I have discovered this crunch class in which you really angrily pound on the floor with drumsticks while a cute instructor girl from Oklahoma shouts at you to squat lower. As you release anger issues and once dreams of being In a band, her phone accidentally plays shania twain, and before you even know it, it’s like all of the fruit snacks never happened.
My New York, you are NAILING it right now. Despite the devastating damage, there is optimism and altruism. One day after the hurricane, Bars are open and thai food is delivered and people wander the streets, instagramming, offering to help. Let no hurricane ever surmise that it might keep New Yorkers from their pad thai or whiskey for more than five minutes. Thinking of you; proud of you!
It always freaks me out when people make light of potentially catastrophic events. It just feels like tempting fate. Though yes, above pictured is hilarious and I kick myself thoroughly for not making it first. Either way, I feel an odd guilt not being in Brooklyn while it hurricanes. You’ll recall or not recall that with last year’s Bore-icane, Irene, I evacuated. This year, everyone is sitting tight, cozying up and turning what could be the beginning of the end of the world into a really good excuse to drink wine all day and eat lots of marshmallows. I’m thousands of miles away in an LA that is creepily cheery and warm while the east coast drowns. I want to be there with all of you, inside and warm and terrified. Please be safe!
Special thanks to Ms. Lily Bevan, who found this while visiting her sister in Perth, whilst looking for any good excuse to dress like an owl.
Last night, I complimented young friend Mack on her young nice skin. Look at this puddum!
That’s right, as I age, I’m starting to pay attention to things like ‘coupons’ and ‘skin.’ Mack revealed her secret. It turns out, in high school, while I was pretty tied up making balloon arrangements and writing poems and giving myself irreversible eye herpes, every one else was taking Accutane. Being that I had no acne in high school (probably the ONLY thing I had going for me,) I was completely unaware of this miracle drug. I’m starting to lament all of the nights I went to bed without washing my face, and even more, all of the things I’ve overdone or not done in life – physically, emotionally, spiritually, that are now showing their irreversible affects. I wish I’d taken better care of myself, just in general. Either way, Accutane is technically now illegal, as it might accidentally cause you give birth to a baby with no ears, but gosh darnit, you look great while you’re doing it.
I have somehow managed to not have one of these yet / am just now seeing them. Are they new? What are these? What do the insides taste like? Fear or Snot or the standard one half of a grocery store pound cake? I MUST KNOW. Meet me at the CVS with a large bag and an an empty stomach in ten minutes.
Your friend, cavities.
Oftentimes, when struggling with a first draft or re-writes, I park myself at a bar, preferably a medium-noisy one, where I can consume just enough vodka to temporarily convince myself that I won’t die an anonymous death, buried in a shallow grave beneath my own mediocrity. Writing in bars, instead, makes me feel romantic, empowered, kind of like I’m on a date with myself, that my Self is fascinating and has worthy things to say. My Los Angeles writer bar of choice is Edendale, which is used to be firehouse back in the day, and has this muted fancy and dusty feel. Last night I parked it there for some intense hair chewing and re-writing. My date with myself was particularly romantic, as outside, Santa Ana winds were blowing something fierce, and I was wearing my favorite scarf and tackling a scene in which two kids plan to run away and live up in a tree. A guy and girl, clearly on a first date, saddled up to the bar next to me and swapped facts about how close they lived to Trader Joe’s and whether or not their roommates are mixologists. Then, with perfect timing, the wind blew the power out, and they just sort of stood there awkwardly, trying to keep the conversation going, wondering what a black walnut manhattan is like, if they should try another bar, and if they would in fact marry this person. Being in such close proximity to first dates makes me wildly curious and uncomfortable, but in this case, I was jealous and thrilled. What a story this would be, for their children. And if not for their children, at least for their roommates who may or not be mixologists.
A handful of my new co-workers loathe the ‘!’ in scripts, and also emails. I’m horrified to admit that I’m a massive abuser of the !. I secretly love when I find myself in an email back and forth with a c0-abuser, in which we can be addicts together:
Hey! Great to hear from you! Thank you so much for the info! Have a great day! Let me just read this over! And I’ll get back to you ASAP!
And on and so forth until we’ve both practically baked pies for each other and tied them to primary colored helium balloons and left them outside of each other’s apartments.
It’s not just emails. In the writings, a line feels flat to me if the character is not !. In emails, I’m playing defense, or making it abundantly clear that my tone is really happy! And positive! I’m like an Orthodonist’s secretary on her first day of work, fresh out of high school! My language is chirpy and lip-balmed. You can get back to me, whenever! I will get back to you ASAP! It’s great to hear from you! I wish we were at home making puppets out of bags! While, You can get back to me whenever. I will get back to you ASAP. It’s great to hear from you. I wish we were home, making puppets out of bags. Feels rude or flat. This perhaps stems from a greater and deeper desire to please and be liked, which is stupid! Stupid. I hereby embrace the period. I’m determined to trust it, let it be what it is, do what it does, which is to simply end a thought. I’m determined to trust that the reader, or recipient, can intuit that I am not planning their murder or harboring passive aggressive rage, despite my lack of exclamation points. If I am in fact planning murder, or harboring rage, I’ll just spell that out.
It’s great to hear from you. I am also coming to kill you, in your sleep.
I got a haircut. This is my haircut. No it is NOT necessary for me to announce to you each time this happens, but I bring it up to beg the question: when your hair stylist is doing the thing where she’s giving you the complimentary scalp massage that is guaranteed to make you smell like a baby born on a commune, like in a good way, for days, are you meant to leave your eyes open and leer creepily at yourself and your stylist, or close your eyes and relax into it, making it oddly sexual, which is perhaps even creepier?