Check out the latest episode of my podcast! Please rate/review/subscribe!!
Check out the latest episode of my podcast! Please rate/review/subscribe!!
Yes, I only ever post here if I have a new podcast. But, I think you’ll really like this podcast if you liked my blog. It’s called Les Deux You Remember This? and it’s about Hollywood in the early 2000’s. Les Deux is completely researched and written, and the first episode is about the feud of Paris Hilton and Lindsay Lohan.
Please subscribe on iTunes and leave a rating and review!!! Thanks, boos.
My friend Shannon Amabile and I started a podcast- She’s an actual MFT and I’m a therapist like a bartender’s a therapist. We’re also comedians! The goal of the podcast is to help relieve the stigma of getting help for mental health issues both big and small. And to be famous!
We’d love to have some questions to answer on future episodes, so if you need any advice or have questions like “what personality disorder do you think Lindsay Lohan has?” (that particular question is covered, but you get the idea) you can email us at email@example.com or submit anonymously at our tumblr http://youneedtherapypodcast.tumblr.com/
Please download our podcast on iTunes… subscribe, rate, review and help us get into the New and Noteworthy section so I at least have some hope of not handing out samples at Whole Foods across SoCal for the rest of my life!
NEW EPISODES EVERY WEDNESDAY! AND I PROMISE WITH THIS PODCAST IT WILL ACTUALLY BE EVERY WEDNESDAY!!!!
Scooter really is his name. Maybe I should have made up an alias for him, but honestly, the name is like, 80% of the story.
So, the two of us were texting before our blind date, and naturally I dropped that I had a blog because, truth be told, this thing is a real dick magnet. Sorry, for the crude phrasing, but there is no better way to put it. This blog is the Greased Lightening of digital media.
Scooter asked if I was going to blog about him.
Although I was entering into this date with an open mind, I knew somewhere deep down the odds were that I would end up blogging about a blind date with a guy named Scooter.
And here we are.
I have no choice. You know who did have a choice? Scooter’s parents. They did not have to name their kid Scooter, practically forcing me to blog about him.
But like I told Scooter, I only blog about people if you give me something to blog about. Bless his heart, he thought I meant if we had a great date, but I set him straight and let him know that this was all in his hands. I only blog about a guy when he gives me 400+ words worth of material (See: 700 words on The Bicycle Thief). Unfortunately for Scooter, I’ve already passed 200 words and I haven’t even made it to the restaurant yet.
Scoots and I met at a restaurant in West Hollywood, where the waitresses’ uniforms looked like they were in a production of Newsies at Saint Agatha’s School for Wayward Girls. It was both adorable and uncomfortable.
To get the conversation rolling, I told Scootie-Toots that he looked like Peter from Homeland.
It was as if I just told him he looked like Mandy Patinkin.
“But it’s a compliment,” I told him. Maybe he thought I meant Mandy Patinkin? “He’s the young guy who works with Carrie on season 2.”
“No, I know who you’re talking about, I just don’t look like him. We’re just both the same age with dark hair. That would be like if I told you that you look like Emma Stone just because you’re both pale red heads.”
At this point, I’m a little miffed. Obviously, I look like Lindsay Lohan circa Herbie Fully Loaded.
“Right, but I don’t look like Emma Stone and you do look like the guy from Homeland.”
From there the conversation only went down hill. We moved on from him vaguely insulting my skin tone to him flat out pooping on the city where I basically grew up.
“So, where did you go to school?” Scoots-boots inquired.
“Emerson College in Boston.”
“Oh, I spent about 6 months there for a TV show I was producing… Terrible city.”
“You know that those Boston Marathon bombings occurred in Boston, right? Like, two days ago.”
“Ya, it doesn’t make it any less of hell hole.”
It should be noted that Scooter was saying all of this in a pin striped blazer. He was saying this in a pin striped blazer, and this whole time his name was SCOOTER.
Finally, the bill comes, and I made a VERY half-hearted courtesy reach for the check. He looks at it and says to me, “guess what our waitress’s name is.”
SCOOTER SCOOTER SCOOTER SCOOTER SCOOTER SCOOTER SCOOTER SCOOTER SCOOTER SCOOOOOOOOTERRRRRRR!!!!!
Victoria, if you are reading this, you were perfectly lovely, and those suspenders looked darling on you.
Scooter, if you are reading this, you can’t have that poor of an attitude AND be named Scooter.
Razor Scooter and I have not spoken since.
before a night out?
READ ON FOR THE SCOOP!
4 Hours Prior to Leaving the House: Get a craving for some kind of take-out food for dinner. I will generally rationalize the fact that I’m about to eat some sort of heavy meal before wearing some sort of spandex/cotton blend dress by telling myself that eating a huge meal before drinking is the responsible thing to do.
3.5 Hours Prior to Leaving the House: Curse myself for eating Indian or Greek food before going out. No amount of Listerine Total Care Mouthwash will hide this smell because now the chicken tikka masala is just seeping out of my pores. I make peace with myself and God and the fact that I’ll be talking with my hand discreetly in front of my mouth for the night.
2 Hours and 15 Minutes Prior to Leaving the House: Remember that time exists and who I am as a person and realize that 2 hours and 15 minutes is cutting it close if I want to be ready on time.
2 Hours Prior to Leaving the House: Stop watching a 10 year-old episode of Law and Order: SVU on TBS and get in the shower (unless it’s the episode where Olivia goes undercover at the women’s prison, in which case, all is lost).
1 Hour and 15 Minutes Prior to Leaving the House: Start in on a glass of wine while I dry my hair. Drinking while getting ready to go out and drinking while cooking are my two favorite hobbies besides drinking outside during the day.
45 Minutes Prior to Leaving the House: Realize that drinking before putting my eye make up on was a bad idea. Go through 8 Q-tips trying to clean up the mess I’ve made with my Urban Decay Naked Palette.
30 Minutes Prior to Leaving the House: Take a break because make up is tiring. Walk around the house. Pick at whatever food I didn’t finish from earlier. Pour myself more wine. Decide it’s too late to cancel now. Consider canceling, again. No, I’m going, I have to go.
15 Minutes Prior to Leaving the House: Look at my phone and see that I’m supposed to be at my destination in 5 minutes. Apply mascara and curl my eyelashes.
10 Minutes Prior to Leaving the House: Put on the outfit I decided on earlier.
5 Minutes Prior to Leaving the House: Put on a different outfit.
1 Minute Prior to Leaving the House: Curl my eyelashes.
30 Seconds Prior to Leaving the House: Text friends that I’m on the road.
5 Seconds Prior to Leaving the House: Curl my eyelashes and tease my hair.
1 Second Prior to Leaving the House: Look longingly at the couch.
As you can see, there’s so much more to getting ready for a night out than most men realize.
Lindsay, let me first preface this post by saying that as I write this, I am sitting in my childhood bedroom.
I know this looks bad. And sure, I’m making myself low-calorie margaritas at my desk for dinner, and I don’t know if that qualifies me for an eating disorder or a drinking problem. And yes, I’m spending my Thursday night in New Hampshire writing in a blog that I don’t get paid for. The “I” on my keyboard is so worn out that I have to warm it up before I start writing (I’m serous… seriiious), and I’m starting to think that when your “I” key is over-used it points to a Real Housewives level of narcism. And yet, I continue to write in this blog that nobody pays me for because there isn’t much left to do.
So, with that kind of full discloser, it may not seem like I’ve got it together enough to give you advice, but I’ve never done meth before, and like, no offense, I kinda think you have, so maybe I have some wisdom to impart. Besides the meth, I’ve also been living with my parents for about a year and a half after college, so maybe you can learn something now that you’ve moved back into your Long Island pre-Parent Trap home.
Okay, so first, you probably feel really bad about yourself. You should. I’m not trying to be mean, but I think you need to take some responsibility for screwing up your life. You were a child star, and that definitely sets you up for some problems. Your mother was a failed show girl or something and your dad was a money-hungry coke fiend, and that’s just the perfect storm to create a… well, a you… Basically, you are the new industry standard for a screwed-up child star. No one remembers Dana Plato, anymore. It’s all you.
You’ve kind of hit rock bottom, so let this be a time of reflection. Reflect on what you’ve done wrong, and what you can do in the future to be better. Make a game plan. Take an acting class. We all saw Liz and Dick, and I’ll grant you, you had your moments, but you could use a brush-up. Take this opportunity to chill and get back to basics. Don’t worry too much about what your peers are doing. I know you must hate Jennifer Lawrence so, so much right now, but just worry about yourself and what you can do to come back swinging. There’s no shame in moving home, we’ve all been doing it. Lena Dunham did it. It’s the thing, it’s chic! This is a bad economy, and snorting your entire fortune up your nose happens to everyone. I say “everyone” with the assumption that everyone is Stevie Nicks. And look how well she turned out!!
Just remember, if Robert Downey Jr. can make a come back, so can you. He professed his friendship for Mel Gibson with a weird kiss during the Golden Globes in a room full of Jews. He cannot possibly be smarter than you.
Just know that I believe in you, Lindsay.
The life of Lindsay Lohan since 2010 has just been one long, disappointing follow-up segment at the end of Intervention, where you see her in treatment, and she’s all smiles and clear skin, saying how now she wants to live! and then the screen goes black, saying “two days later Lindsay checked herself out of treatment and relapsed. She has moved back in with her mother and says she’s been sober since —-.” And that “sober since” date is always, like, a month before you watched the episode so you just know it’s not true. (By the way, it took me an hour to write that paragraph because the second I wrote “follow up” and “Intervention” I said “heyyy, whatever happened to Sarah and Mikeal, the Romeo and Juliet heroin twins?” and then went on a Google bender).
My journey began with being in denial that Lindsay had a problem, to being sure that she could get better and make a comeback, to losing all hope, then gaining a little hope back when she went red again.
But yesterday she missed her call on set for The Canyons, a movie starring a porn actor named James Dean, who couldn’t think to name himself James PEAN because apparently I have to do all the work around here. No matter how much I want her to, she can’t be responsible enough to show up to her job on time or pick a movie that doesn’t involve a porn star or not do a Marilyn Monroe themed photo shoot. I have finally accepted that. And now I can embrace it.
She’s the little train wreck that could. She’s MY little train wreck. I can’t wait to usher in the holiday season with Liz and Dick November 25th.
I’m thinking viewing party and live-blogging. WHO. IS. IN???
OMG, omg you guyyyys. Look at this letter Lindsay wrote to me for the NH Union Leader!!
As you know, Raven Symone is an avid reader of your blog, and she forwarded the link to the open letter you wrote me. I have to say, I was a little hurt at first. I was defensive, and I felt like you didn’t have to use that picture of me with my eroded Tic-Tac teeth.
I realize now that you were only trying to help me, and I think I owe you an apology and a thank you. You have always stuck by me- look at this picture of us circa 2007:
I want to be that Lindsay again. A Lindsay you can be proud of.
I finally stepped up and completed my community service at the morgue and took some responsibility, which is exactly what you knew I needed. I begged Lorne Michaels to host SNL, and though I know I was a little rusty, I hope you realize that The Real Housewives of Disney was all for you.
I know I should have died my hair red for that night- I could hear your prayers for it like we were twins- I Know Who Killed Me twins, not Parent Trap (and only you understand the difference). I thought I could keep the blonde, but you were right- red hair reminds everyone of an innocent time, right before Wilmer Valderama came along and ruined everything. Red hair is what the people want to see.
Now look at me:
This is me, red headed and ready to work. Red-y to make a Lifetime movie about Elizabeth Taylor. And I have you to thank for your continuous support, and I’m sorry this comeback took so long. I know I almost lost you there, but when I found out even you were doubting me, that’s when I hit rock bottom.
And from there, the only place I could go was up.
[Update: It has come to my attention that some readers think this is real (including my Dad, which if this happened, obviously I would have called and told him through tears of joy and relief). It should also be cleared up that Raven Symone is not actually an avid reader, but if you know her, please pass this along because I do feel this blog is so Raven.]
Consider this a sequel or companion piece to my recent post “I Want to Save the Reality Stars.”
Your addiction has affected me in the following ways:
I have stood by you for the last 5-7 years. Through your ups and downs I have defended you, and I feel like I have been made a fool. I have trusted you, and you have betrayed me.
You have stolen from me, and I’m sure you used that cash to go party. Did you know that I saw I Know Who Killed Me on opening day at 11am? I tried to convince myself that it wasn’t you who robbed me of my $7, and I deluded myself into thinking that the movie would one day catch on and become a cult hit… But I know… deep down… that the symbolism was much too heavy-handed and you did not, in fact, know who killed you.
I gave you another chance with Georgia Rule, and again you let me down. I tried to push you away and didn’t see Labor Pains, but I never stopped caring.
When you went to rehab and jail and rehab and jail, every time I was so hopeful that this time you would let out the inner Robert Downey Jr. that I knew was there, and make your own Iron Man. Everything would be okay again.
But then I saw this picture of you.
Lindsay, what am I supposed to think with those teeth? That is meth mouth and don’t try to convince me otherwise! And now you’re going to be posing full frontal in Playboy? If you don’t care about what I think, fine. But what about Tina?
Tina Fey gave you your career. She gave you the only legitimately good movie you’ve ever made since Parent Trap. I’m sure she’s already washed her hands of you, but how can you look at yourself and your janky teeth in the mirror every day knowing how you disapointed her?
This is so hard for me to say, Lindsay, but I just can’t do it anymore. For my own sake, I have to stop ennabling you. Just know that if you truly make a change and get help, I will be there waiting for you with open arms, and I pray that you can help yourself before you die or all your teeth fall out.
Know that it is never too late to make a change. And you look much better as a red head.