All the Hate Mail!

- an elan gale nightmare - a blog - a disease - a problem - a dog without a home


Yesterday I signed into Facebook for the first time in a very long time and it took me no time at all to remember why I hated how people interact on that platform.

At the top of the page, the little prompt said “What’s on your mind?”

So I wrote what was on my mind and then I waited. 

And then all these people, all these friends, acquaintances, and so forth, who had CHOSEN to be a part of a network where they get to see what is on other people’s minds and CHOSEN to have me be one of the people whose minds they could see what was on began responding.

And it was unreal. Some people just wrote pithy little jokes, other people were somehow offended and wanted to teach me a lesson. Other people who were equally offended but didn’t want to incur my wrath just passive-aggressively “liked” the comment by the most outspoken offended person. 

No one actually gave a shit what was on my mind. They were interested in other people knowing what was on their mind ABOUT what was on my mind. 

Imagine sitting in a cafe and having a friend ask you how you’re feeling and then suddenly every single person within a mile tells you how they feel about how you feel. That’s what Facebook is like. What a nightmare. 

And here’s the sad thing. It’s not Facebook’s fault. They just gave us the platform. It’s our fault. 

We’re dreadful, self-loving, immature little animals and I’m pretty damn sick of it. 

What’s on my mind?

None of your damn business

I Like Your Skin

A few weeks ago, I took a trip to San Francisco to visit some friends. On the first night of the trip, we decided to have a late night dinner at one of my favorite restaurants, Nopa.

We didn’t have a reservation and it was super crowded, so I punched my way through the crowd by the door until I got up to the hostess. She had frizzy red hair and remarkably fair skin. I had never seen her there before and since the world revolves around me, I decided that she must be new.

"Hi. You must be new."


"Cool," I said. "So there’s four of us. Can we get a table upstairs?"

"It’s going to be about an hour and a half. You can wait at the bar or I can take your number and call you."

I gave her my number and thanked her. 

"I like your hair" she said as I walked away. 

I turned around and said “Thanks. I like your hair too.”

"You don’t have to do that," she said.


"I just told you I like your hair. You don’t have to tell me you like my hair. If you like something about me you can tell me but don’t just say things for no reason."

She was right. I didn’t like her hair. As my friends and I waited next door at a dive bar, I kept trying to think of things I liked about this woman. I didn’t really know her. I liked her abruptness. I liked her fire. I liked where she worked. I liked the way she didn’t take a false compliment and the way she didn’t give a shit what I thought and treated me as she would another person instead of a customer at a restaurant.

When we got back to the restaurant, she wasn’t at the hostess stand anymore. Someone else took us to our table upstairs and I was pretty sure I had lost my chance to make up for my mistake.

But, as luck would have it, moments later, the frizzy redheaded hostess came over to our table with the wine list. 

I’m not sure what came over me, but I just loudly blurted out:

"I like your skin!"

All three of my friends groaned in unison. “We are so sorry about him,” their voices seemed to say.

Without context, I understand their concerns. “I like your skin” sounds a lot like “I would like to wear your skin, stranger!”

I shook my head in despair because what was meant as a genuine compliment (she had great skin!) was now some weird pregnant moment hanging in the air for an eternity. Seeing my friends respond with such resounding negativity must have read to her like “Oh boy here goes Elan again telling strangers he likes their skin.”

She walked away pretty quickly and once she was gone I was able to explain the context of my comment to my friends. They realized that I wasn’t out of line, but it was too late. The weirdness had come and gone and now everyone involved felt terrible.

On the way out of the restaurant, I saw her again. 

"I’m sorry about that," I said.

"You don’t have to say that."

"I was just trying to say that I liked something honestly."

"I know. I like my skin too," she said. "I have good skin. Your skin is dry. You should moisturize." 

Her coworker only caught the very last thing she said and groaned loudly. 

Now, we were even. 

Planes Throwing Debris

As you drive past Princess Julianna International Airport in St. Maarten you immediately realize you’re in the right place. Two beach bars bookend either side of a steep and idyllic white sand beach against pure, clear blue water. People drink Carib beer and order Sex on the Beach and wink at the bartenders as if they’re all the first person to ever order that drink. Bellies stick out over beige shorts and electric blue tank-tops cover brand new two-pieces bought just for this trip.
You hear a rumbling from the sky and a group begins to gather. Professional photographers, 20-somethings with stick-mounted Go-Pros, European tourists in Speedos: no one is immune from the romantic idea of getting your fucking face blown off by a jet engine.

The ocean goes on forever. The sand stretches about 25 feet or so, coming up at a steep angle to the road. The road is two lanes only, 14 feet across at most. Then, there is a barrier, and the barrier just says “No Standing! Danger!” Obviously, everyone gets as close to this barrier as possible. Through the chain link fence and barb-wire you see the famous runway, literally only a stone’s throw away.

I took a boat in from Anguilla, and when the shuttle driver asked me what terminal I was going to, I asked to go to the Sunset Bar. He asked me for a few dollars, which I was happy to give him for this once in a lifetime experience. He told me a JetBlue plane would be landing at around 1:15pm and a KLM 787 would be taking off shortly thereafter. He knew the routine.

We pulled up to the beach at 1:09pm and I saw the Sunset Bar in the distance. People were running wildly towards the ocean. The JetBlue arrival was early. “Get out! Go! Take your picture!” he yelled and I left my bags in the car with him and pulled out my phone and ran through the sand until I hit the spot where the most people were. I figured they knew.

People were yelling and waving, trying to get the attention of the people on the plane, or the pilots, or for no reason at all. It’s hard to tell.

I stood in solidarity with these people. Together, we were going to have an experience. The JetBlue plane was closing in, seeming to just grow in size as it hovered over the blue water.

We all did the exact same thing. We all experienced the moment in the exact same way. Your heart stops for a moment as you realize that even though you came here to have a plane head straight towards you…that right now a plane is heading straight towards you. It’s not a feeling you know.

Most of life is comprised of feelings you know. Mornings feel tired. Working out feels annoying and then great, in that order. Food tastes familiar and nice. Sex feels great, but gets to be more like food over time, familiar and nice. Most things you do for the first time you’ve already done, and most things you do for the first time you will do again. This isn’t like that. There is a plane heading straight towards you.

And in that moment we all lean back, look up, spin around, and watch as, only seconds later, the plane lands safely on the ground.

The jet engines blast us all with sand and debris and we turn our faces away and smile with our eyes closed and listen to the sounds of other people laughing.

It’s kind of nice. We don’t talk to each other, but we all look at each other and our eyes say “How cool was that?”

My shuttle driver was kind enough to wait for me and drive me back to the airport. He giggled as I got in the car and said “Everybody’s gotta do that! I have no idea why!”

As I checked into my flight, the woman behind the counter asked me if I had just come from the beach watching the planes land.

“How did you know?” I asked.

“You’re covered in sand. It’s very dangerous. A lady died.”

I settled into my seat and prepared for take-off. We taxied towards the beach and as we turned I could see the beach through the window. And I saw all the people waving at our plane. I wondered if any of them were the same people that I had been standing with less than an hour prior.

Either way, I looked at them and I thought “What the hell are you people doing? Who are you waving at?”

And then I remembered that they were waving at me. All those people who I was standing with earlier were actually waving at someone, they just didn’t know it. They just had hope. They had hope that there was someone on the other end, someone to tell them that they were alive.

Turns out, there was.

Every Breakup Ever

So, here’s the thing. Oh, man. So I don’t even know what to say right now. It’s like “what can I say?” Do you know what I’m saying? Do you know what I mean? This is, like, so hard, because, you know, I don’t know. You know? See, it’s like this. It’s not that I’m saying… What I’m not trying to say is that… Okay, here’s the thing. I just don’t feel like…you know? I’m just not entirely sure that this is kind of really… I’m not sure how to say it. You know when you’re young and you feel like you’ll grow up and you’ll know what it all is? And everything is so confusing and you wonder when you’ll ever stop being confused and you think when I’m old and I figure it out it’ll be simple and I won’t be confused. You know?
So, here’s the thing. I’m confused. It’s not that I’m not sure. Because I am sure. I am totally sure. I’m just confused, which is different. It’s like, you know, like, not like I thought it would be like, you know?
Why are you looking at me like that? What are you thinking? Just say it. Just say whatever. I want to hear whatever you want to say. Just say it to me. Just say whatever.

No. You’ve totally gotten it all wrong. I don’t think you get what I’m saying, you know? No. No. No. No. That’s not what I meant. Yes I said those words, but not in that way. It’s totally not what I meant. Yes I can see how you could’ve taken it that way but can you understand what I’m saying? Can you see what I mean? Can you try?

This isn’t going anywhere. I should go. I should just go.

Of course I can be confused and sure at the same time, what kind of question is that? It’s like you don’t even know me. It’s like you and I aren’t even speaking the same language. It’s like as if you and me are two different people to each other than we used to be. I’m not even sure we know each other anymore. I’m not even sure we’re breaking up with each other. Maybe our new selves were never even together, you know? And our old selves just drifted apart and are happy with what they had?

Of course it makes sense. Don’t be a jerk.

See? This is what I’m talking about. I should go.

Just kiss me. Just kiss me goodbye. Okay, but less than that. More of like a goodbye kiss that was like an “I love you” kiss and thats for our old selves. Okay, maybe just a hug. Maybe this whole thing was a bad idea.

No. I don’t mean that. I should still go.


Okay, I’ll spend the night but it doesn’t mean we’re not breaking up.

Yes, of course I love you too.

You’re hot when you’re mad.

The Hidden Victim of Argo

The other day I met a man named Simon and he told me a very interesting story.

Back in 1979, on a relatively sunny day, Simon was walking down Gower Boulevard in Hollywood when a car pulled over and a fat man inside asked him is he wanted to be in pictures.

Simon had only moved to Los Angeles four weeks prior and could not believe his luck

Within a week he was getting fitted for an intergalactic sheik shoot and was hobnobbing with some of Hollywood’s finest at a highly publicized table reading.

Argo was the name of the movie. His parents back in Geneva were thrilled at their baby boy’s success. High school friends were sending postcards. Simon even signed up for a frequent flier program, realizing that he would soon be among the elite.

But suddenly the movie was cancelled. He was asked to return his script to the studio and it wasn’t until 2012 when Simon saw the movie, also called Argo, when he realized he had been duped. Fooled.


Anyway, once Simon was done weighing my self-serve yogurt, I told him to have a really good rest of the day.

Panhandling On Cloud 8

When Bob saw those headlights coming right at him, he was really proud of himself.

Sure, he was pretty disappointed that he had swerved into oncoming traffic because he was trying to open a rather difficult ketchup packet while driving, and yeah it was a bummer to be dying, and of course the pain was sure to be immeasurable…


He was proud of how he had left his affairs. A generous life insurance policy and a well kept will would keep his loving wife Susan and his dear children, Loren and Milt, safe and sound for many years to come. After all, you can’t take it with you.

Floating on white air, Bob made his way towards the pearly gates and the polished gold counter that seemed to serve as some kind if check-in.

Patrick, an angel appeared from thin air with a pen and ledger.

"How did you die?"

"I was in a car accident," said Bob.

Patrick chewed his pen. “Mmmm yes I see. And were you good on Earth?”

"I mean, I think so," said Bob. "I tried. I gave to the poor and I loved my wife and kids."

Patrick looked over his notes, only occasionally glancing up at Bob.

"Ok, Bob. Seems like you’re in the right place. I’m just going to need a credit card to secure your resort fee and you should be good to go."


"Upkeep around here is very expensive so on top of homeowner’s association fees, we also charge a resort fee. Helps keep the streets maintained and the parks green. You understand."

"Umm. I see. Well unfortunately I left all my money to my wife and kids."

"What?! You didn’t bring any money? How the hell did you think you were going to live? What are you going to eat?"

"I thought it was free. I thought you couldn’t take it with you," whined Bob.

"Well I’m not sure who told you that but you have been lied to. I haven’t even seen a one-bedroom up here for under $1,700 a month in years. Do you have any idea how nice this place is?"

"But I was a good person!"

"There’s a lot of good people. We ran out of room for those a long time ago. This is for people who were good AND worked hard."

"What am I supposed to do now?" Bob asked, dejected.

Patrick pointed behind Bob and Bob turned around to see a floating sign:


"That’s where people like you go. It’s not too bad. It’s kind of like cloud nine, just less."

Patrick then handed Bob a hat and sent him on his way.

There was no pearly gate around Cloud Eight. He just walked right in.

It was pretty crowded.

Bob turned to the fellow next to him and asked him what to do.

"We mostly just stand here and hold out our hats," said the fellow.

"Why?" asked Bob.

"Sometimes the people on Cloud Nine drop a coin or two and we try to catch them and hope to one day have enough to move up there."

Bob thought about how his daughter was probably buying another pair of expensive jeans right now with money that used to be his.

The fellow poked Bob.

"Also, sometimes they drop cookies and we get to catch them and eat them. That’s my favorite. They don’t don’t cookies here in the cafeteria. Mmm. Cookies!"

Bob didn’t want to hold his hat up, but he did. After all, he was pretty hungry

girl got me all like

girl got me all like

Don’t Forget

It’s the first day of the rest of your life. Your body is aging and as your cells continue to multiply, they become less and less stable, constantly enhancing their ability to mutate and to destroy you.

Don’t forget that your cells will go into competition for needed nutrients. You can do all the CrossFit and 5ks you want but in time you will be taken down by something the size of a mosquito’s thoughts.

Every two lane highway and old railroad crossing, every syringe and unwashed piece of baby spinach, every time a stranger coughs, every time a tree’s roots lose the will to hang on…

Don’t forget that it’s the first day of the rest of your life. It could be the last. Every day brings your closer.

Be thankful.

Don’t forget to be thankful to the world that will kill you. A world literally rife with ways to remove you from it.

The world is like ocean. It’s large and it doesn’t care about you.

Don’t forget to pick a good place to have brunch. That may be the last egg you ever eat.

And then you might get salmonella and die.

Life is funny like that.

Today is the first day of the rest of your life.

Don’t forget.

Here lies you: they never saw it coming

This post starts off annoying but I PROMISE it gets good:

As some of you may have noticed, I just made available the first ever theyearofelan t-shirt.

Why the hell would I do this? Well, let me explain briefly.

Many cool and nice people have asked me to turn my tweets into a book or into a calendar, but it can’t imagine why anyone would pay for things I already like doing for free.

But then I had a fun idea to make shirts. But how do I make this worthwhile?

Well, my friend Jac Vanek has a clothing line and she agreed to make some theyearofelan shirts, starting with one of my favorite tweets… “I Love Hating Things”

Now, here is the cool part for me. 100% of every single dollar I make will be donated to one of my favorite charities: Next Door Solutions. Not 50%. Not 75%. 100% of every dollar will go to help some really great people who are in a really tought spot.

Next Door Solutions ( is a great charity I have worked with for the past few years and their mission is to help bring an end to domestic violence. They help women, children, and men in need as they struggle with some of the most difficult situations anyone can deal with.

I know I have a pretty dark sense of humor and I’m not about to change that. But here’s a great way to channel some of that negativity into something positive. I love hating things. One of the things I hate the most is domestic violence, and together, we can help change a few lives while having a bit of a laugh, hopefully.

Thanks for taking the the time to read this. Hopefully a few people will wear this shirt proudly and help me raise some money for some people who really need our help. I’ve always been able to count on you in the past, and I’m always eternally grateful.

You are so cool.


How To Live

It has recently been brought to my attention that anything could happen.

It has been brought to my attention that we do not know what the future holds.

I accepted this fact. But then I started thinking about something else:

You could die at any moment. You could have an aneurysm. You could fall down an elevator shaft. You could eat undercooked pork.

There are a billion ways that everything could go wrong.

But, there aren’t that many ways that things could all go right. Not having an aneurysm doesn’t vastly improve your life. Taking an elevator normally isn’t particularly gleeful. Having a pork chop is fine, but not life-altering.

What does this mean? 

Well, I guess it means that over the course of a year, every single moment is potentially fatal. But, once in a while, just once in a while. a moment will surface where you actually can make everything better. Where you can change it all. Your job, your health, where you place your love. 

Those moments are really, really important. And when one of those moments walks up to you and slaps you in the face, you better pay attention, because it may be a year before another moment like that shows up.

And between now and then, a million moments will try to destroy you. 

Take your chances when you can. 

And avoid undercooked pork. 

It was May 3rd when Leonard realized that he could not sink.

On his back, staring up at the waxing moon and the few stars that braved the smog, he exhaled.

He closed his eyes and saw her words stuck to the back of his eyelids. They too wouldn’t sink. They floated endlessly, drifting slowly from the back of his mind to the front, and back again, again and again.

Life has a way of telling you what to do and then making you think it’s your idea. 

He let out all of his air and felt the cold water rush over him. Bubbles connected him to his past. 

Taking in water, he prayed to touch the coarse floor below.

As he ran out of breath, he came back up into the world and the world let him know that he was to be quiet. The birds were sleeping.

With deep breaths and wrinkled fingers he told everyone that he would be quiet and he would let the screams stay inside.

The moon looked down, winning again. 

My Worst Heaven

Someone recently asked me if I was looking forward to going to heaven.

First of all, I’m not really sure that’s in the cards for me, but more importantly, I don’t have the slightest clue what a place like that might be like.

So I asked them.

"Heaven is a place where all your family and friends are waiting for you and then you get to be together forever."

You can just stop right there. I spent four days with my family back in December and let me tell you, that was about enough.

My mind began racing. What would a place like this look like?

I imagined a single couch with all of my dead relatives sitting on and around it. My great uncles were way off to the side seeming pretty annoyed that they never got to sit down. The room was incredibly full of dead people and empty diet coke cans because no one wanted to get up to throw them out because you really don’t want to lose your spot on this couch.

"Let’s go outside and go for a walk," my grandmother said.

"Nope. No. We can’t do that," said my grandfather. "This is heaven. We are supposed to wait here to greet anyone who dies so we can spend eternity with them."

"Ugh, no one has died in like four months," my second cousin said, "Can someone just hurry up and die already? I’m. So. Bored."

"Well, we’re all hoping someone dies soon," said aunt Sheila. "We need someone to throw out these diet coke cans before this place turns into a real sty!"

Am I looking forward to heaven?

Not really.


Marilyn opened the top drawer in the room where she grew up and found a poorly decorated box filled entirely with old hopes.

Photographs, sounds, and bullshit mementos of when things were going to be a certain way.

The slight rhythmic squeak of the ceiling fan was just as she had remembered. It, like all other things she knew had remained eternal.

A slightly torn picture rested atop the pile. She remembered the day she tried to shred this memory, but was too conflicted to complete the job. That memory. The memory of her inability to destroy the memory had all but eliminated all the memories and all the reasons she wanted to destroy it in the first place.

Dinner was getting cold downstairs.

She was in no hurry though, despite the hopeful voices that ebbed through the walls.

Why change now? This moment, like all things, like the perfect moment she was missing, would last forever.

This restaurant is doing a Menu for One on Valentine’s Day.

Sounds delicious. 

This restaurant is doing a Menu for One on Valentine’s Day.

Sounds delicious. 

Why Are You Always Looking At Your Phone?

“Why are you always looking at your phone?”

I’ve heard this a lot.

Why don’t you talk to the people you’re with? Why aren’t you present? Who are you talking to?

As we become more dependent on our phones and social media as methods of communication, more and more people ask these questions.

People moan about “how we’ve changed.”

Hey, people who talk like this: Maybe it’s your fault.

When I’m in a good conversation, my phone stays in my pocket. When I’m engaged, I stay engaged. Maybe it’s you?

And what’s wrong with wanting to talk to people that are far away? What is it about your proximity to me that makes you take precedent? Why are you more important just because you happen to be here?

We aren’t trapped with the people we’re trapped with anymore. We can talk to whomever we want to, anytime we want to. Maybe this is a good thing. Maybe the people around us need to do a better job of being the people we want to be around.

Imagine if we could teleport and instantly be around the people we wanted to talk to, to be around, to feel. I bet we’d pop in and out of countries faster than we pop in and out of chat windows.

This is progress.

If you take out your phone when I’m talking to you I’m going to make it my goal to do a better job of being interesting, and if I can’t get you out of your screen then maybe it’s better that you’re talking to someone else, because clearly I’m not living up to my expectations in this relationship.

“Why are you always looking at your phone?”

Because you’re not giving me a reason not to.