Category Archives: music

The One That Got Away.

Jul

2009

We want to believe that the air was heavy with regret for both parties. That we were but characters in an F. Scott Fitzgerald short story. That “everything inside was turning over/minutes seemed to last forever/my fault in, a way, for being clever” (‘In Findley’, Sydne Rome, a great song to set against walking along the Seine in slow motion). We want to believe in The One That Got Away.

The truth is, honey, they’re called “the one that got away” for a reason.

It’s not like misplacing your car keys.

Like, “Oh damn, where’s the one? I thought I put him on the hall table when I walked in.”
“Shelly…he’s just the one that got away.”
“Fuck, I guess I’ll take the bus.”

No. They “got away” like a hostage. They made a break for it when your back was turned. While you were answering the door to help Jodie Foster with her investigation, they captured your dog, did not put the lotion in the basket, and screamed for help. In short, they ran away.

And even though you know this, you still want to believe that there will be a great Katherine Heigl movie moment, where you’ll lock eyes across a hospital or dance floor or whatever the fuck, and you’ll find each other again. And until that happens you want to believe in it so badly that you’ll sing in earnest to songs like the Thompson Twins’ “Hold Me Now”, belting, “BOTH OF US SEARCHING FOR SOME PERFECT WORLD WE KNOW WE’LL NEVER FIND!” Your friends will nod but deep down see what you cannot see:

They got away because they wanted to. This shit is over.

I sometimes think about TOTGA. He was a vaguely famous musician and he was beautiful. Once in a while I’ll see something completely ordinary and I’ll think of him. I’ll wonder what the hell happened. Why he one day stopped responding and why I never heard from him again. (My theory is that he got back together with his ex-girlfriend. That or he never existed and that I dreamed the whole thing). The kicker is, I know that I didn’t do anything wrong; I was a Marc Jacobs coat while he was looking for cutlery and you can’t cut a steak with a coat. (What am I talking about?: older entry ‘She’s Just Not That Into You’

To dip a toe in the pool of self-pity is fine. To wade in it, a little silly, but OK. But don’t swim in it and for God’s sake don’t drown. Because you might find someone out there who will run to you rather than from and you won’t want to miss that.

In Findley — Sydne Rome
Hold Me Now — The Thompson Twins
Cry Me A River — Julie London

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Older Men.

Jul

2009

I just want to make one thing perfectly clear:

I would hit it so hard. I would wreck him. He would need to go to the hospital. He would probably sprain various body parts. I know his bones are getting weak, so this is just a fair warning. You think you’ve had heart problems in the past, Macca? Yeah, nothing compared to what I would do to you. But guess what? It would be so worth it. I’ll elaborate more later. Oh, you think there’s no more I can say? How wrong you are. Oh, you don’t want me to elaborate? Get a ticket to ride, cuz I don’t care.

A lot of younger women seem to go for older men. This isn’t a fad, this is because men in their twenties are like Elmo. They’re fun and cute but they’re kind of annoying and ultimately confused. I’m sorry, are you bothered by my generalization? THEN MAYBE YOU SHOULD STOP MAKING IT TRUE.

I’ll be kind and say that you guys probably have good intentions but you always wind up in the failboat. (Note: I realize that not all guys in their 20s are like this. If you’re not like this, you’re of a dying breed! Thank you for existing!) The worst is when you act immature and we’re surprised. I’m sure we do a lot of bitchy things that you hate but one thing that we don’t do is leave you hanging. We don’t randomly stop texting you. (Also, we don’t think of watching you and your bros play Guitar Hero as a date.)

This is why I need to marry Paul McCartney.

Yeah, specious logic on my part. Really I’ve always wanted to marry Paul McCartney. And although he’s aging much like Judy Dench, I still think he’s handsome as fuck. He’s smart and funny and creative and kind. At 60-whatever he’s still the cute Beatle…well…I mean I know half of them are dead, but you know what I mean. Paul McCartney is cheeky enough to get away with dating someone like me, by which I mean, someone with a 4 decade age difference. No one thinks Macca is gross. Were he to date me I’m sure most people would find it charming. I know I would. He’s younger than my dad! (OK by like a year or two, shhh.)

Look at that face. Fucking look at it! I would hit it so hard that he would time travel, back to the date where this photo was taken, stop and pose just like this, and then time travel back to his current sexy self. We would have amazing kinky Beatles sex. I would be the walrus. He could goo-goo-gajoob whatever he wanted.

The oldest man I ever dated was 36. I was 20. And by dated I mean sleep with after a night of drug induced madness. Since then I’ve managed to stay within my age bracket but it’s not really by choice. I just haven’t met anyone older who wants to date me. Or I don’t want to date them. We’re like those boats at the end of The Great Gatsby, floating carelessly into the past, scoping out the bar at Bardot for better looking people to hit on. It’s a love story of the saddest kind. The kind without any love. Or story, for that matter.

Hmmm…maybe his bones aren’t so weak after all! Maybe I’m amazed.

I don’t think Macca will risk another marriage. Maybe he’ll never find another love like the one he found in Linda. Maybe he just hasn’t met me yet and therefore hasn’t decided. Maybe I’m living in a dream world. Maybe we all are. Maybe this is all a dream inside Ringo Starr’s head. Maybe I am Ringo Starr. Who can say, really?

Paul McCartney — Scissor Sisters
Nod Your Head — Paul McCartney

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the cool kids.

Jul

2009

The cool kids are different from you and me.

They’re cool.

The cool kids always look effortless. The cool kids know that effort is something to have but not to show. Like money.

The cool kids are everywhere. You’re always running into them, and sometimes they don’t remember you, but you don’t want to tell them you’ve already met so you pretend it’s the first time.

The cool kids are not hipsters, because not all hipsters are cool.

The cool kids are almost always thin and if this shocks or upsets you then I’m sorry.

The cool kids know people.

The cool kids know at least one Coppola, or Coppola-related person.

The cool kids make irony ironic.

The cool kids always know how to dress and always look cool, even if they’re just wearing jeans and a t-shirt. You’ll try to replicate the look but you won’t look as cool. You’ll wonder about this phenomenon, you’ll cover your walls in clippings and chalk boards with scattered phrases like, “Acne + APC = ??? American A x thrift??” and you’ll feel like Russell Crowe in “A Beautiful Mind” but your mind won’t feel beautiful at all, and that title is a lie, there is nothing beautiful about Russell Crowe, and if this shocks you then I’m sorry.

The cool kids only make last-minute plans. Cool kids don’t need to plan anything because they won’t wait for life to happen, they make life happen.

The cool kids always have the strangest jobs, or jobs that sound like 110% fun.

The cool kids are always photographed and they always look good, even if their hair is covering their face or there’s a stain on their shirt.

The cool kids never quote movies, because the cool kids are always in one big movie.

The cool kids defy description other than, “You know that guy Erik?” “Sort of, what’s he like?” “He’s just really cool“.

The cool kids are always busy.

The cool kids love burritos. I can’t really explain why, but they do, and if this shocks you, then I’m sorry.

I Don’t Wanna Be Too Cool — Kate Fagan

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My Dream Funeral

Jul

2009

Dream weddings are so 1996. Oh I know what you’re thinking: “Gee Almie, sounds to me like you just picked an arbitrary date.” WELL OK I FUCKING DID. THERE’S NOTHING WRONG WITH 1996, I ADMIT IT. ARE YOU HAPPY NOW? LOOK AT THE ANGUISH YOU’VE CAUSED. GO TO YOUR ROOM. EAT A SHARPIE.

But back to my perfect funeral. First of all, I’m going to have to demand it have a costume party theme. Something like this:

http://latimesblogs.latimes.com/alltherage/images/2008/03/28/37231193.jpg

But I really want guests to take it to the next level. Like my brother better be in a fucking mascot costume and I want a Michael Jackson impersonator to perform the service:

YES, I KNOW THAT THIS IS A PHOTO OF THE REAL MICHAEL JACKSON; DON’T EMAIL ME. I CAN TELL THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN A FAKE MICHAEL JACKSON AND THE REAL ONE. What I can’t understand is why Bette Midler is sitting on David Bowie’s lap. And why Cher seems so pissed off about all of this. WHERE’S THE LOVE, CHER?

Now as for my body, I don’t want to be buried or cremated; I want my body to be propped up like a puppet but with Abe Lincoln animatronic technology so that I can wave to guests as they enter. Just sit me on a chair, play a recording of my voice saying, “Hey guys!” and have my arm wave back and forth. I don’t think that’s too much to ask. I mean this is the year 00s, this is serious future shit, animatronic technology should be available.

the prettiest star — bowie should play as you enter the service and the theme from The Mary Tyler Moore show should play as you exit. Better yet, someone should hire a band to play the Mary Tyler Moore theme live.

I want to be buried in this outfit:

OR to be made up like Laura Palmer in “Twin Peaks” in her prom outfit. NOT after they found her in plastic.

Please serve only champagne and In-N-Out at the reception and have the same band that performed the MTM theme song play “While My Guitar Gently Weeps” but ONLY in German OR dutch. Play NO OTHER SONGS. Just alternate between those two.

I WANT THERE TO BE BALLOON ANIMALS. As each person gives their eulogy (or “Eugoogolie”, to quote Zoolander — fuck, scratch that, I demand that everyone call it a eugoogolie –) they MUST have a balloon animal on their person. And balloon hats; but not if it interferes with their costume. The costume is CRUCIAL. And I cannot stress this enough: IT MUST BE A REAL COSTUME, NOT SOME BULLSHIT WHERE YOU PUT ON A WHITE JACKET AND SAY, “OH I’M A DOCTOR” — YOU BETTER RENT A COSTUME OR MAKE A DAMN GOOD ONE FOR MY FUNERAL.

Finally, the most important thing, is that I want everyone to have a good time. Value my life, be sad over my death, and eat lots of burgers. Play kazoos as you follow the processional. Make Phil Spector jokes. Tell funny stories about what an ass I was.

And I promise to do the same for you.

Though I will likely be escorted out of the building.

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