I am a bitch about espresso. I drink a ton (literally, I consume tons!) of it and I’m always running out. I haven’t had a chance to run to World Market or Whole Foods to pick up a can of Lavazza, so I’ve been drinking this Turkish shit that I’ve had for awhile. I think the Turks are great, but their coffee is something I’ve never warmed to. It has an almost chlorine-like aftertaste. I’ve been drinking so much of it that I’ve stopped noticing, but it’s a decidedly unattractive quality. I was on Amazon, shopping, as I do far too much when I came across their grocery department. Not sure exactly how, but I never knew this existed. For hermits, this must be a godsend. I like going to the shops, so I never thought about ordering food on the Internet! I discovered, though, that you can get your dry goods for a considerable discount if you subscribe to them. So, each month or every two months or whatever interval they have available — your stuff arrives at your doorstep. You don’t have to go to town. You don’t even have to wear clothes if they deposit your package (HA! PACKAGE! GETS ME EVERY TIME!) on the front step. Anyway, I ordered four cans of my espresso every two months and it was much more reasonably priced than it was at the shops — even when it was on sale! Miracle, that! I don’t know if two months is too short or too long, so we’ll see, but I’m enamored totally of this service.
[Tan Mom is a national treasure.]
We are all going to die eventually and I refuse to die in a boring fashion. Who wants to die of old age when you can die of some wonderful tropical disease? Who wants to get into a car crash when you could accidentally crash your private plane? Who wants to get gangrene when they could be mauled by a bear? You get what I’m saying, don’t you? Maybe you don’t. A lot of people don’t understand me. I’ve always wanted a lot of things I could never have… This has little to do with tanning, let’s get back to tanning. I love sunshine and heat and dark skin, so I’m one of those people who lays out in the sun letting the cancer soak into me. I’d rather die than be albino. I fatigue of those who worry about every thing. I once knew a gentleman who wouldn’t leave his house without slathering himself with sunblock and donning a hat. Paper looked tan next to him. I don’t like sunblock. It’s greasy and smells of cheap hotels. You know the ones — where all the peasants go to in Florida on their first trip to the ocean. The place veritably reeks of coconuts and there are poorly constructed flip flops littering the beach. You’re wary of going for a few laps in the pool because you know the lower classes make no mind of urinating into them. You long for the anonymity and glamour of a Hilton. There’s nothing like a good Hilton. I’m very off topic, so I’ll finish off. I like to lay in the sun for hours. I have a speedo tan. I’m amused. And I’ll be honest with you, if you don’t have a speedo tan, you’re wasting your life.
An odd thing about this blog series is that you will see my loves and hates out of order. Oftentimes they are dependent on each other and other times they switch categories. No matter, this one is brought up later on in the HATE section, but for different reasons. Anyway: I BOUGHT A TRAIN TICKET TO LOS ANGELES! I’M GOING TO HOLLYWOOD! I’M GOING TO BE BESTIES WITH PARIS HILTON! I’M GOING HIKING IN THE VALLEY! I’LL BUMP INTO RUPAUL! WE’LL BE SQUIRREL FRIENDS! #HASHTAG! I’m real excited to go. I don’t know if you can tell. I leave on the first of July and I don’t know when I will be coming back since I didn’t buy a return ticket! I may return in a week or two or a month or four or a year or never. I honestly couldn’t tell you if you asked me. Who knows what might happen to a young man of my looks and astrological symbol when he arrives in Hollywood? It’ll be like this:
I’ve already fantasized about a dozen scenarios. (More, honestly.) I was just in the shower imagining that I was lunching at the Chateau Marmont (I literally teared up when I thought about going to the bar at the Chateau and writing letters around all the elegant people — I’m such a strange person. Oh Lord, I’m crying.) when I saw a help wanted sign discreetly placed away from all of us pretending to eat our salads. I would apply because I’m not above being a waiter at a Hollywood hotspot and one of the most likely places to be discovered. I don’t care what I’m discovered for at this late stage. Hand modeling, sure. Voiceover actor, you bet. ANYTHING. I will do anything to be famous. I’m the Amanda Bynes of not famous people. That’s all a fantasy for the moment, though. I will be on the train for a bit over two days cutting a path towards the Southwest from Chicago. It’s supposed to be absolutely gorgeous, but I take issue with being cooped up in a train for two days. I’ve never ridden long-distance on a train, but I don’t think it has the same glamour as the olden days, which saddens me, but whatevs. I’m still going to California and pretending I’m Joan Crawford. Should I get a Joan Crawford tattoo?
Being A Reverend:
So, I’m an ordained reverend of the Universal Life Church now. If you follow my posts, you will see that I have sent my flock their first missive laying out some of the basic tenants of what I hope to achieve: listening to lots of Beyoncé, worshipping Dolly, hugging homosexuals, and adopting kittens. It’s a great cause. You may send in tithes, I shan’t turn them away. Reverend Benjamin will surely have bills in Hollywood to pay. Your donations shall grant you eternal peace and a first class upgrade to priority seating on your way to the Other Side. You’re really doing yourself a favor by doing so. Just saying. Anyway, I’ve loved every minute of being a reverend. I really feel spiritually one with Beyoncé and know that I’m leading my flock towards a greater tomorrow — a future where we are all grown women with freakum dresses, a future where we routinely slip into choreographed routines, a future where we can flawlessly whip our hair with nary a stray strand getting in our eyes. Oh, what fun we’ll have, flock! I’m probably taking my ministry far too seriously, but did Jesus? Did Mohammed? Did the Buddha? Did Blue Ivy? Child probably doesn’t even know that she’s being worshiped as the come again savior. What lessons we have to teach! #sanasa (That’ll make sense if you read my post.)
Party in the USA:
Upon first listen, this song sounds like a mindless bunch of nonsense — the kind of thing you’re used to from the radio and that I adore. I’d rather listen to brainless pop than this tragic modern country any day, please and thank you! What ever happened to the good old country? The nineties, that’s what happened. Country wasn’t telling a story anymore, it was a dissertation by hillbillies who became the nouveau riche after they sang a song about their dog being hit by a tractor which was driven by their slutty wife as she left the property. Le sigh. Of course, I’d rather listen to old standards, but they don’t seem to play those on the radio — people don’t like the old songs anymore. I mean, when was the last time you heard somebody sing “Smoke Gets In Your Eyes?” Do you even know the words? I’m harrumphing in your general direction. Speaking of direction…One Direction…I saw some frightening pictures of my Zayn. When did he turn into a handsome skeleton?
One can never be too skinny, of course, but he appeared to be getting borderline Holocaust survivor.
OK, ZAYN, I’LL FIX YOU!
But, back to Miley. She hopped off the plane at LAX with a dream and her cardigan. I’m going to hop of my train at LA (Union Station) with a dream and probably not a cardigan — it’ll be about eighty. She took a taxi, but I’ll take the subway. She turned to her right and saw the Hollywood sign. I’ll collapse, crying, at this point. She’s at the club and there’s a bunch of stilettos. I’m good, unless I’m in a drag club (more likely than any other club) I will have no need for stilettos. Life is definitely not a Nashville party for Miley, which I can relate to because I have been to dozens of parties in Nashville. They weren’t that great, especially the one where I was roller skate racing the arrogant child of a well-known country star. I’m still bitter. Then there was that party where another well-known country star serenaded my sister. #awkward. I love Nashville. Anyway, Miley then hears a Britney song and everything is alright, and I really get it. Britney makes everything better. I mean, if Brit can do it, so can we! We can all become beloved celebrities if we want to. I’ve been planning this out for decades, reader. I don’t care what I’m famous for, just put me in magazines! Back to the song, though, it’s really quite a well crafted and nuanced story showing Miley’s development from out-of-towner to beloved insider. It’s like a freaking roadmap and I’ve got the whole thing memorized should I need to start singing it impromptu. Let’s be honest, why wouldn’t I?
Terrible Time Trip Planning:
I have never had a more miserable time planning a trip in all of my life. It’s normally so easy. I take a look at a few things, press a few buttons, send an email and I’m done. Not this summer, though, oh no! My original intention was to go to New York from mid-June to mid-July, stalk Martha Stewart and befriend her and have a job at MSLO by the fourth of July so that I could attend the firework party they have every year on the roof of the building. I found a train ticket and a place that seemed reasonable to stay, but they soon did not become reasonable with their prices. Annoyed, I continued searching for places to stay in the city, but it soon became apparent that it wasn’t going to happen. How does anybody afford to live there if they aren’t millionaires? How do they afford to even visit? It’s beyond me. Then I decided to go to Puerto Rico since it’s supposed to be lovely and I found a cheap flight and a cheap place to stay and was thrilled because this was going to work out. I emailed them, they emailed me back and then I emailed them and they NEVER RESPONDED. I had Ma email then and the same thing happened, but finally they responded to say they had no availability. I was ecstatic. #sarcasm So now I’m looking into other things. I have completely and totally given up on Europe, but the Amtrak is really quite cheap. I’ll probably be on a train in the upcoming weeks, then. Look out, Hollywood!
Feeling Like Being Somebody Else:
I love me, but I’m not who I think I am. If I were observed, my observer would find nothing more than a studious and handsome young man who took far too many naps and didn’t do much but work on manuscript editing and blogging and walking for ridiculous lengths. I don’t want that to be me, though, and I’m not that. In my mind, I live in the most wonderful daydreams that are constantly changing and redeveloping. I have a million talents and a billion ideas and a trillion little fantasies in my head playing out how my life should be. This is getting tiring. Yesterday I was going to be a famed author (this is going to happen regardless). Today, I want to go to Chicago and join Second City. The other day I wanted to get a piloting license. I constantly want and want and want and it fatigues me. I constantly bemoan the fact that I wasn’t a high class prostitute in the twenties, but I can’t be something that is impossible. That’s probably what I was in my last life and it surely worked out incredibly well and I’m just remembering what my old world was like and how I lived and what an incredible time I had. I just want more than rolling hills of corn and gravel roads. Some people find it relaxing and beautiful, I just find it monotonous and smothering. Somebody old and rich marry me and die quickly, please! I need shops and success and cash and admirers and custom suits and invitations to award shows.
Not Hating Anything:
I’m really quite a lovely person and can’t think of a thing to loathe. I’ve been in a pretty great mood lately — surely the result of all the sunshine. It’s well into the nineties every day and I am finally feeling alive as the sun burns away all the gloom and woe that fills me up each time the clouds come and the rains fall down. In fact, it hasn’t rained in days! DAYS! This is not good for my creative blog posts, though. It’s more fun to write about hating something than write about loving something. It’s surely just my personality, but I’d rather blather on for a hundred lines about why something fills me with a particular sense of loathing. It’s nice to love things, of course, but they’re a bit more tedious: I just love [insert theory/person/thing/idea here] and gosh they make me so happy. YAWN. So, something better happen soon for me to hate.
Preemptive Disdain For Amtrak:
I am already over the Amtrak and there’s still more than a week before I get on it. I’ve never set foot on a long distance train, but I know it’s not going to be like 3 for Bedroom C, a comic film that stars my beloved Gloria Swanson on the Super Chief. The Super Chief was a high-speed train that ran from Chicago to Los Angeles every day. Everybody who was anybody was on the train. Stars, commoners, politicians, the wealthy, didn’t matter, they were all there. There was a Turquoise room, elegant dining cars serviced by well-trained chefs, the sleeper trains looked excessively comfortable, everybody dressed up in their finery. Le sigh…the world of yesteryear was so glamorous and there were so many martinis. I still haven’t found a martini that I like, but I’m assuming that after five or six you stop caring about what they taste like. I read that you can still get cocktails, and Lord knows I’ll have seven, but it won’t be the same. There will be youths in tanktops and ladies in sweatpants. They should have a separate train for the elegant people to hide in. We’d wear our suits and clutch our sidecars to our bosoms as we listened to Cole Porter records and talked about our latest trips to Europe and what art we’d bought. I don’t think that will happen on the Amtrak, though, you aren’t even allowed to shower for three days. FOR THREE DAYS. It’s going to be like transporting a bunch of pigs to slaughter, isn’t it? It might be alright. I just don’t know. I’m going to go in with exceptionally low expectations in the hopes that they will all be defied and I’ll be KING OF THE AMTRAK.
Limited Artistic Ability:
[Do research the MOBA, peasants. You’re welcome.]
I have always wanted to create fine pieces of art. I want to sketch fluffy cats with charcoal. I want to go to the Caribbean and churn out watercolors of the sea. I want to take oil and make an impressionistic self-portrait. I want to make digital art with the Photoshop. I want to make amusing sketches with pencils. I want to make cityscapes in colored pencil that don’t look amateurish. Sadly, I only do these things poorly. Ever so often, I am overwhelmed by creative talent and I can create something rather nice, but it’s spontaneous, it’s a skill that I cannot cultivate. Hashtag sadface. Some day, though, I’ll have skill. I probably need to take some classes or something. That would surely piss me off, though, being around a bunch of talented people. I hate talented people. They make me feel so untalented. I don’t think it’s fair for people who aren’t me to be talented in anything. I’m awful. I just want to be the best at absolutely everything all of the time. I want to be the best writer, the best walker, the best runner, the best reader, the best artist, the best pianist, the greatest singer, the acclaimed actor, the list goes on. I don’t act, but I still feel I should already be up for an Oscar. There’s probably something wrong with my mind. But back to artistry. I was being real productive and scrolling through the Twitter when I saw a lovely profile picture. It was a quick pencil sketch somebody had done of their own face. I wanted to stab myself with a dull steak knife. Life is so unfair! Now, I haven’t attempted to do a lovely pencil sketch of myself for my Twitter profile (mainly because you peasants deserve to see my actual face) and I probably won’t because it will surely irritate me to no end.