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I've got Starburst, Mounds and Trail Mix ready for the 6 hour trip to LA. The assignment is to spend several days with the equivalent of 'coolness' that we've got smelling up San Francisco’s Mission District and report back on my findings. There's a new breed of hipster here that I like to call Asster. When I refer to Assters in this article, I am referring to cream cheese crotch pseudo drug addicts that rock bangs and just don’t give a fuck. Don't knock it until you've tried it. You need to walk the walk until you can talk and I can honestly say that I'm about to walk in some Oxfords.


I forgot to pack underwear, which makes sense. I'll just keep turning my pair inside out. The first destination is in West Hollywood but my host doesn't remember I'm coming. I spoke to him a couple of hours ago but apparently he had been wallowing in his own theatrical misery when his quinoa dinner burned on the stove. Way too self absorbed to remember that I need a place to sleep. That's ok, I brought along my fake black-rimmed glasses. If I wear these, I need to come up with my own petty tragic problem. A dog stepped on my eye a couple of days ago and I spilled water on my laptop. That’s all true, which makes me think I too have pettiness and shit in a can. I wanted him to at least open the front door. 


Assters are clean. They don’t feel the need for their package to be poop-scented. I had heard about this place called Wurstkuche (pronounced: worst-koochie), a favorite hang out spot for young LA folk. So I went there. I got my period while I was waiting in line and there was only one convenience store within walking distance. They only carried pads. There’s something special about seeing hotties in stylish 50’s garb, sucking exotic rattlesnake and rabbit bratwursts. I watched a couple sitting next to me choose their wedding registry gifts on Etsy. 

That wasn’t enough sausage. My Asster friend finally came out of his sadness abyss at home and we met at Red Lion Tavern to listen to an old man lip sync to Journey on an electric piano. I started sending friend requests on Facebook Mobile to important people in the art world that I shouldn’t have. You can’t undo those. I re-friended an ex. This was a mistake. I need guidelines.


The weather here is so muggy and I’m on my fifth boot. Sweet bubbles are on my forehead, what is that called? Sweat beads? The Assters are dancing now and all I can see are jumbled faces and slow motion trails behind them. He was always so possessive, I couldn’t do what I liked (which was to bootie dance on strangers). His dog was an ugly pug. I locked it out of the bedroom a couple of times because it loved to spoon me and had strange gas. He invited his ex girlfriend to Thanksgiving dinner and she made cranberry Jello. You know what’s cool? To brag about how experienced you are to your partner. I’ve sucked someone’s dick before, how does that feel? Can you taste that? 


I know we haven’t said anything to each other in about a year but I had too many boot beers and hotdogs. I’ve been hearing you talk about yourself all the way from across the country. Send me your toothbrush so I can keep it in the holder and pretend we are still together. You were such an asshole, I can’t even type here that I want you again. I came up with an agreement for moving forward.


I. We are not allowed to discuss other lovers, fuck buddies or any other intimates (I haven’t had any, so this doesn’t apply to me.)


a) Remove all hair clippies, tampons, earrings, undies or any other paraphernalia

that would make me imagine who she is and what she looks like. 


b) Don’t reminisce about anything. 


II. No terms of endearment can be used at all. 


a) Don’t try to be cute and use a foreign language.


III. We can have an exchange of ideas but we don’t talk about what happened to us. Never talk about “US” as in our   failed relationship.


a) Remember our special ski trip vacation where we got in a fight at the top of the mountain and had to get two separate cabins for the remaining 2 days?


b) We used to sleep holding each other’s pinkies.


IV. No sex. The anger would just be too cliché and you would enjoy it too much.


a) your dog is a dickhead.


I can’t get rid of the damn lines below, but we should just sign it. 





Great now my article has these fucking signature lines all over it. Every time I see one I think of him.





All cities have thrift stores and Urban Outfitters. Summer is here so see-thru skirts are in demand. I spent several minutes mesmerized with the asses of Assters working in American Apparel at Melrose and Genessee. I bought a teal skirt. Being able to differentiate an Asster from a regular person has become impossible. When I met up with my boss back home he let me know that my wardrobe is very “Asster.” It’s like we’re in those action movies where the main characters are trying to tell humans apart from Cyborgs. You just can’t. 



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