Category Archives: i don’t even know

Missing Holden Caulfield.

new york city pop art billboard ad underwear

Holden Caulfield, via J.D. Salinger once said,

Don’t ever tell anybody anything.  If you do, you start missing everybody.

This has always stuck with me.

You know how certain songs cause you to time travel? You hear a song and your mind takes you back to where you were where you heard it and what you felt and who was there. When I hear “Thirteen” by Big Star I remember this incredible date this sweet guy took me on in New York. I didn’t have a lot of time and I warned him, trying to convince him that we couldn’t go out because even though I wanted to, I knew it wouldn’t work out. I was just too busy. But he was persistent, and not in a creepy way. In a way that was so sincere that I let my smile take up my entire face. I told him I had, “like, two minutes” — and he took it to heart. He hailed a cab and we went to an Italian restaurant…down the street. We went through three courses in about one minute. Literally. He planned this ahead. We took our leftovers over to a movie…on the sidewalk. He set up a TV to play Manos: Hands Of Fate, the best of the worst films ever made. It’s such a bad film that he was able to condense the entire thing into twenty seconds. Then he asked if we had time for coffee. Well, we had about thirty seconds. We went back to the Italian place that suddenly had coffee and desert set up on the table. It was the most romantic thing anyone had ever done for me. And somewhere, “Thirteen” by Big Star was playing. And I will forever tie that song to that incredible memory. It didn’t work out between us. I eventually went back to my ex.

Also, none of this happened to me, this happened on How I Met Your Mother.

Ha ha. Got you.

Sorry. I don’t know why I did that.

I got terribly astray from what I was saying, which was that if you let it, anything can remind you of everything. As humans we try to find connections in our lives, where there are none. For example, you’ll tell your friend over lunch about someone you went to high school with, and hours later, you’ll run into that very person on the street. And you’ll say, “My God, what are the odds?!” But if you really thought about it, you’d realize that the odds weren’t that extreme; maybe you were in an area where your former classmate lived, or you only noticed your classmate walking down the street because you had just mentioned them, or your classmate mentioned on Facebook a place they went to for lunch and that’s why you went there; you simply disassociated your classmate from the entire experience because it’s more meaningful to believe that it all happened by some delightful wink of the universe.

don draper wink

Okay, look, I’ll finally get what I’ve been trying to get to. And that is, it’s nearly impossible to forget anybody or anything you’ve ever done that ever meant something, even if it was only slightly. I’ll see a girl wearing fingerless gloves and I’ll think of 14th street in NYC. I’ll hear a Bob Dylan song and have a sudden and brief fervent passion for a boy I had a crush on in college. I’ll smell a certain shampoo and remember my staying with my ex-boyfriend at his house in Rochester. And I do these things — we all do these things — because we want to. Even though it hurts. Because unless you’re a psychopath, you can’t but feel emotion, even if it’s people you think you don’t give a monkey about. It creeps in, but you don’t notice it. To you, it’s like, “Why the hell am I missing Stephanie from elementary school? I haven’t thought about her in years.” It rains and I think about my apartment in New York City. And I think about what a hassel it was — but a great hassel — to move in. I thought about how it would be a ragtag group of me and my friends dragging a couch up a staircase like in Friends. Asking them, hey, can you move for free? I’ll treat you guys to coffee. And then I’m nostalgic for a moment that never even happened.

And that’s why I understand Holden Caulfield, that beloved outcast, so beloved by our generation it’s become cliche. Because nostalgia will fucking kill you if you let it. It’s like alcohol or drugs. Some people can enjoy nostalgia recreationally. Others let it ruin them. The worst thing is that sometimes you don’t even need to talk to someone from your past. All you have to do is see their photo or time travel via a song or memory and you’re right there and by the time you come back, you’re completely hungover with nostalgia.

God, imagine how i’m going to feel when I’m forty.


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skull printed shirt

(Note: this part of the story happened a few weeks ago). I freaked out when I lost this shirt. I bought it at a store in Sacramento and I went back (not just for the shirt, to see my mom) and I ran in there and said, please tell you still have them, and they said we just sold out, but these are similar, and they showed me a shirt that had different skulls on it, and those skulls looked like lightbulbs, and I was like, are you planning to order more? and they said no, and my world closed in around me, but then my friend Laura said, try calling the Karaoke place, so I did, and they had it, and I said PLEASE HOLD ONTO IT and I dashed over. Yesterday Troy at the apple store called and said, “You left your hard drive here” and I snorted and said, “Okay.”

Then 3 nights ago I was on a JetBlue flight to NYC and my TV was the only one that wasn’t lit up, and the guy said, “Maybe you have bad electromagnetic energy” and I said, “I really hope that isn’t the case, sir” and he said, “It will start once we’re in the air” and then I pointed around me at every single TV showing its JetBlue screen with moving images and said, “Then why are all the others working” and he said, “Just relax” and I said, “No, you don’t understand, my priorities are screwed up, and right now, this little TV is my entire life.”

The TV remained broken so he switched me to a new seat and a few hours later when it was dark I went to the bathroom and got lost on my way back to the seat and do you have any idea how fucking embarrassing it is to forget where you were sitting on an airplane? To walk down that aisle that seems so long with people staring at you, and I’m looking visibly confused and saying out loud, to no one, “Haha oops I forgot where I sat, where was I sitting?” with NO ONE HELPING ME, just STARING AT ME, with their stupid frog-like eyes, it was horrible, I almost fell into a heap crying, “JUMANJI!!!!!”

Anyway, merry Christmas.


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If I had a time machine.

david bowie and john lennon

Considering that I spend most of my time sighing girlishly over photos of young David Bowie, Paul McCartney, and Jarvis Cocker, it makes sense that my friend Tony made this observation:

“God help us all if you ever get your hands on a time machine and some roofies.” – Tony Archer
Oh ha ha Tony. No. I would use it for great things like saving John Lennon and Kennedy.

But first I would have so much Bowie sex. No, sorry, Paul sex first. Then time machine. Then Bowie sex. Then time machine. Then save John Lennon. Then time machine. Then Jarvis Cocker. Then back home for a nice cup of tea and wait for this whole thing to blow over.

Oh crap, I forgot to save JFK.

Whatever, worth it. But if I did remember to save JFK, and I don’t believe it’s a conspiracy, I think Oswald acted alone, I think I could have stopped him if I went up to him that day, punched him in the balls and said, “Stop being a dick” then handcuffed him to a streetlamp, called the police anonymously, then time traveled my sexy ass back to 2012. This is also the same thing I would do with Mark David Chapman. Or maybe I would instead try to be their friends, because friends don’t let friends assassinate presidents and musical geniuses.

“I guess I just wasn’t made for these times.” – Brian Wilson


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I does what I does.

david bowie ziggy stardust

Why is it so hard for me to do this? Is it depression? Laziness? Is it a desire to seem deep and mysterious, sitting my dark apartment with wine and this melancholy mix (or something) as my soundtrack? And please feel free to suggest songs that I can add to it, because I welcome everything now.

I do not understand why I choose to not do things and choose to do others. The easiest way to fail is to do what you have always done. Unless of course you have been doing well. Soaring over our heads. If you are doing well, and I hope that you are, you should tell me how you are doing it. But in a way that is not a lecture. In school when I had to sit in lectures I would draw cartoons of pigs in my notebook. Ask Dave, he will tell you that it is true. I do not know if Dave is even reading this. But if he is, he will vouch for me. My pig doodles are what started our friendship. I did not know this until years later.

Any great writer, artist, musician, even some actors, reached the levels we dream of because of talent, hard work, and discipline. I used to have all of those things. I believe that I still have talent, in the way that people believe in The Secret. There is a strange comfort in sitting here, thinking about wasting my talent in this dark old apartment, staring at the mess that is on this table I am typing on. I wish that computer keyboards clacked louder. That would be an improvement for struggling writers everywhere. It’s hearing the click of those keys that convinces us that we are working. The “CLICK CLICK FUCK YOU CLICK CLICK CLANG FUCK OFF CLACK CLACK” that comes with the hard press and release of old keyboard keys of Fitzgerald typewriters and 90’s computers.

I want to be Fiona Apple.


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…Stan? STAN???

fuck this shit o clockIf you’re familiar with the show “South Park” then you recognize the title of this post as being a quote from Randy Marsh, the lovable and helpless father of Stan Marsh. Our dear antihero, Randy, is frequently confused and puzzled. He understands little of the world around him. And he usually winds up relying on son Stan to help him find his way. And when this happens, our Randy, in a high shrill voice shouts for his son. “…Stan? STAN???” And Stan appears and calms his father down, or tries. And Randy either takes comfort in his young son’s solace or he continues on his frenzied path of ignorance.

And now it is my time to call for Stan.

Stan. Stan? Where are you, Stan? There is so much I have to learn about the world. Where are you, Stan? Will you help me shine a light on my path of hidden unknown? Of secret forests made of even more secret forests? Where is my Stan in this world?

I’ll tell you where: it’s right in here. I’m pointing to my chest right now. Or actually I’m typing right now. But if I could do both, I would.

We all have to be our own Stan. We have to be our biggest Stan. Because no matter how much we call for him, Stan is not going to show up. And let’s say that Stan were to show up: he wouldn’t be able to help us. It’s our turn. We have to let our inner Stan guide us through.

Stan, she whispered. Staaaaaaaaaan…



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Is cable dead?

This concerns my cat.

Soon I am moving out, presuming that I find a place, which I kind of have to presume, and I’ve been wondering if I should bother to get cable. Here is why I have cable:

— I love television.

— I love AMC and HBO.

— Dr. Phil. Sometimes Dr. Oz.

— And really, this all comes down to having the DVR. I need to be able to record all my shows and watch them whenever I want.

I have a Wii on which I can stream Netflix and that’s it. And yes I have my computer to watch things from Hulu and…other places, but I don’t want to watch TV on my computer. I work on a computer all day. I am internet. I want to watch TV on a TV.

There’s this thing called Roku that I’m wondering if I should get.

Can someone help me out? For those of you who don’t have cable, how do you:

— Watch Mad Men and The Walking Dead? And shows that aren’t available on Netflix or Hulu or the show’s site?

— Watch a daily daytime show like The Today Show or Dr. Oz or Dr. Phil? And just do me a favor and pretend that you watch Dr. Phil. And yes I already googled “watch Dr. Phil online” and I can’t find anything reliable. Am I supposed to use a VCR? Isn’t that a gigantic step backwards?

— Why does my back itch and what are these red bumps on it?

I guess I could get HBO 2 Go or whatever boy band it’s called but what about AMC? Am I supposed to wait until the entire season of Mad Men comes out on Netflix, or until the episode is available online the next week? I can’t wait a week, I work in social media, the spoiler alerts, the goggles, they do nothing.

So what do you do? Do you think cable is dead? Also if you’re one of those people who says, “I don’t watch TV” I just want to let you know that you are missing out on everything ever.


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Smell ya later!

Max Landis and Almie Rose Apocalypstick

Trustworthy, honorable, sober, etc.

A few days ago, Max Landis shared something gross and fascinating with me. Naturally. He brought to my attention something I wasn’t aware existed and would probably be okay with never knowing existed.

I am talking about Pheromone Parties.

What is that? You may ask. Yourself. Where does that highway go to? I’m sorry, I have an affliction where I occasionally segue way into Talking Heads lyrics. But that’s not important right now. A Pheromone Party is where you go to meet someone you want to date/fall in love with/bang with a twist: BYOS — bring your own shirt. But before you bring it, you have to sleep it in for three nights in a row and then take it off and leave it sealed in a plastic bag (the longer the better). I hope I never feel like that plastic bag. Then you bring it to the party. And when that bag opens, that’s when it all goes down. To quote their website:

  1. Bags are placed on a table. Guests smell the bags at their leisure throughout the party.
  2. If a guest finds the smell attractive, they take a picture with the bag at a photographer station. These pictures are projected as a slide show on the wall at the party.
  3. If you see a picture of a guest you find attractive holding your number, this is the greenlight to talk to them. Haaaay.
Minty fresh!
As gross as I find this concept I also find it interesting. First of all, I think the last thing anyone needs is to be rejected for smelling the worst out of all of the smelly t-shirts. Also I’m glad I’m not single because if I were I would have to go to this and try it and report back. I’ll still go but I’m not bringing a dank t-shirt. Also I would cheat by rolling my tee around in a nice pumpkin pie, because apparently that’s a scent that men love. I read it in a study. With the candlestick. And Mrs. Peacock. But I can’t deny that I like my boyfriend’s t-shirts. I like how they smell. And that’s the whole point of this. We’re all gross and we like how we smell. Because we’re basically jerks who walk around smelling for love. And then when we smell something we like, we bang it. Or marry it.
Here is my favorite tip:

“Some things for women to consider:

Strippers get more tips when ovulating. It is not proven whether this is because of pheromones or just actions, but worth considering for coordinating your odor print phase.”

This entire party sounds awesome. Can someone please go to this and report back? Are you adventurous enough to go? Wouldn’t this be the best “…and that’s how I met your mother” story ever?

But most of all, what do you think  — is this idea legit? Do you like how your dude or lady smells?

Get thee to Cinefamily on April 5th.


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