"are you on the list?" an impossibly large bouncer asks us as we walk up to a club in hollywood. "no," my roommate tells him, "but we are here to see isaac and eduardo." he nods immediately and moves to let us pass, as clearly these names mean something. but to me they are still just names, names of these random rich old men my roommate had met earlier in the week and gotten money from and now she had dragged me out with her to meet them in the hopes there would be more where her first money filled envelope came from.
we push our way through the crowd until i finally see them, two seventy something year old men in a sea of douchey tanned bros in designer jeans. their faces light up when they see my roommate, rushing over to give her a kiss on the cheek and a hug, and she introduces me to them, and we join the 5 other 20 something girls gathered around their table, drinking from their giant bottle of grey goose and talking extra loudly so their too proud for hearing aid ears could hear us. the conversation is surprisingly not as awkward as I would have imagined, and several grey gooses in I forget these men could be my grandpa and start having fun. the waitress brings the check, and our designated old man tells us he can’t read writing that small anymore, and my roommate informs him the bill is 1500 dollars, and it’s clear this is pocket change to this old man, as he then orders another huge bottle, just so I can have one more drink before we go to dinner, leaving the rest abandoned on the table.
after dinner, we go back to the old man’s house in beverly hills, and i get kind of nervous but my roommate reassures me that he’s not going to touch us and that she went to his house before and it was completely innocent, just likes hanging out with young girls. we pull in the gated entrance and his house is somewhat bizarre, with a beautiful pool and hot tub, but the interior clearly has not been redecorated in quite a long time, and he still has a tv from like 1989 in the kitchen. there is an andy warhol style painting of his daughter in the hallway, and i ask how old she is and he says he can’t remember any more. we move into the living room where a large bar sits against one wall with every kind of liquor i have ever imagined. he pours me a drink that has to be 3/4 vodka, and he tells us he has 8 homes around the world and is a citizen of monaco. he says he wants to put on some music, and he walks over to the stereo system, and i imagine “my way” by frank sinatra would soon quietly come out of the speakers. instead, i swear to god, a mash up of nine inch nails closer and 50 cent in da club begins BLASTING at full volume to the point you can barely hear what anyone is saying. this man was born in 1937. at this point i am pretty drunk and me and my roommate start dancing around his living room as nine inch nails shakes the floor of the mansion, and my entire life seemed unreal at that moment.
as the night comes to a close as it nears 2 am, i do my very best to be as charming and funny as possible to ensure future invites, and it seems to be working, as he laughs and laughs and when i mention i do not have a car and have to take the bus everywhere, he says, “oh, we can fix that. we will get you a car.” then he says he will be right back, and disappears, returning in ten minutes with 2 envelopes, hands one to each of us.”here are your presents,” he tells us, and we hug him and say goodnight, promising we will come back soon, and we drive out the gates and head back to silver lake as i tear the envelope apart to find 750 dollars, and this insanely rich old man could be the very best thing that has ever happened to me. just like anna nicole smith but with much much smaller boobs.
i have been minnie mouse for halloween almost every year since 2006, when i first bought this dress at a vintage store and forced my then boyfriend to be mickey against his will, permanently degrading him in the eyes of his friends for giving in to me. we broke up and minnie has been single and on the prowl ever since, and i will probably still be wearing this costume in 2016 because it is just too cute and that mouse nose slays ‘em every year.
"this man looks like almost a different person after years of drugs have take their toll on his face." 2007 seasoned meth head honestly is looking way better than 2004 entry level meth head, now hes kind of hot, ditched the mullet and his steroided out hockey player bro with an absurd neck circumference look. not the best example, daily mail, scabs covering the person’s after face, or gtfo.
sometimes it’s so hard to completely comprehend that an actor is not the character they played in a movie or tv show, which is why when kirsten dunst suddenly was grabbing the mic at hyperion public karaoke night to sing “remix to ignition” and “i love la,” a small sliver of my brain was still somewhat convinced that torrance from bring it on was standing in front of me, having ditched all her tiffany’s bracelets and cheer clothes for an urban outfitters shopping spree at the insistence of that hipster boyfriend who she finally got with after dumping her closeted bf. they graduated high school and moved out of the suburbs together to silver lake before he abruptly abandoned her and left for nyc where shit is “real” and “hard” and he could have something to be miserable about, and now she’s left here all alone, singing randy newman songs and crying to that mixtape the bf made her in 2000, and this has been my bring it on fan fiction.
the train tween
the very moment my life really began was somewhere in arizona when a criminal gave me my very first kiss on an amtrak train.looking back on it now, that was the very first “story” i ever had. nothing before that in my alarmingly charmed boring suburban life it seemed had ever been truly worth repeating until the day i met him. i have probably told the story of the train boy being dragged off the train in handcuffs, tears streaming down my 15 year old face, more than 200 times since that day 12 years ago.
in the last 3 years, i have ridden the train alone more than 30 times, to chicago, new york, los angeles, austin, and every time i wondered when i would get the new story i had been waiting for. but each time i got on board and scanned the faces of the other passengers, the only guys were like 90 year old men with oxygen tanks who were too frail to fly or weird white trash dudes who probably own multiple icp albums, and i began to give up hope.
but finally, when i got on the train at union station to go home to chicago for three weeks, i saw him. he was sitting directly in front of me. he was definitely very cute. younger than me probably. maybe 24? he had a flip phone, which seemed somewhat disturbing, like a potential sign of a habit of serial killing. but i was willing to take my chances. and after like looking at each other awkwardly half a dozen times, he finally talked to me and asked if i wanted to come drink with him and some other kids in the observation car.
so we make our way into the car and sit down with like 4 other young people they had recruited, and everyone starts talking. “how old are you guys?” someone asks. “i’m 19!” one girl says. 21 says her boyfriend. 21 says another. then it gets to my boy, and he is 22. oh my god, these people are fucking tweens. it was now my turn and i panicked, before quickly replying 25. the very first time i ever lied about my age to be younger. “omg you’re 25?!? no way!” everyone reacted, shocked beyond belief, as if i had just said i was 65 and would be retiring shortly.
now that i realized i was old enough to have babysat my new friends, i began to chug 5 dollar cans of bud light as fast as i possibly could while flirting with my jailbait boy. he is going to colorado. he says he’s from detroit. it is pretty clear he is from detroit as much as i am from the south side of chicago and we bond over fake city origins and midwestness and by the time i’ve invested 30 dollars into my drunkenness, i’ve confessed my true age and we are making out in the booth while everyone continues the conversation around us.
at some point we go back to his seat to keep making out somewhat more privately, i guess as privately as you can in a train car with like 60 snoring obese people who could not afford to purchase 2 plane seats. “let’s go down to the bathroom,” i tell my tween. “are you like a nymphomaniac or something?” he asks, clearly concerned. “what. no?” i say, halfheartedly convincing both him and myself that this is not true. so we run downstairs and start hooking up in this weird powder room thing that does not have a lock on the door, and i’m trying to hold on to the door knob praying to god no one comes in. but i peak out the door a few minutes later just to make sure the coast is clear, and sure enough there is an elderly woman about to come in because she woke up in the middle of the night and realized she never took out her dentures or something. i shout out to please hold on one second and we quickly get dressed before innocently walking out and running back upstairs to his seat where i spend the remainder of arizona passed out in his lap, the seat where i had first glanced at a stranger only 7 hours earlier now sitting empty across the aisle.
the next morning i wake up in new mexico, and he is nowhere to be found. it suddenly dawns on me that this could be a horribly awkward situation, sober morning after trapped on a train with a one night stand you literally cannot escape from. but when i found him in the observation car, he was still so ridiculously cute that i knew it’d be fine. in the time i’d been asleep he had like adopted an entire fan club of old women who were in love with him and shooting me secret looks of jealousy and old men who were desperate for some sort of validation by impressing him with their stories of saving drowning teens, and i knew i was lucky to be with such a train power player.
we spent the next several hours plotting with a delusional war veteran who wanted me to seduce his evil 70 something year old brother to find out what off shore bank account he had hidden a probably fictional inheritance in, listening to a perverted old man tell my tween the best ways to eat girls out in the same breath as his plans to become a minister, and being lectured by an old ass hippie woman, who had definitely done way too much acid in the 60s, about how i need to be on birth control probably because she had once like chained herself to a pharmacy in Berkeley in order for me to have the right to take orthotricyclene lo each month or something.
we eventually managed to run away from the fan club to the lower floor in the observation car to make out as we watched the incredible juxtaposition of postcard worthy new mexico mountain scenery and junkyard trailer meth labs fly by, which finally started to turn into colorado’s lush green landscape, as each mile brought us closer to the end of whatever this was. and i started to realize i was genuinely going to be so sad when he left me to ride the rest of the way to chicago by myself.
suddenly the end that had been stops and states away had arrived, and we made out feverishly before he had to get off in trinidad, colorado.
”you made all my train dreams come true,” i tell him, “i’m really sad. i’m going to miss you.”
"i’m going to miss you too. but it’s a small world. i’ll see you again," he says, promising to come back to LA, and everyone knows 22 year old boys always keep their promises to random 27 year old girls they have sex with in amtrak bathrooms.
and then he was gone, and the whole thing seemed almost as if i had imagined it because on the train, reality seems to be suspended, as hours, days and states evaporate as if they never even happened. i walked back into the observation car, alone for the first time in 24 hours, and one of the old men asks where my “boyfriend” is. “he’s gone. i might never see him again,” i tell him. “you will. one day you’re going to open the door, and he’s going to be there. and if he’s not, he’s a god damned idiot, because i’m an old old man, and i’ve met a lot of girls, but you, you are something special,” he says to me. and maybe he’s right. and maybe i’ll see him again. or maybe he will completely disappear from my life, just as the first train boy did, only continuing to exist in the story about him that i’m sure i’ll be telling for years to come.
my one hour i had tinder, spent x’ing everyone and screenshotting the tragic dudes that popped up, or why i realized i will never love anyone again if the guys who are interested in me within 5 miles think their best photos are topless bro gun shots, molesting the stanley cup(is that what that is), pointing to a sign that says “a dream is a wish your heart makes” in i think an unironic way, and a selfie with disturbingly manicured facial hair with “mexico df” in like dripping blood font.
i’ve been at my parents house for the last 2 weeks and it’s slowly killing me inside.
- have spent far too much time in my friend’s parents’ hideous 90’s minivan blasting rap music about thug life while driving between mcdonalds and dairy queen because there is literally nothing to do in the suburbs but eat or get pregnant
-my dad started going insane because i had not emptied the dishwasher, actually yelling, “IF THAT DISHWASHER IS NOT EMPTIED TONIGHT, WE ARE NOT GETTING PIZZA FOR DINNER TOMORROW.” [i kept not emptying it because i’m a bad ass like that but then did it right before he got home from work cause i wanted pizza obviously lol]
- my parents got in a massive fight because my dad, a 60 year old man, did not take our dog to the pug meet up when my mom was out of town.
- my dad keeps bothering me to refinance my student loans. i tried to explain that i have zero idea how to do that and i’m never going to actually do it, and he’s a “boy adult” so he should know how to do it. he just shook his head in disgust and i think that was the moment he finally gave up on me.
back to la on sunday. thank god.
i went for a run around the lake behind the high school in my hometown and found myself caught between the high school students getting out of class for the day and a crowded playground. i looked to my right, and saw a parade of late 20’s new moms, my age or a bit older, chasing after their children named madison and mckenna and mikayla while texting their banker husband jerry that he had better get organic soy milk from whole foods on the way home from work, or else. on my left were 3 cheerleaders, dressed in their uniforms, skirts hiked up extra high, looking just like i would have in 2003, gossiping about boys, homecoming and how slutty miley looks in her new video. and it was so terrifying to think that madison and mckenna’s moms are supposed to be my peers, not these seventeen year old cheerleaders that it seems like i was one of not even that long ago.
cleaning out the room in my parents house and found this, which has probably been in the same exact location on the floor buried underneath long abandoned size 4 american eagle jeans for the last 10 years. circa 2003, my dream job was any combination of victory records receptionist, merch girl, or general groupie. i’ve always had lofty career goals.
the saddest facebook list of favorite books that ever existed.