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Category Archives: Bad taste

Etsy, I just can’t: Etsy Versus The Occult

Like the majority of American women, I spend way, way too much time on Etsy. I buy very little. Mostly, I flip through objects I want but object to the exorbitant shipping prices, and I make fun of shit.

Regretsy is dead, but its memory lives on.

I have some favorite Etsy searches. One is ‘occult items’. In case you don’t know, there are a lot of people out there selling ‘haunted’ or ‘cursed’ or ‘magical’ items for THOUSANDS of dollars. And presumably, SOMEONE has paid this money, because they must have some incentive to continue.

Usually the items consist of some dilapidated book or doll, purchased at a local thrift shop, or a box someone bought at his or her neighborhood psychic supply shop. They are decorated with cheesy ‘spooky’ items: black cats, satanic symbols, etc., and then passed off as some kind of mystical token.

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There’s looking at Etsy and thinking ‘I could make this’ and then there’s looking at Etsy and thinking ‘I could find this in the trash.’

CHECK OUT THIS FUCKING BULLSHIT, who needs a Tesla when you can get this haunted warlock ring or whatever the fuck it is since it’s so haunted they couldn’t even get a functional picture of it.

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Apparently, this person doesn’t realize you can get a Ouija board for $20 at Toys R Us.

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Is that a genuine plastic planchette I see?????

Then there’s this dickhead selling a pretty common book that costs $5 on Amazon for $90.

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Oh and some people will sell you spells. And take pictures of themselves casting them so you know it’s not A TOTAL hand job.

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The more seasoned magic practitioner may prefer to just download a spell and conduct it his or herself.

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Don’t expect much if you go for the discount items, you cheap fuck! This chick REALLY knows how to remove a curse, I suppose, considering her download is $1200.

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And don’t worry, there’s a spell for stuff besides curses.

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Sometimes, worlds collide. Take, for example, this ‘hooded jacket/cloak’ as its creator describes it. It appeals to me on an aesthetic level. However, I have a few hesitations beyond the $119.00 plus shipping asking price.

Let’s just look at its sale page or whatever the fuck Etsy calls them:

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First of all, why is it DARKNESS hooded jacket cloak? Why is DARKNESS all uppercase? Has that increased its magical powers? Instantly, that’s so high school goth that I’m kind of ashamed to want it.

Second, that picture. What in the fuck eighth grade glamour shots is this shit? Those crossed arms? I am so confused.

Oh, Etsy.

I’m Getting Old

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It’s that time for me as a woman. Thirty is a mere four months away. I can already taste the ashes of my youth in my mouth. Sure, people say, thirty is the new twenty (which, why would anyone want to be twenty again? Twenty sucked! Twenty, you were stupid and still a nervous teenager! 23 was the goddamn bomb). My generation is experiencing a renaissance of relevance. Most people’s careers at this point don’t get kick-started until they’re thirty. It could be worse, I could still live with my mom. And so on, and so on, comfort comfort back pat back pat.

But I can feel the change. It spreads over me as I stand, pensive in front of my wardrobe, realizing I don’t want to wear my novelty t-shirts. Much like the Game of Thrones meme Winter Is Coming, age is wrapping its cold, withered arms around me. I am getting….old. And these are the signs.

1. I want babies. I don’t SUPER want babies because let’s face it, babies are horrible, boring, shitting, crying, non-communicative wiggling piles of dictatorship who dominate your life and destroy your sleeping patters. For years, I’ve kept my secret OMG BABIES urge repressed by reminding myself that I can’t even handle the concept of pregnancy without cringing. I think those 3D ultrasounds look like parasitic demons have taken residence in your womb. Yet, I want. I want my own kid. I know that’s selfish and shitty.  There are so many needy kids in orphanages. But what if I get one of those Russian babies with attachment disorder? If I’m going to get a fucked up, crazy kid, I want it to be because he or she inherited my fucked up, crazy genetics. It’s narcissism, I know. BUT anyway, stop judging me, fuck you. So let me go on with why this is worse than any other time when I’ve supplemented some creepy urge to parent with a pet. I am worried about my reproductive parts. Yes, we’re living longer and having babies almost disturbingly late in life, but my mother went through menopause pretty young. So the window of time for me is narrowed. Which, of course, puts an undo amount of stress on any future relationships I will probably continue not to have. So, after giving this careful consideration and putting it forward to a couple people, I concluded that by 35, I would request one of my very handsome, tall, gay male friends help me with this dilemma. As soon as the deal had been made, I looked at the mirror and almost screamed. Somehow, in the last decade, I have gone from aspiring to be Gloria Steinem to being Jennifer Aniston. Fuck my life.

2. The Youth Music Sucks: Okay, not all of it. I quite like some of the snazzy tunes, but for the most part, when I turn on the radio, I just hear a constant stream of derivative shit. I carefully combed through the Pitchfork top 100 and NME top 100 singles of 2011 and 85% of them were horrible. Mumford and Sons? GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE. I mean, they make Coldplay sound like the Sex Pistols. Occasionally, I stumble upon the odd Jay-Z single, nod my head gently and say NOW THIS I LIKE, the way my grandparents would whenever a swing revival band popped up.

3. Speaking of youth music, I now hate Ben Gibbard: It occurred to me while letting my iTunes just do its thing: he annoys the shit out of me. His voice once registered plaintive pathos; now I find myself telling him to shut the fuck up. ‘Someday, you will be loved’? Really? That’s the most patronizing sentiment of all time. Fuck you.

4. Old guys are getting a lot hotter and young guys look like fetuses: I felt like a child molester when I was watching  American Horror Story and ogling Tate (he was born in 1988, it’s safe!) For the most part, guys in their early twenties look like pretty little babies to me. I’m suddenly much more interested in the Jon Hamms and Michael Fassbenders and the guys with flecks of gray in their hair and scars on their faces.

5. I judge the way my dates live: This sounds bad. It sounds mean and bitchy. And honestly, I will say: you are exempt from this if you are a male under thirty. However, when a 35-year-old guy is living in a rundown apartment with no furniture but a mattress on the floor and his guitar collection, a kitchen sink overflowing with molded dishes, and a non-functional shower, I realize: this is your life. You really don’t see anything wrong with living in constant debt/fear of eviction and don’t care that the last show your band played was at The Cobalt three years ago. I can no longer envision dating someone who doesn’t at least aspire towards somewhat nice things. And I know a lost cause when I see one. And when I have children, they have to be of the non-adult variety.

6. I want nice things: I am no longer sated by cheap crappy furniture from Ikea. I want to own…antiques. I want things to be organized. I want a housekeeper who comes in twice a week because I admit that I loathe cleaning but want things clean. I don’t want to live like a college bum anymore.

7. I’m too old for Forever 21: Okay, I still shop there, because I’m kind of not rich, but I hate it. I want to be able to shop in nice stores where everything isn’t chaotically crammed into non-organized piles and a teenager isn’t following me around, asking if I need a dressing room/sort of making sure I’m not shoplifting. I don’t want to buy horribly sewn together, cheap clothing that dissolves in the washing machine. I want to afford Les Habitudes and top of the line vintage.

8. I’m patronizing teenagers: I always hated them a little, especially when I was one, but now I have become one of those eye-rolling assholes regarding youthful idealism.  I know it’s their time. It’s their time, down there, and I’ve already ridden up Troy’s Bucket of Crushed Naive Political Notions. They need to march around in their Amebix back patches and shout ‘No Justice, No Peace!’ and really feel like they’re CHANGING THE FUCK OUT OF THINGS and pierce their faces and whatever it is that makes being a Super Liberal College Freshman so awesome. So I don’t pull over and point out they spelled college wrong on their signs advocating free education (although I suppose that would be evidence in their favor that it’s a necessity) or that they’ve incorrectly credited ‘The revolution will not be televised’ to Zach De La Rocha. Or lecture them on the idea that looking super punk rock may not be as important as dressing like an adult in order to get people to take their point seriously. Because hey, I was there. I used to be them. I went to Black Bloc meetings (and, admittedly, got into constant fights with everyone because I was a Debbie Downer pragmatist) got detained with anarchists, having many harrowing stories about almost getting maced in the face. So who am I to sneer at their ambitions?

9. I enjoy Frasier: There, I admit it. I find the bantering between Rozz, Frasier Crane, and his brother Niles to be absolutely delightful. Cheers still bores me, though.

10. I hate 90s Nostalgia: I now understand how the generation above me felt when everyone in the early 2000s started grabbing their neon exercise pants and grooving to Olivia Newton John, while waxing nostalgic about the eighties. Because now the 90s are back, and no one is old enough to remember that they mostly sucked. Especially the fashion and music. Sure, there were like two years where grunge and Brit pop were promising, but by 1995, the airwaves were dominated by plastic, shitty hip hop and Rolling Stone was predicting the death of rock and roll and the rise of rave/electronic “culture”. And by culture, I assume they meant “repetitive, shitty sounds played over loudspeakers in warehouses crammed with white people with no rhythm sucking on pacifiers and tripping balls”. The movie Go is not exactly the Fast Times of Ridgemont High of the mid-nineties, okay? And dressing like Stephanie Tanner or Kimmy Gibler on Full House is not ‘ironic’, it’s ‘ugly’.

The myth: 

The reality:

11. I am out of touch with slang: I realize that the expressions I use now are as awkward, clunky, and dated as when my mother describes something as ‘bitching’.

12. Calling oneself an ‘alcoholic’ is now a depressing admission.

The myth:

The reality:

13. Realizing there are fundamental life skills I will never develop: I will never be magically good at gift wrapping or interested in cooking fancy meals or know how to/want to sew things. I want to pay other people to do those things.

14. I would rather die than work in retail ever again. 

15. I refuse to learn any of the names of socialites more recent than Paris Hilton.

16. I can never have sex with anyone who has a mohawk again. Because, I mean, if they’re my age, they’re retarded, and if they’re younger, it’s creepy.

17. Realizing all the youthful things I’m never going to do in my twenties: Well, fuck.

18. Wait, Miley Cyrus isn’t the face of tween life anymore?

19. WHAT THE FUCK IS A TWEEN?

20. This is what I’ve been listening to for the past month:

21. I want to live in a house. My house. Where I can start collecting old news papers and slowly evolve into the elderly witch lady I’ve always wanted to be.

22. I forget a lot: Seriously, I have a touch of the Alzheimer’s. To start with, I forget where my keys are, what I did over a weekend, important dates, doctors’ appointments, where I’m going, and a lot of really good topics I had for this list.

Movie Romances to Avoid

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Ah, the cinema. Since the dawn of the movie era, it’s served as the template for romantic expectations. Sometimes in an entirely unhealthy way. Here, I am going to critique some of the worst examples of Hollywood romances from film and television throughout the past 80 or so years.

1. My Man Godfrey: Carol Lombard and William Powell meet and fall in love in this exquisite screwball comedy from 1936. Powell is a ‘forgotten man’ that Lombard retrieves while on a scavenger hunt. After developing a crush on him, she convinces her father to hire him on, where he gets to witness the savageness of wealth, until it’s revealed that his ‘forgotten man’ status means he was, at one time, a known man, and he saves the family with the wisdom he’s acquired on the street.  First of all, how many homeless guys or slackers do you know who actually pull themselves up and teach everyone a valuable lesson about the value of the dollar? Second, Lombard’s character is borderline retarded here and he’s pretty much a genius. Granted, she’s hot, but there’s nothing to sustain.

2. Sid and Nancy: Well, they both die. And pretty much, they both kill each other. And before that, they lie around a lot in shit and vomit, and they never fuck.

3. The Little Mermaid. You might remember this fondly from childhood. This is the reality: Ariel is 16. SIXTEEN. And her father has the audacity to believe that A) she might not know what’s best for her at that age and B) wants better things for her, but he’s the enemy. And the whole part where Ursula declares “The men up there don’t like a lot of blabber/They think a girl who gossips is a bore!/Come on, they’re not all that impressed with conversation/It’s she who holds her tongue who get’s a man,” is only partial jest. Their entire relationship is based on her fawning over him and him thinking she’s kind of pretty.

4. Pretty much any Disney romance. Look, just because you woke me up from a curse doesn’t mean I automatically want to marry you.

5. Breakfast At Tiffany’s: He’s gay. She’s a bitch.

6. SLC Punk: The ending, when Steve-o meets the girl who changes everything for him, all we see is a mustached cunt who makes a lot of superficial judgements about people. Womp womp.

7. Flashdance: The biggest problem is that there really wasn’t any need for a romance in Flashdance, so the line they threw in where the rich guy is after the poor girl who lives in an amazing warehouse of awesome is really extraneous and forced. Plus he’s creepy, old and unattractive.

8. Pretty In Pink: All of the romance in this is awful. First, we’re supposed to root for Andie and Blaine. Blaine is a douche and a half. I mean, he’s worse than Stef because he’s a pussy hypocrite. He dumps Andie before the prom because he freaks about his social status, and then when she shows up anyway, he acts like it’s a big test and has the nerve to say, “You never believed in me.” And she falls for it and forgives him! What! But who can blame her when her role model is Annie Potts’ awesome character who sells out all of her punk rock originality to dress like a sick yuppie in order to appease her complete tool of a boyfriend.

9. Batman Begins and Dark Knight: Why does anyone like Rachel? In Batman Begins, she’s an uptight, self-righteous bitch who judges everyone. She’s basically a sophomore political science student at a liberal East Coast private college. Sick. And in the Dark Knight, she’s a sarcastic, insensitive  asshole. Instead of being all indignant about everything, she’s an eye-rolling know-it-all. Batman, stick with your own kind.

10. Superman Returns: Before we start on how this movie sucked, let me say, the one hero in this is the poor guy Lois Lane married, who isn’t superhuman but risks everything to save his asshole of a wife and his kid who isn’t his kid, yet all the credit goes to Superman. Maybe Superman and Lois Lane are actually perfect for each other because she’s a self-involved twat and he’s a hollow piece of wood.

11. Bonnie and Clyde: He’s impotent and quick to rage, and she’s desperately trailing after him.

There will be a sequel when I bother to think of some.

 

Fan Art: The hidden jewel of the internet

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Fact: You cannot spell fan art without fart. Well, you can try.

As we know, the internet is a veritable gold mine of undiscovered talent. More than one lump of livejournal coal gets dusted off to reveal a diamond underneath. Yes, we all applaud the wit of those who can. But let us not forget those who can’t, yet try so, so hard.

Have you ever noticed how much more prolific the writer with no skill is than the carefully trained, honed, and brilliant one is? Seriously, in the time it took Marcel Proust to fine-tune a sentence in Remembrance  Of Things Past, Stephenie Meyers wrote all of the Twilight series. And yes, it’s easy to marvel over the speedy efficiency bad writers pop things out, we just as easily dismiss them.  But we must also remember to applaud their imagination. Where else but in the bowels of the Internet would someone think to write femslash fiction pairing Law and Order SVU’s Olivia Benson with a Farscape creature?

Bad art is an art unto itself, and nothing is more marvelous than the dedicated fan, who in his or her pursuit to properly convey admiration for the idolized person of choice, winds up creating an iconic image so terrible that it seems to be a massive injustice to not give these people credit where credit is due.

And so, without further blathering, may I present some of my favorite fan art renderings of Hollywood’s most revered stars.

As a caveat, may I say that there are many, many well-done portraits of the stars. Those are no fun.

Angelina Jolie

Jolie is quite a popular subject among amateur illustrative artists. They all appear to secretly view her as some kind of vile monster.

Brad Pitt

No, I swear it’s not Butthead.

Jennifer Aniston

Sarah Michelle Gellar

But you knew that. It’s obvious.

Oprah

Leonardo DiCaprio

You have to admire this artist, who appears to have used the age-enhancing program police reserve for milk carton children, to create his Leo.

Harry Potter

This is more filed under ‘weird’ than bad, per se. It appears to be a forlorn Harry Potter being comforted by either Jesus or Kurt Cobain.

Kurt Cobain

And while we’re on the topic.

Edward Cullen

Now, before everyone says, “Sabrina, that’s mean. I bet a special needs eight-year-old drew that,” please keep in mind the average Twilight fan is a desperately sad, mentally questionable thirty-eight-year-old woman still reeling from the disappointment of the bottom collapsing on the Beanie Baby market.

And finally, where would we be without this blog’s namesake?

This is just the tip of the iceberg. And I can’t wait to explore the realm of people who get celebrities tattooed on them.

Murderous Toddlers: the trend continues

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Last week, a candidate for Father of The Year  fingered his two-year-old son as the triggerman in the assassination of his mother as she turned her back on the deranged toddler. This week, we find out that he won’t be alone on baby death row. Now, a four-year-old stands accused in the drowning death of his younger sister.

Like the first murder, this crime took place in Florida, where apparently police don’t bat an eye when you point a finger at your baby and J’ACCUSE them of homicide.

According to Daytona police, a fun game of Pretend To Drown Your Three-Year-Old sister became a deadly round of I Actually Drowned My Three-Year-Old Sister in a kiddie pool in the family yard. This time, instead of leaving a gun hanging around the house where a two-year-old could access it easily, despite the many, many places that are out of a toddler’s reaching range, the mother explained to police that she excused herself to the bathroom to take a dump, and when she came back, the daughter was submerged in the water.

First of all, little kids can drown in sprinklers and puddles of water. They can drown in a doggy dish. What would ever make a woman think she can just leave them for two shakes of a lamb’s tail to sit and flip through People Magazine on the crapper? Oh, wait, I know. Profound stupidity.

There’s no mention of why the mother is so adamant that the little girl didn’t just drown on her own while her four-year-old brother watched, so either the kid is a terrifying Omen Bad Seed of Evil or maybe, just maybe, the mother is trying to absolve herself of accepting responsibility and owning up to her negligent parenting by blaming her murderous, evil pre-schooler.

Those of you eying your door nervously and anticipating a gang of delinquent diaper wearers won’t sleep any easier knowing the baby will walk/toddle away from this consequence-free:

Under state statutes, the 4-year-old boy can’t face charges because of his age, officials told CNN-affiliate WESH.

IS THERE NO JUSTICE IN THIS WORLD? Something must be done to stop America’s newest threat. There is only one solution. Women like this MUST take the preemptive strike and abort. Kill them before they kill you, parents.

New Favorite thing: Homicidal Toddlers

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Up until recently, the only blood-thirsty, murdering babies in popular culture were either possessed dolls or babies buried in cursed pet semetarys. WELL GOOD NEWS. You no longer have to stumble up a mountain to revive a deceased child in ancient Indian burial grounds guarded by Cthulhu. Nowadays, kids are entering states of teenage apathy before ten, getting periods at eight, and shooting their moms, gangster style, by two.

That is, if you believe the incredibly implausible story of Julia Bennett’s’s baby daddy. No, he’s not actually her daddy who is a baby, babies aren’t that all growed up yet. He is the obviously really reliable source who is pointing the finger squarely at his toddler son, whom he claims is the triggerman.

According to the unnamed male, Bennett’s 2 1/2 year old had it with her whining bullshit and shot his mother in the back with a handgun while the man struggled to get the weapon away from the child. May it be said: SIMPSONS DID IT. We already had Maggie shoot Mr. Burns. Sorry, Miramar baby boy. You’re totally stealing that plot.

Now, if you’re a little skeptical about this, YOU’RE A SAD, EMBITTERED, JADED, LOST SOUL. Like me. But not like the Southern Florida police department who are investigating this quite seriously. See, while I raise a wary eyebrow at facts like ‘the couple were never married and not together at the time’ or a story about ‘wrestling a gun’ away from a two-year-old, the cops are satisfied that the man is fully compliant with the investigation. What does he have to worry about? He can just smugly sit back and let the baby go down. After all, nobody’s going to execute a baby. Except maybe Texas.

Yes, the Miramar police force wants everyone to sleep tight knowing that they are going to get to the root of this:

A toddler shot and killed his mother, the boy’s father told South Florida police, who say they will talk to the 2-1/2-year-old.

However, even they have some doubts about this case:

Rues said investigators will talk to the toddler about the shooting, but that “due to the age, we’re not expecting to get much.

I say, if you’re old enough to kill your mother, you’re old enough to take that bottle out of your mouth and goo goo ga ga something coherent about the whole situation. But it’s going to be a tough interrogation. After all, the police can keep refilling his sippy cup with milk the way they make other suspects uncomfortable with over-hydration, but that baby will just sit there like a cocky fuck and piss in his diaper. THIS IS WHY WE NEED TO BRING BACK WATERBOARDING.

All jokes aside, it’s pretty awesome that this dad intends to raise his child by having the ULTIMATE leg-up. Unlike moms who get to use the whole, ‘What did I ever do but birth you?’, he’ll have the greatest trump card of all time. “Oh, what did I do? Just tried to wrestle a gun out of your stubby, sticky hands so you couldn’t SHOOT YOUR MOTHER  IN THE BACK LIKE A COWARD. They were so sticky! Damn kids and their jam hands.”

Parents, I cannot stress this enough: handguns continue to make super shitty paperweights.

Why I Love L.A: symmetry in the San Fernando Valley

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A month and a half outside of Los Angeles is like twenty years away from any place else. You get back disoriented and culture-shocked. Everything has changed and yet nothing has changed; everything is much better than you remembered and yet considerably worse and bleaker.

Such is my paradox upon returning to L.A in a relatively cynical and despairing state of mind following a lengthy road trip around The United States of Walmart. Crystal clear in my conscious is the elitist means of determining human value in L.A: head shots for the most menial jobs, head shots for what should be the most cerebral professions. As a result, it’s jarring to remember how far I am from the physical perfection of L.A: the people are, by far, beautiful to a point of being frightening. And here I am, having sunk into existential despair whilst grappling with the conundrum that I am not as attractive as the people I desire but too egotistical for the people with whom I am equal to. Take that outlook as I travel across America–a land of bland, wholesome appearances–and compound it with the plastic, waxed, dyed, tucked, Spanxed ideals of L.A, and it’s enough to consider tying a rock to my leg and wandering into the ocean…only I haven’t achieved the notoriety of Virginia Woolf and it’s doubtful my legacy of half-started novels is enough to make me live forever.  Can I help it if I believe in an ideal world where jobs are determined by skill and ability as opposed to superficial and arbitrary beauty? Or that if we’re going to really embrace the concept that L.A is but a stage and we are all players, we should at least determine the higher echelon of jobs by asking people to explain if they understood Inception and then immediately shredding the applications of anyone frustrated that a movie asked them to think for three seconds?

The point?  Shortly after my homecoming, I get a phone call from my beloved friend Josh. We have firm yet half-assed plans to meet for lunch at some point of the day, although in the heat, neither of us are particularly hungry. Josh has to sneak into a doctor’s appointment for blood tests, because their phone lines aren’t picking up and their internet is down and we’re all going to die one day because no one can function without computers. So I agree, with apprehension, to meet him in The Valley.

I grew up in Studio City, so I am entitled to regard it with complete disdain. My elementary school was populated by Jewish American Princesses whose idea of a play date was to invite me over to tour their house while informing me how much everything in it cost. Half of my high school works at the local Wells Fargo. The other half are probably dead. Everyone parading down Ventura Boulevard emits a sensation that they truly believe traffic cameras are actually cleverly concealed reality show crews capturing their every audacious, ridiculous move. It is illegal to be seen walking without an impossibly hideous inbred puggle-chihuahua hybrid tucked under your arm and a revolting iced coffee drink in your hand, regardless of gender. So I try to avoid it like the plague.

Aroma Cafe,” Josh instructs me, on the corner of Tujunga and Moorepark.  I get in my car and put the iPod on random: “Forever Young” by Alphaville pops up. Appropriate.

This is exceptionally close to my first job ever, as a barista to the stars at the local studios and people picking up their laundry next door at the dry cleaners where my former best friends/mortal enemies (we have since made amends) worked, because this world is shockingly small. The neighborhood has blossomed since I lived there, resembling a really fake set for Greenwich Village. I’m reluctantly impressed.

As I enter the cafe to seek out the comforting figure of Josh amidst the plastic and perfect and almost hideous crowd, I’m instantly greeted by a set of intense blue eyes belonging to some hottie on Bones. Shit. As soon as I see him, I realize I’m dressed like garbage and forgot I lived in a city where every arbitrary task must involve a cautiously coordinated ensemble. My hair is wet and my Brazilian Blowout has grown out underneath my cut, so I look super like I’m wearing a weird witch wig.

I back out slowly, away from the hottie, and sit on a bench where I proceed to text everyone I know because A) in modern times, it is impossible to just sit by yourself without texting because you’re obviously a creepy loser and B) I gotta tell everyone how hot this guy is. So he comes outside and keeps looking over at me from behind his tinted glasses, but I’m not vain enough to think it’s in admiration. He has a look like ‘how did one of the Hollywood hobos end up here?’ He gives a perfect Latina model-type a lingering stare of appreciation as she walks by before greeting another attractive woman who’s got legs more hairless than Barbie’s.

Josh shows up and we order a salad from a server who absolutely hates us because we aren’t pretty and famous. Behind her, I eye a gorgeous baristo who greatly resembles a blond version of a guy I totally wanted to bang in college. I assume he is as gay as the guy in college probably was. But this is L.A, where the gayer the look, the straighter the guy. Now I’m confused.

We sit down and I’m instantly horribly distracted by a woman directly behind Josh, facing me, who has purchased Melanie Griffith’s face. I can’t stop staring at her and she keeps glancing at me, and I can’t tell which one of us started it but it’s like a stand-off. She’s not wearing makeup, and as a passionate advocate of no makeup, I think ‘jesus fucking christ. Put some makeup on.’ It defies logic to spend so much money on that face that can’t even move or produce expressions, only to not bother trying to cover up its mask-like qualities when stepping out. After a while, I begin to feel sad for her. The only way she can register emotion is through her eyes, which I imagine are screaming with sadness and despair over what women in this city have to do to keep age at an arm’s length.

My appetite is ruined by this experience, which I suppose is good since above all else, if you are not going to be plastic surgery perfection in L.A, you better be fucking skinny. She and her party leave as I push my salad around seeking out avocados. They are replaced by four ridiculous people in scrubs. I’m now completely fascinated by them. Half of them look like Gray’s Anatomy doctors and the other half look like the cheap actors who get cast in Time Warner-directed commercials for local dentists. One guy has that profoundly stupid face. You know what I speak of, thanks to Jersey Shore. The big, strong jawline, the pursed, pouting mouth, the eyes that sag a little in the corners. Tribal tattoos on his enormous biceps? Check. A girl beside him is one of those people who actually disappears when you take off her makeup, so it’s impossible to judge her looks. And before you get all ‘omg, superficial!’ I am in L.A and every day here is a casting audition.

I think I’m the only person observing this, when Josh says, “I really want to ask them what their specific practice is.” Since Josh is the nicest person who never judges or says anything negative about people, this makes me laugh for about thirty minutes. “Seriously,” he says. “I want to ask.”

We never find out, sadly. As I drive back over the hill, “Young Forever” by Jay-Z, featuring a sample from Alphaville comes on my shuffle. No lie. Out of 10,000 something songs.

As I’m driving just south of Hollywood Blvd. on Cahuenga, pondering how much this song tragically has been distorted to match the peculiar values Los Angeles follows, a hobo wrapped in a towel with a sailor hat on skips past my car. I stop to admire him and realize how refreshing and less weird it is to be around his kind of weirdo. As he talks to himself and a Kia driver with a sideways pony-tail and a Looney Tunes shirt pulls up and cuts me off, I feel reassured about my world.