Nice Going, Asshole.

Jul

2009

I get it. Sometimes you need to be an asshole. Like when your assistant, Todd, gets you an extra-foamy latte. Doesn’t he know that foam makes you all farty and bloated? To be the best asshole you can be, you must:

~~ Give everyone obnoxious nicknames. Erika is, “The Kay-ster, nice to see ya!” Nick becomes, “N-Man! How’s it going?” The more obscure, the more asshole it is. Make “Jay Jay”, a nickname in and of itself, “Jboat Overdrive” and you’re in business.

~~ Always, always, always answer your cell phone. First inform whoever you’re talking to in person that you “gotta take this” but never, never, never apologize for it. Then have a loud conversation, hold up one finger to the person you’re talking to (as in, “1 minute”) but continue to carry on for as long as you deem necessary.

~~ Ask people how they’re doing but before they can respond say, “Great!” and keep walking.

~~ Laugh really loudly, for no reason at all. Laughing shows everyone else what a good time you’re having in your own head. (See Tom Cruise for a perfect example of how to do this.)

~~ Talk about encounters you have with C to B list celebrities. If you don’t know any celebs, that’s ok. Make shit up. Pick up a Life & Style rag for ideas on who to talk about. Something like, “I was at Starbucks and Ashley Tisdale mistakenly took my drink. Such a sweetheart though. She offered to buy it for me. I was like, honey, please. Really tall girl.”

~~ It’s important to let people know what restaurants you frequent. Think of how much better off they’ll be knowing that the sea urchin ceviche at Dorsia is top notch. If someone mentions a restaurant that you haven’t been to, but they ask you if you have, wince and say, “Not since they got a new chef.” Trust me, it will work. And you’ll come off looking awesome.

~~ Randomly yell at people.

~~ You know that friend of yours who plays guitar for a hobby? Now he’s a band. An up-and-coming band. Talk about this band all the time and how they want you to help them, “rise to the top”. Mention that you’ve collaborated on a music video. If someone asks you the name of the band, think of a noun and add “explosion” to it. “Fruit Explosion”, “Werewolf Explosion”, “Explosion Explosion” all work well. When someone says that they’ve never heard of them, snort very quietly and say, “Yeah, they’re new.” Mumble something about Paste Magazine and Nylon and get the hell out of there.

Do this and you stand a chance of either having no friends or of being the most successful person ever. It’s really a toss-up.

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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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On Michael Jackson.

Jul

2009

Bear with me. I know I’m a little late in talking about Michael Jackson and what he means to me. To be honest I didn’t think I could bear in adding my voice to this sad chorus, sad because of his death but also, to be one of many who thinks a celebrity actually meant something to me.

But I am finding that I feel a great sense of loss in his death. Is it stupid to say that I miss him? I never met him. His Encino home, where he grew up after he came to California, is a few blocks from mine. As you’ll see in a previous post, his house was decorated with heaps of flowers and stuffed animals from fans, mine being among them.

And now the city has demanded that life in Encino return to some form of normalcy; the streets are no longer closed off, “NO TRESPASSING” signs are stamped across the Jackson home, and all of the flowers and memorials are gone.

I’m not ready for us to carry on as usual.

Yes — I really miss Michael Jackson that much.

MJ, I’m sorry I wasn’t the best fan. I should have defended you more. In 10th grade, my best friend Simone and I were the only people who would stand up for you, but it wasn’t enough. I remember during English class we somehow started talking about you, and everyone made comments about how weird you were for bleaching your skin and changing your face, and I said, “He has a disease.” Simone said that you had vitiligo and I said, “But it’s more than that. He clearly has body dismorphic disorder. How could you blame him? He grew up with his father telling him he was ugly and calling him ‘big nose’. And look at his nose now. You think there’s a connection?” (However, MJ, I will stand by my opinion that, “You Rock My World” was just a rehash of your earlier, better tunes. It’s a fun song, yes, but it’s not your best BB.)

In 3rd or 4th grade, whenever it was that your Free Willy “Will You Be There” song became wildly popular, my friends and I decided to stage a dance to it and perform it for the talent show. We rehearsed all weekend, but come time for our audition, our friend Ayra let loose the word “hell” which in 3rd grade is a HUGE curse word and from there our dance fell apart. Looking back, it wasn’t a dance so much as it was us running around the stage, leaping occasionally, looking like crazed leprechauns, but we thought it was good. We loved you. (Needless to say, we did not make the cut for the talent show that year.)

When I was 6 or so, whenever “Bad” came out (my concept of time is shoddy to say the least) I would dress up as you, one glove and all, and lyp-synched your songs for my family. Looking back, again, it was embarrassing beyond belief but I thought I was bad and shamone.

When my mom was pregnant with me my dad took her to see you play at Dodger Stadium.

My point is, MJ, that I’ve grown up with you, and I guess I never really thought that you could die. You were like Coca-Cola or breakfast cereal — an eternal, American, childhood staple. I miss you and I should have been better. But because of the amazing person that you truly were, beyond the so called “weirdness” and masks and the Neverland, you would have forgiven me.

Thank you.

(BTW the title of this post is shamelessly lifted from “On Michael Jackson”, a book by one of my former Eugene Lang/New School professors, Margo Jefferson. I wish I knew what Margo thought of his death.)

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Friends.

Jul

2009

Friendship is very important these days. What with technology being what it is we can stay connected in ways never thought possible. Are you following your friends on twitter? Are they following you? That’s the kicker, isn’t it, when a friend isn’t following you on twitter? That’s when you need to re-evaluate your friendship.

But how does one determine who is a true friend in this crazy twitterverse we’re all facebooking in? Don’t worry, guys. I’m going to help. A true friend will…:

…High five you when you least expect it.
…Treat you to coffee or dinner every now and then because they know that you’ll pick it up the next time. A true friend will never say, when the bill comes, “OMG I just realized that I’m completely overdrawn from the bank LOL I’m so dumb sorry!!”
…Never say “OMG” or “LOL” in public. That’s just…awful.
…Go see that dumb movie that you really want to see because no one else will see it with you and you don’t feel like going alone because what if you run into Drew Barrymore? Do you really want Drew Barrymore to know what a loser you are? Look at how many friends she has. Really tall famous friends. Gosh, Drew Barrymore you’re so fun!
…Let you vent on the phone for an hour about that idiot who cut you off on the freeway or the boss who made you run a seemingly meaningless task or the boy who didn’t call you back.
…Accept you for your insecurities and even try to understand them.
…Root for you always, even if they’re a little bit jealous.

A true friend will not:

… Steal your burrito.
…Hit on the guy that you like if she/he knows that you like him.
…Run over your family.
…Poison your latte.
…And then hide the antidote.
…Burn down the Getty Center.
…Laugh at you when you say something dumb, like when you’re singing to “Man In The Mirror” and you earnestly sing, “They follow each other on a window seat” because you think those are the lyrics.
…OK well they can laugh at that, because that’s kind of funny, but it should be a loving laugh, not a mean laugh.
…”Forget” to invite you.
…Tell you that you’re anything less than what you are. You are wonderful.
…”Lose” your stuff.
…Let money ruin your friendship.
…Talk about you behind your back, unless it’s really complimentary shit, like, “Almie would hate anyone to know this but she keeps Moet et Chandon in a pretty cabinet, is well-versed in etiquette and extraordinarily nice.”

Me with my dear friend Erik from my Andy Warhol themed birthday party in 2005.

But what do you do if you realize that you have one of those dreaded “poison friends”? Those friends that are pure poison to you and your life? Those who weigh you down like an anvil and you’re Wile E. Coyote? Or maybe in that case they’re the Roadrunner and they’re trying to blow you up (and I think I’m mixing metaphors here)?

You need to cut them out of your life. You NEED to. I know, I know, the idea of being home alone on a Saturday night or with no one to text when you’re feeling awkward in public and need to text someone is scary. But you’re BETTER OFF WITHOUT. Life can be hard enough without surrounding yourself with people who don’t believe in you! You owe it to yourself. You are the best friend you could have, true, but you’re going to need someone else when you get sick of yourself. That’s what your secondary best friend is for! And it’s OK if you DON’T have a “best friend” — some people have lots of friends as opposed to one they single out — IT’S OK! Just don’t waste your time with people who drag you down because you’re too good for that shit. Remember, YOU leave YOU decide.

This photo has NOTHING to do with ANYTHING.

Now get out there, turn the world on with your smile, and find your Rhoda! Or your Mary. IT’S OK TO BE RHODA. RHODA WAS AWESOME AND SHE HAD HER OWN SHOW TOO. SO DON’T EVEN WORRY ABOUT IT!

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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.