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Robert Altman Week


In Which We Figure Out The Advice For Ourselves

Unsolicited Advice Culture


There has been a certain increase in volume among my acquaintances and friends, as well as peers and strangers, where the casual sharing of advice and normal human interchange of ideas of yore has been replaced with a commanding flood of unsolicited or bash-one-over-the-head-with advice mania. Why has everyone become a self-help guru/mother/father/best friend?

The last few years have been filled with “You Shoulds,” “You Shouldn’ts,” “Why aren’t yous” “Stop this, stop that," “Get pregnant now." It is to the point where I now look at sugar and wonder if it’s going to send me to the ER if it happens to be refined.

abigail van buren & ann landers

The origins of “giving advice” are not exactly clear, but culturally and anthropologically speaking, it makes sense that elders give others in their groupings some sage life-advice as a way of passing on the traditions that help everyone live smoothly.  But our frantic modernity has created something that is pathological in its flogging insistence of what one should or shouldn’t do, buy, eat or wear.

Dear Abby was started in 1956 by Pauline Phillips and the current syndicate describes the column as “well known for sound, compassionate advice, delivered with the straightforward style of a good friend.” Ah, a good friend you say!

Advice columns have their merits. It can give the lost soul some comfort to hear words of blanket facebook quote-like wisdom or uplift. But it looks to me that it’s gone the way of explosive capitalism and advice-giving hubris. After Dear Abby, we got Ann Landers, then advice columns in all of the lady mags and even Playboy. Here’s how to solve your problems, everyone! The dawn of Oprah turned this ethos into a worldwide brand.  This is not an Oprah-bashing article mind you, but her show took strident advice-giving to capitalistic heights. Each special expert guest told you how you need to be living, or else, also you must buy this and that or else.  They are like insidious infomercials disguised as care-giving.

YOU NEED TO HAVE. I need to have this or else, or else WHAT?! As a result of this advice-on-steroids culture, we end up questioning our own decisions and worth according to the journeys of other people as default, instead of listening to ourselves and perhaps the select group of people you have learned to trust over time.

It makes sense that the commodification of giving advice would arise quickly with the increase in technology and communication; it is the perfect advertising strategy. You must click on this and do as these gorgeous rich people did or else you will rot, hurt others with your ugly rotten face, and ultimately die alone while leaving everyone disappointed especially your lover and mom. Please work out and meditate while doing yoga and drinking grass juice at the same time as having a child before 30! Oprah and her Drs Oz and Phil, the media, self-help books, and now the internet have created Advice Monsters swarming around in our day-to-day lives.

I hear it from strangers while waiting in line, from casual acquaintances, good friends and family which, is fine, though annoying, and from anything and anyone in between. The gamut runs from “You should really go Paleo” to as invasive a comment as “You really shouldn’t wait so long to have children…wait…you’re not even married yet?!” It is as though everyone has become a mother from the 1950s waiting in the wings for their daughter to meet the strapping young man at the Sadie Hawkins dance. Stand up straight! Posture! You have to marry him or you’re worth nothing! If you don’t do this, my life will actually have no meaning! Wait...

I crowdsourced this theory of mine, reaching out to friends and peers, asking them whether this is something they noticed and the particulars therein.  Not only did literally everyone I ask emphatically respond with a resounding YES, they all had several particulars to choose from. The majority noted that most comments and advice centered around: diet, exercise and weight; but circumstantial advice is given especially during pregnancy and motherhood, as well as to those, like me, who are in their early 30s and as of yet or forever, child-free.  

Personally, I do not want to go Paleo or quit sugar even if that did help you. I will not be going gluten-free thank you very much, and yes, even though I happen to be 33 years old, I am not going to “just have a baby and not think about it” (this has been said to me by two baby-boom aged people as well as a few people my age or younger (!)).

So why do so many folks become these insistent life coaches? I sometimes share helpful tips, sure, and it is a normal part of human nature to impart small quips of everyday successes onto your friends in a reasonable manner like: “Hey I tried this lip gloss, it’s great!”  However we have entered this hyperbolic and seriously boundary-crossing territory which I can only attribute to a blend of media saturation and one’s insecurities desire of control and validation.

It is a way for someone to feel justified in their (perhaps expensive) choices, in making them feel less alone.  There is an illusion of power when you insist that this stranger you meet in the Quinoa department should not be eating gluten: “Do not eat gluten for I am the goddess of this Whole Foods and shall save you, dear child! (Speaking of child, do you have any?  I hope you’re not feeding them sugar I –).”  In reality they are crossing a line into territory that is zero of their business. The power you wield regarding this privileged and lucky version of your life is not going to work on everyone; quite the opposite in fact.

We all have so many varying, complex and interesting needs that do not fit into a set world order and manner of living.  The yoga-pant wearing Oprahtic sages, the bearded bartenders telling me to not drink beer, think they are doing us favors, but really, we feel invaded and guilty about not being enough or not having enough or doing the wrong thing. My life doesn’t work according to your script and as a good friend once said “keep your eyes on your own paper.” I don’t know if I believe that you just genuinely care about me, person sitting next to me at this weird dinner party.

Aren’t we evolved enough now to really start looking at boundaries more closely? To mind our own business especially when it comes to the bodies and the small or giant life-choices of others? We have simultaneously turned into a more open-minded culture (good) to a boundary crossing group of lifestyle dictators (bad). I don’t mind if you tell me I have to try this new chocolate bar, but I do mind when you tell me I better start having children or the alternative will be that I die unfulfilled, alone and full of moths.

Katrin Higher is a contributor to This Recording. This is her first appearance in these pages. She is a writer living in Astoria. You can find her twitter here.

"Love Is In The Air" - Keith Zarriello (mp3)

"Wash Away The Pain" - Keith Zarriello (mp3)


In Which We Develop A Foolproof Way To Repair This Situation

Hard to Say is This Recording’s weekly advice column. It will appear every Wednesday until the Earth perishes in a fiery blaze, or until North West turns 40. Get no-nonsense answers to all of your most pressing questions by writing to justhardtosay@gmail.com or by dropping us a note at our tumblr.


Over the past six months I have been dating a girl named Katherine. She is really generous with her time when it comes to her friends and family, and sometimes they abuse what I consider to be her goodwill.

The situation recently came to a head when her friend Lance divorced his wife and needed a place to stay. Katherine felt she could not turn him away and has been spending a lot of time attempting to cheer Lance up, even throwing him a party.

I strain to emphasize that jealousy or lack of attention is not my problem. In fact, I sometimes feel relieved that Katherine has such a full life since it takes me off the hook, but I'm not sure I feel great about being okay with it. In addition, Katherine has told me that she is thrilled I am not controlling like her past boyfriends. How do I bring this up without making myself look bad?

Ben A.

Dear Ben,

As Ayn Rand put it in her classic 1964 essay collection, The Virtue of Selfishness, man is born with an innate... Just kidding, although casually leaving a copy of The Fountainhead atop your girlfriend's toilet tank is not going to hurt this situation at all.

Human women do things with three possible motivations:

1) They saw it on TV or in Diana Gabaldon's Outlander;

2) Their mother did it or forbid them to do it;

3) Because.

Sure, you can have it out with Katherine and she will resent you and probably start making Lance feel better in more predictable ways. Or, you can use a tried and tested process I call contamination.

Say that Katherine had a favorite restaurant. If they suddenly displayed health code violations in their window, would she not have to think twice about eating there? You want to subtly turn her good deed into a mediocre deed. For example, you could start eating at her favorite restaurant and pretend to vomit or get the shits afterwards. Alternately, in the Lance situation, you can leave her an anonymous note detailed all of Lance's probable misdeeds.

Just do one thing and find out if Lance has a big cock before embarking on this journey, and also check if it is a felony to forge someone's signature on an anonymous note.


I have a big problem. A couple of months ago I sent a nasty (anonymous) message to somebody I follow on Tumblr. I couldn't help myself - the person was so annoying! - and I immediately felt so much better. The problem is, I couldn't stop. I started sending nasty messages to a lot of people I follow. It always made me feel better, but now I also feel out of control. I'm also afraid that people are going to figure out it's me. I can't sleep, and I'm starting to have panic attacks every time I log into Tumblr. What should I do?

Evelyn S.

Dear Evelyn,

 It sounds to me like you're the sort of person who has always abided by what was expected of you, so you find a sort of thrill in rebelling. That'd be okay if you got off on, I don't know, smoking weed or enjoying Kenny G, but instead you're being malicious. And you found the perfect forum for it, where you can shroud yourself in anonymity. 

You need to step awaaaay from the computer. Seriously. Take a prolonged break from the internet. If work or school won't permit you to do that, then you need to block your own access to certain sites or have someone you trust monitor your usage, while you figure stuff out, preferably in therapy.

The shame that's flooding over you right now - the one that comes from feeling like you're a teenager I just caught with their pants down watching hardcore porn on their laptop - means that you have the ability to discern right and wrong. So that's good. You just need to stop seeing yourself as both the worst and best thing in the universe, and you'll be able to see others that way, too.


Illustrations by Mia Nguyen.

"Taller Than Tall Trees" - Mirel Wagner (mp3)

"Goodnight" - Mirel Wagner (mp3)


In Which You Helped Pull My Bicycle Out Of The Water

by amy stein

Different Corners


There is a stretch of the blue line train route that rushes out of the tunnel after Belmont Ave and balances precariously between the branches of Interstates 90 and 94. The platform, while completely immobile, seems to shift to and fro underfoot. Cars rush past deafeningly, and even if it is not windy, it is all you can do to stay upright.

Once a week I find myself standing on this island, huddled below the heat lamps. There is rarely anybody else on the platform. There are only cars, blowing in and out of the city, and half-empty trains lurching down the track. I have never gone further down the line than this stop and it feels like the very edge of the world.

It is the loneliest place in the city.


I rarely remember my dreams, but this morning I woke up in a cold sweat with the memory of being chased by a starving tiger. I also remember waking myself up from that dream right before the feline sunk its teeth into my face, afraid to leave my bed for a drink of water in case it was lying in wait. Then, in those moments between 4:15 a.m. and 6:30 a.m. I dreamt again, this time of cockroaches crawling underneath all of our sofa cushions because we had left a few crumbs out on the coffee table. It was so very detailed that I remember the distinct crunch every time we gingerly sat down to watch television.


I’d like to believe that, much like the infamous “Carolyn Keene”, Harold Bloom is really just a pseudonym for a group of individuals who did not have enough talent to make it big on their own but were able, somehow, to attach themselves to some greater ideal, one that sleep and nutrition-deprived college students would later cite extensively in their papers.


A couple of weeks ago I decided that I would not spend my money on eating out unless I had specifically made plans to eat out with someone else. So far, it has been a great decision for me.

Today, though, I have an apple and chicken noodle soup with me for lunch. The chicken noodle soup isn’t really soup anymore because much of the broth evaporated or else the noodles soaked it all up, and all I can think about is some sort of sandwich smothered in tomatoes and pesto and melted mozzarella.


Coworker: Do you know, I thought this the first time I met you, you look a lot like—

Me: Shosanna Dreyfus?

Coworker: Yes!

Me: You're the 18th person to tell me that.

Coworker: You've been counting?


Peruse the shelves of your local drugstore to find an opaque bottle of castor oil; fill the bottom of a clear glass vial with this slow, thick substance. Then, cover it with twice the amount of either olive or jojoba oil (olive is by far the more economical choice, and works just as well). Finally, add a few drops of lavender and rosemary essential oils. Shake well. At dusk pour a quarter-sized amount into your palm and rub your hands together gently to warm the mixture. Smooth it into your face beginning at the temples. Breathe deeply; the lavender and rosemary soothe away anxiety and smell like the south of France. Let the oil rest on your face for a few minutes and then douse a clean cloth in warm (not hot!) water. Gently apply the cloth to your face, not wiping the oil away as much as letting the warmth coax it out; do not hesitate to leave a bit in your skin.

Repeat the ritual every other night, alternating with a simple warm-water cleansing. After repeated use your skin will glow naturally. You will never need to buy cleanser, make-up remover, or moisturizer again.


Do you ever grow weary of your own perspective? — of the mistakes you fall into, the biases you lean towards simply because you are only ever looking out your own eyes?

by amy stein

For many years my mother would switch around all the furniture in our living room once a month. While it was still in her possession, she would even move her piano around the room on its wheels and we would help by picking up the bench with its wobbly legs and placing it reverently behind the instrument. Other things — cushions, picture frames, side tables — moved around the room as if in some sort of dance. Christmas afforded Mom the opportunity to change everything around so as to open up the appropriate space for our tree; at the arrival of summer, our kitchen table moved closer to the doors of the terrace so we could dine al fresco. All this she did primarily by herself although my father helped her when she needed to move a large cabinet.

We responded with an incredulous “Again!” each time it happened, although it was secretly delightful to discover our living room all over again. The furniture seemed new, cool to the touch; for a brief disorienting evening it seemed as if we were guests in our own home.

What belongs to you has very little to do with whether or not you spend money or time on it. I am discovering more and more that for most things in my life, I feel the same level of attachment that I do for historical monuments or other tourist attractions. They belong to me in the same way that they belong to the rest of the world, and they are not more mine than anybody else’s.

“They are just things,” my parents taught me, when we moved from place to place and left more and more in our wake. But I have begun to find it difficult to escape from this mindset even in relation to people and experiences. I do not know if this is the epitome of unwellness or if it is mature; I remember crying for a pretty calico cat that my father took back to the pound because she could not accompany us on our move, but the years that separate me from that child also spunkily create distance between me and loved ones in airports as if there were no thread of feeling between us.

I do not think I will stay here forever. I have high hopes of finding a place that I will make mine or settle into. Realistically, though, I have barely been living in my current apartment for four months and I am already considering other neighborhoods and various methods of paying for heat. I quell the growing restlessness by moving pictures around, by planning to create a new reading nook, by sitting in different corners of the room. Searching out apartments in neighborhoods closer to the lake, I feel guilty and excited at the same time.

Removing yourself from any place or thing feels like a betrayal at first, and then the wounds close and the guilt only flares up in rainy weather. After I threw a penny into the Fontana di Trevi, I knew I would eventually return to Rome. When I do it will not be returning home or to some ideal of a fixed state; it will be a revisiting of what once flourished and then crumbled. We are better off different than we were yesterday.


Sneaking into meetings late with trays of mini pastries and fruit, meetings to which I am not invited but come to bearing food, is most embarrassing. The projector casts a blue glow on my mess of curls and I feel suddenly as if I am seven feet tall and enormous, that my hips are in the way of everything. My hands begin to shake; the platters rattle, the mini pastries fall out of their semi-perfect arrangements. I have no need to be sorry because it is the person delivering the pastries who is at fault, but I feel all eyes on me, accusingly, anyways.

Before leaving Los Angeles I went to the FIDM end-of-the-year fashion show with a friend and agonized for a few minutes beforehand about what to wear.

“Remember,” my roommate said kindly, “this is not about you.”


I'm really glad my mother taught me nail polish remover will remove candle wax from various surfaces, because otherwise I’d be in trouble right about now.


At the escalator I am taken aback by a stranger's bold greeting. My fingers brush my own coiffure, wondering if the gentle twists at the nape of my neck or the abundance of bobby pins suggest mornings spent in stark Baptist sanctuaries, the smell of stale coffee, the air whispering with the sound of paper bulletins filled with song sheets, empty envelopes for the offering plate. I contemplate waving back; imagine jumping the last two feet that separate us to catch up. She might promise to call later in the evening, to discuss casserole options for an upcoming potluck. A thousand lives whizz by on the tracks.

I feel unbearably weary. Some of it is good weariness; the weight of love, of trust complicit with the most satisfying of friendships. Some of it is the weariness of crying myself to sleep because I could not write something I wanted to write well. The last cobwebs of thought before slumber remind me, You can write something, but sometimes, you are not supposed to.

You can live one way, but sometimes, you are not supposed to.


by amy stein

Before I woke up, I had moved into a studio apartment approximately the size of an airplane lavatory that smelled like a dingy roadside motel. The bed and the small expanse of counter were plastic; the floor was linoleum. I thought to myself, “Good, this will be easy to clean.” I brought with me a tiny all-black cat with a white face and boots. We spent three days there together before I realized I had not fed him nor provided a litter box. He looked at me disdainfully, made a move to bolt whenever I opened the door. We sat together in complete darkness as there were no lights save for his luminous green eyes. Nobody else came.


There is a yellow orchid on my back porch.

Every Wednesday I nestle three ice cubes into the soil and rotate the pot ever so slightly to the right so that the plant will grow evenly in the sunlight. When I get home from work and it is droopy and unhappy I turn the hot water on in my shower and set it just outside the curtain, on the edge of the sink, until my little bathroom is so full of steam that all I can see are the bright yellow flowers and the little hard green buds trying to open.

They bloom at night.

Why can I not trust that this other person does not hurt me on purpose? And even if they do, that they are full of good intentions towards me? And even if they’re not, that I cannot expect them to be? Forgiveness (and love) have a lot to do with trust in the other’s spirit, in their desire to do good by you even when it doesn’t always happen.

My father keeps telling me that you have not forgiven someone until you have done something good for them. And I am full of words and sweet intentions but there is little good left in my hands.


In an early morning dream, I asked a friend which of my items of clothing looked worst on me. She unabashedly criticized all the pants I have with lower waistlines. “They give you a muffin top.” She went on to tell me that the look was so offensive that Hugh Jackman had complained.

I was so embarrassed I had to wake myself up and try on all of my pants to make sure it wasn’t true.


Verizon has inexplicably locked me out of my voicemail, because apparently none of the dozens of number combinations I have attempted in the past few weeks work. I seem to remember using my birthday month and day as the password. Now I have ten unheard voice messages and absolutely no way to get ahold of them.

Perhaps the problem lies with me, in my inability to remember a combination of letters or numbers that will somehow crack the code to my life. However, I’d like to believe that there is not enough room for human error in this system. People keep telling me to write my passwords down somewhere, and I keep asking, “Doesn’t that defeat the purpose?”

It’s not a good enough secret if you have to write it down.


Over the next fortnight I attempt an experiment in which I withdraw twenty dollars at the beginning of each week, and spend only that amount on myself.

A foggy Saturday morning I spend praying on the brown line; nothing is quite so easy as having faith on an elevated train. My headphones run like beads through my fingers. I find myself wishing for the simplicity of a command. Not praying the rosary or anything coherent, but moaning to any divinity who will listen, I receive miraculous signs: Sedgwick is next, doors open on the right at Sedgwick. Standing passengers, please do not lean against the doors.

I notice a proclivity in my relationships towards people born in June. Summer birthdays end in fireworks at the beach. I break two glasses at work and throw the pieces over my shoulder into the trash can. When I notice superstition curling up around the radiators at night or in the tea leaves at the bottom of a cup, I rinse it out with the truths I am most uncertain about.

When you lose someone close to you, most people assume that you want to be left alone, when that is generally the last thing you want. I find that I am not sure how to ask for help, so I carry all my groceries alone.

by amy stein

I'm making note of the already-sweltering heat at 7:30 a.m., the way the perspiration gathers on my abdomen underneath my dress, the way the ice melts in my tea before I walk two blocks, how the cup sweats and drips onto dusty toes, the heaviness of the air which makes every whisper seem like a shout and every shout foggy, how my curls double into more curls with each half-mile, how Tom Skilling promises this will be the hottest day Chicago has seen in six years.

I am making careful note of these things so that I will remember them in February.


We swam to the surface. Immediately in front of us was a rocky shoreline decorated with people in evening wear. The sun was going down in the background. I wanted to dive down immediately to retrieve the bicycles (they had been pulled into the soft, mucky sand at the bottom) but you insisted that we reach the shore. A few men at a table, garbed in tuxedos, played cards and looked on as you dragged yourself out of the water. There was a strange moment of recognition that is particularly fuzzy. I think you started running away from them, and I dove under water so that it would seem as if I had never been there. They saw me, however, and began shooting a machine gun after me. I got hit twice in both legs, but the bullet holes were only the size of freckles. I kept swimming. My bicycle was floating past, and I grabbed it. I wondered how I would manage to get it out of the water without help. When I surfaced, I was next to the beach, but it resembled the ledge of a pool. I rested my cheek against it, exhausted, but you were there, and helped me pull the bicycle out of the water. Blood was running down my legs. The holes were near my ankles, perfectly aligned like bug bites. I woke up on my back with all the covers off. I spoke to you for a moment before I realized I was alone.

Today I saw a woman sacrifice her sunglasses for a place on the train. Closing doors knocked them out of her hand as she squeezed into the last available spot, and they landed with a clatter on the platform. We stared. “Oh shit,” she said. “Oh shit!” She made a move as if to jump out of the train. I saw her debate, behind the silver half-circles of her eye make-up, sweaty hands pushing back blonde strands of hair.

There was only a moment during which she might have stepped off the train to retrieve them, but as it was, the doors closed right as she reached the end of her debate. “Oh, well,” she laughed breathlessly. I imagined her walking in the Loop without sunglasses, ducking behind buildings, a slim wrist thrown up for shade.

And what of the glasses? Are they like the mittens abandoned in January that mysteriously melt with the snow? Will somebody kick them into the tracks, steal them, throw them away?


I could love anybody in an airport for their foreign tongue, for their smart trench coat.


Down the street from my office a man leaves his blinds open. His desk is consistently messy. I tally up the damage when I walk past, before I cross the railroad tracks: one untouched glass of water with speckles of dust floating in it, three pens with chewed lids. What most intrigues me is the giant box of raisins that sometimes rests on the edge of his desk but now, oddly, on the windowsill. Not many people eat raisins because they love them. Some, like myself, put them in their morning bowl of oatmeal because there is something about raisins and milk. Some hate them but eat them because intestinal traffic is slow. I wonder which kind he is. Why has he moved the box from his desk to the windowsill? Did he eat too many and make himself sick? Did their uselessness cause him to exile them in a fit of righteous constipation?


To describe the process of barring someone from our lives, we call it “cutting out” or “cutting off”. The violence of this, as well as the idea that we can disregard a person — exclude them, remove them like we might remove a limb — does not ring true. You could not cut off your finger and not miss it. Subtly, the phantom remains. Rather it is like diving into the deep waters of yourself, and pulling someone out. There is beauty and darkness and truth at the bottom of this river; there is also fear, and there might be a monster or two. You say, come back to this appealing light. Here, the water is not so heavy. Here you can tread, disregard the profundity pulling at your feet. Remain at the surface where you are safe, where I can curl away from you to the places you no longer wish to visit.


How is that I can walk ten miles most Saturdays at a fast pace, and come home feeling on top of the world, but as soon as I run half a mile I feel like dying?

Kara VanderBijl is the senior editor of This Recording. She is a writer living in Chicago. You can find her website here. She twitters here. You can find an archive of her writing on This Recording here.