Category Archives: i don’t even know

Milpool.

May

2010

As promised (to no one but myself into my glass of riesling), here are photos from my trip. Just to prove I was there. Although they’re not really typical “brother graduated from college” photos. Those are on a private website where my mom can gush over them and I can applaud myself for using the manual focus on my camera for once. These photos are those moments in between moments. When you’re waiting for something, or you’re a little tipsy, or you just need to do something with your hands and you don’t smoke. Click! Most of these I didn’t take. Try to figure out which ones. I think you’ll be pleasantly surprised.

My brother. When he’s not busy sitting in dark restaurants, he works as a silhouette in old timey profile photos on Disneyland’s Main Street.

Damn, I just quoted The Simpsons. I’ve been trying not to do that lately. Because at this point I feel like I do it far too often and should be paying them. Whatever, I could easily write a Simpsons epsiode. Bart and Milhouse switch places and hilarity ensues! Homer goes into a deep depression and Marge begs him to start therapy and he’s like, “Mr. Burns won’t cover the health insurance!” and he hits her and Maggie cries and then Moe rapes someone. No, no, I kid, that’s a terrible Simpsons episode. Here, something to cleanse your palate: DENTAL PLAN!

I think if I ever got a tattoo it would be Simpsons related. Did you see the amazing Milpool tattoo? I am so jealous I didn’t think of that! I tried to find a photo for reference but all I got was this and photos of luxury swimming pools. But that’s not important right now. God, my brother’s University graduation commencement was three hours long. The boredom was crushing. At one point my boyfriend and I just starting taking close-up shots of each others’ faces. Because we’re twelve. But there’s only so many photos you can take of your brother sitting in a crowd of thousands of students.

This is my 91-year-old great uncle Sammy! Yes, literally 91! He is in amazing shape! And he’s drinking straight vodka! Look at him! My dad’s side of the family live long, healthy lives. Those wacky Italians!

Kiss On My List (Hall & Oates cover) — The Bird And The Bee

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Some Girls.

Jan

2010

Driving home from Starbucks I saw a beautiful, smiling, thin blonde girl riding a bike. She was wearing jeans and a long sleeved top but with a slip of thin back peeking through. She looked like a Lisbon girl come to life. In that moment I really wanted to be her.

Sometimes I really like myself. Sometimes I hit John Mayer-like heights of self love where I just want to high five myself and sling an arm around me and get drunk and say, “I really love you, you know that, right? Heeeeeey.” Sometimes I think I’ve got it down.

But other times I see other girls and I think, Why do they get to be them and I have to be me?

I don’t even know that girl on the bike. She might have all kinds of crazy problems. She might be a Mel Gibson fan. But I just want to know what it’s like to be her. To be a human vision of a 70s polaroid. To be so happy and pretty.

It’s like the girls on the Nasty Gal website (shopnastygal.com). The name of that website is very misleading. It is not porn. It’s actually a site that sells slightly hipster clothing. The girls who model the clothes look like Joy Division songs. By which I mean they’re just so cool looking with a slightly hard 80s New Romantics -but not absurdly so- edge. The good kind of 80s. The kind of 80s that’s been sneakily coming back for a while and taking the early 90s with it.

I know I’m not ugly. Although some people on youtube would disagree. My favorite comment ever was, “Okk [sic] your lips are huge and your [sic] ugly.” It’s like, oh, OK. Thanks for the assessment. I will try to work on making my lips look smaller and generally looking less ugly.

A few weeks ago I was at work and I was surprised by a visit from my friend/editor of an online mag I write for. We had never met in person and of course she chose the day to visit in which it was “pajama day” at work. I was wearing new Pjs with dogs in Santa hats and little to no make-up on my face. I think I at least managed to put some concealer and lip balm on there. I hope. I heard later that she described me as “Beautiful and very normal.” I think both adjectives are gross exaggerations on her part. But I appreciate her grace.

When I was blonde and I went to college in Boston (which didn’t last long; my time at Boston, I mean, the blond hair lasted for a while) I had this guy friend who thought I was just beautiful. He was gay so it’s not like he was trying to get into my plaid skirt (at the time I was really into wearing plaid skirts from the children’s section from Target; I really can’t even explain this period in my life) and I remember he once met me outside of class and came up to this group of girls and said to them, of me, “Isn’t this just the most beautiful girl you’ve ever seen??” The girls were chillingly silent. I completely understood.

I am OK to look at. I could be taller and I could be thinner. I could have some angles in my face. No one is ever going to mistake me for a young Catherine Deneuve. I will never steal a role from Charlize Theron. But I don’t need assurance. I’m not writing this so people can tell me, “OMG you are soooooo pretty/what are you talking about/get over yourself/et cetera.” I’m just humbly and simply putting it all out there. This is me, this is who I am, this is why I write what I write, how are you, aren’t we all excited about Lost starting again?

I miss my blond hair. I mean, I think I’m doing OK without it. But I looked different. Older, happier, a little less sophisticated. (To quote others. To me I looked the same but a little more like Scarlett Johansson.) I decided one day to go dark and I haven’t looked back. Except for when I did look back and went blonde again. Then I went dark and really didn’t look back.

Brunettes are really in right now. At least that’s what it seems like. I think we’re in this new era where no one has any money and everyone is skeptical and Jay Leno can swoop in and crush your dreams and we’re donning dark hair and we’re smudging our eye make-up and we’re telling others that we’re going to be OK but completely unsure if we really are. What else can we do?

Disorder — Joy Division

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Things You Need To Stop Doing Right Now.

Dec

2009

YOU NEED TO STOP…

— Using the phrase “Alma mater.” Who the fuck are you trying to fool? Latin’s a dead language, buddy. Just say, “My former/old school.” That sounds real. When you say “Alma Mater” you sound like Ron Burgundy.

— Saying that you’ll follow someone on twitter and then not.

— Using sarcasm in text messaging because it’s really hard to tell when/if you’re being sarcastic through a text message. Beware the exclamation point. They’re the fine line between enthusiasm and sarcasm. “Sorry!” vs “Sorry.” Of course it’s all about context but if you don’t know the person very well then the one with the exclamation point can look very sarcastic.

— Praising Michael Cera for acting. You could swap the guy with a house cat in any of his films and I guarantee you will get the same performance but with less fake, “Oh, I-I guess this thought is, ah, j-just coming to me” stuttering.

— Selecting “reply” on a facebook message if you’re not the only person it was sent to because then we all get your stupid response of, “Thanks for the photos, Nikki, the kids look too cute!!” or whatever. Just reply to the person who sent it to you. My God old people ruin everything.

— Wearing boyfriend jeans. I don’t know what asshole came up with this, but it’s not flattering on anyone. Anyone! Anyone. Katie Holmes, you look like you are on your way to paint a goddamn house. It’s just sloppy looking and stupid. (If this were a text message I could say, “Wow I am really awed by boyfriend jeans! They’re so great!!”).

— Making the same mistakes. “Always crashing in the same car” (Bowie). Learn from your mistakes, don’t repeat them. It’s like George W. Bush said: “Fool me once…shame on you. Fool me twice (long pause) you–you can’t get fooled again.” It’s exactly like that. That is a perfect mistake about making mistakes.

I think I’m falling asleep here, so I’m going to do to bed. I hate when you can’t tell if you’re sleepy or just over it.

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This Is It.

Nov

2009

Sweet fancy fuck.

Yesterday I went to a fashion show where I met three foreign boys who were cute but were also dumber than a box of cats. (“Do you know where there is a taco truck around here?” “No?” “Oh so you are not local?” “I am, but I don’t know where there is a taco truck.” “So you’re not local?”) This is when I realized that sadly being foreign no longer automatically = hot and desirable.

So foreign boys, here’s my new criteria. If you don’t get it then don’t worry, I’m not the girl for you, and you’re not the guy for me.

1.) Be smart. I don’t just mean book smart, you need to be culturally aware.

2.) You need to have a knowledge of film. You can’t count on me to explain to you who that guy is, or what stuff that other guy has directed, or why that film is exciting to me.

3.) I find arguing really sexy. I like to argue.

4.) You need to have a good sense of style. Sorry but baggy jeans and wearing your button-up as a scarf is not going to do it for anyone. Get thee to an H&M or even a thrift store. I once went thrift store shopping with a boy — let’s call him Bob Dylan, who was a friend and then had a crush on me and then I had a crush on him but then he got aloof and turned into a bisexual drug addict, oh college — who bought a Gap shirt despite there being a Gap across the street. “Ew,” said I, “Please don’t buy an old Gap shirt. Please. I will buy a new one for you right now.” I begged him but he really liked the style of the used Gap shirt and it looked good on him. That kid had great style. I wonder where he is now. I hope he’s not dead.

5.) Don’t be a date rapist. Really, you think this would go without saying. I don’t know if you assholes are getting the wrong idea from all those vampire movies out there or what but don’t be fucking creepy.

6.) The Who. I don’t know how to elaborate on this one, something about The Who. Just fill in whatever you want to.

7.) Don’t make me do all the work. Get off your fucking Blackberry and approach me.

8.) Don’t be Jude Law.

There’s my new criteria. Not that it matters anyway. I am currently not accepting any new applicants. Unless you meet every point on this list. In that case though I’d still be wary. “I wouldn’t want to be a part of any club that would have me as a member,” said Groucho Marx. It’s that old thing, you know?

I mean, this is pretty much it because as far as dating goes, I’m fucking spent. I really am. I have to focus on my anemic career. I’m a young smart woman and I’m sick of constantly thinking about and/or looking for men. I am not Carrie Fucking Bradshaw. Carrie was fun in the first two seasons, maybe three, but then she got annoying and clingy and sad. And I don’t know what the hell she was complaining about because she always had sexy successful men who were always after her anyway. She just could never pick one. It’s like models who complain how hard their careers are. You’re essentially being paid to walk. Fuck all of you. Shut up, pick one, and sit down. Then find something new to do with your life.

Girl U Want — Devo

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I'm Not Bitter.

Nov

2009

I think it’s really awesome that I’m not a famous actress. If I were, I wouldn’t be able to bring you this message in sweatpants right now.

Who wants a career? Boy, not me! Give me an iced tall skinny vanilla latte and Britney Spears’s “Blackout” and I’m set for a few hours. It’s especially great that I don’t have to spend time reading scripts or meeting with an agent. That gives me more time to catch up on Oprah.

Sometimes I just have to turn off my mobile phone because it rings constantly. Gosh it’s so cumbersome being so successful.

Just yesterday I was picking up my drugs at my local pharmacy when the paps were mobbing me for photos. I was like, “Gentlemen, please, I’m all bloaty and on my lady time right now, no photos.” And they were like, “Almie, just one, please.” I refused, and because I’m so awesome, they dropped to their knees and cried. It was just like when Montgomery Clift got into that motorcycle accident and Elizabeth Taylor ran to his rescue, and like a mother bear defender her cub, screamed at the photographers, “DON’T YOU DARE TAKE HIS PHOTO NOW” and they actually backed off and didn’t! That would never happen today. Not when we have live footage of Heath Ledger’s body being wheeled from his apartment to an ambulance.

But anyway, back to how famous I am. It’s really difficult when all I want to do is be a serious actress and my manager keeps trying to get me to do sequels to blockbuster films where I have to run around in a bikini. I’m like, “Morty, where is my Chinatown?” and he’s like, “Yeah I think they should let Polanski out too” and I’m like, “What?” and he’s like, “What?” and I’m like, “Never mind” and he’s like, “Ok. Now about Night At The Museum 3…”

I’m so sick of arguing with my publicist about how much face time I have to put in. I’m all like, “I only want to do Conan” and she’s like, “What about Ellen, you love Ellen” and I’m like, “Ugh, fine” and she’s like, “And let me pitch you to the Today Show” and I’m like, “Ugh mom stop it!”

I think it’s fantastic that I don’t have a story arch on Mad Men. I totally have the perfect look and voice for the show and I have no problem with not being on it, because it’s so much better to watch it than to actually be on it, I think any actor would agree to that, I mean that’s just a duh.

Oh actors, all they do is complain, right? Just yesterday I was talking to Sean Penn and he was like, “I’m going to–” and I was like, “SHUT THE FUCK UP I HATE YOU SO MUCH YOU STUPID POMPOUS ASSHOLE” and punched him in the mouth. It was a really weak punch but the entire restaurant still applauded.

I think it’s so awesome that my parents aren’t in the industry. I mean imagine if a career was just handed to me, how tacky, right? I love that I have to fight for every single thing. It’s just so awesome to struggle to land meetings while my friend goes from television show to television show because her Godfather is super famous. I’m like, “I feel sorry for you, it must have sucked being on that super popular network show that was handed to you” and she’s like, “Ugh tell me about it” and we laugh.

Really though, I’m not bitter. To imply that I was bitter would be to imply that I still have feelings at this point. I think it’s more like a Patrick Bateman situation, minus the homicidal hobbies aspect:

Today has not been bad: I worked out for two hours before the office; the new Robinson Hirsch restaurant called Finna opened in Chelsea; Evelyn left two messages on my answering machine and another with Jean, letting me know that she’ll be in Boston for most of the week; and best of all, The Patty Winters Show this morning was in two parts.

Just replace “The Patty Winters Show” with “The Oprah Winfrey Show” and “worked out” with “not worked out” and we’re set.

Get Naked (I Got A Plan) — Britney Spears

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You Want The Truth?

Oct

2009

Big thank you to all four of you (no really, thanks) who commented on my last post on what you want/like about my blog. Apparently what you like is honesty. You like my honesty. You want the truth? Here’s the truth:

The truth is, I’m sitting in my bathrobe right now. I’m sick.

Yet I’m drinking red wine. Out of a big goblet, too. No kidding, it’s a genuine goblet.

I’d let Pete Campbell rape me. But then I guess it wouldn’t be rape. Rape means never having to say please.

My career is as dead as Warren G. Harding. It’s so dead it’s not even worthy of being one of the better dead presidents. My life is a serious of near-misses. I’m shooting a short film on Saturday and I don’t even have my few lines memorized for it yet.

Dude, how come girls [always say to you], ‘Date me date me’? And no girl every says that to me?

I have no idea. It’s a weird thing girls do when you’re friends with them. It’s a girl crush.

NOBODY DOES THAT TO ME WHY AM I A FAIL.

Naw you’re not a fail.

THEN THE GUYS ASK ME OUT AND IM LIKE OKAY AND THEN THEY TRY TO KISS ME AND IM LIKE NO THNX AND THEN THEY GET MAD AND SEND ME MEAN TEXTSSSSSSSS.

Aw I’m sorry. But guys don’t really ask me out so I’m a fail too.

UM YOU GET ASKED OUT BY CELEBS OKAY.

Not exactly.

Most of the time I pretend that I am discovering the world as a time traveler from the future. As in, “Oh, look at how this person acts, this 2009 person.” I can forgive people a lot more this way. They’re not from the future, like I am.

I hate anyone who is even moderately successful in my field.

Nail-biting is my greatest vice.

I want to take up smoking because I have chunks of time in which I need to be self destructive but in an elegant way.

I can have a lot of fun.

I ate cream cheese wontons for dinner.

I feel everything crushing me, like I’m in that trash compactor in Star Wars, but I’m not screaming out for help. I just don’t care. C-3PO is an asshole. I’m sick of his attitude and the last thing I want is for him to save me. This is my garbage mess. That fucking robot with his fucking cocky bullshit sarcasm and sideways head motion needs to get off of my fucking back. Let me die in my own garbage.

I once got a guy off by counting. He wanted to have phone sex but he didn’t want me to talk dirty. He just wanted me to countdown from 20.

I think my friends hate me. They don’t return my calls. I wish I had at least stolen things from their houses while I had the chance.

Lauren Marie — Girls
Goddamn — Girls
Hellhole Ratrace — Girls

These tracks are from Girls and their fantastic new album, “Album.” Let me know if you like it. Or don’t, it’s Manhattan, who gives a fuck.

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The Great Paradox.

Oct

2009

This beautiful card was sent to me by one of my beautiful internet friends. Thank you BB.

Now let’s get to the part of the post where I complain about men, totally ignoring the beautiful sentiment of the beautiful card.

Here is something that I don’t understand. You 20-something men don’t want to be in relationships.

SO WHY IS IT THAT EVERY 20-SOMETHING MAN I MEET IS ALREADY IN A RELATIONSHIP??

Case in point: I just got back from a certain singer’s party, in which Lance Bass was a guest. Oh yeah, I can name drop some serious shit. Anyway. “What does it feel like to be one of the most attractive guys here?” I asked one of the most attractive guys there. Apparently, it felt good. And drunk. “I have a girlfriend,” he finally admitted. “She’s in Mississippi.”

What? WHAT FRESH HELL IS THIS? Why is your girlfriend in Mississippi? What the hell kind of good is that going to do anybody? He then informed me that he is flying her out. GREAT. I HOPE THE TWO OF YOU GET MARRIED ON A GODDAMN STEAMBOAT.

And when the hell did every 20-something guy stop falling in love with me? Guys used to fall in love with me all of the time. I used to be the greatest. I won’t sugarcoat it. But now they instead look right over my head. I know I’m short, but I’m still pretty. What happened? Maybe it’s because my personality kind of sucks. I mean honestly I am a huge egomaniac. And I’m kind of an asshole. But hot guys pull this shit off all the time! Why can’t I?

Excuse me, my decaf green tea is ready.

Anyway back to what I was saying: If no 20-something guy wants to be in a relationship then why is every 20-something guy I know in a relationship?

What fresh hell is this?

OK, now that that is out of my system, I will drink my tea and get back to being like Audrey Hepburn. Maybe men aren’t flocking to me anymore because they sense that talking to me is like playing Russian Roulette. (Let’s me honest, that’s one of those similes that sounds really good but on a second read it doesn’t quite make sense. I tried.) I should really though focus on more important things anyway: my career.

…Ugh.

The Greatest — Cat Power

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