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Happy Fathers Day

This morning, I woke up at 6:30 am.  Having just gone to sleep three hours prior, I checked my phone, not to check the time, but to see how many likes my most recent post to Instagram had received.  A paltry handful.  Lame.

I then called my favorite person in the world, my mom.  Why am I writing about my mom on Father’s Day, you ask.  Well you would, because you’re pushy.  And everybody knows it.

Today I called my mother to pick me up from a friend’s house at 6:30 am.  Why was I at a friend’s house?  Where was my car?  Why couldn’t I drive myself?  And last but not least, why should my mother pick me up? 

Cool it with all the questions tho for real.

(I slept over.  I left it at my acting studio after a great opening night of my one woman show.  I wanted to celebrate with a lot of drinks.  And my mom is cool like that if you must know, dang.)

My mom couldn’t pick me up however because she had to set up the Farmer’s Market she organizes.  She passed me off to my dad who was walking the dogs.  He basically does everything she doesn’t want to do so it made sense that he’d be given the duty to receive his hungover daughter at her childhood friend’s house across town in East LA.  I’m 28 and this is what we do.  I’m a tick that has nestled itself deeply into the fibers of my parents’ do-gooderness.  

He arrived five minutes earlier than I expected because he does things when he says he does instead of me when I’m all ‘I’m on my way’ while I’m still brushing my teeth. After I hopped into the Ford Fusion, I quickly launched into busting his chops.  

Chops-busting is pretty much the best thing I do.  And I learned how to do it by doing it to my dad all day, every day.

I asked: What’d you do yesterday?

Dad: Went on a bike ride.

Where’d you go?

Downtown, then followed the LA River, up Los Feliz and back.  

That’s cool. Who’d you go with?

Laurie, and some guys in a bike group.

You hang with a bike gang?  Who are these losers letting you into their gang?

Some guys who organize bike rides.  

And they let you ride with them?  Who are they?

They’re young, wiry, 20-something Latino guys.

(At this point, I’m fully tuned in, wiry, 20-something Latino guys are my favorite kind of guys.  Second only to ginger-bearded Spaniards named Xabi Alonso.)

Were any of them cute?

I don’t know.

You don’t know if any of them were cute.

I guess some were.


Tsss. (He’s fully annoyed by now, but why stop?)

How’d you meet them?

They work at a bike shop downtown! I told Laurie where they were going and we met up to ride.  (Long pause…I’m dumbfounded.  My dad is not a cool guy.  These guys sound cool.  World upside down.)

You told Laurie where to go??

I’m the leader of the pack.

That’s just sad.

It’s not sad! She listens to me.  Unlike my family.

Don’t these people know there are alternatives?!

People at work listen to me too.

Not Randy.  Fuckin’ Randy.


It wasn’t until I got back into my piece of shit Corolla that I replayed the morning.  I woke up, called my parents and my dad picked me up. 

I went to Noah’s Bagels to get my dad a bagel and coffee.  It’s Father’s Day after all.  I had to do something decent for the guy.  Most people might look at my morning as sort of sad.  I’m too old for this behavior.  Meh.  Don’t really care.  

I think it’s sort of great.  My dad is the nicest guy in the world.  I know there is nothing in the world he wouldn’t do for me.  Literally.

Sometimes I wake him up in the middle of the night to kill spiders for me.  I’m not 5 years old.  But what’s the harm?! Spiders can kill.

I’m not spoiled rotten.  I’m hardworking and kind.  Not really.  But often.  There are people out there who would say, “Oh Monica, she threw a cool party and let me crash one time.  I guess you could say she’s nice.”  That’s good enough. 

And I don’t abuse my dad’s kindness nearly as much as I could.  I’m not a drug addict.  I’m not drowning in credit card debt.  My dad is my mom’s doer.  He does all the hard stuff.  He doesn’t complain about it.  He goes to work every day.  And everybody loves him.  Literally everyone.  It’s cool but also like, ‘get your own dad’.  Because he’s mine and he’s cool and if you let him know he’s cool maybe he’ll get too busy to pick me up when I leave my car parked on the street in Hollywood.




The Life Aquatic / Get Em High


The Life Aquatic / Get Em High




I’ve been watching so much TV you guys, it’s like a lot right now, and it’s all so, so, very good.

First off, have you guys seen Lindsay on OWN?  I don’t know what the hell magnetism that show casts upon mine eye but it’s super boring and Lindsay is kind of a C U Next Tuesday BUT I CAN’T STOP WATCHING IT.  Every Sunday.  Every. Sunday. My own fascination with it needs further analysis.  

How many times have we compared these starlets to car wrecks? No matter how hard you try, you can’t turn away, right?  Well, wrong because I breeze past car wrecks all day, son.  I sort of pride myself on not giving a shit about them.  So why is it that I can’t screech past LiLo??

It might be Lindsay’s humongous boobs on her twiggy body that captivate me (but I always considered myself more of an ass man).  It might be that her house is full of literal piles of couture clothing in spite of the fact that she hasn’t worked in years.  (And yes, there in piles because it is so beyond her to hang up her own fucking clothes!!!) But I think it’s because I want to be her, in a way.  In a lot of ways I guess.  Not because I want to treat my staff poorly and lie about drinking when I shouldn’t be drinking (Episode 5!!!), but she seems to have a lot of power over people and I like the idea of that.  Imagine telling people what to do, and then them doing it.  DAMN.  Must be nice!

Then there’s that True Detective.  Holy moly, McConaughey.  Is it hot in here?  Or is it just that nappy ponytail? The only stupid part of that show is Michelle Monaghan.  And I’m not hating on these regular faced leading lady types (cough, Jennifer Garner, cough, Kirstin Dunst, cough, Katherine fucking Heigl cough) but I guess, I’m just fucking jealous of their careers.  (Jealousy is a recurring theme obviously.  I should deal with that.)

I’m jealous because Michelle Monaghan is this whore-Madonna archetype on the show and casts these seduction spells on the two male leads like it ain’t no thang.  But to me, it is a thang, because I’m over all these skinny white ladies with their disheveled appearances who hardly doll themselves up and get every Tom, Dick and Harry tripping over themselves to devote their miserable lives to them.  What about sexy ethnically ambiguous raced women who could rock their little suburban man brains?  Huh?  What about us?  Show us on TV, HBO, AMC, Showtime, and all other channels of the universe.  It’s like, sure, white ladies of television if you don’t want to put on some lipstick don’t put on any fucking lipstick.  I’m a feminist.  I have a brain.  But then why does every Latina or Black woman on TV who scores the lead’s attention have to be Eva Longoria stunning? Or Kerry Washington polished?  Or perfect like J.Lo? #SelenaFOREVER

But it’s ok, I don’t have to go there.  2014 is actually pretty great because I have RuPaul’s Drag Race and (spoiler alert) LaGanja was finally sent home! Bye, bitch.  I mean, your skin crawled every time she said ‘maw-ma’. It had to have.

And even though we all know everyone’s favorite, Bianca Del Rio, is obviously going to win, we still watch, right?? Because that finale is going to be hot fiyahh.  Bianca v. Adore. (!!!!!) First Latina showdown in Drag Race history! (!!!!!)  Plus, I don’t know if I’m reaching, but, I think they’re secretly in love with each other in spite of their age difference and should get married and have little drag babies.

Oh also, on my other reality show staple, Kenya’s dog, Velvet, died on RHOA and I cried.  But I’m really sensitive about dogs and death, so it’s not like I really cried for Kenya but more so the fact that dogs dying in general is always going to make me cry.  That dog could have belonged to Phaedra and I still would have cried.  Maybe.



There’s perfect.  And then there’s Martin Short and Catherine Mother Fucking O’Hara.

There’s perfect.  And then there’s Martin Short and Catherine Mother Fucking O’Hara.



Momma got a good review




It’s not often that I can’t sleep.  So infrequent in fact that I bristle at the mention of sleep aids.  Also, Ambien is nuts.  We can all agree on that.

But tonight I’m wide awake with no hope for sleep and it’s because I’m so deeply sad.  Not because of football but because as an actor I feel so sad for the loss of Philip Seymour Hoffman.  

I wasn’t a super fan but an admirer of his work.  And to be honest, his work was so effortlessly human it didn’t entice super-fandom.  He wasn’t a perfect-faced actor like Clooney or Leo.  He was fat and pale and sandy-haired.  And sexy.

At a party the night before he died, my friends and I talked about our celebrity crushes and we laughed about our ‘ugly’ celebrity crushes.  Mine being Paul Giamatti, my friend’s Philip Seymour Hoffman.

But now, even saying ‘ugly’ and Philip Seymour Hoffman in the same sentence is so cruel I’m ashamed of myself.  

But don’t we all have those crushes on regular guys? How else would Steve Buscemi be cast as a leading man? Some men are so comfortable being flawed that it doesn’t matter what they look like.  That’s sexy.  I choose Giamatti over Bradley Cooper any day.  Same went for Philip Seymour Hoffman.

Philip Seymour Hoffman had that thing. 

As an actor, he had everything.

I didn’t know him personally so I don’t know what drove him to heroin. But I do know how fucking hard it is to be an actor.  And he had everything.  He was talented, intelligent, funny and ambitious.  He was in 60 movies, booking gigs straight out of college.

He was so goddamn talented.  I’m surprised he only won one Oscar because he was nominated four times and every performance should have won.  He could have been nominated for Along Came Polly for fuck’s sake.

He was as funny as he was miserable.  And when he got to dive into the black well of misery freely, he dived like an Olympic swimmer. Until The Devil Knows You’re Dead is literally the most depressing movie I’ve ever seen.  And he faces each horrifying mishap as if he’s got everything under control.  But nothing is farther than the truth.

And maybe nothing was.



I’ve aborted more blogs in my life than I’ve ever aborted real life fetuses. Which is zero. I think.



Comedy Night...STARRING ME!



When I die bury me in Versace. Next to Cindy Crawford.

I love supermodels.  I always have.  I don’t care that they don’t eat.  (I’ll eat for them!) I don’t care that they exercise compulsively.  (I like a good jog now and then too!) I don’t care that they’re driven to abuse drugs to stave off their hunger pangs.  (It was college!) 

However, I feel like as a feminist I’m supposed to be angry at these impossible figures that drive young girls and women to anorexia.  But honestly, I’m not driven to anorexia and I’ve studied fashion shows since I could find the remote control by myself. It’s not their fault that I do or don’t eat.  (Just for clarification, I eat constantly.  There’s trail mix in my bed right now.  Not near my bed.  In.) 

Fashion has its standards.  Just like athletes have their standards.  Starvation and exercise are just part of the job.  Hell, high school wrestlers make themselves barf to make weight.  Not like I’d ever do that.  (I’m way too cheap.)

Besides, models are pretty. And since when are we holding pretty people accountable for their actions?? They don’t live by our rules.  (Just like Congressmen or Canadian mayors.) Hell, The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills can be racists* and get away with it just because they’re beautiful.  They literally have no other talents.  Literally.

So, give the models a break.  Less than 1% of women even have the body type that could potentially model so it’s not like our real lives are full of human gazelles sashaying around.  Unless you work in fashion, then that’s your fault.

People don’t like it because we all aspire in one way or another to be beautiful. Whatever your definition.  And go ahead, have your own definition.  It’s important you do because you should love yourself before you love anyone else and all that jazz.

But there’s a silver lining! I’m funny and smart and good with names probably because I wasn’t born beautiful.  I was awkward and chubby and had to try hard to make friends and be a good dancer and figure that stuff out.  (I also had a bowl cut and people thought I was transgender.)  All that struggle made me cool!  Ex post facto, (…e pluribus unum?) if you don’t struggle you ain’t cool! So models ain’t cool.  (Unless they were poor.) And that makes me feel good.



Dear Brandi Glanville

Dear Brandi Glanville,

You are inappropriate.  You are insensitive.  You are a dick.  And, you are not perfect.  (All criticisms that you’ve been kind enough to bestow upon yourself.)  And, I’m as surprised as you to find out, you are also a racist.

I watch Real Housewives of Beverly Hills a lot.  Like a lot, a lot.  I know the in’s and out’s of the show.  But I have to say, it hadn’t quite dawned on me that you were a racist.  I don’t know if you were just waiting for the first non-white cast member to join the show so you could let the tiger out of its cage.  But that kitty is out and proud. Rawr!  

Let’s back track, we know Joyce is not your favorite.  But is that an excuse to be racist?  Even to annoying beauty queens, ugh, unfortunately no!  So lame, right? 

But this Palm Springs trip, oh child no.  You messed it all up.  And it’s a two part episode, so that means there’s more bad stuff coming!!! (What is going to happen next week?!?!)

I’ll start from the beginning just so I can cover my bases.  I knew Palm Springs was doomed from the beginning.  From the first time Joyce’s eyes glimmered with the idea of a girls’ weekend, I knew… But how doomed I did not yet know.  Neither did Joyce.  Poor, Puerto Rican, non-swmming because she’s black, Joyce. But there I go, jumping ahead. Silly me. Maybe it’s because I’m black.  (It probably is, shoot.)

I saw you were headed down a dark path (pun-intended) when you started telling Joyce that her name wasn’t Latin.  Latin enough for you Brandi Glanville?  Right. I’m so sorry.  You’re an expert on Latin culture.  Remind me again because you’re…a…nope I don’t know why.

'Margarita' is better.  I get it.  At least 'Lupe' right?  Or 'Selena'!  But nooooo, Joyce had to go and have a white girl name.  What a bitch!  But luckily, you're so quick on your feet you came up with a better name! Instead of 'Joyce' you omitted the 'J' and repeatedly called her 'Yoyce' with a false Latin accent.  It was baby racist.  Micro-racist aggression.  We let white people slide all the time because we figure you'll tire yourself out and you'll quit it.  

But, Yoyce should have stepped in because her silence only got that tiger hungrier and hungrier.  Bad kitty!

Unfortunately B, you didn’t stop with the name thing.  Instead, you dropped the bomb.  You wanted to swim with Yoyce in the pool.  Then, she refused and told you she couldn’t actually swim.  Then you said, ‘You’re like a black person’.  Well, well, well. I hate to say this, that is totally racist. 

I know, you don’t think it is.  You didn’t call her a ‘nigger’ or anything.  Now, that is racist.  That is very, very racist.  But, there are things that qualify as racist that are not ‘get you slapped in public by a random black person’ racist.  These smaller racist remarks are racist too, and they’re mean.  You said a mean thing.  You hurt Joyce’s feelings.  And to be honest, you hurt my feelings.  You hurt other people’s feelings too.  You hurt people’s feelings who you’ve never even met before.  That’s why racist stuff is tricky.  You think it’s funny and then, before you know it, people are mad at you.  They’re mad because they’re hurt, girl.  It’s like when you’re drinking, and somebody says, ‘Wow! You have a drinking problem!’  And you’re like, ‘Shut up, no I don’t!’  And people keep saying it because that person just said it.  Now everybody is saying the same untrue thing about you.  (This rumor really has legs!) Everybody keeps saying you have a drinking problem!  But it’s not even true.  Now, imagine people were saying that for years and years and years.  (Like Richard Gere.  You know.)  Now imagine you were black and you were told you couldn’t swim because you were black.  What if you were a really good swimmer? It wouldn’t matter because people knew you couldn’t.  They’ve been saying it for years!  You’re black, you can’t swim.  That’s what you’re saying, Brandi.

The boring part is, when you make generalizations about people due to their race that is racist.  That is, in fact, the definition.  So when you say your words are ‘not racist’ you’re being illogical. Your words are the definitive example of racism.  It was like one of those examples from a racial sensitivity seminar that they tell you you must not say.

So quit making excuses and apologize for the mean, racist thing you said.  Say, “I’m sorry and I shouldn’t have said that”.  Leave it there.  No more, “I’m sorry if I offended anyone…”  People always do that when they’ve said something horrible!  It’s so silly!  It’s not about offending us.  Of course, people are offended.  People get offended when you say offensive things.

And lastly, quit saying that you have ‘so many’ black friends.  You can have ‘many’ black friends and still say racist things.  Those things can go together.  Like denim and denim.  (Fashion faux-why-not, right??) You see, your ‘many’ black friends aren’t responsible for showing you that there are still boundaries discussing race.  Mainly because you are a grown-up.  You have two sons.  You write books.  You appear on a TV show.  You’re responsible for the words that come out of your mouth-hole! 

But lucky for you, dear one, there’s a way out!  Say you’re sorry.  A real sorry.  People will get over it.   They’ll like you less.  But they’ll get over it.