Growing up, my mom would pick us up from school on a cloudy Friday with our bags already packed (unbeknownst to us). We’d speed down the Ten freeway into sunshine & spend the weekend poolside in Palm Springs. My mom can’t stand gray weather, which is probably why I also almost always kill myself if it’s cloudy for more than a couple days:
I’ve been spoiled rotten.
I’m still quite spoiled,
and spend as much time as I can in Palm Springs.
Friends of Dean Martinez, “I Wish You Love”
Palm Springs, February Two Thousand & Twelve
Le Parker Meridien Hotel & Downtown
All photos were taken by me on a late seventies’ Canon AE-1, except the photos of me, which were taken by Dudefriend with his Pentax. Visit the set on Flickr.
I spent most of yesterday driving around in the rain and listening to Tennis’ sophomore album, Young & Old. The music itself is perfectly enjoyable, still rife with jangling pop riffs & happy keyboards & all those Annette Funicello feelings I’m addicted to. My head wants so badly to bob away & dream of far away lands with my lover, but the lyrics tell a completely different story this time around. Cape Dory was a new romance to get lost in, an adventure full of butterflies, ON THE HIGH SEA! But the vacation is over on Young & Old. It sounds like, the first week of getting back from a trip. Your mind is still on holiday, rapt in sun-soaked daydreams, but you’re back; back to making the office coffee & questioning your relationship & worrying about the future of the planet & shit.
I appreciate Tennis’ more adult (for lack of a better word, I mean, let’s be real, Tennis is the #whitepeopleproblems of music) themes on this album but it just doesn’t quite match up. Musically, I’m still on a beach but lyrically, I’m a little lugubrious & confused. I’m still probably going to listen to it quite a bit though, mostly because that last sentence is also a great metaphor for my life from time to time.
My favorite song on the album (after “Origins”, which is the obvious stand out of the track list) is called “Robin”. There’s something about the melody of it that really, really reminds me of the song “Love” from Disney’s (coincidently) Robin Hood. This is important because Robin Hood is my favorite Disney movie & Robin the fox was my first big crush, right before 1963 Paul McCartney (I’ve always led a very rich fantasy life, you guys).
Here you can compare the two songs, because I love you like that:
Tennis’ “Robin”
George Bruns’ “Love”
Don’t get me started on that “Love” dip.
I DIIIE for that song.
Anyway, back to Tennis…
So, yesterday was Valentine’s Day. I personally am a huge fan of Valentine’s Day, always have been, even when I was a single asshole with a bad attitude because I love any excuse to buy wine & cheese & hang out. See, that’s what single people don’t get. They’re all on Twitter bitching about not getting flowers when I know there’s at least three other girls they could call over to share some aged cheddar, a relatively-priced Cabernet & old Meg Ryan movies with.
Who doesn’t love wine & cheese & old Meg Ryan?!
In fact, if you know girls who wouldn’t be down with wine & cheese & old Meg Ryan, you should stop knowing them. Immediately. There is something inherently wrong with them & they obviously have no taste &/or soul.
Anyway, I am not single. So, I don’t have to worry about dumping any friends because they won’t watch When Harry Met Sally with me. What I do have to worry about though, is making sure my dudefriend doesn’t dump me.
He’s a really good dudefriend.
So I show him I love him in many ways,
one of which is not dressing up for Valentine’s Day.
What’s not to love
about no makeup,
sweatpants,
a man’s tshirt,
a faux leather jacket
& moccasins that are worn through the bottom?!
MY SHIT BE BANGIN’.
WATCH OUT,
I MIGHT SNUG’ UP ON UR ASS.
GET ALL COMFY & NOT GIVE A FUUUUCK.
Today, my Weekly Tape Deck cohort & general good pal Ryan informed me about some serious bunk-ass-shit that Los Angeles county is pulling. Apparently, now you can’t “cast, toss, throw, kick or roll” anything besides a volleyball or a beach ball on LA County beaches.
DO YOU UNDERSTAND THE IMPLICATIONS OF SAID BULLSHIT?! THIS MEANS I CAN’T PLAY SMASHBALL NOW! I LOVE SMASHBALL! IT’S MY THIRD FAVORITE THING TO DO ON THE BEACH! RIGHT AFTER DRINKING & TANNING, ONE OF WHICH IS ALREADY FREAKIN’ OUTLAWED!!!
Basically, you get fined $100 for your first offense, then $200 and then $500, which is just absolutely outrageous for trying to have some good old fashioned clean fun with a football or frisbee.
Here’s the thing: you take a gamble at the beach.
There may be people having some fun
& you may have to deal with it,
just like at a park.
Are we going to outlaw pinatas in parks because of the one time a Mexican kid almost hit me with a fucking bat? I mean, is that what the world is coming to?
We going to ruin summer AND children’s birthday parties?
For the record, not only have I escaped death in Elysian Park, but I’ve also been hit in the face with both footballs and frisbees at the beach. In fact, one time, I was hit in the face with a football while on a “date” with Vince, who you may know as the bro who plays my ex-boyfriend in T&tT: The Series (yes, we “dated” and yes, he “dumped” me). Here is a photo that exemplifies our relationship, despite being taken years after we’d already decided to just be friends:
Me trying too hard & bros not giving a shit.
I was just chillin’ on a blanket, trying to crack some jokes & not get sand on my legs, hoping to score some ass later, when BAM! I get blindsided by a pigskin. Did it suck? Yes, it did. Did I still enjoy my day at the beach? Yes, I did.
Did I still get some ass? HELL YES I DID.
The county is saying this is for public safety, BUT EVERYONE KNOWS THAT IS ABSOLUTE NONSENSE.
Thanks CBS poll.
NO ONE HAS EVER DIED FROM A FOOTBALL TO THE DOME.
AND ESPECIALLY NO ONE HAS DIED FROM
FALLING INTO A SAND HOLE
DEEPER THAN 18 INCHES,
WHICH IS NOW ALSO ILLEGAL!
WHAT’S NEXT LOS ANGELES?!
YOU GOING TO BAN LOUNGING?!
SHOULD I EVEN BOTHER BUYING A NEW BIKINI?!
WHAT’S NEXT, NO RUNNING INTO THE WATER & DIVING UNDER WAVES?!
SHOULD I PUT MY SANDCASTLE BUILDING CAREER ON HOLD?!
YOU GOING TO TELL EVERYONE
TO RETURN THEIR ROLLERBLADES TOO?!
I CAN’T FUCKING BELIEVE THIS SHIT.
I’m going to do something about this but I can’t right now because I planned my whole week around today being seventy-nine degrees & rushed home after work to tan my ass & lathered on a bunch of sun tan oil & it’s fucking shady & breezy & a nice seventy-two-ish & now I have to shower because I’m leaving a Hawaiian Tropic snail trail all over my house.
Will keep you updated on my plan of attack,
WHICH I WILL HAVE, BECAUSE I WON’T STAND FOR THIS.
After countless glasses of wine & a couple off-hand shots of whiskey, I excitedly agreed to go as my friend Megan’s show & tell subject at her work. I was excited because of a number of reasons, all filed under the tab “Megan Godfrey‘s Awesome”. She has killer taste, an incredible sense of humor & a huuuge heart. On a selfish note, I also just totally wanted to see where she worked because she designs super dope clothes with Pencil On Paper (POP) Studio.
I woke up at 6:12 last Wednesday,
thought maybe I could get in 18 minutes of sleep
(who the fuck sleeps for eighteen minutes?!)
but couldn’t so showered at 6:25
& was at POP Studio with Megan by 8:30.
This is me in front of their cool screensavers & modern couch.
Please ignore my fat chipmunk face & focus on how cool my denim shirt is.
It turns out POP Studio is a creative oasis that harbors & nurtures the most beautiful & inspired people you’ve ever seen in your life. I can’t believe that I read for these people. I’m telling you, they are the most beautiful & inspired people you’ve ever seen in your life. Each of them have immaculate bone structure & perfect style, like some foreign Vogue spread without the pretension. And THEN, on TOP OF THAT, they work in this freaking like, I don’t know, some Portlandia ad agency dream where everything is all tall ceilings & bajillion foot tall windows & their “cubicles” are really “enchanting minimalist quarters of beautiful white lines”. I would seriously consider living there if all the beautiful people who worked there wouldn’t think I was a fucking weirdo for it.
Anyyyyywayyyyy,
every couple weeks, they meet for a Show & Tell.
Megan brought me & I read a tangent & talked a bit.
The gentleman next to me brought a 1965 Dynmo Tapewriter.
The next girl brought a stack of Rodarte Fra Angelico photos.
The next gentleman brought a-TO-DIE-for 1950′s typography book.
Our friend Haley showed a bunch of dope stop-animations.
And so forth, until I exploded into a cloud of confetti & clean design ideas.
BEST OF ALL, THE CE-MUH’FUCKIN-O*
BROUGHT IN A BUNCH OF MIDCENTURY
HAWAIIAN ARCHITECTURE PICTURES!
ANYONE WHO IS ON MY DICK
KNOWS THAT THAT IS MY DIP!
[via my Tumblr]
This post really doesn’t have much of a point besides to tell you
that we are all miserable slaves that will probably never experience
the kind of splendid sanctuary of POP Studio
in our entire careers.
#BUMMER
That’s it. Really. I spoke in front of a group of really cool people & we’ll probably never be as cool as them. I’m sorry. I really wish I had more to say about the subject, but honestly if you’re a Los Angeles resident, be on the look out for dope shows they throw. Yes, they also have an art gallery and throw dope shows. TOLD YOU WE WILL NEVER BE THIS COOL!
*Editor’s Note: It has been brought to my attention that John Moore is the creative director & not the actual CEO but as the creative director of this blog, I feel like being creative director is kind of sort of like being a CEO, of creative things. Whatever his shit was sick.
I’m now a personal assistant. I don’t know if I ever said that here but yeah, I don’t do social media anymore, which is great. Instead, I get to run errands I wouldn’t normally run for myself because I hate them so much/run errands I only dream of running for myself.
For example…
Yesterday, I got to go pick up some goods at Paul Smith.
I don’t know if you’ve ever been to the Paul Smith store,
but HOLY MOTHER OF ALL THINGS WOOD
& WHITE & AESTHETICALLY PLEASING!
That place is just like, heaven.
It’s just magic in there. I want to live there.
Now see those book shelves in that second photo?
Alright, so I was checking out these pajamas
when I spot a book I’ve been dying to have:
THIS IS LIKE A PHOTOGRAPHER’S PREMONITION OF MY LIFE.
THIS WAS MY BIOGRAPHY BEFORE I WAS EVEN BORN TO HAVE ONE.
THIS IS EVERYTHING I STAND FOR IN A FUCKING BOOK DUDE!
Anyway, so I pick it up & look for a price, expecting a zillion dollars.
I couldn’t find a price tag though, only a small $35.00 on the inside sleeve.
I ran my little hands across the cover, gently grazing the plastic sheath like a lover’s cheek. I flipped through the pages, using all my strength not to just fingerblast the hell out of those nineteen-seventies pool scenes. I wanted to just kiss it, all over. I wanted to make love to that book right there. I wanted to worship it, and whisper sweet nothings in its ears. “You are the tightest pussy of a book,” I’d tell it. “I want to live in you. I’ll never be able to live without you. You’re so beautiful.” But I decided, for thirty-five dollars, I should just buy it & go be creepy in the privacy of my own home.
Being as this store is in the trajectory of 2014 in terms of shit I can afford, I don’t know what in hell possessed me to trick myself into thinking it was actually thirty-five dollars. I guess it was wishful thinking & also the fact that I didn’t think people would maliciously hide the price tags in the spine of page fifteen.
But that’s exactly where the real price tag was.
Please take a moment of silence
to picture & bless the look on my face
when it rang up as NINE HUNDRED & FIFTY FUCKING DOLLARS.
My mouth dropped open & I let out a silly, “Aheh…”
followed by a giggle that would have been cute on me five years ago.
And the too-fashionable-not-to-be-gay salesman says,
“Well, it is vintage & first edition!”
Apparently, vintage + first edition = more than my rent.
I held A Wonderful Time in my hot little hands for a moment longer, thinking of the ecstasy I had felt just mere minutes earlier in that back corner of the store. That hot minute I spent alone thinking about how I was going to fuck the shit out of this book with my eyes for all of eternity, how it would always be there on my coffee table just waiting to be molested with my mind, every day. For a moment, I really wondered if I could get away with it. Like if maybe I ran my debit like a credit card & then ran home & told my dad my cat was dying or something.
But then I realized that that was really stupid.
There may come a day when I actually need to lie about my cat dying
so I can get nine hundred & fifty dollars to fucking live or eat or not be arrested.
Also, I shouldn’t even be thinking about lying about my cat dying! I love my cat! What is wrong with me?! What has happened to me?!
This pool porn was turning me into a monster!
I sheepishly let out another, “Aheh…”
with an awkward smile & put the book back,
feeling totally defeated & deflated.
I gingerly stroked its cover one last time,
promising I would see it in two years
& to please, PLEASE JUST WAIT FOR ME!
I WILL COME BACK I FUCKING PROMISE!
I LOVE YOU! I FUCKING LOVE YOU!
I turned my back on it at 2:30pm
on January Twenty-Third Two Thousand & Twelve,
knowing I may never see it again
but certain the love in my heart would go on forever,
much like Celine Dion or a good designer bag.
The rest of my day felt pretty miserable,
a feeling that is still sort of lingering today,
which is kind of fucking weird since it’s A FUCKING BOOK.
I feel like a man who fell in love with an escort he couldn’t afford. He had caressed her perfect tit & was then turned away, only to dream of that single tit for the rest of his life. He would aimlessly wander Tumblr evermore & pray that perhaps one day he’d get really fucking lucky with a high-res find on a Large sized Google Image Search.
That book is my 70′s Harrison Ford in a speedo & the Parker Hotel rolled into one. It is my muse. I will have it. Mark my words, I will have that fucking book.
That $950 one too,
considering I just found out
that to buy that book new,
oh it’s just about a cool four grand.
This weekend I got Dudefriend to spend the best seventeen dollars he’s spent on me this year & take me to go see Beauty & The Beast 3D.
IT WAS SO AWESOME!!!
I’m not even a fan of 3D movies because they usually give me a headache & I can’t get drunk beforehand but Beauty & The Beast 3D was not like that because since it was made back in the day, its 3Dness is just like a really nice depth of field with the foreground & middleground & animated background actors. I was AGASP when they open up on the beautiful rolling hills of Belle’s poor provincial town & surrounding wind-swept meadows with tiny little pink flowers & shit. I was seriously five all over again. I smiled the whole time, except for the parts where obviously you shouldn’t smile– like when she cries about never seeing her father again or any time Gaston is on screen cause I really don’t like his attitude.
I probably hadn’t watched Beauty & The Beast
in like, a good ten or so years.
FAR TOO LONG.
But kind of awesome because I realized
something about Beauty & The Beast
THAT I NEVER REALIZED BEFORE:
THAT IT IS FUCKED UP THAT THE BEAST GOT BEASTED!!!
Look, I get it. He was an asshole to everyone & then one stormy night he was an asshole to the wrong haggard hobo that came to the door & she spelled him. But guess what? The math is pretty fucked up on this story because in the movie, first it explains via stained glass that the prince was a dick his whole life & then was beasted. Then it explains that the spell must be broken via the wilting rose by his twenty-first birthday. Then Mrs. Potts or someone says that they have been objectified (bahdumchhhh) for the past ten years.
So, basically,
via math
via my brain
via the supplied information
via the script,
THE BEAST WAS BEASTED AT LIKE, TEN YEARS OLD.
I think that the haggard hobo/beautiful enchantress should have given him a break. All ten year olds are dicks anyway and secondly, he was just following one of the top three most important rules of childhood: never let strangers in!
I can’t believe he even answered the door at night to be honest!
And I think that is the REAL moral of the story here.
DON’T ANSWER THE DOOR AT NIGHT! ESPECIALLY IF IT’S A STRANGER!
It’s still the number one way to not get beasted &/or SVU’d.
1. My Raen Alex Knost sunglasses. THE BEST.
2. Vintage Italian wallet/coin purse my sister gave me last year for Christmas that I get more compliments on than everything I’ve ever gotten complimented on ever combined.
3. Smith’s Minted Rose Lip Balm because the Olsens endorsed it once in 2006.
4. My gondola ticket from Sterling Vineyards last spring. It’s like the Disneyland of vineyards if Disneyland just had one arial tram, one guided tour & six weakly poured wine tastings.
5. A hair tie, for emergencies. I say for emergencies because those thin hair ties do nearly nothing for me, but in a tight situation it’d still work.
6. Two stray Midols. Also for emergencies. Or hangovers.
7. A Corona bottle cap that was probably from an emergency.
8. A roll of Kodak film.
9. L’Oreal’s Walk On The Beach nail polish. I just got this because I just got paid.
10. My favorite pen I stole from Dudefriend that he got at a conference. He will never see it again.
11. An open packet of Sugar In The Raw because I always feel bad opening a packet of it & only using a couple granules & then throwing it out. Just seems so wasteful, so instead I fold the packet, put it in my purse, forget about it & the sugar spills everywhere & gets stuck in my electric key & now I can’t use it, so obviously my sugar saving idea was one of my better ones.
On Saturday I performed in the Hello Giggles show at UCB.
I love doing the Hello Giggles shows because
I get to perform with some of my favorite friends/people,
and because I loooooove being on stage.
Except for everything that comes with me being on a stage
when I’m not actually on the stage.
I’ve been getting up in front of people & making an ass out of myself since I was a wee single digit and I’ve always been a total basket case about it. For most of my life, I would go through a single process: casually rehearse, procrastinate, freak the fuck out, rehearse like crazy, hate myself, trip out about having shit memorized, memorize everything, feel like Kanye, realize I’m not Kanye, freak out, pick out a great outfit, find a middle ground because at least now if I fuck up I look good, get on stage & have an awesome time and exit stage right
& vomit in the trash cans in the wings.
After nearly twenty years of this,
I am comfortable enough to not vomit
but now I just make up insane stuff to worry about,
like obsessing over what underwear I’m going to wear.
This seems deranged. And it is. I won’t dispute that. But I genuinely spend a lot of time worrying about what underwear I’ll wear because for about ten years,
I was always cast as a manish character.
I KNOW, RIGHT?! HOW IS THAT EVEN POSSIBLE WITH MY TINY FIVE INCH FACE & BARELY-THERE JAW LINE?! Fucking beats me. All I know is that on three separate occasions I have been cast as Viola in Twelfth Night. For those of you who are not familiar with Shakespeare, just know that Viola is a bitch who gets shipwrecked & upon washing ashore, dresses up like a man to get a job & this woman falls in love with her & she’s in love with the bro that’s in love with the woman who’s in love with her… anyway, yeah the point is that Viola dresses like a dude for 90% of the show.
I have like ten other examples from while I was in acting school but I don’t remember the names of the plays but just please know I cried to my teacher once about how I was never cast as anyone except a tomboy or a curmudgeon.
He replied, emotionless & hard from years of bit parts on CBS crime shows, “Master your niche, then branch out.”
Fuck that. My niche is not “bad attitude in wide legged pants”.
In some weird not-so-subconscious effort to combat my insecurities about always being cast as a lesbian, I make an effort to wear dresses while performing.
WHICH GETS US TO THIS WHOLE BUSINESS WITH THE UNDERWEAR!!!
Because my biggest fear is eating shit on stage & my theory is that yes, I could eat shit, face plant & have my dress come up around my waist, showing off my half-in-shape ass & my underwear. That’s so possible! BUT! I know in my performer’s heart of hearts, I would get up & laugh it off & all would be okay but I want to make sure that if that ever happened, at least someone would be like, “Wow, I can’t believe Marissa Ross ate shit like that but did you see her underwear? They were so cute & totally matched her dress! For being a clutz, she is soooooo put together!”
So, I spend like a week figuring this shit out.
Three days to find the actual outfit,
four days figuring out what underwear is the best.
Cause I mean, you could go like super-matchy OR you could go quirky OR you could just go neon! And do you do thong or boy short? What about the ones with the arbitrary bows your boyfriend makes fun of but you swear someone out there must think are sexy? Does your dress show lines? Is your ass tan? Is that one dimple you’ve been trying to get rid of for eight months still there? Could your creepy ex-boyfriend possibly be in the audience? Could a future creepy stalker be in the audience? What about a creepy television executive!?!
THERE ARE JUST SO MANY VARIABLES!!!
And this is how I think.
Like a completely psychotic person.
Why are you even reading this?!
Anyway, my underwear was exactly the color of my dress on Saturday.
With some black lace trims/accents & some super cute bows
that my boyfriend thinks are fucking stupid I’m sure.
But I think, they’re maybe in my top three cutest underwear.
I recently got them at Victoria’s Secret, so you know I’m not playin’.
I put them on & was like,
“DAMN! IF I FALL TONIGHT EVERYONE’S GOING TO KNOW HOW FLY I AM!”
Here is me backstage, to give you a visual on my color scheme.
But here’s the thing!
I didn’t fall on my face!
So now I almost feel like I wasted my outfit/underwear combo but you can just go ahead & ignore how sorta unstable & relatively masochistic I am.
Hey everyone, just wanted to let you know I saw Mischa today. Living in Echo Park, seeing Mischa is a pretty normal thing. Like, for the most part, you kinda can’t go out without seeing her. But when you see her, you’re usually like, “Whoa, that looks like a fat Mischa Barton!” and then you feel super bad because, it is a fat Mischa Barton. Or, alternatively, you’re like, “Whoa, that looks like Mischa Barton on drugs!”
and then you feel super bad because, it is Mischa Barton on drugs.
All this time I’m like,
I just want Mischa to be happy!
Where is Mischa’s happy place?
You know, where she looks like
a healthy person who doesn’t hate herself?
Well, you guys, I have great news!
Today, Mischa looked so good!
And she was like, just in yoga pants with her dog!
She wasn’t like done up or anything!
And she looked the best ever.
I’m very happy for her. I never watched the OC because I was far too emo & “cool” for that, but I always thought she was super pretty & always just wanted the best for her. All these years I’ve watched her at the grocery store check-out lines & really was just like, “C’mon. You’re so pretty. You can do this!”
And now she is. It’s really inspiring when you think about it.
It’s not like, Kristen Wiig inspiring or anything.
Don’t get me wrong, she’s still just Mischa Barton.
But then again, [whispers] she’s Mischa Barton.
My father recently bought a king size bed he didn’t end up using because it didn’t fit in the room he bought it for & it has been sitting in storage. He offered it to Dudefriend & myself, and I was kinda like,
“No, it’s cool, I like my bed.”
Of course Dudefriend was like,
“Are you kidding me?
WE’LL TAKE THE BED.”
Not to say I don’t want a new bed,
but I’m having a hard time
giving up my bed.
I love my bed.
I’ve had it since I was 18.
This is apparently the grossest thing ever to everyone besides me but I’m sorry, it’s a perfectly fucking awesome bed that is really fucking comfortable! It’s beyond comfortable! Everyone who has ever slept in it had commented on how comfortable it is & how they wish they’d never have to leave it! That is a fucking fact! A fact I have woken up every morning for seven years to confirm!
The only reason everyone is freaking out is because they’ve all slept in it
& probably didn’t realize I’d had it since I was 18
& now they’re like, “EWWW! DEAD SKIN CELLS & SEX JUICES!”
like I’m a whore that doesn’t use fucking sheets.
Like that I’ve been servicing men on a plain old mattress
with only a fleece Christmas-patterned blanket
from the 99 Cent store
to shelter me from the
harsh Southern California winters.
I LIVE FOR SHEETS.
ORGANIC ONES.
PLUS!
I’M A CLEAN,
NON-WHORISH PERSON.
MY MATTRESS IS FINE!
IT’S MORE THAN FINE!
IT’S MY FRIEND!
That bed has been with me through the best & worst times & thinking of it just hanging out on the sidewalk waiting to be trashed along with the ACTUAL disgusting mattresses of Los Angeles county is such a bummer.
But then again, it is 2012–
the year my whole life gets upgraded.
So, I must accept that this is the circle of life.
One comfy-ass queen must be let go
in order to get a bangin’ pillow-topped king.
My bed has served me well.
I just wish we didn’t have to say goodbye.
• Take my self-awareness to the next level & stop stressing myself out so much when I don’t need to because I do that all the time when I really don’t need to & I should be at a point in my life where I can tell the difference between shit worth stressing myself out about versus being stoned.
• Work out at least three times a week, because I am a woman & obviously I can’t start a new year– ha, let alone a day!– without being unsatisfied with my body.
• Drink more water. Duh.
• Write at least one page on my typewriter a day, whether it be a journal entry or a contribution to my fictional novella no one will actually believe is purely fiction as it will no doubt be about Los Angeles, lust, and a bunch of lazy, licentious losers who want to be writers or pursue some career that is equally creative & contrived, just like me! I mean, but it’s fiction.
• Stop using my phone while driving, even if I’m drinking iced coffee & being super brilliant & can’t wait to Tweet.
• Listen to more music. I’ve really fallen off.
• Hope that everyone stops shortening “gorgeous” to “gorg”. It takes a word that means “beautiful” & abbreviates it into this ugly, stupid sounding thing, thus defeating all the sentiments you’re trying to express on my Instagram photos.
• Stop talking shit on people who’ve wronged me, even though I fucking hate them with relatively good reason & wish my friends would too.
• Forgive people who’ve wronged me & not just be like, “I’m over it, it’s fine… I mean, I think they’re really rude but it’s cool… I just feel like she’s kind of a stupid fucking c-word, but whatever… No, really, it’s cool…”
• Not to take it personally when people meet me a bunch of times & we’re always really friendly & they refuse to follow me back on Twitter. I do that all the time! I shouldn’t care! I mean, not everyone is going to think I’m a really pretty genius. And some people are going to hate me for being a really pretty genius. Both totally okay things! Besides, lest us not forget Kelly Slater follows me, so whatever… it’s cool… no, really.
• Hope that spec script I spent two months writing does something besides collect dust. If anyone who can help me get somewhere in the world wants to read it, let me know! I’m open for jobs or just social climbing!
• Transform from “Manic Pixie Dream Girl” into “Hooker With A Heart Of Gold”, cause I feel like the quirky brunette market is kinda tapped right now and IDK, I like the alliteration of “Hooker With A Heart Of Gold”. I feel like I could pull that off without actually being a hooker, just like I’ve pulled off this MPDG without being a fucking idiot.
• Hope to find Beetlejuice on DVD while wandering around Target one day.
2011 is coming to an end, and I can honestly say it has been one of the best years of my life. This time last year, I was just let go from my job and started working at an ocarina company. Yes, ocarinas, as in the things from The Legend Of Zelda. I talked to 13 year olds on the internet about Zelda all day for a paycheck. It was an incredibly dark time with very little promise to propel me forward. I was the most broke I’d been since moving to Los Angeles (the brokest time of my life) and was quickly shredding through my savings. But, I persevered! I continued forth, immersing myself in my delusional optimism knowing that eventually, something would happen. I wrote blogs and scripts like a mad man and now here we are.
I am very proud to say that in 2011, I was able to write for one of the internet’s most popular websites, I wrote/starred/basically produced my own web show, got a great job working for one of my heroes, met so many incredible people that I have admired, even met someone who wants to put me on television as the millennial poster girl for wine (cross those fucking fingers, bitches), finished my first pilot script that features characters that are not “Marissa A. Ross” AND Kelly Slater followed me on Twitter.
If it sounds like I’m showboating, I’m not meaning to but also, I really don’t give a shit if it comes off that way. I am just genuinely grateful and excited to be where I am right now and to be starting 2012 in the place I am. If the world ends next year, I’m going to be able to say I went after my dreams and I even got damn close to achieving them.
And this is where I have to thank anyone who’s ever read this blog or any of my articles, ever followed me on Twitter, ever subscribed to my Tumblr and especially, everyone who watched my web series and Wine Time. Because honestly, none of what’s happening would be possible. All my opportunities have stemmed from working on this ridiculous piece of internet real estate and I can’t thank you enough for supporting it and me, some random-ass brunette with a penchant for bitching and wining [bah-dum-chhhhhh].
So, thank you– yes, you, right now you– so, so very much.
Special thank you’s to Bennett Smith, Molly McAleer, Sophia Rossi, Zooey Deschanel, Mindy Kaling, Kashy Khaledi, Jennifer Still, Kimberly Gordon, my close friends who should know who they are and most of all’s: my best friend Meredith Leyerzaph, my sister Valerie, my Grandma and Papa (RIP) and my insanely, incredible boyfriend Benjamin Blascoe. Each of them have been beyond good to me and every day I am reminded to be appreciative for what they have brought into my life this year.
My only real regret this year was not writing here more.
And I really hope to get back to that in the new year.
The truth is, blogging is hard when you’re busy & happy.
So thanks for sticking with me.
My best wishes to you & yours.
I hope each of you work hard,
do shit for free & never give up.
2012 is going to be fantastic.
Can’t wait to kill it with you.
And remember,
summer only ends if you let it.
xoxoxo
I’ve got this question in my [Tumblr] inbox six times now, so I feel I should just answer it.
I don’t love or hate Lana Del Rey. I feel about Lana Del Rey how I feel about most things: it’s fine. She’s fine to exist & I’m fine with her existing. She has two songs I enjoy & she has a bunch of songs I don’t care for, so I don’t listen to those songs. Am I going to hate her because she got her lips done? No. Does it bother me that she presented herself in a rather deceitful manner (re: that first P4k interview)? Of course. Am I going to waste my time acting like this shit doesn’t happen everyday? No fucking way. Entertainers— both mainstream, independent, hell myself even— even in the slightest manner, have images & acts. Some of those images & acts involve fake names, plastic surgery & feigned dialects. The only reason this conversation is happening about Lana is because a bunch of pretentious tastemaking assholes feel like they were fooled. Who fucking cares? We’re fooled every fucking day and you’re an idiot if you think otherwise.
The bottom line about Lana Del Rey is, despite the hype & all the shit & all the shallow, petty nonsense of it all, she can sing. At the end of the day, isn’t that what really matters?
I’ve been trying to replace “my jam” with “my dip”.
I decided to do this because quite frankly,
it’s a better fucking choice.
I am guessing– with confidence– that on average, people love dips more than jams. I mean, I threw myself an entire birthday party around dips where I did not ask for presents, I asked for everyone to bring a dip. My “David Putty Party” was a serious success that I don’t think a “jam party” would have been. Jams are great, don’t get me wrong, but I feel like they’re more for bread and Brits. (Right, tea time? Am I just being a dick right now or does anyone else feel me on that?)
Dips are for everyone!
Ranch dip, bean dip, artichoke dip, sour cream & onion dip, SEVEN FUCKING LAYER DIP, spinach dip, guacamole, chile con queso, straight up salsa, cheddar ale spread, jalepeno crab dip! AND THAT’S JUST OFF THE TOP OF MY HEAD! IF I SPENT AN EXTRA FIVE MINUTES ON THE INTERNET I COULD BLOW YOUR FUCKING MIIINDS WITH THE SORT OF DIPS I COULD FIND! NOT TO MENTION, FRENCH ONION!
(I don’t like french onion really, so please to the four people who brought it to my David Putty party, can three of you bring more 7 layer dips next time? Thanks.)
Unfortunately, despite all reasonable logic
& my immaculate enunciation
(when I’m not drunk),
everyone keeps thinking I’m saying,
“DAMN, THAT’S MY DICK!”
Which is, painfully, not the same as “my dip”.
“Dip” is better than “jam”,
but “jam” is better than “dick”.
I am sullen, but not defeated.
I will be a trendsetting slanguist one day.
Anyway, I'm Marissa A. Ross, a writer who graduated from acting school to make a living as an internet addict. Just another American Dream, drinking too much & putting shit on the internet.
I also dig music, which makes me really original.
And this is my inconsequential plot of internet real estate.
