I live in the moment. In particular, the moment when your 30 Rock marathon ends, and you can't remember how long you've been hating yourself. Also, the moment when you're away on vacation and you realize that you forgot to turn off the iron and graduate from college.

The Thing About a Cameo


A festival cameo makes you feel good about yourself.  It tells you, you had 22 shows to choose from, and you made a good decision in going to this show.  Without the cameo, you’re appreciative, but you have less to brag about.  The cameo-less performance is like going to a restaurant with really good food, but all the food is pee’d into your mouth.  Nobody wants to describe or post a picture of someone else peeing into their mouths.  They will probably mention how much they liked the food, but they’re not going to volunteer a lot of detail or evidence.  In fact, if you don’t ask, they’ll probably never mention it.  

If jelly was performing on a stage and peanut butter showed up without intro, you’d freak the fuck out.  Maybe you even prefer peanut butter.  Maybe you went to see jelly solely because you heard that peanut butter might be there.  And you didn’t wanna be the guy who missed peanut butter.  Besides, who doesn’t like those guys together?  They’re a power duo.

A cameo duo doesn’t even have to be as powerful as pb&j.  It can be weaker like, pb and banana or pb and wheat bread.  Wheat bread isn’t even that popular.  I mean, everyone knows who he is, but nobody prefers him.  And if they do, it’s because they know he’s good for them.  Like the people who like soccer.  Like drinking a fine wine, you do it, because it’s classy, not because it tastes good.  If you want something that tastes good, you drink Nestle Quick with Bailey’s.  But you don’t wanna be the guy that goes for tastes good, so you go for scotch whiskey.  If scotch whiskey appears as somebody’s cameo, then you drink that shit up.  And if somebody’s cameo is Slash, you better go insane.  Because Slash is the soccer of music that you don’t listen to.

As long as you know the special guest, you’re excited. In a concert situation you’re easy to excite. If they say your city, you cheer.  If they ask if you’re having a good time, you woo, even if you have a headache.  It’s concert etiquette.  You can’t be not wooing.  If you are, you’re an asshole.  And nobody at a concert wants to be an asshole.  You wanna be cool, and you wanna be reassured that you’re cool.  Like, by knowing things.  Do you know Gwen Stefani? Great, because she’s here.  And if you like her, then consider yourself amazing.

What if your life could have cameos?  Like, you’re going to eat some Vietnamese food and your grandma just walks out of the back kitchen and sits down and starts eating food with you.  And everyone around is like, “Holy shit, is that Grandma? That’s fucking Grandma!!!!!”  And they all start recording you guys with their cell phones.  She eats an egg roll, tells everyone how great you are, and then retreats into the kitchen amidst wild cheers.  On their car rides home, everyone is like, “I can’t believe Grandma showed up.”


Auto Theft: A Young Girl’s Crime

I stole a car once, a bat mobile matchbox car from my cousins’ house.  I remember playing with it the entire day that I spent there, shooting it down the hard wood floor in the hallway, rolling the tiny wheels in my hand, feeling the weight of the cold metal.  It was when matchbox cars were probably made from old civil war guns, and the doors opened on both sides.  It was when all I had to go home to were Barbies and a Ken doll whose face I could shave with a sponge and warm water.    

I rolled it to a corner of the living room and crawled after it, my eyes shifting side to side, making sure the cousins weren’t on to me. When I felt like nobody was watching, with one seamless pass of my hand, I pocketed it.  Then, like the bat mobile never existed, I went on playing with all the other toys on the floor. 

When it was time to go, I stood at the door with my hand in my pocket, spinning a tire with my thumb, on the verge of mental break down.  If I took the car out then, they would either believe that I had forgotten about it or peg me for a thief.  I didn’t want to be excommunicated from the house with the smooth floors and gun metal cars, but I also didn’t want to not have my own shiny black bat mobile. 

When I got home, I buried the car in my sock drawer, waiting for the heat to die down.  A few weeks passed before I went back to my cousins’ house, and in that time, I cherished the bat car in thrilling secrecy. Every couple of days, I’d remember it was there,  pick it up for a few minutes, roll it over my palm, and then shove it to the bottom of the drawer in panic and shame.  If having that car was right, why’d it feel so wrong?

One day when cleaning with my mom, the bat mobile rolled out of my drawer to the center of the room.  I froze, defeated, waiting to be reprimanded, and to have my stolen goods seized.  When she continued folding clothes and talking to me, I was devastated.  She was so disappointed that she didn’t even acknowledge it or treat me differently. I couldn’t handle it. I tucked the car into my shorts the second I knew I was going to visit my cousins, and dropped it on their hardwood floor in a pile of Legos.  I didn’t even bother to make sure nobody was watching. It didn’t matter anymore.

I went home to a pink plastic jeep and Ken. He needed a shave.



McCaulay Culkin, things are gonna be alright.

To the girl in my class who said, “I don’t watch TV.”

Some days your sky is full of rain clouds bloated with photos of present-day Macaulay Culkin, showering you with fresh reminders of the savage wrath of time.  And you find yourself in a dark place, in need of comedic therapy. Enter Portlandia.

Sometimes your shoulders need a reprieve from bearing the weight of all your stupid anxieties like “what if someone throws a cigarette butt out their window on the freeway and it touches some stray gasoline on my car and it burst into flames?”  Hang that shit up in the closet next to, “What did he mean, when he said ‘you know what I mean’?” and let your shoulders breathe.  Let them sink deep into the sofa while you watch a cast of characters who match or exceed your dysfunction.  Enter Girls.

In a crisis, a well written show serves two vital purposes: helping you forget that shit is fucked up or reminding you that you are not alone in the way you feel.  In the course of a good series, you can grow and learn.  You’ll be thankful that you don’t have cancer, and learn that while it seems glamorous at first, cooking meth is ultimately unforgivable.  A show can also help you make better decisions, like deciding to befriend an archer in case the dead become undead, Or deciding that women are just as powerful as men, because Leslie Knope is a goddess. So, live a fruitful life, acknowledge the importance of literature, but don’t be an I don’t watch TV asshole (liar).  Because, dude,  respectable shows are providing noble services.  And on a day when you’re wallowing in the sobering reality that Macaulay Culkin isn’t Kevin McCallister anymore, you might need some servicing.image

I was a Cheerleader in 7th Grade

I tried out after a week’s worth of intense jump, kick and split training. Splits, by the way, are the least valuable and most celebrated special skill in the history of physical activity.  Who in history did splits have to blow to get such prestige? I can distinctly remember being a child and watching an older cheerleader cousin, tell a group of family, “hey watch this,” and then proceed to fall into a split. While everyone reveled in the magnificent perpendicularity of her legs to her torso, I gleaned a timeless wisdom, “be always splitting.” And several years later, I made the squad. 

After Bring It On, I wanted to be a black cheerleader so bad.  I wanted to swim in a room full of awards, and wipe my ass with trophies.  I was 13, I didn’t have a lot of convictions.  I had, “Is this lip liner dark enough?” and “how do I be cool?” The latter being my motivation for Cheering.  It turned out, however, that being on the squad is not how one be’s cool.  It’s how one be’s entangled in insecurity and misguided anxiety. 

When you cheer for a school where a decent portion of the male population is an early 2000s descendant of the Cholo, you quickly learn that the cheerleading uniform is an invitation to objectification.  Not the sweet objectification where a boy thinks you’re cute, so he says hi and then you both cower in an appropriate amount middle school fear.  It’s the gross kind where cute doesn’t matter, and you start to wonder what roofies are because you worry that they might be a threat.  The first time that I walked through a crowded hallway and felt a transient hand brush over my ass and tug at the hem of my skirt, I was forgiving. Maybe I imagined that.  The second time, I was disgusted, but hopeful.  Maybe it won’t happen again. Then it happened again, immediately.  I was so pissed.  The uniform was a joke, and female empowerment was the punch line.

I decided I would rather choose the terms of my own objectification.  You know, like own that shit.  Except, I only decided on that 12 years after realizing that I was bested by my own angst and Cholos.  



Nature is not fucking around.

Nature is not fucking around.

You look ridiculous if you dance
You look ridiculous if you don’t dance
So you might as well

—Gertrude Stein, Three Lives (via quoted-books)

I will not go to my grave having regretted not dancing.

(via misanthropezero)

Kim Debuts New Sneeze. World Rejoices.

Citing her desire to achieve optimal sex appeal, Kim Kardashian debuted a new higher pitched sexy sneeze while dining with husband Kanye this past weekend in Los Angeles.  West has reportedly hinted at the possibility of future cough and yawn makeovers.

The allergic response is being described by fashion experts as an amalgam of mid-century modern cat, Santa Baby songstress, and dog whistle. 

Society: The Pressing Matters

Kardashians are Defining Beauty.
Stupidity is Attractive, and what’s more important than being attractive?  Nothing.  So be stupid or be ugly.  And if you ever have a baby, then you better not dare show a single sign of post-baby weight gain.  In fact, post-baby, every woman should retreat into the shadows of inexistence until they have the decency to be skinny again.   

We all have Bullhorns.
If you read news bylines on the web, you know everything.  And if you read that Obama is a potential communist, you should hate him immediately, and then react via social media.  Especially if you aren’t sure what communism means.  Don’t Google communism, or Obama’s policies, and don’t read about healthcare.  You know enough. When the hell will you get to exercise your bullhorn if you’re reading and researching all the damn time?

30 minute Marriages
Marriage is meaningless, so why do people still fight to uphold its sanctity?  It’s sanct-less.  Let us marry our dogs already.  The people using the slippery slope argument of people marrying dogs if homosexuals are allowed to marry are really just frightened by their own latent desires to marry dogs. 

A Response to someone’s “What’s the Point?”

Assuming that you do, why do you change your underwear daily?  Because having your underwear ripped off unconsciously by medical team is a real threat?  No, you do it for hygiene and for comfort, and because moisture is inescapable but resolvable.  You don’t do it in preparation, you do it in perseverance.  Because If we’re just going to resign to the looming threat of disaster then what’s the point of it all?  The point is to say fuck that. The point is to change your underwear because you want to, and not because you’re prepping for failure.  The point is to tell the world, you’re not gonna rip off my underwear, I will remove them of my own volition, and in a manner conducive to my dignity.  You won’t defeat me, I will defeat myself and only after a grizzly face-off.