Posts tagged Julia Prescott

The Mother of All Days

May 6th

Posted by Julia Prescott in Daily Blogs

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It’s remarkable to me that Mother’s Day is not given the same weight or social concern as even Tax Day. I would gladly meet with a thousand H & R Block representatives who roll their eyes at my poor financial planning than sit in stunned silence when yet another brunch is ruined because I can’t cook salted meats.

I don’t sweat M Day because I dislike Mama Prescott (quite the contrary). I sweat it because it’s difficult to properly equalize the massively disjointed playing field with just one day. Mimosas and bacon couldn’t possibly make up for child birth followed by years of morning sassiness.

I don’t care what kind of edible arrangement you have, no standard Mother’s Day present is all that personal, so I’ve decided to go back in time, when macaroni necklaces and sloppy finger-painting cards were enough to get by in the eyes of Mom and do an O.G.-style tribute to the woman who puts up with my shit on the reg.

There are three things to remember when it comes to my Mom: The Who, coffee, and Jesus. These are the three things she enjoys most in the world, and in a lot of ways I can see why.

Besides The Who being my Mom’s favorite band (and since she lived through the ‘60s and ‘70s she can tell you a thing or two about a thing or two when it comes to Pete Townsend), “Who?” is coincidentally her favorite phrase of all time.

Allow me to illustrate:

I’m sitting in front of the TV, the Kardashians are always inexplicably on. Mom: “Hey, did you pick up that-” (gets distracted by the TV) “Who are these -?” “Um…the Kardashians?” “Who?” “The Kardashians.” “Do I know them?” “I don’t know? They’re the Kardashians?” “Who?”

And scene.

I don't even think Kim knows who she is anymore, either.

My Mom loves coffee. Her blood is comprised of 2/3 java, her eyes are always in a coffee-fueled wide-eyed pleasantness, the skip in her step is attributed entirely to caffeine. One time she decided to give it up for a remarkably long 3 weeks and I tell ya, those were the longest 3 weeks of my life.

So it’s probably appropriate that being around her is like drinking coffee. She’s a morning person in the very definition and origin of the word. When I awake at 8am, she’s already been up for 4 hours. She twittered before it was a verb, and accomplishes more than I could ever dream of before noon. This alone is her superpower.

My Mom loves Jesus, and I can understand why. They have a lot in common.

My Mom loves to hang out with a bunch of dudes, usually animators or writers or other creative fellas that taught me how to be snarky in that manly way from an early age.

My Mom is everywhere. Often in the form of phantom voicemails I’ll receive days after they were recorded.

My Mom loves a good glass of wine and nice solid sandal.

Most importantly, when I was younger my Mom’s housework song wasn’t something uplifting or classically Motown, but Prince’s “1999.” She would sing it phonetically and rock back and forth like she was hearing that Happy Hour would go on forever. I thought nothing of this in the moment until decades later I was sitting in the audience eagerly awaiting Prince’s unshackled sexuality to sashay across the Prince-shaped stage in the Forum when something unexpected took over.

The first few beats of “1999” boomed through the surround sound speakers, women in low-cut tops and impossibly high heels shook their hips around me, men nodded their heads in approval of his sultry leadership. I was mid-way into saying, “I’M SO TURNED ON RIGHT NOW-” when suddenly my Mother’s face singing the provocative lyrics intercepted my brain. She had officially done the impossible by making the sexiest man alive unsexy.

So, just like Jesus, my Mom can also perform miracles.

Prince alone sparks the scientific question of whether getting pregnant by audio sultriness is a reality. Answer: It is.

My name is Julia Prescott, and I’m praying for no burnt bacon this year.

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Happy Birthday to Julia Prescott!

Apr 6th

Posted by Poop or Chocolate in Daily Blogs

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Poop or Chocolate would like to wish a great many gifts and a great deal of presents to a girl with a great many gifts and a great deal of presence. Speaking of which, have you seen her do stand-up??? You should see her do stand-up!

We are very lucky and thankful that Julia is willing to share her wealth of wit here at PoC. Keep rising girl, one day we’ll all be working for you!

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Summer to Spring: “I’ll Take It From Here”

Apr 4th

Posted by Julia Prescott in Daily Blogs

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Seasonal fans began to convert to Team Spring when they remembered Spring Break occurred in April, but then quickly retreated when they realized public drunkenness was a year-round kind of deal.

It started innocently enough: Weather measuring a hair over the 70-degree mark in late March; a couple Tuesday afternoons where fro-yo consumption wasn’t massively inappropriate in early Spring; but it’s become abundantly clear that Summer has officially edged out Spring within the first week of its scheduled tenure.

“It’s like it was winter yesterday!” said a representative from the Midwest, “What’s the big deal?” said a rep from Southern California. “I haven’t seen neighborhoods this torn since The Great I Like it When It Rains/I Hate It When It Rains Battle of ’09,” said an anonymous Los Angeles history buff.

Spring, having waited patiently over the last 8 months while Fall and Winter showboated their holidays, traditions, and general environmental ambiance, is for lack of a better word – “pissed.”

When asked for comment Spring indignantly expressed, “Everyone’s got such a hard-on for Summer, I don’t get it. I’ve got picnics and barbecues too. I’ll tell you something Summer doesn’t have – Three words: Easter eggs motherfucker.”

But how long will the general public’s penchant for floral and pastel-hued candies be sustained in the wake of 80-degree heat that allows the Pool party season to get a jumpstart?

“Funny. I don’t ever recall snagging a hot chick by commenting on the size of my wiener in line for a Hot Dog between the months of March and June,” said a local Orange County man.

“You know what I do recall snagging? Grass stains from picnicking and shitty egg shaped candies, if you can even call them that.”

“I actually quite enjoy Spring, and I’m sorry to miss it.” a local San Fernando Valley resident was reported to say, though this comment was immediately discredited when it was discovered this resident also enjoys Neco Wafers.

Summer could not be reached for comment. It was last publicly seen infiltrating movie theaters with shitty over-hyped blockbuster movies converting countless beverages to a slushy consistency.

Summer is all, "It's really hard to hate the player and not the game when the game involves butt cleavage."

My name is Julia Prescott, and I’m Team “I Love It When It Rains” 4 Lyfe.

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PISSED THAT I MISSED…

Mar 7th

Posted by Julia Prescott in Daily Blogs

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…A Sick ‘Stache

I was originally supposed to be a boy. My parents were so sure of this fact that they were ready and willing to name me Spencer, a move that I’m positive would have cemented me as a target for relentless ass-kickings throughout the bulk of my adolescence.

I am thankful that I am a girl for various reasons (my non-Spencer-like name being numero uno, my ability to make eating a burrito sexy, as well as being able to wear knee-socks in any shade, design or length). Despite all this, I can’t shake the feeling that I could have been a pretty awesome dude if given the chance, and with this I of course mean, I would have a sweet ‘stache.

Sure, yes. Ladies have this ability too, but it’s something usually pictured in National Geographic, or in an MTV “True Life: Teen Wolf” type program. We all know what that looks like: mustachioed sadness. And I’ve already half-done that look circa age 12 anyway, so that’s out.

Lady, I have nothing but 'stachey sympathy for you.

I can’t help but daydream over what kind of dude I would be depending on the facial hair, the options lay there endlessly like the components of a Wooly Willy game.

I decided to compile a list, which (as some of you may have noticed) is what I do when I run out of other ideas to fill the page. I hope you enjoy:

Handlebar ‘Stache Bro: I think we already know who this guy is. He’s the dude who insists he was in on Hulkamania before it was ironic or cool. The kind of guy who works at your local Bike kitchen and tells you his fixed gears are godsent. (I don’t even know what that last sentence meant, which is yet another reason why I could never truly be this guy.) Plus – the diligence to shave everything but the handlebars? Come the fuck on bro. Seriously, come the fuck on. I’m waiting for my bike tires to be inflated and you’re taking a fucking hour talking up the reason why Tapes ‘N Tapes are still a good band with your co-worker. It’s annoying.

Pencil thin ‘Stache Creeper – You can’t write ‘pencil thin ‘stache’ without Microsoft Word automatically tagging it with ‘creeper.’ I mean, what are you living in some version of the world’s worst Film Noir? Are you waiting for Humphrey Bogart to give you the scoop?

Old Timey Barber ‘Stache – This is a ‘stache I can get behind. We’re talkin’ waxed tips in a curlicue arc that’s positively Snidely; proving that people were still pretty DGAF, even in the old days.

Burt Reynolds ‘Stache – Not to be confused with the Tom Selleck ‘stache, this one automatically comes with a bevy of beauties who will make sexual euphemisms that include the words, “Smokey” and “bandit.”

Dad ‘Stache – Something that even as a dude, even as a Dad I would vow never to do. Dad ‘staches are a declaration to the world that you’re too financially strapped for a midlife crisis.

Bear Beard – Look, I know this isn’t technically a mustache but it falls under the category of facial hair, so I’m lumping it in. Bear beards are the greatest, they make an already cuddly dude more cuddlesome. If you are a dude who actually sports a bear beard and you find a lady who’s into it, it’s like finding someone who holds the other half to your golden amulet. Savor it.

Mikey's hobbies include coloring, legos, and knowing what the hell is up.

My name is Julia Prescott, and I’d hope as a dude I’d at least be known as Sick ‘Stache Spencer rather than Peach Fuzz Prescott.

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PISSED THAT I MISSED…

Feb 14th

Posted by Julia Prescott in Daily Blogs

1 comment

…VALENTINE’S DAY

Not sure why the world's passive aggression is passed off as cute once a year, but I'll take it.

It’s vogue to hate Valentine’s Day, especially in a town like Los Angeles. This region thrives on its singledom; its ability to be oh-so-available, yet oh-so-exclusive. Throw in a dash of cynicism and a mint garnish and you’ve got the makings of the latest martini du jour at LA’s hottest night clubs.

I hated Valentine’s Day for years out of spite, but more for lack of options. I hadn’t had a true Valentine since I was 15, and even then I oscillated between being desperately romantic or desperately awkward in general, which worked for me at an age where my most striking feature were metal braces and hairy eyebrows.

We can blame Hallmark. We can blame our friends with significant others. Hell, we can even blame Julia Roberts’ and Anne Hathaway’s careers (the most apropos option, by far). But I think the people that deserve the most blame are ourselves.

Hating Valentine’s Day is admitting to the world that you’ve accepted the terms of Valentine’s Day as set forth to us by the powers that be.

If flowers, chocolates, big obnoxious bears, homemade cards, or sex doesn’t arrive on your doorstep then you’ve already flipped the world the bird. None of these items (except for maybe sex) is what we usually deem the makings of a great day, so why should American calendars get to designate this particular Monday as more special than a normal Friday, where we actually get out of work early? Or a Tuesday in which we randomly find a $20 in the back pocket of our Levi’s?

I’ve had more joy in getting stoned and going to a museum than I ever have receiving Neco wafer hearts that (let’s be real here) taste fucking terrible and don’t even have the option of adding the suffix “in bed” to make it instantly hilarious. (“Be mine … in bed” is just too on the nose.)

I’ve brainstormed some options for both those shacked-up and those un-shackled, and I think they not only give this silly lovey holiday the cold shoulder, but also fight PDA with PDB: Public displays of badassery.

-Do donuts in any Walgreens parking lot. If you wanna do this with your significant other, you can hold hands while you circle and pretend like you’re in the deleted scene of a Tarantino movie.

-Buy something made of leather. Nothing sexual.

-Speak only in ‘That’s What She Said’ euphemisms. This will drive everyone around you so insane that they’ll pray they never have another obvious sexual encounter for at least another month.

-Walk into a restaurant and request a “Table for One” and then start sobbing. Making judgmental strangers awkward is its own spectator sport.

-Watch Pretty Woman coupled with Metallica’s Master of Puppets. There’s no eerie sync-ups like Dark Side of the Moon with the Wizard of Oz but at least it’ll put an appropriate soundtrack to Jason Alexander’s attempts at seduction.

Chapter 1: Birth; Chapter 2: Garry Marshall obviously asks his gay assistant to shop for a 'hooker dress'.; Chapter 3: Stardom

My name is Julia Prescott, and I truly feel for my Valentine this year, especially after the planned marathon of “That’s What She Said” euphemisms. I mean, a promise is a promise.

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PISSED THAT I MISSED…

Feb 7th

Posted by Julia Prescott in Daily Blogs

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…Your Bar Mitzvah

I was born and raised in the San Fernando Valley, which means several things: My tolerance for heat allows me to wear windbreakers in triple-digit temperatures; my palate for authentic Mexican food is justified snobbery; and every other kid I grew up with had parents who were members of the Hollywood elite.

This entails afterschool limo rides, celebrity godparents, and of course birthdays and Bar Mitzvahs with a budget of tens of thousands of dollars. Though as if some phantom of poor timing had invaded my life, I was never able to make it to a single Hollywood Kid Bar Mitzvah (or a normal kid Bar Mitzvah either). My life, bleak in the absence of ever shouting shouting, “L’CHAIM!!!!” as if it were my rock’n’roll battle cry, has stirred up a strange curiosity in me to try and understand what I missed all those years ago.

Unabashed confidence was never this kosher.

I would imagine the day begins at a Jewish Temple, hundreds of relatives gather in a contest to see who has the goofiest broach. Mama Edna always wins.

The entire congregation is intentionally seated in order of age, transforming the temple into a visual timeline of receding hairlines. A child (the child in question, presumably) recites a verse from a Holy book. People that are not blood relatives to the boy in question wipe a couple of tears. This is considered strange by everyone.

After the Temple Times, everyone caravans over to the Party Place. (The place where they hold the party, keep up) Where a table filled entirely of gourmet Bagel Bites made from scratch rests upon the finest of velvet drapery. (Bagel Bites with escargot for the fancier attendees)

Then as the dressed-way-beyond-their-13-years bulk of the guests find themselves nervously and awkwardly dancing to DJ Pop’n’Lox’s 30-minute Streisand/Techno mash-up set the lights slowly dim and the main event is ushered to the tiny stage.

Suddenly fireworks spiral uncontrollably from the edges of the stage in blatant disregard of all fire codes, 13-year old girls whistle through their gold plated braces for what yet, they’re not quite sure.

A faceless voice bellows from the club’s surround-sound speakers, it sounds like God if he owned a lot of Roca Wear and smoked Parliaments Lights. “L’chaim and Shalom, are you ready for the best night of your young impressionable lives?” The crowd screams through their anticipation. “Then get ready to welcome, your headliner – Ol’Skeezy!”

Ol’Skeezy, a rapper who claims he’s from the “School of Hard Knocks” (though this claim has yet to be accredited) walks onto the stage. Even though no one knows who he is, or what his music sounds like they scream with an unrivaled enthusiasm; half-convinced that he must be some distant relative of Lil’ Kim, or a friend of a friend of an ex-member of the Black Eyed Peas.

Somewhere in the middle of this the Bar Mitzvah’d child/man is carried around on a chair. This is the only Jewish tradition I’ve gathered through my astounding large viewing of TV and film.

The last bagel bite is consumed, DJ Pop’n’Lox wraps up his set, and the party disperses only to meet up the following day to detail each of their Sparkling Apple Cider sugar hang-overs.

As per tradition, after everything is through you must take the holy strut around the town square with all of your fellow boy/men as your sashay your way into badassery.

My name is Julia Prescott, and I’d probably make “Mazel Tov!” my “boo-ya” if given the chance.

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Pissed That I Missed…

Jan 31st

Posted by Julia Prescott in Daily Blogs

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…Space Camp

Yes, you - even you - can attend Space Camp in a jumpsuit formerly worn by a Soviet Union monkey astronaut.

When I was 10 years old, few things were sacred to me: Disneyland, restaurants that served chicken fingers, and Space Camp.

Two out of three of these fantasies became frequent realities, but Space Camp still lingers in the distance of my childhood ideal. All it took was a simple promotional video, the promise of entering into this sacred sanctuary where the rules of the playground no longer applied and I was hooked – Space Camp would surely be my Camelot.

Due to the fact that I’ve never been able to cross its celestial-themed threshold, I can only speculate what lies behind its ominously secretive doors. Would every Space camper’s tongue resemble a neon orange hue due to the cafeteria’s endless supply of Tang? Would the option of straight-up chillin’ in the gravity-free chamber always be on the table? And most importantly, would the nerds become the jocks and the jocks become Buzz Aldrin? These questions plagued me well into adolescence.

Sadly, my Space Camp dreams have still yet to be realized. But that doesn’t stop me from dreaming about what could have been. Here’s what I speculate an average Space-y Camp-y day would look like:

6:00 am – The sounds of laser beams striking against cold metal awakens the campus.

8:00 am – A breakfast of freeze-dried Skittles mixed with wheat germ.

9:00 am – Each camper is assigned their own jet pack. An immediate attempt at Jet Pack Quidditch is conducted on the North Lawn. No one is the victor.

11:15 am – Those proficient in NASA-grade Physics are treated to a guest lecture by Bob Youngquist; the remaining campers are treated to a screening of randomly selected episodes of Star Trek: The Next Generation, particularly the ones with a defining Worf arc.

11:45 am – The Skywalker Cabin leads the camp in a pre-meal “Grace” set to the tune of the alien battle cry in Close Encounters of the Third Kind; it’s mostly just mumbling and lightning-shaped hand gestures.

12:00 pm – A lunch of freeze-dried wasabi peas with tofurky jerky. A dessert of triscuits marinated in tang.

1:00 pm – Rest period. The Middle Earth Cabin attempts to tee-pee the BSG tent village, unaware of the multi-layered irony of their acts.

2:00 pm – Incoming campers are fitted for their Moon Shoes. Several campers attempt to draw a Nike swoosh on the side, they are instantly penalized out of fear for brand infringement.

3:45 pm – A game of Gravity-free chamber Capture the Flag becomes the longest in the camp’s history, lasting 12 minutes.

5:00 pm – A dinner of Sodium-free Chex Mix, a handful of raw corn kernels, and a dessert of bomb-shelter grade Snack Pack pudding mixes.

6:30 pm – A “campfire” of hydrogen-powered environmentally friendly light bulbs. A slue of campfire skits with “What the Frak?” as the punchline is performed before a captive audience. A quiet understanding that these nerds will never laugh this hard or be this confident until their freshman year at MIT is instantly felt through out the counseling staff.

8:00 pm – Pretending to roast marshmallows over the hydrogen “flames” during a Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy quote-off. The 10-year old camper from the Lt. Commander Data cabin showboats in front of the rest of the camp, restraining himself from letting out the last handful of quotes he’s dying to get out as a means of preserving the inevitable pants-ing that awaits him.

"Dear Mom & Dad, I met someone at camp. I don't know how to describe this feeling other than pure bliss. She's really conservative, kind of a workaholic - I just know you're going to love her. But she's shy too, so you know, don't make a big deal out of it, okay? Love, Your Son."

My name is Julia Prescott, and I’ll trade any amount of top quality restaurant chicken fingers for just one night in the company of nerds. I think I just figured out what love is.

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Magic Bag @ Smodcastle

Jan 27th

Posted by Ben Axelrad in Daily Blogs

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Los Angelinos: Our good pal DC PIERSON and his good pal ELIZA SKINNER have started a weekly STAND-UP show at the SMODCASTLE (home of the Kevin Smith podcast) called MAGIC BAG, every SATURDAY at 10PM. This week’s comics include our very own JULIA PRESCOTT and this week’s attendees include our very own ME. If you’re seeking out the funny in the greater Los Angeles area this Saturday night, look no further.

Smodcastle (West Hollywood)

6468 Santa Monica Blvd
Los Angeles, CA 90038

This week’s guests:

  • Brett Gelman (The Other Guys)
  • Jon Daly (Human Giant)
  • Julia Prescott
  • Megan Amram
  • Emily Dorezas

My name is Ben and I plugged this.

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I No Longer Wanna Sleep with Jason Segel in 2011

Jan 18th

Posted by Julia Prescott in Daily Blogs

2 comments

Look, I'm not mad. I still appreciate your doe eyes as much as the next How Met Your Mother extra.

2011, though only a scant handful of weeks in, has already established itself as a time for change: For new priorities; new waistlines; new focuses that will undoubtedly shape us into the human beings we’ve always craved.

Most of these changes will fall by the wayside with the onset of whatever latest Real Housewives broken home-inducing chapter of the trashy franchise premieres. Though there’s one change I’m certain will stick: 2011 marks the year where I no longer wanna sleep with Freaks and Geeks and How I Met Your Mother’s Jason Segel.

For years I had been quietly pining for this sympathetic and soft comedic slab of flesh: channeling girlish hysterics when I would overhear his name in conversation; barely containing myself when I discovered he frequents my work to smoke cigarettes outside of the Mother sound stage; realizing that the degrees that separated us would close in rapidly and that I better prepare my opening line now so as to not make a fool of myself later.

That was, until the moment I discovered, that brother will hit anything with an extra X chromosome – and I mean anything.

Mail room clerks who shaked it on the Company holiday party dance floor, waitresses who stole a smile from him as they handed over the check, young fans who may have approached him innocently only to find the goldmine of his temporary interest  – they were all impervious to his tractor beam of fame fornication.

All of these images collectively tarnished my viewing of him as this self-deprecating, schlubby-but-lovable Segel that would instantly fall for me after we spoke at length about our mutual love for the Muppets. Just the idea of him banging chicks and bringing them back to his Muppet museum lair seemed unlawful against the social order, and definitely not the Segel I fantasized about.

To describe Segel’s appeal without the adjectives, “boyish,” “geeky” and even, “categorically unattractive” would be virtually impossible. The man leads in areas where he technically shouldn’t excel; His charm comes from a general, disarming accessibility; the kind that when a moderate to extremely attractive lady would show interest, he’d thank his lucky stars that such an angel is giving him the time of day.

Other members of the young Apatow tribe are afflicted with the same personality disorder: Men whose accentuated belly fat increases their phone number gettability because girls wanna go home with a Teddy Bear (albeit a famous one), not an asshole who will barely remember their sexual encounter.

The fact that Segel doesn’t live up to his on-screen legend of Marshall, the super-gooey super-in-love character on Mother, or even Peter, the semi-gooey semi-in-love character in Forgetting Sarah Marshall, makes me fear for the future of all subsequent boyfriend types I will go after based on pop culture research of what my “type” may be, because it sho’ ain’t Segel.

At the end of the day where ladies get such a hard time for being “slooty sloo’s” (sluts), men may feel the backlash as well. Case in point: If you’ve dated every chick I know, I am terrified of your junk. If you’ve bedded more than 20 chicks in the Los Angeles area in the last year, your nakedness terrifies me. And if you have a reputation for picking up random chicks after they do less-than-amazing public things like getting down on the dance floor or singing karaoke to a predictably karaoke-ish song – I don’t even wanna know you.

*Note: Most of this article can also work when you substitute Pauly D or the Situation’s name with Segel’s. Also – Chloe Sevigny you’ve been warned – though I appreciate you dating outside of your indie music-lovin’ box.

In addition to revitalizing the Muppet movie franchise, Segel is famed to have created not the walk but the 'Wave of Shame'. Truly an innovator.

My name is Julia Prescott and this blog was more preach-y and less Freaks and Geeks-y, I apologize if I led any of you astray.

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PISSED THAT I MISSED…

Jan 12th

Posted by Julia Prescott in Daily Blogs

No comments

…Los Angeles Hipster Fill-in-the-Blank Hangout Edition

The Bat Cave is really sacrificing elusiveness for street cred these days.

Hey. I’m really pissed that I missed your Los Angeles Hipster Fill-in-the-Blank Hangout. What was happening?

There was a dance party in the middle of the back alley of the Getty Villa? Dov Charney, the creator and CEO of American Apparel threw out balloons of coke to the first 50 people to tell him what their favorite shade of mauve was? And then, like magic, he escorted you and your 7 “closest girl friends” to his Echo Park condo where he insisted that you all deserved your very own American Apparel billboard on Sunset and Alvarado?

That sounds cool, bro.

Real cool.

Oh me? What was I doing? Probably any of the following:

  • Reading
  • ”Writing” (I realize that the intent to write does not in fact qualify as writing, so I’ve inserted the appropriate quotation marks)
  • Watching the Food Network
  • Glaring at my cat
  • Googling Abraham Lincoln
  • Re-arranging the shoes/handbags/shoes ratio in my closet
  • Eating food that will undoubtedly give me gas
  • Contemplating Snooki
  • Playing hard-to-get via text (Shockingly doesn’t actually have the same seductive luster as the in-real-life version)
  • Defending the Pauly Shore movie, “Son in Law” as a definitive ‘Thanksgiving Holiday Movie’ to 15 year olds on Facebook
  • Googling edible Star Wars figurine recipes
  • Updating my OkCupid profile with pictures of myself in a fake mustache that strongly resembles Daniel Day Lewis in There Will Be Blood in the hopes of somehow improving my online attractiveness
  • Contemplating tweets and then losing internet courage
  • Accidentally watching 20 minutes of Mother May I Sleep With Danger? on the Lifetime network after an episode of Project Runway
  • Facebook stalking girls that gave me a hard time in Middle School only to discover that they’re still pretty beautiful ‘n shit, and then getting kind of bummed out – making over my face with “sexy make-up”, realizing instantly that I look like a hooker – deciding to take it off – pausing to contemplate whether or not the “hooker” look may actually work on me – justifying to myself that there are many types of hookers that make up the ‘Hooker Kingdom’ like your high-class call girls, your Julia Roberts ala “Pretty Woman” Hollywood Boulevard street-walkers – then contemplating what kind of make-up that would usually entail, then realizing instantly that my eyeliner budget would sky-rocket and there’s no way I could possibly support myself financially with rent AND a budget exclusively for “hooker eyeliner” – calling myself an idiot and then wiping it off
  • Glaring at my cat

These 15 year olds thought this guy was a lost member of the Muppet Show band until I set 'em straight. I have no faith in the future.

I’m sure your hipster hangout was so great, and that it will probably never, ever happen again, so I won’t even bother hoping for the “next time.” Just know that I was there in spirit and that I accidentally spilled some Mountain Dew on my futon in your honor during a marathon of The Millionaire Matchmaker.

My name is Julia Prescott and I consider researching Pauly Shore’s magnum opus some degree of productivity.

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