Sunday, June 29, 2008

Happy Pride!

Blah. Do not want to be awake right now. Love the Pride Parade, hate being awake this early on a Sunday! If you go, I'll be the girl with the cosmo, the inappropriately short dress and the big gold tiger necklace. Wait... nevermind... that probably won't help.

And what is the best way to celebrate Pride? Vote for Pandora! One time she put me on a float dressed as Liza Minelli singing Cabaret! See, dreams *can* come true, people! So help her with hers! Yay!

Saturday, June 28, 2008

Lady, lady never start...

When I went to bed last night, I was so angry that my skin physically hurt and bristled, and maybe that's why I had all these ridiculous dreams and nightmares that I thought were real upon waking. Or maybe it's becase I was drunk. I don't normally remember dreams, and I don't talk about them either- because I am of the opinion that dreams are only interesting to the person who had them. It's not like I can tell you that I went to this weird zoo where they had like, terrifying sheep/kangaroo hybrids whose arms fell off if you shook hands with them and you can relate. Or that I for some reason sucker punched a pregnant woman in and her stomach crumbled like cardboard and you can say "Oh yes, I have seen that happen."

I digress. I'm sick to my stomach right now- and I don't know if it's from booze, or anger, or the fact that I have to work today and can't see Stevie Wonder play for free at the Taste of Chicago thingy. Maybe they'll let me leave early if it's slow. I like Stevie Wonder much better than I like most other people.

I am partial to band-aids being pulled off quickly- I don't like to look at the bloody underside, and when they're off I want them in the trash, never to be seen by me again. I wrote a rather vitriolic letter last night, which this morning I discovered did not actually get sent, and that's probably for the best. But now, maybe, I suppose I know why I have always been so instinctively vigilant about keeping the things that actually matter to me so well quarantined.

Friday, June 27, 2008

Robyn answers your burning questions

So, I noticed recently that I get a lot of hits from people asking Google what to do about finding out their "boyfriend" is married- due to a post I wrote about finding out that my hypothetical boyfriend, Vincent D'onofrio, is in fact married. While that post, obviously, offers no advice whatsoever, I think I can help.

This movie doesn't end well- and I'm not saying that for any of the following Oprah-fied reasons:

1. Marriage/commitment are sacred! How could you do that to another woman?!?
2. He'll break your heart in the end!
3. If he'll do it to her, he'll do it to you!

Because- shit, whatever- if you're at all like me, you could give a crap less about morality and are probably emotionally detached from the situation anyway. At the end of the day, however- it's just a fucking annoying, pain in the ass, inconvenient situation for you, the other woman.

Why? Because you only get to be half a person. The part of you that's cute, and sexy, and charming gets to stay, and the part of you that has a bad day sometimes, and doesn't always have matching underwear, and has to be up early in the morning for work has to go- at least when he's around. Because, when he's dealing with you, he's looking for a respite from all that crap. And you have to settle for whatever time is good for him- and maybe as far as he's concerned you only exist at lunch break, or at 3 in the morning or whenever. He will get way more out of the situation than you will- he gets two and you get half of one (who probably ain't that great anyway). And you will get resentful and bitter because, really, you're not a fucking geisha, and you are a real, whole person, with bad days and mismatched underwear, and headaches and a job. And soon, everything about him will make you angry. Maybe you don't care about bourgeois morality, but you sure like it when people are nice to you, and you think honesty is pretty awesome- and quite frankly, you think he's kind of a weenie for bothering to be married or otherwise attached when he doesn't actually want to commit to the person.

At the end of the day, the effort will never be worth the outcome. So, enter at your own risk- but if it doesn't feel good, don't do it.

A few figs from thistles...

First Fig
My candle burns at both ends;
It will not last the night;
But ah, my foes, and oh, my friends--
It gives a lovely light.

Second Fig
Safe upon the solid rock the ugly houses stand:
Come and see my shining palace built upon the sand!

So I'm having a lovely and non-sensical chat with my mother about my hypothetical tattoo dilemma. I do not have any, and will probably not ever have any, because I'm freaking petrifed of needles and need to be distracted at the doctors office by puppets and promised ice cream in order for them to take my blood. Also, if I did in fact have a tattoo, I would drive myself insane trying to coordinate my outfits around it. Because I'm like that. However, I still like to postulate about what sort of tattoo I would get were I to get one which I won't. My mother sometimes worries that I am serious, and reminds me of my 8th grade plan to get a butterfly tattooed on my ankle (I know.) and also how cool I thought my naval ring was at age 15- and she tells me that it's just a bad idea anyway, because they always end up looking dirty somehow. I will add here, that when I was 17, she said I could get a tattoo, but only if it was a giant battleship across my chest.

My current idea is that I would get a tattoo of two figs- which, I explained to her, would be problematic because they'd probably look like balls... and that would take a bit of explaining, I would imagine. Oh, and possibly somehow the poem by Edna St. Vincent Millay would be woven in- but even though it's quite short, it would still be a lot of words. This was my problem with trying to figure out a Dorothy Parker related tattoo. And who feels like explaining who Edna St. Vincent Millay is every day of one's life? I imagine it would be exhausting, and difficult to do without sounding pretentious. Where would I even put these figs? Why am I pondering this?

So, anyway- I tell her I came up for the idea when I decided recently that were I ever to have a daughter, which I won't because I'm too selfish and squeamish about biological things- I would name her Vincent- which would be neat, because a) That's what EVM called herself, b) it's the last name of my dad's best friend, who I'm probably closer with than most of my relatives, c) I would be keeping a long standing family tradition alive of people being named Vinny, and d) I like boys names for girls. Oh, and her middle name would be Ray or Rae- after my grandfather and my favorite uncle (and my mum, I guess, since that's her middle name as well).

My mother agrees. "That's why I named you Robyn. I also like the name James for a girl."

"Ooh- that's a good one." I said, "Except it would remind me of the Elvis impersonator's son* and also of that one guy I dated who got all "Why aren't you being funny?? Waaah!" After I lost my keys and fell in a puddle."

"Maybe you should join a convent?"

"I know, right? Oh, I also like whatever Bette Davis and Olivia de Havilland's names were in that one movie they were in that wasn't 'Hush, Hush Sweet Charlotte'"

"Oh, yeah, that movie! What are you even talking about, are you on drugs? You sound like you're on drugs" (Spoken by a woman who gives directions based on where things used to be. I digress.)

"No- give me a second. Um... you know, they're sisters and they both have men's names, and Bette Davis steals Olivia de Havilland's fiance and ruins everyone's lives? And Hattie McDaniel and Butterfly McQueen are in it too?"

"Oh... I think I know that one. I can't remember what it's called. Is it the one where she says "What a dump?"

"No, no- that was another one- the one with Joseph Cotten. Give me a second- it'll come to me."

"You go do that, hun, I have to do laundry"

"Ok- I'll talk to you soon. I own it, I know it's somewhere, I'll go check."

Ten seconds later, I call her back...

"It's In This Our Life, and their names were Stanley and Roy! I like that, I think Stanley is a neat sounding name for a girl."

"Oh, that's Obama's mother's name."

"Crazy! Who knew!"

"You knew!"

"Oh, you're right, I did."

"Maybe you should go drink some coffee?"

*Back when we lived in Massachusetts, we lived next door to a creepy Elvis impersonator. True story. The whole house was like a shrine to Elvis, except this one little section that was the wife's little shrine to Dolly Parton. The whole family was frightening. Maybe I'll tell you about them some other time.

Thursday, June 26, 2008

Viva Zapata!

SWEET. July 7th at Delilahs! The Gits Movie! I will be there!

The longest of days...

Yesterday morning the streets were blocked off by my work due to the filming of Public Enemies.... and also due to the filming of Public Enemies, my store was dead and many many crazy bitches were hanging out around outside waiting for a glimpse of Johnny Depp.

I hung out with the security guard and talked about Ralph Nader, and swore up and down that I did not care to see Johnny Depp because I didn't actually have anything important to say to him (Which was a lie- I wanted to see him, and maybe touch his face. Like, just for a second, because I have had a crush on Johnny Depp ever since I was like, 7, and to this day I do believe that no human being will ever again achieve the level of sexiness he did in the movie "Crybaby."). He told me stories of more crazy bitches who climbed trees and fell on Mr. Depp's trailer, which seems excessive to me. I don't know what they thought was going to happen. Like Johnny Depp was gonna be all "Wow! I know I'm married with kids and all- but screw them! You are the woman of my dreams, crazy bitch who fell out of the tree onto my trailer!" or something. Even I am not that delusional.

I found out that Catherine, the French lady at my work, put in her two weeks notice, and I feel kind of bad, because we haven't been getting along so well lately... but I do love her a lot, and who is going to tell me I have nice ankles, and get mad at me for saying boobs instead of breasts now?

I was in Jezebel's Past Fashions: Prom Edition... looking chubby and glittery in a handmade monstrosity of pink vinyl and taffetta. I have no shame, so here you go. I promise you the dress was way cooler in my imagination than it turned out to be.

I had an awkward run in with a dingleberry, who was in fact responsible for the coining of the term dingleberry in the first place. I maybe feel bad on some level... because we hung out once... and then he kept calling me like, every day for two months, and I kept ignoring it, and saying I was busy- and I probably wouldn't have felt all that bad if he hadn't been friends with Jen... but he was... and then today he was all "Do you still go out a lot?" and I was all "I like drinkin'" and then he was all "Oh, we should hang out sometime" and I said "I hang out all the time. Mostly in my neighborhood- I'm sure I'll see you out sometime." And then I pretended I was late for something.

The day went on for at least three... and then it ended, and I got my hair cut, and then we went out drinking at places I do not normally frequent, where I received many invitations to many gun shows. One of which I would have been willing to attend (and will possibly attend tonight), had I not been feeling kind of nauseous at the time. Unfortunately, I forget the name of this gun show. Whatever it was, I think it means something like "Has biceps that are actually bigger than Robyn's head" in Serbian (I know because I measured. I am not being hyperbolic). Yes, I realize that I'm supposed to be all gooey over the manorexics and shit, but honestly they just don't do it for me- I'm kinda shallow- I like my fellas tall, dark, and handsome and muscley. Maybe because I'm kinda mouthy and I like having someone around that, well, you know, can back me up. Also, I like that it completely pisses off the hepcat establishment, by defying that "Thou shalt swoon over the homely" commandment. Anyway, Gun Show ripped my new purple tights, so now I have to go get some new ones.

And that is my story.

Wednesday, June 25, 2008

Missed Connection (but not really)

I saw a darling-ly handsome fella sitting on the stairs in front of the Second City building, while I was on my break yesterday. Bespectacled/behatted(which I know is not a word, but wouldn't it be great if it was?) and not possessing any unfortunate facial hair- he looked at me and I looked at him- or vice versa- before I took my usual place on the little stone square to smoke my cigarettes and read my book. But not really. I looked at him and I watched him get up and talk to some far less handsome man, and I tried to figure out if he was too short for me, or what. Not that it mattered, but hey. And I thought to myself- because I am person who spends far too much time on the internet- what if this fella were to send me a missed connection on the Craigslist? I have had three, actually- none of them romantic, all of them having something to do with something snarky I said to someone with skin too thin. I thought about what it would sound like "Tall dark haired girl, sitting Indian style on that random stone thingy with the tree coming out of it, reading a red book, smoking and eating a cookie: You seem fantastic!" or, you know, whatever people put in those things. But then what if I saw it and then, what if I responded?

It would probably be pretty awkward. He might turn out to be a serial killer, or just really, really boring. Maybe he'd talk too much about how his ex girlfriend shattered his heart into a million pieces, and I'd talk too much about...well, everything, because I tend to do that- and I'd probably go on about my commitmentphobic issues- not so much because I really do have them so much as it's kind of a knock on wood/spitting/salt throwing precaution. Because if things don't work out I want to have the advantage of being able to say that I didn't care if they did anyway. And if he didn't talk, I'd expend untoward amounts of effort trying to draw him out, which is something that is never really worth that effort- but you never realize that in the beginning, do you? We'd probably hang out for a while- and I'd enjoy the refreshing change of having something to talk about to my girlfriends other than politics, odd people I saw on the bus and the crazy French lady I work with- but sooner or later... I'd start weighing my options- is he more awesome than the effort required to hang out with him sucks? Is he worth shaving my legs and being tired at work? More than likely- no. He'd probably tell me that I was "emotionally unavailable" at some point, because they usually do, and they're usually right. I'd probably disappear at some point because that's what I do, because I don't get the point of talks, and when I'm done- that's good enough for me and I rarely feel the need to notify them of my decision. He'd want to still be friends, but I wouldn't because I think that's weird, and shit- I have enough friends, and I probably have higher standards for my friends than I do for the douche nozzles I date. Maybe he'd go all dingleberry on me for a while, which usually happens as well (you know, the little shit that keeps hanging on your ass? Even though it's clear you want nothing to do with them?) and then he'd probably get back together with his so-called "crazy and jealous" ex-girlfriend- who probably wasn't crazy and jealous to begin with- but you know how dudes are... they like to feel wanted.

Sigh. So that's what was going through my head. I can't help it- I'm a fatalist. I'm just so tired. I mean, I look at a guy, and think "God, you know, he's cute, but I feel exhausted already just looking at him. I already know how this movie ends" Maybe I'm just lazy?

So at 11pm I thought the supermarket would be a good idea...

And it never is. But I wanted cigarettes. And also a box o wine. Because I drank the rest of Nicole's and felt kinda bad about it.

So I go to Dominick's. And I grab my wine. And I go for some more pistachios (I ran out!), but then decide that would be too heavy, and thus settle on yogurt raisins. Then I go to get salsa, and there's only one kind of hot salsa... which is disappointing, but I get it anyway. I don't understand the point behind mild salsa. Why even bother? Ok, but then I remember that I'm out of crossword puzzles, and I go to the magazine section. And, as usual, they only have "super easy!" crossword puzzles. Which I also do not understand the point of. It goes right over my head. Since when do stupid people enjoy crossword puzzles? Anyhow, I settle (once again) for one of those random puzzle books, which will at least have a few reasonable crossword puzzles, and head over to the register....

And there she is. My sworn enemy, Roshashanna (or whatever). Roshashanna (or whatever) and I been at odds ever since the time I was there at closing, and offered to allow some guy to go ahead of me so I could sneak back to quickly grab some ice cream sandwiches, and she screamed at me to come back to the line. So I stood there and waited for far longer than it would have taken me to grab my damned ice cream sandwiches anyway. And then when I got to the front, she gave me dirty looks and smarmily (I know that's not a word) told me to have a "blessed day." So, anyway, Roshashanna and I are not friends. So, she's ringing my stuff up, and I tell her that I would also like a pack of Camels. That part of the store, she tells me, is closed. Which is just bizarre if you ask me- I mean, people need cigarettes always, not just before 11pm. We exchange dirty looks, I pay her and walk out with my box o wine, my salsa, my yogurt raisins and my book of puzzles.

So I go to Cleo's to see if they still sell cigarettes. Which they don't, but before I get the chance to ask, my dear friend the saucy English bartender hands me a cider. Which, to be polite, I down as fast as possible. I then take a cab to and from the corner store to purchase some goddamn cigarettes.

And then I came home, and wrote this. For what reason, I do not know.

Tuesday, June 24, 2008

I like Mondays (when I have the day off, at least)

Today was glorious. I spent the first half writing, and the second half watching fantastic movies with Nicole via the OnDemand and cleaning pores and plucking eyebrows and eating pistachios. In case you were wondering, pistachios are in fact my favorite nut. Almonds come in at second. A really close second if it's the cinnamon sugar kind. Oh, so anyway- about the movies!

1. The Omen IV (always glorious. You probably haven't seen it because it was actually a made for TV movie... but I recommend it. As you may or may not know, I am especially fond of any movie involving demon spawn.)

2. JD's Revenge!

How can one not love the classic story of um... some guy who undergoes hypnosis and then becomes possessed by a zoot-suited hustler looking for revenge? Especially when it also stars Louis Gossett Jr? Amazing.

3. Videodrome! How in god's name is this the first time I have ever heard of this movie existing??? One would think that someone, at some point in my life would have mentioned to me that there is some unbelievably bizarre film in which James Woods gets it on with Debbie Harry while piercing her ears! And then tries to save the world from brainwashy snuff films that cause tumors, makes people hallucinate, and um... have a lot of kinky sex? To be honest, I was a bit confused by what the plot was supposed to be. But there is a dude in it named Dr. O'blivion! How amazing is that? Seriously, I don't know how this flew under my radar! Seriously, if you've got the FearNet OnDemand thingy, you must watch this- if you haven't already. If you have, then why did you not mention this to me? Jerk.

Oh, and according to the Wikipedia, Dr. O'blivion was based on Marshall McLuhan. Who, amongst- duh, many accomplishments, has a line in Annie Hall that I have been, for many years now, been dying to say in real life: "You know nothing of my work!" Don't ask me why, I just feel like it would be a really satisfying thing to say. I also really find it weirdly satisfying to say "They call me Mister Tibbs!" and to yell "NEELY O'HARA!" but as neither of those are in fact my name, I can't figure a way to work them in. Although, perhaps I could start a new trend of yelling "NEELY O'HARA!" in a "Serenity Now!" kind of way, or as a minced oath? I bet it could work. You know, like how people say "Heavens to Betsy!" or "for Pete's sake!" or, according to a Google search I just did "For the love of Mike!" I was not aware that this was a saying. I think I'll start saying that as well.

Ok. Clearly I'm losing my damn mind and should consider sleep.

Oh! But also! I found a copy of my favorite Amy Vanderbilt book ever on Amazon! My original copy was tragically lost in a roommate moving out debacle. (Psst. Amy Vanderbilt= crazy etiquette book writing lady who defenestrated herself. Who I happen to be mildly obsessed with. Did you know that if you eat corn on the cob properly it should take you about three days to do so? I do, because I read Amy Vanderbilt. I also know how to deal with my servants, and when and where I should wear a hat and gloves.)

Ok, ok. Bed.

Monday, June 23, 2008

Southpaws and bohemia.

Did you know that both Obama and McCain are left handed? And that five of the six last presidents were in fact left handed? Are you surprised that this is news?

Fun fact about Robyn!- I once went through a phase where I dated left handed men exclusively. I also ate nothing but jell-o for an entire month when I was 13, and ate only with chopsticks for a whole summer when I was 17. I didn't have much to do in those days besides formulate new and interesting quirks. But, back to the left handed thing- I don't do that anymore. With the passing of a few years, I matured some and discovered much better methods. For instance, if I ever date another drummer, Jen has permission to take a drumstick and shove it in my eye. I am also no longer allowed to date anyone simply because they like zombie movies, or to ever again utter the phrase "Well, sure, he's not exactly dreamy... but he seems really nice! (It's never true. Call me shallow, but this plan has just never worked out for me). I also refrain from men carrying around a copy of "Zen and The Art of Motorcycle Maintenance," men who wear sandals, men with unfortunate facial hair statements, republicans, emotional masochists, poor spellers, etc. Oh, and I always plan to keep this in mind:


Authors and actors and artists and such
Never know nothing, and never know much.
Sculptors and singers and those of their kidney
Tell their affairs from Seattle to Sydney.
Playwrights and poets and such horses' necks
Start off from anywhere, end up at sex.
Diarists, critics, and similar roe
Never say nothing, and never say no.
People Who Do Things exceed my endurance;
God, for a man that solicits insurance!

Dorothy Parker


This was just voted the world's most horrible cover version of any song ever:

And I must second that emotion. I would not have even posted it, due to it's stultifying nature, but hey, I suffered, so why shouldn't you? Celine Dion on air guitar? With pelvic thrusts? Lord help us all.

Best cover version ever? Jen, Nicole and I doing "Smell Yo Dick" in the kitchen. With ukulele! It must be seen to be believed.

Friday, June 20, 2008


1. Weird! So the night before last, I had a dream that I went to go get a haircut, but ended up at this firefighting school, and I joined because I wanted to spite this girl I did not like that I don't know in my waking life. Yeah, I'm petty in my dreams too. Anyway, last night, I saw my dear friend Lindy, who gave me a glorious, glorious belated birthday present! Three super creepy looking firefighter knicknacks (with hoses and also drills) from the dollar store. See, Lindy knows me. She understands my deep love for things that are terrible. But isn't that spooky? I would think it was if I believed in that crap. However, I LOVE them. And what I love even more is that it is a possibility that someone else probably bought them thinking "Gosh! Aren't these darling! They would look lovely on my mantle!" and not because they are hilarious. I will place them on my bureau next to One-Arm Juanita. They will be like her children.

2. Am quite hungover. We went to Danny's last night, and I made a new friend who has the same name as my dad! Who at first thought I was a drag queen! And then we sang Smell Yo Dick and a variety of Judy Garland tunes, and discussed Mr. Darcy complexes and Catherine MacKinnon. And then we went to Estelle's- which was probably not the best idea ever, but was in fact a good time. I will be hungover again tomorrow, however, because...

3. Am going out to night to hang out with my friends from the interwebs! It's true! All the Jezebel commenters from Chicago are meeting up tonight at a bar in Andersonville. And it will be glorious and snarky.

4. Purple Jeans. I want them to exist in my wardrobe, but they keep looking wrong/being too big in the damn calves. American Apparel apparently only thinks people with cankles want skinny purple jeans, which is not true and I am a prime example of this. Not fair. I have dreams!

5. Oh! I also found people last night who were familiar with this, the greatest thing that ever happened to NY Public Access. I love the sense that this song does not make. It makes my life, and if for some reason I have not shared it with you, I apologize.

Wednesday, June 11, 2008

I like the bad guys (and girls!)

When I was a kid, I wasn't too much into toys or dolls, but I did have a few- and the vast majority of the toys my mom got me were of the evil characters from the show. Like, I had the Peculiar Purple Pieman, and Sour Grapes (from Strawberry Shortcake), and Murky Dismal and Lurky (Rainbow Brite) and The Misfits... I don't know if that's what I wanted, or what my mom thought was cool looking.

My sister had a doll called Baby Alive, that she fed creepy packet food to, who would then shit or piss in it's diaper. I was terrified of that doll. It gave me nightmares. That has no relevence to anything else I'm talking about- just, you know, while we're on the subject. Oh! She also had one that you put water in and then microwaved so it was, um, blisteringly hot. You know, like real babies are?

I was unreasonably irritated by Roadrunner cartoons. I found it really unsatisfying that the coyote never won. Over the years I became frustrated with most cartoons in general for similar reasons. It wasn't hard for me to see how one might be annoyed by Rainbow Brite.

I don't know what this says about me. Probably nothing- it's possibly just the wine (I've had quite a bit) making me think that it might.

As far as "heroines" went, as a kid... I really liked Pippi Longstocking- I think she was my first, like, favorite. I just remember reading that whole bit where she goes into the store, and looks at the sign that says "Do you suffer from freckles?" and then tells the lady "No! I don't suffer from freckles! I enjoy them!" or something like that. And my five year old self thought that was just the most amazing thing ever. I wanted to be just like her. I also really liked Ramona Quimby, and later on I liked Anne of Green Gables and the all chicks from the Judy Blume books. I can't remember who else... Nancy Drew was pretty neat.

I should probably go get my laundry out of the dryer now.

Tuesday, June 10, 2008

I thought I could do it, but I just can't

I think that, through this whole election process, I sort of thought that if Clinton conceded I'd be like "Ok, fine, I'll vote for Obama... because I don't want John McCain...sigh"- but I can't do it.

Which is why my meager support is thrown towards the always bad ass Cynthia McKinney, who is running on the Green Party ticket. I still vote in NY, which is going to go to Obama anyway- but I cannot bring myself to vote for another goddamned penis. I just can't. I don't think the democrats are any better than the republicans- and that's something I've always said, and I've never actually voted democrat in my life (always third party), but in this past primary season, it's gotten like, 85 times worse- particularly in terms of misogyny (although, I've also always felt that leftist men are just as bad as right-wing men as far as this goes, and often worse because they think they get a pass on it). Half of the people I thought were ok before hand (Keith Olberman, Arianna Huffington, etc. and a variety of bloggers) I can no longer stand. As for Ms. Huffington- as Madeleine Albright said... "There is a special place in hell for women who don't help other women."

There is no way I can be on the same team with people who wear shirts with Obama's face on it declaring "Bros before hos." You are not my people.

Monday, June 9, 2008

Come back to me, Roseanne!

She looks amazing. I could plotz.

I love this woman so much it makes my heart hurt. Outside of my mother, no other woman has had such an impact on me in my life. She is everything I want so much for women to be- unapologetic, funny, angry, whipsmart, fearless, passionate and completely unable to shut the fuck up.

I looked at her blog, and I read this and as a result I am writing this right now with tears coming down my face.

It's very difficult, you know, to have grown up with my mother, to grow up with Roseanne on TV, to grow up listening to Bikini Kill... and to just have all that hope, and to be so sure that the concept of women being vapid barbie dolls and homemakers was so, so far in the past- and then to be here, now. To see all these bimbos who are famous for nothing, who never say anything- unless it's something stupid that we can all have a good laugh at. You know! Because women are stupid! It shatters my heart. I wanted so much more than that.

It all went downhill after "Hit Me Baby One More Time." I swear to god, it's when everything changed. I'll say it til the day I die. I've always felt like it was in some way a conspiracy. You know, like- if you've ever read "The Feminine Mystique," there's this whole part about women's magazines. How in the 1940's they all had stories about bad ass chicks who went to work, and 5 minute recipes, and then after the war all the stories were about chicks who gave it up to be housewives, and recipes that took all day. I feel like they got tired of mouthy women, and started parading these bimbos out in the hopes that women would emulate them instead. And it worked, too. Because now we have a bunch of idiots who find "empowerment" running around topless in front of video cameras during spring break and saying "Wooo!" a lot.

What does it say that women on television 20 and 30 years ago were ten times more badass than the women on today? Maude, Mary Tyler Moore, The Golden Girls (yes, I realize that's two Bea Arthurs), Julia Sugarbaker, Murphy Brown...

Roseanne needs to get her fabulous ass back into the damned spotlight! It's practically an emergency.

Sunday, June 8, 2008

Boy problems I am sick of solving

And here is the advice that you will never take. And then later you'll come back and say you wish you had. I never get any satisfaction out of "I told you so's."

1. The Controlling Boyfriend! Guess what? There's no such thing as a "controlling boyfriend." There's someone telling you what to do, and you going along with that. If you don't go along with it, he's not controlling you! Unless the dude has a knife to your throat, you are free to leave at any time! And there's no paperwork! Because you're not fucking married! If he's "controlling" you, I can't imagine why you think he's so precious that you want to hang around anyway.

How to avoid this situation: The first time he tells you what to do, look at him like he has 5 heads. And laugh. If that doesn't work, leave.

2. He Takes Me For Granted! Perhaps if you didn't constantly drop everything you were going to do in order to hang out with him at a moments notice, or constantly do shit for him without expecting reciprocation of any kind (except for the gloriousness of his company), he wouldn't. People, consciously or subconsciously, test you to see how far you can be pushed.

How to avoid this situation: Don't do shit for someone who isn't doing shit for you. Don't put up with shit you don't want to put up with.

3. I feel like I might want to cheat on him with this other guy that I think I like more! Then obviously, you don't like him that much. Maybe you guys shouldn't be in a relationship.

How to avoid this situation: If you want to date/make out with/ do other people, do not sign up for a committed relationship. For god sakes, it's not like car insurance!

4. I keep ending up with douchebag boyfriends! Then maybe you need to be single and work on yourself for a while.

How to avoid this situation: Once you figure out that the guy is a douche (it doesn't take that long!), stop dating him.

5. We've only been dating for a week, but we already need couple's therapy, as we have thus far racked up more problems than most people who have been married for 40 years: It's not going to get better, it's only going to get worse. The beginning of the relationship is when things should be awesome and fun and drama-free. If they suck this early on, they're going to suck a lot worse after the honeymoon period.

How to avoid this situation: Guess!

6. He's really jealous! This, actually, is not your problem. It's his. He will have to get over it. Unless, shit, you're one of those people who likes to complain/brag about how jealous your significant other is, because you think that makes other people think you're way awesome and worth desperately clinging to. Then, shit, admit that you like it and stop kvetching to me.

How to avoid this situation: Learn this phrase- "I'm sorry you feel that way." and ignore it. Don't start fights over it, don't give it any weight at all.

Saturday, June 7, 2008

Whatever, you know it's totally catchy.

My favorite part, outside of the neo-Robert Palmer chicks in the background, is that she matches the background of every scene she's in. Right down to the eyeshadow! However- it's not a new concept- I get the feeling Miss Annie, or whoever the artistic director was, watched a certain movie before filming-

My favorite part of "On a Clear Day You Can See Forever" was always the fact that her outfits always matched the decor. Even when she went to places other than her apartment! Like, in one scene, the lining from her jacket matches the chair in her shrinks office. Brilliant!

I need to vent!

Oh good lord- just saw this commercial for the new Coors wide mouth vented can, or whatever that's supposed to be. And then I threw things and got a little stabby.

So there's this guy, and he's hanging out with his wife, or girlfriend or whatever, and he gets a phone call from his friend. He tells his wife "Oh, gosh honey, my friend needs to vent!" and she of course says "Oh! Golly! Well you better go take care of him!" And blah blah blah, he goes to the friends house and they drink beer from vented cans and watch sports, and then she calls to check up on him, and he's like "yeah, I think he's gonna be ok." or some shit.

I hate the imaginary world these people live in. What is that about? What? Like "Oh gosh, you know those womenfolk! They only understand talks about feelings, bleeding from their ladyparts, Lifetime movies and handbags! That bitch would never comprehend my desire to do something like, uh, watching TV with my friends and drinking beer!" Jesus- I'm so sure she gives a shit. You know she's just glad to have some time to herself. To spend with her Hitachi Magic Wand.

Friday, June 6, 2008


Ok, so my roommate Jen and I have long had elaborate plans and schemes regarding a wedding for our cats. Who are totally in love. Mr. Catface is totally the bottom.

Anyway, I found out today that WeTV is going to have a show called "Puppy Weddings." So of course, I was all, "What the fuck ever! We came up with cat weddings two years ago!" and I was going to go on about it, but I had to find this picture first (the one above). Because I love this picture. So I googled "cat wedding"- because I'm bored and waiting for her to finish getting ready... but what I found was this:

Egypt — An Egyptian woman filed for divorce after her husband refused to pay for the wedding of her favorite cat in a five-star hotel, national media said on Wednesday. The young woman, named only as Khadiga, had begged her husband, some 50 years her senior, to pay for her cat’s wedding. Her husband refused and Khadiga filed for divorce.However, in court, her husband said he would agree to a divorce, but his last present to his wife would be a wedding for her cat, albeit one in a less expensive hotel owned by his friend.
The woman promptly forgave her husband and called off divorce proceedings. The cat is now preparing
to be wed.According to the Guinness Book of World Records, the most expensive cat wedding took place at a disco in Thailand. The owner of a very pampered cat paid more than $16,000 to organize the event.

Wow! Not only are we not original, but there are people in the world who are way creepier about their cats than we are! Amazing!

Go suck a thumb, Walter Kirn

Walter Kirn is a man who wrote a semi-autobiographical novel called Thumbsucker. About a boy who sucks his thumb and has trouble with a girl who wants to screw around with him, but godforbid does not want to be his soulmate, and get married, and form a family band. What a total whore, right? Fuck her! If she had any sense she'd throw herself at his feet and thank him profusely for deigning to consider her worthy of his glorious affections. (I digress. Also, my boyfriend Vincent D'onofrio was in the movie... so I can't totally hate it)

He also wrote this charming article in Elle that made me want to shove his thumb in his ass and then into his eye, and hope that he not only goes blind, but also suffers from a terrible bacteria infection that eats his brain. I should preface this by saying that he also wrote another article for Elle about how "your boyfriend is lying to you about your body"- ie: he is actually absolutely disgusted by it and wants to vomit everytime he looks at you, especially if you have stretch marks anywhere!

They tend to go out on the town in pairs, I’ve noticed: the conventionally pretty one, all dolled up and shining, and her average-looking friend, who’s barely had time to do her hair. The pretty one, I have a hunch, is generally the instigator. With the plainer one by her side, she thinks she’ll look even more dazzling than usual. And the plainer one goes along with the idea because she wants to bask in her friend’s glow—or maybe because she just doesn’t get out
much. I don’t know. I do know, however, that when I spot them and manage to push in beside them at the bar, I often feel sorry for the pretty one.

Because she’s about to learn she’s not the pretty

Yeah, you're totally going to ruin that girls day, aren't you Walter Kirn! You're going to punish her, and all the other women who thought they were too good for you! I'm sure all of her self esteem relies on soliciting your favor. I bet she'll go home and cry about it! (By the way, totally imagining that last sentence of his paragraph in the voice of movie preview announcer guy)

He goes on and on for pages extolling the virtues of homely chicks- but not really. Primarily, what he's harping on is his own awesome deepness, and ability to "see through" those totally stupid bitches with symmetrical features (yeah, apparently the whole symmetrical feature thing is a big deal for him). However, let me tell you- Walter Kirn is not deep. Walter Kirn is a) recently bitterly divorced from a model, and b) a puritanical douchebag.

First of all, buddy, I do not choose my friends based upon whether or not I look better standing next to them. I like them because they are hilarious, brilliant, ballsy chicks- who also happen to be super hot. Contrary to what you may believe, my entire life is not in fact devoted to reelin' me in a husband! I don't wear heels because I'm trying to impress the menfolk, I wear them because I like being taller than you. And because they go with my outfit, and I fucking happen to like shoes, k?

Homely people do not get a free pass on the good personality express. If you believe that, you have watched like, way too many teen movies, or your mom was blowing smoke up your ass to make you feel better. I have met more boring ugly people than I can shake a damn stick at. It's not that you like homely chicks, it's that you don't like women whom you suspect feel a little too good about themselves. Not taking care of oneself is often a sign of depression. Men like homely chicks for the same reasons they like short chicks- they want someone who appears kickable. They are insecure themselves and afraid of rejection, afraid of a woman with too much love for herself- because if she does love herself, she'll never be grateful enough for you, she'll never be afraid to leave your sorry ass. That's what you're afraid of, Walter Kirn.

Thursday, June 5, 2008

VOTE to get PANDORA BOXX on LOGO's new TV Show: RuPaul's Drag Race!

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I win!

I sent my letter and that chick took down the bad review.

But it got me thinking- I have a talent. I know, I know- you're like- whatever Robyn, you have many talents- not the least of all the fact that you can fit your whole fist in your mouth and do an awesomely mediocre impersonation of Patty Duke at the end of Valley of The Dolls! Neely O'hara! It's true- I am in fact a renaissance woman. But for years, I have been something like a ball crushing Cyrano de Bergerac for many of my closest friends. I write letters. If you have been a douche to one of my friends, you may have even been fortunate enough to receive one!

I don't often write them on behalf of myself. See- my mom always said that, well- people probably already know that, if I wanted to, I could take them down verbally, and that there is more power in that than in actually doing it. Once you go for the jugular, there's no going back, usually. It's best to keep it on reserve.

Still, I think it's a skill worth exploring. You know, for profit. I could, hypothetically, charge people to write scathing letters for them!

Old and rickety

It is now June 5th. I am old and rickety! Did you know that there was once a curse on my birthday? It's true. I broke my foot one year, and another year a tree fell on my car that I'd only had for a week, and a lot of other things happened... until Reagan died on my birthday, and then everything has pretty much been ok since. However, in the words of Miss Ruth Gordon, discussing how old one is, is the very temple of boredom.

Did you know that Ruth Gordon is basically my personal idol? Seriously, she is. I watched Rosemary's Baby again the other night, and I love her guts more than you can possibly know. It's true. And not just because she was Maude in Harold and Maude, although that's a major part of it. In case you didn't know, she and her husband Garsin Kanin wrote Adam's Rib, and Pat and Mike, and were supposedly the inspiration for Tracey and Hepburn's onscreen personas (gush! I know, I'm lame.). Also, she played a character based on Dorothy Parker in some play by George Oppenheimer. So, like, basically, she rocks my face. If she were alive, and a man, I would want to marry her and have all of her babies- even if they were actually Satan's. It's true. And I don't like short chicks!

Monday, June 2, 2008

I like rabbits! Betch!

Holy crap. This is... there are just no words. I love Liam Kyle Sullivan with the fire of 1,000 suns. I sincerely do, and this new video just solidifies that love in a way I never knew was possible. I want us to be bestest friends so we can have slumber parties where we bake cookies and paint eachothers nails and talk about boys all night! Watch it 10,000 times and then go watch the other videos if you haven't seen them.

Ok... haven't gotten into this one yet. I am so, so, so, so in favor of rejecting privilege. I have always believed that in order to eradicate all the -isms, those with the privilege must recognize it and reject it.

HOWEVER. Dude, my family did not own any businesses. They only got here like, last century, k? Oh- wait, I'm sorry- my relatives owned a bakery, and a TV store. In Providence! The only benefits I ever saw from that were like, in pastry form. I think my parents got a good deal on a TV that probably fell off the back of a truck- but I'm quite sure that's the extent of it. That's not to say that I don't benefit at all from white privilege, but still.

First of all... this guy is a Catholic. In case you didn't know, Catholics do not allow women on the pulpit- in addition to like, 20 million other retardly misogynistic rules they've got going on. I call bullshit on his whole rejecting privilege thing. Pots and kettles bitches.

This is the thing, though. Racism and sexism are both things that suck- equally. Neither is worse than the other, and if you even try to make that argument, you're going to end up sounding like an ass. If you are anti-racist, but totally sexist (which this guy clearly is)- you suck. If you are anti-sexism, but a giant racist, you also suck. Sure, Clinton has white privilege... but uh, Obama has male privilege. So they're about on equal ground. As this douche nozzle is a white male, he probably hasn't experienced the effects of institutionalized privilege first hand, and really, really needs to shut his damn mouth.

Diary of an unbelievably uninteresting 15 year old...

"Went to BJ's Wholesale club with Mom today..."

Yeah, this sentence existed in my 15 year old diary. There are many like it. It's kind of embarassing, really. There's not much in the way of awesomely juicy, heart-wrenching prose. I kind of wish it were embarassing in that way, but for the most part it's not. Oddly, I think that, in my diary, I was trying to convince my future self that I was super cool in my teen years. Which I wasn't. The most interesting stuff is about the shifting loyalties of my circle of friends. Lot's of "I don't think I'm going to be friends with ____ and ____ anymore, because they've become like, this uniperson, and I feel left out whenever we hang out, and they plan things that they're going to do together that do not include me- while I'm sitting right there! So rude!" and then the next day "___ and ___ are totally my best friends ever!"

I used to occasionally make pathetic stabs at the morose, purple-prose-y poetry that was so much in vogue amongst teenagers in the 90's. But like, I'd get through one stanza and start giggling. It just wasn't something that was ever in me. I actually didn't start writing seriously until I read Metropolitan Life by Fran Leibowitz. I had this awesome "Oh, shit! I can just be funny! And that's ok! I don't have to be morose!" epiphany, and it sort of just freed everything up- because I wasn't trying to be something I wasn't. When I try to take myself seriously, it comes across as disingenuous, I think. In my diaries I was trying to convince myself that I had some sort of awesome social life and went shopping all the time... or something. In my pathetic stabs at 90's poetry, I was trying to be deep. It's weird, because I read lots of books, but for whatever reason at the time, this is what I was sure good writing was about.