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.

(Cover by the amazing Emily.)

TRACKLISTING:

1. I’m Not In Love — 10cc

2. The Air That I Breathe — Olivia Newton-John

3. If You Could Read My Mind — Gordon Lightfoot

4. Without You — Harry Nilsson

5. If You Leave Me Now — Chicago

6. At Seventeen — Janis Ian

7. How Deep Is Your Love — The Bee Gees

8. The Time Has Come — Anne Briggs

9. Mona Lisas And Mad Hatters — Elton John

10. Superstar — The Carpenters

11. So Far Away — Carole King

12. Wild World — Cat Stevens

13. Vienna — Billy Joel

This is a great mix to listen to while you’re hanging yourself.

Download here. I hope I did it right. Let me know what you think.

There is no way that this winter is ever going to end as long as this groundhog keeps seeing his shadow. I don’t see any other way out. He’s got to be stopped. And I have to stop him.

I don’t even need to remember things anymore, not when I have Google. The internet remembers things for me. Google helps me find them. However Google doesn’t once ask, “Are you sure you want to search for this?” This where trouble occurs. Sometimes you find things that you don’t want to find.

You know how sometimes it doesn’t matter how old something is, it can still feel like it just happened? It’s the same way you can watch a movie you’ve seen countless times but it still moves you. Like when the bum pops up from behind the dumpster in “Mulholland Dr.” I freak out every single time. I know it’s coming, and I try to prepare myself, but it still scares me.

To paraphrase the cowboy from “Mulholland Dr.” let’s get right down to it, shall we?

I’m sick of being a back-up. I’m never the first choice. I am like Ralph Wiggum. Lisa didn’t “choo choo choose” him. She took a valentine card given to her, crossed off her name, and gave it to Ralph to make him feel better about how no one cho cho chose him. I am a second-hand valentine card. Am I being irrational? Maybe. But looking back on my dating history, I feel like I’ve come to a horrible realization that anyone I’ve dated and/or “dated” was with me because they weren’t with who they really want to be with. If their girlfriend hadn’t broken up with them, they wouldn’t have been with me. And I wonder how many other people feel the same way about themselves. And I wonder if we’re all just dating out of desperation. Because the person we want doesn’t want us.

My friend countered with something like, “No you just haven’t met the right guy yet! And any guy who doesn’t want to be with you isn’t worth your time!” To which I say, even the right guy for me…will only be with me because he’s not with somebody else. In that, he’ll always have the ghost.

Do we ever really give up the ghost? The past is everywhere. It’s never leaving. Thanks to the internet it will always be there.

At what point do you acknowledge the past without letting it ruin your present, let alone future? You can forgive someone. It’s like I said (and yes, I am about to quote myself), “There comes a moment in every 20-something’s life when they realize, ‘Holy shit, I’m a total asshole.’” We all do stupid things when we’re young and touching people and liking it. So you can understand and you can forgive. But how do you forget if you can’t really, short of brain damage, forget?

I don’t really know how to explain what I’m feeling any better than the Groundhog Day quote posted above. Except I’m not feeling that about a groundhog. But you know?

Too early for flapjacks?

Time Of The Assassins — Charlotte Gainsbourg

My friend Chloe surprised me at work a few days ago (and it was a surprise to her, too; I don’t think she knew I was working that day. Also, don’t bother asking me where I work because I am not going to ever tell you, Internet.) I was standing in the corner, smelling our new lip glosses. They smell really good, okay? I hear someone call my name, and I turn and see a beautiful girl. I didn’t have my glasses on, so I didn’t know it was her. “Are you okay?” she asked me, coming up to me the way you would approach…well the way you would approach a sad-looking girl methodically sniffing lip gloss. We walked around the store, me pretending to help her. “You know, you don’t have to pretend,” she said. “Pretend to help you find something?” I asked. “No, you don’t have to pretend to be okay.”

It was such a release. I don’t have to pretend to be okay. I don’t have to laugh at something that I think I’m supposed to laugh at. I don’t have to be a happy person. I am the person who had a fucking diabolical summer and whose cat just died. But if I’m not supposed to pretend then what winds up happening is I let the depression overtake me and I watch “Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind” for something like the twelfth time only this time I thought Clementine was a bitch and this saddened me in ways I can’t even describe.

The day after that, I went to a friend’s birthday party. I thought I looked okay. I sat on the couch talking to a good friend of mine about hummus and other important things in life when the host saw me, stopped dead in his tracks and said, “Honey are you okay? You look absolutely miserable.”

Damn it. Now everyone’s looking at me. “My cat just died,” I said, thus officially taking on the role of Who Invited Her for the evening. Everyone was kind and sympathetic and told me about how they understood because they had to put their dogs down, and it just made me even more sad, thinking about a world where people are basically just waiting for that moment when they have to put down their dogs. I excused myself and went into the bathroom.

My face was pale, which is really saying something for me. I looked like Mick Jagger died, sat in the ground for a few years, then some sick people said, “Hey let’s dig up Mick Jagger and put him in a party dress” and did.

I spent yesterday in a fog. This morning I realized I bought red eyeshadow. I still approve of this purchase, I just don’t remember it happening. I also bought a giant ring and a rhinestone studded necklace of a cat. Yes, I am this person. This is me. Apocalypstick and Almie are at an impasse. I realize that I am now referring to myself not only in the third person, but as an alter ego. I understand if this makes you want to vomit.

And how was your weekend?

Ev’rybody Wants To Be A Cat — Psapp

My best friend in the world, Sony (pictured above), died unexpectedly this morning. (You may remember him from such films as “How To Get Over A Break-Up”). He was completely wonderful. He followed me everywhere, and if I forgot to leave my bedroom door open for him he would cry until I opened it. We had our own language. I swear to God he was sarcastic. He slept with me every night. When I took him to the vet I would carry him and he would sit quietly and patiently on my lap in the waiting room. People would marvel at him and say, “Your cat is so calm!” and I would pat him on the head and feel like a proud parent. I had many nicknames for him. I would coo over him and scratch his back and say things like, “Sooooooony, I think you’re exceeeeeeeeptional!” and “Soooooooony, I’m going to nominate you for a Golden Globe Awaaaaaard!” I loved him and he loved me and I will miss him every day.

Has a death of a pet affected you? How did you get over it?

Conversation Piece — David Bowie

I’ve been unsure of how to approach this topic. But I think it must be said.

Just because I am a young woman and I am alone does not give you permission to start hitting on me. I don’t want your attention. I just want a cup of coffee. I just want to pick up frozen yogurt for my mom. I just want you to be polite, take my money, and give me whatever it is I came there to buy. I don’t want you to start asking me about my life. You don’t know me. I don’t know you. When I try to shoot you down nicely and tell you, “I’m just getting frozen yogurt for my mom,” I don’t need you to then quiz me about why I don’t like frozen yogurt.

Someone somewhere came up with this phrase that goes something like, “When a man says no, that’s the end of the discussion. When a woman says no, it’ the beginning of a negotiation.” No, I do not want you to sit next to me. No, do not try to come up with a compromise. No, you cannot come in, we are closed. No, do not try to reason that you’ll only be a few minutes. Funny that when my male coworker tells you we’re closed, you leave immediately.

As women, we’re subliminally taught to be polite under duress. Because if we say no, or reject any sort of advance even if we do it kindly, we’re labeled a bitch. We don’t want you to join us when we’re eating alone? Bitch. We don’t want you to buy us a drink? Bitch. We don’t feel flattered when you catcall us on the street? Bitch. And the thing is, we have no way of knowing which one of you is going to snap and attack us. I’M NOT SAYING THAT ALL MEN ARE PREDATORS AND THAT AS WOMEN WE SHOULD ALL BE AFRAID. I’m just saying that a young woman walking down the street, simply by being female, is more likely to be harassed than a man. It’s not fair but it’s something we’ve come to accept.

But it’s not enough for some men. Sometimes we just want to go out with our girlfriends have a girls’ night out. We do not want you to come up to us, drunk out of your mind, and try to get us to invite you into our group. When I had a boyfriend, it didn’t matter, men still did what they wanted anyway, but now that I’m single it’s like men (not ALL MEN) feel they have the right to blatantly hit on me. Did I ask you to buy me a drink? Did I come up to you and interact with you? No. Did I try to be polite and say “no” without hurting your feelings? Yes. So now what am I supposed to do? Curse you out? Then what? Do I need to be worried that you’re going to be a total asshole?

When it comes to bars or parties I can understand a little more why you would come up to me. After all, you’re at a bar or a party to mingle. To meet people and have fun and so forth. But when I’m running errands? You really need to make your moves on me when I’m in sweatpants, with unwashed hair, and in a hurry to just get on with my day? Do you really think that I’m going to drop everything and ask you to go out? No. I don’t want your attention. I want my sandwich.

Now. Sometimes I love attention from men. But when it’s respectful and when I clearly indicate that I want it. Guys, here is how you tell if a girl is interested: if she makes direct eye contact with you, smiles, and asks you questions, then she probably wouldn’t mind getting to know you. (If you’re British and you’re in America, you’re pretty much given an automatic green light. This is a half-joke.) If she’s mumbling, looking down, closing off her space to you, and gives short answers, she wants you to leave. She’s just been conditioned to think that she can’t say, “Get the fuck away from me.” There are LOTS OF WOMEN, I KNOW, WHO CAN SAY THAT. And who have every right. But I’m just not one of them. I can’t. I have to to think of myself first. I can’t worry that you, strange man in a bar, is going to flip out when I reject you harshly.

I had a stalker once. It wasn’t pleasant.

Basically, here’s what I’m saying. I do not hate men. I just hate being hit on when I clearly do not want to be hit on. And I think men probably feel that way too. It’s just harder when you’re a woman sometimes. Maybe that’s something I’m not supposed to say.

My “no” is not a negotiation.

I Want It That Way — The Backstreet Boys

“Excuse me,” I overhear you ask, in your lovely New Zealand accent,

Yes? I wonder,

“But if my wife doesn’t like this hat, can I return it?”

FUCK YOU NEW ZEALAND MAN. FUCK YOU WITH YOUR HAIR AND YOUR FACE AND YOUR SHIRT AND YOUR JEANS AND YOUR VOICE. GUESS WHAT BUDDY? ALL SALES ARE FINAL! NO! YOUR WIFE CAN’T RETURN YOUR GODDAMN PRECIOUS GIFT!

I’m sorry. I want you to know, New Zealand Man, that when I say “precious” I don’t mean it in a sarcastic manner. I think that you wanting to buy your wife a vintage straw hat really is precious. It is a precious gift. It is kind of you. Kind like your eyes.

NON -REFUNDABLE, PAL. I HOPE SHE FUCKING HATES IT!!!! I HOPE SHE OPENS THE BAG, HER EYES WIDE WITH HOPE AND PROMISE, AND THEN UPON SEEING THE HAT, I HOPE THE SHARP DISAPPOINTMENT IS OBVIOUS ON HER (LIKELY) PRETTY, PRETTY FACE. I HOPE SHE COMES CLOSE TO TEARS. I HOPE THE HAT REMINDS HER OF EVERYTHING THAT IS WRONG IN YOUR RELATIONSHIP. BUT OF COURSE, YOUR RELATIONSHIP IS PROBABLY AS PERFECT AS YOUR FACE, NEW ZEALAND MAN.

You walk in, with your long hair, your boyish face, in your outfit that your perfect wife probably picked out for you, except you probably chose those shoes, and you make everyone want to know more about you and then with one simple request your ruin it all. What kind of husband are you, anyway? Aren’t you a little young to be married? Aren’t you a little young to be buying your wife a hat? Don’t you have to be in your 50s to do something like that? Who the hell are you, New Zealand Man? Where did you come from, aside from New Zealand?

AND WHERE IS YOUR WIFE, ANYWAY? SHE’S PROBABLY OFF DOING MISSIONARY WORK. SHE’S PROBABLY MODELING. SHE’S PROBABLY BUSY BEING FAMOUS. WHERE IS YOUR HOME, NEW ZEALAND MAN? VENICE? SANTA MONICA? ECHO PARK? WHERE DID YOU COME FROM? WHO ARE YOU?

I’m sorry, New Zealand Man. It’s just that you’re too perfect to be here. You’re too perfectly wrong. WHAT ARE YOU DOING IN A STORE ON A THURSDAY AFTERNOON? SHOULDN’T YOU BE WORKING? I KNOW WHY I’M HERE, BUT WHY ARE YOU? DON’T QUESTION ME, NEW ZEALAND MAN. I’LL ASK THE QUESTIONS HERE. I DON’T KNOW HOW THEY DO THINGS IN NEW ZEALAND BUT HERE IN AMERICA WE HAVE RULES, BUDDY. OUR RULES ARE THAT IF YOU LOOK LIKE YOU AND HAVE THE ACCENT THAT YOU HAVE, YOU ARE NOT ALLOWED TO HAVE A WIFE. LOOK IT UP IN THE CONSTITUTION. SEARCH FOR IT IN THE FLAG. IT’S PRINTED ON OUR MONEY.

I hope that you and your wife have a long and happy life together and I hope that she hates the hat. Really, really, really hates the hat.

“Sorry,” I hear her say. “All sales are final.”

You chuckle. CHUCKLE! A kind chuckle. A, “Aw shucks, I’m just happy to be here!” chuckle. You tell her that you’ll just have your wife come over and look at it then.

YOU GOTTA BE KIDDING ME, SPORT. YOU GO SHOPPING FOR YOUR WIFE WITH YOUR WIFE? NOW YOU’RE JUST SHOWING OFF. GET OUT OF HERE. GET BACK TO YOUR ART STUDIO. YOU’RE PROBABLY A PAINTER. OR A PHOTOGRAPHER. OR MAYBE YOU’RE A MUSICIAN. YOU PROBABLY HAVE LIKE SIX GUITARS AND YOU PROBABLY SING ABOUT WHY THINGS IN LIFE AREN’T SO BAD. I didn’t look at your wife before I left. But I can imagine her. I can imagine her crinkling her nose at the hat and waving it away. I can imagine hating her even more for it. But you probably take no offense.

Fuck you, gentle soul.

Get It On My Mind (Marvin Gaye vs. The Pixies) — Dj Zebra

Warning! This mash-up may change your life.

I think the worst thing someone can do is dictate how you should feel. If someone tells you to calm down, you’re going to get angrier. If someone tells you to cheer up, you’re going to sulk. If someone tells you to move on, you’re going to punch them in the face.

Speaking of faces, I thought I’ve been putting on a good one. I go out and I think I’m OK. I think I’m myself. Then someone proves to me that I’m not. Someone will ask me if I’m upset about something. Or if I’m sedated. Then I realize that I wasn’t fooling anyone. My emotions, or lack thereof, were as obvious on my face as red lipstick. I hate admitting that I’m having a hard day, week, month (year I’llbethereforyouuuu) and I especially hate putting it here on my blog because I want people to think that I am indestructible, like Iron Man, at all times. I’ve never seen Iron Man but from what I’ve gathered from the posters, he appears to be indestructible. I think he wears a metal robot suit. The commercials let me know that he’s also really cool because he wears sunglasses and carries briefcases and smokes.

So, yes, I am not having the best time right now. I was for a little while and then it came crashing down on my foot. I also hate declaring that I’m not doing well, because from what I know and have seen and personally experienced, it could be a lot lot lot worse. I do have my health. I have my family. Those two things are the essentials in life, and two out of two is fantastic. It’s just my feelings that aren’t OK and what are feelings but things that annoy us anyway? It’s not real. It’s not like I can just check out because I have feelings. If I had malaria no one would fault me for avoiding life. But feelings?

It’s just a culmination of things right now. I’ll be fine soon. I’m supposed to be fine now. I’m not. Suck my balls. I’m sorry. I hope that one day I will be able to write something without cursing or being crude. I also hope that one day I’ll be able to write something and not make a pop culture reference. This is maybe my biggest goal after appearing on “Mad Men.”

In the mean time Ob la di. Ob la da. Sometimes I wish that this blog was a secret website where I could say what I really wanted to say. Then I remember that’s what diaries are for. I remember how I used to write in journals. Now the idea pains me. I don’t want to hand write everything. I’m not Abe Lincoln. I have a fucking computer. But I think my reliance on computers has weakened my handwriting. Do you remember when you were a kid and you would forge your parents’ signature on something? You would do it slowly and carefully thinking, “This is how she signs it.” This is how adults write. That’s what my handwriting looks like. Like a kid trying to write like how they think an adult would write. It’s ghastly.

To quote someone I never, ever thought I would quote earnestly: “[I] want to change my clothes, my hair, my face.”

87 Sundays — Ruth

This song is a lost gem from the 1960s. It is depressing but in the best kind of way.

I love you all.