It was two in the morning and somehow I found myself in the parking lot of a Los Angeles apartment complex, looking at a horse nabbing the lock on the gate in the stable right next to the lot. I had a Stone IPA in one hand, cigarette in the other. I was surrounded by four people I had just met hours earlier in the evening along with one of the co-hosts of Street Fight Radio, Brett Payne. Clad in a scarf, beanie and a cardigan that was too thin to withstand the cold weather, I was shivering in the forty degree chill yet I had never felt more serene in my life.

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Street Fight Radio is a podcast I only became familiar with once I joined DSA nearly two years ago. Many of its members listen to this, Chapo Trap House, Cum Town, etc. I enjoy the times I get to spend with fellow Leftists, but often I find myself intimidated with how intellectually stimulating many of my fellow comrades are with their grocery lists of podcasts they listen to, the ever growing stack of books they read or the way they discuss Marxist theory without batting an eye. My attention span only goes so far. All of these things many members relish in their free time are things I have to have a lot of focus to keep my attention. I’ve tried to be a better reader because I do enjoy it quite a bit, but most of the time I’m too exhausted to get through more than a page of a riveting book before I pass out. Despite my Leftist leanings, reading theory isn’t something I’ve ever really gravitated towards. Many theorists write in a dry, dense manner that can be circular at times. It just makes me feel like I’m in a philosophical circle jerk with no escape. When it comes to podcasts, I can’t just listen to one and go about doing what I’m doing, especially if I’m writing or working. The voice in my head is already loud enough to be a major distraction without having three to four people yell over each other so I opt for the music. If I am listening to a podcast, it’s a good half hour before I find myself ready to turn it off and do something else. When conversations revolve around the latest episode of the hippest podcasts, I tune out as to not feel inept.

Many of these podcasts rely on a certain ironic humor, which can often be referred to as “Irony Poisoning”. One of the biggest culprits of this is Chapo Trap House, where it has turned a sect of Leftist activists into irony bros who have lost any emotion they may have had in exchange for shit posting and a smug sense of believing they are the smartest person in the room. They’re essentially as insufferable as Rick and Morty fans with a Socialist twist. I’ve tried listening to this podcast a few times and I feel like I’m always missing part of the joke. It’s terrible because when you see each host of the podcast one-on-one with someone else, they’re actually smart, funny, and likable. Chapo Trap House is alienating at best, creating new and inventive ways to exclude certain types of people from enjoying their show. Because this was my first impression of the podcast realm, it turned me off on every other one and I refused to check out anything else for a long time. We all have our ways dealing with the current administration as it continues to destroy this country one day at a time, but to be completely devoid of compassion is not the way to combat the atrocities of the world.

But then there is Street Fight Radio…

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The live show was going to be held somewhere on Santa Monica Boulevard in the deep depths of LA. I had just gotten in a car accident a month prior and was still feeling a little PTSD to make my way through LA traffic, especially when I already avoid LA traffic. The ticket had already been bought. I made a post on Twitter to see if anyone was going, no response. I reached out to a fellow DSA chapter member to see if he was going since he’s a huge fan of the show, but he was going to be out of town. He was kind enough to invite me to a private Facebook group for fans of the show and after making a post in there with no response in regards to carpool, I was going to have to figure out how I was going to get my ass to the show.

Lyft was my first instinct but to get to and from the show was going to be expensive. I looked up public transit and it seemed feasible—take the 143 bus to the Fullerton Station. From Fullerton Station, get on the Metrolink to LA Union Station, then hop on the Metro to Ventura/Santa Monica then walk for six minutes to the venue. Overall, the travel time would run three hours. I always go on about how much I love public transit and I was attending an Anarcho-comedy podcast show where the hosts have spoken at length about their fantasies of having accessible public transit. It was time to practice what I preached.

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The bus was five minutes late.

The one thing that concerned me about taking public transit was timing. Metrolink didn’t have many pick ups at the Fullerton Station. If I missed the 2:46 pick up, the next one wouldn’t be until 6:00 and by the time I’d get to LA I’d be late for the 7pm show. It was imperative to arrive at the station on time.

The air was still crisp from the morning shower that managed to stop in Southern California long enough to make any local want to talk about the weather. Once the bus arrived, I felt at ease. There was still a buffer of time to get to the station with enough time to buy a ticket and wait briefly for the train to come by.

I had arrived at the station at 2:21. According to the sites I visited, there would be a kiosk to buy a Metrolink ticket at the station. The main issue was actually finding the kiosk. I went into the station to ask someone at the front desk, but no one was there. A few other people came in and halted confusingly when they noticed the same issue I had. An Amish woman came in with a full-length navy blue dress and a black bonnet. She just needed to use the bathroom but needed to be granted access by an attendant. The Amish woman was soft spoken and meek, which was juxtaposed by the middle-aged woman with a “Let me speak to your manager” haircut and white lady orange tan that was standard for Orange County women to sport, who barged in angrily.

“Do you know where to buy the Metrolink weekend pass?!”

“No, I’m trying to find the attendant”, I muttered.

“I can’t get the weekend pass, I need to talk to the attendant!” she barked, as if I were the kiosk that wronged her by not providing a weekend pass.

Before I could ask the scary lady where the kiosk was to buy a Metrolink ticket, she stormed out of the station. I’d probably have better luck if I wandered around but I was getting nervous as to not being able to buy a ticket before the train arrived. As I was about to leave the station, an employee came in. A couple of women came in and went to the front to ask about the Metrolink kiosk—the attendant said it was near the elevators. I immediately sped out of the station and made my way to the elevators. As I was walking to buy my ticket, I could hear the attendant over the intercom announce where to find the Metrolink kiosk in a tone that suggested she was getting increasingly irritated with being asked the same question thirty times.

There was no line to the kiosk. I bought the ticket through the sluggish machine that required you to press the same button at least twice to make a selection. Debit card in, $8.50 was charged for a one-way ticket to LA Union Station. The ticket printed out, I snagged it as quickly as possible as to not hold up the ever growing line behind me but there was no indication which track I needed to be on. I was pensive about going back into the station to bug the attendant but the last thing I wanted was to be on the wrong track and miss the train. Back to the station I went, and in my cleanest, sweetest, white girl voice I asked which track I had to be on. The extra sugar helped—the attendant was nice and said track one.

As I waited for the train, I sat on the bench in front of the track. To the right of me was the Amish family pulling deli meats, condiments, and bread from their suitcases to make sandwiches as they waited for their train. To the left of me there was a gentleman who appeared to be around my age and looked like someone I knew in my DSA chapter. I tried not to gawk at him, as I didn’t want to give him the wrong idea I was attracted to him or being a creep. It bugged me to only use my peripheral vision but by the time I got the courage to take a good look at him, he walked away.

The train arrived, on time. I had completely forgotten that the Cowboys/Rams game was the same day, a pivotal game in the play-offs. There were many people on the train decked out in Rams jerseys making their way to the Coliseum. Some had their faces painted. A father and son hopped on the train—the father was a Rams fan while the son was a Cowboys fan. I’m not sure how that evening faired for both of them, but I hoped they enjoyed the bonding time together.

About halfway through the trip the toilet had overflowed, causing the cabin’s floors to be flooded in toilet water, slowly spilling its way into the aisle of the cabin. The passengers closer to the bathrooms put their feet up to prevent water damage to their shoes while the gentleman in front of me took a picture of the flood and posted it to one of his social media accounts. The cabin smelt like toilet water. People didn’t care that it was overflowing, they still peed. One woman kept trying to prevent people from going to the bathroom.

“Excuse me, sir! Don’t go to the bathroom, the toilet is ov—-” before someone would shut the door on her. This happened about three times until a Rams fan actually gave her the time of day.

“Excuse me, sir! The toilet is overflowing, don’t flush the toilet!”

Without missing a beat, the man looked at the flooded ground before him and made a gesture with his arms that suggested he was more than well aware of the situation.

“I can see that” he said matter of factly, “I think it’s just common sense”

“It should be common sense!” the woman replied back.

An hour and an inch of toilet water later, we had arrived at LA Union Station. I had gotten off and headed to the Metro Station. Through the tunnel and a slight right, I was able to easily find the kiosk to buy my ticket for the Metro. Fifty screaming teenagers were all gathered in front of the kiosks, making me wonder if they were in line to buy their tickets or if they were too caught up and oblivious in excitement to realize they were causing mass confusion amongst the passengers trying to buy tickets. The chaperone looked harried, as if he had gotten in over his head trying to round up fifty teenagers in Downtown LA. He finally was able to yell at them to move to the side so people could get in line to buy their tickets.

I hadn’t been on the Metro since my dad was eager to ride it nearly twenty years ago, in case you want to know how a divorced, blue collar working man enjoyed quality time with his children on the weekends with little funds. We made a trip of it where my dad drove us to Downtown LA and we took the Metro to get around the city. I was thirteen at the time, very unfamiliar with public transit and inertia. I stood in the middle of the train, not holding onto anything like a brave woman or a stupid little girl. When the train started to move, I nearly ate shit as I stumbled onto the floor because no one warned me that my whole body would shift forward as soon as the train began to move.

But a lot has changed since then—I’m thirty now. I have lived in the suburbs of San Francisco and have ridden the BART more times than I care to remember during my early twenties. A year after my Metro trip I finally learned about inertia from my science teacher: a middle-aged woman who bragged about dying multiple times and miraculously coming back to life, by watching a home movie of her riding a horse and falling off. As we watched this home movie, she verbalized her thoughts and created dialogue for the horse, really getting into the performance of both roles a la Daniel Day-Lewis. She also had a “What Would Xena Do?” sticker on her filing cabinet door. I wonder if she finally died.

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The first episode I listened to they discussed how car problems can really send someone into a financial burden. Bryan spoke about one day opening a garage that would fix cars without causing that burden while boasting about the need for public transit, which tugged at my heart in the warmest way. But it wasn’t just the topics that interested me—these two dudes seemed like your average, ordinary guys you’d hang out with at the end of a DSA meeting—drinking beer, smoking weed and drunkenly discussing Twitter memes that have infected our brains in the worst ways. There was no airs about them or a hint of condescension. They seemed genuine, passionate and hardly devoid of feeling. They didn’t do podcasts in their Brooklyn lofts or come from well-to-do-middle-class families that sent them to good schools so they could go on about the working class without ever being in the working class or working a minimum wage job for that matter.

These were guys who grew up poor in the Midwest, who had an understanding of how dire things can get and the shitty, low paying jobs they had to hold down to support their families. The podcast is hardly champagne Socialism, and is in, the truest sense, the “dirtbag Left”. It never gets wrapped up in complicated theory or makes you feel like you had to read every piece of Socialist literature to truly be apart of the movement. It caters to a true working class audience because a majority of the working class don’t give a fuck about theory when they’re working three jobs to pay rent. If anything, the show is a reminder that all you need to be apart of the Left is having had worked one day in your life to understand how awful Capitalism really is.

I found myself instantly hooked.

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I had arrived to the venue nearly three hours early. There was a meet-up for Street Fight Radio Fans at a Thai restaurant down the street. I had been debating if I wanted to go or not but since I had nothing but time to kill, it was sundown and cold, I decided to join a bunch of people I had never met before to eat and socialize.

The group at the restaurant was rather big—about ten people were already there, half-way through their meals, chit chatting amongst themselves. Everyone was nice and welcoming when I came in. I sat at the end of the table where I spoke to two Philly natives about their jobs, what it’s like to live in Philly and veganism. More people arrived and before we knew it, we overtook the dinky Thai restaurant.

After I had finished my pad see-ew and requested some ice water, the party was ready to trot over to the venue. It was only a little after 6, which I thought was odd since the venue wasn’t supposed to open till 7. Everyone figured the bar would start letting people in a little early to get drinks. After Venmo-ing and handing cash to the host of the get together, who was kind enough to put the bill on her card and advised anyone with financial issues to “not worry about paying if you can’t”, we moseyed along to the venue. It was dark and felt colder outside due to my body adjusting from the cozy temperature of the Thai restaurant to the crisp chill of the city.

People immediately started to light up their joints, inhale from their Juuls and vape pens. I was advised a few days before the live show that the company at my work that had bought us out would be requiring us to take a drug test in the upcoming weeks (UPDATE: the company stated I was not required to take a drug test for my position so fuck them all to hell). The lovely thing about Leftists is their love of sharing. Unfortunately this meant I got offered a lot of weed, and I do mean A LOT, only to turn it down at every turn. I feel like I would have been a much more relaxed person to be around had I been able to smoke a little.

As we were walking along to the venue, a gentleman introduced himself to me and I engaged in a conversation with a guy wearing a UPS jacket, evoking a “cool as fuck” working-class essence that only made me question why he was talking to me at all. He bore a striking resemblance to Joaquin Phoenix in HER. He was from the Inland Empire but was moving to Seattle the following weekend after getting transferred at his job. I remember thinking what a bummer it was, as well as “of course he is moving to Seattle because that’s where a really cool person would live”.

Maybe it was because it had been a while since a man had paid attention to me or maybe my attraction to a really cool looking dude brought out that biological instinct to try and make myself attractive to the opposite sex, but nevertheless I made the sad attempt to flirt with a man I had no shot in hell with. I was getting a stride, figuring out how the whole ritual had worked again—it had been about six months since I flirted with anyone and I was rusty. As I was getting into my groove, I heard a meek voice say “Hi Heaven?” and it came from someone I did not recognize. My mental state switched from “Be open, be effervescent, be available” to “Oh my God have I even met this person before? What if we have met and I don’t remember them? What if they’re a weird stalker?” It was a pivot but after speaking to them for a few minutes, I realized they were from a neighboring chapter and followed me on Twitter. Before I knew it, the gentleman I was trying to throw myself at told me he’d be right back as he was going to the 7-11 at the corner. He never came back.

I spent the next twenty minutes trying to get back into social mode but I realized I didn’t set aside as much capacity as I should have for socializing and immediately felt the aching need to be alone. I didn’t want to be rude to the people around me by walking away to a weird corner on my own like a loner, so I stood there as the group around me had small talk speckled with awkward silences.

It was at this time I saw Bryan and Brett circling the venue trying to find a way to get in, toting around suitcases and confused looks on their faces. Despite being minor Left Twitter celebrities, I felt very star struck in that moment. Like any person who has grown up around the LA area and encountered a celebrity, you just know to look away and not bug them—it’s not nice to gawk. It appears everyone else also did the same thing, which I would find out later from a non-local that it gave the vibe of LA people being very snobby and up their own ass rather than respecting a person’s privacy. The venue ended up opening at 7 on the dot. I immediately ran to the bar for a beer and broke away from the party I was hanging around with outside.

I drank my Stella Artois at the corner of the bar, by myself. If I was going to enjoy the show, I would need an hour to myself to recharge my mental capacity to engage in small talk with random strangers. I downed my beer then headed off inside when I realized I probably should have scoped out an area first. The place had been entirely filled with patrons and the only places left were in the back. I couldn’t see the stage but everyone gave me enough space to have…well, space. In my true fashion, I stayed closest to the exit with a barrel to lean forward on.

A young man came up to me and immediately started chatting. I admired his tenacity to just come up to me and start talking because I don’t have a bone in my body that would give me that kind of confidence to go up to a stranger for anything but the community of fans really encouraged that kind of behavior, which is great for introverts like me who are merely frightened by the thought of answering the phone. He had seen the live show in Oakland a few days prior and was planning to come down for the LA show since he had friends in the area. He spoke highly of the Oakland show and was excited to see them again. I told him I needed to run to the bathroom quickly before the show began. By the time I got back from peeing, he was gone. I had no luck keeping any type of company that night.

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The live show began, and while I couldn’t see the stage it didn’t matter because I’m accustomed to listening rather than watching. I kind of wish I did get a better view when the audience coaxed Bryan and Brett to take off their shoes and do the show barefoot. I knew Twitter would be flooded with barefoot pictures, so the lack of vision to the stage wasn’t a major letdown.

The show was an hour long but funny as hell, like always. Any show that will give the audience a chance to air their grievances with terrible bosses and chanting “Kill Jeff Bezos!” is good. Many shared their own anecdotes of terrible workplace environments from bosses who used to be Anarchists when they were young but now subjected themselves to Capitalism in middle age to managers thinking a $.30 raise for an $11/hr wage was a reward for hard work in a city suffering from a massive housing crisis and non-existent rent control. Since it was LA, many of these stories also had to do with the film industry—how seedy, shady and shitty it can be. I thought about going up and sharing the past year of my work experience in the mortgage industry but it was a weird night for me. I felt very insecure being a new fan to the show, inept at fully understanding the inside jokes within this podcast community I was still learning. My brain kept telling me no one gives a shit about your experiences, and I let that override my need to go to the stage to share my own personal story about the evils of corporations.

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After the show, the guy I had spoken to prior to my pee break came up to me and was excited to hear my opinion on the show. I told him it was great and I enjoyed myself immensely. He asked me if I would go outside with him to smoke a cigarette. Since weed was off the table, a cigarette was the next best thing to feeling anything close to relaxed. The last time I had enjoyed a cigarette was when I was in Joshua Tree last spring—completely drunk off my ass, still feeling a residual high from the potent weed I had smoked earlier in the day. I was at the precipice of my lowest point in depression, trying to enjoy the time I had left with a good friend who was mere months from moving away from me for possibly forever, looking at the stars as I swung back and forth on a hammock, pretending I was okay. It felt like a lifetime ago.

We were asked to move away from the entrance by one of the bouncers and to head closer towards the alley way to take puffs from our cancer sticks. A congregation of people followed suit as we inhaled our cigarettes, vapes, joints, and Juuls. I could see Bryan come out from the alley way, heading towards us, cigarette in hand. The gentleman I had been smoking with told Bryan what a great show it was and gave him a hammer and sickle bumper sticker to put on his car. He spoke to him as if he was just an old friend, regaling on the last time they saw each other which was three days prior. I noticed this was just a trend amongst all the other men who came up to him, offering hits of weed, asking questions and advice about their own personal lives. One gentleman point blank asked Bryan about fatherhood since he was expecting a child with his partner in the coming year. The question was in regards to being fearful about his daughter trying new things. While I can’t remember Bryan’s answer word for word, I do remember it was something along the lines of not having that intense fear—knowing that his daughter was going to try things for the first time but he knew it would be okay and it was apart of growing up. Being raised by a father who has always been fearful of my safety, I found his answer to be radical in the best possible way. To know there are fathers out there that understand how the world works, what kids do as they get older, and the trust he has in his daughter to figure all of this out on her own was beautiful to hear.

While I didn’t speak to Bryan directly, I was engaged in the numerous questions twentysomething year old guys were asking him in regards to the tour, plans for the future, politics, drugs, and everything in between. Bryan was very good about acknowledging everyone within ear-shot vicinity that he was actively listening by looking directly at everyone, proving he was just a dude who happens to make a podcast popular amongst Left leaning individuals. Maybe it was the fact I was shell shocked to be within two feet of someone who’s work I admired or being the only woman surrounded by a bunch of dudes vying for the attention of their favorite podcaster or the nagging feeling that I was still a new fan to all of this but I just didn’t feel comfortable striking up a conversation with him. I felt like I would be a bother. Everyone was speaking over one another so I didn’t think I could get in a word in edgewise even if I did want to ask him something. And I did want to ask him one question: what his favorite Deftones record was.

It was decided at a certain point in the evening that we would move to another bar for the after party. It was a bar that took twenty minutes to walk to in close to fortysomething degree weather. We had to pass by a leather daddy bar, where we spotted men in leather cop and navy officer costumes, before we got to the final destination, which was a rinky-dink bar tucked away in a random plaza area with dentist offices, massage parlors, and a small liquor store. The interior made me feel like I was in a film-noir--the horizontal Venetian slats provided deep shadows in the well-lit bar coming from the cars outside. I was waiting for Barbara Stanwyck to come out and try to seduce me to kill her husband. I would have welcomed it had she did.

The bar was so small there wasn’t enough seating for the twenty of us that strolled in, so many of us just stood at random parts of the room, conversating with anyone near by. I caught a couple prior to the stroll to the bar who were organizers. One of them was an actor as well and regaled upon union vs. non-union work in the business. Her partner had worked with politicians for over a decade and knew the ins and outs of what was happening within the realm of California politics and the upcoming presidential elections. Most of the evening was spent speaking to them, as everyone else migrated from group to group, jumping in and out of different topics.

As the night drew on, the party began to lessen and people started heading home. Bryan was sick so he went back to his hotel while Brett stayed behind. At last call there were five of us left and Brett. Brett had come up to the couple I had been with the whole night and asked if there was somewhere else we could go hang out. They immediately offered their own apartment which was five minutes away from the bar. They had warned him they had only two bottles of beer left at the house and would need to go to the liquor store next door if there was something special he wanted to drink. Like much of the evening, I fell into random situations with people I barely knew and instead of riding against it, I went ahead and went with the flow of the evening even though I had been exhausted, cold, and eager to get comfy in my bed.

We made the short trek to the liquor store where we bought beer and red wine to keep us satiated for the evening. The gentleman who smoked with me after the show and engaged with me prior to the pee break joined us along with another fan who sported a Jerry MacGuire shirt and colorful hair. Two Lyfts were ordered and I ended up riding with Brett and the other half of the couple I spent most of my evening with.

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A ten minute drive. Conversations with the Lyft driver about forming a union. Carousing the streets of LA…

Before we knew it, we were at the apartment. We sped off to get back into warmth. The six of us broke into the booze, getting settled into the new environment. At some point I stood in the middle of the room like a weird piece of furniture that no one could find a place for. I was still feeling insecure and it had been a long time since I felt so unsure of myself—I was too in my head. It reminded me of being a fourteen year old girl all over again, trying to navigate my way in life without bumping into anything or breaking stuff. I’m sure everyone could read it on my face as I had remained quiet for most of the night.

My gawky weirdness must have highlighted the unease I was still feeling. At a certain point I got the “I didn’t catch your name” from Brett. I introduced myself and he introduced himself, which I thought was amusing considering the fact that he was half of the reason why I went to LA. It put me at ease because despite everyone that night knowing who he was and asking about his wife and daughter, he was still humble as hell and introducing himself to me as a stranger, which in essence, he was. The one thing I noticed that night between Bryan and Brett was how they socialized. Bryan was more extroverted and willing to jump into a middle of a crowd and start talking without trepidation, much like the gentleman I had met earlier in the evening. Brett was more wary of getting into a huge crowd. Often times I’d see him in conversations with one to two people, somewhere off in the corner. After the show I saw him light up a cigarette outside. Unlike Bryan who joined a huge group of people immediately, Brett stayed on the outskirts until someone recognized him and a crowd would form around him.

Witnessing his social interactions was another thing that put me at ease because we both were similar in how we interacted with people, which made it easier to have a conversation with him. He mentioned how he knew someone whose daughter’s name was “Nevaeh”, which is “Heaven” spelled backwards (An aside: Somehow people prefer it spelt backwards than forwards, which has always irked me in the worst way possible. It doesn’t roll off the tongue very well. If you’re going to name your daughter Heaven, then name her Heaven for fuck’s sake!) I told him how the name became popularized after an episode of MTV Cribs featured Sonny from P.O.D. and he revealed he named his daughter “Nevaeh”. It led to a small conversation to Nu Metal, which transitioned to me admitting the main reason why I got into their podcast was because I saw they were both fans of Deftones, a topic I was more than familiar with and comfortable speaking at length. We discussed White Pony, the beauty of Koi No Yokan and how it took him a while to get into Deftones but he was finally appreciating their music. He also told me a particular person he was trying to book on the show within that realm of music that made my heart drop.

At some point, someone mentioned wanting to go outside to smoke. The couple whose apartment we were in asked if we wanted to see the horses next door. We said yes and were eager to see the horses. I bummed a cigarette and made a comment how I would probably die from lung cancer anyway due to second hand smoke because my mother was a smoker.

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It was two in the morning and somehow I found myself in the parking lot of a Los Angeles apartment complex, looking at a horse nabbing the lock on the gate in the stable right next to the lot. I had a Stone IPA in one hand, cigarette in the other. I was surrounded by four people I had just met hours earlier in the evening along with one of the co-hosts of Street Fight Radio, Brett Payne. Clad in a scarf, beanie and a cardigan that was too thin to withstand the cold weather, I was shivering in the forty degree chill yet I had never felt more serene in my life.

We went back inside where we all talked about unions, how our fathers who worked hard labor jobs to put their bodies on the line for their work, discovering that having your kids do the “back walk” was a normal thing amongst men who worked in hard labor, which was a surprise to me since it wasn’t just my dad’s way of spending quality time with me and my brother. We discussed the film industry, working with creative people, music, film, life. I couldn’t keep track of it all, as all I wanted to do was let the experience wash over me like a crashing wave.

Brett showed us the beautifully fresh tattoo he had gotten during his stay in LA that said “Street Fight” with the Street Fight Radio logo surrounded by beautiful red roses. The fact he shared it with us before posting the picture on Twitter was heartfelt—he was comfortable enough to unveil his piece of body art to a small group of people—us—before the rest of the world would see it. The night became more than a weird sequence of events that I ended up being enveloped in at random. It was special, something I would remember always.

It was close to five in the morning. People were starting to make plans to leave—one of individuals had to be at a baby shower in a few hours, another had to be on the road to head back to the Bay Area. My eyes felt heavy and I just wanted to be in my own bed. I ordered a Lyft to pick me up and within one minute it arrived.

I said goodbye to everyone, gave everyone hugs as I rushed into the car. As my driver drove off, I regretted not telling Brett how much the podcast meant to me and so many people and provide an encouraging word to keep doing what they were doing. When I went on Twitter the next morning, I saw this:

I didn’t need to say anything to him at all—he already knew.

Have you ever listened to a record, read a book or watched a film that perfectly aligned with what was happening in your life at that precise moment, that it brought upon a such a powerful catharsis that it could never be written with such perfection in fiction?

Call Me By Your Name is that film for me.

I know, I’m about a year late on this caboose. When it was generating award buzz this time last year, it was the butt of a punchline that was slightly reminiscent of when Brokeback Mountain came out in 2005. I guess a couple of dudes romping around on a grassy knoll will make the public want to reach for that obvious penis-in-butt joke even though it’s been overplayed for decades and it’s just plain homophobic to make such a tacky and tactless crack at the expense of an entire community of people. In an era where everyone is trying to go viral by saying the obvious in a tongue-in-cheek tone, the laborious task of saying anything original has pretty much turned all of our brains in sludge. We live in hellworld. We’re living in an era of Trump.

There is also this waft of pretentiousness attached to a film about a grad student who stays in Northern Italy during a random summer in the 1980’s to study with a respected professor and ends up falling in love with his teenage son. The intellectual banter in the film where a seventeen year old boy trolls the object of his affection by refusing to play Bach in its original form as a way of flirting or the elaborate discussion about etymology and how the word “apricot” came to fruition is a conversation that would make any person in their right mind roll their eyes right out of their head can be…pretentious. For some reason though, I love that shit. Maybe it’s because there’s only a small, select group of people I can have those really dense, intellectually stupid conversations with that I cherish the rare moments where they occur in pop culture. I remember coming out of a theater last year with my good friend and passing by a huge poster for Call Me By Your Name. On the poster had the entire two page Rolling Stone review about how great the film was. My friend said he was somewhat interested in checking the film out before seeing that poster, but the poster solidified exactly what type of film it was and he simply said “fuck that”.

I didn’t really gain much of an interest in seeing Call Me By Your Name until I watched Lady Bird, another 2017 film that made it’s way around the awards circuit in 2018. Timothée Chalamet co-starred in that film as the object of Lady Bird’s interest—a Leftist punk who smoked , read A People’s History of The United States and wanted to talk about the Iraq War after having sex with Lady Bird. Chalamet’s performance as a pretentious, raging, Leftist asshole in the early 00’s reminded me of some of the guys I’ve met in DSA and it’s a brilliant performance. To be fair to myself though, I would have totally banged the shit out of a guy like that when I was seventeen years old and still would as a thirty year old woman.

It’s kind of amazing what a great actor Timothée Chalamet is, especially for such a young man. I’ve seen him in three films so far and each film feels like he’s lived for sixty years even though he’s only been alive for twenty-one. He has an old soul quality to him, which works beautifully in Call Me By Your Name. His character, Elio, is precocious (a word my co-worker has defined as another way of saying someone is a “little shit”), smart, intellectually able to hold himself in a conversation in regards to the arts yet maintains that naive vibe you get from seventeen year olds who think they know everything there is to know about the world but they actually know jack shit (This was me to a ‘T’ at that age).

But maybe my love for this film isn’t just for the performances and chemistry between Chalamet and Armie Hammer.

Maybe it is the predominantly Italo Disco soundtrack that lured me into an obsession with how wonderful this story really is?

Or the beautiful cinematography that captures the essence of Northern Italy, making the countryside glimmer on film?

It could be seeing two hot dudes roll around in nature without inhibition?

Or seeing Timothée Chalamet fuck a peach on screen?

Hearing Sufjan Stevens curated music?

The metaphors? The symbolism? Armie Hammer’s horrifically embarrassing dad dancing? The feeling of falling madly in love?

All of these are intricate in my adoration for such a generic storyline but the film completely took over me at the end, when Oliver, played by Armie Hammer, goes back to the States and Elio stays behind to covertly re-piece the shards of his broken heart. His parents take notice, especially Elio’s father played by the sometimes goofy, sometimes terrifying but always entertaining Michael Stuhlbarg.

This is a heart-to-heart father/son conversation that could have easily gone wrong with a cheesy, unforgiving and almost cringeworthy performance to watch on screen, but Stuhlbarg handles the scene with such grace and understanding it never gets anywhere near that kind of embarrassment. Sure, the conversation is essentially “It’s better to have loved and lost than to have never loved at all”, but Elio’s father doesn’t sugarcoat it. He acknowledges having a broken heart sucks, that in time the pain will pass but the real stab to the heart? It’s okay to feel that pain. In fact, it’s good to feel that pain because it meant that Oliver was more than just a guy who visited their home over one summer to do boring grad work. The most poignant part of the scene comes from this particular line:

“We rip out so much of ourselves to be cured of things faster than we should that we go bankrupt by the age of 30 and have less to offer each time we start with someone new. But to feel nothing so as not to feel anything—what a waste!”

This is the part where I lost it because this is what I needed to hear. My fondness for Elio’s character wasn’t solely based on the charm of Chalamet’s performance—I knew exactly the pain Elio felt, a kinship that I’m sure many others have with the character. Stuhlbarg may have been in character addressing Chalamet as Elio, but it felt as if he was speaking to me beyond the screen. Pain is relative, pain is subjective but pain is universal. I needed the reminder that it’s okay to feel it, that it doesn’t need to shoved aside because it hurts too much or makes others feel uncomfortable, that it makes ME feel uncomfortable. Will I get over it? I don’t know. Right now I don’t think I will, which may be the pain talking. I’ve tried and failed at creating distractions for myself, I’ve done my best not talking about, I’ve exhausted myself to not think about it—anything to not feel it but it’s apparent it’s not working. My heart still feels heavy, as if cinder blocks of emotion are anchored to my valves, dragging me into heartbroken despair. One thing I’m giving myself in the New Year is the chance to do some soul searching, which means confronting the pain despite the fact that I have spent nearly a year running away from it. Maybe I’ll get rid of the heaviness clinging onto my chest, and I can try to rebuild my heart like Elio.

Had I watched this film this time last year, I’m sure I would have agreed that the film was good, maybe overrated but it wouldn’t have had the same impact watching it this year.

I’ll try to move on but deep down inside I’ll find myself wishing for this moment:

Guys, let’s be honest—2018 was a shit show. Not only was it terrible politically (I have a feeling that’s not going to change in the next two years), but personally it was terrible for me. I dealt with a lot of change, financial hardship, and the first half of the year I struggled to stay afloat with a severe bout of depression. It was downright ugly.

Despite the fact 2018 proved itself to be shittier than Donald Trump’s mouth or Mitch McConnell’s ugly ass jowls, there were some good things sprinkled throughout that helped dull the pain of this year. I’m not ranking anything, but rather reviewing the bright spots about 2018.

Movies

Eight Grade (Dir. Bo Burham)

Easily one of the most poignant, touching, intensely awkward films of the year was Eighth Grade. This is a film anyone can relate to, especially girls who have been or are currently in eighth grade. It brought me back to a time when puberty was just settling in, my hormones were getting into gear and every new emotion was on hyperdrive. The ages between 12-15 years old is such a hard phase to go through because you feel like you’re an adult when your reproductive system is developing yet you’re still too young to make any good decisions because you’re horny all the time. Bo Burham does an excellent job capturing that era in life that many of us have tried so desperately to forget. I could barely handle being that age when I was that age fifteen years ago, I don’t know how I would survive in an era of social media, advanced technology and rampant school shootings. The most touching scene comes towards the end of the film where there is an amusing but sweet heart to heart between a father to his daughter that keeps the scene realistic without being too saccharine.

Sorry To Bother You (Dir. Boots Riley)

An openly proud Communist wrote and directed a critically acclaimed film about the working class and how to combat Capitalism. With black leads. In 2018. Really.

The part was initially written for Donald Glover, as he was set to star in this film. However it was a conflict for filming Star Wars, so he had to drop out but not before recommending Lakeith Stanfield, his co-star on Atlanta, for the lead role. If I am going to be honest, I can’t imagine anyone else playing the part but Stanfield. He brings wit, charm and brilliance to the role to Cash, a man who adopts a white man’s voice to better assimilate himself in the telemarketing world. It promises him respect, money, women but as he goes further down the rabbit hole he slowly begins to realize what he’s really getting from the job and it’s hardly pretty.

His girlfriend, Detroit, played by the vivacious Tessa Thompson, is a constant reminder of his roots, what it means to be working class and why that necessarily isn’t a bad thing. The film can feel like it’s getting off the rails at certain points, but it exemplifies the dangers of Capitalism—how it shapes communities, harms workers, destroys lives. It’s a refreshing film that gives me hope the film industry is slowly getting back its roots, making interesting, original content again that will put butts back into theater seats and reinvigorate a new generation of filmmakers.

You Were Never Really Here (Dir. Lynne Ramsay)

Let me first say I love Joaquin Phoenix. I have loved him for nearly half my life. He can make any film great by merely being in it (and yes, I have forgiven him for making I’m Still Here). Phoenix is one of the few actors in this world that is just naturally gifted when it comes to appearing on screen—he knows exactly what to do, when to do it and how to deliver it. This film is no different—every gesture, nod of the head, raise of an eyebrow, bits of silence are deliberately made with thoughtful introspection into his character.

Also, Joaquin Phoenix is hot as fuck.

But I digress. You Were Never Really Here is a hauntingly beautiful film about a hitman who is on the job to find a Senator’s kidnapped daughter. It’s only when the job is near completion when things get twisted and downright weird. But good weird, almost Lynchian. But still weird, very weird. But good.

Had this been directed by a man, I feel like this film would play into violent stereotypes with way more blood, exploitation of young women and abundant misogyny. The fact this was directed by a woman, we get the tense silences to fully soak in the severity of the situation these characters find themselves in. We appreciate the nuances in the relationship between the hitman and daughter. We get a better glimpse into the hitman’s inner psyche, how he came to be, why he does what he does. It’s subtle without confusing the audience. You Were Never Really Here respects the viewer enough to showcase a Taken-esque storyline without schticks or gimmicks to keep the story interesting—it’s the things that aren’t said, the actions that aren’t taken—that keeps the viewer wanting more.

Shirkers (Dir. Sandi Tan)

There are movers, there are shakers and then there are shirkers…

I just watched this documentary a few days ago and I’m still thinking about it. This documentary by Sandi Tan paints the picture of what it’s like for a young girl enamored with film to want to go out and make her own movies in a country that has such strict laws that it’s illegal to chew gum. It feels like such a daunting task, and as someone who had a hard time just creating a five minute short in college, creating your own feature seems like science fiction because how does anyone really make and complete an entire feature film?

Tan and her good friends run across a random stranger who is twice their age but gives them the confidence and funds to pursue their lifelong dreams, following the footsteps of their favorite auteurs. The stranger brings along promise, invigoration, intrigue but also a mystery that follows them well after the filmmaking process.

As someone who has “You Waste Your Life Making Film” tattooed on the inside of her right wrist, this documentary spoke to me on a level that film geeks and movie maker wannabes could only ever understand, but it’s universal enough to where anyone who was ever young, naive and eager to make a dream come true would be able to relate to.

Fahrenheit 11/9 (Dir. Michael Moore)

Within the first ten minutes into Michael Moore’s latest documentary, I laughed, I cried, I seethed then rolled my eyes. The feeling, the horror, the anguish I felt that night on November 8, 2016 will forever haunt me till I’m dead. I know that, and so does Moore.

I have been a fan of Moore’s work for a while, and while I know many of his documentaries have a tendency to exaggerate, dramatize and downright embellish the subject he is covering, this documentary was different. For the first time, I felt as if Moore was being as honest as possible about what lies ahead in the future, in an era where we have completely forgotten about World War II and have adopted Fascism as the new political policy. It’s frightening and there is really no way to overdramatize the harmful effects of such policies.

Flower (dir. Max Winkler)

There is something to say about a good, quirky, sweet, indie dark comedy. These films don’t follow three act structures, and if they attempt to do so, they meander through the darkness of its plot before it reaches the light at the end of the film. Sometimes they wrap themselves in a demented, pretty bow and other times they find themselves further into the darkness where you have to wonder what kind of prison the filmmaker put their characters in.

With Flower, you get the former. The story starts off normal and veers left at the half-way point. Yes, there are issues with the script, the story, and it says some, forgive me for saying, “problematic” things but with indie films there is a little more leeway to get away with telling these stories. Part of you goes “Huh?” but another part accepts it as the rules set forth by the universe the screenwriter created.

Technically this film was made in 2016, but didn’t get released until earlier this year. Seeing this film in a post #MeToo era, it gives the plot more life than I’m sure the filmmakers didn’t even think about. This film doesn’t have a message it wants to convey about sex work, sexual abuse and vigilantism, and I’m glad it doesn’t. Sometimes a movie is just what it is—a movie, where its sole purpose is to entertain. Sometimes you don’t need the righteous message at the end to appease a certain sect of people. These characters are flawed, the situation they find themselves in is fucked up. I don’t need these characters to be woke bastions in the #MeToo era.

Kathryn Hahn, Tim Heidecker, Adam Scott and Zoey Deutch round out a terrific ensemble with pitch perfect chemistry. They make a harmonious cast that electrifies this film, making it so damn watchable. You forgive the flaws because the characters are charismatic. When you have a good cast, sometimes that’s enough to carry a film.

To All The Boys I’ve Loved Before (dir. Susan Johnson)

Yes, a film directed towards 16 year old girls managed to be one of the most memorable films of this year. I’m sure if I were 16, I would probably watch this film out of curiosity, not tell anyone I watched it until someone asked me if I watched it then gush about it.

Maybe it’s because I related to this plot line too much—writing love letters to men I have a strong affection towards, never sending them to my admirers but instead living in a realm of unrequited love and outlandish fantasies of lives never lived because it’s easier than letting someone into your heart with the potential to hurt you, possibly leave you.

To All The Boys I’ve Loved Before is smart, sweet, and tender. It never underestimates its audience and explores teens and the subject of sex without it being exploitative, salacious or treating its viewer as a naive, unexperienced child. I wish this film was around when I was a teenage girl because it would have definitely made me feel less alone. I can only hope this film has eased many girls fears entering the world of womanhood, making it easier to trek the choppy waters into adulthood.

Roma (Dir. Alfonso Cuaron)

I haven’t seen this one yet, but I know it’s going to be great because Alfonso Cuaron is one of the best filmmakers of our time, and history will be most kind to his work. This is just a pre-emptive placement for this movie.

Music

The Armed, Only Love

I wasn’t familiar with The Armed until a good friend of mine gushed about their latest album, Only Love. The description he provided was “heavy metal mixed with electronic music” and since he has only ever given me good music recommendations, I figured it was worth giving them a shot.

The first few spins didn’t really grab me as much as I thought it would. Like, this was totally something I would listen to and find myself obsessed with but there was only one track that initially grabbed me and that was “Fortune’s Daughter”. Everything else just felt like background noise.

But I kept coming back to it because there was just something about the sound of this record that stuck with my brain that I couldn’t quite shake off.

I’m glad I kept listening to it because there was day in the summer where it just…made sense. It was when I had all of my windows rolled down, blaring this record at high volume down the quiet streets of Irvine, without a care in the world. It was then I realized this was a special record.

If you do any research on the band itself, you will find yourself at a dead end in regards to the band members, founders, and who really is the mastermind behind all of it. It’s suggested it could be a collective, that they alternate musicians on each record, that some of the “members” aren’t actually members but rather actors or that it’s just one dude from Converge. Interviews provided are like the equivalent of reading five Father John Misty profiles in one sitting, so I wouldn’t bog yourself down even trying to investigate this mystery unless you’re really into the Father John Misty-eque pretentiousness with a vagueness chaser.

Instead, just enjoy the music and be thankful for the person(s) who created it.

Cardi B, Invasion of Privacy

Invasion of Privacy has bangers, has jams and has ballads. It’s a quintessential album where you are bound to find something you enjoy, whether it be “Drip”, “I Like It”, “Thru Your Phone” or the hit Cardi B is most well-known for, “Bodak Yellow”. The album cover feels like an homage to the Klaus Nomi and while the album itself isn’t as experimental as the cover would suggest, it’s your standard pop/hip hop album that will get you up from your butt and make you want to dance.

Cardi B has an interesting public persona that some may like and others may frown upon. It’s up for debate if whether or not she’s for real or her antics are just for show, but she definitely has a knack for making a good tune and keeping herself interesting to stay in the public eye. Her politics are also pretty good, too (Have you seen her video on how the U.S. should handle Libya? It’s Lit) I hope the arguments about her authenticity doesn’t eclipse her musical talent.

Lucy Dacus, Historian

Have girls and guitars ever been out of style? I would like to say no, but one of my favorite artists of all time, PJ Harvey, is known for slinging around a guitar. I’m also perpetually stuck in the 90’s, where much of my favorite music are women shredding a guitar.

Lucy Dacus is a girl with a guitar, but damn does she know how to work it. She pulls out a brutal punch with Historian—the first track, “Night Shift”, is nearly a seven minute ballad about a broken heart and going out of your way to avoid the person.

“You got a nine to five, so I’ll take the night shift
And I’ll never see you again if I can help it"

The lyrics to “Night Shift” are visceral that can bring anyone back to a time when they got their heart ripped out and stomped on. The efforts one will put forth to do anything and everything to get that one person out of their mind so they can finally eliminate that gnawing feeling in the pit of their stomach that feels like indigestion that will never go away, the pressure that lies on your chest that keeps you on the verge of a panic attack and the racing mind that will never let you sleep. The first track will haunt you to your core.

The entire album goes through the phases of loss, but there is an optimistic spirit to it despite the heavy lyrical content. The vocals are beautiful, the lyrics are deep and the arrangements are something to be admired.

Beach House, 7

In the land of Shoegaze Dream Pop, Beach House reigns supreme. They know how to entangle beats, vocals, and melodies into an ethereal loop that’s easy to get lost in but never difficult to find your way out. Their music creates a magical landscape that provides wonder to the listener, never veering off the path into the scary unknown while comforting you in the sparkly keyboard, breathy vocals and the stillness the harmonies carry.

7 is no different, and feels like it gets back to band’s core after Depression Cherry. While it’s worth noting the band doesn’t break new ground with this record, they do establish that they know what they’re doing and the thing they do is what they do best.

Television

Wild Wild Country

Bonkers. Completely, utterly, irrevocably bonkers. That is what this docuseries is.

I just finished this last night and my feelings on it are conflicting. There where points where I sympathized with the people of Antelope, other times where I realized they were bad and thought the Rajneeshees were victims but then thought the leaders of the movement were terrible. This series is a cluster fuck of things and emotions.

This was a cult, pure and simple. Many followers of the Rajneesh Movement were privileged, white, Western people who found a salvation in a religion they thought would be a cure-all for their dull, domestic, Western lives. The movement came along and gave them permission to let their hair down, allowing them to feel it was okay to be hedonistic in a wrapping that was sold as them changing the world to make it a better place.

For some, I truly believe they found fulfilmment. For others, I believe it did the opposite and brainwashed many into thinking they were other worldly, above the law. The pushback received by the citizens of Oregon was pushback that was to be expected of any cult that comes to town. Had this been a Western religion, I don’t believe the vitriol aimed at this group would have been so disgusting. Much of the criticism raised against the Rajneeshees were based on racism, xenophobia and genuine fear of the “other”, as the 40 people who lived in the small land of Antelope prior were white.

This docuseries has layers. It’s also funny in unexpected ways, touching in others and definitely worth the watch.

Atlanta

If you’re not watching Atlanta, you’re missing out on the best show on television. There is nothing more intriguing, original, heartbreaking and intelligent on the air right now. Add the amazing cast of people and you have an untouchable series. Donald Glover and Lakeith Stanfield make appearances on this list in separate projects they have completed, but the real breakout star of this show is Brian Tyree Henry as Paperboi, the rapper who is gaining traction in his career while figuring out which path he wants to take as he rises to fame and combats the entanglements that come along with success. This season we got to witness his flawless acting chops in the episode “Woods”. I won’t say anything about this episode except when you watch it, watch it twice. The episode has multiple layers that won’t be fully understood without the second viewing.

I love Brian Tyree Henry so much I almost put Hotel Artemis on this list because he’s just that great. I am eager to see the other projects he’ll be in in the future. The man is a treasure and we’re lucky to have him.

But watch Atlanta.

Crazy Ex Girlfriend

I’m going to come out and say it—I don’t like musicals. Never have, really. There are some good musicals out there, but characters breaking out into song, dancing out of nowhere as if there is nothing weird about belching out a tune with 20+ random people within a hundred feet around you, in the middle of the road is not something I buy nor enjoy. Crazy Ex Girlfriend, however, makes me renege on my long held opinion.

The musical numbers in the show are catchy as fuck, the characters are genuine, funny and talented as shit. It’s one of the few shows on television that is able to tackle mental illness with finesse while keeping a comedic edge. One episode this past season was difficult to watch because of how well it depicted depression and more than likely I will not be watching that episode again but it’s a great episode nevertheless.

Crazy Ex Girlfriend stays on top of social mores, consistently keeping up with the political climate and in general, just makes you feel good. This current season will be its final season, and while I’m sad to see it go, I’m also glad Rachel Bloom is making the decision to have this show end on top of its game.

GLOW

A show about a group of women wrestling in the 1980’s hardly feels stale in 2018. GLOW is one of the freshest television shows that tackles wrestling, single motherhood, dating, sex, abortions, sexuality, and pokes at the question if women can ever “have it all”. Despite the conservatism of the decade held by the Reagan administration, GLOW has no issues taking a progressive stance—letting women enter the world dominated by men but on their own terms.

It warms my heart when I see the actors of Community make other great television shows. Alison Brie has found her stride as Ruth, providing some of her best acting to date. I like to think Dan Harmon had a slight hand in shaping these actors into what they’re blossoming into today. Had we never met Annie Edison, we would have never gotten Zoya the Destroya.

BoJack Horseman

It took me almost the entire first season for me to get into BoJack Horseman, but once I did it was easy to see why this is such a critically acclaimed darling. The idea of an animated man/horse evoking deep, gut wrenching emotions while simultaneously evaluating mental health, addiction, and illness seems like a show that wouldn’t be taken seriously but it is.

Will Arnett is known for his comedic roles, and while BoJack Horseman definitely has more comedic moments than not, Arnett taps into a different side of himself to voice the titular character. Arnett provides a pensive, yet graceful voice performance in such a somber character that would be otherwise stereotyped as a fun loving, goofball animal/human character. Mr. Peanut Butter, voiced by Paul F. Tompkins, scratches that itch and provides sweet comedic relief to a show that is darker than anyone would ever anticipate.

The best writing of any show this year goes to “Free Churro”, a bottle episode filled with an entire monologue that would make William Shakespeare jealous, gets straight to the core of BoJack Horseman as a character. It’s a self-serving gesture from BoJack but manages to be sentimental and insanely depressing. BoJack is hardly a good guy, but the depiction and growth of his character over the seasons show that his selfishness, need for love, adoration and attention are character flaws that will never change but the audience keeps coming back because it makes him feel realistic even if he is just a hybrid species in cartoon form.

The Americans

The series finale of The Americans aired this year, and I still find myself in mourning. The final episode had everything—love, betrayal, trains, quick escapes, wigs, U2. The entire series was short, sweet, and to the point. and ended in a way that felt true to the world the writers created for these characters. Overall, I found myself satisfied with how everything was wrapped up. Knowing this, however, doesn’t make me any less sad that’s no longer on the air.

Even a “bad” episode of The Americans was never really bad. It still would showcase solid writing to prepare itself for the next episodes that were bound to take the viewer on an interesting ride of excitement and terror.

Besides the writing, the chemistry between Keri Russell and Matthew Rhys really solidified that magic that was The Americans (Russell and Rhys started dating shortly after shooting the series). Even in the best movies and television shows it’s hard to nail chemistry so well bonded onto a big screen. If I were to compare it to anything else in the history of film and television, I would say their chemistry gives Humphrey Bogart and Lauren Bacall in The Big Sleep a run for their money. It’s a rarity and this show greatly benefited from such a happy accident.

Big Mouth

The nastiest, grossest, sweetest, insanely hilarious show is a half-hour animated series that deals with 14 year old kids going entering the demented world of puberty. It showcases the hilarity of body development, fluids coming out of new areas, raging hormones and everything in between. I’m not kidding when I say it’s gross, I mean it’s really gross. I’m also amazed with how much weird, perverted shit they put in this show because it can get nasty. That’s not to say occasionally it will have a sweet moment where the writers show their appreciation for the characters they have created and put through adolescent hell by having them support each other through such a hellscape. Did I mention this show is gross?

There is some great voice work on this show, but hands down Maya Rudolph takes the cake for her work as Connie, the Hormone Monstress. She’s sassy, flamboyant and has introduced a new way for the public to say “Bubble Bath”. Every time I try to recreate her pronunciation, it comes out sounding like “Bwabble Baaath”. I just need Maya Rudolph in more things, saying “Bubble Bath” as much as humanly possible.

Miscellaneous Pop Culture/Icons

Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez

Everyone has an opinion on Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez, whether they are on the far right or the far left. She has become a divisive figure since she was recently elected into Congress, beating incumbent Democrat Joe Crowley and causing a massive political upset. Her campaign is proof you don’t need millions of dollars from wealthy donors or Wall Street to win an election. All you need is drive, passion, and the simple skill of listening to your constituents, engaging with them in a meaningful manner to see what they need and fight for those needs with blunt force and without abandon.

To be expected, the Right are frightened of her. They are constantly attacking her policies, her statements, her history, her looks, her savings account, her clothing choices. In these attacks is an air of condescension and underestimation of how powerful she is and will be. Democrats are also frightened of her, as they feel she is not following simple political decorum and bipartisanship that has been shaped by old, rich Centrist politicians for the last two decades. To many Democrats, they feel she is too young and not experienced enough to challenge other Democratic members on their own political positions, forcing them to change their outlook on how to do politics—she hasn’t “paid her dues” yet, she doesn’t understand how the real world works and any other bullshit comment every Millennial has ever heard to prevent them from making change. This isn’t stopping her. She has conviction, which is missing from most politicians in the United States.

The Left is also rather divisive. Some of the things she has said in the past haven’t completely aligned with Leftist ideology. I don’t expect politicians to have every answer ready to go. I’m sure there are certain things she has a blind spot on, which is again, to be expected. I would like to think she has a team of people who can inform and educate her on the issues, as well as listen to these criticisms to further round out her policies and beliefs. Other individuals on the Left wonder why she isn’t moving further Left, but you can’t expect a person newly elected to Congress to say “lol fuck the government”. While a far left progressive has been elected, Ocasio-Cortez still needs to play the game and follow some of the rules if she’s going to make any significant change. In DSA, we always say it’s a marathon, not a sprint. In this case, we have to treat even Democratic Socialist politicians in the same manner but still keep pushing them Left. If we’re going to get what we want, we need people who are going to start chipping away at Capitalism to pave the way.

Do I expect politicians to save us from this mess? God no, but right now they’re vital for making changes to lead us to a path where we can dismantle Capitalism. Until she has shown she is adopting Centrist policy, I won’t disavow her for not saying “Abolish the government”. She’s coming out strong and fighting back. If she can keep this up, it may develop a new trend where we see more politicians call bullshit on the injustices of the world, changing what type of people run for Congress in the future.

“This Is America”/Donald Glover

In the past year, Donald Glover has proven himself a force to be reckoned with—he is currently writing and starring in the television show Atlanta, he has a successful rap career under the moniker Childish Gambino, he has nabbed roles in major film franchises like Star Wars and proven himself to be “woke” in an era where racism is a regular topic in the 24-hour news cycle.

Having “This Is America” drop this year was perfect timing. There are so many elements and layers the four minute video covers that could be analyzed in a thoughtful, well-researched essay. I’m sure there have been many American Studies scholars who have already devoted their time to crafting theses statements with the ultimate plan of making it apart of their research. This video is one that will be continuously referenced for many years to come, as we already see the phrase “This Is America” in Tweets, Facebook posts, and other versions of Social Media whenever something racist occurs in the world, which is now happening on a daily basis.

Glover is on a pretty good path for himself. My only wish is he doesn’t veer off the road with an overinflated ego.

Anthony Bourdain

If there was ever one white guy who just “got it”, It was Anthony Bourdain, and sadly we lost him earlier this year to suicide. Granted, I wasn’t a fan of his prior to his death. Not because I didn’t enjoy the things he wrote or television shows he made, I just never bothered to look at his work. The only thing I really knew about him was his white-hot hatred towards Henry Kissinger and that alone was enough for me to put him in the “good dude” column.

Despite all that, I still remember sitting on the toilet, silently weeping after finding out how Bourdain died. I was barely coming out of a nearly six month depression so seeing the news that he lost his long battle with a soul sucking disease hit me hard. Is this what I have to look forward to? No matter how much I fight I could still find myself wanting to end it all? How could a compassionate soul have such a dark cloud around him?

After that I started watching Parts Unknown. Witnessing Bourdain’s curiosity, fearlessness in his expeditions to different parts of world, eagerness to try anything and everything without a second thought is enormously beautiful. In certain episodes you could see a certain joy in his face, a look of love and calmness in his eyes. These episodes were the hardest to watch because you knew in those moments he was genuinely happy despite the darkness that followed him. I recognized the peaceful look plastered on his face because it looked like mine. I would be an awful liar if I said that didn’t frighten me.

To Anthony Bourdain: With all your travels, I hope you were finally able to find the one thing you were so desperate to obtain during each of your expeditions but failed to capture—inner peace with yourself.

Me not 30. Taken April 21, 2018 in Joshua Tree, CA.

99% of the time I forget my age. My mindset has simply refused to mature and as my friends get married, prepare to have children, I’m still trying to figure out how to make macaroni and cheese in one pot whilst navigating the dating world. It isn’t until something on my body changes when I realize how old I actually am. The other day I got out of the shower, wrapped a towel around me and started brushing my teeth. As I was preparing for bed, I looked at myself in the mirror. Sure, I don’t have a wrinkle on my face but when you inherit a round baby face from your youthful looking father, it’s hard to develop wrinkles even if you smoked a pack of cigarettes every day. I did, however, spot something shiny in the bed of dark, coarse hair that lays atop my head. With closer inspection, I realized it wasn’t glare from my shiny locks but rather a gray hair poking through the darkness. As I shifted my hair around, I found more stray grays trying to reach the top of my head so they can finally be seen.

Grays aren’t the only thing that have changed on me—stretching is no longer an option as much as a requirement. My back gets tight and the best relief is when I do a nice stretch to get the knots out. My breasts no longer have the same lift as they did five years ago, but to be fair gravity has put a huge damper on that to begin with so not a whole lot has been lost in that regard. Staying awake past ten on a weekend becomes more of a chore with each passing month and my memory that was once as sharp as a Ginsu knife is slowly dulling into a spoon.

With all these changes occurring, I still feel unfulfilled. I once had dreams working in the film industry, becoming an auteur like all my other favorite directors. The dreams got dashed away when any connection I had fell through and the impossible feat of trying to get a gig as simple as a PA. When the Weinstein accusations came out, I began to question if this was an industry I really wanted to be in. Was my dream worth more than the toxic environment I would find myself in? An industry that already has a reputation of chewing you up and spitting you out is also filled with gross, predatory men? I know I still want to write in some capacity, which is why I’m focusing more on essays. I would love to do this full time and hopefully one day I will. It’s sometimes hard to justify my dreams as every one else I know has a career or is close to getting a career and I’m still here, at a dead-end office job, writing on the side as it is one of the few things in my life that gives me fulfillment, a sense of purpose. It’s worth waking up in the morning for, and has become therapeutic. I’m terrible at talking about my feelings or opening up in any capacity. I’ve always found it so easy to put my feelings onto paper, which is why many of these entries get personal. Friends have told me they’re surprised how personal I get, but it’s just easy to write out what’s going on in my head rather than verbalize it with a friend. Writing allows me to streamline my stream-of-conscious thoughts, understand the weird idiosyncrasies in my life, the everyday problems of the world. I know there’s a small audience that reads these entries, and if I know these people in person they’re kind enough to not say anything about them to me to my face. I appreciate it, as it lets me continue to write without judgment so I can continue to be as honest as possible with myself. I put my thoughts down and release it into the world. If I don’t think about anyone and everyone reading it, it feels like a diary entry for my eyes only almost.

There are three men in my life that I have had romantic interest in, meant the world to me, and in some cases became an unhealthy obsession. This year I've had to come to grips with accepting that these men are no longer in my life either due to hurt feelings, my ego, or simply no longer living in the same state as me. The hardest one to accept is the man I had the healthiest relationship with moving away. I still haven’t come to terms with it. Sometimes I have good days where I barely think about him, other days a song will come on and I don’t want to come out of my room as I lay in bed, longing for his presence, wishing his arms were wrapped around me like a warm blanket, with his face nuzzled in my neck. He seems well, I’m sure he hasn’t thought about me since he moved. I don’t make the effort to talk to him because it will just make it that much harder for me to move on, but I miss him. I don’t think he’ll ever know how much I miss him and I prefer it that way. I never want him to know how vulnerable I feel about his absence. Turning 30 without these three men in my life will be a good way to leave the past where it belongs—in the past. I’ll get to start off on a clean slate and begin to look forward to whatever lies ahead. I can get rid of my excess baggage and unnecessary hang ups.

Maybe my life isn’t what I envisioned it would be at thirty when I was thinking about my future as a fifteen year old girl. I’m still struggling to figure everything out, but I don’t think age will fix the whole ‘I-have-no-idea-what-the-hell-I-am-doing’ thing, but at least experience will help me make less stupid decisions. Well, at least that’s what I’m hoping. I’ve grappled with the fact that my body is slowly changing as it rots at a slug’s pace. I can live with the soreness, saggy tits and one day in the near future getting my first wrinkle but I have no shame in getting older. The scattered grays in my hair signify what I’ve been through thus far: love, death, depression and eight seasons of Dexter. These white hairs are battle scars that show I have a timeline that’s still running, experiences still waiting in the wings to be fully realized, dreams that are aching to come true.

Instead of yanking out the gray hairs I found on my head, I shifted my hair to reveal the bits of white that have developed in my dark brown hair, giving these hairs a chance to be seen, to broadcast what these hairs have seen and what remains to be seen.

Choosing a seat in class was always a simple decision—nab the desk in the back that was furthest from the front of the class yet closest to the door. If any one beat me to this coveted seat, I would become mildly annoyed, sometimes slightly irate, but mostly ardently anxious.

Movie theaters: my default is always the aisle seat, closest to the exit as possible while still getting a good enough spot to enjoy the film. That is, if I’m going to the movies by myself. If I’m with friends or a date, I will not follow this rule as to hide the fact that I need to constantly be near an exit because I have deep-rooted issues that stem from God knows where.

I have been the type of person who is constantly looking for an exit, a trap door, a way out. To be stuck in a place where I can’t easily wiggle my way out gives me frightful nightmares, ones that could induce a full blown panic attack. I’ve never been one to fantasize about being in one spot for a long period of time. Anything that resembles a promise of commitment or gives the guise of settling down will produce large beams of sweat that slowly makes its way down my ass crack while simultaneously making my heart want to bust out of my chest a la The Shining.

There were plenty of times during my childhood where my brother and I were left at a babysitter’s or some random day care and it would feel like hell on earth because it wasn’t home. I still remember the mangy day care my parents dumped me and brother off when we went to vacation in Las Vegas twenty-somewhat odd years ago. It was my parents wedding anniversary, and like a lot of people married to one another they wanted to spend one evening alone together, but were also on a budget/poor. I think they picked the most convenient day care without much research because I remember it smelt terrible and the kids staying there were gross with Kool-Aid stained upper lips and sticky hands. Plus they were rude as fuck. Right before bed, a gross-looking, snotty kid told me that another kid peed in my bed the night before. Of course after hearing that kernel of knowledge, I couldn’t fall asleep. If my memory serves me correctly, I think I tried to wake up my brother in the other bed but he was passed the fuck out because no one was mean enough to tell him about any kids peeing in his bed. Needless to say I was thrilled when my parents came to pick us up after midnight.

Most of the time I didn’t know these people that were caring for us but my parents trusted them enough to put us in their care to make sure me and my brother didn’t die. I was unable to leave, impatiently awaiting for my parents to pick us up. They were terrible with telling us what time they would be back. The answer would be “we’ll be back later” with no specific time. I would later learn in my college psychology class that doing this could instill abandonment issues later in life, which I carry in spades. Instead of enjoying the few hours I had that were parent free, I would shake and tremble with anticipation to see one or both of them walk through the door to break me out of the neurotic jail I had created for myself. Being in one too many of those situations really fucked up my sense of security. Knowing I have an out with the knowledge I can leave any time I please can make my heart rest easier, my brain run less.

A couple of months ago my roommate, who had been living here for nearly ten years, announced she was moving out. I was completely okay with this since she had really loud sex that would sometimes wake me up in the middle of the night. What I completely forgot was she had all the utilities in her name. I ended up picking up the responsibility reluctantly. I didn’t want to have to go through the process of calling the companies to have every thing switched over to my name—I hate talking on the phone more than anything in the world. Plus the deposits had to lay down for each bill, which is so fucking stupid I’m just going to glide over this nuisance as I remember I had to lay down a deposit for our first water bill that was five times more than the actual water bill itself. What really made me anxious? All of these companies requested the same thing: that I was to keep the utilities in my name for twelve consecutive months to avoid a cancellation fee.

I had been thinking about moving closer to work so my commute wouldn’t be so long but haven’t pulled the trigger because the thought of living in South County is a thought that disgusts me to my core. While I do live in a bougie area in the North Side, there is less homogeny. The North Side has its charm, I feel more welcome and comfortable. South County the people can be total dickwads, as many of them are rich with no regard to anyone who falls in a lower tax bracket. I’m a working class gal who grew up in a working class family. I don’t know anything else. Living amongst the working class makes me feel at ease.

The thought of staying in one place for a full year was an upsetting pill to swallow. Since I started renting, I’ve always kept the amount of things to move down to a minimum—all of my possessions can be easily stuffed into tote bags, used purses and other random shoe boxes . The furniture I own, which includes a cheap night stand, a bed with a mattress that’s too old to still be utilizing, a head board that was found on the side of the road with a broken down dresser, could easily be tossed if I needed to make a quick getaway. As long as my laptop, DVD and book collection is somewhere by my side, I’m okay to do away with the rest. My real babies? My precious Criterions.

Right before my friend moved across the country, he told me how he threw away all of his furniture and was planning to buy new things when he arrived at his final destination. He explained to me that a couch was the perfect place to nap on—you could catch some zzz’s but not get too comfortable to the point where you find yourself slumbering into a five hour coma. If you nap on the bed, you’re essentially fucked. He made the argument that a couch can tie the living room together. I nonchalantly told him I would rather get a bunch of pillows and throw them in the corner of the room and call it a day, explaining that the living room didn’t need furniture. He shook his head in disappointment as he sipped his beer, acting as if I had just confessed that I had voted for Trump in the 2016 Election.

When he was talking to me about this, my pea brain couldn’t fathom buying a couch. Buying a couch means one more thing to saddle me down. One more thing I had to worry about if I have to drop everything to leave. I would, in essence, be betrothed to that couch since I put in money and time to purchase it. Of course once my roommate moved out, she sold the couch which meant we had to buy another couch. I personally would have preferred having a vacant hole in the middle of the living room than to even thinking about getting something to fill the blank space in our home, but majority rules.

A few weeks prior I had another “Heaven-reveals-her-adverseness-towards-commitment” conversation where I told this same friend that a manager of mine had given me the hint that they were planning on hiring me as a permanent employee.

“That’s good”

I think this is the point in the conversation where I made a face that revealed discomfort and uncertainty.

“That’s what you wanted…right?”

“My feelings on it are like being in a relationship: we have a good thing going. I don’t need a piece of paper or a ring to make me official. I can leave when I want, I’m not tied down to the company”

“You know you can just quit, right?”

I mean, yeah. That’s simple. Fuck, even down right logical. I can absolutely quit. I am still single, I have no children, no burden to keep me from one day submitting my two weeks notice, quitting and moving to the East Coast, if I so pleased.

However that means I’m committing to something—the main word in that sentence being “commitment”, which to me is just another word for “stuck”. My romantic history is one of interest when it ties to the idea of commitment— men I have embarked on some relationship with have been unavailable either emotionally or physically. Maybe that’s why I was attracted to them initially—I knew they’d never commit out of unwillingness or they didn’t live in the same state as me. I could have feelings towards the person without ever having to commit. Crushes are great because of this—I can fantasize about the person I’m mushy about without ever going through the messiness of being in a relationship, the tough stuff that comes with being tied down to one individual. I’m about 99.9% certain these particular men’s desirability factor was based on their inclination to commit, which in the back of my mind I knew would never come to fruition. I could put the effort into having a relationship without having to deal with all the hard stuff. You know, the “commitment”. In turn, I could protect myself from having one person know me, all of me, the ugliness I carefully shield from the rest of the world. Everyone who has interacted with has a piece of the puzzle that is Me, each piece a contribution to making the full picture of Heaven. I can’t imagine one person holding all the pieces to complete that puzzle. They wouldn’t like the finished piece.

Marriage has never been in the blueprint for me, having children is still up in the air but as I get older that option seems further and further away from ever happening, which I’m completely okay with. As I’ve gotten older, I’ve realized I work at my best when I’m solitary. Every failed relationship that is embroidered into the quilt of my so-called romantic life, every man that is magically appeared into my life as easily as they have mysteriously disappeared has given me more insight that being alone is okay. I think if I were to ever find myself in something that resembled commitment, I would be itching to get out of the relationship as quickly as I entered it. I like the idea of being committed to one person in theory, but if I were ever to put it into practice I’m sure it would be emotional mayhem.

I’ve never needed another person to feel complete. All I’ve needed is the knowledge that I can come and go out of things with ease, whenever I please. The peace of mind knowing that I can make a quick escape is more titillating than any “perfect” man I would ever meet and want to settle down with.