→ Day 13: Eleven States and The End


In fact, I’ve been so alive for the past week that I’ve blogged 0 times. I kept being like, “This would be a good time to write and post pictures,” but then America would whisper in my ear, “Hang out with meeee.” But now it is time to dump out my brain basket; here’s EVERYTHING that’s gone down from Sunday to Sunday!

6/28: Topeka, Kansas

Before my drive to Topeka, I was a far more innocent human being, with hopes and dreams and a chance for a better life. Then those 8 hours of fucking hell happened. About 540 miles of dull, plain plains under endless grey skies. A lot of wind turbines, powering nothing except more wind. I realized quickly that I would only be taking boring photos today (see below). I left from Denver too late in the afternoon and by nightfall, I was zooming around pitch-black bends in the highway, fingers white around the steering wheel, preparing to accidentally annihilate a wayward Bambi.

That night in Topeka was a blur. I entered my AirBnB, frightened my elderly host, fell asleep and did not dream.

6/29-7/1: St. Louis, Missouri

This is where it starts to get good. This is also where it rains through the rest of this post AKA the next 6 days of the trip. Anyway, I peeled away the dank experiences of the central U.S. and set out with renewed vigor for The Lou. This was my second Very Real Destination after Colorado – because my bitch lives there and my other bitch was due to fly in a couple of days after my arrival. Two bitches at once? It truly was an embarrassment of riches/bitches!!

strolling/melting at The Grove today. save a rocket, ride an #atomiccowboy 🚀 #stlouis #thegayborhood

A photo posted by Leah Steuer (@popmitzvah) on Jun 30, 2015 at 3:16pm PDT

First I swung by Left Bank Books in the heart of the citay, to visit my Midwest dream girl Wintaye at work. When she got off, we grabbed some din and I got to see her adoooorb new place right across from Tower Grove Park. She’s got mad gardens outside the window and everything. Watched some teevs, got some gelato, brunched, etc etc. Will forever remember the chorizo eggs at Half & Half. Finally washed my clothes. Dubsmashed all our favorite things. Saw Jurassic World (which was a lot more fun than bad reviews had prepared me for). Ate RIDICULOUS barbecue. Also hit a bunch of bars downtown (to middling partytime success).

we’re back. 👩‍❤️‍💋‍👩 #CABSHERE #sluttyassbitch #jerseyshore

A video posted by Leah Steuer (@popmitzvah) on Jun 29, 2015 at 6:59pm PDT

Then my squeeze Nick stomped into the picture for ONE NIGHT ONLY. This was the exact moment when my roadtrip playlist began to play “You Are Not Alone,” because he’d be with me the rest of the way to New York. The three of us climbed all the things at the City Museum, which is literally the most dangerous destination I’ve brought  my body to, including the Grand Canyon. The children, they just…hang from metal open-air structures.

tesseract life 🌀 #citymuseum #nodownwardspiral #theclimb #nicholascaged

A photo posted by Leah Steuer (@popmitzvah) on Jul 1, 2015 at 3:26pm PDT

Also noshed, wined, shopped at cheap superstore Five Below, chilled, and survived a crazy torrential storm.The sadness I felt at bidding Wintaye goodbye in the morning was mitigated by a severely delicious roadside donut. Oh, I’ll miss you St. Louis, you damp, beautiful piece of work.

7/2: Lake Hope, Ohio

Next stop was a campground inside Zaleski Forest of Nowhere County, Where Are We, USA. Our journey was broken up by a super surreal visit to a giant Walmart that seemed to sit in the plain like an ugly mirage. Got our camping sundries and made it to our site by sunset. This was actually my first time camping, eva eva! I was already feeling so rough that roughing it came naturally. Can I please tell you we decided on as “sleeping pads”? Can I tell you that they were inflatable kids pools and they weren’t half-bad?

Nick erected the tent and we spent the eve getting buzzed and bitten. One fruitless attempt to build a fire later and we went to convene The Midnight Society under the flaps. I was (tritely) in love with sleeping in the quiet woods. Even if we were to be mauled before dawn, it’d be worth it. A little.

back to the garden 🍃 #pitchintents #woodyourather #logladies #FLIESTHERE #howmany

A photo posted by Leah Steuer (@popmitzvah) on Jul 3, 2015 at 2:00pm PDT

 The next morning, we attempted to find coffee in the INCREDIBLY FRIGHTENING nearest town of Zaleski, OH (population 1 killer). Insert my classic “Zaleski burned down…20 years ago…” here.

After some gas station brew, we got back into the YASmobile. To civilization!

7/3-7/4: Philadelphia, PA

At the moment we crossed the city line into Philly, I felt the comforting, crushing weight of the REAL East Coast on me. There was something about verdant flatlands giving way to belching industrial monsterscapes that felt so…RIGHT.  And you know what else felt kind of momentous? My valiant Honda hitting 100,000 miles!!! I would drive 100,000 miles if I could just…see…you…cheese steak. *piano cadence*

Once we’d navigated the very Tomorrowlandish structures of smoke and grime that surrounded the city, we made our way to Spruce Hill, the neighborhood containing my friend Janna’s cozy apartment and our new temporary bed. Everywhere we walked, the sidewalks were cracked by the roots of huge leafy trees, and shrubs and vines strained out of fences to touch the passersby. Philly is so RICH and GREEN. It was a slightly more packed version of St. Louis, with all its stately old houses and excesses of flowers and roadside garbage. At this point, I was thankful for the on-and-off rain, because it paired perfectly with all the foliage and erased the smell of street cleaning gone wrong. Literally just put the trash in the cans, guys.

with you, with you now 🎉🇺🇸 #phillymeup #bluntfourthtrauma #independencebae

A post shared by Leah Steuer (@popmitzvah) on

Our sole full day in PA was the Fourth of July, which was so wet that most of the fireworks fizzled from dawn till dusk. Didn’t matter, we still touristed expertly! Did the farmer’s market in the morning and killed some delicious pierogies, and I also saw the most amazing Scary Stories tattoo of life (pic below). We then lost ourselves in the glittering holey grotto they call The Magic Gardens. It’s a crazy mosaic of stairs, tunnels, and valleys (with more than enough boob/peen-painted tiles to keep adults interested in the finer artistic details). Again, the constant mist made it twice as beautiful, glittering.

in case you were wondering 🌀🌀🌀

A post shared by Leah Steuer (@popmitzvah) on

After a beer, we steeled ourselves for the last long dramatic event of the day: a blocks-long “party” down the parkway culminating with fireworks above the Philadelphia Museum of Art. Weirdly, the weather seemed to have drained the batteries of everyone around us and the energy at this thing was super low. We entertained ourselves with endless games of gin rummy and Heads Up on the damp grass, but finally couldn’t take it anymore. The clouds were blocking the ‘works anyway. We turned around, went home, and read tarot cards as the sky exploded around us with thunder and illegal firecrackers.

7/5-Right now: New York, NUUUUU YORK

It only took us about 2 hours to make it from Philly to New York. Home rose up around me so fast; as soon as we crossed the George Washington Bridge we were THERE.

SHADY’S BACK TELL A FRIEND 🗽💯 #honeyimhome #boroughedalive #newyorkminute

A photo posted by Leah Steuer (@popmitzvah) on Jul 5, 2015 at 10:41am PDT

It felt completely different from every other time I’ve returned to NY from LA, and the feeling was hard to put my finger on. Eventually I kinda realized that it was the absence of a plane flight: the surreality of six hours in a box, the impersonal watercolor glimpses of all the country in-between, and the first sudden breath of dank, smoky air I’d get at JFK. When I fly back and forth, it’s like my destination cities had never even existed before I touched down. It makes me feel so crazy that, usually, when I get back to NY, I feel supremely disoriented and time-traveley for a full 24 hours. This time, the transition had lasted two weeks, and the transition itself had MATTERED. I’d navigated every mile, all three thousand of them, to my home place. I’d watched it gradually materialize in front of me, at the end of the road – and when I made it, it’s like New York had been waiting (impatiently).

First thing we did when we got to Nick’s place in Queens? Pizza, sleep, ANTM. Same as it ever was.

So I guess…this series is officially over! I’m going back to Long Island today to wash off the remnants of America and visit my old barista. My birthday is in two days and I have some refreshing-up to do before I’m ready to take on 26 in a celebrity death match.

Thank you sooo much for reading these travel thoughts. It’s actually been a #blessing to have a place to store all my observations, photos, and whinings, and I really hope they entertained a little bit. All in all, I drove through SIXTEEN STATES, including eleven in the course of this post alone. And I’m doing it aaaaaall again in August – NY back to LA by way of the South. REVERSE, REVERSE! See you then.

→ Day 3: The Grand Canyon to Moab

What’s up? I’m just over here sitting on a Wonder of the World. CASUAL.



Currently writing this from the back porch of the hostel, where many other travelers have gathered to eat their toast, salute the sun, and light their morning cigarettes. I actually don’t understand smoking at this altitude, much less breathing? My lungs have been shocked by my sudden transition to a 7,000 ft lifestyle and are working through their feelings of betrayal.

Sooo yes, I experienced the ultimate nature yesterday! The Lord’s Pensieve, aka The Grand Canyon! It was a craymazing day, and it lasted an absolutely insane 11 hours.

I’d originally planned to do the whole trek/visitor’s center thing on my own, but the hostel offered an all-inclusive tour and I thought, “Maybe someone experienced in the outdoor arts should guide my survival.” Plus I’ve met a lot of really nice people here already and welcomed the opportunity to share the view with someone new. My group ended up being comprised of Patricia (a Colombian agronomist who’d never tasted a Frappuccino), Annie (a social psychologist with great leg stamina), Dan (a British adventurer who’d been traveling around the world for 15 months), and our leader Dylan (who had flawless taste in bluegrass and knew everything about all the plants). Everyone was good-natured about my “getting stranded in the canyon and having to build a society” or “Which of us would win the Hunger Games” comments. Probably because I was most expendable.

After we drove through the Painted Desert and peeped a little bit of the vast Navajo reservation, we pulled up at the Little Colorado River Canyon, which Dylan kept calling “the tiny one.” Having not beheld the GC yet, I was already overwhelmed by its baby brother. It’s a deep, majestic crack through the earth. Vultures swooped around us in the shimmery heat as our guide casually explained that rescuers have to “leave the bodies down there.” Took a teetering selfie anyway.

A post shared by Leah Steuer (@popmitzvah) on

After that, we headed to the Desert View Watchtower, stunning tribute to Hopi history. I had no idea about the tense historical relations between the Hopi and Navajo (Navajo means “skull crusher” in Hopi?!) and found the monument/artwork absolutely incredible. There’s something about touching a chair someone made in 1870 that feels even more sacred and timebendy than touching some frillion-year-old igneous rock.

The watchtower was visible from almost every point we traveled to around the Canyon rim – well, the .0006% of the rim we were able to cover, because the entire thing is almost 800 miles around and we’re only human beings, damn it. We drank in views from Lipan Point (hazy and verdant), Moran Point (mostly grey) and the Grand View, which is the classic postcard view with all the spikes, peaks, red rock cliffs and valleys. It was actually kind of an overcast day, which worked in our favor. Less sun (fucking finally, said my skin) and a greater and more subtle variety of colors in the Canyon. We also hit some Hopi ruins, preserved since the 1100s, and ate lunch right next to them. Conversation topics included the shady economy of the Grand Canyon tourist industrial complex and Harry Potter fanfiction (which, UNBELIEVABLY, I didn’t even bring up first). Such a wonderful band of misfits with lots of experiences to trade amongst us.

One of our last activities was a hike down (and up) the Kaibab Trail, which ended up both killing my body and yielding some choice photos. It was kind of mind-melting to actually descend into the Canyon, even for a couple of miles, and watch the sharp cliffs rise up and up around us. Also, we walked past a kid who was running, guardian-less, without shoes on. Ghost? Maybe. Probably. Another body the rescuers were too lazy to grab.

Once we’d clambered out again, Dylan took us to a small store and we each grabbed some libations for an epic sunset-watching session. Dan taught me about the heady concoction of beer, hard cider, blackcurrant juice, and vodka…I will never understand why the British do what they do, but it sounded pretty tasty. Patricia tried her first IPA and deemed it “spicy.”

Our walk down to the final vista was incredible and relaxing and chill as hell: just strolling along the lip of pure wonder, sipping cold brews, basking. It was one of those extended moments when my vibrations of neuroses start to mercifully get slower, and then stop, and then I just feel lucky and good. We plopped ourselves down on an outcropping over the edge of the world and watched the day end.


A post shared by Leah Steuer (@popmitzvah) on


Absolutely ridiculous. I think I’m going to start a cult around the hoax of the Grand Canyon, because I suspect it’s a green screen. It really doesn’t seem real; it’s a vastness my brain has trouble processing, and it’s QUIET, quiet like nature is concentrating. That sunset was honestly unreal. On the drive home, we stopped in the darkness to check out a clear night of frosty stars, and I was like, enough already. I don’t deserve this beauty. We listened to “Moonlight Mile” as we navigated the long dark and it was perfection.

Pictures below – I edited down as much as I could, and there are still many.

And that is that for the Canyon Grande! About to pack up my stuff and get on the road to the great red arches of Moab and the smallville goodness of Grand Junction, CO…where I am staying with a lavender farmer. Yus.





→ Day 1: LA to Murderville to Flagstaff

You said, “Let me know you’re alive once in awhile during your road trip.” I said, “You know what, why don’t I just BLOG about it?” And then you were like, “That’s not necessary,” but I didn’t hear that last part over the sound of AMERICA’S HEARTLAND!

This jabroni here *points thumbs* is driving from Los Angeles to New York for the next two weeks. So this is the start of a travel project, a.k.a. me combining my cross-country driving adventurethoughts with pop culture reflections (in keeping with the genre of this blog).

Here’s the itinerary – not including The World’s Biggest Rubber Band Ball or The Lost Cat Colony of New Mexico or whatever happens to tickle my fancy with well-placed road signs.

June 22-23: Flagstaff, AZ and The Grand Canyon

June 24: Moab, UT and Grand Junction, CO

June 25-27: Boulder, CO and Denver, CO

June 28: Wichita, KS

June 29-July 1: St. Louis, MO

July 2: Lake Hope, OH

July 3-5: Philadelphia, PA

July 6: New Fuckin’ York

(What goes East must go West – the end of August brings Part II: The Return).

This is definitely the biggest car trip I’ve ever undertaken, and about half of it will be solo. I won’t encounter any familiar faces till Boulder, and won’t pick up a travel companion till St. Louis. I’ve armed myself with a behemoth of a playlist, podcasts, and a small group of people who have begrudgingly agreed to take my calls. And luckily, as it happens, my singing voice is absolutely breathtaking in the acoustics of an empty vehicle. Here’s to discovery and the possibility of meet-cuting with new friends in random cities.

SO. I left this morning around 7 AM, bidding one last farewell to my barista and the city I love so much. Los Angeles, it’s late June and you were just getting good: sweet breezes and California sun that left me burned to a crisp this past weekend. It was a weird feeling to fight my way through Monday morning traffic down the 405, teething at my venti coffee like every other commuter, but actually ADVENTURING. LA was just trying to suck me back in with car congestion, tryna keep me from manifesting my destiny.

I was finally able to slam the pedal to the floor around Norwalk, where the freeway opened up to pleasant but underwhelming hills of dry brush. This was the case from So-Cal all the way to the Arizona state line, where the mountains finally started to get excited and sprout some proper forest. Honestly, I leave the city so rarely that any unpopulated landscape strikes me as God’s handiwork; today’s views were no exception and I never got tired of staring awestruck out the window, smiling, and wondering, “How many bodies are buried behind that majestic boulder?”

SPEAKING of the dead, I happened upon Ludlow, CA about 4 hours into my trip when I needed gas. It is a super scary and desolate ghost town with naught but an abandoned cafe, crumbling ruins, and a couple of burned-out vintage cars for good measure.  I stretched my legs for awhile and desperately looked for tumbleweeds to fulfill my desert road trip fantasy. No luck. Just lost souls and scrub.

On my next gas stop, I stumbled across some quaintly named restaurants in Seligman, AZ (see pictures below), as well as an EXTREMELY old woman who sang “Spice Up Your Life” at me as I crossed the road. Keep in mind that I was wearing a Spice Girls shirt, but, ya know. I startle easy. Also drove past a car towing a small boat titled (I kid you not) the PRETTY PUNZ. Still regret not snapping a pic. Perhaps one day I shall sail a P.P. of my own on the ocean blue…

Seven and a half hours after I set out this morning, I concluded today’s first leg in the incredibly dry, hot, and sassy Flagstaff AZ. This town is basically like if half of Seattle was abducted and woke up in an enclosure in the middle of the desert, and then had to make do. Very colorful, artisanal, charming. Have spent the last couple hours strolling around downtown and sampling the local iced tea and ice cream selection. I’m a big fan of the Grand Canyon International Hostel, where I’m staying tonight and tomorrow night. So homey! My bunkmate Rebecca was moisturizing when I got back, and we just had a nice conversation about moisture, and lotion, and how important they are. I smell a new friend, and she in turn smells like shea butter.

Here’s my fave playlist selection, blasted today into the searing wind. “OH MY GOD I CAN’T BELIEVE IT, I’VE NEVER BEEN THIS FAR AWAY FROM HOME” is a great travel battle cry.

Tonight I’ll probably turn in early and watch the rest of True Detective, which I abandoned mid-episode last night. Guys, it’s not a good show. The ingredients on their own are wonderful: strikingly written single lines, sumptuous cinematography, performances that are visceral and dark and dragged from the best hidden corners of every actor (Vince Vaughn is really holding his own, who knew!). However, together…TD is television compost. All of HBO’s cast-off artistic garbage in an overwhelming heap that we all think is good for the environment. It takes itself very seriously and adds nothing innovative to the already heavily populated crime genre. Moreover, it’s all I have on Sunday nights now. Curse you, McConaughey! I think I need to start House of Cards finally, so I have something to return to on the road in moments of boredom and reflection.

Tomorrow I hit the Grand Canyon and find out how many licks it takes to get to the center of the earth. Good evening, friends!


A Dangerous Thing With Style

Here’s what I got out of 2014: being alive is enough.

If you’re lucky enough to breathe, you can want it, do it, eat it, write it, make it, kiss it, defeat it, be it. For the last 12 months, as the world fell down around us – from Ferguson to Robin to Cosby to Pakistan to beyond – I’ve felt an increasingly desperate and lusty need to live, so much better.

It’s true that I’ve produced less creative work. Like any other year, I kept up on culture and engaged with it obsessively, stalking the perimeters of social media from dawn to dusk and vulturing around art and gossip and pop philosophy. But I didn’t write about it as much, because I wasn’t as wanting inside. My drive to disappear inside a screen has sharply declined.  I can’t explain it, but something happened to me in 2014. I suppose I finally happened to me. I started to let myself talk without rehearsing my lines. I gave my heart to exactly who I wanted, when I wanted. I stopped deciding when it was and wasn’t acceptable to be alone. And it happened like THAT (I’m snapping). My brain chemistry just…turned over. Suddenly, being in my mid-20s and searching for a meaningful existence seems like the most brilliant thing to do with my time. And writing about movies and television was part of that; no longer a distraction but the sharpest tool at my disposal.

As an artist of any kind, it’s hard to live a whole year, and at the end, not be terrified that you didn’t make a mark??? It turns out that there are actually no answers to questions like that; questions of self-worth and creativity and identity. You just kind of get comfortable asking questions. You start to like being made up of questions. Who knows if, in 2015, I’ll end up in school, or writing like this for real money, or under a brand-new sky, or rolling over to someone I’d never expect to see in bed? There’s going to be some really amazing and really terrible films and television and music and pop phenomena this coming year. We are all so alive to see it and do something with it, about it.

Let me close this ramble with one of my favorite literary discoveries of this year, a poem called “Style.”

Style is the answer to everything.
A fresh way to approach a dull or dangerous thing.
To do a dull thing with style is preferable to doing a dangerous thing without style.
To do a dangerous thing with style, is what I call art.
Bullfighting can be an art.
Boxing can be an art.
Loving can be an art.
Opening a can of sardines can be an art.
Not many have style.
Not many can keep style.
I have seen dogs with more style than men.
Although not many dogs have style.
Cats have it with abundance.

When Hemingway put his brains to the wall with a shotgun, that was style.
For sometimes people give you style.
Joan of Arc had style.
John the Baptist.
García Lorca.
I have met men in jail with style.
I have met more men in jail with style than men out of jail.
Style is a difference, a way of doing, a way of being done.
Six herons standing quietly in a pool of water, or you, walking
out of the bathroom without seeing me.

– Charles Bukowski

A champagne toast to style, however you give it. What a fucking year it’s been. I can’t wait to see the other side of 2015.

Thank you so much for being part of my written and real life this year. Love to you all.

Come What May

“Madam President! The Moulin Rouge soundtrack! IT’S BEEN TAKEN OFF SPOTIFY. What are your orders?”

After a long moment, she turned around. A lighter sparked in the darkness, illuminating the hard lines of her face as she drew deeply on a cigarette. After several coughs and loud retching sounds, she spoke. “Fire at will.”

“F-Fire? But…Madam Pres-”

“I said fire.”

The corporal fell to his knees. “Please. Spotify will retaliate, madam!” he shouted at her retreating back. “They’ll delete Dreamgirls. West Side Story. Maybe even Newsies. They’ll all DIE.”

The President’s shapely silhouette paused in the doorway, her head upturned and proud. “The French are glad to die for love,” she whispered. Again the cigarette glowed, setting off another round of coughing. “Fuck,” she wheezed. “Fuck.”

Watch to Heal

It’s been a tough week so far. I like to care for myself by giving my brain comfort food: favorite movies, music, etc. But it’s hard to do that when you realize that loneliness and despair touches everyone, especially those you turn to for laughter.

I wanted to share one of my favorite things to watch when I’m really sad. Maybe you can relate to the healing power of a grilled cheese sandwich, and a TV character that feels like an old friend.

There’s an inner world we all have where there’s only the joyful, and familiar. Whatever is hurting your heart, remember that your happy place is indestructible.

The Beatles, Breaking Bad, and How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Pop

Back at liberal arts college, people were always telling me about “self-care.” Taking vanilla-scented baths and getting exercise and letting the sun shine on your face and whatnot. I dunno, are you supposed to do that stuff even if it’s not part of your normal happy routine? When does self-care become more annoying than depression itself? I’d rather feel shitty in bed than drag my ass to the yoga mat.

I’m currently engaged in a Herculean effort to bring myself back from the brink after watching my best friend die right in front of me (aka the Breaking Bad finale, for you laypeople).

I ran out of vanilla bath beads last NEVER, so I can’t do any of that normal inward-healing shit. I’ve just been consuming the hair of the dog: more media! Whenever I feel sad or bereft, I go back to the music and movies that have given me life since I was wee.

BB was a pretty serious blow, so I had to bring out the big guns. Four big guns. The cutest and most trusty guns I’ve ever known.


I dunno, guys. Nobody GETS ME. I wish I had someone else to wax Beatles with, but I live alone on this beautiful and quaint little island. I mean, I know you like The Beatles and everything, but does a new day dawn on your heart when you hear them? Do their adorable antics cradle you in a bassinet of joy? Do you obsessively compare Paul and John’s different but equally arousing approaches to masculinity? Actually, I did hear a really good joke the other day that you might like. How’s sex with Paul McCartney? Your mother should know! BEATLES HUMOR. GET INTO IT.

When I am really far gone, I delve into The Innocent Era, 1965 and earlier. Usually it’s just repeated viewings of A Hard Day’s Night, which I shall now attempt to convince you is the most wonderful medicine for the sads.

For me, the music heals most of all. A Hard Day’s Night is a REALLY charming film (more on that later), and the soundtrack is just extraordinary. Although 1964 was the high point of their teen pop era, these songs can’t be discounted in the larger pantheon of Beatles genius. This soundtrack in particular has such an awesome capacity to lift me; the songs are perfect pop compositions, so clearly composed by youngsters. Their harmonies are simple and jaw-droppingly pretty. And performed by such delightful kids. One of my favorites:

You might be aware that I’ve been like, insanely obsessed with The Beatles since I’ve had ears, so of course these songs, and this film, have a very specific nostalgia factor for me. I watch A Hard Day’s Night when I want to remind myself of what it felt like to fall in love with art. I watch it when I’m devastated to lose one of my fictional touchstones (DAMN YOU, “Felina”) that help me so much on my road to self-discovery.


You’ve got to keep your favorite things alive inside you. You’ve got to know what you like. To re-consume my favorite pop culture is to fall in love with humans, with the CRAZY fact that we’re on this planet and we get to make things. I remember being really bowled over by the fact that this music was real, and made me feel, and other people made of flesh and blood had made it, and I had the privilege to be alive and be able to hear it and be happy. What? No. I’m not on drugs. Are you on drugs? Quit that cynicism and dig my open soul here.

I used to watch A Hard Day’s Night with my middle school best friend, a girl who wasn’t afraid to try a fandom on the edge. We were twelve, so we liked a lot of weird things, and we had a bottomless capacity for fawning and flailing and general hysteria. We identified with those screaming chicks in the film. It just didn’t seem that strange to be so far gone with celebrity worship that you would heave your body over railings towards four boys in suits, and then go home to your special room padded with Beatles posters to drool and to dream.

At that time in my life, there was little shame in anything. I mean, I thought I was self-critical then, but MAN, pre-teen Leah doesn’t even compare to mid-20s Leah. Back then, I didn’t get into things because anyone said I was supposed to (and here’s an essay about that). I just loved what I loved. I was unafraid to tell others what I loved. It was just my best friend and I after school, gorging ourselves on culture and unwittingly molding our perspectives on the media all around us. There was no social media profile where I picked and chose which movies and television and music to publicly display allegiance for, so people would get “the right idea” about me. Back then, I didn’t even know it was an option for me to look cool, so I let it all hang out.

And I miss that, so much. That’s what The Beatles still do for me. They gently unzip my heart again, and let it all hang out. I don’t let anyone really see it anymore, but to see that it’s still there, still beating and still so weird, is enough for me.


This is a clipping from a teen magazine in 1965 that I saved for ten years or more. It’s just one of those moments, frozen in time, that makes me smile. Because this is what it’s like to be a fan – to let something so small, so superficial, like pop music, give you pleasure as intense as you allow it to be.

As I stood in front of my favorite Beatle, the only thing I could think of was that his contact lenses looked like they hurt him. He smiled and stuck out his hand and without thinking, I rested my right arm on top of his left while we shook hands!

“John,” I said, “are your contacts bothering you?”

“No,” he answered. I got the distinct feeling that not too many people had asked that question.

Undaunted, I plunged on. “I have them too!” I confided.

He leaned closer and stared searchingly into my eyes. “Are yours bothering you?” he said with a straight face.

“No,” I stammered, and then we both laughed.

“They’re good, aren’t they?” John said seriously, and I could only nod, not trusting my voice. “But your eyes are prettier then mine,” John said, and to my dismay, unwanted tears rolled down my cheeks. “Hey,” John said with a slight laugh, “don’t cry or they’ll wash away!”

I smiled through my tears as I blurted, “John, you’re my favorite.”

He smiled warmly, gave my hand a final shake and said, “You’re my favorite.”

Perhaps the boys and their corresponding Beatlemania, the expansive cultural influence, have something to do with their status in my life as a soul-salve. It feels to nice to be part of something, doesn’t it? To love The Beatles means that I love something integral to the fabric of modern civilization. I might be a little on the extreme end of the spectrum, but you and I can agree that George Harrison plucked a wicked 12-string.

Did you see the tsunami of Breaking Bad wash across your newsfeeds and dashboards and real-life interactions? Even if you didn’t watch the show, or didn’t like it (whatever THAT means), it was certainly an exciting time. When pop culture ripples like that, it makes me feel so alive and so connected. And that feeling becomes doubly wonderful, dare I say spiritual, when I’ve got a real emotional stake in it. Thank goodness for storytelling in all its forms – thank goodness for creativity! We’re all creating dreams for one another. That’s exactly what you’re doing when you’re watching or making a show, a movie, or a song. You’re writing and painting my dreams. And I’ll accept that gift with open arms and I’ll never quit typing or tweeting or talking about it, because you deserve to know that it meant a lot to me.

Hmm. It kind of gives these shrieking girls a touch of nobility, no?

Forgive my effusiveness (that’s a fancy word for “crazy”). I’m feeling a lot. This post is how I cope. Not afraid to say it felt awesome to share.

Don’t be afraid to love what you love. There’s no shame in fandom, in any of its forms. “Guilty pleasure” is a term created by the cool kids, and honestly, you don’t wanna be them. They’re soulless and alone even when they’re with people. Let’s come together, right now. I bet you’ve got a few pop-culture coping mechanisms of your own. Feel free to leave me a comment and unzip ’em. I’ll be waiting for you in the vanilla steam of a Los Angeles bathtub.

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The Special Puns Unit: These Are Their Stories

This post doesn’t need an introduction. Just imagine you’re in a development meeting at USA Network.

Him: my best friend
Her: my roommate
Me: me


Him:  hows this pitch: a gritty crime drama about an epileptic detective
search & seizure

Me:  i see your pitch and i raise you:
emotionally unavailable new york prosecutor finds only one person who was present at a brutal murder. the problem? she’s gorgeous. and she’s blind. and she might be exactly what he’s looking for.
Leading the Witness
Him: also Blind Justice

Him:  a revenge-style drama about a cunning new ADA who secretly teams up with dangerous ex-convicts to bring down the corrupt coven of lawyers who tore apart his family
each episode culminates in a dramatic, vengeful courtroom showdown
In Contempt

Him: a high-powered lawyer is brutally raped by recently released con she jailed a decade ago
though she’s a modern woman, her public stance on abortion forces her to carry the fetus to term
she vows she’ll find the proof to convict her tormentor, &, come hell or high water, she’ll have her day in court
only one problem: she’s only got 9 months to put all the pieces together
coming this fall: Due Process

Me: bright-eyed, bushy tailed Miranda Spencer, recent graduate of Yale law and the first black gay female editor of their law review, ends up breaking up with her longtime girlfriend the night of graduation
depressed, she decides to leave New Haven for rural Iowa and is hired as an associate at a small law firm (they’re forced to hire her because of unfair representation of minorities in their firm)
the old white partners are loathe to allow her progressive stance in their courtroom, but little by little the small town and the firm begin to warm to her
but when Miranda meets the woman of her dreams – the founding partner’s daughter – will she be able to overcome prejudices and stand tall, black, gay, female, and proud?
that’s right, ladies…it’s
Miranda’s Rights
Him: idk how i didn’t see that coming

Me:  two sisters
the older one grows up to be a soulless but successful entertainment attorney
the younger one always feels overshadowed, but finds solace in her hobby of ballet
and one day she goes to visit her sister, who is having trouble with an ornery client, former dancer worth millions
and the younger sister manages to convince the client to settle, earning her sister’s firm a pile of money
suddenly she discovers she has an aptitude for the law
and is put into competition with her sister, but this time she just might win!
Passing the Barre
Her: or Pointe of Order

Him:  i actually just thought of a turn on the genre
a fashion-police-type show that analyzes & critiques famous or outrageous courtroom outfits
Worn Under Oath
or it can just be a special that chronicles the courtroom choices of LiLo

Me: dating/courtroom show that forces the female defendant to choose which of her jurors isnt a randomly selected juror at all, but a male prostitute
Hung Jury
(adaptation of Her “male prostitute turns lawyer”)

Him:  when a revered artist is accused of homicide, his adoring public is scandalized
although his sick, brilliant mind has the nypd scrambling for clues to definitively link him to the murder, a lucky find by a novice detective reveals that a recent painting holds the secret to this heinous crime
after conviction, the creative killer reveals that his victim was his last hurrah in a lucrative killer career
with scant leads to go on, the detectives’ only clues lie within the intricate workings of this artist’s vast ouevre
only they can bring justice to the families of this monster’s countless victims
this is .. EXHIBIT X
the letter can be omitted or changed
yeah i think just EXHIBIT is good

Me:  quirky forensics investigator usually enjoys her job, except for one thing: she’s a psychic
and anything that happens to crime victims – bruises, laceration marks, etc – also happens to her body at the same time
kind of a sympathetic pain
every new case forces her to not only examine the crime scene, but investigate herself
a provocative new thriller:
Body of Evidence

Him: this somnambulant attorney can close any case .. but only in his sleep!
he is: Laying Down the Law

Me: a master butcher discovers an uncanny ability to create sketches of perps using meats
don’t miss Cold Cut Case

Him: a Harlem beat cop tries to resist the powers of police corruption around him as well as his longterm sex addiction in FRISK

Me: when a serial killer strikes a nudist colony, a conservative detective must overcome her discomfort and join the community to bring him to justice. coming soon: Barely Legal
Her: or The Naked Truth

Her: Courtroom fashion police.

Me: a disturbing case drives an elderly police chief to retire and barricade himself in an apartment, obsessively collecting evidence. now the killer’s on the loose, and it’s up to the chief’s son to hunt his father down inside the dirty, overstuffed apartment before it’s too late.
Law and Hoarder

Him: a direct descendant of the famed physicist, Bob Newton can solve complex mathematical equations in his head, but when consulted as an expert witness, he can barely keep his feet on the ground! this summer, he’ll learn the gravity of the justice system in:
Newton’s Laws

Me: i’m obsessed with how we just spent all that time
Him: wait. are we done?


Be Kind, Rewind Time

I recently purchased a new TV. It was a long process. For weeks, I sought my elusive joybox on Craigslist, on Facebook, over the hills and the moors. It didn’t need many bells and whistles, just one essential feature: a VCR. If there was not a VCR actually built into the television, it was useless to me and unwelcome anywhere near my bed.

Finally, I found The One. I drove to Venice and ascended a narrow staircase, following a grizzly Jeffrey Dahmer type into a silent apartment. “Can you test the VCR for me?” I asked him, standing in the doorway of the peculiarly bare hovel he called a living room.

He popped in a Phillies game from 2003. The picture was semi-perfect, the sound simultaneously fuzzy and jangly like loose change. VHS-quality, like mom used to make. I was sold.

“You know, the DVD player works too,” he huffed as we threw the TV into my passenger seat. Its caboose was comically giant, pregnant with mechanical god-knows-what.

I stroked the screen lovingly. “Whatever.” I locked the seat belt snugly around the TV like it was a child. It was time to go home and explore each other.


My videotape collection is lovingly maintained, and my room is my sanctuary for worshipping at the altar of the dying VHS tape. All of my favorites, the classics I grew up with, are represented on the shelf, and there’s nothing I love more than bathing in their light late at night, reveling in their subpar visuals and audio. I love to rewind, I love to fast-forward. The quiet WHRRRRRRR that lets me know that even though I’m jumping three scenes into the future, the continuity within its universe remains intact. And when I press PLAY, it won’t be perfect. It’ll be a rough estimation of the right moment. And isn’t life just like that?

I sit far back on my bed, reveling in the fact that my face isn’t pressed up against a pixelated computer screen. This is luxury. I am the master of all. My palms get sweaty around the remote, my index finger poised on the “TRACKING” button like it’s 1994 again.


There’s just something about video cassettes. It’s the structure of them, the fact that they’re so vulnerable and OPEN. Just pull on the upper ridge hard enough and the plastic snaps will break, forever rendering the tape useless. You can even pull the actual TAPE out. It makes me feel closer to 1923 than 2013. It’s not like you can see every frame of the movie on the tape itself – it’s magnetic, all black, mysterious – but someone spent time lovingly winding it around the little plastic wheels so it unspools correctly. Mess with the structural integrity of the VHS and your tape is fucked forever. There’s no fixing it once you’ve diddled with the natural order of the tape. It’s simple but so deceptively complex.

And there’s the actual moment of pushing the tape into the VCR. I once read a Buzzfeed article about everyday things that are better than sex, and was dismayed not to find VCR-ing on the list. You slot the cassette in, wheel side down. Push it through the perfectly formed rectangle opening…is this right? Will it work? And then the internal mechanism kicks in, biting down and hugging your tape with its warm mechanical mouth. The VCR draws the tape in smoothly and automatically. It doesn’t need your help anymore. It’ll take it from here.


If you’ve recently purchased your VHS from a thrift store, or have rented it from the library, there’s also a brief moment of excitement. Will the tape start from the very beginning? A random point in the middle, maybe from the second right after a topless scene? Or will it resume from mid-credits, because the last person to touch this tape was an asshole and knows not to lay that tape down, flip it and reverse it.

And don’t even get me started on the Coming Attractions. We all know that’s the best part of watching any VHS. It’s one of the only modes of media consumption that contextualizes the work FOR you. If you feel like watching The Lion King, you get to experience delightful snippets of all other family-friendly entertainment that came out in 1994-1995. For a few brief moments, you get to remember what film trailers used to sound like and how much ridiculous plot exposition was involved (“It’s a story of a mermaid…who just wanted to be Part of Your World. A flounder and a crab are her best friends, and she falls in love with a prince…even without a VOICE!”). With the Coming Attractions, you get a total and complete picture of the bygone era you’re about to experience.


And then, when the movie is over, there’s even BUILT IN TIME for you to sit back and process what you’ve just watched (for the seventeenth time). You press STOP and then REWIND and let the sweet siren song of the rapidly cycling tape lull you into relaxation for the next minute and a half. Lest you fall asleep, there’s a jarring CLICK that lets you know the tape is now ready for a re-watch. And then the EJECT button, oh the beautiful EJECT button. One smooth motion and your VHS is served out to you, ready for the cozy embrace of its snug little box. What an experience. And I’m so practiced. It’s a multi-step, cleanly executed ritual.

TL;DR: I’m obsessed with VHS tapes and VCRs and have a hard time making human connections in a modern world.