I had so much fun opening for Danny Palmer at Caroline’s this past Tuesday. Congrats to Danny on killing it and doing 45 min.
“Periods, AMIRITE GUYS?”
Benny D’s tank top and Josh bringing me up!
Her name is Clair and she is a 27-year-old woman who enjoys cyber bullying her friends on the internet and any tomato based recipe. At 25, she decided to quit being a commercial real estate broker because her soul was dying and she got sick of trying to remember which colleges all her clients’ kids were applying to. Then, she met a guy and fell in love and had her heart shattered into a billion pieces with such velocity that the only historically comparable event in history is most definitely the “Big Bang”. That guy was a comedian. She never wanted to be a comedian, she just wanted to write jokes behind the scenes but not be in front of people ever. But after she had her heart ripped out of her chest, she randomly woke up one day and thought, “hmm, I will do this now”. So she does this at night time now and often eats pizza on her way home. If the pizza place she chooses to frequent does not have ranch dressing for some reason, she immediately morphs into a rage-filled animal and usually physically assaults whichever employee is unlucky enough to deliver her the bad news.
When Clair was still masquerading as a commercial real estate broker, rotting each day under the florescent lights, she used to daydream about what she would do if she didn’t have to live each day in her grey jail cell cubicle. She decided she would be a fiction writer. This was before she had done much fiction writing and knew that it requires insane discipline, self structure, and an ability to tolerate hours of solitary confinement without dicking your day away on the internet. But naive as she was, she decided to apply to a bunch of grad schools for her MFA, fully confident that she would never be admitted to any of them. Then, one day, she got a call that she had gotten into The New School in New York City. This was her chance to escape Irvine, California! She was so in shock that she started crying and impulsively left some people voice mails mid-sob. These people continue to remind her that they have saved these embarrassing voice mails for the future- so what I am saying is- Clair really, really understands how Donald Sterling feels.
Anyway, Clair moved to New York and went to school for two years where she wrote a collection of stories about weird, racy shit that is so nutso she can never show it to her family. Then, the time came where she finally finished her goddamn thesis, and that’s why she now has time to return to this dumb fucking blog!!!! Clair would probably say that I shouldn’t curse on here in case her mom or dad or a conservative future employer read it, but she didn’t come this far to be a pussy okay.
I took a greyhound bus to New Jersey the other day. This is because I live in New York and don’t have a car.
Artists take greyhound buses. See, I am one. All you have to do is say it, nobody can take away a self declaration you guys.
It was on a nice Wednesday that Christina (character of best friend extraordinaire) and I boarded our multi-wheeled chariot in pursuit of a wild 4th of July on the Jersey Shore (***this was not our first bus trip, just simply the most notable as of late). We had the excitement and adventure of that Sex In The City episode where Carrie wrangles Samantha into a cross country train trip to her book party in LA. Except we were only going three hours away.
We had traveled for a mere thirty minutes, barely entering the state of New Jersey when the skies started rumbling with anger. Within a few seconds, we were in the middle of a flash flood on the turnpike. Ordinarily, this would just make for a slower ride. But not on this day, dear readers.
It was discovered by our surly bus driver, that the windshield wipers on our beloved perambulator were in fact busted. And this was only observed after the homeless man sitting in the seat directly behind us started screaming that the roof was caving in. Since he’d been yelling for most of the ride, it took the whole bus about four minutes before we realized that he was actually telling the truth about the onslaught of water on his head. There was literally a waterfall leak pouring in from the roof everywhere.
I’m 75-years-old man! Gimme another seat, it’s rainin’ on my goddamn head, GODDAMN-IT-IS-RAININ-ON-MY-HEAD! What is an old man sposed to do. IT RAININ ON MY HEEADDDDDD!
But he didn’t look 75. I just want to tell you guys that. He looked more like a strong 50. So he got up and ran to the front of the bus and sat next to the driver. This was a relief for us. Because we were very close to him and his yelling.
Then our bus driver started yelling at us that we had to sit on the side of the road until another bus came to pick us up because he refused to lose his job “just to get us to our destination on time”. EVEN THOUGH IT ONLY RAINED FOR A TOTAL OF TEN MINUTES and we actually didn’t need windshield wipers any more. The man really channeled his anger towards his passengers.
So while we waited for our rescue bus for two hours on the side of the road with our phone batteries dangerously approaching dead, we were then treated to our old homeless friend’s philosophical musings. He commandeered the front of the bus, taking it hostage as his stage, while we all sat listening as his (literal) captive audience:
You guys are lucky I’m here fo yo entertainment. You guys hungry? I got crab salad and egg salad in my backpack for you. You don’t have to pay nothin for it. I also got a bottle of sneaky sneaky. Don’t tell nobody but I got the Hennessy in there if ya’ll want some.
Nothing like some unrefrigerated crab salad/egg salad washed down with some Henny.
But this ride was all very good for Christina and me because it made us feel way less white and suburban and inexperienced.
It’s the 2nd of July, which only means one thing – we’re just a hiccup away from our good country’s independence holiday. A day in which we mongoloids celebrate raucously with bizarre pyrotechnic paraphernalia, oddly colored foods, and little clothing.
John Adams wrote this to his wife, Abigail, on July 2, 1776:
The second day of July, 1776, will be the most memorable epoch in the history of America. I am apt to believe that it will be celebrated by succeeding generations as the great anniversary festival. It ought to be commemorated as the day of deliverance, by solemn acts of devotion to God Almighty. It ought to be solemnized with pomp and parade, with shows, games, sports, guns, bells, bonfires, and illuminations, from one end of this continent to the other, from this time forward forever more.
So Big John was off by a few days, relax, nobody ever called him a psychic you unruly hounds. All I’m saying is we should focus on his most important nugget of wisdom and keep up the illuminations as instructed.
What are you guys going to do for the 4th? I’m headed to the Jersey Shore for the first time ever. I feel it’s only fitting that I get a spray tan nine shades too dark and some barbed wire bicep tattoos in order to fully integrate with the native culture. I will also be strictly drinking Jagermeister or as I like to say – “bombs”.
I am a patriot and I have a god given right to wear unflattering one pieces that say – I bleed stars and stripes and love eating hotdogs at baseball stadiums.
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.
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.
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
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.
I recently had the pleasure of interviewing everybody’s favorite comedy curmudgeon, Marc Maron, for W 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.
Can’t wait to catch this grumpy show! Looks like fun, no?
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 brisket..so 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.
OH MY GOD I WANT IT RIGHT NOW
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.
…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).
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.
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.