Category Archives: mad men

Silverlake.

Sep
02
2010

 

Jon Hamm’s girlfriend met Jon Hamm at a party in Silverlake.

 

You know who I meet at parties in Silverlake? The Internet. Attractive men with equally attractive twee little girlfriends. Grown men in Ninja Turtle T-shirts and neckbeards. Men of indeterminate sexual orientation. Poor clones of George Harrison and Cat Stevens. Rapists. Pirates. Knaves.

 

Not once have I met a guy even remotely similar to Jon Hamm. Not in looks or personality. I realize that Jon Hamm is a tall order. But is it such a difficult request of the universe to ask for someone not a complete and total fucking disappointment? Getting so routinely disappointed gets old. Furthermore, I don’t understand this sudden adoration for Silverlake and Echo Park. Silverlake used to be known as the place where my eccentric crystal-loving, ghost-channeling, bass guitar-playing uncle, lived. And now it’s a mecca for young rich white hipsters? What fresh hell is this where I have to drive to East L.A. to go to a house party? When did this great migration to Silverlake and Echo Park occur and why? Is it so that Hollywood producers can buy large 1920s cheap houses for their kids to live and party in? Probably. “This is an amazing apartment,” you say, mouth hanging open, wondering how they can afford it until you realize that they don’t. And if they can afford it, they’re basically living in a closet, even though for the same price they could afford something bigger and less gross in the Valley. Oh, but heaven forfend anyone live in the Valley. Let’s instead live near Dodger Stadium. That makes sense. Why are you people here?

 

But back to Jon Hamm. How perfect can one person be? Talented, handsome, great sense of humor, smart, thoughtful, and a feminist? What’s the catch? AND WHAT WERE YOU DOING AT THIS SILVERLAKE PARTY? Your career had not yet bloomed. You were working on the set of a soft core porn movie when you came to that party and your future girlfriend offered you a non-paying role as an asshole in her latest play. I need to be a casting director for theatre, clearly. What better excuse to get to know a handsome man? “I should cast you in my play,” I would say, after inhaling thoughtfully from my cigarette. Sick move! She didn’t even offer him a paying part! Bitch move! But it worked. They got to know each other, they fell in love, and years later they are still together even though he is now ten times as famous as she is. Meanwhile I can’t maintain a relationship for longer than six months. I’ve kept hair colors longer than I’ve kept relationships. HIGH FIVE! I’m told that I need to love myself before anyone else can love me. Super! I have a better chance of having tea with Michael Caine on the fucking moon.

 

But back to Jon Hamm. How can someone so attractive be so humble? Jon Hamm doesn’t walk into parties like he’s walking onto a yacht. I like to think that if a Jon Hamm equivalent was at a Silverlake party and I was at this Silverlake party, we would find each other. The silent understanding of, We do not belong here, we are not cool enough would come between us and we would forsake the cigarette smoking and discussions of, “how like, weird David Lynch is” (stunning observation, neckbeard) and we would be all right. But this never happens to me. Then again, this never happens to anyone. Except Jon Hamm’s girlfriend. She probably had it together. I, clearly, do not.

 

Still.

 

If you live in Silverlake and you’re under the age of forty then I’m sorry to tell you that you are a total fucking asshole.

 

Young Turks (The Disco Pusher Remix) — Au Revoir Simone

 

EDIT!!:

 

Dearest Almie…my little niece (whose birthday is my pin code) ,

Don’t think you can hide. So now I know how you really think of me… “the
place where my eccentric crystal-loving, ghost-channeling, bass
guitar-playing uncle, lived.” You could at least have said handsome or good
looking…would have softened the blow…

Well, regardless of your judgments, your blog made me laugh.  Very clever.

Love,
your eccentric Uncle Steven

 

For the record my Uncle is cooler than all of the lame hipsters who live in Silverlake. IT’S HIS LAND.

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Party Chat

Apr
23
2009

Last night was bizarre.

First of all, yesterday began with The Mad Men casting. I waited in a long ass line only to be told at the front of it that since I was not registered with central casting I needed to come back tomorrow. Oh hell naw. I called my mom and begged her to come by to give me my social security card which I needed for registration and the beautiful wonderful woman that she is, she drove out to Burbank to give it to me. (Yes I live with my parents, and No I don’t think that’s sad. But I am going to milk it until it gets sad.) So finally once I registered I had to wait in another long-ass line so I could be photographed so the casting people could look at my photo out of hundreds in their casting book and somehow pick from that my beautiful face.

I think I looked great. They have my number and they’re going to call it? Right? Right. I would give my left tit to be on Mad Men.


(Natalie Wood is so goddamn fantastic)

Because I spent the entire day at the casting I had to go straight from there to this party in Hwood that my dear friend Laura was invited to because she writes for Angelino magazine. I was her plus one! By the time I got there I had a massive headache because I realized only then that I hadn’t eaten since breakfast because of the casting. The party was hosted by Julianne Moore and was promoted by Soyjoy, who we soon found out, makes fucking disgusting soy protein bars. I needed food so I chowed that down as well as the microscopic hours’dourves that were circulating. I also threw back a small sour apple martini and chugged down 2 bottles of water.

We got to stand a few feet from Julianne Moore and holy fuck the woman is tiny. She’s maybe 5’4” and this is in heels. And she looks like a goddamn 20 year old. She’s gorgeous. (From the back though her elbows give her age away. But she’s still fucking gorgeous.)

By this time my head wouldn’t stop throbbing. Some sort of iron chef show was about to start, with Julianne Moore as one of the judges, so we went upstairs to watch. Along the way I ran into a lovely girl who was at the Mad Men casting so that was fun. LA is really very small.

We sat upstairs and in a few moments we realized that Amy Smart was sitting across from us with her publicist or something. She was wearing an absolutely hideous dress. It looked like a giant scarf. WTF.

And suddenly I began to feel quite nauseous.


I’m sitting there, feeling sick, my head throbbing when Laura says the most beautiful words: “This is dumb, I wanna go.”

So we left and then I realized, I need to get to the bathroom, now. I felt myself ready to vomit and I really didn’t feel like embarrassing myself. However the line to the bathroom was long so I said, “Fuck it, let’s go” and figured maybe I could force it down. Thankfully a beautiful man said, “Are you looking for more bathrooms? There’s some downstairs.” I could have hugged him, but instead, my stomach having heard the news, sent me on a mad dash to the restrooms.

I threw up the ritz cracker-sized turkey burger appetizer. I told Laura I was sick but that I was okay. So off we headed into the night.

As she was driving me to my car I realized that I needed some advil because my headache was even worse. And then I realized something horrible: I was going to be sick again. Thanks to Laura’s mad driving skills we made a screaming left turn into an alley near a 7-Eleven where a homeless man watched me vomit into the street while poor Laura, horrified, could only mutter, “Oh MY God.” I then went into the 7-Eleven to purchase advil, tums, and a loaf of white bread, since I remember hearing that bread was good for an upset stomach.

We drove to the parking lot where my car was, and sat. I could barely eat any bread and I have never wanted to be home so badly in all of my life. I could feel another wave of vomit rising so I convinced Laura that I was absolutely fine and was ready to drive home. She reluctantly drove away and as I watched her hybrid disappear into the night, a geyser of vomit erupted from my throat, sending me into fits of projectile vomiting in the bushes of a parking lot, splashing my dear Marc Jacobs pumps in the process.

However, after that, I felt much better, and got home without further incident.

I still have no idea what happened. I am not the sort of person who gets randomly sick like that. And I’ve fasted all day before, on Yom Kippur, and usually break the fast with champagne, so I don’t know what made last night any different. It was one of the weirdest things that has ever happened to me, but it made me realize the truth in an old cliche:

Timing is everything.

Imagine if I had vomited at Julianne Moore’s party?

It would have been Far From Heaven and the last of my Boogie Nights, for after an incident like that, my name would be one of The Forgotten and I would be known as the Psycho who was ill.

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