2016 began, for me, with a small spell of alcohol poisoning.
And, the year never really lost that distinct aftertaste of vomit, Prosecco and wasted promises. The last 365 days were exhausting. I just finish getting over my last brassy dye job, only to see baby white hairs sprout again. And as a final “screw you,” I now spy them in my eyebrows. As if I didn’t inflict enough damage on my damned brows in the ‘90s, now middle age will finish the job of completely eradicating my brows.
#Blessed makes me #Sick
Oh gosh, forgive me, I forgot that I am supposed to feign positivity instead of being honest.
My negativity is grating, and I just don’t care. Can I be forgiven for intellectually knowing that I have it pretty damned good, but internally feeling down and out? Can I eliminate myself from the hashtag blessed bullshit that permeates every adult conversation I’m forced to endure? Yeah, I get it, I could have it so much worse, but instead of respecting that, I’m going to complain about everything. I am nothing if not consistent. Well that, and a bummer.
Pain is relative. We can’t all compare our own pain against those with more pain. Pain is pain, and to engage in insipid conversations about how much worse life could be doesn’t actually make anyone feel better, not for any longer than that talk lasts.
2016’s Little Pockets of Love
There were rainbows of coolness that sprang from the mushrooms of shit, little pockets of love like Winona Ryder’s cool-girl reemergence in “Stranger Things,” and Netflix’s newer installment of anxiety-inducing terror, “The OA”. And, The Lumineers’ “Cleopatra” is just about as good as it gets for music to my ears.
I was transfixed for every second of FX’s “The People vs. OJ Simpson” and transported to my idealistic youth and my horror at the OJ trial outcome. I went to see Jason Isbell at the College Street Music Hall in Connecticut, and I remembered that life is beautiful and talent like his is an amazing thing.
A&E’s new hit docuseries “Leah Remini: Scientology and the Aftermath” is perfect for my Scientology obsession. This show gives Leah Remini the role of a lifetime and shows that Scientology is scarier than “Stranger Things” upside down world.
Awash in Melancholy
But, it’s not all Pop Tarts & Quaaludes here, peeps.
In April, Prince died at the age of 57. To make Prince’s death even worse, he died from an accidental drug overdose and it was like a final blow- not because I think less of Prince because he used drugs but because I thought he was one of my idols that didn’t. The thought of Prince, alone and dead in an elevator at Paisley Park isn’t how I wanted him to go.I’d much prefer to think of him dying in his sleep surrounded by a harem of women, blanketed in purple sheets of the highest thread count.
But, let’s not get too down, right?
We lose Carrie Fisher, an actress from an acting dynasty, a sharp-witted writer, a paramour of rock stars and an all-around extraordinary person. She was chock-full of demons, honesty and zingers. But, we get to keep Lena Dunham, a woman from an influential family, fully equipped with a pricey education and a rock star beau, a ridiculous lack of humor and a book that is actually unreadable.
Making fun of Lena Dunham has become easier than ridiculing the Kardashians, so in 2017, my resolution is to stop. Not because I am being kind, but because she’s just so boring.
My Celebrity-Stalking Side Gig is Booming
Between furrowing my brow and applying coconut oil all over my face, I found time to snap pictures with some of my favorite celebrities.
To celebrate the 4th of July, I did what any good American might: I planted my whole family on a hot beach to watch Tom Hiddelston & Taylor Swift fawn all over each other. My sunburn had barely healed before I I met lil’ Rhody’s favorite alternative rock goddess, Tanya Donelly. Not to be outdone, I capped off the year with a New York City encounter with one of America’s original, smart and cool gals, the awesome Sandra Bernhard.
The Kardashian Curse Spreads
For another year, I want to thank the Kardashians for all the entertainment. The ne’er-do-well son in a family filled with losers procreated with Blac Chyna, only to implode in a nasty split that coincided with their own reality show. Kim & Kayne’s marriage lasted another year, but not without a mental breakdown and an awesomely awful burglary in Paris.
So, I’ve been thinking, can we start blaming everything on the Kardashians? That’s my plan.
Well, I do still take time to read books, and here are a few recommendations:
Hunger Makes Me a Hungry Girl: A Memoir by Carrie Browntein
When Breath Becomes Air by Paul Kalanithi
A Mother’s Reckoning by Sue Klebold
The Girls: A Novel by Emma Cline
All the Missing Girls by Megan Miranda
My Name Is Lucy Barton by Elizabeth Strout
Happy New Year, y’all!