Life After “Lost” from Almie Rose on Vimeo.
My friend Laura and I still haven’t gotten over “Lost” ending. It’s affected us in a few different ways.
Life After “Lost” from Almie Rose on Vimeo.
My friend Laura and I still haven’t gotten over “Lost” ending. It’s affected us in a few different ways.
I’m near-sighted but tonight, as I’m trying to work on my book (and I swear this isn’t an excuse), things are a little blurry. Is it possible I’m also far-sighted? Or am I going blind? I AM GOING TO BE SO FUCKING PISSED OFF IF I GO BLIND.
It’s these damn big pupils of mine. For some reason, they’re larger than most peoples’. I’m pretty sure of this. One time I went to the eye doctor and he leaned in and said, “You have beautiful pupils.” And I said something like, “Oh…heh, uh, okay, thanks.” And he said, “They’re very large.” And I couldn’t even say, “Eyes up here, buddy” because that’s exactly where they were.
Don’t people who have large pupils have a better chance of going blind or something? I will be so angry if that happens. But on the plus side, I’ll take up smoking! I’ve always said, if I ever get an incurable disease, I’m just going to say, fuck it, whatever, and start smoking. It’s Manhattan, who gives a fuck? I’m also going to drink a lot too, but like, unabashedly. The great thing about that is I’ll never have to worry about being a designated driver. For a couple of reasons.
No, seriously, I don’t know how people do it. Once I interviewed a man for my documentary on Marilyn Monroe fans (that seems like it was in another life) and he was blind and I wish I was still in touch with him but I lost his address and I stupidly asked him if he had email and he said no, because, he’s blind. I mean he didn’t say that, he was kind and said that the technology for web surfing for the vision impaired wasn’t up to snuff yet. It was like on American Idol when Secrest held up his hand for the blind dude to high five or when George W. Bush waved to Stevie Wonder. Coincidentally, Ryan Secrest and George W. Bush really defined my later high school years, in their own special ways. Anyway, I was interviewing this guy for my documentary and we started talking about his life and I didn’t want to ask him, “Why are you blind, what happened?” because he mentioned when he was a kid he could see, but I didn’t want to put him on the spot and you can’t just ask people why they’re blind. So I asked him about work, fishing around to see if maybe it was a work-related injury. I know, I’m horrible! He told us about work, it was a perfectly normal desk job. He asked, “Is there anything else?” and I stared at my friend Erika and it’s like I was saying with my mind, “Ask him when he went blind” and I could almost hear Erika saying back, “That’s so awkward, you ask him” “No, you” and there was a strange halted pause and Erika finally just asked him something else.
I’m a vain person. I like putting on make up and spending money on hair products, and essentially, you know, not being blind. I worry that no one would want me anymore. That my friends would stop calling. They would probably keep texting, though, and I’d have to ask my mom to read the texts aloud to me. Because my generation hates talking on the phone. This is the internet’s curse.
Two nights ago I was in a hurry to drive over to my bestie’s house and so I quickly smeared face moisturizer on, focusing under my eyes, because Proactiv dried out my skin and now I’m worried if I scratch my cheek I’m going to cause a DAMN FIRE, and I put on lots of mascara and other essentials and drove off. I put on the air conditioning, as I tend to do, and on the drive over I felt my eyes starting to sting. Before long they were tearing, and burning, and I had to pull over. Thankfully I decided not to take Mulholland on the way there. When I pulled over and saw my red eyes, mascara running down, I realized that my moisturizer had sun screen in it and I essentially used it like eye cream and the cool breeze blowing into my face caused it to seep into my eyes. Then I realized I’m an idiot. Then I bought eye cream at Costco. But that happened today, and it’s another story. Except it’s not really story, it’s me wanting to buy $80 Chanel eye cream at Costco and my mom convincing me to get Olay.
My point to this stupid story is, what if I’m causing my own blindness? But don’t we all, in some metaphorical way, make ourselves blind? We never want to see what might hurt us. We make ourselves deaf, too, not wanting to hear what might hurt us. We do this to ourselves. …No? Yeah, I tried.
Sometimes I worry that I’m using my friends’ lives too much for my own material. And I couldn’t help but wonder (TM Carrie Bradshaw) how did Carrie blog when she was in a relationship? Wasn’t it easier when she was single?
“Definitely,” responded Molly. “It’s easier. That’s why people stay single. For comedy. Once I told a guy I couldn’t date him cause I had to be celibate to write good spec scripts.”
Then Molly pointed out that Carrie used her friends for her columns all the time. I always wondered about that. I wondered if Miranda or Charlotte ever phoned Carrie shouting, “What the hell were you thinking printing that my date always has to shower after having sex with me!” Maybe they just never read her column. Honestly, I don’t think they ever read her column.
And suddenly, I realized something (TM Carrie Bradshaw). I write as much about my friends’ dating lives as my own. Molly doesn’t mind. She says that’s just writing. That’s just how it works. But she’s also a writer so maybe she’s a little more tolerant. And I never name names. But where does one draw the line? Is there a line? I’m again going to take the opportunity to blame Facebook for something. But really, I think Facebook changed the way people think about sharing. Twitter, blogger, all of them contributed to this outpouring of feelings. We’re all sharing in some way.
What did Carrie’s boyfriends think of their appearances in her columns? I know that when Big read her book he felt terrible about how he treated her in the past. I bet Aiden read it and thought, “Whatever, Carrie” and threw it in his hand-carved fireplace. I should take this time to mention that I still haven’t seen the sequel so please don’t spoil SATC2 for me.
Speaking of Sex and the City it looks like I’m going to interview Jason Lewis, aka Smith Jarrod, tomorrow. Anyone got any questions they’d like me to ask him? Aside from, will you date me/marry me/etc me?
THINGS I CAN DO TO MAKE ME FEEL LIKE LESS OF A FAILURE IN LIFE
(Aside from the Obvious Like “Make More Money”):
Be able to walk into a bar, announce, “Drinks are on me!” and actually mean it.
Learn something other than the word for airport in the “Learn French” 2 CD set my friend got me for my birthday two years ago.
Fall asleep before three in the morning on nights when I don’t go out.
Stop twirling my hair into thick shiny coils whenever I get nervous about something.
Shop at least once at Whole Foods without feeling like everyone is staring at me and judging me. Maybe it’s just in my head but I would swear that the people who shop at Whole Foods have appetites not for their organic produce but for destruction.
Learn how to properly format on this thing so that there’s not a space in between “Things I Can Do… etc” and the parenthesis underneath it. It’s driving me mad.
Expertly blow dry my hair.
Be described as “the toast” of something. NON-IRONICALLY.
Smoothly deal with a faux pas the way Don Draper did that episode of Mad Med where he swung the golf club into the glass ant farm and shattered it and just shrugged and said, “Let them pay for it.” GOD DAMN THAT’S SO SLICK.
Have a signature cocktail inspired by me.
Start my own line of lipstick.
Get in a fierce debate with someone where I say something so smart that someone else says, “Hear hear!”.
Stop losing my glasses all the time.
Get my face printed on a tee shirt as part of an underground art movement.
Live in a house with a door that opens into a wall just for the sheer frivolity of it.
Say something and wink without it coming off as creepy or strange.
Be truly missed.
At some point in your life, and maybe it’s happened already, but somebody is going to try to Parent Trap you. This is not what you probably think it is. I don’t mean that after your divorce your twin daughters are going to go through an elaborate scheme to get you and your ex spouse back together, because they’re lying assholes and this is why you shouldn’t have kids. Let me explain.
A friend of mine coined this phrase. I think I’ll leave her nameless in case she kills me for discussing this on my blog. She and her boyfriend (and his dog) went on a trip together and part of that trip included spending time with his ex, because apparently he and his ex are really good friends. She has a farm somewhere and they spent a few days with her on her farm living on the fat of the land like Allman Brothers songs or whatever. They (her boyfriend and his ex) are outdoorsy types who love nature and sleeping in it and eating it in and bathing in it with a cup of water and a palmful of soap.
The three of them (mostly the boyfriend and the ex) decided to go on an impromptu hike and my friend wasn’t wearing hiking shoes because she’s a normal person. But she wasn’t about to be left behind. She wasn’t going to let the ex take the glory. The hiking glory. The glory of, “look what I can do that you can’t.” So she followed. They walked through brambles and mud and my friend was smiling the whole time, like she was strolling down 9th street in NYC. Until she was startled by a salamander. The ex picked it up and cooed at it. Just picked it right up and started telling it how cute it was. This is where my friend had to make a choice. She could either freak out and look on in mock disgust or suck it up and touch the thing. Why? Because, she explained to me, “It was just like the scene in The [newer] Parent Trap where Lindsay Lohans take Dennis Quaid’s blonde fiance or girlfriend or whatever into the woods and torture her.”
“Wait, I think that’s Last House On The Left.”
“Ha. Anyway, I thought, I’m not going to let her do that to me. I’m not going to let her Parent Trap me!” So my friend also picked up the salamander and also insisted he was cute. Then she probably died inside. They continued on.
“Watch out for stinging nettles,” warned the ex. “What the hell are stinging nettles?” my friend thought, but instead said, “Okay!” very cheerfully. She wasn’t about to let the ex know that she had no idea what stinging nettles were. She took her boyfriend’s dog off the path, because dogs like to go off the path sometimes, and when she came back the dog was in distress, scratching and whining. “Thanks for walking my dog directly into stinging nettles,” her boyfriend hissed. “Oops.” She’s doing it, my friend thought. She’s totally Parent Trapping me. She swore she saw a brief smile of satisfaction on the ex’s face after the stinging nettles incident.
Frankly, I don’t think I would have lasted nearly as long as my friend. At some point I would have broken down, and, like Christopher Guest in “Waiting For Guffman” shouted, “I hate you and I hate your ass face!” Between the spontaneous hike and the Eliza Thornberry ex I would have been done. It’s a tough situation.
I’m putting myself in her cute, non-hiking shoes. On one hand, you don’t want your boyfriend to think you’re jealous, but on the other, you don’t want to pretend to be someone you’re not. I guess when you find yourself Parent Trapped you can either bow out and wait until it’s over or grit your teeth and pretend to enjoy it. Just watch out for stinging nettles.
I didn’t know that Catherine Deneuve married Wilson from “House”! Amazing.
Remember when I had my dream funeral? By the way, in the great migration from blogger to wordpress, all of my precious comments on previous posts were lost. I remember there being quite a few funny responses on my funeral post and I am practically inconsolable at having lost them. But life, like death, goes on. Mufasa. Or whatever.
I want to wear this:

Diane von Furstenberg
Zarita Lace Dress
$325.00
For one horrible moment I thought it was sold out [note: at the time I wrote this, the dress was not sold out] and I was actually upset even though I AM NOT EVEN REMOTELY PLANNING TO GET MARRIED ANY TIME SOON. Anyway, if you buy that last dress, I’ll kill you. Seriously. I mean, you’re reading it on a public blog so you think it’s a joke but you’ll read about some poor slain bride-to-be and it will make you pause and wonder if I really did it. And I did. I’ll deny it. Then people will try to point to his blog to use it as evidence against me. I’ll say, “It’s just a joke! It’s a blog! Free speech!” But it’s really not, I totally did it. Then people will point to the sentence I just typed. I’ll still deny it. However if that dress or this one is sold out, I will have to make do and do what my Oma did at her second (or maybe it was the third) wedding and wear a t-shirt that says “Bride.” Seriously. Her husband wore one that said “Groom.” I think there were even “bridesmaid” tees. I would show you the photos but it appears that my uncle has them. My uncle lives in Silverlake and channels dead people. Or, specifically, one dead Scottish guy. BUT THAT’S NOT IMPORTANT RIGHT NOW.
Your choice of food at my wedding, as far as meat or vegetarian goes will be either In-N-Out’s burger animal style or grilled cheese. There will be animal fries. This part is not a joke. We will enjoy our In-N-Out with endless bottles of my favorite champagne, Veuve. (Hear that Veuve? I think you’re such an amazing champagne that you would elevate In-N-Out to culinary heaven. Following you on twitter was the best move I ever made. I was more excited to find that Veuve Clicquot was following me than Ellen Degeneres. Don’t get me wrong, Ellen, I love you. But I also love free champagne. Eh? Eh?? Think about it V. Just think about it.)
I don’t want any DJs. I would rather use my ipod. Or get Janet Klein and Her Parlour Boys, because nothing says PARTY!!!!!!!!! like a 1920s style band. Or I’m going to get Train but ONLY on the condition that they ONLY sing “Hey, Soul Sister” and “Drops Of Jupiter.” THOSE TWO SONGS ONLY. I don’t care if they alternate or if they play one 6 times in a row. IF THEY PLAY “MEET VIRGINIA” THEY’RE GOING HOME. ON A TRAIN. HAHA. BUT BY TRAIN, I MEAN BUS. Under no circumstances do I want Phil Collins. If Phil Collins is even near my wedding, the whole thing is off.
For favors I will be giving each guest one of my framed headshots autographed by me, with an inspirational quote like, “Keep reaching for that rainbow!” They might know me from such films as every student film produced by USC, New School, NYU, or The Los Angeles Film School. Let’s not forget those commercials I did as a little kid. You’re welcome, everyone. NOBODY MENTION MY APPEARANCE ON A CERTAIN E! REALITY SHOW. If you do, you’re tossed out of the wedding and will have to give Train a ride home.
I don’t really like cake so I’ll probably have pie instead. Or maybe just more hamburgers. I LOVE hamburgers. Instead of having the wedding recorded on video, I want it re-interpreted as a puppet show. Instead of photographs, I’d like a giant fresco. But not on my wall, put it in my parents’ house. For giggles, sneak into their house and paint it while they’re asleep. Then when they wake up they’ll say, “WHAAAAA??” and it will be like a hilarious misunderstanding as seen in “Full House.” Wait, that show was never hilarious. Forget the fresco. Who am I talking to, anyway?
My vows will be composed entirely of Simpsons quotes. Something like:
Good morning, fellow employee. You’ll notice that I am now a model worker. We should continue this conversation later, during the designated break periods. Sincerely, Homer Simpson. Sit perfectly still. Only I may dance. We should spend more time with Bart. He’s acting isolated…and weird. It tastes like burning. Slow down, you’re going to give yourself skin failure. Enjoy the show, for one day, we will all die. Ow! My Eye! I’m not supposed to get pudding in it! People, please! We’re all frightened and horny! But we can’t let some killer dolphins keeps us from living and scoring. Where’s Bart? His dinner’s getting cold and eaten. Do you take me to be your dental plan? [I do.]
Finally, you may have noticed that I left out the most important part of a wedding: the description of who I’ll be marrying. Eff that, I’m marrying myself. I just want the party.
—
And now for something totally unrelated, my friend Dave, one of the founders of the Dealbreakers Blog, is a finalist in something called the Function: Party Crasher Contest. Dave should win because he’s very funny and he’s a great guy and he’s totally going to buy all of us tacos. Just click here and vote for Dave Horwitz. You don’t have to register or anything. Also, Dave is probably not going to buy all of us tacos, but if he doesn’t win, we’ll never know. [Note: the contest has since ended. Dave did not give us tacos.]
WORKING TITLES FOR MY BOOK
Apocalypstick
Apocalypstick: True Tales of True Mistakes
Apocalypstick: Stories of My Misspent Youth
Apocalypstick: By Bret Easton Ellis
Apocalypstick: I Don’t Even Know
I Don’t Even Know
I Will Get Drunk and Hit On Your Boyfriend
I Don’t Know What I’m Doing: Please Buy This Book
And It Was The Most I’d Ever Pooped: The Almie Rose Story
Did You Get My Text: The Almie Rose Story
Apocalypstick: Nonfiction from Someone Non Famous
I Can’t Tell Because I Left My Glasses In The Car: Is That Guy Cute?
I Was Drinking When I Wrote This
I Hate Pants: The Almie Rose Story
I Thought Of A Really Good Title This One Time On Gchat But I Can’t Remember What It Was and I Don’t Feel Like Looking Back In All of My Archived Gchats
I’m Just Sitting Here, Awkwardly
Ugh: Look At This Bitch’s Facebook Status
I’m Better With High Fiving: The Almie Rose Story
Apocalypstick: How Not To Date In Los Angeles
I Think I Saw You On The Cobrasnake
Apocalypstick: Boom!
Boom!
Exclamation Points: A Love Story
What Are You Guys Doing Later?
Pretend To Wave
I Just Remembered That I Have Spicy Ramen: This Night Got Better
I’m Going To Go Eat The Ramen
Typing In Italics Makes Me Feel Like I’m Whispering
I Miss My Boyfriend: A True Story
I Am Bette Midler: Not A True Story
Suggestions?
Half Asleep — School Of Seven Bells