“Lou was a prince and a fighter and I know his songs of the pain and beauty in the world will fill many people with the incredible joy he felt for life. Long live the beauty that comes down and through and onto all of us.”—Laurie Anderson on her late husband Lou Reed
I'm trying to get better at expressing my feelings so here goes:
I prefer Candy Mania to Candy Crush HOWEVER, these levels where the ghosts eat my candy are just too hard. I can’t possibly produce stacks of three or more when all these damn ghosts keep eating my damn candy. To top it off, after I kill a ghost by hitting him in the head with gumdrops, ANOTHER ghost appears! What, pray tell is my incentive? Is the point of Candy Mania to turn me into a nihilist? Because you’ve done it, Candy Mania. You and your damn candy eating ghosts have done it.
HEY TEENS welcomes the hilarious Alison Agosti (@AlisonAgosti), Hey Teens Intern Josh Briggs (@JaJoshBriggs) and Hey Teens mascot DENZEL THE DOG (not on twitter) to the show. Alison, an advice columnist for The Atlantic, comes by to talk about Spuds MacKenzie, fucked up clydesdales, growing up in Rancho Cucamonga, CA, high school reunions, hot moms, dumb guy urban myths and MORE! Also, be sure to contribute to issue #2 of the HEY TEENS ZINE. The subject is MESSING WITH AUTHORITY - heyteenspodcast.com for more info!
Farticus, camp for gay dogs, and tips for getting out of a speeding ticket. Guests: Alison Agosti (The Atlantic, UCB’s New Money), Lauren McGuire (NPR’s Wits, UCB’s New Money). Hosted by Justin Michael and Jacob Reed, produced by Eric Martin.
I got to guest on one of my very favorite podcasts! Give it a listen, yeah?
The highly anticipated lineup for the upcoming fall 2013 season of Wits has just been announced, and once again it’s packed with amusing, engaging comedians and entertainers, as well as a strong roster of talented musical guests spread throughout the 10 shows.
Lauren and I are busy coming up with talking animal sketches for the new season!
I’m moving out of my house tomorrow— today, actually. Of the twelve things I have to do before I leave, writing a mopey little Tumblr piece is not one of them, so anyway here goes:
I just realized that I move a lot, but this is the first time that I’m leaving the city. I’m not moving away forever, at least that isn’t the plan currently. I’m a freelance writer and I can do my job from anywhere, so a few months ago I started to wonder why I was only living here, in Los Angeles. I am so grateful for everything I have here, especially the friends who have become family in that way that only happens when you’re all young and lost together. There are countless nights where we’ve run around this city, drunk and overcome with how beautiful everything can be. Squeezing into a cramped booth at the Cha Cha Lounge, handing my ID to that mean bouncer at The Roost, yelling “I LOVE this song” to every 90s hit at Birds on Wednesday night, coffee at Brite Spot at two in the morning; all things that have been relived time and time again and all things I already miss. I can’t imagine feeling a sense of home like I do here, but I’ve also never tried.
The thing about packing up my life is how little time it would take if I wasn’t distracted every fifteen minutes by some long-lost artifact: a photo taken from a very short Holga phase, tuning my neglected guitar, a funny note left on my car from a friend I haven’t seen in too long. Each needs to be reflected on, catalogued and put away.
That’s what the whole California feels like for me right now; not a place left for me to go without running into a ghost. So I’m going to put on a new skin and look at that city on the east coast, maybe poke around the middle of the country for a little bit. I’ll come back, always. Because I don’t like a lot of things, but I like you, Los Angeles. I’m always going to like you. I’m just tired.
There are some people who handle the unforgiving heat of July with a grace that I will never possess. Where you might see a normal person glisten, I am dripping and squinting because sweat has run into my eyes. Gnats seem to prefer my nose and mouth over even horses and I will happily take on any challenger for most unflattering tanlines, so confident am I in my victory.
So saying all that, I was somewhat perplexed when a man in a white Mercedes two-seater, the color and make of choice for the third and fourth wives of all Saudi princes, ushered me over after I’d finished a long hike with my dog who looked almost as bad as I did. We are a sweaty, matted pair.
I had noticed the car a block or two earlier, and had been annoyed when it didn’t move out of the crosswalk for me then. Seeing it again, I assumed I had dropped something, or maybe it was a friend of a friend; so I very stupidly removed my earbuds and leaned down.
"What?" I asked, shittily.
"Hey… Where are you from?" He asked. Please know that whoever you are imagining, was the man driving this car. Yes, he has thick, wavy black hair that curled around his ears and yes, it was slicked back. His shirt was obviously salmon-colored and I don’t know why I’m continuing because you know the stereotype I’m describing.
And here’s the thing: asking someone where they’re from is not how you begin a conversation with a stranger on the street. Because I either have to ask, “Like, do you want to know where I grew up or where I was born? Or where I live now?” And then I tell you and that would be that. Because I’m not going to follow up because I don’t care. I don’t care where anybody is from. Maybe if you have an outrageous accent I might speculate about it, but I don’t feel like a meaningful conversation about geography is going to arise, you know?
I don’t know if there is a good way to spark up a conversation. My technique is to love someone from afar for two or three years and never make direct eye-contact until they start dating someone else and it’s not really working out. But this guy? I don’t know. He was doomed with me regardless, because I don’t want to talk to anyone when I’m dripping wet and smell like old mustard.
Maybe something like, “Excuse me, miss? I’m sorry, I was driving this douche car, which - please don’t judge me by, it belonged to my weird uncle and I was just on my way to donate it to the charity of your choosing - when I spotted you. YOU. I don’t know if this sounds crazy, maybe it’s the way you tripped several times as you walked or perhaps it’s the way your sports bra has turned your breasts into some sort of meat tube, but… I just had to talk to you. I just had to know you. And now that I’m close enough to see the hot sauce stain on your shirt, I’m glad that I did. Thank fate or god or sheer dumb coincidence that we were at the same place at the same time in the universe! Where are you from, tell me everything.” And then he’d put on this song.
As soon as I realized this was a creepy afternoon pick-up; which was immediate from his stupid smirk, I groaned and walked away. To which he responded, “Whatever bitch, you should be flattered. I’m a producer.”
And this is not fair for the following reasons:
I am not a bitch. It turns out, very few people are. I get “cold” and “standoffish” fairly regularly but please know that I don’t mean to be and also don’t really know how to be otherwise. My social intelligence is very low but I am fairly certain that I am in the range of decent-to-good as far as people are concerned.
Whether or not I should be flattered is irrelevant, you can’t make another human being feel a feeling.
I have lived in Los Angeles for four years and every time I meet a person who is shitty in the way that the rest of the country assumes we’re all shitty, it makes me a combination of sad and angry (sangry: adj.). Because why the fuck is this considered the norm? I know so many good, kind, talented people in this city, but somehow Gold Chain here is our unofficial ambassador?
There was one more… oh right, it’s 2013 and it’s important for me as a woman to point out that this still happens. Just walking down the street, covered in dust and sweat and some horrible idiot thinks it’s okay to approach me without invitation and then insult me when he is refused. It’s disgusting and tragic, no matter how infrequently it happens. Any woman that is walking alone should not have to worry about being accosted.
I kept walking, fighting the urge to turn around and yell, “you better get that car home before daddy notices that it’s missing.” Mostly because I didn’t think of it until just right now.
Finally, I just want to say, if you are a producer and you want me to suck your dick at 3 in the afternoon on Los Feliz Blvd while your luxury rental idles and the beats of the latest Maroon 5 single dictate my head bobs: it had better be a 30 minute comedy and will you please read my pilot?
“Once a little boy sent me a charming card with a little drawing on it. I loved it. I answer all my children’s letters — sometimes very hastily — but this one I lingered over. I sent him a card and I drew a picture of a Wild Thing on it. I wrote, “Dear Jim: I loved your card.” Then I got a letter back from his mother and she said, “Jim loved your card so much he ate it.” That to me was one of the highest compliments I’ve ever received. He didn’t care that it was an original Maurice Sendak drawing or anything. He saw it, he loved it, he ate it.”—Maurice Sendak