Sixteen Things to Feel Better About the Weather

June in California.

Kicking off Pride Month in Los Angeles with nothing but dreary grey weather is homophobic and annoyingly emo. To combat it, I give you: Sixteen Things, or: An Assortment of Good Art & Bad Advice.

1. Happy Accidents (2000)

   1. Marisa Tomei and Vincent D’Onofrio star in this naughties speculative fiction rom-com. D’Onofrio plays Sam, a time traveler (or is he?). Ruby (Tomei) is a “fixer” who bails on relationships when she realizes the men she dates are beyond saving. She, understandably, doesn’t believe Sam when he reveals he is from the year 2470 and concludes he’s probably insane. But they’re in love, and it’s Vincent D’Onofrio, so these crazy kids try to make it work. In the “making it work” section of the film, we get a stellar scene in the diner (which should be studied in film school) where Sam demonstrates on Ruby’s body how he time traveled (swoon). He likens the bend of her knee to time collapsing on itself. The past and present fold together like a letter—on either side, eternity. Way hotter than Interstellar.

      

2. My Meteorite (2020)

   1. Experimental filmmaker/artist Harry Dodge’s memoir. It is also, in some ways, about the collapsibility of time and memory. Miranda July, Maggie Nelson (Harry’s partner), Harry’s biological mother, and a meteorite from eBay all weave together into a well-structured, well-researched, and profoundly emotional literary debut.

3. “Love Like Woe” by The Ready Set.

   1. As a culture, we have failed to acknowledge the absolute powerhouse musical sub-genre I like to call “Songs For Middle School Dances in 2011.” Ke$ha’s early discography, “Boyfriend” by Justin Bieber, most things by Jason Derulo, and the Leighton Meester/Cobra Starship collaboration, “Good Girls Go Bad” all feature in this category. There was jumping, grinding, glitter eyeliner, and inappropriate knock-off bandage dresses. In a word, iconic.

      

4. An Emma binge-watch.

   1. Begin with the BBC mini-series with Romola Garai, follow it up with Clueless, and then the Autumn De Wilde/Anya Taylor-Joy adaptation from 2020. Yes, I am leaving out Gwyneth Paltrow’s 1996 version because snooze—there’s only room for one 90s adaptation, and Clueless is the clear winner, thanks to Mona May’s costume design, Azzedine Alaïa’s iconic red dress, Amy Heckerling’s writing and direction, and unforgettable performances by Alicia Silverstone and Brittany Murphy. No notes.

      

5. ASMR by itsblitzzz.

   1. The account is primarily vlog content now but go into the 2018 archives for some top-notch massage/hair-playing ASMR gems. Perfect for hair-obsessed Leo insomniacs (i.e., me).

   2. As gentle, platonic touch isn’t something we often encounter as adults, these videos conjure childhood memories of playing with friends’ hair in class, though I doubt many sleepover massage trains feature reiki or jojoba oil (except, perhaps, in Calabasas).

6. Make a playlist solely comprised of Carly Simon’s ex-lovers.

   1. Theorize which man belongs to each verse of “You’re so Vain,” mapping it out on a Pop-Murder-Board, complete with scribbling and red string. We all need hobbies, I’m told.

7. Reactivate your old Tumblr account (or MySpace, I don’t know how old you are).

   1. Log in and begin shit posting as if no time has passed through the eyes of your younger self. Unless you suddenly become wildly famous, no one on the Internet will have to see your most embarrassing online self, so don’t sweat it.

8. Give up none of your vices, but think more intentionally about them.

   1. This comes from Emily (thank you, Emily) in New York. My only addendum is this: make sure you’re doing more things that are good for you than not. Life is short—take a spin class, eat cake, rip your vape, read a book, do whatever feels good.

9. Calico (2023) by Ryan Beatty

   1. Ryan Beatty is arguably the best artist to come out of Brockhampton (despite never even being an official member). Calico is an impressive, detailed follow-up to Dreaming of David from 2020. His live recording of “Andromeda” is a particular stand out. That's love after all, isn't it? / What stops me from spending it all? / Spinning out, Andromeda / Watching Jupiter come back around again.

   2. Listening to this lying on my living room carpet, it is the kind of music that sticks to you—like driving through a highway tunnel on a bright afternoon, entirely enveloped and blinking back sunspots like a memory.

      

10. Crest Whitening Leave-on Teeth Whitening Treatment with LED Accelerator Light

    1. I picked this up from the locked section of the oral care section from the Sunset Target. Between the junk food and black coffee essentially on a drip, I need all the help I can get.

    2. On the phone this last Thursday, my mother and I talked about laser facials and how neither of us feels comfortable leaving the house without makeup. In the past five years, self-absorption has been repackaged into virtuosity.  I don’t blame women for their plastic surgery, but Choice Feminism seems unable to acknowledge how most of our “choices” come from unconsciously yielding to oppressive systems. Vilifying pillow-faced women over forty while congratulating a girl on TikTok for her ski-slope rhinoplasty is disappointing and perhaps agist. We accept beautifying procedures so long as they are invisible and, most importantly, effective. It is not the principle that we care about but the result.

    3. I am a hypocrite. How often has vanity invaded my life? I’ve dedicated vast amounts of my diet, time, and money to beautifying practices. If I could be comfortable being clean, ugly, and smart, I would. If I could let go of preening, of greedy looks in iPhone cameras, the way prettiness feels like some great coup, some evidence of my betterness, I would.

    4. There is always more I could be doing (often in the wrong direction).

11. Minnesota.

    1. A quiet, meditative memory blurred through the porch light, a thick film of deet. Barges and bodegas and cinema and VHS tape. Small trails back to contentedness, the littlest of openings (like sunscreen, like fireworks, twigs in the sand, a lost map, leaping frogs unearthed from under a boat) to a world without fathers or mothers. For a few weeks every year, I was free of parentage or dogma (except those few Sundays at mass and the morning songs at the flag). Friendship was the thing—goodness and stables and exploding guns in the sky, dark waters, biodegradable shampoo, capsized sailboats in the cool of the morning—a godless religion.

12. Single World.

    1. Fuck your boyfriend (or don’t). Be relentless. Find a body and haul it home (consensually). Be merciless. Find somebody the daughter of somebody famous. Make like they were always yours.

13. The lime-flavored White Claw.

    1. Crack open a cold one. Let the first swallows burn your throat. I could pretend to prefer the recommendations from my local natural wine spot, but I’m a simple girl with bad taste.

       

14. Step out after dinner and go for a cup of coffee instead of a smoke.

    1. Walk with it in the chill of Los Angeles. Watch the steam wind its way out of the little tab opening. Burn your hand from the spill. Walk with someone new or a favorite album. Walk on a busy street as night falls. Exhaust yourself. Collapse into your sheets at 9:45 pm.

15. Watch the first season of Keeping Up With The Kardashians in junction with analysis from Kardashian Kolloquium.

    1. Think critically about class, shifting American diversionary tactics, and how the Kardashians positioned themselves as the pinnacle of feminine, not necessarily feminist (as if that were even possible) post-capitalist success.

16. Call your high school situationship.

    1. If they answer, tell them something small that reminded you of them. Fabricate a story if necessary. They will see right through this, but whatever embarrassment there might be for being the one to call will be entirely outweighed by just how flattering it is to be thought of.

    2. Keep the call to less than fifteen minutes. These people are best left as daydream fodder, something to pull out from your drawer and look over when bored or creatively stagnated. The memory of former lovers is like an emaciated beast whose diet consists of teenage soliloquies, relegated to the attic along with your old diaries and bad poetry. Calling them keeps it fresh, rejuvenates the memory—a little taste of the real thing—but don’t get too attached, and don’t fantasize for too long.

    3. The party on the other line will spend the better part of the following months wondering why you never followed up on those pictures from back home. Leave them wanting more, as the magazines say. There’s something to be said for mystery, a seductiveness to a hidden life.

Don’t listen to a goddam word I say. I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again: I’m just somebody on the Internet.