roast. It’s hearty, it’s comforting, it’ll make you feel like all is right in the world (potatoes tend to have that effect). The recipe says 4 (!) servings, but Peter and I cleaned our plates, just us two. Consider yourself warned.
*[Disclaimer: Crap Eyewear is my husband’s line but I am an expensive wife so your support is wildly appreciated].
FASHION FLICK: CHARLIE’S ANGEL & CA: FULL THROTTLE
If you tend to spend the better half of a peaceful & promising evening arguing with your (straight, male) SO about what to watch, might I suggest McG’s 2000s reboot of Charlie’s Angels? This is a post-Spice World fever dream of a film, and there’s something for everyone: Drew Barrymore in a latex mask of LL Cool J’s face. Lucy Liu as a dominatrix. Cameron Diaz dancing to “Baby Got Back” onstage at….Soul Train. Sure! It’s camp, it’s silly, it’s like taking a little acid trip from the comfort of your couch. Killer soundtrack too.
At the time, I swore I’d never relive aughts fashion and yet here I am (putting on my clown makeup) and mining “Y2K party tops” on Depop. The jeans are eye-wateringly low, the skirts so short they’re essentially obsolete. Diaz is bleached so blonde she had to cut off most of her hair. The leather is second skin and the heels are sharp enough they (actually) double as weapons - these girls were dressed to kill, baby!
WHO IS SHE
I love home tours because I’m very into interiors, but also because I’m nosy. The most memorable part of watching the Emma Roberts AD tour is that she has a Drunk Cowgirl Barbie. This feels like a terrible missed opportunity for the movie. I’m calling for the spinoff now.
Ok, so that might not technically be right. Call her by her (real) name, 1981 Western Barbie, and no that’s not too many Ranch Waters, that’s just her “winking effect.” Either way, you can’t deny this is a good time gal - blue eyeshadow (so back), tousled hair, and a Bob Mackie-goes-West jumpsuit that I’ll be referencing for that inevitable ACT II (sorry, hope you didn’t think we were done with Cowboy Carter) tour. This Barbie loves to party.
SUNDAY BOP ALERT 🚨
Everyone wants to be a rockstar, but not everyone can be. It requires a once-in-a-lifetime alchemy of talent, presence and some lightning-in-a-bottle-chemistry that the guys of Neil Frances have in spades. I first met Jordan (Feller) years ago, when he was crashing on Peter’s couch in a duplex right off Muscle Beach. I knew he had excellent taste when our conversation moved easily from wondering where we could score invites to the VIP Rodarte sample sale (he had on his RADARTE sweatshirt) to our shared love of Stardust. His Midas touch paired with what might truly be one of the most celestial voices I’ve ever had the pleasure of hearing (Marc Gilfry) is a match made in heaven. Add in an absolute animal on drums (Rhythm Luna) with a bassist (Greg Cham) who cuts such a dashing figure onstage in his cowboy hat and scorpion belt, I hope someone has checked in on the Marlboro Man, and you get pure star power. It’s very cool to see your friends live out their dreams - biggest congrats to them on their electrifying Coachella debut.
It’s hard picking an NF favorite but I keep coming back to “Dancing,” a luminous song, dreamy and yearning, a contemporary Lucy In The Sky With Diamonds. Played live, you could almost see the blanket it wove over the crowd, shimmery, starry and hypnotizing everyone into a lucid dream.
I hope your weekend was whatever you needed it to be and that this Sunday evening finds you cozy with no scaries. Tonight I’m off to pick my parents up from the airport (my LA love language) and will be hosting them for the next few weeks. So I can be truly present, I might take a little extra time til VOL 5 but rest assured this little chili will be back (and missing you terribly in the interim). Family first, you get it :)
Love you and as always thank you thank you thank you for reading. If you’ve enjoyed Chili Padi, please do tell a pal! ILY <3