Enough Is Too Much

A Man Told Me to Beware of 33; He Said, “It Was Not an Easy Time for Me”

I am never really conscious of my age. That probably sounds hard to believe coming from a woman living in this modern world, but it’s true; I’ve just never really paid much attention. I’m childlike in some ways and mature in others, and I never had the luxury of relying on my looks to get me things, so it never even occurred to me to worry about the day that they would no longer be considered youthful or appealing. It’s something I honestly never really think about — not in a defiant way, but just obliviousness; the things I was interested in and the people I looked up to never put any emphasis on age, or whether or not you could or couldn’t do things past a certain one. Plus, I basically live a life without mile markers: I’m not married, I don’t have children, I don’t have a mortgage, and I am surrounded by a social circle of people with non-traditional jobs; I have almost no daily reminders that I am, in fact, grown.

Shortly after I turned 30, I went to a concert with some friends; I had a friendly rapport with the guitarist in the band, after having met him briefly a few days before. He was very cute and obviously younger than I was, although I didn’t think by much (that obliviousness usually applies both ways for me, as I’m terrible at guessing people’s ages). We saw each other after he walked off stage and we hugged and he leaned in close as he spoke to me, a gesture I took as flirtation and possible interest. We talked about his tour and music and bands we liked, and after a few minutes of feeling flattered, two girls in their early 20s — his age — walked up and his attention was immediately diverted. He put his arms around them and they all started to talk, and I sort of stood awkwardly, wondering if I should even try to continue our conversation where it left off. I lingered for a bit, and when I leaned in to speak — at this point to just offer a simple goodbye, as I knew his interest now fell elsewhere — he gave me a look I’ll never forget, a combination of pity and a realization of “Oh, wait, you thought you had a chance?” It wasn’t mean and it wasn’t ego; he just thought I was old. I’ve felt rejection before, in many forms: you’re not my type, you’re too boisterous, you’re too much of a tomboy — but never like this; it never even registered that “You’re old enough that I don’t even consider you a contender in the game” was now a possible category. As I said bye and left, his body language basically spelled out, “I’m sorry, I’m so embarrassed for you! It didn’t even occur to me that you would even think it was possible that anything would happen between us; I’m 23!” It wasn’t intentionally mean or rude, it was just his honest reaction. He gave me a loose hug somehow accompanied by a sort of apologetic shrug, and I turned to leave the club, cringing so hard I think I broke a few bones. I walked to my car, studying the cracks in the pavement, thinking, “Oh yeah, I’m older than people now. That’s a thing.” Replaying the conversation I was having with him earlier, I realized he was leaning in because the club was loud, and that the pace with which he spoke was one I’d use with a teacher or supervisor or anyone else I’d consider my elder. I drove straight home and crawled into bed. I felt embarrassed about what had happened, but also ashamed that one dude’s reaction to my attempt at flirtation could suck me into such a deep hole of shame and despair. But I also vowed to not let it get to me like that again.

I’m 33 years old today. I have a Hello Kitty bathmat in my bathroom, but I’m going to go to Target when I get off work and buy a plain blue one instead.

Lifestyles of the Rich and the Famous

I moved to Los Angeles from Atlanta six and a half years ago, and after one (1) week in this new city, I briefly befriended the twins from Good Charlotte. (“What?!” — you, just now.)

No, I am not 15 years old, and no, I am not into (most) pop-punk or really give a care about their music at all, but I am obsessed with Morrissey, and after regular daily viewings of the Morrissey-Solo website, on which every Morrissey mention in the media is kept track of, I discovered the Madden brothers shared that obsession. They seemed to name-check him in every interview, and even made it known that they wanted to sign him to their own record label back when he was label-less (which I believe he is again, currently). Obviously that was enough for me to want to split a BFF necklace with these dudes.

So a week after arriving here, my explorations led me to the Beverly Center. Exotic! Purely coincidentally, the G.C. guys were there too, signing and posing for pictures with a dozen or so giggling girls as they tried to shop; I figured it was as good a time as any to go talk to them about how great Morrissey is.

“You guys!” I think I said. “I read in a bunch of interviews that y’all love Morrissey. Me too!”
“Yeah! He rules!” Joel (?) replied.
We then introduced ourselves, and discussed Morrissey and The Smiths for a good 10 minutes or so. They were both super nice and even seemed to be just as excited as I was to be talking about this guy we’d admired for so long. “I follow him on tour as much as possible,” I said. “I actually just wrote a zine about following him on his recent tour.”
“No way!” Benji (?) said. “We want one!”
“Really? I’ll totally send you one!”

Joel (?) then pulled the pen previously used for autographing teenage girls’ T-shirts from his pocket and I found a scrap of paper in my purse and he scribbled his e-mail address, immediately followed by his home address (!), asking me to mail him a copy of the zine. “Sure!” I said. “I’ll also send you some live stuff, bootlegs and the like, if you want.” His eyes lit up as if he was a non-famous, non-rock star regular person I’d just met in line at a Morrissey show or Smiths convention or something, and he said, “That would be so rad!” or something similar. Uh, okay Good Charlotte dudes, I’ll be your pen pal.

A couple days later, I sent him/them an envelope stuffed with my zine and a few CDs of live Morrissey/Smiths shows, and received a very nice thank-you letter a week after that. And then a super nice e-mail a couple days after that! I replied to Joel and we went back and forth a few times, as he told me which songs he liked best on the CDs I’d sent, and I told him about sightings at the Cat & Fiddle I’d heard whispers of.

But then I read that he fathered children with and married Nicole Richie, and thus didn’t have time for his pal April anymore. Sometimes people just grow apart — even bros as tight as me and the Brothers Madden; but we’ll always have that 2005 Bev Cent hang sesh, now and forever.


(And then I threw the BFF necklace off the bow of a ship, like the old lady at the end of Titanic.)

Check Yourself Before You Wreck Yourself

I am so tired of egos, man.

I work in entertainment, in Hollywood, a place that does not follow the normal rules of anywhere outside of here. There are no quantifiable measures of talent, really, in any field. People in charge like what you do or they don’t. It’s not like when I used to be a copy editor, and I got jobs based on whether or not I put commas in the right places or spelled certain words correctly; there are no certainties in entertainment. The powers-that-be on any given movie/show/project/thing either like what you do or they don’t. You can’t study harder for the test, you can’t work overtime for the promotion — they’re either into what you’re doing, or they’re not. (Obviously you can work hard to perfect whatever it is YOU do, and you definitely should do that, but even still, people might not be into that thing you’ve perfected.)

I’m a comedian. I work on a TV show, assiting the writers and sometimes writing jokes of my own that make it to air. I do stand-up comedy. I am asked to do a lot of cool things, like be on TV or do sets on great shows. I also get rejected for stuff all the time, like auditions and prestigious festivals. Do you know why I get rejected for things? Because the people in charge of those things (and lots of people not in charge of things) did not think I was funny or talented enough for their thing. I was not up to their standards; I was not what they were looking for.

Now, I’m not trying to say that I’m some unassuming, fey wallflower looking at her shoes all the time; I obviously have enough confidence in my abilities to pursue this line of work. I have a certain amount of ego, because that’s required to keep going with this. But what I don’t have is this insane attitude of “If I don’t get hired for something, it’s because whoever was in charge is an asshole/hates my guts/sucks at their job, because it is simply OUT OF THE REALM OF POSSIBILITY that they didn’t like what I did.” WHO THE SHIT DO YOU THINK YOU ARE, EVERYONE? Unless you are Tom Hanks, there are people out there who don’t like what you do.


Think of the comedian you most admire — the person you think is an unquestionable genius. (For me, that person is Bob Odenkirk.) Guess what? Like, a million people think that person isn’t funny at all. I mean, I can’t even wrap my brain around someone not laughing at everything Bob ever says/writes/acts, but it happens. Often.

When it comes to me (and you, if you’re also a comedian), multiply that times a zillion. LOTS AND LOTS of people in the world do not think I’m (or you’re) funny. I think about that ALL THE TIME. Not in a pitiful way, but in a CHECK MYSELF BEFORE I WRECK MYSELF way. For every one person who comes up to tell me they think I’m funny, there are 100 (or 1,000?) who disagree (or, more accurately, 1,000,000,000,000,000,000 who don’t know who I am at all and never will and will also never care). I’ve been on TV only a handful of times (big whoop), and each time I get almost immediate confirmation of this when I get a few tweets saying, “You’re great!” and then even more tweets like, “U SUK U AIN’T FUNNY!”

For me, it’s weird to get mad about stuff in this industry/vocation/showbiz/whatever, only because if there are people out there who think BOB MOTHERFUCKING ODENKIRK isn’t funny (or Louis CK, or Patton Oswalt, or, or, or…), I’m lucky if ANYONE EVER says ANYTHING favorable about what I do.

So, in summation, QUIT TRIPPING. Keep working, try to be the best at what you do, and keep in mind the people who do compliment you and do very much enjoy what you do, because they are definitely out there. But don’t be a dick if it doesn’t work out the way you thought it would… or pretty soon you will be CORRECT when you think that you didn’t get a job just because the boss hated you.


(And I know even writing and posting this is a big MC Escher drawing of the intertwined irony of “Writing and publishing a post knocking people with big egos takes a big ego and it’s egotistical to think people want to read it and blah blah blah” but whatever, I’m annoyed right now.)

Tell Your Children Not to Walk My Way

I went back home to Atlanta a few months ago because I love it there, and also to visit my friends and family. My first night back, I went out with my boyfriend Andy and my friends Millie and Sonji, and after enjoying a delicious Mexican meal that included the elusive white cheese dip that sadly cannot be found at Mexican restaurants anywhere outside of the Southeastern United States, Millie suggested we go do karaoke.

We headed to a bar that offered metal karaoke, during which you were backed by a live band — awesome. Upon our arrival, we walked straight to the sign-up area in the back of the room to secure our songs; there stood a chalkboard listing the tunes offered, and once one was chosen it was immediately crossed out in order to prevent repeats. Andy chose something from Iron Maiden, Millie chose Cheap Trick, and I chose my karaoke staple (both due to my unladylike Barry White-esque vocal range and my uncanny resemblance to the singer): Danzig’s “Mother.”

A few minutes later, with songs chosen and drinks in hand, I saw a guy who looked like Carlton from “The Fresh Prince of Bel Air” approaching me with pleading eyes.

“Hey, she said,” (pointing to the woman in charge of taking song requests) “that you chose ‘Mother’ as your song?”
“Yeah…?” I replied.
“Can I have it? Please?” he asked.
“Uh…”
“Please? My 65-year-old mother is coming down here to watch me sing it, and it’s the only song she wants to hear me sing.”
“Wait, what? Your mom wants to come see you sing Danzig? It’s not exactly a pro-mom song, you know…”
“Please? She’s 65 and she really wants to come see me sing this. She’s on her way here now. Please? I’ll give you money! How much do you want?” he begged.
“What? No! That’s crazy; you don’t need to give me money. Of course you can have the song, it’s fine.”
“THANK YOU! What do you want to go sing instead? I’ll go tell the woman your next choice,” he offered.
“No, that’s cool. I don’t really want to sing anything else.”
“Let me get you a drink then,” he countered.
“No, that’s okay. You can just have the song. It’s no problem,” I insisted.

He walked off and I turned to everyone to give them the minutes of the meeting, and we were all pretty baffled. At this point it was about 11:30pm on a weeknight, so we were all wondering what 65-year-old was trying to come out to a bar to watch their grown-ass adult son sing a song written by a guy who used to front a band known for ditties about raping moms and killing babies. It made no sense, but this guy seemed desperate, so what kind of jerk could have said no to that? Not I.

We sat back and enjoyed some of the other singers until it was time for our crew to take the stage; Andy killed “Run to the Hills,” and Millie tore up “Surrender.” Then, for what was to be my turn, the band started playing a different jam. “Weird, maybe I was supposed to be up later,” I thought. But then Carlton walked on stage, grabbed the mic, and started singing an entirely different fucking song than the one he begged me to give up.

All four of us turned to look at each other and all four of us had the same look on our faces. “WHAT THE HELL IS THIS?!” I yelled. “How is that guy going to BEG me for a song that he isn’t even going to sing?! What kind of a DICK MOVE is that?!” I was inordinately furious; I mean, it was a karaoke song we were dealing with, but still, why make a huge effort to talk somebody out of something you don’t even want?!

After he was finished with a song different than the one he’d stolen from me earlier (Rage Against the Machine’s “Killing in the Name,” if you’re curious) and walked off stage, I marched up to him and screamed in his face (I honestly couldn’t believe how enraged I was over a song — it was shocking), “WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT?!”
“What do you mean?” he asked, feigning innocence.
“WHAT?! WHY would you tell me some elaborate lie to get a song that you don’t even want to sing?!” I said, still shouting.
“Why did you lie to her? What a DICK MOVE,” my dutiful boyfriend yelled. Millie and Sonji backed me up as well, as the four of us stayed in this dude’s face, looking for an explanation for his shadiness.
“I didn’t lie! My mom IS coming! She’s on her way! I’m singing ‘Mother’ as my second song,” he explained.
“WHAT?! How selfish is that?!” I asked, still yelling. “Your SECOND turn?! You didn’t say that in your earlier plea, man. I gave up my song to you because I thought this was the ONE CHANCE your mom had to see you sing it. Why lie about that to get a damn karaoke song you were just too late to choose on your own?!”
“I’m not lying! My mom is on her way right now! I just talked to her!”
“NO FUCKING WAY is that happening. It’s 1 a.m. right now. You’re trying to tell me your 65-year-old mother is out driving to a bar to come see you sing a DANZIG song in the middle of the night?! There is no way that is true.”
“It is! I just talked to her! Do you want me to call her? I’ll call her right now so you can hear for yourself!”
“I DON’T WANT TO TALK TO YOUR FUCKING MOM!”


And with that, we left.

Telly Addicts, You Should See Them At It

I am obsessed with home shopping channels. Still. And I know home shopping channels and their “hosts” (salespeople) are such easy topics to clown on, but it’s more than that for me — I’m fascinated by them and the fact that home shopping TV channels can still exist in this day and age. I know I’m not solving the Da Vinci Code here, but let’s look at the facts:

• Everything is cheaper on the Internet. Period. The other day they were selling some no-name big-screen television for about $200 more than the first price I brought up after two seconds of Googling.
• They take advantage of the fact that grandmas the world over don’t know how to Google things.
• The cult of fandom that surrounds some of the hosts is something I want to study in a sociological context and receive a doctorate in so I can return to the university and teach it to generations to come. I have watched as people called in to various “shows” (see next bullet point) and not only gushed about the products they had previously purchased, but genuinely expressed fondness and emotion for the “hosts” (salespeople) and actually said words that we sometimes find difficult to say to people close to us in our everyday lives: “I love you.” WHOA. Whoa. Now, I’m a passionate fan of things/people, so this isn’t coming from someone who doesn’t know what it’s like to deeply appreciate something/someone; but these folks are salespeople. They sell you things. Do I think they are beneath me? Certainly not! Being a salesperson is a job, just like being a secretary or a bus driver or a bank teller or any other vocation, and good on ya for getting your bills paid. Is being a salesperson something worthy of adoration? The level of adoration that would inspire someone to gush “I LOVE YOU” to a total stranger? I say no. Some would argue that even rock stars and movie stars aren’t worthy of that level of adoration, but I can see the uniqueness of those positions inspiring that sort of reaction, because through those mediums people feel like the stars understand them and speak to them on a different level. You can be inspired by the lyrics or music a rock star wrote, or be inspired by the way an actor portrayed a character or wrote/directed a film; how are you so deeply inspired by the way the guy on TV is attempting to sell you a deluxe garden hose that you have to profess your love for him?! I see it as the equivalent of telling the guy at the Gap who helped you find khakis in your size that you love him.
• I love that half-hour (or more) blocks of simply selling similar products are framed as “shows.” “Tune in to Kitchen Madness this Thursday at 9! A whole hour of pots, pans, and the like! Don’t miss it! MUST SEE TV!”
• Again with the “host” thing — “Hello, I’m your host for this hour of Kitchen Madness!” = “Hi, I am a frying pan salesman.”
• My absolute favorite thing is that they have “shows” during which they attempt to sell perfume/shower gels/bath stuff/anything with a selling point of “This smells good.” NO ONE WATCHING CAN EXPERIENCE THE VERY REASON YOU ARE TRYING TO SELL THAT PRODUCT. It’s fun to watch the “hosts” try to come up with different ways to describe the scents of the perfumes and the textures of the lotions, but kind of a bummer to think of the people buying these things sight unseen (smell un-smelled?) only to receive them and realize they don’t like the fragrance at all.
• Almost none of these items are unique to the channel; they are almost always (99.99999999999% of the time) things that can be purchased at a number of stores local to you (I once saw colored pencils on sale. COLORED PENCILS!), and also everywhere on the Internet, so the incentive to pick up your phone and order them from TV (arguably the same amount of — or perhaps a little tiny bit more — effort it takes to open your laptop and purchase them via computer) instead of by other avenues is zero.
• These channels exist solely to grift grandmas (and it has worked on mine more than once).

Success Is Obedience to a Structured Way of Life

I’m 30 years old today. This Tumblr is meant to be a place where I type flowery, long-winded things, because I don’t want to forget how to write, but I wanted to post today.

I am happy with 30. I’m kind of pumped about it, honestly. I still get carded sometimes when I go to R-rated movies (not a joke), so I guess I’m doing okay on the wrinkles front. (I’m actually not old enough for that to be flattering, to be honest — on the whole, teenagers today pretty much look like idiots, so I take someone carding me as, “I think you look/dress like an idiot.”) I’ve done a lot of cool stuff in my 30 years. I’ve met a lot of amazing people. I’ve seen a lot of great things and traveled to a lot of wonderful places. I have acheived many of my goals. Unlike a lot of other people my age, I don’t own a house and I don’t have children — but those aren’t my milestones. Those aren’t measurements of success for me.

I look at it this way: If you told 15-year-old me what I’d be up to at 30, she would be THRILLED. So, success!

All I Have Here With Me Are the Records and the Books That I Own

I have a lot of stuff. My room is filled to the brim with records, CDs, cassette tapes, books, magazines, zines, and DVDs — most of the books I own are about the records that I own, and most of the DVDs I own contain visual representations of the songs on the CDs I own. I like things, and I like knowing stuff about the things that I like.

However, while it may sound like it, I am NOT bragging — I feel like the older I get, the more of a hindrance this becomes.

Growing up, I had a lot of fun — I had friends, I was sociable — but there were many times I just preferred to stay in my room listening to mixtapes, searching old music magazines for articles on new bands I was discovering, writing zines… that sort of stuff. Because I read voraciously about subjects largely unimportant to the general population (Morrissey’s favorite movies, British comedy/film stars that have appeared in Blur videos, what exactly Michael Stipe is saying in “Sitting Still,” figuring out how to get original Sarah Records issues of the Field Mice albums), I started to value those traits in others — if I met someone, especially a dude, and they were familiar with my pop-culture touchstones, I deemed them worthy. I was judgmental in a weird way; I wasn’t cutthroat about it, and wouldn’t write uninitiated people off completely, but if someone knew some obscure fact about a band or comedian or movie or book or album that I loved, I instantly thought, “I can be friends with this person.” Looking back, I’m sure that’s not a unique way of thinking — I mean, everyone seeks out people with similar interests — but I probably took it a little more seriously than the average teenager. And, let’s be honest — it did make me feel kind of cool. In high school especially, being into obscure things is a double-edged sword: you’re bummed that you can’t really discuss your loves with anyone else, but you’re secretly jazzed because you know something they don’t know.

But now, it seems that I feel MORE awkward about this stuff than I did in high school! I can’t really have in-depth conversations with most people my age, because they’ve moved on and have learned about the economy and property taxes and politics and science and I’m still trying to critically analyze why Jarvis Cocker chose to have Steve Albini produce his latest album. I often meet people now and find it refreshing and very appealing if they know nothing about music or popular culture. (Often, not always. Heh. Also, it’s only appealing if it’s genuine — I got no time or patience for those douchelords who BRAG about not owning a television.) But, of course, the majority of my anecdotes are heavy on the pop-culture references, so the people that I find appealing are definitely not returning that feeling.

I’ve talked about this lately with my best friend, and she said something like, “I think this is how furries happen — they are people who are REALLY into something and have no normal people to share it with,” which sent us spiralling into panic. “Are we gonna wake up one day and be 50-year-old furry weirdos?!” I don’t think obsessively collecting and hoarding Smiths records is quite the same as wanting to have sex with anthropomorphic animals, but to some it might be close.

Last Friday night I was sitting on my bed, alone, listening to a new CD I had very eagerly anticipated the release of while reading a book about the artwork of Factory Records, and looked around my heavily postered and adolescent-esque room and honestly thought to myself, “It’s just you and me, stuff.” And sure, that sounds crazy, but look at the facts: My possessions have never disappointed me.

Is Evil Just Something You Are or Something You Do?

I kind of love it when people have a MILLION “my boss is such an asshole” or “my roommate is such an asshole” or “that guy at the store is such an asshole” or “all my ex-girlfriends/ex-boyfriends are such assholes” stories, because when they tell those stories (and they do, constantly), I think about the day when someone they are relaying these tales to finally yells, “YOU KNOW WHAT THE CONSTANT IS IN EVERY ONE OF THESE STORIES? YOU. Did you ever stop to think that if EVERYONE is SUCH AN ASSHOLE to you, that YOU just might BE THE ASSHOLE?” And I hope I’m there to watch that person’s mindsplosion.