Song: “Free Me”
It is no secret that Dave Grohl has been my imaginary boyfriend for some time. He’s been number two behind Johnny Depp for close to a decade now. Someone asked me at work the other week to chose between the two. I answered, “My husband is the perfect combination of the two.” This caused groans at the writing table, and for me to hide under the table, but I was speaking the truth.
I am at a hair salon, the one I go to on Sunset, and while I’m waiting to take these pieces of foil out of my head, I decided to open my computer.
Here, at the salon, I have wireless. It is times like this when I don’t understand why people fear technology. Continue reading
The Damn Millionaires have put up a clip of Brand New Year.
It was six hours before my wedding when Al, Chris, AB and Vince sat me down in front of Vince’s computer and let me listen to the song their band had made to celebrate our marriage. Every lyric has Al’s wink in it (“I knew it all,” a prime example), because she’s so damn clever. I listened and cried and hugged everybody and held onto my copy. Continue reading
The morning after the wedding, we woke up and listened to this song in bed and thought about how happy we were and how perfectly the wedding went and how lucky we were to have these amazing friends and family who braved the rain and snow and winds and this strange waterfall that happens on our front steps when it pours outside. Continue reading
This is my favorite picture from my bachelorette party. Allison and Evany discover my disgusting card from Hilary.
Overheard this weekend as I walked back to my table after finishing a heartfelt rendition of “A Natural Woman”:
I was talking about this with Dan last night, how I always enter the Karaoke joint thinking, “Tonight I’ll just play it cool. Sit back. Enjoy the show. There’s no need to act like a moron in front of all these people.” And then half an hour later I’m rolling on the floor, possibly touching my crotch.
“Oh, I know,” Dan said. “It’s how we met.”
This weekend I was going to “play it cool” and ended up onstage no less than six times. I touched strangers. A group of hipsters in 80’s gear danced in front of us so we couldn’t see the stage. I stole their hats and gave them to other people. And they let me. The last time I was at this particular establishment, the girl who couldn’t stop dancing like she was both Romy and Michele became the centerpiece of my rendition of Pearl Jam’s “Black.” I crawled between her legs and we got to at least first base.
A) Why do I do this?
B) Why do people continue to let me? Continue reading
I no longer trust anyone using a pay phone.
I realized that the other week, watching someone hunched over a pay phone, reading something off a crumpled piece of paper. Was he lost? What was he doing? Sure, not everybody can afford a cell phone, I know that. But homeboy’s standing next to a Pizza Hut and a Blockbuster, and he doesn’t have any other access to a phone? Not a friend with a cell phone? Couldn’t ask me to use my phone? I’d rather loan someone my cell than force them to use a pay phone. Because if you’re using a pay phone, you’re selling drugs. I mean, sell drugs, but have the decency to do it loudly on a cell phone, walking down the street, chatting for all to hear like everyone else in this town. Don’t be so obvious, hunching over a phone that has a … cord. Continue reading
“I just want one of those damn entries out there to just be called ‘Chris and Allison’s Wedding.’ Is that so hard? Can’t it just say that and then talk about how pretty the wedding was?”
I would have done that anyway, even if the bride hadn’t specifically requested it, because the wedding was perfect. I cannot wait for the pictures. For the first time ever, I can’t wait to look through someone’s wedding pictures — a wedding I attended, even.
So, I’ve said that it was perfect. Now I’ll have to tell the self-centered story that these journal entries dictate. Sorry, Allison. You were the queen of winter, but I’m the princess of pamie.com, so I have to do what I have to do.
I’m currently sitting on the floor typing while another version of me is currently playing on the television beside me. I’m making copies of the Anne Heche show for someone, and I’ve spent the morning calling people while watching them perform monologues. It’s a strange meta thing to talk to someone while listening to them yell. It’s even worse to watch yourself while trying to write about yourself. I’d say it was narcissitic, but I don’t have the ego.
I generally don’t watch myself on television. I still have a copy of my episode Beat the Geeks that Michelle sent me that sits, unwatched. I find that once I see myself up there, see what I imagine other people see, I tend to get a little depressed. I don’t like my voice, my forehead, the way my hair looks tired. I don’t like the way I rush when I talk, how red my face gets when I’m excited, the way my shoulders hunch towards my neck. I don’t like the way I move, the way my chin looks when I laugh, the way I tend to tremble when I’m holding something as a prop.
The more I watch myself, the more self-conscious I get. Then I start talking myself out of what I’m doing, and the next time I’m up on stage, I can’t help but feel like I shouldn’t be there. I try not to watch myself at all anymore, as it makes me change what I’m doing, and takes some of the joy out of my work.
In honor of opening night for 8 Mile, a little ditty about how I’ve been running my ass off around Silver Lake to look good in my groomsman dress this December. That’s right, I’m a groomsman, and I’ve been listening to Eminem on my runs to keep me motivated. He’s so angry it makes me angry and then I run faster.
Look, if you had one shot, one opportunity
To show everyone how much you rule -One moment
Would you capture it or just let it slip?