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  • Another Match.com Failure

    Another Match.com Failure

    She winked at me. I average about eight of these per year, none worth following up – except this one. She was a skinny 27-year-old blonde who wrote at the bottom of her page “If I dig your profile and you dig mine, let’s cut the bs and just meet up. I don’t need another pen pal.” I said I dug her profile, and we agreed to meet for lunch that Sunday.

    (more…)

  • Can’t Hardly Wait

    Can’t Hardly Wait

    It was Saturday night going on Sunday and the streets of Williamsburg were crackling with rain and laughter.  I was in a fourth floor apartment by myself watching the second half of Can’t Hardly Wait on HBO.  I recently turned 27 and this is how things are now [1].

    For people of similar age, Can’t Hardly Wait was making the rounds on HBO/Showtime when we were just entering high school.  I think there’s a cycle to these things so each group of 12-16 year olds gets access to a pseudo-guide before beginning/defining their own trajectory — and, later, this new group will become the old group and pass on their own pseudo-guide.  Dazed and Confused.  Fast Times.  American Pie.  Breakfast Club.  As a youngster, you see these stories and characters as frameworks or almanacs.  As veterans, you see them as splintered pieces of your experience.

    In Can’t Hardly Wait, I of course identified with Preston (Ethan Embry) — an excellent iteration of the goodhearted, shy, idealistic main character in these things.  Believing in Romance, big ‘R’, is pretty impossible to do out loud at any age, and rarely harder than when in high school.  Wit, no matter how layered, often goes unnoticed  by everyone but the wit-user themselves (Aman…duh!) and a quasi-supernatural belief in songs and Pop Tarts as real-life omens is a tough cross to bear even if you are attending a religiously-based high school.  So when Preston affably showed his shyness, his reticence, his delusionary pursuit, and ultimate action… he sold it.  I bought it.  I found justifications or hope or whatever.  I doubt I’m the only one [2].  He’s a great main character.

    The thing is, on a plot level (I’m assuming you remember it and I am spoiling it here), if Amanda doesn’t show up at that train station at the end, Preston is still going to be fine.  We know that because of his spiffy red coat, his Vonnegut workshop, and his smiling goodbye with Denise Fleming (…is a tampon).  And we know because Preston, well, he actually tried [3] for what he wanted, and while he failed miserably it was for reasons largely out of his control.  He still learned something and we, the audience, believe, as Preston does, that he’s learned and grown from the previous night.

    When Amanda does come to the train station, but begins to walk away — Preston could still be fine leaving, too.  What makes him a superb main character is that he acts on what we all know, demonstrates how he’s learned from his mistakes — he chases after her and defies fate’s ‘one chance’ (as proclaimed by the Angel from Will and Grace in Act 2).

    I channeled Preston all of high school and most of my first year of college.  I was not tough enough to be Mike Dexter, not nerdy enough to be William, nor confused enough to be Seth Green.  But now at 27 and firmly out of education’s social clusters, I retrospectively identify with the whole lot.  Because while high school movies are often themed upon the unfairness of labels, and the need for their dissolution (while simultaneously playing into them), the good high school movies are about identity, coming to terms with our own, and how that illusory word — identity — spills outside of the containers we’ve set aside for it.

    And from more of a theatrical perspective, the thing is, everyone in Can’t Hardly Wait is confronted with change, and as the plot resolves itself, a certain reward and justice system is apparent [4].  For someone seeking parables from his fictional narratives, damn, that was a lot to think about at age 14 and it’s a lot to think about now.

    In the interim 14 years since Can’t Hardly Wait‘s release, I have been (1) the egotistically-blinded and misguided Mike Dexter, (2) the goofy, peripheral watermelon obsessed Jason Segal (“Preston?  He wears t-shirts… sometimes.”), (3) the identity-crisis-stricken Seth Green, (4) the regretful and confused burn out Jerry O’Connell/Trip McNeely, (5) the far-too-serious lead singer of Luvburger, or (6) even the memory-obsessed Melissa Joan Hart.  These labels are cultivated on screen not because such purely stereotypical one dimensional characters exist, but because they’re the seeds  in all of our psyches at various points in the years to come post-graduation… or something.

    In high school and always it can seem impossible to wait for things — but if we continue to place any faith in our elders and their films and stories (as we have before and I think all still yearn to), then we believe in a warm and forgiving justice at work, and we believe as well in the chance for radically transformative life events [5] which could be waiting behind a Barry Manilow song, a stripper angel, a Pop Tart, a teen movie on HBO, and it’s up to us to take it from there.

    Shakespeare once said basically we’re all actors in a 1990’s teen comedy and if we want to win the object of our desire (and our audience) we need to be open to that, we need to wait for it until the moment comes when we absolutely shouldn’t wait at all.  That’s high school.  That’s Romance.  That’s it.

    —

    Footnotes:

    [1] Writer’s block.  New town.  The ennui of whatever.  Earlier in the week, I’d heard a 50 year old man on guitar sing about “desperately trying to hold on to what [he] believes,” and I have heard that line a hundred different ways but I always assumed it was about shielding beliefs from outside attack… until I aged and realized it’s a battle with your new self versus old just as much or more so.

    [2] Trivia:  Mark Hoppus wrote my favorite song on Enema of the State — “Going Away to College” — after seeing Can’t Hardly Wait.

    [3] To fulfill any technophobic quotient or criteria I’ve created for myself, consider the impossibility of this movie’s plot if smartphones/social media are introduced, not even considering such devices’ identity scrambling properties, so please go ahead and try not to weep and feel old.

    [4] In what might-but-not-for-sure be the first case of me using the phrase ‘exception that proves the rule’ correctly, note that in the movie Mike Dexter makes a noble sacrifice to William, the nerd, in the end, and seems redeemed, but the final scenes reveal he does not change at all, and the text epilogue seals his fate with this in mind.

    [5] Writer-Director Deborah Kaplan’s movie prior to Can’t Hardly Wait was A Very Brady Sequel.  Big step up, right?

  • The Disturbing Yacht Story

    The Disturbing Yacht Story

    Twenty-two miles off the coast of Southern California lays a hidden gem in America: Catalina Island. Technically it’s part of California, but anyone who’s ever experienced it will tell you otherwise. Known for its big city, Avalon, most people overlook the quaint island village of Two Harbors. It has only one restaurant, one bar, and one general store, all of which are run by residents who work for dormitory accommodations. It makes a profit mainly during summer from its campgrounds and visiting yachts. Every June, a group of 20-40 of my college friends will camp there for a weekend of sports, hikes, barbecues, swimming, drinking games, and public debauchery (there is no law in Catalina for drinking in public, which is why I don’t consider it California).

    After a couple hours of drinking games, accompanied with a few shots, our group had taken over the bar. The only downfall of Two Harbors is the quality of women. Very rarely will you come across a solid 8 between the ages of 21-35. Because there are so few acceptable targets, girls who are actually 5s seem like 9s–like Double A pitchers at a little league game. If I were an ugly chick, I’d move to a low-populated place like this, snag a guy way hotter than me, get married in a haystack or something, then move back to the mainland and start a family. Beats competing with all the other California bimbos who get spray tans, “mani-pedis,” and dress better than I do.

    So as a result of such a poor selection, we are usually stuck going after high school chicks or 45-year-old divorcees–and only after we’re severely drunk. Since I’m not into jail or being chased around by an angry dad with a knife, I stick to the older women.

    I recognized her immediately. Her blonde curly hair, giant jugs, and huge dancing smile brought me right back to a year ago when I unknowingly made out with her in the wake of Hilliard’s sexcapade with her in a nearby field–while her husband tried to watch or something. I didn’t get all the details. She had apparently told Hilliard she was in her fifties, which meant she was 59, easily making her the oldest woman anyone I know had ever boned.

    I had already struck out with the two lone 20-year-olds at the bar, so I made the pre-walk-of-shame over to the big-breasted grandma. This is what sucks about being a horny sleazeball like me. Most single guys would look at this geriatric beast, become disgusted, and throw in the hook-up towel. But I’m not like most guys; if there’s any opportunity for island sex with someone remotely attractive, I’ll jump on it like a hobo to a freshly stocked restaurant dumpster.

    I approached her on the dance floor. “So do you remember last year when we had sex on the field?” I’m not sure why I took this angle; it was probably my instinct telling me that it gave me the highest chance of success. Deep down I had faith in Hilliard’s sex abilities, and I sensed she wouldn’t be able to discern that I wasn’t Hilliard (we did both have dark hair, how could she tell the difference?).

    “Yes. That was you?” she faked.

    I smiled. “Yep.”

    “Wow. That was a hot night. Do you remember throwing me against the bathroom door and pounding me?”

    Uh What? “Yeah, it was so good.”

    She looked me up and down. “Dance with me.”

    I soon learned that her name was Georgia, and she was there with her husband, but he “didn’t mind.” After five minutes of talking while pathetically dancing to Madonna’s “Like a Prayer,” she led me over to a table where a balding dude with white hair was sitting. “Jerry, this is Dave.” (I thought about telling her my name was Hilliard, but there was no way she’d remember.)

    I shook his hand.

    Georgia turned to me. “Okay, so we need to drop our friends off at their yacht, then Jerry and I will pick you up. Sound good?”

    “Sure. You know where to find me.”

    I gave it about a 75% chance she’d return, so I spent whatever time I had left partying with friends and downing two more drinks and a shot. I had to be royally drunk to enjoy what lay ahead. A couple of my friends saw what was developing and didn’t even try to talk me out of it; they knew I was a goner.

    Georgia returned half an hour later just as I finished a monster piss. She apparently knew people at the bar and didn’t want anyone to know she was leaving with me, so she told me to follow her out thirty seconds behind her.

    When I walked out, I saw her silhouette standing at the base of the dock.

    “Hurry up!” she yelled and walked down the dock.

    I followed her to a side branch of the dock where all the dinghies were. Sitting in one of them was her husband Jerry.

    “Our yacht is in another harbor two miles away. It’s like a 15 minute ride,” she told me.

    “Cool. Let’s go.”

    Before I continue, let me assess what I was getting myself into, since obviously I didn’t then. I was boarding a fucking dinghy with a 60-year-old lady and her even older husband at one in the morning to go to their yacht, which was God knows where. And I was supposedly going to have sex with this woman with her knowing husband chilling somewhere on the boat. While it’s true I’ve had some very bad luck with hook-ups in my lifetime, I’d be lying if I said that I didn’t know what I was getting myself into. I asked for this.

    “Just step right here,” Jerry directed me.

    I stupidly almost tumbled into the ocean but smartly fell face first into the dinghy instead, blocking my fall with my forearms like Lieutenant Dan.

    “You okay?”

    I grunted and sat on the end pad at the nose of the dinghy. “Yeah.”

    Georgia got in and sat next to me while Jerry sat in the driver’s chair directly across from us.

    Not even a minute out, Georgia started making out with me while Jerry nonchalantly focused on driving (I think). Then Georgia started fiddling with her shirt and bra until her giant fake tits were out in the cold ocean air. I sucked on them immediately. Moments later, with the dinghy bouncing wildly at max speed, she unzipped my shorts and fished my dick out.

    It was rather dark, so I couldn’t really make out the expression on Jerry’s face, but I could have sworn he was smiling while his wife bobbed me up. This was already getting too weird, but I let her continue at it because she clearly knew her way around a penis.

    When we arrived at their yacht, I realized I had no idea where the fuck we were. Their boat was a solid 500 feet away from land, and way the hell to the left of the actual harbor–where half a dozen yachts sat, none of which had any lights on.

    Georgia saw me analyze the situation and explained, “We like to be far from the other boats…so we can make all the noise we want.” I acknowledged her and walked inside.

    The hallway was narrow, and every room I peeked into was littered with laundry and crap. “Our room’s at the end of the hall. I’ll be there in a sec.”

    I laid in bed for a minute or so in the dark room when Georgia walked in completely naked, crawled onto the bed like a saber tooth tiger, unzipped my pants, and started blowing me again. Jerry, thankfully, was nowhere in sight.

    Five minutes into the blowjob, Jerry walked in naked! With Georgia’s ass exposed at the end of the bed, Jerry began to work his dick in. According to my friends, the moment Jerry’s dick touched vagina, it was officially a threesome. Figures that I’ve blown threesomes with two 18-year-old hotties, then another with two horny Aussies, but the one threesome I’m successful at is with a 60-year-old woman and her fucking husband.

    I was hard before Jerry walked in, but now I was distracted and losing my wood by the second. Jerry, by the way, was awful at sex. His thrusts were so slow you’d think he was on the moon or something.

    After two minutes of threesome hell, Jerry pulled out like a snail and laid down next to us! He lay on his side and propped his head on his hand, like he was posing for Playgirl. I couldn’t do this anymore.

    I grabbed my softee dick out of Georgia’s mouth, made it off-limits, then turned my head away from Jerry. “I can’t do this,” I muttered.

    Mid-sentence it seemed, Jerry got up and walked out.

    “Okay, he’s gone. Now I want you to fuck me,” Georgia demanded.

    “Are you kidding me? His dick was just inside you. I can’t do it now.”

    She ignored me, got on top, and tried thrusting my dick inside of her. I wiggled away. “No.”

    Frustrated, she started blowing me again. My eyes kept venturing toward the door, expecting grimy-ass Jerry to make another entrance. Before long, I was hard again and horny enough. I put on a condom and started plowing.

    After a couple minutes of Georgia riding me, I felt a wet sensation at the base of my dick. Had she squirted? She was way too old to muster up such juices; there was no way. To make sure, I started pumping her hard and fast, and sure enough, she gushed a healthy stream onto my stomach. Wow, talk about an outlier. Though it smelled uriney, it was still awesome, so I induced several more gushes until my stomach was drenched in her gross juices.

    Suddenly I saw movement near the door. I darted my eyes there to see Jerry’s head duck back behind the wall. What a sicko! Georgia continued to ride me. Then suddenly she yelped.

    “What happened?”

    “Nothing. I just bumped my head. I’m fine.”

    We switched to doggy, thus giving me a better view of the doorway to make sure Jerry wasn’t George McFlying us. Every fifteen seconds or so, I’d glance at the door. On my third perusal, Jerry was back! This time he was stroking his cock! He immediately ducked away, but I know what I saw. I shortened my glance intervals to every ten seconds. And like a hungry pigeon lurking around a barbecue, Jerry was there every time, only to franticly scram the moment I looked back.

    After catching him for an eighth time, I was no longer hard. This was too weird. I gave up on sex and lay there in defeat until Georgia decided to finish me off with a blowjob.

    As we lay in bed, light from a circle window shined momentarily on Georgia. The entire right side of her face was coated in blood. The blood had streamed down to her tits even. This was bad.

    “Holy shit. You’re bleeding,” I told her.

    “I know. I bumped my head. Is it bad?”

    “Uh. Yeah, go check it out.”

    She got up and wobbled to the bathroom. Moments later, I heard her cry out, “Jerry!”

    I had the bed to myself for a solid ten minutes, during which time I tried to sleep, but just as I was dozing off, a cleaned-up Georgia crawled back into bed and had this awful piece of news: “Jerry has to sleep with us.”

    I was wide-awake again. “What!? Noooo!”

    “He has to. Don’t worry. I’ll sleep in the middle.”

    Oh My God. A minute later Jerry walked back in, still naked, and slipped under the covers on the other side of Georgia. This was rock bottom. All I wanted to do now was get the HELL out of here. I thought of my options, and seriously considered jumping ship and swimming the 500 feet to shore in my clothes to make the two-mile mountainous hike home in the dark. I could make it.

    I didn’t do it. Instead I curled up into the fetal position on my side of the bed and whimpered myself to sleep like a broke bitch.

    I woke up a couple times in the middle of the night, remembered where I was, realized I was soberer, and felt a pang of fear. I had to will myself into being drunk again just so I could fall back asleep. Morning eventually came, and I woke to Georgia giving me a handjob. Jerry was still laying next to her. She then tried to blow me, but I pushed her back down. “Not with him right there,” I whispered. Obviously deaf to her ears, a couple minutes later she tried riding me. I pushed her back down.

    Suddenly Jerry got out of bed and walked out. Georgia followed him, then walked back in. “Okay, he left. So now we can play.” She got on top of me. With daylight seeping into the room, I noticed a bloodied Band-Aid on her temple.

    “I need to get back to my campsite.”

    “We’ll take you back, but I want you to fuck me again.”

    I had no desire for any sort of sexual activities for at least two weeks after what happened last night, but I suppose I had to pay my dues to get out of there. “Okay, warm me up,” I said, and pointed to my dick. She took the hint and began blowing me. We robotically fucked after that. Not surprisingly, I caught Jerry peeking in three times. I never blew my load.

    After taking two minutes to find one of my damn shoes, I got dressed and walked out to the deck. Incredibly, Jerry was fully clothed. He grinned at me as if we were old buddies. “Do you have to get back?”

    “Yeah. Got a lot to do today.”

    “Where are you staying?”

    “The campsites.” I took my phone out.

    Then out of nowhere: “Did you get any good pictures last night?”

    What the fuck? I quickly glanced up at Jerry. “Not really.”

    Georgia walked out in an oversized sweatshirt. “Okay, we all set?”

    “Yep,” I said immediately.

    We all took our same spots in the dinghy–Jerry driving, Georgia and I sitting across from him. With the dinghy bucking boisterously, Georgia began asking all sorts of questions about where I lived, worked, blah blah blah. Unfortunately, they lived like ten minutes away from me, which prompted Georgia to suggest we “do this again sometime.” I falsely agreed with her and changed the subject to her kids, who were apparently older than I am.

    In what seemed like seven hours, we finally docked back at Two Harbors. I thanked them for the ride, shook no one’s hand, and power-walked back to the campsite. I needed a shower.

     

    On a serious note, this might very well be the most disturbing night of my life, up there with the “It Can Happen to You” night. The decision to get on that dinghy and go through with what I did is not something I’m proud of. Jerry could have held me at gunpoint and told me the only way I was getting off that boat was if I sucked him off…or worse. Or I could have drunkenly gone through with my jump-ship-hike plan, and died of exhaustion somewhere on a mountain. I like to think I’m a man who stays out of shitty situations. But when you reenact fucked up stories from Penthouse Letters, things change.

    I still recommend Catalina Island to everyone who hasn’t been, just be careful of those yachts, especially the dark ones in the secret harbors. Bad things happen there.

     

     

  • A Midsummer Night’s Dream Come True

    Ladies, and some exceptional gentleman, I recently fulfilled a childhood dream. Are you sitting down?

    I picked wild flowers, fashioned them into a crown and frolicked in the countryside on a midsummer’s day; exactly like a storybook princess.

    Now that you’ve stopped weeping gleefully, here’s what happened.

    Once upon a time, I studied abroad for 10 months in Uppsala, Sweden, where I learned many life-lessons and came away with some very solid friends. This summer, my friend Katie, whom I met there, and I re-visited those lessons and friends, and my heart exploded all over the place. I cried when we landed, I cried when we left, but the highlight of our two-week stay was Midsummer.

    Midsummer is the celebration of summer solstice, the second most-observed holiday in Scandinavia behind Christmas, which exists to appreciate the minimal months of warmth and sunshine.

    On our third day in Sweden my two dearest Swedish friends, Tobes and Po, took us to a brick-red farmhouse surrounded by lush greenery and colorful blooms. Behind the house was a clothesline, because of course there was, and a herd of sheep grazed in the shade. Coolers filled with ice and beer sat on the front stoop where about 80 guys named Daniel and two sisters named Anette and Ann-Sofie welcomed us with open arms — literally. Hugs all around.

    Before we knew it, we were at a park with beers in-hand standing before the midsummer maypole,  which is essentially a giant staff covered in foliage, topped by a huge triangle with two wreaths dangling from the bottom corners. Children and seniors dressed in old-timey Swedish get-ups danced around the big, green phallus to the heaves of an accordion. People frolicked through the park wearing crowns made of flowers and I never wanted for anything so badly in my life.

    My desire turned into quite a shameful American moment when I actually scoured the park for someone selling ready-made crowns. They’d make a killing off those things, so of course they’d have them for what? 150 kronor? But they weren’t for sale, and do you know why? People actually made the effort to pick flowers in the sunshine with their families, probably while holding hands, without entrepreneurial motives. Imagine that! Feeling like an asshole, I took a swig off my 7.5% tall boy and accepted my childhood wish would not come true.

    Back at the red farmhouse, Anette handed Katie and I clear cups filled with assorted berries and vodka, and led us out to the country road lined by vast, green fields dotted with flowers. Does this mean what I think it means? Are we going to pick flowers in the countryside beneath the sun that never sets, to then be worn in our hair? Can everyone see the cardiovascular tissue being forced through my ribs from the overflow of happiness in my heart? It doesn’t hurt at all! Is this what dying feels like? I hope so!

    The ladies set out into the fields while the Daniels and the other men readied the table to dine al fresco on pickled herring, or sill in Swedish. Katie and I skipped down the road like champions and the Swedish girls definitely thought we were idiots, but to be fair, we were. Flower picking to them is like finding syringes in the sandbox for us — no big deal. We collected blossoms with names like “priests collar” and “bitch tooth,” and were eaten alive by mosquitoes. “Check for tics!” the sisters reminded us. My cheeks ached from smiling.

    Once we collected our flowers, we made our way back to the house and found the table covered in jars of sill, bottles of snaps (not to be confused with schnapps), a large pot of boiled potatoes and assorted condiments, so we placed our bushels on the grass and took our seats. As charcoal grills cooked steaks and slabs of Halloumi cheese, we sang songs and shot snaps chased by forkfuls of potatoes and sill. Taking snaps is like pouring Drano down your throat for shits and giggles, and not just figuratively.

    Several rounds of songs and snaps and we were ready to make our crowns. Ann-Sofie materialized with a handful of birch branches to use as a base. Everyone knows birch branches are flexible enough to wrap around your skull, right? Totally.

    As focused as we all could be after six hours of drinking, we wound white string tightly around our fistfuls of nature, then tried them on our heads. Once we found the right fit, we snipped off loose branches and helped each other fasten them with knots. My dream had come true. The swallows and fawns would appear any second to join me in a song I’d made up on the spot. My voice would sound as delicate as a butterfly’s wings and as sweet as the sap that drips from an enchanted willow tree.

    I felt like this:

     

    But probably looked more like this:

    Regardless of how I appeared, it was some of the greatest fun I’d ever had. While sporting our floral hats, we stuffed delicious meat in our mouths, sang more songs and broke into teams to play music trivia — Swedes really know their music. Later on we danced beneath the dusky sky to European club music, then crammed into a sauna in our bathing suits. I tried to stick out the suffocation, but left for fear of dying. Next thing I know everyone’s inside the house, waiting to play their favorite song on Spotify and I’m having a drunken heart to heart with Tobes.

    The following morning I awoke to a room packed with snoring Swedes and a violent urge to vomit. I spent a good two hours eroding the walls of my esophagus, then discovered that my magical crown of daisies had turned into a bundle of shriveled petals and twigs. The spell was broken, but as any princess would advise her forest friends, all good things must come to an end. Skål!

  • One Girl, One Cup

    One Girl, One Cup

    Due to my mom’s hatred for wild and ruthless confrontation, she never exposed me to the toothless sport of hockey.  The one time I attempted to watch it, I experienced so much trouble following the puck on our 32” rounded screen TV, I gave up instantly and turned on another competitive activity, Iron Chef.

    For me, I liked other easier-to-follow sports and simply stuck my thumb up at any band wagon that would pick me up on its way to the playoffs.  You see, growing up we moved plenty and clicking my ruby slippers to take me to a “home” meant Maui, Albuquerque OR Simi Valley. Try picking a football team with those choices.  It’s impossible!! But eventually the fair weather way of fandom became embarrassing and my reluctance to settle down turned lonely.

    The solution: place two quarters into a dispenser holding NFL team stickers and whatever team slid out had my heart.  I’ve been a Philadelphia Eagles’ fan since.  Ugh.

    Many many hockey seasons passed before I took another shot at watching a game and when I started dating a guy who lived for it I needed to lace up and learn to love it.  It took grave patience to teach me the rules, point out the fast-moving black speck (“or is that a bug?!”), and tell me the deep-rooted traditions of the coveted Stanley Cup. Stanley…What a namesake.  He helped me turn over a new leaf (type: maple) of embracing MY OWN HOME team from inception.

    The team: “under major construction” Los Angeles Kings.

    Winning never seemed so out of reach and the reality of becoming a true fan to something backhanded me right in the face. It pained me to follow a “rebuilding” team…

    “How long does it take to rebuild?!” I questioned after every loss.

    “Years, Danielle…YEARS!”

    Slowly, after grasping the intricacies of this new sport and also an understanding for the necessity of forgiveness, I developed an emotional attachment for the team…as individuals.  When someone got traded, I shivered at the image of him in some other uniform.  When someone got checked, my heart cringed and my body coiled.  When someone made a horrible play, I shuddered.   Suddenly, I found myself punching the air when they won and punching a pillow when they lost with actual sentiment behind each follow through.

    As they rebuilt their team, I built my loyalty from the ground up in a different way than the Eagles because Los Angeles was home now…and the Kings, my home team.

    My new investment once took me to Costco where I opened a membership in order to get Bob Miller’s book signed; it drove me to Fan Participation Day to watch the players skate around casually for their fans; and after my boyfriend and I broke up, my journey with the team continued and sat me behind Alexander Frolov’s family at a game.  They made me drink with them.  I don’t remember that game, but I do remember it being warmer than usual.

    Now, as we are all aware, the Kings brushed off the dirty ice and transformed into a polished team that made it to the 2012 playoffs as the 8th seed.  If you don’t know sports that means there are other bandwagons with far more appeal.

    I watched every game either at a dumb sports bar (the sports bars in the West Hollywood area are actually dumb) or my friend’s house, where we made salads, punched the air, a pillow or on occasion, each other’s fists.  As the wins tallied up, the dream of a Stanley Cup Championship became a tangible reality.

    “Ok. So each player gets the cup for a day or two if their team wins,” I recalled this particular tradition to a friend.  “They do whatever they want with it.  What would you do?”

    “Hmmm…My uncle got me into hockey,” (everyone has a reason for loving a team or a sport, don’t they? It’s incredible.)  “I would visit his grave with it.  Then I’d drink ’61 Monfortino out of it.”

    “Oh, that’s a good one!! I think I’d find a way to wear it as a hat and go to the races.”

    During the finals, my anxiety boiled for many reasons:

    1)    The need to be around a large group of like-minded fans who will chant and hug

    2)    The thought of losing

    3)    The thought of winning

    4)    The debate of whether or not to contact my ex-boyfriend.  We are and will always be on good terms, but he’s married now.  Is it necessary?

    5)    I plucked three chin hairs and immediately after, they lost.  Everyone blamed me for getting rid of my playoff beard.

    6)    The absolute desire to go to a game ..but tickets? A FORTUNE

    Once it came to game four the city KNEW the Kings would win the cup.  We knew it.  We felt it.  We tasted it. I began googling how to create a fastener out of a 34.5 lb trophy. (Note: it’s not possible.  Also note: I bet it is. Also note: I’m bad at googling.).  I left work early to bare the chaos and met friends deep in the rumble of LA Live and suffered numerous anxiety attacks, for I figured the celebratory riots would end my life.   After the forgivable loss we all agreed that if they make it back for Game 6, we would not endure downtown Los Angeles again.

    Game 5, I watched with my friend Lauren and her dedicated family whose 5-yr-old grandson became my student.  I taught him how to yell at the TV during crucial moments.  He later asked, “Do you sleep alone?”

    They lost and an insufferable stress tapped me on the shoulder, reminding me of the pressure to watch Game 6 somewhere spectacular.  Good god, it’s the last thing I wanted but if they won the cup, it would be history.  First time for them.  First time for the fans.  First time for an 8th seed to hoist the damn thing above their banged up heads before gently kissing it and passing it along from player to player…

    The day before game 6, I received a text.

    “Would you pay $500 for a ticket? Let me know, I’ll try.”

    My heart stopped, then very rapidly started again and I ran straight to mommy for advice.  She recalled the time she witnessed the Angels take the World Series.

    “It is something I will never forget.  No other event I’ve ever been to can match the energy in that stadium.  I hate hockey, but I advise you to go to that game.”

    My mom is the most frugal person on the planet.  If she says yes, so do I.  I texted, “YES!”

    The day of the game, my ticket fell through but my friend was still going.  I HAD to also go.  My face burned with adrenaline and my heart pounded like the glass bordering the rink being hit by fans during a fight.  I refreshed StubHub all day until prices began to drop…As they did, so did my heart because I had feelings of buyer’s remorse before the purchase even happened.

    “MOM! They’re $600.”

    “BUY A TICKET,” she kept strangely encouraging.

    I had ten minutes to decide after a day of the most unrefreshing refreshing.  While reading a piece by Bill Simmons I was touched by the line, “Of the 75 greatest moments of my life, sports were involved in at least 20 of them” and made a deal with myself to buy a ticket. $565 later, I had a single seat  in the premiere section. “I am sitting alone but will make lifelong friends tonight,” I figured as I packed my purse with pepper spray and deodorant, held my relentless heart and headed to the Staples Center with a Kings’ fan of 30+ years.

    I entered the venue in a tizzy, my smile anything but toothless, and took my seat.

    I sat next to Greg, also alone but gregarious and open to hugging and high-fiving.  I know this because I asked if he minded my embrace during moments of excitement.  Unfortunately, he moved down five rows to hug his friends instead and I had to force high-fives with the twerps surrounding me.  After the Kings’ second goal, and tapping my heels with jittery delight I joined Greg, who almost knocked me down with enthusiasm.  “SIT BY ME!!!!!! YES!!! DANIELLE!! YES!!!”  I felt at home. At home.

    Payton, my new buddy to my right bought me a cocktail to calm my nerves and the man behind me dictated the entire game with the emotion of a proud mother and the passion of a man who’s watched this team for years without regret. As the goals pelted the scoreboard, the crowd realized we all were about to witness something special.  Edges of seats remained occupied only on the rare moments when it wasn’t a standing room only.  My hands shifted from my cheeks to the top of my head to the shoulders of my new friends all in a state of shock, joy and craze.

    We held nothing back.  Sports do that to people.

    View my video of the 16-second countdown to the Stanley Cup win…

    I witnessed a sea of grown men’s tears drip to the floor when that buzzer sounded.  They patiently supported, forgave, questioned, and watched this team for up to 45 years with a hope that they would someday hold a magnificent trophy called the Stanley Cup.

    As the team handed the glorious goblet from one to the next, I watched a room of boisterous dreamers melt into silence:  the players, once young boys, chose to devote their whole lives to vie for this cup.  And the fans, dedicating this phenomenal energy to them in hopes of one day feeling overwhelmingly proud.

    There is something about sports that brings out the best and worst in people.   Lauren and I morph from dainty ladies to foul-mouthed sailors, spilling beer and obscenities everywhere when we watch games together.  Other people cry, fight, break tables or won’t date someone because they like the Red Sox.

    I live for the palpable and addictive vitality of sports and although buyer’s remorse can be fixed; it’s the “what ifs” that can’t.  GO KINGS GO!!!

    Greg and Payton
  • Once Upon a Dangerous Mind

    Once Upon a Dangerous Mind

    Little Danielle

    My rocket scientist father and my social worker mother produced me, a rocket brain social idiot.  People could blame it on “middle child” syndrome or the fact that I ride on the cusp of Leo/Virgo, but judging on predisposed factors isn’t fair, right?  Until a quick Google search determines that “middle child” attributes to identity issues and empty feelings, which sums me up nicely.

    During grade school these qualities affected my academics and focus, leaving my dad with a child who never cared for –brace yourselves– science or Star Wars or Space Camp.  My third grade teacher caught onto my scattered brain and taught me vocabulary, like “nuisance” and “be quiet or I’ll throw this eraser at you.”  With words like these, I excelled at homework!  One evening, while my dad cooked grilled cheese, I sat on the countertop with my 3-year-old sister, Michelle.  Poor thing waited giddily for her sandwich, while I bounced at the site of the tempting flesh on her right shoulder.  As she watched the sandwich flip from pale white to golden brown, I pounced and gnawed into her skin, glaring while it transformed from pale white to a supple punctured purple.

    She wailed as I sat shocked that my action could result in such a reaction.  I felt so bad, but I also felt so good.  My father punished me, but not enough to stop me from my spiraling conduct- I grew out my finger nails and started deep pinching, learned how to chuck objects in honor of my fast-pitching teacher and dabbled with psychological abuse.

    Like most siblings, I hated mine and did anything to make their lives miserable.  Michelle had a pink stuffed rabbit she creatively named, “Rabby.”  She lived her life attached to this toy- in family pictures, Rabby sat; at family dinners, Rabby ate; on family road trips, stupid Rabby fastened in.  The thought of destroying this inanimate family member filled me with fabulous anxiety, yet posed as quite the challenge due to their annoyingly unbreakable bond.

    In my first attempt, I snatched the fluffy idiot while Michelle slept and hid it in the laundry room behind the machines.  The next day, I heard her wailing that tearful tune I loved immensely, as she wondered what happened to her best friend.   Unfortunately, I got dragged into the search and rescue effort, and had to perform as a worried search member, which felt like a chore.

    “It’s not in the oven, dad! Or underneath the couch! Where would Michelle put that thing?  I’ll look in the backyard, next,” I yelled and ran outside to sit in my playhouse while everyone continued the search.

    An hour later, Rabby and Michelle reunited after everyone tore the house apart.  They lived merrily together until the next month when I noticed our neighbors had a moving truck in their driveway.  I asked my mom for details and she explained that The Wilsons were moving to Arizona.

    “Oh, that’s sad.  I liked them.  Mom, can I play outside?”

    “Sure, but don’t cross the street.”

    Immediately, I tiptoed into Michelle’s room where she napped.  When I reached for Rabby, she moved and I kissed her forehead carefully,  gently whispering “I love you, my sweet sister.”  I snagged Rabby, stuffed it under my shirt and proceeded to the front yard.  For a few minutes, I danced around in the grass and waited for the movers across the street to return inside.  I looked back to my home with a smile that ensured my mom’s careful eye everything was bright and sunny.

    The second the working men vanished, I ran across the street, pulled Rabby from under my shirt and pushed it deep inside one of the boxes.  I ran back with a rush of nerves because I forgot to look both ways before crossing, but once I arrived I commenced my solo dance routine until Michelle woke up.  Her cries upset me so much this time because I knew they wouldn’t stop, for Rabby had moved to Arizona.

    Bye Bye Rabby

    We banned together once again to find the bunny, but to everyone else’s shock it never resurfaced.  I acted as surprised as they did and snickered to myself in bed, prideful as Ursula after stealing the voice of Ariel. Michelle’s recovery took a long time, but I offered up my Rainbow Bright doll I named Bucky D to appear as innocent as possible.  She attached to that thing quickly because she had to hold onto something for comfort, and it wasn’t going to be me.  I sure felt guilty about that…Sorry Bucky D.

    On my way home from school three months later, my mom mentioned she received a phone call from Mrs. Wilson.

    “Danielle,” she said.  “They found Rabby in one of their garage boxes.  Do you know anything about this?”

    “The WILSONS found Rabby???” I was utterly shocked and lost the ability to conjure up an excuse and rather than acting innocent, I wailed the way Michelle always did, begging for sympathy.

    In light of the pinching pain of getting caught coupled with the strange new feeling of regret, I chose to relieve my sisters from torment and focus on subtler abuse, like making them refer to me as “Danielle, Queen of the Universe” or using them as slaves followed by empty threats like, “I’ll murder you if you’re not back with my water in 30 seconds.”

    In fourth grade, we moved to Hawaii and acquired two cats from the previous residents of our new home.  Cats are the worst.  They infiltrate fresh air, clean furniture and walking paths everywhere.  Although I acclimated to living on a rock, I never quite adapted to living with cats.  I hated them the way I used to hate my sisters and decided to victimize one of them…Shoopa, our black cat.  I heard a tale once that no matter what, cats always land on their feet.  Shoopa loved and trusted me, probably because my heart matched the color of its coat, so I knew when carrying her to the second story balcony she did not suspect a thing.

    As we approached the ledge, my petting became very attentive, assuring her of the nonthreatening situation to come.  With each careful stroke, I calculated the time I had to catapult the cat before she realized her fate AND how to toss her without compromising my safety.  I understood that if I didn’t chuck her quick enough her reaction would result in clawing.  I also understood that if I didn’t flip her while tossing, the experiment would be deemed useless.

    While holding her hind legs close with my left hand and petting her head with my right, I suspended her from the balcony and just like that pushed her head down and her hinny up with quick enough and hard enough force that she flipped wildly on her descent.  Her wailing cry, reminiscent of my past repertoire of activities, satisfied me.  However, she landed on her feet, which made me hiss.

    I tried that experiment several more times throughout the years until we moved again, leaving the cats to the new residents.  With each move and each birthday, my cruelty became more sporadic but still remained… like the time I threatened to push my eldest sister, Melinda, off the Hoover Dam with a face of burning fury or when I told the youngest, Nicole her birth was a mistake.  I mean, my mom had her tubes tied and bang!  Out came baby.

    Ah! It hurts me now to think I once had a black heart that pained my sisters so dreadfully. But like my rocket scientist dad who once buried his brother next to a red ant pile like the Indians used to as torture and Joseph’s brothers who sold him to the Egyptians, I matured and my siblings eventually pardoned me, despite the scars. And after years of wildly flipping out, I turned to endless afternoons with Oprah and therapy to help me land on my feet on some solid ground ..like cats do..  God bless cats.

     

  • Wayne Worlds Collide

    Wayne Worlds Collide

    WAYNE WORLDS COLLIDE

    A)n outline to an essay I started, originally titled “WAYNE WORLDS COLLIDE… The Hipster Economy of Cool and its effects on/interplay with American neo-capitalism (post Regan) as demonstrated in feature film Wayne’s World and its sequel.”

    B)y mattz brog

    [begun july 1st, 2011, 9:19 PM , abandoned july 2nd, 2011, 1:43 AM]

     

     I once thought I had mono for an entire year. It turned out I was just really bored.

    -Wayne Campbell

     

    THESIS

    In the beginning,

    Wayne Campbell and Garth Algar represent the archetypes of the first “early adopters” of new millennium trends which now define the socio-political landscape.

     

    FRAME

    In the early 21st century aka now-ish, a certain upheaval is occurring and modern society’s value system is being flipped on its head.  Some graybeard intellectuals have taken this as a big surprise — but that’s because they are old and everything is moving too fast and cheeseburgers used to be a quarter and the country is run by godless socialists and also by kids much, much cooler than you.  Yeah this has been coming, has been around, kind of played out now, and just discovering that fact yourself does not mean it wasn’t there a billion years ago, aka 1994, plastered throughout surewhynot Wayne’s World.

     

    STUFF

    A) The repeated demonstration of obscure triviatic knowledge, political ennui, and pop-culture-wherewithal as hierarchy-establishing forces

    1. Wayne’s impressive grasp of the Cantonese language, complete with regional dialect accent, is the clincher which wins over Cassandra after their meet-cute.
    2. Their lack of ‘trying’ leads them to success, and that sort of anti-ethos now grips a wide demographic in a target market (18-whatever, with $); however they demonstrate sincere effort when it comes to certain core anarcho-socialist values.
    3. Asdlkf
    4. This is only going to make sense if they’ve seen the movies and remember them [format?] research outlines
    5. no one is going to read 2k words in one sitting anymore maybe not ever again

     

    We fear change.

    -Garth Algar

    B) Eschewing Money

    1. Wayne’s World, the show within the movie, debuts on public access. It achieves fame on public access from word of mouth. Even after a stint on cable (thanks to the nefarious Rob Lowe), they go back to public access and still find success. This is a brutal uppercut to the established modes of transmission and creative politics at large, maybe.
    2. In one particularly eerie bit of social commentary, Cassandra laments the birth of CDs as the dominant format — “I’ll have to buy everything all over again,” she moans. Wayne, meanwhile, pops in another 8 track and gains points in our book not for the camp-style of his possessions, but for the passion and ahead-of-the-curve understanding he displays —  The song has the quality, not the format, especially when everyone in the car sings along.
    3. Their mocking of corporate sponsors (ex: Wayne calls noah’s arcade founder a “sphincter boy” clandestinely during his first prime time TV slot) is really a demonstration of free speech in a post-FCC era. Wayne goes on to write — not say — of his sponsor, “He blows goats…I have proof” and “This man has no penis” — and those tweet-sized comments get him fired from his own show. This is less of an allusion to McCarthysm and more of a forecast of a coming era of censorship-via-funding (and thusly lack of funding). There’s maybe a parable here about publically owned companies here that borders on sedition or um something about tweets starting revolutions all over the world I don’t know, revise, delete?
    4. Their rejection of mega sponsorships in-the-story, while cheekily mocking huge corporate players such as Reebok, Nike, Doritos, Pepsi, Abunchofothers who paid for the privilege, exposing the how-whore-can-you-go mentality driving their ad departments. Confronted with this stark, stark, head-slapping lack of morals, Garth counters with Buddah-esque poise, wearing Reeboks from head to toe, opining: “It’s like, they don’t even care…”

     

    C) A de-emphasis on looks

    1. rob lowe (sodomized at the end of the first movie)
    2. kim basinger (manipulative, criminally-plotting, eventually jilted by Garth who dismisses her as “mental” despite his own questionable thought processes)
    3. garth’s ‘foxy lady’ fantasies come true, he sexually conquers Kim Basinger, and he achieves self satisfaction despite shunning contemporary hair fashion vis a vis effort and mega-corporate products (as well as those that test on animals)
    4. wayne’s cup runneth over *schwing* despite the mullet and generic clothes. While dodging the maniacal love and dedication of his redhead ex girlfriend, Wayne bags the ethnically-gifted Cassandra on his first try. His prodigy-like grasp of the Cantonese language (itself a veiled metaphor some of the more unteachable aspects of music as a field of knowledge) succeeds, while Rob Lowe’s maybe-better-er understanding of the language’s nuances fails because it’s simply too polished. Wayne trumps these and other obstacles again and again, all with a minimal education and the full-time responsibility of entertaining a wide fanbase with a public access TV show that is basically a skype session with lower Chicago.
    5. In both films (more self-referentially in the second) we are left to assume that in this fictional world the embodiment of a person’s character is greater than his social status or outward appearance.

    D) the progressive stance towards race and diversity

    1. Cassandra’s Cantonese father (a traditionalist and assumed neo-communist) at first battles Wayne with swords and kung fu but ultimately gives him respect, and his daughter’s hand, all due to Wayne’s ability to empathize with his future father in law’s culture… and ultimately imitate it… ultimatelyultimatelyultimately Wayne’s proto speak transcends lingual boundaries and finds ways to interact with a diverse character set on each individual sub-cultures own terms. He does this without pandering but also without offending, because at the end of any interaction there remains Wayne’s guffaw-ing grin and bird-chirping stare. He’s harmless. That’s the cover which Wayne, Garth, and their legion of seditious insurgents use to outwit corporations and consumers alike.
    2. The native American spirit guide in Waynes World 2 (WW2) pays homage to not just a spiritual/openreligion theme, but to certain unacknowledged demons of America’s aggressive industrial revolution past.
    3. Russel and crew member engage in heterosexual bonding to such an extent that it becomes a total rejection of hyper-masculinity by making it a balls question.  You afraid to admit you love your friends, dude?  Sha, right.  The bolditude of that dare was part of a new era of the male-liberation movement, a safe place where otherwise super-gay activities and several terrible sitcoms could finally jailbreak their gender roles and fly under the banner of Russel’s immortal quote “platonic love can exist between two grown men.”
    4. Fix formatting here don’t know why its doing this.

    E) The de-emphasis of mainstream media — foreshadowing the decline of the Record Label, the death of the Television industry, the birth of the Internet as institutional taste-maker, and the democratization of fame

    1. Cassandra shuns music video (allusion to death of MTV?) for her band Crucial Taunt (continuing the irony principle with such a name) in order to play Waynestock
    2. The plan for Waynestock is to get 2 people to tell 2 people… forecasting not only the coming music festival corporate cashgrab bonanza sponsored by Heineken and their world famous $12 beer, but also the social media powerhouses which would follow 15 years after the movie was released.
    3. Their decision to use radio to promote waynestock, putting their own commercial-speak on a bandwidth usually reserved for music, on a medium reserved for ads.  Hostile takeover of dinosaur institutions.
    4. Wayne’s shameless use of a Morrison impersonator (via dream, via actor) to promote his non-existant event. Following the ghost of Jim Morrison’s advice “if you book them, they will come,” one could see a forecast of Kickstartr, as well as a firm summation of the coming era’s “sell it now and create it later” attitude which birthed 2 stock bubbles (dot com and mortgage) and nearly crashed the human economy + value system as we know it.

    F) Domestic terrorism performed with stunning irreverence

    1. Prior history of run-ins with law, outspoken disregard for justice system

    Benjamin: Do you have a lawyer?

    Wayne Campbell: Yes. Ahm, no. We’re between lawyers right now. You see, our first lawyer screwed our affairs so bad.

    Garth Algar: That’s right. I walked right to that office – that’s what I did – and I reached across that desk and I grabbed him by his big fat head and I said “Listen, man. I’m not going to jail for *you* or for anybody.”

    2. Garth casually hacks into a satellite system and is able to route the signal from the broadcast into the television set in Sharp’s limo (paradigm shift of power as Garth, the unemployed, disgruntled citizen armed with a laptop in Aurora, Illinois, is able to hack through the United States government’s hardware/software and manipulate a corporate mogul’s private data feed for a separate agenda)

    OK… First I’ll access the secret military spy satelite that is in geosynchronous orbit over the midwest. Then I’ll ID the limo by the vanity plate “MR. BIGGG” and get his approximate position. Then I’ll reposition the transmission dish on the remote truck to 17.32 degrees east, hit WESTAR 4 over the Atlantic, bounce the signal back into the aerosphere up to COMSAT 6, beam it back to SATCOM 2 transmitter number 137 and down on the dish on the back of Mr. Big’s limo… It’s almost too easy.

    -Garth Algar

    3. Wayne exhibits disturbing bouts of jealousy in regards to Cassandra, and, in the sequel, this ratchets up to him physically spying on her with elaborate technology and teams of masquerading agents in costume. Can draw lines to 21st century relationship boundaries, social-media-stalking, UK tabloid wiretap scandals, and the ideals of global-forced transparency via WikiLeaks.

     [Wayne opens a door to show a bunch of spies in training]

    Garth Algar: What are you gonna do with these guys?

    Wayne Campbell: Oh, nothing really. I just always wanted to open a door to room where people are being trained like in James Bond movies.

    4. fix formatting dont know why its doing this still

    MORE) More

    1. Say something aboutmusic influence maybe.

    2. 2nd movie gets self referential so can talk about the almost complete redo of The Graduate montage that takes up several minutes of screen time, or the Charleton Heston thing could tie to guns/NRA rabbithole but better to stick to the acting line scene which is pretty good gimmick but later boned out in Austin Powers so much that it’s hard to appreciate now

    3. can also go into Garth’s paralytic reaction to being on the air alone as this is a feeling many young americans uhfeel today when staring into the maw of the infinite audience at their fingertips on twitter, facebook, blogs, etc, best not to think of this any longer.

    Wayne Campbell: Well, that’s all the time we had for our movie. We hope you found it entertaining, whimsical and yet relevant, with an underlying revisionist conceit that bullied the films emotional attachments to the subject matter.

    Garth Algar: I just hoped you didn’t think it sucked.

     

    CONCLUSION 1

    In maybe conclusion,

    Wayne and Garth are dangerous puppets of some postmodern, bloodthirstily anarcho-socialist agenda, one whose greatest weapon is caring and more importantly a lack of caring. Therefore, And but so What positive we can draw is that the things Wayne cares about, he really cares about. And while those things are few — a best friend, a jamming babe, and some tunes — he defends them, commits to them — they’re all he needs.

    Wayne Campbell: What the hell’s going on? I lost my show, I lost my best friend, I lost my girl. I’m being shit on, that’s all, shit on, and you know what really pisses me off-

    [Camera pans away]

    Wayne Campbell: Wait, where are you goin’? OK, things aren’t that great, but I’ll get ’em back, OK?

     

    CONCLUSION 2

    As rumors of a second sequel abound one wonders if the Economy of Cool can handle a WW3. Wayne and Garth aren’t cool because they ignore or criticize — they’re cool because they don’t care about being cool.  That sort of highschool-epiphany is the paradox which both validates the idea of another film and destabalizes their integrity  with each added installment in the franchise.

    Just do you, man.

    Ah yes, it’s a lot like “Star Trek: The Next Generation”. In many ways it’s superior but will never be as recognized as the original.

    -Wayne Campbell

     

    CONCLUSION 3

    But believe this and try not to hurl: a reboot is coming, it will happen, it must happen, because anywhere there is a fan base, there is an equation to calculate how much money they have, a study to inquire how much said fans would part with, a projection as to what tie-in sponsorships and products can be jerked out with as little care as possible, and a bottom line budget to promote produce and corpse fuck the franchise by turning out another turd in the hopes of feeding a few hungry Rob Lowes and thereby weakening the value (marketed or intrinsic) held within the early movies, the original story.

    “It’s like they don’t even care.”

    [restarted 216 am may 30 2012 and ‘finished’ under duress 436am may 31 2012]

  • Til Death Do I Part…

    Til Death Do I Part…

    Four of my friends planned their owns deaths. Two of which acted as my mentors, encouraging me to be the best I can be, to follow my dreams and to live to my fullest potential.  The irony alone could kill me.

    The certainty of death has slapped me across the face and the gross realization that we will be the main attraction at a funeral one day is the cloud that hovers over my daydreams.

    While avoiding the stresses of a sluggish commute, I often visualize my friends and family standing at the podium of my local church saying extraordinary words about me and praising my living efforts to please the earth.  (It’s funny that we do that- save the best words for last)

    I also let other thoughts drudge through my mind…

    • What type of alcohol will they douse on my coffin?  (Note: It can be Svedka.  Save the Kettle One for the after party.)
    • Will the church be standing room only? (I hope so!)
    • Will the guy who acted as my booty call for three years show face?  He told me he loved me once…I guess my funeral will be the true testament of that, right?

    Such details of my funeral, along with wondering what will occur during my immediate after-life, is a part of me now- I’m my own funeral planner (reminder: not my own death planner).  I want everything to run smoothly upon my departure, like it doesn’t now.  Life gets crazy and unorganized, but after-life does not need to fall in accordance.

    Currently, my friend and after-life coordinator, Meredith, has my e-will, which we exchanged via email.  My e-will contains passwords to my online accounts, like my banking, Facebook, and Twitter.  It also has phone numbers to people I want to invite to my funeral that other people don’t know, like the booty call.

    I even drafted the first two tweets I want posted immediately following my departure:

    1)    #RIP @daniellebernabe

    And then another one instantly following…

    2)    That last tweet was a SERIOUS TWEET!!! This is @mkstrodel.  I will now manage @daniellebernabe’s account. Please RT.

    Please note, again, that I’m not sending out save the dates here, I’m simply coordinating certain affairs; I’m the type of girl who plans her funeral rather than her wedding.  I may never get married, but I will… you know…

    If I die before I wake, I request the following things:

    I don’t want an open casket.  The enlarged picture of me standing proudly next to my coffin will suffice (use whatever my Facebook profile picture is at the time, I’m sure I thought very highly of it because I’m a narcissist and would never display something unflattering).  Since no one will see my outfit, I plan to wear a Ralph Lauren black Jackie O’ styled dress that my boss gave me years ago.  I will never wear it alive because I’m too afraid of ruining it, so since I love it so much, I can wear it for eternity six-feet under.

    J. Crew has a wedding line, but does anyone know when/if a funeral line will hit the stores?  My pallbearers are a pretty important aspect and I want them to look clean and uniform.  But I can’t decide if I want them to wear the same outfit or just the same color and fabric. Suggestions?

    Speaking of, if you have any interest in becoming one of my pallbearers, leave a comment underneath this story.   I really don’t want my father walking me down the aisle on this one.  Thank you in advance.

    My eulogy readers will wear cotton taffeta in sage.  Let them pick the design.  My eulogist-of-honor, however, should wear a long dress, not strapless, though.  Please!!! Strapless dresses are too risky and overtly distracting.

    Oh! And since I will wear black, I request everyone in attendance wear any other color aside from black because, how rude!  This is MY day.

    Other misc., but crucial, details:

    • Plus ones are allowed and encouraged.  I want the church billowing with mourners.
    • I don’t expect anyone to gather at the gravesite for the actual burial.  It’s my least favorite part, but I would appreciate if someone released vultures as they lowered me into my new resting place while “Eleanor Rigby” played in the background.
    • There needs to be a champagne toast at the reception, for sure.  And every time someone clinks on their glass with a fork, blow kisses at my picture.
    • Food can be buffet style, just make it gluten free for my sisters.
    • The first dance needs to be either to “Sweet Caroline” or “Don’t Stop Believing.”  Not because I like those songs, but because I HATE them and I want everyone to be sadly reminded of my funeral for the rest of their lives when they play.  Eventually, I hope people will stop listening to both…in my honor.

    If the cause of my death warrants a cremation, I want a worldwide honeymoon, starting with Jones on the corner of Formosa and Santa Monica.  Tell the bartenders, they’ll understand and most likely participate in the service.  Sprinkle a little of me in front of the door so when people walk in they inadvertently bring me with them to for the good times.

    Stash me in your purse or wallet and dine at Mozza where I’ve eaten some of the best Italian food in my life.

    Take a run with me in Brentwood around the three mile loop I like to call the “path of hope.”  Watch out for wayward golf balls.

    Fly me to New York and leave a pouch of me under a seat in a taxi so I can ride around the city.

    Hop on a plane to Florence and have at it.  Start with my old apartment on Via San Gallo, stop by the central market and buy blood oranges and kumquats.  Walk down the center of the city and eat pan di stele gelato. Then pull out a map and point to a new city, board a eurostar and let’s go!

    With my ashes, embrace the life I lived and create a legacy that is the pulse of your own.  If I don’t get cremated, do the same.  You live once, don’t fuck it up.  Absorb the greatness that surrounds you and recognize that life goes on, if you let it.

    My funeral is the last hoorah I’ll ever attend and until then, I’m listening to my deceased mentors by living life to my fullest potential, frequenting Jones, Mozza, New York, running outside with the breeze, living, breathing because I can and want to.

    But I ask you one thing, when you cry at my funeral make the tears happy and let them dance down your face.  And whatever you do…DON’T catch the bouquet…

     

     

     

    #tweetsthatinspire

     

  • How to Write a Hit Country Song

    How to Write a Hit Country Song

    – Mention Merle Haggard and Hank Williams for credibility. 

     

    – Remind people of things they’re familiar with – like Budlight and Jesus. 

     

    – Sum up life with a quote from Grandpa. 

     

    – Talk about how tough you were before you had kids. 

     

    – Talk about how tough your wife is because she does all the mundane shit you don’t want to do – like packing lunches and cleaning diapers. Don’t be afraid to use the word “hero”.

     

    – If you’re a guy, rewrite the song “Uptown Girl” by Billy Joel and talk about your tractor and your muddy boots. 

     

    – If you’re a girl, rewrite the song “Jenny From the Block” by Jennifer Lopez and talk about your blue jeans. 

     

    – Be proud of where you came from, as long as it’s nowhere enlightened and progressive. 

     

    – Talk about how you thought you’d never settle down . . . until you settled down. 

     

    – Don’t shave for four days and make fun of the uptight guy in the suit. 

     

    – If you’re a girl, talk about drinking whiskey. 

     

    – If you’re a guy, talk about your girl drinking whiskey. 

     

    – Get defensive. So what if you like to go out and have a good time? So what if you like to drink a few beers on the weekend? Is that such a crime?

     

    – Talk about how you like to raise a little cane. Not a lot of cane, just a little. 

     

    – Talk about the summer time. 

     

    – Reminisce about “simpler times”.

     

    – Talk about your mistress, the rodeo. 

     

    – Confuse people: 

      “I ain’t as good as I once was, but I’m as good once, as I ever was” – Toby Keith. 

     

    – Talk about your modest life. 

     

    – Don’t talk about the millions you’ve made singing about your modest life. 

                                  

    -If you get stuck, use the following key words: truck, tractor, creek, preacher man, cottonwood, dirt road, open road, front porch, back woods, small town, honky-tonk, moonshine. 

     

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  • The Casanova Convention

    The Casanova Convention

    About a month ago, my friend Jim invited me to a PUA (pick-up artist) seminar. “I’m going to this thing in two weeks, I think you should come.” he stated, pulling up an ad reading “Casanova Convention” on his laptop. “Seats are filling up fast,” he warned, letting the cursor blink in the quantity section. I’d like to say I refused, but I had no excuse. Having read “The Game,” I was curious. I told him to make it two.  (more…)