The Day I Met Derek Hough

Every once in awhile in life, there are a few things you wish so hard for that by some twist of fate they end up coming true. A few days ago, I was sitting in my neighborhood East Village coffee shop being a cliche-writer-nerd when I looked up and saw him.

A Scandinavian viking Adonis. He breezed through the glass doors in all black Eric Northman garb and smiled at me. Motorcycle jacket, black jeans, black wayfarers, blonde hair cleanly disheveled. Except it wasn’t Skarsgaard, it was Derek Hough, TV dancing tycoon and heart-throb mirage.  


What was Derek doing in New York? I thought. Is Dancing With The Stars still a thing because I only watched the Kirstie Alley season and god, I really loved when he got mad. The passion, the fire. Maybe he’s doing a theater run, I pondered, my thoughts racing. Now when I encounter celebrities, I get all reverse too cool. I just never want to bother them, or worse, have them think me a mere mortal, an every man of the masses with the same fawning groupie impulses. So I ignore them like I’m a high school senior and they’re a sophomore boy. It’s makes for the best “almost best stories that never happened”.

Like the other night, I was at the bar sitting next to Pete Holmes after my show and he very graciously said to me and a friend (THIS IS A DIRECT QUOTE), “want some of this tuna roll, I already had one” and all I said was, “no, thank you” with an inappropriate amount of earnestness. THAT’S ALL I SAID – to a comedian I really like – the entire time he was sitting next to me and talking to my friend about anything and everything. I didn’t tell him about how I listen to him talk for four hours every week or how I feel like we are best friends and have the same constant push-pull views about religion, love, booze, and kale…the self loathing. I even looked away like a total weirdo every time he tried to politely make eye contact. And he was so nice and friendly! Lame. But I digress, I’ve always had a top secret attraction to Derek Hough even though he checks a lot of the boxes in the “what I’m not attracted to in a guy ever” category. Mainly it’s the spray tans, too tight v-neck t-shirts, highlights, and lycra that throw me off. Or too much concern with his body, I don’t want to feel like a guy is constantly saying, “bitch, dont eat that” with his abs, ya know. According to my friends, I am a minority on this, but I find vanity in a man to be repugnant. Lady boner-killa. BUT NOT WITH DEREK YOU GUYS. WHAT A FORCE OF SEXINESS.


Okay so anyways, my metrosexual exception strolls in and orders a black coffee. Cowboys have drank their coffee black through the ages so I’m already on board (I attribute this order to rugged sensibility instead of caloric calculation). And then as part of God’s cruel joke, the only table available in the entire place…is directly to my left. About three inches away from my own round table. He sits down and says, “Hello”. He was speaking to me directly, there was nothing I could do. “Hello, Derek”, I said with a maniacal calmness.

He looked at my computer screen, “Mindy Project huh? Do you write for it?”

“No, no. Not even close! It’s just a spec script. I’m nobody!”

And then as he took a sip of his black coffee, he reached up and touched the side of my cheek, looking directly at me with those piercing White Fang eyes, “Nonsense! I can see your soul and it’s beautiful and brave. I met Mindy once. She’s just as terrific as you’d think. It takes balls to try and write her show for her!”

“I’m not trying to write her show for her! I mean I am, kinda. I mean, thank you, Derek!”

“You’re welcome, my sweet. Do you dance?”

“I used to when I was little, but my mom took me out of it because she thought it would be unhealthy for my self image given my body type…”

“What a remarkable woman. Listen, how about you pack up your equipment and come on an adventure with me.”

I looked over both of my shoulders, trying to make sure he had in fact directed the question to me and not somebody else. And then in the lull before I could think of words to say, he leaned in and kissed me. I felt my toes tingle as I worried about my coffee breath, but then told myself it was okay because he was drinking black coffee which everyone knows cancels out iced coffee with milk and splenda breath. Normally, I would be worrying about other people seeing me kiss in public, but it felt like I was having a stroke. A pleasant one, my brain stopped completely and I died a little. Then he grabbed my hand and gently pulled me out of the coffee shop on to the Manhattan street.

“I’m only here for 24 hours, I need to spend it with you!”, he said with urgency as he looked down at me with all six feet two inches of his towering dancer physique.

“Yes! I will! I want to!” and then he twirled me in the air above his head. Without falling down or suffering serious back injury. I gasped with happiness. We made out on the street corner and laughed like we were in a Justin Timberlake rom com.

What followed is not suitable content for this blog and I apologize for that but this is neither the time nor the place for erotic fan fiction.

Please just know that way up there in the sky, someone is looking out for your deepest, darkest dreams. They can come true. Mine did.

***The author would like to take this time to mention that the above story was in fact just a dream. A dream that never happened. Except for the Pete Holmes part, that is unfortunately 100% true.



Rob Delaney On Marriage

Guys, I was just goin’ about my day minding my own bizness and then I STUMBLED UPON THIS ADORABLENESS.

A little bit of Monday romance from me to you. I love you and I love love.

“I don’t mind that Kim Kardashian got married. If gay people can get married, Armenian people should be allowed to as well. I don’t mind that she did it on TV. I a little bit mind that, as a non-viewer of any of the 61 Kardashian programs, I had to see the billboards every day as I drove to work. But I could forgive that if Kim gave her marriage a real go. I’ve been married for five years. To the same woman. I’ve wanted to divorce her at times. She’s wanted to divorce me at times. But one great thing about marriage, when it’s entered by regular folks, in good faith, is that it’s hard to exit. It costs money. You have to talk to lawyers during business hours except whoops—you have a job that you need to earn money to buy food and pants—so when are you going to both take the time to do that? By the time you’d have gotten around to it, you’ve forgiven each other and maybe even reached a new appreciation for each other as you worked through whatever seemingly insurmountable problem made you hate each other for 20 minutes while you sat in your shitty car outside a CVS yelling at each other and crying. Because guess what, Kim? That’s a huge ingredient in a SUCCESSFUL marriage. Sometimes it sucks. And I don’t mean lower-case “s” sucks. I mean it SUCKS so fucking hard you’re POSITIVE you’ll give yourself stomach cancer or an embolism as you try to make your spouse explode through telekinesis. When you relax, however, and remember that you’re a bigger asshole than they are, with enough neuroses and calcified bad habits to warrant their own card catalog, you realize that they’re struggling through life’s shit storm just like you. Then you take a shower together and fuck while laughing.”

-Rob Delaney for VICE

Jimmy Kimmel’s Lie Witness News- Coachella 2013

Just exhilarated that someone is making fun of Coachella. It brings me evil joy.

Given that hipsters try so hard to be like super alternative and know everything about music, the JKL show devises a plan to make up bands and ask random people about them on camera. All the people interviewed lie harder than Bill Clinton. Too good. Cuz you know how annoying all the Coach sycophants are. REDEMPTION is ours (team not assholes).

…I sound like a grandma because I retired from Coachella a few years ago and now find everyone abhorrent when they talk about it non-stop like zombie Manson followers, which is mostly every one of my friends. I know all about this Coachella-people-are-annoying phenomenon because I definitely was that annoying person, but without any respectable band knowledge or flower crowns thank God, just too many instagrams and post-Coachella hangover statuses (statii is too nerdy). So what I’m saying is, I’m much better than these people.

WHAT NERDS, RIGHT? Long live, Jimmy!

Maron Trailer

I recently had the pleasure of interviewing everybody’s favorite comedy curmudgeon, Marc Maron, for Mag. It was pretty eerie/awesome experience to interview someone you already basically know everything about (I’ve listened to his podcast WTF With Marc Maron for a long time now). Anyways, you can check out the piece here.

The new Maron trailer 

Can’t wait to catch this grumpy show! Looks like fun, no?

Num Pang

Today, dear readers, I beckon you down the rabbit hole into a Cambodian world of gluttonous pleasure. That’s right, I’m talkin about Num Pang on E. 12th Street in New York.

I’d heard loud whispers about this little crevice of a sandwich stand for several months before I finally made the good decision to carve out time and try it. Then one Saturday, I woke up and said to myself, TODAY’S THE DAY FOR ME AND THIS SANDWICH. I last minute texted a few friends to see if anyone else wanted to dive into Cambodian legend alongside me, but nobody took the bait. A lone and curious soldier, I walked the 15 minutes from my apartment over to Union Square.


Sweet little Num Pang. Don’t blink cuz you could miss it and then your life will be ruined forever.

The menu included an array of exotic sounding options like Pulled Duroc Pork, Peppercorn Catfish, Ginger Barbeque Brisket, Grilled Khmer Sausage, Portobello, and several other equally compelling choices. I asked if there’s a crowd favorite and was directed towards the naturally I went with the Five-Spice Glazed Pork Belly instead cuz I’m a G. My cashier then pointed to the “Cash Only” sign and gave me a 7% annoyed “ATM’s across the street” as she looked to the eager customer behind me. AHH, thwarted again! But I pressed on. Once I returned with fresh bills, I finally was able to get a Pork Belly sandwich into my grubby little meat hooks.



What followed was a big bundle of joy full of sweet crispy pork belly, cucumber, pickled carrots, cilantro, and spicy chili mayo smothered on fresh house made bread. A perfect melange of wildly opposing flavors and textures meeting in one sickly magical moment of communion. Who could have predicted that something like this existed in the world (except for the legions of loyal fans)?!?!? As I sat there on a park bench, alone, in pure disbelief at the sensuous pleasure of each bite, I thought about how this moment of celestial beauty could be a check mark in the case for a higher power.

While the extra chili mayo dripped into the styrofoam container on my lap, I also contemplated about how unfair I’d been to mayo throughout my life. I realized I’d been socialized into thinking that mayo was an abomination on earth and I’d accepted this idea without even venturing to know it on any sort of intimate level. I’d unknowingly been a mayo racist and now the whole world was being illuminated and cracked open for me in a joyous hedonistic sauce. Amidst the shame of my ignorance and weight on my conscience, I felt a tidal wave of love for this new crack dressing, and forgiveness radiated.

Picture 2

Picture 3

…And then I became a creepy Num Pang social media participator…also, the author notes that she went a third day following these two consecutive days but was too embarrassed to compose another sycophantic public tweet about it (after all, she is single again).

Num Pang, oh my God. Go now. Don’t walk, run there. You will thank me later cuz your first bite is gonna make you feel as though you are only now being born and have never existed before this moment.

SoulCycle Trick

Okay, this is the scene. It was a 32 degree Thursday morning with formidable windchill. I awoke in my East Village bed, a warm womb of denial to start the day. My alarm sang abrasively, demanding like a naggy ex-wife that I get up and move my ass. Never having been a work-out-before-work type, I hadn’t exercised at this hour since the yesteryear of college athletics where my successful arrival at early morning practice was attributed solely to the threat of punishment by death (ie: running stadiums or game suspension). And that’s when I remembered that today was the day of me against the bike, but mostly just me against the morning in general.


Selfie I took from bed

I managed to blindly shuffle along the streets of New York city until I made it to the SoulCycle studio in NoHo, gingerly led along by my valiant leader roommate. Armed with her disciplined can-do attitude, she paid no mind to my cantankerous protestations. I signed in and after noticing the “New Rider” marking next to my name,  I was greeted with a: “Welcome, Blair. We’re really glad you’re here today.” I smiled even though it sounded like the greeting people get when they first check into rehab for narcotics. It was a nice touch though, I felt welcomed and shit. And then after overcoming the acute claustrophobia of the miniscule winding locker room hallway, I arrived at my bike – my foil, my stallion.

Clad in my stupidest dryfit apparel and batman velcro spin shoes, I was ready to see what all the god blessed hype was about. Why Jake Gyllenhall never misses a class, why even Aviva, real housewife without a leg, partakes. The room was dark and I felt the same eerie sense of anticipation that is present before the headlining act of a concert comes on. People were jazzed all around me. At 6:45 in the morning. What is wrong with these people? I thought.

Our instructor arrived with one minute to spare, assuring us all that she always starts precisely on time. She introduced herself as Stevie. A diminutive little hobbit of a person, she had the preternatually lean and sinewy muscle of a feline cat indigenous to the wild plains of Africa. There was no evidence of even the smallest bit of fat on her body. We’re talking size 0 in a sports bra and micro spandex shorts with more energy than a Four Loko. In addition to the full tattoo sleeves encompassing her arms, she had a massive pony tail of dreadlocks and eyes the color of mint Listerine. It seemed as though she was probably friends with Michelle Rodriguez. What an interesting person, I thought. Stevie quickly lit candles around the now packed room and we started peddling.

The music came on and blared 25 times louder than any other gym class I had been to ever. I started to loosen up and remember that I was a dedicated athlete at some point in my life. This morning shit isn’t so bad, I thought, I’m like almost partying kinda. Stevie yelled like a rockstar on stage from her front and center platform. She was a spiritual artist and it seemed that with each passing scream she gave away a part of her soul to us. I wondered if she was a sobered up former raver as I struggled along with each song (you’re supposed to peddle to the beat).  I chased the music through the entire ride. Going after the intangible could be frustrating but it was also liberating, like a midnight skinny dip in the ocean. And then we did choreographed little tiny dance movements on the bikes and Stevie jerked her dreadlocked head back and forth like a possessed mad woman – everyone looking to her like the hero goddess of the morning. She was a savant of energy, a defiance of normal human limits. We even did a ten minute arm sequence with one pound weights while peddling, an activity that left my arms paralyzed for the next four days. For our cool down ride, she ended with some Etta James in the darkness. It was ethereal in the candlelight and felt a little sacred like a little chapel oasis.


See, I was telling the truth about the candles


Needless to say, I get it now. SoulCycle is that good, everything they said was all true. It will get you from the inside to the out, from the toes to the nose. But it’s also for the richest people in America at $35 a class. Basically, I can never go back until I am rich and famous. So, thanks, SoulCycle, I love you and see you never.

Have you tried SoulCycle? What do you think?


Valentine’s Day

Hey, you. Yeah, you. Listen up.

Valentine’s Day is cool. So don’t go around saying dumb shit like “Happy Single Awareness Day” or any other stupid adages. There’s love everywhere, swirling around you and rubbing up against your super moisturized winter skin. It’s a festive day and nobody likes a buzzkill bummer whiner weiner. Your mom loves you, why else would she text you all the time? Your dad loves you, why else would would he send you all those chain emails. Your girlfriends laugh at your jokes and still like you when you’re hungry and cranky. Your guy friends haven’t lost respect for your keg stand metrics. And those lecherous construction guys on Houston really love you every morning and night on your way to and from the subway entrance…


So please do not despair and/or hate on such a day of pure, unobstructable beauty. With that, we humbly offer you the following suggestions for the big V day.

Should Nots (Missed Layups/Dropped Passes/Butterfingers):

The following Don’t list will be in red typing as to signal “don’t!!” to your brain.

-Brand New- De Ja Entendu. The whole album (along with dark rooms and consuming entire pizzas) is irrefutably off-limits. V-day contraband. No way, don’t do it. 


-Before Sunrise, Before SunsetGenerally no Ethan Hawke and Julie Delpy as an across the board rule for today.

-The Notebook- You tell me when I’m being an arrogant son of a bitch and I tell you when you’re a pain in the ass, which you are 99% of the time. I’m not afraid to hurt your feelings. You have like a two second recovery rate and then you’re on to doing the next pain in the ass thing. So it’s not going to be easy, it’s going to be really hard. We’re going to have to work at this everyday, but I want to do that. Because I want you, all of you. Forever, you and me, everyday.  Yeah exactly, V-day suicide. Who wants a shot?

-Love Actually- You’re not going to marry someone you’ve never had a conversation with anyway. 

-Young Adult

-When Harry Met Sally- But you should definitely have some pie still. At a diner if you want. Maybe with Billy Crystal. 

-AdeleGod, no, definitely no Adele today.

-Colbie Caillet- Save it for a summer day with beergaritas. 

-Any and all Frank Ocean- No way, man. Seeing him win at the Grammy’s was hard enough. Like -Yeah! suck it, Chris Brown. But oh no! The emotions that accompany our R & B darling! He’s a picture of sweetness and romance. 

Musiq Soulchild, Talking Heads, Solange, Bon Iver- Again, these are maj prohibited. House music will suit you better today. NO WORDS, JUST BEATS. 

-New weird slow Rihanna ballads that express her torturedness and thus are way too evocative for the holiday

-Talking to weird people and/or V-day predators. Be on guard, but also sweet, okay? It’s a combination that you must figure out in order to navigate the rest of your time here on earth, like the philosopher’s stone or something.

Shoulds (Slam Dunk!):

-Wear pink and red. It’s friendly as shit. Unless, you have something black and dead sexy to wear. But it can’t be like curmudgeonly black.

-Go to Soul Cycle. We’re trying it this morning so that we can fathom why people won’t shut up about it. Endorphins, bitchesssss.

-If you have time today, maybe during your commute to work, or if you can listen to headphones at the office – check out this week’s This American Life podcast with Ira Glass. It’s a Valentine’s Day ep, but surprisingly not lovey dovey.

-Eat the Crumbs and Baked by Melissa cupcakes at the office. It’s Valentine’s Day, carbs and processed sugars should abound.


-Smile and hug everyone. Pat their backs and rub people’s shoulders. Hold the elevator open. High five people. Let your handshakes linger…

-Hit the bar with your girlfriends and have some dranks. See below:

Oopsies, keep it together girls.

Wishing you a very special day for you and yours.  Follow the lists. Look around and see dat da world be dope as shit.

Lastly, don’t forget that tomorrow is Friday and all that drugstore shit will be on sale and meaningless. Like this too shall pass, ya know?

Dump His Ass Ri Ri

Rih Baby,

Look, we saw you and your side-of-the-head-buzz-cut at the courthouse with Breezy, supporting him at his probation hearing and blah blah.

A litigious matter of whose Grammy night origins we haven’t forgotten. By now you’ve made it very clear that you don’t give a fuh, ie: your Instagram moniker, “BadGirlRiRI” and your daily selfies of you lighting a fatty J. We get it, you’re not Pon De Replay girl any more – you’re no role model. I’ve noticed you taking this stance in some of your most recent song titles like “Good Girl Gone Bad”, “S & M”, and for sure “Rude Boy”.


For the record, we abhor it when people give us unsolicited love advice, like it makes us want to assault their houses with a paintball gun and pour salt on snails. But this isn’t about us, so lets get some things straight- You’re a firing Barbadian siren hit factory with the ethereal ability to make even a curmudgeon like 2013 Chevy Chase dance…You got a body that make a girl wanna sin…You’re churning out product like IBM in the 90’s, you can’t be stopped (thanks by the way for “Take Care” and “We Found Love” this past year, two ubiquitous melodies on the soundtrack of my last relationship – now I have to tase myself seven times a night at the club).

But I digress, what I’m saying is – you’re putting some good shit out there in the universe. You need to dump his excitable ass. 2013 can be like Girls’ Year for us!!! We can go hang out with Katy Perry, prob go to some weird clubs in Midtown and Meatpacking like you like to do. Nevermind, Katy is in love now, soldier down. It can be just us two. We can talk about how “Disturbia” is undisputedly your best song and I’ll knife anyone that says differently. Ya know?

And then ideally, we’ll find ourselves a couple of Dwight Shrutes I think. It’s essential that you step outside of your typical box and/or “type”. Maybe Manu Ginobili? No, he’s married. How about Paul Ryan? No, he’s also married. You two would also maj fight over your Instagram choices. Anyways, I think your next boyfriend should dislike MMA, fighting, punching Frank Ocean, yelling at talk show hosts, etc. But that’s just little old me, your friend speaking.

So, write back when you’ve pulled the rip cord.

Girls: It’s a Shame About Ray

Yes, we came home from the bar early on Saturday night to catch Girls.



+5 for sticking up for Marnie after tearing her a new one last week while on her coke binge. Geeze louise, ease up, Hannah.

+5 for a respectable Oasis rendition.

+5 for no gross Laird mishaps this episode

-5 “There are certain people who are meant to remain in your past. I made a mistake trying to repurpose you”. What are you a totalitarian despot? “Repurpose”? NOOOOOO, not our Elijah. HOW COULD YOU, HANNAH?


+5 for starting an artisanal mustard company.

+5 for calling Marnie out. You’re a f**king stepford psycho and I’m tired of seeing you around everyone. Whoa, pint-size-headband-girl’s got game.


-10 for LYING: “I’m seeing someone”. She isn’t seeing anything. She’s seeing terror-artist-boy damage her vulnerable soul.

+7 for exquisite passive aggressive Audrey dig. Hannah: What have we ever done that’s so great?, Marnie: Nothing that great. Nothing with condiments. AND, Marnie: Are her mustards not receiving enough accolades?


+5 “Fern? That’s a ridiculous name.”

-5 for throwing the HUMI award. That’s some Kanye behavior.

+25,000 for Peter’s Poison for predicting the marital implosion last week. Come on, Jessa, you knew shit was going to go down when you’re Janis Joplin trying to marry yourself straight into a finance-y straightjacket.



-5 get smarter. Come on, you’re dating a 33-year-old.

+25 for the best scene of the episode. And the series. I love love.


+25 for the best scene of the episode. And the series. I love love.

It’s the weightiest and most poignant scene of the series thus far. Saying I-love-you for the first time is the best. It’s so scary and charged. Exquisite work by Alex Karpovsky and Zosia Mamet.

What’d you think about this episode, dear readers? Let us know in the comment section below!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

We Love Girls

We love Girls. You know this already because we blabbed all about it last week here.

This past Sunday’s episode, “Bad Friend”, was a little bananas. I, for one, did not foresee Hannah being the type to hit the nose candy – heyo, curveball. Totes thought she’d be too straight-laced/pious to take that plunge. But, who knew? Editor “Jame” (not Jamie) said to, so she literally did it for the story. And out of it we got the sweaty mesh tank top dance scene between her and Elijah set to the best song ever (below).

How’s that jam? Makes you want to SHAKE IT EVERYWHERE. Like everywhere. I don’t care, I love it.


-5 for that illegal mesh tank top. No club would ever allow it. No friend would allow it either. This isn’t Ibiza, it’s Brooklyn. It’s not cocaine-induced expressionism, it’s assault on my eyes, and an infraction that would land real life people in the pen.

+5 for her Marnie tell-off rant. It was fun and true and weird.

-5,000 for LAIRD, ew. Ew.


-5 because umm, nobody in the world would react the way Hannah did if your creepy-junkie-downstairs-neighbor started stalking you. Even if you had asked him for a favor earlier that day. No, you’d mase a bitch.

-1,1000 for preying on the chubby 25-year-old girl looking for drugs so that she can write a $200 freelance article.


+10 for just having all around incredible charisma and screen presence. Such a great character addition. I’m giddy during any scene in which he is present.

-10 for letting Hannah wear that illegal tragedy of a mesh tank top.

Booth Jonathan


+10 for unheard of levels of cockiness. I’ve been harboring high hopes for Booth based upon his introductory scene with Marnie from last season. I won’t remind you of what he said exactly because my mom and dad read this and they’d send me a howler. But, dear readers, I was PSYCHED when he and Marnie inevitably met again…and impressed that he instantly lured her away from her brand new job with just a few lethally casual words.

+10, Jorma Taccone

-10 for that AWFUL sex scene. God, I pictured it going down so differently. Way to make it not hot at all, deranged-artist-Booth. You were supposed to just stay at cocky-artist-Booth.


-10 for that awful sex scene. Marnie was a lifeless slug without a soul letting some skinny robot man inhabit her. I can stand my share of spice, but Jesus Marnie, where’s your fighting spirit? Or even your words? Your personality? Your exaltations? Your protests. Perhaps this will be the catalytic moment for a new arc about her emotional evolution or some shit like that. Or maybe she will end up dumping his brazen hipster ass. Either way, we need something else to happen.

-10 for her “You are so f-ing talented” response to him locking her in his torture TV installation. Get your head out of your ass, Marnie.


+10 for the imminent unraveling that will befall Jessa’s supposed union to Thomas John. We all know it’s coming. Jessa’s obnoxious proclamations about domestic nirvana are just a setup for the implosion.

…Can’t wait for Sunday. They better not try and pull any shit because of Super Bowl or anything like that. Do you think Hannah will actually make Elijah move out? Noooo, I hope not.