I Look Like So Much Stuff: A Journey

When I learned that my favorite girl group alive, Little Mix, is releasing an album today called "Get Weird," I was at once stoked because I can't get enough of the adorable troop of crooning murderesses and disappointed in myself because I don't get weird nearly often enough. The early days of this blog  were all about posting bizarre shit that I dreamed up and since like, six people saw it, I didn't care how strange it was. Now I feel like all my writing here is about writing, the blog equivalent of eating chewed Skittles from the bottom of a popcorn bucket at the Kent on Coney Island. So below instead, is a visual adventure with my face and the various shit it looks like. My resemblance to other shit that wasn't me began early. By my third year on Earth it was plain as day that Little Critter and I were cut from the same cloth. We were short, we had  gigantic faces, and we were tormented by ennui and our own idiocy.


But as I grew older, I discovered that the only quality I possessed more of than dissatisfaction was G-L-A-M-O-U-R. The resemblance to famed dead pageant super baby JonBenét Ramsey was plain as day, even though she is three years old in her picture and I am nine years old in mine. Yes, I was a pipsqueak of a person. Yes, I killed a baby polar bear to make the luxurious pelt in that photo. No, I'm not sorry.

Alana Massey as Jon Bonet

The years wore on. My golden locks gave way to chestnut waves. Alas, I became a stone cold fox as was my birthright seeing as that glorious sorceress from Arkansas gave me half of my genetic material. Gail, you minx.

Mom and Alana

But as grateful as I was for my mother's witchery, I longed for doubles in the world who were not just magical or dead. But what should they be instead? Oddly arousing maternal figures with a fuh-reak streak like Sally Field, that's what they should be!

Alana and Sally Field

But this too was not enough. I craved more. I wondered if I would ever amount to more than the critter of my youth. My prospects were bleak.


Change was needed. Drastic change. As the years etched onto my face and wore away the tissue of my heart, I longed to be a slutty baby once again. And a slutty baby needs blonde hair. And a white dress. And a style icon like the hellspawn Kewpie Doll you see here. A change was here.

Alana As Kewpie

Soon, I began to look like all manner of shit. I dare anyone to guess who is the emoji cookie and who is me in this photo. You won't, you can't.

alana massey emoji cookie

I also looked like the tough but fair older sister to that darling Sky Ferraira in an indie breakout for both of us. We'd have French names like Servanne and Garance and smoke cigs in bed together. Often.

Alana Massey and Skye FerrairaBut why have an indie breakout when you could have a string of indie darlings? Here I was conjuring Michelle Williams thinking about an abortion and Ryan Gosling while on public transport, though I assure you my thoughts were far more lurid.

Fall Look

Sometimes, I would take drugs and fall somewhere between Scarface-era Michelle Pfeiffer glam bitch and Requiem-era Ellen Burstyn, ranting always about being on the goddamn television.

Me and Ellyn and Michelle

I grew bored of my own predilections, smoking indoors like a rotten-cored swamp teen.britney smoking.

Alana Smoking Gif

In a fit of desperation to regain my former moxie, I strategically placed a designer handbag across myself in an attempt to regain the je ne sais quoi of The Lady Miss Williams. It was in vain. Emphasis on vain.

alana michelle williams bags

I briefly turned to the Dark Arts. I excelled in them, as I do in all things. I cannot speak of what I learned or from whom I learned it.

Alana as Lucius Malfoy

As I was prepared to give up hope, I was greeted with a vision so thick with light and life that I was nearly blinded. This, surely, was my Road to Damascus.

keith is jesus

And I realized all along, that my vanity had shielded me from the love which was my destiny to embody as a double. To emulate profound love was my calling. And so I answered that call. And though to love is ultimately to lose, I was glad to bear the weight of it.

Pieta Alana Massey Collage

Ways My Mom is Cooler Than Me: Elvis Chat Edition

This is the story of the time my mom could have totally married Elvis Presley and BLEW IT. Come, let's take a journey. My mother Gail grew up in a small town in Arkansas just west of Memphis, TN in the 1960s.  My mom, her sister, and their good friend were total babes in that way that so many Southern teens from the 60s were so naturally, they thought they had a decent chance of banging Elvis based on proximity to his home and his penchant for underaged tang. So their friend Frances was the babeliest babe of them all and had the tits (I refuse to use balls as an indicator of courage) to approach the security guard at Graceland and ask for the phone number to the house.  I've never seen a picture of Frances but I imagine her kinda like this:


So duh, she got the digits.

As the three gathered around what I always imagine was a comically large puke green rotary phone (60s, Arkansas, ya know) and dialed, Frances suddenly lost her tits and handed the phone to my then twelve year old mom.  A sultry, unmistakeable voice answered.



My mother attempted to hang up but the older girls pulled the phone away.   She timidly introduced herself as Debbie (She started going by her middle name of Gail later in life so as not to be confused with that bitch that shills cupcakes in the bonnet).  My mother describes the rest of the conversation in less detail but from what I've gathered, it went something like this.

"Hi Debbie. How did you get this number?"

"I...don't know."

"How old are you, Debbie?"

"Almost 13."


"That's a great age, Debbie." ( Okay, he didn't say that, but you know, he was a perv so he probably thought it)


"So how did you get this number, Debbie?"

"I can't tell you."

"Well if you tell me who gave you this number, I can give you tickets to a screening at the Orpheum."

Apparently, Elvis used to rent out the Orpheum Theater for private screenings with all his BFFs.  An inner circle that my mom could  have TOTALLY been a part of if she had just gotten it together on this call.

"Oh, I...I really can't."


"Okay, Debbie, well you have a good night."



So look, I realize that he was probably trying to figure out who gave out his number so he could fire the guy that gave it out willy nilly like that.  But...BUT just maybe he really wanted to invite my mom and her friends to a screening at the Orpheum and then totally bone and/or marry them! I would gladly sacrifice ever having come into existence if my mom had had the chance to be Mrs. Elvis Presley, cause she's a great lady and deserves.... the lifetime of self-doubt and relentless feelings of regret and shame that Priscilla Presley got from being married to that egomaniacal, mommy-issue ridden man...wait, nevermind. But it could have been different for her!

Ugh, the closest I've ever been to my celebrity musician crush was when I met Billy Corgan in a time when he was way past his prime, performing solo at one of the jankiest venues in San Diego.  He was his usual cranky ass self, signed a poster and wouldn't flash even a little bit of his snaggle tooth for our pictures.  Moms, they have all the luck.

I Will Be a Great Mother One Day Because I Can Tell My Cat is an Asshole

Parenting, what a trip right? Sleepless nights, thankless duties, the futile dream of my pre-baby body! But there's also the unspeakable joy and tremendous love that no non-parent can understand until they've experienced the blessing of parenthood. J/K, I just have a cat.  And look, there he is, judging you quietly! photo

I know, I know, providing food and a clean place to defecate once a day with a few snuggles here and there is not the same as taking care of a real, actual person that will have to be a grown-ass man or woman some day.   But this is a jokey blog for joking around with some jokers so relax!

When Keith (the kitty) was just a wee thing in the world, he was the absolute center of the universe. I doted on him, held him close at all times, and fretted over his every noise and movement thinking it might be a sign of illness. I took him to a fancy veterinarian. I was also convinced that he was the cutest cat in the world, despite several pieces of evidence to the contrary on Buzzfeed.  But in recent months I have discovered that my cat is totally average. And also, totally an asshole.

This picture sums up pretty succinctly his modus operandi:


He is confrontational, demanding, and straight-up r00d (that's Internet for "rude" and all cats are originally from the Internet). He bites my eyebrows in my sleep! He knocks over his water on purpose! He rolls around in the bathtub like a lunatic and then dries off on my luxurious IKEA pullout couch!  He is absolutely useless at gauging my emotions and acting as the living teddy bear I want him to in times of distress (Yeah, I know that's what dogs are for, step off).  And for these reasons, I know that he is ill-suited to certain company and I act accordingly.

I have been to brunch in Brooklyn often enough to know that too many people think that their own ill-behaved offspring are the bee's knees.  If I hear another "Oh, honey, please stop" when some kid is trying to burn the place down while I'm trying to enjoy my eggs florentine, I am going to swing a dead cat at them (not mine, one that I...find somewhere? I'm not a MONSTER.)  I sincerely hope that I can have the same awareness of my children as I have about my cat.  Yeah, he is the still point on the moving Earth as far as I'm concerned, but he is not everyone's cup of tea and I need to reign it in.  He is my holy terror to deal with and no one else's.  Now, take my ponytail out of your mouth and get out of my room.

Keith, if you're reading this, I hope you understand that these statements come from a place of love.  This one goes out to you, kiddo.