Category Archives: Los Angeles

Living alone in LA.

Decorated by David Lynch.

 

I moved into my new apartment and started being a badass adult. Or maybe I’m just a bad ass. I am trying to figure this all out. There are still boxes everywhere and certain things remained unpacked and some walls are bare and it makes me anxious. And there are cords and wires everywhere from connecting various electronic necessities like Internet and television. I know, the horror. The struggle. The sleepless nights.

I don’t have a dining room table. I am okay with this. Do you have a dining room table? I don’t really dine. I eat. I haven’t started cooking yet. I keep threatening to do it, but I don’t. Do you cook? Does anyone out there lead a responsible life and can you tell me how I can do that too?

For now I am living alone and it’s good and it’s bad. I lived alone in college in NYC in a lovely little studio. I loved it, mostly. The great thing about New York is that you walk out of your building and there’s people and there’s people you know and you’re okay, everything is fine. Unless you hate people. Then you’re fucked, little sir. This is what I like about my new neighborhood. On Saturday I ran into the same guy twice. Once in the afternoon and once at night. At night it was in a restaurant (after my performance with Hello Giggles at UCB which I don’t really want to talk about because I am a perfectionist and wished I had done better. But that’s not important right now.) He was on a date and his mom was there. I think maybe it was not the best time to say hi. But I did. I am fearless. His mom and girlfriend are very nice. It’s nice when people are nice. It’s unpleasant when people are fake nice. But sometimes fake nice is better than being outright hostile.

My friend and new manager (yay!) says that my apartment is haunted. That would explain why the rent is good and why my landlord is so nice to me. I haven’t experienced any hauntings aside from when the record player started making noises like an alien spaceship in 1950s movies. I knew there was a logical explanation but I turned it off anyway.

Do you live alone and do you like it? And what does your apartment look like? Be honest with me. If it’s a mess I want to hear about every last beer can and pizza box.

 

This post was sponsored by U Move Free. Moving soon? UMoveFree complaints are few and far between. So, challenge accepted. Kidding.

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Brokechella.

 

almie rose brokechella apocalypstick

Thanks to photographer Raymond Liu!

Coachella is not my idea of fun; it’s more my idea of let’s make Uncle Almie cry. There’s lots of people, dirty hot sweaty people, and you have to throw money everywhere. If you can rock it out there, by all means, have fun in the assy desert. But if you’re high maintenance and totally fucking annoying like I am, Brokechella is the chella for you. Not to say that Brokechella was annoying; it was crazy fun and chill at the same time. It was a bunch of people in a warehouse getting free stuff and getting photographed and dancing to random LA bands that should be crazy famous but aren’t and eating and drinking. Big thanks to Cartel: Collaborative Arts L.A. for putting together such a creative and spirited event.

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La La Los Feliz

old los angeles apartment buildings

My apartment is not pictured here. I just think these are pretty.

After what seemed like a hopeless search, I found a place to live. My mom will be my roommate no longer. I will miss living with her. The last time I lived alone was in NYC when I was in college. I like to live alone. But I’ve never lived alone in LA before. That can feel very alone, I would imagine. But I am living in a great neighborhood (Los Feliz, hipster status achieved) where everything is within walking distance like liquor stores, bars, and my boyfriend. Perfect! I remember my fear and loathing of Silverlake that I had not so long ago. But people change you guys. They change from entitled people from the westside to entitled people from the eastside. I guess I’ll have to start wearing more vintage clothing and skinnier pants. And lose like ten pounds. And hold a pack of cigarettes as a prop. I’m not drinking PBR though, you have to draw the line somewhere.

My greatest hope is that in all this stress, I will lose weight. There has to be a silver lining in everything, right? Or maybe I will have a complete mental breakdown and be hospitalized, in which case I will get some sweet morphine and have conversations with cartoon characters. Speaking of which, I saw “Space Jam” recently and I don’t even know what happened there. How did that movie get made? Michael Jordan, what? I feel like someone said to him, “Michael, we want you in a movie, you can work with anyone you want!” And he said, “Looney Tunes.” And there was a pause and his agent said, “…okay. Let’s do it.”

But that’s not important right now.

Finding an apartment was stressful. Moving into the apartment is maybe even more stressful, especially since I have about a week to do it. Good luck, Future Almie! And Godspeed.

Anyone have any moving tips or tips for organizing an apartment, or even decorating it? I have a nonworking fireplace and it seems like Pinterest is encouraging me to put empty wine bottles, candles, or books in it. My life so hard.

This post is sponsored by the fab  apartment-finding service You Move Free.

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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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Life is weird.

Oh hay just posing at a fast food BBQ joint, no big deal. Instagram @apocalypstick

This going to sound like the musings of an incredibly stoned person, who is in bed eating Trader Joe’s snack mix while watching “Breaking Bad” but having to constantly rewind because they’re ironically too high to understand it, but I swear I am not stoned. Currently.

Life is so very weird. For example, I now both drink and enjoy iced coffee. You get what I’m saying? Big news. Life is weird, it’s like, one minute you’re the hottest bestest newest thing and the next minute you’re fat and bald and starring in a remake of The Taking of Pelham 1 2 3. You know? The weird thing about life is that things don’t seem to change day by day. You wake up and think, I have to do this same stuff again. But when you think really far back, there was a time when you weren’t doing that stuff. Somehow everything changed. And look at your friends, what are they up to? One minute they’re there, the next minute they’re gone, or sick, or incredibly famous. Usually all three, if you live in LA. Life is weird.

A lot has changed for me within the past year. A complete turn around. I even look different physically, in that I have never looked more like Mick Jagger in my life. And my stomach is constantly upset. I think it’s because beneath my skin is a fine layer of stress. Someone suggested I meditate. Sit in a chair and set a timer for 10 minutes and just sit there and breathe. I’m sorry, sir, but no. I can’t sit in a chair for 10 minutes and do nothing. I’ll just be thinking about the timer going off. I’ll start with one minute. Even that seems really hard. Heating up Hot Pockets in the microwaves seems to take hours.

I should eat less Hot Pockets.

I just want to know what’s going to happen. Where will I be next year? Actually, no, that’s too far ahead. Where will I be next month? Can someone spoiler alert my life? I don’t have time for this shit. I don’t want the journey, I want the destination. Fuck the journey, the journey sucks. No one on the Oregon Trail was like, “This is so awesome how we’re running out of food and dying of dysentery, it’s all gonna go downhill once we get there.”

Kids, help.

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Vicodin with apple juice and graham crackers.

audrey hepburn funny face photo

Yesterday started out like the day before it and the day before that and the day before that. I was getting ready for work. I was buttoning my shirt when all of a sudden I heard a crack and pain shot through my neck. I couldn’t move my head, even the slightest. The pain was unbearable. I managed to get to my bed where I laid down for an hour and a half, because I couldn’t move. So of course my cat Obo decided to sit on my chest.

I was scared. I knew I needed help. I called my mom. I am so lucky that she lives here. I persuaded my mom to come over. By the time she got here I was surrounded by two cats and I dog who would not leave me alone. My mom tried to get me to move but the pain was so bad I started crying. Finally I realized that I had to go to the hospital, and this was terrible news.

This meant I had to waste a really cute outfit.

We get to the hospital and damn, what a nice hospital. UCLA hospital is like a really nice hotel. We had to wait about an hour but in that time the kindest nurse I have ever met (Hi Nadia!) saw me and said, “You look like you’re in a lot of pain. You’re so pale. Would you like a Vicodin and some juice and crackers?” JOKE’S ON HER I ALWAYS LOOK PALE. No but seriously. Then later we get into a room and wait some more. And I get more pain killers! The doctor comes in and examines me and determines that there are no broken bones and that I have torn a large muscle in my neck. Ew. They run some tests. They send me on my merry way. Merry because I was so high.

And here I am. In pain. In bed.

Now here’s the thing. There are people who look at a situation like this and think, “Bummer, that sucks.” Then there are people who see this and look for the meaning in it. Why did this happen? Karma? Or is it a message that I need to slow down?

My cynical side really wants to roll my eyes at my spiritual side. But lately I feel like it can’t hurt (pun not intended) to look at things from a view different from my own. Who was it who said, “The unexamined life is not worth living”? Probably Neil Patrick Harris.

Has something weird and/or traumatic happen to you that made you wonder if there was a deeper meaning behind it?

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