I haven’t blogged in like months. Wow. Well, the holidays came and went and for the second year in a row, my family, bo and I visited the Bethel Woods Center, the museum and venue which now stands on the site of Woodstock in 1969.

It is a religious experience for my parents and for me in that you can feel the essence of those times still thumping and pumping through the veins in the earth there. The museum is gorgeous and well-done and included hundreds of quotes, artifacts, full-size period vehicles decked out in great flower power paint jobs and lots and lots of clips and films showcasing a lot of the concert. Two rooms have at least 18 ft. screens showing footage and actual performances. My favorite, Joe Cocker, the tie-dyed Brit with his blue leather starred beatle boots opens the film show, as I laugh continually at his idiomatic mannerisms and gestures when performing. As a young person, I became enamored with the music and styles of the 1960’s thanks to a pair of hippie parents equally enamored. Spouting every word when tapes and records were on, the second concert of my life was The Monkees at ten or eleven.




I only wish that my generation and the one younger could react to the current climate in some way similar to that of the Sixties and Seventies. The music, art, literature, and ideologies that emerged from the time of Woodstock brought forth a fervent youth so potent, that change actually came about. These days technology is shielding us from each other and ourselves. We have grown into a “me” culture, hellbent on satisfying our own needs, mostly shallow and selfish. Technology is simultaneously bringing us together and pushing us far far apart. We have lost touch with spirit, sensation, honesty, purity, and singlemindedness in communication. Things claiming they want to bring us together are more so hoping we buy the products advertised in the same places we hope to share time. Life has lost it’s beauty, it’s simplicity, it’s depth, and it’s emotion. I only wish I didn’t have a phone glued to my side all day. I only wish people still called one another and spent time without looking at work emails. We used to connect so much harder and stronger without all of this stuff clogging the airwaves and our brains. Music wasn’t only about creating a complicated algorithm to sell a record in the Sixties. Many many many musicians expelled tunes that were directly in line to their political and social beliefs and dreams. Music was made to create peace, understanding, comradery, hope, anger, outrage. It wasn’t even made, it was often an artistic outlet or even almost regurgitation of feeling. It was pure emotion more oft than not with Richie Havens improvising “freedom” while onstage at Woodstock, a direct anthem for black America and youth in general. Jim Morrison sang of shamanism and death, exposing his need for escapism in music and in life. Janis Joplin’s lyrics might have been simpler, but her raging screams brought light to a fighting angry soul within. Simon and Garfunkel’s peaceful lullabies told us tales of proposed quiet and rest, narratives of the marijuana culture that so desperately searched for life to be a lovely journey. Music was an escape, a newspaper headline, a beating heart trying to get yours to beat along, a lullaby for political sleep, a draft-dodging credo, enlightenment, it was electric and transitory and completely changed what it had been before. There were top 40 songs and there were the DJ’s who gave others a chance, seeing merit in something other than money. Live concerts, like today were experiences together, feelings had in tandem. With hands linked, arms outstretched to the sun, voices raised, and fervor brewing, the children of the 1960’s rocked our world. Why can’t we do that again?


Playing: Inspiration in (Historical) Pop

I recently completed half of a full length play based on The Doors. I performed it with some stellar actors last month and we are going to film it and hopefully produce it at the end of June. With that said, I spent months doing research on the Doors, Jefferson Airplane, the late 1960’s and that period in music in general.  I have seen every documentary ever made on the Doors and some of them more than once.  It was amazing. It all started in December when I went with my folks up to the Woodstock Museum in Bethel Woods after Christmas.  The emotional experience I had there, coupled with my love of that time in music combined with my love of dressing in Southeast Asian jackets and necklaces exploded into a play that I am very proud of.  Here’s a shot:

Cat Cabral, Desira Pesta, Alan Braunstein, Cameron Moir, Delaney Smeal

Half of the cast

Cat Cabral, Desira Pesta, Alan Braunstein, Cameron Moir, Delaney Smeal

Here are some freaking amazing photos of some sweet fashions on some even sweeter rock stars:

Jimi, etc.



Country Joe & the Fish

The Mamas and the Papas

Jefferson Airplane

Ray, John, Jim, & Robbie

:o) Can’t wait to share more of the play, the film, and photos ;o)

I LOVE New York, but…

There are so so so many drawbacks and pitfalls to being a NYC resident that tv shows and movies just do not portray.  They glamorize our lives, our apartments, our run-ins with the rich and famous; and make living here look like a comedic piece of cake.

Although I cannot count how many celebrities I have sat near in a restaurant or walked past on the street in plain daylight, on both hands, this place, as much as I love it, drives us all a little crazy.


The sleek beasts of Tokyo and Barcelona and Switzerland are no where to be found on our island and its burroughs.  Although they sound fast and have been upgraded in recent years, our subway system is comprised of a hub-bub of sputtering screetching square rail cruisers who simply stop, start, stop, start, and often just stop for minutes without more reason than “Train traffic ahead of us”.  Now, we don’t buy this “train traffic ahead of us” explanation because we waited 15 minutes for this train, so the one that preceded it is now off cruising with a 15 minute advantage.

Now, the reason I started this whole post is because my Sunday was a nightmare.  I decided to teach two sewing classes at the school I teach at part time in Chelsea. From my home, I get there in 30 minutes most days and even at rush hour on Mondays.  I had to be there at 12:30 and left my house at 11:40pm, giving myself enough time to get there and breathe. I walked five blocks to the subway, went down the steps and was stopped by two MTA workers installing neon pink tape across the turnstyles. I asked if there were any trains because the L train is notorious for not running on several weekends a month, BUT there were no signs or posters telling us that they would not be running.  The man, who spoke very little English, made a “turn around” signal with his left hand and said “shuttle bus”.  Now, again, if there were no trains, they would have prepped us with posters lining the streets above the subway telling us to take the bus.  There weren’t.  I asked again, are there trains or not? He said “Dekalb (the name of the subway stop) shuttle”. I screamed “FUCK!!!!” and ran up the stairs because with all due respect, this interaction told me that I would be late, as the bus stops every six blocks, and takes twice as long as the train does. I went above ground and there were again no posters and no shuttle buses in sight.  Then I heard the screetching sound of a train from across the street and ran down the opposite staircase to the subway going in the other direction.  There was a woman down there who said that if we wanted to go to Manhattan, get on this train.  Yes!!!!!  We traveled a few stops and then there was an announcement that the last stop would be Lorimer, which is two stops short of Manhattan. I would be stranded in Brooklyn and there are no other trains in that vicinity that go to Manhattan.  Figuring everyone on the train would be calling a car service to bring them into the city, I got off one stop before that stop, thinking I would beat them to it, but I didn’t.  I repeatedly called the only car service in the area to busy signals.  I started flipping out.  It was now noon.  I had spent a half hour going one mile and was stranded.  I kept calling and running back and forth in circles uncertain of which way to go.  I asked a girl who had successfully landed a cab if I could split it with her and she said no. I called my boss and she tried helping me get to a train.  The MTA had offered no reason for why they stopped short and they “apologized for any inconvenience”.  I started to get REAL MAD. Not only was I going to be late to work, I was going to have to shell out $20 of my own money to get there too.  Okay, so this is where the story gets ridiculous and becomes National Lampoon’s NYC Adventure.

I start running in the direction of the J train, which is 15 blocks away. 12:10pm It is 70 degrees and I have two giant bags full of sewing supplies and lunch. I am sweaty as can be, I catch up with a bus heading in my direction to the train with five blocks to go. I get to sit and chill.  Just then, I see the train station up ahead and push the stop button.  I then ask the driver, “Is this the J train?”.  He snaps at me, “You ask before you push to stop, you ask.” He doesn’t answer me.  I get out and tumble up the stairs, legs and arms all over, and reach the platform, hoping I don’t miss anything. 12:20pm There is NO train in sight. Nothing.  I sit right down on the platform and wait and wait and wait. Now, this train would not be taking me to my destination, instead it would take me to the F train, which I would transfer to, and then take five stops, then would have to go up to the street and then have to walk eight more blocks… I was late.  After 10 minutes, a train came. 12:30pm  I take this train, which is above ground and thus travels like a idyll monorail, looking over the Alps. While aboard, I check the MTA’s website to make sure that the F trains are running, in case I encounter another problem. There are no service changes. 12:40pm I get to the station and run towards the F platform, but am stopped by a group of people all looking at a sign, which says, No F trains at This Station. I scream and run back to the train I had just gotten off of.  The doors are closing and I throw my foot in between them to stop them.  The open up just enough to close again.  I try opening them with my arms and so does a guy on the train, but they close quickly and the train leaves.  I start crying. 12:50pm.  I decided that because I cannot connect to anything that will get me remotely close to Chelsea and I am so late anyway, I will take a cab. Now, the location I am at is off of the Williamsburg bridge and most cabs will be traveling to and from the bridge with people in them.  I start run-walking away from the bridge and try flagging cabs with no luck.  They’ll all full. I walk about eight blocks and manage to flag one.  I get in and thank him profusely.  My cell phone dies, but thankfully I had alerted my boss, who was home for the day, to tell the intern at the office to keep my sewing students alerted to my whereabouts. The cab starts and stops, hitting most red lights until the East Village, where we start coasting through them uptown.  12:59 pm We reach 29th street, where the studio is, and turn left to head west, where we thereafter need to travel eight avenues. We move a block and stop.  There is bumper to bumper traffic on a Sunday on a random street???  I stretch my head out of the open window and try to see what’s going on.  There are cars as far as I can see.  We sit still from my $7.10 toll to $10.00.  The cabbie turns left at an intersection to go to another westbound street, but encounters the same thing.  I ask him to let me out, not wanting to waste my money and time.  I would run. 1:07pm I get out at Park Avenue, which is 4.5 avenues away from my destination. I start running and laughing.  At this point, this is funny,  a commute from hell.  I get to Fifth Avenue and almost pee in my pants.  The reason for the traffic hold up was a parade.  There was a f$$cking parade!!!!? hahahahhahaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa I run and run and swerve around tourists and Sunday leisurers and get to my building.  1:15pm I take the elevator up 8 flights, burst into the room to 6 angry students, covered in sweat, apologetic, and defeated. An hour and a half after I had left my house. Later that night, I realized that I had forgotten my keys to lock the office up and had to go to a coworkers house to get them at 10pm, but that’s another story… 2 subways, a bus, 20 minutes of running, and a cab later, I made it.  I don’t know why we don’t revolt against the MTA…

Duane Hanson's The Tourists


Nothing is worse than a gaggle of camera-clad tourist families walking six abrest on the sidewalk of a very busy morning when you are running ten minutes late to a meeting, an audition, a job, or anything because your train was delayed due to “train traffic ahead of us”. Now tourists, I am often one in other cities, just don’t get that you cannot stand and stare en masse on a sidewalk at 9:03am on a Monday in Herald Square without getting mean looks, pushes, or “asshole!”. The tourists are wonderful for our much needed tourism-supported city consumerism, but when we need a bottle of water from a street vendor, they cause us to also get the price of $3.00 per said bottle or $8 for a hotdog. They’re everywhere and they’re annoying.

With that said, I will move onto  THE PRICES HERE

You need a strategic itinerary to have a great meal and drinks in this town that aren’t going to total $90 for two. There is the wonderful “happy hour”, which exists all over the city, but usually ends at 7pm. In the city that never sleeps, that usually means slinking out of your office at 5:56 and taking off at lightning speeds to meet a friend for a drink before the minutes to happy hour tick away.  There are soooooo many amazing, diverse, creative, inventive, strange, tradtitional, exotic, themed, you-name-it restaurants in this gigantic city, it’s hard to decide where to go most nights out. Even still, unless you’re making mad loot and don’t have to pay 80% of it to your inflated monthly rent, beware of having to shell out a half a week’s worth of groceries for a normal meal involving glasses of wine, entree and dessert with coffee. Your average cocktail in Manhattan runs $12-$14. Say, you’re a lush because New Yorkers like to drink, you’re probably going to be spending $56 plus tip for a night out on the town. Almost everything is expensive here.


Trying to find a great apartment in NYC is like trying to find meaning in a Pauly Shore movie, to quote Cher Horowitz. It’s F-ing tough. Unless you’ve got scads of cash, it’s almost unlikely that you will find a place that you’ll be perfectly happy in. You’ll either have unbearable roommates, leaky ceilings, broken toilets, mice, bedbugs, horrible neighbors, gunshots, a train going right by your window, a loud stinky bar below you, a crack-dealer super, screaming babies, an incessantly barking dog, you won’t have a bathroom sink and will have to wash your hands/brush teeth in your bathtub (my friend Becca), you’ll have maggots growing behind your sink because your roommates are slovenly (me in 2006), you have three walls and a curtain in your room because you’re renting the dining room (my friend Maryanne), you’ll sublet and later find out you’re paying double your roommates, and so forth.  There are true hardships to overcome and get used to in this great city. There’s rarely a place to truly consider a haven unless, again, you’re rich.  Even still, the rich undoubtedly have their fare share of problems as well. Can I also please please please clarify something? The apartments movies and tv shows depict us having are FALSE. If you’re a waitress or a coffee shop worker or an office temp or a freelance writer, you probably do not live in a 1,000 sq. ft. place on the Upper East Side.  Also, Williamsburg isn’t home to 4,000 sq. ft. lofts for two, it usually involves like 8 roommates sharing that space and everyone is in a bunk-bed.  I am not trying to be Negative Nancy over here.  Again, I love this city, but the other day, I was like, shit, do non-dwellers have any idea of the hardships we face here every single day?  One of those being that I have no large parking lot to house my large SUV that I push my large shopping cart full of well-priced groceries to.  I schlep four bags of groceries nine blocks to the subway, push them under the turn-style, swipe my card, push them forward so I can push through and so no one steals anything, then wait for the subway and put the groceries between my legs so that they don’t fall over and spill all over the sticky floor, while holding onto a greasy germ-covered metal pole, then go 11 stops to my house, then walk seven blocks with said bags through wind, snow, sleet, sun, and exhaustion.


to be continued…

Fashion Divorce, Fashion Make-up & A Pilot!

February 2010: Myself and my amazingly talented and devoted intern, Bethany, killed it and made an amazing collection to show for Fashion Week.  I did my biggest fashion show to date, it got rave reviews from the crowd and some press, including the Huffington Post & The AwlProject Runway asked me to audition for it’s 8th season and asked me to bring 10 pieces, as opposed to the 5 they asked of everyone else… and then I showed them the things I had worked harder on than anything in my entire life and the things I was most proud of ever and… they bashed me. I missed the final cut of contestants by one. Tim Gunn told me they’d call me that night to tell me if I was on or not.  I left the audition and made my way to my boyfriend at the time’s office to meet for coffee. I was shaking and decided that even if they wanted me, I would not accept.  I am far too sensitive to be put through the rigor morale of Project Runway’s intensity and editing. I didn’t get on, but I did realize that I was in desperate need of a fashion break.  After six years of nonstop selling, ups and downs, Etsy, customers, trends, & 16 hour days, I had to put it to rest.  I felt empty. I felt as though I had lost why I started sewing in the first place.  I’m not going to blame it on that bad PR audition, but it definitely left me questioning what I wanted of fashion.  I did not want to get into production.  I am too much of an artist to have the business-heavy skills it takes to be a real fashion designer in the fashion industry.  I was riding the wave between being a super indie handmade clothing artist and the fashion world in Vogue and I fell off my board towards the indie.  The fashion industry has a lot of evils.  I needed to re-kindle my love all-together.  I used to obsess over style.com and the fashion shows and magazines and fabrics and I found myself disinterested, feeling like a long lost daughter, unsure of her past. I pushed it away and grabbed for steady work with employers who weren’t myself; and with appointments and places to be rather than a self-made calendar.  I threw myself into acting much more wholeheartedly and my boyfriend and I broke up. I had some health problems, I kind of had a breakdown, and then winter hit. I moved out of the magnificent studio space that I had shared with ten peers, including Etsy’s founder, Rob Kalin, for three years.  The life I had known for three years was over. I was almost officially divorcing my fashion business.

Fast forward one year. My sewing studio had been collecting some dust, and I’ve become nearly completely absorbed in acting, but a glimmer started.  I sewed here and there and still sold accessories on Etsy and then a few months ago, I got a job teaching sewing lessons a few hours a week.  I made a few new dresses and pieces for myself…

Last week, all of my sadness and confusion and hard work came back full circle… Sometimes it just isn’t the right time… There were a few pieces that I was most proud of from my fashion show for Autumn 2010 back in February 2010… those things, combined with my dedication to acting (tons of classes, workshops, auditions, seminars, in the last two years) have paid the hell off.  I landed a tiny role on a new ABC fashion drama pilot called Americana. Casting was looking for SAG actors who were also fashion designers.  When I saw the posting, I screamed.  There had to be like 2 of us in the United States.  After weeks of deliberation on their part, I got it!!!! and on Thursday, three ensembles from my 2010 show that had been in a garment bag for two years awaiting their debut and two never-before seen pieces were walked down a runway on models on a freaking tv show with me as their real-life and tv designer.  This isn’t reality tv. This is a scripted Ashley Greene-starring pilot and it was utterly surreal.  I play a rival fashion design student of Ashley’s named Ann Marie. On top of it, I got to act with Emilie de Ravin of Lost & Roswell, which was my favorite show in high school. Lastly, the director of Americana is Philip Noyce, who also directed Clear & Present Danger, Patriot Games, The Bone Collector, and one of my favorite movies of all time, The Saint, which I have seen 27 times. I won’t disclose anything else.

My models & I

Hard work pays off.  I’m preparing to work just as hard from here on out.  Thank you, universe. Now, it’s time for my agent to come along….

Fun Times

I am extremely grateful…this week has been otherworldly and wonderful and I don’t think I can thank the Gods enough.

Monday was my fifth day on the set of the new Coen Brothers movie and it was just such a pleasure. The sets, the costumes, the people, it was magical and mystical and we had a singalong with Justin Timberlake, one of the stars.

I spent most of the 14-16 hours per day laughing my head off with the new friends I met on set and managed to take a couple of photos too.

A small group shot

A Little Candid

New headshot!

Thank you, universe for an amazing week or so.  Love, Desira.

Home is Where the Baggage is

If you celebrate Christmas, it’s almost time.  Last week, some of my theater friends and I visited the professionally lit Christmas lights of the wealthy Brooklyn neighborhood, Dyker Heights. Blocks were ablaze and aflutter with gargantuan displays of larger-than-life Santas, nutcrackers, reindeer, carolers, and other fine blow-ups and statues. We frolicked to and fro each house’s display, each more ridiculous and more successful than the last. It was midnight, yet houses were still doubling their electrical bills by the minute, gleaming, glowing, shooting primary colored lights into the atmosphere.

If you’ve been to Brooklyn, you know that each section of it, or neighborhood, looks drastically different from the next.  They range from breathtaking and regal (Brooklyn Heights) to eclectic and seafaring (Red Hook) to dystopian and ramshackle (Bushwick), yet one thing seems to tie them and the rest of NYC property together, houses are small and tightly woven.  With that said, Dyker Heights is an exception.  Reminiscent of the suburbs where I grew up in Pennsylvania, houses span 3,000-4,000 sq. ft., they measure at least 2 stories tall and unlike almost every building in NYC, they are single family.

I’ve lived in NYC for the last six years and so my expectations for and requirements of my living situations have changed drastically since leaving my parents three story home with yard ten years ago. I no longer want to take the tudor mansion when playing the game of LIFE. What would I put in it’s cavernous walls? What would I do with all of those closets, kitchen cabinets, bathrooms, and multiple garages? I do not know.

LIFE! Who didn't love it.

I now crave the tiny intimate quarters of the bungalow offered, or even the hurricane hideaway. I no longer need three to four bathrooms nor a bedroom big enough to roller skate in with a walk-in closet (actually, I take that back, I will accept a walk-in in place of an office) Anyway, living in New York, as opposed to say, Texas, gives us a much greater appreciation for space and a much decreased need for a heck of a lot of it.

In Dyker Heights, or should I say, Metropolitan Mansion Heights, they sure have a lot [of space].  What would have seemed normal seeing ten years ago, I now was prompted to scream out things like, “Holy shit!”, “single family??!!”, or “whata-whata-whata is that!?” when driving by.

Big Ole Mess

Growing up, and unbeknownest to me because of the size of other local homes, my parents house was masssive. We had three floors to live on plus a basement and garage and yard and acres and acres of woods. With that, came a large collection and amassing of stuff.  We, like goldfish, grow within the confines of the space we have. I had chairs and tables I bought from antique stores, clothing, shoes, snowsuits, dance shoes, soccer/basketball/sporting good items, games, drawings, paintings, art supplies, sewing machines, fabric, many many blankets and bed linens for different seasons, tools, ephemera, dishes… stuff…extra stuff…and spare stuff… When I moved away for college and was presented with half of a normal sized room, which I had to share with another lass, I shed some excess baggage.  Over the years, I moved into a bigger dorm room, then a house with a massive bedroom, which I didn’t know what to do with. I pushed all of my furniture to the periphery, unsure of how to use the space.

The most life-altering move of all was studying abroad in Italy. I could only bring what would fit in a large suitcase and a backpacking pack.  Weeks before the trip, I packed. Over the remaining weeks, I would take everything out, reduce my load and pack again.  Right before the trip, I had done this ritual many more times, re-assessing how much I wanted to literally put on my back, weighing how much worth and need each item had. Ultimately, I had quite a small amount for going thousands of miles away and I thanked myself for my dedication to my back.  Every weekend my school had a trip for us, visiting various towns in Italy, some requiring an overnight stay. Each trip, I packed a tiny backpack with one change of clothing, toothbrush, and snacks, a very manageable amount.  I laughed at the girls, lugging GIANT suitcases on-board the bus for less than a twenty-four hour trip. How could they possibly need these?  For Fall break, I decided to go to England and Spain.  I also decided to test myself. I, for one whole week, allowed myself only a backpack. It was a breeze getting on and off the planes, as well as traveling by bus from the airport and then by subway or cab to the hostel or room. I could also hide my bag in the shared room that first night and store it safely in a locker during the day. From this travel all over Italy, as well as Spain & England and a one month stay on a farm in the very north of Italy in the Alps and back to the U.S., I realized that we don’t need a hell of a lot to live.

Back in New York state, I moved and moved and moved again and became more accustomed to living in both tiny places and big spaces interchangeably.  Needing to move at least once a year once in Brooklyn, I gained and lost and gained and gained stuff as each new home dictated it’s quota. At one point, while subletting, I had a room literally   5′ x 10′ and I didn’t bat an eye. I would have loved more legroom, but rent was cheap and my needs were small.

This past summer I stayed with my cousin in LA for two months. I had a hard time deciding how to present myself as a New Yorker in Southern California and like the Italy preparations, I dueled over what to go with. Ultimately, I brought a large suitcase and yet found myself wearing a lot of the same things over and over and over again.I shouldn’t even have brought as much as I had.

I’m not trying to pretend that I haven’t increased my load in recent years, especially because of my clothing business, but I have become more conscious of what is essential and what is not.  I still struggle with letting things go or with not buying things I like, yet I am much more brash when it’s purging time.  In the end, after all this moving and changing, I have realized that it isn’t my stuff that makes up who I am.  When we have less and limit ourselves, our needs diminish. Instead of filling every nook and crany of our blank spaces and square footage and consuming more and more of what this crazy world tells us we should have; we should focus on having the things that really count.