You Stink.

I Always Wanted To Be Wes Anderson

dcpierson:

I’ve thought about Wes Anderson a lot lately. 

I think there’s a trough, as your age becomes equidistant from Max Fischer and Steve Zissou, where it’s important that you act all better than Wes Anderson.  At least, it seems to be an important rite of passage for most of my friends and contemporaries.  It was probably most acute for people exactly my age (I’m twenty-seven) who were in high school when “Rushmore” and “Tenenbaums” came out, then went away to college only to discover that what made you unique in high school (you liked the films of Wes Anderson) made you the very opposite of unique at your hippie-dippie art school, or in the hippie-dippie arts clique at your gargantuan state school.  It was there you discovered that dudes who, like me, probably did not realize Max Fischer was more of an anti-hero than someone to be revered the first time they saw “Rushmore,” so blinded were they by the cool blazer and ambitious auteur school plays and girls whose highest aspiration was to be a third-rate Margot Tenenbaum were a dime a dozen and still overpriced.  In fact, Wes Anderson fandom was merely the tip of an entire iceberg of things that had set you so gloriously far apart from your peers in high school that, in college and then in your twenties, would only serve to make you so painfully like everyone else sharing in the well-educated-hipster mono-opinion.  

But to front on Wes Anderson, as I have, passionately, deliriously, running as far away from that opinion monolith as my skinny white legs will carry me, is to A) front on how important he was to you and to B) front on how, you know, great he is.  But I’m not here to defend Wes Anderson to you.  I’m just here to point out something I thought was interesting that I realized after recently seeing “Rushmore,” “Tenenbaums,” and “Life Aquatic” again on the big screen at The New Beverly here in Los Angeles (which is, by the way, the best place in Los Angeles).  This thing has probably already been observed a million times, but to my knowledge, never so hastily or so ill-researched, so it’s worth doing for that reason alone.  There may be more examples of the thing I’m about to describe in “Bottle Rocket,” but I haven’t seen it in a while, I only saw “Mr. Fox” the one time, and I’ve never seen “Darjeeling,” as it fell smack dab in the middle of my Anderson Effrontery Trough (or A.E.T. if you’re trying to save time while hitting on someone in a bar by passing this observation off as your own.)

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To Evan.

Chances are you won’t be able to read this. I don’t know if atheist heaven has tumblr… But I’m so glad I met you, and I wish I could have done something to make you feel like your life was worth living. You have a lot of friends, man. And a family who loves you. I just wish you could have seen that.

I went hiking for you the other day. At garden of the gods. I remember you asking me if I wanted to go, but I had to say no, because my main pair of shoes had a hole in the bottom. You said you wanted to go hiking before the weather got bad, but you killed yourself 2 days before it got better. I wanted to try and say something at the sunset for you, or to you, but we left early.
I remember the trail mix your sister made for you and how you shared it with me and the rest of our directing scene cast even though you only had what was in the bowl. I thought about leaving some trail mix on your porch, and saying a few words. Maybe I still might.
I want to apologize to your dad. I saw him today and couldn’t look him in the eye. I didn’t talk to him, so I’m not sure if he was your dad, but he was packing a u-haul that had your car towed behind it. And he looked just like you. I was just trying not to cry.
We could have been better friends. I thought I had more time with you, to be honest. None of us saw this coming, Evan.
I’m so sorry. I know i could have tried harder to spend time with you, or something. But you should have told someone how you felt. You should have said something.
I’m sorry Evan. You were so talented, and funny, and welcoming, and nice. I will miss you so much. And I know that sounds like bullshit, but I really did love seeing you around. I should have talked to you more. Fuck, I don’t know, man. I’m sorry.

I hope this message find you. I’m so sorry, Evan.
Rest in peace.

Missed Connection

You: Cute hipster girl with a bit of your head shaved on the side. You talked to your pixie haired friend as she held your hand about wanting to “fuck” a boy in your sociology class, passing me on the sidewalk as you said this. Me: clad in sweatpants and a beanie that didn’t quite match my outstretched striped sweater. Me: not the guy in your sociology class. But I could be that guy.

I have Boat shoes too match yours, and I promise never to wear socks in them. But, I’d wear the hell out of some fake glasses for you. I’d never shave or take off the wolf sweater I bought from a thrift store, for you. I’d smoke clove’s and read only Hemingway. And not the novels. Oh no. I’d read only the short stories. We could listen to b-sides and rarities and watch Truffaut films. I’d support your venture into straight bang territory and you’d never question my sexuality as I went through my neon shorts phase. I’d drink the hell out of Pabst and white wine, and patronize anyone younger than me. All my t-shirts would have printed quotes on them from what I assume is the asshole glossary of 2008. And there’d be so much mustache memorabilia.

So how bout it? We can hate the world together, on top of a mountain of our unwashed clothes, whole foods tote bags, shotgunned beer can wreckage, and reservoir tipped sheddings. We can tweet our love while scoffing at twitter. I want to be a hypocrite with you. You blue and white backpacked goddess. You are who I see in my cathartic self induced hallucinations. A Ramona, a Clementine, a reference so obscure, only 24 year old, post grad, brooklynites will know it.

If any of this sounds appealing, find me in the used record store of your heart.

Love,
Shakirafan93@hotmail.com

(Seriously, that girl was gorgeous.)
(Also, that isn’t my real e-mail.)

• Michael Jackson alive: "Ew that fucking pedophile what a horrible person"
• Michael Jackson dead: "LONG LIVE THE KING OF POP HE WILL BE MISSED WE LOVE YOU MJ"
• Amy Winehouse alive: "That slutty heroin addict needs to just drop dead already"
• Amy Winehouse dead: "Ugh she was such a great talent, taken so young. Rest in peace, Amy ♥"
• Whitney Houston alive: "Stupid crackwhore. What a fucking moron."
• Whitney Houston dead: "I am in tears, she was taken so soon. Her voice will live on. She was so wonderful and talented."

I Don’t Know Why I Have a Skype.

No one wants to skype me. I don’t want to skype anyone. When I do skype people I run out of things to say. Seeing my appearance makes me self conscious. I will never be on skype. 

That is all.

Just drank some NyQuil

Going to write some poetry about death.