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.

foul-temperament

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.

Confused-Critters

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

Marlon Brando: The Great Cat-Loving Thirst Magnet of Cinema

When I started this blog way back in the year of our Lord two thousand and thirteen, it was mostly a dedication to my celebrity thirst. Well, hop in your time machine because we're about to go back in time to that time with a brief lesson in why Marlon Brando could get it any place, any time. I mean, look at him! Tell me with a straight face that you wouldn't still do open-mouth kissing with his eleven-years-dead corpse:

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Making him even more perfect is that he was on record as loving fucking CATS. Look at these two fuckers, just hangin' right out:

tumblr_nqdcn6VOdg1r745vdo2_540Marlon would be like, "What record should I listen to, cat?" and he wouldn't just wait for the cat to affirm his own decision, he would really listen.

tumblr_mcovl0lCFN1rz5aneo4_r1_500 Marlon wasn't threatened by the incredibly erotic nature of cats, he was enthralled by it. He gave cats their smooches where God intended: RIGHT ON THEIR TINY LITTLE MOUTHS.

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This photo was taken after Marlon arrived to a movie shot and the promised on-set cat was actually not available. Surly!

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A PA tried to improvise and get him this dog. I'll let Marlon's face do the talking on how he felt about that bootleg shit.

Marlon-Brando

Fortunately, thing returned to normal. But Marlon and his cat wrote a strongly-worded letter to the production company.

marlon-brando-with-cat-m-400x300 This cat was originally cast as a glass of scotch but Marlon wouldn't budge on signing the contract without having the wisest of beasts as a pet for this classic scene.

3065297471_1ff997e758Marlon shared his love of botany and the outdoors with this cat and then she shared her knowledge of astronomy when it got darker. They lived as equals.

4760167943_caced37f04_bMarlon Brando may have been a real piece of shit person who degenerated into a ranting pile of calcified sentient partially hydrogenated oils in his old age, but we can remember the good times when dude was speaking our language.

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Kids are Dummies: Nirvana Lyrics as Heard by a 5th Grader

Strummin' my pain with her fingers and whatnot.  

The best thing about fifth grade is that it ends eventually. The second best thing about fifth grade is that nearly without exception, everyone in it a hybrid monster sitting precariously on the border between childhood and adolescence which results in them doing uncomfortable things like still playing with Barbie but making her have multiple abortions. Or singing out loud to Hole in front of their parents because they're mature enough to realize that it's good but don't realize that all of the songs are about bulimia, incest, and rape.  You know, hypothetically.

 

Last weekend when people were having a case of the "Holy Shit We Are All So Old"s because they realized that Kurt Cobain has been dead for twenty years, I fired up the old iTunes to get my Nirvana on.  I should confess that if I had to make the Sophie's choice of either ridding the world of Pearl Jam or ridding the world of Nirvana, I would let Nirvana go. Both because I think Pearl Jam was better and because I am holding out hope that Eddie Vedder will invite me into a plural marriage with him and his wife.  But I digress.  Nirvana was still pretty fucking good, even if I had no idea what in the sam hill they were talking about.  Below, my most proud moments in childhood musical musings.

 

 

Song: Plateau

Real Lyrics: "Nothin' on top but a bucket and a mop and an illustrated book about birds."

Alana's Lyrics: Nothin' on top but a bucket and a  mop and a new, straight-up book about birds."

You know, because all of the previous books written about birds were beating around the fucking bush and not giving us straight answers about the airborne scoundrels. This straight-up version was going to give us the answers we were all looking for.  I still have no idea what this song is about.

Boy you so crazy, I think I wanna have your baby.

Song: Heart-Shaped Box

Real Lyrics: A tortured ode to Courtney Love's man-destroying, hypnotic, wicked gash

Alana's Lyrics: All about cancer!

Meat-eating orchids, tar-pit trap, umbilical noose, and heart-shaped box.  It didn't take Courtney taking to Twitter in 2012 to school Lana Del Rey that this song was about her box for anyone with half a boner to figure it out.   This song makes it clear why that woman has bedded so many desirables: vaginal witchcraft.

Song: Pennyroyal Tea

I didn't misinterpret any of the lyrics to this song but I did think that pennyroyal tea was some kind of cool beverage that I should try out and feel special and grown-up, the same way I felt when I ate sushi for the first time at Costco (nee: Price Club) and threw up into a trash can almost immediately after. Turns out, pennyroyal tea is an  abortifacient and it is probably best that I didn't ask my mom to get me some at the grocery store, lest she become suspicious of my nighttime neighborhood dalliances.

Song: In Bloom

Real Lyrics: "Nature is a whore"

Alana's Lyrics: "Raised a little whore"

Ironically, assumed that maybe this one was about Courtney instead of Heart-Shaped Box.  I still refuse to sing along to this one because the whole point of the song is to make fun of people that sing along to shit and I am too goddam cool for that.

 

 

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:

go-go-boots

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.

elvis-on-blue-phone

"Hello?"

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."

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

"Thanks."

"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."

index

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

Click.

OPPORTUNITY LOST FOREVER.

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.