Wait and See

Have you heard? John Krasinski is directing a film version of David Foster Wallace's Brief Interviews With Hideous Men! Oh, you have? And are you as generally suspicious of everything you've heard about it as everyone else is? Probably.

Me, I kinda winced when Krasinski said it was a feminist film. Which is weird, because normally I find everything he does infinitely adorable. But I didn't think the book was necessarily feminist (unless you are of the mindset that all we do is sit around and talk about hating men)- and I just feel like I'll have to hold off judgement until I see the movie. I mean, it's not that I don't think men can be feminists, it's just that I have a "wait and see" policy on it.

Also, a lot of the time, books that are amazing just don't translate to film very well. The movie versions of The Handmaid's Tale, Everything is Illuminated, The Bell Jar, Breakfast of Champions, 1984, etc. were all pretty forgettable and disappointing.

The preview is available here http://theenvelope.latimes.com/news/env-et-krasinski19-2009jan19,0,7576803.story.

It looks a little romantic comedy-ish... but I don't know, I hope it's good. Especially because he's just so gosh-darned excited about it. Although, quick word of advice- whenever someone says "Will you promise not to be mad/offended/whatever if I tell you something?"... Don't. Because you totally will, otherwise they would not have said that.

Just think of how awesome you'd be at juggling if you never got laid

via www.videogum.com

This guy is the single worst argument for abstinence ever. I'm sure the kids are going to go home and say "Wow! I'm never going to have sex so I can one day be a middle aged, balding motivational speaker who juggles and balances shit on his chin whilst wearing an argyle sweater and a bowler hat!" Because that's everyone's life's dream. Also "Man, if I have sex, I'll never be able to balance a cane on my hand! And that is of course a far better time!" Oy. Anyway, it's totally hilarious. And, at the very least, less offensive and anti-woman than most abstinence things I've seen....

At least I didn't set myself on fire

Oh man.

So, last night I went over to Lindy's to give Ivan a voice lesson (which I haven't done in forever, and as it turns out, my piano skills are not what they used to be), and then afterwards we decided to go over to the Skylark. At one point, Lindy and I decided to go out for a cigarette, and I'm standing there in the bar with the cigarette in my hand, and the lighter in my hand, and we're still standing around chatting... and I lit the cigarette. In the bar. Without even thinking about it- but then we all realize what I've just done and I tried to put it out with my finger, which burned and did not work. And then I had to like, try to run out of the bar trying to cover it up, which was somewhat difficult to do gracefully in the floor length sleeping bag I call a coat. I don't think anyone besides us noticed, but they probably thought I was a bit mental. It at least made Lindy's night, as our friendship is pretty much based on the fact that it's nice to be around someone else who falls a lot and tends to humiliate themselves on a regular basis.

Oh- but also! Go see Mr. Russia (their band) at the Metro on Friday the 13th. Not just because they're my friends, but because they're super awesome and will in fact rock your face. It's a record release show for their debut album Teething- Which you should probably buy 7 or 8 copies of. Lindy will be the charming girl playing the keyboards, and I will be the girl with her face airbrushed on a t-shirt. Puffy paint may or may not be involved.

Info!

Metro

Friday Feb. 13th

MR RUSSIA (record release)
The Prairie Cartel
Apteka
Lasers & Fast & Shit

FREE before 9PM with flyer or Metro txt (We will of course be giving out flyers at the Sunday Night Sex Show)

18+

MR RUSSIA debut album 'Teething' available Valentines Day from Lens Records
Made In Chicago

Bret Michaels... now with less photoshop

So my roommate has this friend who takes pictures at bars and events for a company called "Darkrom Demons," and guess who just happened to be at one of these parties? Mr. Rock of Love himself, Bret Michaels. So, if you ever wondered what he looks like without all the bronzer and the special lighting... here you go!

Rehab

So I decided the middle of the night was a totally appropriate time to start messing with HTML crap on here, so considering the fact that I totally suck at it, things are going to be confusing for a bit. My blogroll is currently jacked up, so that's going to take a bit of time to refurbish. Le sigh.

Also, apparently I'm going to have to start tagging things again so the taggy thing there doesn't look silly. I haven't done that in a while. Oy.

I don't know whether to make a joke about bikini waxing or spinsterhood here.

Make your own connection, the possibilities are endless. And probably disturbing.

When was the last time you checked your Friendster page?

For me, it's been years. But I did it this morning because I wanted to see if I was still "friendsters" with this one dude that I haven't seen in a bajillion years. Long story.

Anyway, it's sort of like an abandoned amusement park- it's desolate and creepy. Apparently a few people have checked in in the past year, but not many.

The thing about Friendster though were the testimonials. Because, like at first, people just wrote nice things about you. I still have a few of them (down to 21 because most people have deleted their profiles by now), including pretty much two of the nicest things anyone has ever said about me:

From my darling friend Ryan, who is totally grown up now and in fact engaged. I was totally a bad influence on him and he loves me for it. Except for the time we got mauled by angry cops at a WTO protest in DC, I don't think he appreciated that so much.:

"life would suck without her. i heard this cramps song one time called "dames, booze, chains and boots" and immediately thought of robyn, i dont even know why. but shes definitely a real special dame. even tho sometimes i feel like a little brother, she helped me start smoking and curses me for being underage. robyn knows just about everyone in a 100 mile radius. she has the most original style that only she can get away with, try not to stare at her boobs tho, they like to play peek-a-boo from behind her SalvArm treasures. i love robyn, only a real friend would pull over to buy you cigs with her credit card."

And from my friend Ian, who is in fact a ridiculously talented musical genius.

"OK, admit it: Robyn is pretty f'n awesome. She's hot, she's smart, she's immediately friendly in a way all you lame-ass indie rockers are not, she's tough, she's a political activist who does more than you did, she's honest to the point of being in-your-face, she is a radical feminist who's pro-sex and not at all dogmatic, she has a great sense of humor and irony, she's fun and the first to rock out / play board games / watch cheesey horror movies. If you can't take her loud raucous assault on everything in her way, then yr just dumb."

Awww! I'm plotzing all over again. It's a very rosy picture (in my interpretation), and I feel a bit vain about posting it on here, but whatever. I'm totally allowed.

So sad! Ricardo Montalban, RIP

Say it ain't so!

If you know anything about me at all, you should know that I am somewhat obsessed with Fantasy Island- and I am devastated to hear of the passing of my beloved Mr. Roarke. Sadly, I cannot find any YouTube footage of my favorite episode ever, the one where he battles Satan/Roddy McDowell. And wins with his mind. So bad ass, and yet so debonaire.

Good night, sweet prince, may your dreams be lined in fine Corinthian leather.






Fantasy Island episodes on Hulu

"I feel pretty," said the chicken to the egg

Wow! It seems like the scientists are working overtime on the less than reliable sounding hormone studies!

Today, MSNBC reports that women with high levels of estrogen look and feel prettier, but are less inclined to have long term monogamous relationships.

Or, you know, you could look at it this way- people who feel more attractive and more confident also feel as though they don't have to settle. But that would make too much sense, so they had to throw estrogen in there to make it more sciencey.

I probably could have guessed this.

According to information released by The Windy City Times, Obama was for same-sex marriage before he was against it (or, you know, favored "civil unions"- same damn thing). I think it's shitty, but I'm not exactly shocked.

People keep forgetting that he is in fact a politician, a sector of the population that tends to change their opinions based on what is going to get them elected. Part of what got him elected was convincing people in the middle that he was not a scary radical, with a "but really, you totally know I'm one of you" wink and nod to progressives. He's a blank enough slate that people feel comfortable ascribing their own moral code and opinions to him, without him ever having to say a word about it.

The way I look at it is this- if he actually does anything awesome, like support gay marriage, or give the funding back to overseas womens health clinics who provide abortions and birth control... then great. If he doesn't, I won't be shocked. Dude is, after all, a politician.

Tee-hee!

This totally made my day. I don't know why, it just did.

http://fuckyeahryangosling.tumblr.com/

via jezebel

Guess who is a motherfucking technical genius?

I am!

Ok, maybe not so much me as the dude from the Phillipines, whose name may or may not have been Algren, who totally helped me set up my router today over the phone. I only cried a little. And I also have an insane headache, which may also be because I've yet to have any coffee.

How not to date a tool

In addition to having been horrified by that "Tool Academy" show the other night, I've also spent some time thinking of ways one would avoid being in that particular situation. There are reasons I don't. I take after my mother, who doesn't take shit from anyone. My father criticized her macaroni once and she dumped it in his lap. Ever since then he's said everything she makes is fabulous.

Now, it's not as though I've never dated a douchebag- I think we all know that this is not the case. However, as soon as they revealed themselves to be as such, they were promptly dismissed (I said 'Good Day!' Sir!).

But anyway, here you go! (also, though I say "he" in several instances, most of it goes for everyone)

1. Enjoy your own company to the point where you are not afraid of being alone. If you aren't afraid of being alone, you will never be hesitant to walk.
2. Always be willing to walk.
3. Get a pre-fab man (or woman)- not someone you feel you have to change the personality or behavior of. (I assume that most people need a bit of my help in the realm of style and skin care.). Should you need a project, I suggest you take up needlepoint.
4. Be aware of how people make you feel about yourself, and know when you have been insulted. If someone is giving you a self-esteemectomy, you don't need to be around that person.
5. Believe people when they tell you who they are.
6. Always remember that the beginning of any affair is "The Honeymoon Period"- the best it is probably ever going to be. I suggest you start on a high note, rather than with a list of things you already have to work on. You can't very well sing "You Don't Bring Me Flowers Anymore" if he never did it to begin with.
7. Screw me once, shame on you- screw me twice, shame on me. You'd think it would be obvious by now.
8. There is no such thing as a controlling boyfriend/girlfriend/whatever. There is only someone telling you what to do and you going along with that.
9. Pay more attention to their manners than you do to their personal tastes.
10. Never, for one second, think of yourself as a victim or as a doormat. We tell people how to treat us, and if you, as the main authority on yourself, do not think you are fantastic and strong, than no one else will either.
11. Remember that we are no longer in the 50's. Sure, there was a time when maybe you needed a husband lest you risk starving to death on the street- but luckily, that is no longer the case. You are better off being alone for the rest of your life than living it being stuck with a douchebag.
12. Ideally, no one should have to feel like crap. However, if someone must- make damn sure it isn't you. Or at least make sure that they feel worse.
13. Listen to how they talk about their parents. If they're shitting on the people who raised his damn ass, don't think you're getting any special treatment. Also highly indicative of maturity.
14. Dating is like shoe shopping. If you try and shove your foot into a size four, it's going to be nothing but a pain. If it doesn't fit, move on and try another pair. It's not the end of the damn world.
15. Don't take no shit.

Cheers!

No excuse for poor taste

Sunday night was the premiere of VH1's "Tool Academy." Now, the gist of this show is that chicks take their douchey boyfriends on it so that they may be boot camped into awesome boyfriends. And it was the most disturbing thing I have ever witnessed.

The thing is, it's not the "tools" that disturbed us. We've been well aware of their existence for some years now. It was the girlfriends that made us cringe. Primarily the fact that they remained in the damn room while they saw video footage of their supposed boyfriends talking about how they have them "well-trained" and the vast number of other ladies they are doing every week. That was the shocking part. They're the ones that need the therapy! People are free to be douchebags, ya know, but you don't have to hang around with them. Ugh, and the women were like, blaming themselves for not being attractive enough. I could just die. That would be the day!

Oh, and some of them were saying "I feel like he doesn't plan on marrying me!" Ew. Um, thank heaven for small favors.

I've been harping on this for two days now. I feel like I was raised with such a strong sense of "sisterhood" or whatever, from my mom, that every time I see a woman act like an idiot, a little part of me dies.

Someone better take me out someplace fancy (and also pay for it because I will be very poor)...

Now, normally, I don't splurge on fancy dresses. I mean, I do, but not the ones that are insanely out of my price range. But I am purchasing this Shoshanna dress this week (yes, the chick who dated Jerry Seinfeld.), and I do not even feel a twinge of guilt about it. It is that fantastic.




It's like, so Joan Holloway I could die. It's actually weirdly hard for me to find fitted dresses that work on me (if they fit in the bust, they're too big for my waist), but this one does, so it's totally worth it.

Two things.

1. A girl I met on Friday informed me that she was, in fact, a "part-time model." And I, against all natural urges, refrained from singing "but you probably still have to keep your normal job" back at her. I did end up singing it all day yesterday, but what can one do?

2. Last night The Commitments, which is so one of my all time favorite movies, was on while I was primping. And after seeing it, I've decided that within the next month, I am going to see some dude walking around with a pompadour/mullet like this one guy had in the movie. It's going to happen- I can hardly believe he's the only one I've ever seen with one. Also, still can never believe that Deco/Andrew Strong was only 16 when that movie came out. Insane.

You can't so much see pompadour mullet guy in this clip, but I'm putting it up anyway because I love the shit out of this song.

What I'm getting you for your birthday

So, last night, though I fully intended to go out, I stayed in- because I was horrified by the weather and also there was an Omen marathon on AMC (not that I haven't seen them all 85,000 times). BUT, this is the important part! I totally saw a commercial for a penis pump. A penis pump that claims it is covered by Medicare (please note that many insurance companies, by the way, still do not cover birth control.

I just thought that you should know. Keep an eye out for it. The old dude who says "If you can be all you can be, why not be all you can be?" is priceless, as is his toupee.

I vote no on proposition facial hair.

I refuse to accept any of this nonsense about mustaches being an acceptable thing to do with one's face. It's just not true. They are universally wrong. Why? Because you should have as few things on your face that can trap food and/or lint as humanly possible. Or spittle. I am on record as voting no on facial hair in all it's varied forms- from the ironic to the "if this (perhaps braided?) goat-tee was good enough for 1995, it is good enough for 2009" look. Dudes in the latter category also tend to have tribal tattoos and wear man-cullottes. Those, um, really seem to be the only categories. Well, that and Spencer Pratt.

Also, the last time I made an exception to this rule, I had to smear my face with Albolene every two hours for a week.

Score one for lips, tits, and hips?

Kind of! According to some random study, men who do not find curvier/hourglass figured women more attractive than straight-up-and-down types, are more likely to father autistic children. This, apparently, is becase women with a waist-to-hip ratio of 70% have optimal estrogen levels and are thus less susceptible to major diseases. I'm not sure how that makes sense though, but I will take compliments where I can get them. However, according to this other study, we're a dying breed. Get it while you can, fellas.

Now, while the first study is definitely suspect, that doesn't mean that I won't secretly be thinking "Good luck with your autistic babies!" should I for some reason get thrown over for a lady who neglected to develop secondary sex characteristics. My inner monologue is a total bitch.

Oh, but for reals, the actual best thing about being super tall and having hips and a huge rack is that I'm pretty much a huge turn-off to closeted pedophiles. This is totally where I win.

And I'm a 4'11" demure blonde milk-maid. What?

Talk about no self awareness...

Dick Cheney claims that he's actually warm and lovable.

You know, like a teddy bear. Filled with asbestos.

A boy like that could kill your brother

So, last night, Allen and I went out to Bar Deville (which is a swell place, and what they lack in cranberry juice they make up for in baroque couches and being around the corner from my apartment) and I ended up on this rant about the totally weird West Side Story-ish/ Greasers vs. Soc's reactions my the guys I know socially have towards the guys I date.

See, while I joke about the drummers, for the most part, I've always been more partial to regs. This could be for a couple of reasons having to do with me:

1. My parents. My dad is a total square, and my mom is... well, pretty much exactly like me.
2. I have an oppositional personality. Tell me to jump and I'll hold a sit-in. It's just the way I've always been. It's pathological.

But a lot of it is that, ironically, I've always found that the writers, the activists, the musicians, the artists, what-have-you, have been way more misogynistic (I think this is because they consider themselves exempt because they're not "meat-heads"), and WAY more concerned with bourgie social mores, and have way more hang-ups about the virgin-whore dichotomy than any reg guy I've ever known. They tend to be overly concerned with what they are "supposed" to be doing, and how things look to other people in their particular scene. I find that icky.

The thing that always bugs me though, is that I get a lot of "that guy couldn't possibly understahhhnd you!" But the thing is... I really do feel like if you think you "understand" somebody before really getting to know them, you never will. I mean, you can read every book that I've ever read, seen every movie I've ever seen, agree with me politically on every stance, listen to every song I've ever listened to... and still have no understanding of me and what is important to me at all. Because no person is just some mesh of opinions and preferences, and if I wanted to talk to someone who had the same ones I do, I'd talk to myself. Which, ya know, I sometimes do.

The thing is though, is that whenever I went anywhere with this guy I dated for a couple years, I'd suffer a hailstorm of snarky comments from other dudes insinuating that he was stupid and that I was dating him for shallow reasons (my favorite: "Why are you with that guy? Upper body strength?"), and I simply told them to fuck off and stop being jealous. And, in my experience, the artsy fartsy guys I've dated have never had the balls to do that on my behalf. Which is why they never last too long with me.

God, for a man who solicits insurance!

Just not into douchebags and cattyness. Sorry.

Ok, so, everytime I turn on the TV, I see one of two movie previews that make me throw things at it- "Bride Wars" and "He's Just Not That Into You."

Sheesh. What is this? "Women Are Totally Pathetic Month?" Ew. Let's get back to reality.

As a woman, complete with all the necessary secondary sex characteristics, I have never done any of the following:

1. Daydreamed about a wedding. Except when I was like 15 and thought having an Elvis Impersonator officiate would be totally bad ass.
2. Had an all out battle with my best friend over anything as silly as a wedding. I can't even imagine it. I love my friends. And, you know, if something is more important to them than it is to me, they can have it, and vice versa. I don't soak dishes in the sink for too long because it bothers Jen, and she doesn't put my ketchup in the refrigerator because I think cold ketchup is freakish and unnatural. Life is all about compromise.
3. Waited by the phone for a dude to call me.
4. Chased after any dude, ever.

I have a lot of pride, and so do my girlfriends. So when I see previews for movies like this- not only is it totally foreign, but it's also insulting. Let me tell you, I never get so duly offended as when some schlub insinuates that I'm in any way trying to scoop him up and push him into a committed relationship. Let me tell you, if you want me to never speak to you again (after giving you a "what the hell makes you think you're so fantastic?" speech and a lesson in existentialism, of course), this is the way to do it. And it's movies like these that make them think that this is the way we operate.

That being said, despite the "all star cast" and the fact that the book was popular- I have a feeling that "He's Just Not That Into You" is going to do kind of poorly at the box office. I just can't see women paying money to see the Mac Guy tell them that they're pathetic. He can talk after he gets a decent haircut, mmkay?

I'm going to need a shower after reading this

You know, sometimes I get so stuck in my head when I overanalyze things that I assume that I must be blowing things out of proportion. Who could possibly be as terrible as all that?
This guy

Who is, in my humble estimation, the worst ever. And quite likely a virgin- dudes who get a lot of action probably don't have a picture of themselves wearing a trenchcoat with a bird perched on their shoulder. It's funny- you think I'd be more mad about the things that he says- maybe go on about the retardedness of the virgin-whore dichotomy, or how freaking out about women who aren't afraid of sex perpetuates a rape culture, but he's just so awful that I'm merely thankful that he's clearly identified himself so that I, and any other girls with any integrity may safely stay away from him and his tiny dick. And I hope with all my heart that he someday finds the frigid virgin of his dreams. Although, admittedly, I am disappointed that this dude is not a figment of my imagination.

And, you know, it's not to say that I've never let douchebaggery of this sort get under my skin. In fact, it's something of a sore point with me. But let me tell you- men who feel this way are not real men- and by that I mean they're not real adults. They're repressed, scared little boys. And being freaked out by a woman's sexuality, in the end, really is it's own reward. Hmm?

PS- Note that on his little test, one gains five points for being 15 or 16, and loses points for having an IQ over 145. I rest my case.

In 1994, it was a very good year...

So, as previously mentioned in a post I deleted because it was boring, we watched the movie "Reality Bites" this weekend- which was one of my favorite things ever when I was 12 or so.

And it's not that I haven't seen it since then- but it's like, now I watch it and think that, really, Ben Stiller's character was a way better catch than Ethan Hawke's. 12 year old Robyn would think that was decidedly lame. Then again, 12 year old Robyn's interests at that time included the following:

-Sassy Magazine
-Bikini Kill, Babes in Toyland, L7, 7 Year Bitch, The Gits, etc.
- Writing the words "Riot Grrl" on my knuckles
-Doc Martens
- Baby barrettes
- Torn up fishnets
- Mid-drifts (a massive point of shame. Usually paired with pants purchased at the Army Navy Surplus.)
- Turning tights into sleeves by cutting out the crotch and cutting off the feet and pulling over head. For wear underneath said mid-drifts.
- Wearing slips as dresses
- Getting sent home from school for defying the dress code
- Starting petitions to get rid of said dress code (and for more vegetarian options at lunch!)
- Eating lunch in the girls room (not so much an interest as a necessity)
- Getting into political arguments with both teachers and students alike. The occasional screaming match with the homophobic ones.
-Beat Poetry (still living that down.)
- Writing poetry (never got the hang of the depressing stuff. Really tried though.)
-Failing at dying dark brown hair with Kool-Aid. (Attempts with aid of Sun-In proved disastrous)
- Boys who were into skateboarding and having long hair
- Boys who in any way resembled Kurt Cobain
-Drinking concoctions of every liquor in my parents cabinet out of a Where's Waldo thermos
- The word "poseur"
- Rolling eyes at the kids who thought they were punk rock all of a sudden because they listened to Green Day. Because we'd been like, listening to The Ramones and The Sex Pistols and The Misfits and The Dead Kennedys since like, sixth grade, because my best friend's older brothers and sister were like, super cool and played them for us.
- Pretending to be way into Ingmar Bergman
- Trying to get my mom to let me get my bellybutton pierced (I eventually succeeded at age 15, and still have the shameful hole. Why is she always right about everything?)
- Painting my converse with nail polish
- Stealing Marlboro Lights from my mom
- My So-Called Life
- Painting my nails with white-out
- Stealing wet and wild nail polish from Caldor
- The Lunch Box purse
- Convincing my relatives that I was a practicing Satanist (For the record, this was my mom's idea.)

Now, for a 12 or 13 year old, I think I was kinda neat. I still listen to riot grrrl, and I maintain that Sassy was a super awesome and inspirational publication. HOWEVER... thank god I'm not the same girl that I was then. For one thing, I was kind of insecure at that point, and thus became insanely pretentious and caught up in being edgy. I was basically intolerable.

But, for another- there aren't a whole lot of things more sad than people who are clearly stuck in the time when they were the most cool. Like the 40 year old women you see with perms and puffball bangs. Or 40 year old men with long hair and motorcycle jackets. It's why I would never get a tattoo (I've never regretted not getting one. Especially when I see people who are stuck with the "tribal" tattoo that was cool for like one year, or a butterfly on their ankle.).

I'm not sure what my junior high self would think of me now. I don't think she thought I'd ever grow up.

You are welcome...

"Craigslist Penis Photographer" featuring Bob Odenkirk - watch more funny videos

This is so great- I would totally marry Bob Odenkirk. For a while, Jen and I were like, obsessed with reading the Casual Encounters section on Craigslist, out of curiosity. Not curiosity about who we could recognize on there (although we totally did see one guy we knew, and it was hilarious, and I have not been able to look him in the eye since), or what people were into, but about how deluded they really were.

There is an element of hope in these ads. The hope that some hot ass lady will see it, and after seeing only a picture of your dick, and a couple of grammatically incorrect, poorly spelled sentences about how you need to stick it into something, hop on the bus and come over and do ya. And I really, really doubt that that is ever going to happen. But still, they keep hoping. Which is sad, but interesting nonetheless.

I don't know, I'm really into faces, so I just don't think I'd ever look at a picture of a dick and think "Wow! I'd sure like some of that!" I just wouldn't. I'm not hot for disembodied anything, really. Also, I think that would pretty much be the worst way to die, like, ever, if the guy turned out to be a serial killer. Imagine the news reports! "The Craigslist Strangler lured Miss Robyn to his apartment with a grainy picture of his dick with his gut hanging over it and a message reading:

"I;m looking for big butt princess.I love big women bigger better.DD free and clean"

This, by the way, was the first one on the list when I went over to go check it out. Sadly, there was no accompanying picture. But really- how embarrassing would that be? Imagine Nancy Grace interviewing your mom "So, was she really a 'big butt princess'?" And then your mom would have to say "No. You know, she was a bit hippy, but she never had much of an ass to speak of." And the the tickers across the bottom of the screen would read "Big Butt Princess Meets Tragic End." And then you'd have to die all over again.

Yup.

You wish you were here

Here I sit, 1am, January 2nd, 2009- my hair is huge and unkempt, I'm wearing a sweater over my party dress from last night, my eyeliner and mascara have yet to wear off, and I've just had a marvelously lazy day. I did nothing of any importance whatsoever. I went to the supermarket. I taught myself Irving Berlin's "What'll I Do?" on the ukulele. Allen and I ate popcorn and ice cream sandwiches, drank box wine and watched a Bad Girls Club marathon, followed by The Adventures of Bam Bam and Celeste, followed by, embarassingly enough, Bridget Jones' Diary. It's a full life, I tell you. And I've still got a headache from the Asti- my head, which was full of bubbles last night, is full of stones today. But things are lovely, and I have no room for resolutions.

Ass-te Spumante

I'm glad I went out last night, despite the fact that I am quite sure I acted a bit like an ass, because I was drinking Asti all night, and it tends to have that effect on me. I know that at one point in the evening I tried to see if anyone else could speak in double talk (it's like pig latin- if you've seen "Slums of Beverly Hills, that's the "secret language" they're speaking.), and that at another I erupted into a rendition of "My Melancholy Baby." Good times all around.

Am I daft?

I've followed all the directions 87 million times and I cannot make this router thingy work- this episode will likely end in tears. I feel slightly encouraged by the fact that I made my phone work today (had to get a new one as my dog ate the other one while I was back home), but apparently, I am technologically impaired.

Ok. Shower. Coffee. Work on it tomorrow.

New Years Wreck.

New Year's Eve has always been one of my least favorite holidays. It's not that I don't like to dress up, or drink, or go out- these are things I do everyday. In fact, New Years is probably the only time half of my wardrobe is at all appropriate. Still, I hate the idea of scheduling a good time or feeling pressured to have one. I hate being told I'm supposed to have a date, and that everyone else is too, which accounts for the slew of "so... just checking to see how you're doing..." messages I've gotten from dudes I've dated within the last two years.

I might go to a friends party, which I said I would go to... and I'm sure it will be fun, and it would be an excuse to wear my beloved turquoise Jill Stuart dress- but I feel kinda tired. Plus there is usually a Twilight Zone marathon on...

I will take a shower and drink some coffee and see how I feel.

Colours seen by candlelight will not look the same by day (or what I did with my Amazon gift cards)

I just found the letters of Elizabeth Barrett and Robert Browning (both volumes!) on Amazon for $9.74. I've never owned a copy- but when I was a kid, I really wanted one- I was absolutely in love with it. I'd sit indian style in the middle of the aisle in the library for hours when I was like, 9 or so reading the huge leatherbound copy they had of it there. I think it was almost bigger than I was. I never took it out for some reason, I just read it while I was there. But now I will own my own copy, which I'm sure will not be huge, or leatherbound, but it will be mine- and that will be quite nice.

So I got that, and also The Wordy Shipmates by Sarah Vowell (which I've heard so-so things about, but whatever, I like her), 2666 by Roberto Bolano, Phillip Roth's new book, because I love him, and a biography of sorts about Hepburn and Tracy, and Fantasy Island Season 1, and also The Lady from Shanghai (which, weirdly, I do not own), and the Greta Garbo Signature collection. Because I plan on being Garbo-esque this winter. Not so much in terms of being glamorous and mysterious, because everytime I attempt such things I spill coffee on my blouse or fall off of a curb. It's more that I just really, really hate to be cold.

The Ur-Drummer

So... the other night I ran into the ur-drummer. The first in a long line/near constant stream of drummers I have dated/seen/hung out with what-have-you... that have all basically been the same dude. It's kinda weird, but life tends to carve out patterns like that. For a string of years something broke every year on my birthday (my foot, my heart, my car...).

But, well, with the drummers it goes like this- an overenthusiastic beginning (on their part), quickly followed by a catastrophic end, nearly always brought about by a jaw-dropping lack of basic manners and tact on the part of said drummer. This one was always late, and then, when he was supposed to meet me at a showing of The Purple Rose of Cairo (which was like, my favorite movie ever at the time), called me ten minutes after he was supposed to meet me at the theatre to say he couldn't make it. This, however, is absolutely nothing in comparison to the insanity that followed it from any of the others in his wake. At most, it rates a 1.5 on the scale of douchebaggery I have been exposed to. Trust me, I could tell you some stories (which I totally will. Also, uh, I write them- which you think would cause some sort of self-censorship on their part, but no.).

But this is the thing, the curse on my birthday? It stopped after Reagan died on it. I'm sort of hoping that running into the ur-drummer will put an end to this Groundhog's Day-like pattern of dudes. Which would be pretty rad, because frankly I need something new to write about. It's getting a bit tedious, don't ya think?

A matinee, a Pinter play, perhaps a piece of Mahler's

Aw.... Harold Pinter died today. I liked him.

Planes trains and automobiles

I made it to Rochester- not in the "without a hitch" sense of the word, but I'm here, I'm watching The Golden Girls, and typing this all on the new laptop my parents were lovely enough to get me for Christmas.

Getting there was bad enough, and quite a bit like the last act of The Graduate. I took a cab thinking it would be faster- it wasn't. Traffic was so bad that I had to have the cabbie drop me off at the train station, and then I had to run all the way to the gate (except for the minute or so I stood behind that stupid family on the moving sidewalk thingy. If any of you are reading this, I think you suck at life) because I was so horribly late, and made it exactly on time and completely out of breath. I should probably quit smoking but I won't.

BUT... let me tell you about the guy I sat next to on the plane. I can tell you a lot, because he didn't shut up for the entire ride. First of all, he smelled like beer and Old Spice, and had his hair in an altogether new version of a combover, in which all the hair was pulled forward into bangs. He made prosthetic legs, and although he was Canadian, he worked in the States because the business for such things is bigger here. I am not sure why, I didn't ask. He told me that people were awfully vain about their prosthetic legs, and especially picky about them being symmetrical with their other leg, should they have one.

He did not think I needed to apply lipgloss to impress him, despite the fact that I was doing it because, ya know, my lips were dry. Because I just ran a marathon to get there and all.

He was on his second marriage to a mail order bride. Mail order brides, he said, were the way to go. Because, you see, an "attractive young girl" like myself would not look twice at a man like him here in this country, but in the third world, he had pick of the litter- and also they were more old fashioned, which he liked (ie: They don't have like, opinions and stuff). And he was right about that, because he was gross and he smelled weird and he was at least 50. Oh, and he was totally wearing a Starter jacket, which I have not seen since I was in middle school.

Oh, and then he ordered a beer. And he asked me if he could borrow a dollar for it. I said I didn't have one, so he paid for part of it in dimes.

Then the plane went into turbulence, really awful, "I think this might be the end- I'd faint except I have to stay conscious in case those oxygen masks pop down from the ceiling and I have to put one on" turbulence. It was a bad time altogether. And while I'm whiteknuckled and gripping the armrests, he's yelling "Wooooweeee! It's like a rollercoaster! Woooo! This is kinda fun! If you think this is bad, you should have been on this plane with me to Reno- now that was turbulence! This is just fun!"

And then the plane landed. And he continued talking. "If I'da known you had a problem with planes I'da tried to keep your mind off of it by talking to you"

Yup. I never really thought I'd top the guy who tried to feel me up on the plane and offered to be my sugar daddy, as his wife was suffering from cancer and was too tired to do him. But I did. And at least I got a limo ride home from that deal. Oy.

And that's my story. I told you I have no luck with planes.

How did I miss this?

Oh my god- Odetta died on December 2nd. I didn't know. I didn't hear a thing about it... It wasn't on the news or anything. I wouldn't have even found out if I hadn't been looking for videos of her on youtube... I can't believe I didn't know- I can't believe my mother didn't know.

Odetta was one of my mother's all time favorites since she was a kid. I promised her for years that I'd take her to see her live, but it just never happened. Even when I tried to see her here in Chicago the show ended up getting cancelled. We used to listen to her in the car when I was a kid, and my mom would always say that she was one of the few women she could sing along with (we have rather deep voices in our family.). I feel really bad that I never got to take my mom to see her. I remember I was like, so excited one year to give my mom a copy of an album of Bessie Smith covers she did that I found.

So, well, I'm kinda sad to have found that out.

My favorite Jimmy Stewart Holiday movie is not in fact "It's a Wonderful Life"

The Joy of A Secular Christmas

Like Torie Bausch, Christmas has never been a religious holiday for me. Duh- because I'm an athiest. I never felt any guilt, like she did, in "secularizing" it though, as I figure Christians try to ruin enough stuff I like that it's only tit for tat :). Both of my parents were raised Catholic (my father still sort of is and will occasionally try to get us to go to midnight mass, but he usually passes out before then anyway), so it's something they grew up with and just continued doing, I suppose.

But, even as a heathen, there are lots of things I like about Christmas. Perhaps I am just a festive person.

1. The Shop Around the Corner- which is the movie I refer to when I say that my favorite Jimmy Stewart christmas movie isn't "It's a Wonderful Life." It was once remade as a crappy movie in the 90's starring Meg Ryan, Tom Hanks and AOL, but as I've never seen that version, it has remained untainted.

2. Laura Nyro- Christmas and The Beads of Sweat- it's not really a Christmas album per se, but it's what we listened to at my house during the holiday anyway. Laura Nyro is one of those things I have in common with my parents and no one else at all, so it's kind of nice.



3. Lobster- being that my parents were raised Catholic, we still eat seafood on Christmas Eve, and my Dad makes baked stuffed lobster because it's my favorite thing ever.

4. Seeing my parents and sister, because it's one of the few times a year I get to do so.

I fail at airports.

Sigh.

So, after checking the United website 85,000 times before I left to check on my flight, I go to the airport only to find that it is in fact cancelled.

Then I wait in a line for two hours. Luckily, I got a flight back to Rochester tomorrow at 6pm... but still. It was an awful experience. I hate airports more than you can possibly imagine. I truly do. I hate the constant loudspeaker reminders that you can't smoke in the airport, which only serve to make me want a cigarette more. If there is any place on earth where someone ought to be able to smoke a cigarette, or anything else for that matter, it is O'Hare International Airport. In fact, I think they should just hand out heroin at the door.

But, well, at least that half bottle of wine won't go to waste :).

No.

I may have had a bit too much wine, and I'm still not quite packed for my trip back home... and I should probably go to bed, but I felt it was necessary to inform you that this is in fact a horrid idea. A horrid, horrid idea.

Odd behavior

A strange thing has happened to me twice in the past few days. First, yesterday, when I was in line to get on the bus, a girl pushed up in front of me and said "excuse me, I have to get on the bus" and walked on in front of me as though I was merely standing there for my health. Then, two seconds ago, as I was waiting to cross the street, a woman walked past me saying "excuse me, I'm crossing here" which was also quite odd. I was inordinately bothered by both instances.

Also, last night I had one of those dreams where when you wake up you're not sure if it really happened or not. It was quite odd, because I dreamed that I was reading crap on the internet (how lame am I? Next think you know I'll be dreaming about waiting for the train) and I saw like, a link to something stating that a guy I dated for a minute a while ago died, and in my dream I did not care enough to click through and was surprised at how blase I felt about the whole thing, even when I was half awake and kind of thinking that it actually happened- like, I was lying in bed thinking "I should probably get up and look to see what happened. Also, I should probably feel worse about this." and I didn't- I felt absolutely nothing- which was weird because it was such a long time ago that I don't so much have any animosity left about the situation- I actually don't think I have any feelings at all left about it, either way. Maybe I'm just a horrible person. I like to think if it happened when I was conscious that I would have cared or at least been taken aback, or something. I don't fancy myself a sociopath.

What does this say about me?

According to google, these are currently my most popular search terms for this blog... or something. Classy!

1. portable vagina
2. hot vag
3. emotional conquistador
4. paul newman
5. "the shirelles"
6. "cum on my sweater"
7. she's just a small time girl
8. the shirelles
9. "dye hair after bleaching"
10. kiss of the spider woman notes
11. habsberg lip
12. underwhelmed myspace
13. towns shes
14. she's just a small town girl
15. washingtonienne
16. vincent d'onofrio

Psych!

The NY Observer ran an article today on a new male archetype- l'homme fatale - a type rather similar to the one described by Tracie over at Jezebel a while ago as The Emotional Conquistador - a phrase which has rapidly become a part of my everyday vocabulary. I prefer Emotional Conquistador because l'homme fatale sounds too aspirational.


It's the same story on both sides- instead of scheming to get into your pants, they're scheming to form some sort of fake emotional bond. Which is way weirder. And sort of a waste of time, if you ask me- there's no forseeable gold at the end of that rainbow. I would never put in that much effort just for the glory of spinning around and yelling "Psych!"- I just don't get that. At least try to get laid. Be respectable.

It seems as though things have been radically switched around. Once upon a time girls were warned about men who would pretend to be in love with them in order to get laid. Back then, maybe it was easier to get someone to believe that than it was to get in their pants. Not so much now, except perhaps among super religious types, maybe. It's probably easier to get a girl to fuck you than it is to convince her that you're not a douchebag.

So they pull all the same lines that they used to, the lines we were warned about and never lived to hear in that context. They overflatter, they do nice things, they talk constantly about doing things in the future... except this time they don't try to sleep with you, at least not figuratively. Except this time it's not clear what they want from you. And when it's over, you're left thinking "Well, what fresh hell was that? That wasn't at all necessary!"

You harken back to a better time, a simpler time- a time when things made sense. When a dude would just buy you a drink, tell you you're pretty and make a pass at you- and you could say yes, or say no, and either way know what you might end up with (Ideally, not Mr. Goodbar). Alas, alack, Alaska.

Is there an information overload chakra?

So, yesterday, this lady comes into the store, and, you know, she walks around for about a half hour picking out cards and staring blankly at things. Normal. Finally, she decides that she'd like to see something in the jewelery cases up front. Normal.

The things she'd like to see are these rinky dink chakra necklaces. Fine. She picks out the "Third Eye" chakra necklace and tells me that she plans to get it as a christmas present for her acupuncturist. Fine. But then she has to decide which chakra necklace she ought to get for herself. So, for about an hour she debates on whether she needs the "root chakra" necklace or the "throat chakra" necklace- not just which one is prettier, but which one would come more in handy. The throat chakra necklace, she tells me, she needs because she's going to tell her husband she's going to divorce him in a month. And also she's a Taurus, and that's symbolized by the throat, and also she's an actor and "voice over artist." Voice over acting is her passion, she says, other than being a yogi, which she has been for three years. She lets me know that she has lots of crystals at home- because she's a yogi, but the necklace idea is great. Despite the apparent merits of the throat chakra necklace, she decides on the root chakra necklace and a "luck" necklace because she is going gambling on a boat with her mother, and that way she can earn the money back and then come back and purchase the throat chakra necklace when she has to tell her husband about the divorce. Also, she had like, sort of a British accent- but in a Madonna sort of way, like it only popped up every so often.

She was totally, totally serious. And despite the fact that I am a girl who tends to talk far more than is necessary, I had no words. I was silent for most of the hour. I just nodded. And tried not to laugh. Because the whole time I just wanted to say "Um, you know these necklaces don't actually have magical powers, right?"

But I couldn't. I mean, it had nothing to do with making a sale- the necklaces were fairly inexpensive (like $44 and $100)- but I probably would have felt bad, you know, crushing her dreams or whatever (and Robyn's heart grew three sizes that day? Probably not).

Still, I have nothing to say on the subject of crystals.

Sympathy for autodidacts

So last night after class, we went to a bar and had a couple drinks. Which, you know, is what we usually do. Anyway, there was this guy there who bought our drinks (awesome), and he was a teacher at another school and, well, he started complaining about a student who just wanted to show up for the tests.

"Ugh. That's totally me. I'm sorry, I am so that person. If I could test out of everything I'd be fine- it's the going that kills me." I told him. And then he tried to explain that well, there are things you learn in class that aren't in the book, etc. etc. I told him the story about how I tested out of economics in highschool (not knowing a thing about it beforehand)- with only a day to prepare, by reading my dad's old college textbook in a day- and, uh, I also got the highest score. Not to brag, but I totally did. Then he said "Well, what about the kid who came to my office ten times, tried really hard, came to every class, and maybe still doesn't doesn't score as high on the test, or have as nuanced answers as you do? How do I grade the both of you? It doesn't seem fair to give him a worse grade."

"What am I supposed to do?" I asked. "Pretend like I don't get it when I do? I'm just not a "going through the motions" kind of person."

This, in case you don't know, is why I sucked at elementary school. I remember the first day of third grade, when we once again got our plaid phonics books, the feeling of my face burning up with frustration. I came home, and I said to my mom "Can you believe this? What is this? 'ph' equals 'ffff'! I get it! Let's move on!" Then, the years of nouns and verbs and adverbs and conjunctions and prepositional phrases... it was agony. I pretty much refused to do any of my seatwork or homework, because I didn't really see the point in doing it if I already knew it already.

It's not that I was a child genius, it's just that I had my own way of learning. I like learning. I like knowing things, but I prefer to do it on my own and I don't feel the need to share. They had "Enrichment Class" in school, which I went to for a while- but really, it was pretty much just "Write a paper on Abraham Lincoln!" "Let's do some haikus!" and shit. I didn't find it especially enriching. I just wanted to take the test and have it be over with, so I could go back to learning things that I cared about.

I hid "The Diary of Anne Frank" behind my 'Mr. Fig' reader. "He's magical. He speaks in three word sentences. He talks to animals. Point taken."

I was told for a bunch of years that I had ADD. I knew I didn't. I knew I didn't because when push came to shove, I could read the whole damn book in one night without a break, and get an A on the test without doing any of the homework. I just had no interest in people repeating the same things to me, over and over again, day after day, year after year. I don't have a lot of patience.

The only class I ever really liked in high school was my sophomore global studies class, where the teacher talked a mile a minute, slammed books on the desk if people weren't paying attention, and, to boot, everything he said had a good chance of being on the test, and he never repeated anything the . Your hand would ache by the end of the period. There was no homework, only tests. Perfect.

I hated group projects. Oddly, I hated anything in class where you were supposed to be creative. I didn't want to be creative in class, I had other outlets for that. I just wanted to read the book and get it over with.

So, do I think, in this hypothetical situation that I should be able to just read the book, show up and get an A on the tests, and get a better grade than the kid who comes to every class and tries really hard? Kinda. I don't think it's some giant sin to prefer to learn things on your own. I mean, I could work for 20 years on a painting that would be nowhere near as good as the one someone who happens to be naturally talented in that way did in a couple hours. Should my painting go up in a museum because I tried harder? Probably not. Then again, I'm kind of a pretentious smart ass, so what do I know.

I love it when we're cruisin' together

Saturday Night Live - Goth Talk



Hey! So we actually watched "Goth Cruise" the other night- and yes, it was just as magical as I thought it would be.

Best quote by far: "I've always been like, on the cutting edge of fashion. In the 90's, I wore parachute pants."

The thing that really struck me was their commitment to "freaking out the norms." At like, 50 years old. I felt kinda bad for them because no one was really freaked out- they were all kinda like "Yeah, we've seen the Jenny Jones show, we've been to a mall food court before, what?" I mean, some of the other people on the cruise were definitely mall walkers. As a former mall employee, I can spot them a mile away. If you really want to freak out the squares, take a tip from my 16 year old self and drive around blasting "Songs of the Blue Whale" from your volvo whilst sporting monkey masks from the dollar store, and then slowly turn and stare at people at red lights. Not that it's any less sad, but at least it's unexpected.

Another interesting fact was that they all seemed to live in the suburbs- which we decided was because if they live in the city, no one would really give a shit. Being that, on my way to work or school everyday, I see a woman in a blanket and duct tape cocoon, who lives at the bus stop... a dude wearing a lacy pirate shirt and a kilt is not exactly going to blow my mind.

I'm obviously not saying it's all of them- just the people in this particular documentary. Amusingly enough, I totally just almost used the "some of my best friends are..." line- but I think that anyone that would agree to be in a documentary (though I love them) about their particular subgenre, or go to a convention, is a little too committed for my taste.

I am in fact the girl with the most cake

A week after Thanksgiving, I have to tell you- I am a lucky, lucky lady. I really am, in fact, the girl with the most cake. And I am very, very, very happy all of a sudden.

I have an awesome show that people actually really love- and I can't tell you how happy that makes me. What I like most is that everyone gets to participate and feel a part of things, and promote their own stuff as well- so, it's like, not only am I doing something neat that I like doing, but it's also something different that's very much in line with my own sort of philosophy of life.

I have like, retardedly awesome people in my life. And lots of them. I'm totally giddy about it too- it's kind of funny.

I love my job. Which is awesome because I hated it for so long, and then the change of ownership changed everything.

My skin, after a really awful beard burn incident, has at last returned to it's natural complexion. Thank you, Albolene!

The only thing that is sad about life is that there is no more Fantasy Island on the OnDemand. I must now purchase it on DVD. Sigh.

If you're talking to a fine lookin' woman, for instance Miss Delta Burke

Oh my god! Guess who totally just saw Leon Phelps while she was out on a smoke break? If you guessed me, then you would be correct. Because I totally did and it was awesome.

Robyn: Oh my god! Are you Tim Meadows?

Tim Meadows: Yes I am.

Robyn: Awesome! Congratulations!

Yes. I am in fact retarded. It's true.

My, how the world still dearly loves a scarlet letter

Ok, so Washingtonienne blogger Jessica Cutler announced recently that she got engaged- so there's been a bunch of shit being thrown around at various blogs from people who do not know her, but are firmly convinced that she does not deserve to be happy with her new fiance because they primly disapprove of her past. Which, frankly, is pretty lame.

Like I've said before, I totally love it when the bad girls win. It gives me a bit of satisfaction after all those years as a kid hoping The Misfits would beat the shit out of Jem and The Holograms in at least one Battle of The Bands episode. But what got me thinking today was the fact that on a Jezebel post about how, well, everyone deserves to be happy, a lot of women not-so-repectfully disagreed. A running line seems to be that a woman who sleeps with a married man is just as guilty as he is, and I've been hearing this a lot lately- but it's his obligation, not hers.

You know, honestly, I think they have a much better chance of being happy than most people out there. I really do. Let me tell you why: I don't think she's someone who would be with someone just to be with someone. And he's obviously someone who doesn't give a damn about what other people think. Which is bad ass. I think it says a lot about both of them.

I think a lot of the bitterness comes from people who are really into rules and shit, and try to follow them, and then hate to see good things happen to people who don't. I mean, seriously- look at this comment on Gawker:

"Ya know the hilarious thing? We tut, we tsk, but in fact the takeaway message is, "Yes, ladies, you really can have sex with famous people for money
and then find that certain special someone to sweep you off your feet."
As in, whatever the fuck we "normal" people have been doing, clearly we've been doing it wrong."

Honestly- what the hell is wrong with that, really? Who says you have to do things the "normal" way in order to be happy? In any case, the thing that really bothers me is that I can in no way fathom the same comments coming into play if she was a he. Can you? No, because women are held to different standards than men are. Granted this is on a somewhat larger scale than the usual oats sowing, but still...

We are a society obsessed with ritual and reward and penance. If you do things in the prescribed way- even if it's not necessarily what you'd really like to do, and it probably isn't- you get rewarded with "happiness." A very specific type of happiness that comes with a house in the 'burbs, 2.5 kids, a minivan, and once a month "lie back and think of England" sex, and a smug feeling of self-righteousness because you did what you were supposed to do the way you were supposed to do it. And if the people who don't do it that way are appropriately punished, then you can feel comfortable, knowing it was all worthwhile, because at least those people are worse off than you are. But if they get to go and be happy- maybe even happier than you, well, that's just going to drive you up the damned wall now isn't it? Well, suck it up. I wish absolutely the best of luck to those people I don't know.

Did
Someone Forget to Tell Jessica Cutler She's Not Allowed To Be Happy?
(Jezebel)

Washingtonienne
Jessica Cutler is engaged (Gawker)

Jessica Cutler
is engaged (DCist)

A musical glimpse into my awkward teenage years...

Ok, so last night I wrote a shit ton of embarassing personal demon-y type crap- and no one needs that, so I thought I'd embarass myself in a new and exciting way! By sharing with you what I found amongst the old journals and Warped Tour compilation CD's in my cabinet in my old bedroom at home. An old CD that we made in some voice class I had in highschool!

It was part of the final, and we had to go to some random recording studio and sing whilst accompanied by the voice teacher's husband. I was horribly nervous because she hated me- I suspect because I was not a soprano- they all had it out for the altos. Seriously. I'm telling you it was a total consipiracy. They also always tried to make me sound musical theatre-y. So, anyway, without further ado, this is me, circa age 16, singing "Stormy Weather." Hilarious. It has yet to be heard outside that one class or my house, so, you know, you should feel pretty special. And yes, that is in fact a picture of my one true love, Vincent D'onofrio. Yup.

Oh for chrissakes

Goth Cruise the Movie trailer - a 'Gothumentary' from jeanie finlay on Vimeo.

Hilarity will ensue, I'm sure... and you know I love me a documentary... and I was certainly fond of The Jenny Jones Show at one point in my life. However...

I find people with themes to be especially disconcerting. I mean, it's not like I think Goth "culture" is so especially avant garde or whatever- it's been around for pretty much forever- at least since I've been around. I just feel like, exhausted looking at them.

I've always been told, in highschool yearbook signings and various other mediums, that people "admire" me because I am always myself. Which, if I am going to be honest, is not necessarily true. There were periods, like in highschool, when I tried adopting various themes, tried out other personalities. It never lasted for very long, because, well, I have commitment issues... but it was always at times when I wasn't feeling especially at ease with myself. There are times when I can feel myself, in uncomfortable situations, becoming affected. And it really, really bothers me. So I guess seeing people putting all that effort into, you know, being something all the time- it reminds me of my feeling especially awkward and insecure.

Not dead.

In case you were worried at all, I did not get set on fire last night.

However, still suffering from a bad case of beard burn. It is not pretty. I am not happy about going back to Rochester looking like I've suddenly developed bad skin, when my skin has always been such a ridiculous point of vanity for me. Alas.

On fire.

Eek. The arsonist in my neighborhood is at it again, and a car right behind our apartment went up in flames. Not good.

And the worst part, I guess, other than my fear of going up in flames at some point this evening, was that, like, my very first gut instinct was to call the absolute wrong person. And I had just, just had a conversation with Jen about my high-minded, self-preservation based reasoning for not doing such things anymore. Fuck.

And my penance for it is this- I will write, 87,000 times, on a blackboard "I will believe people when they tell me who they are."

Sorry for being so vague about shit. I don't even know why I'm writing this, or anything I've written lately, really. Maybe I'll delete it all later.

Psst.

Allen is totally awesome and bought me box wine and the chocolate chewy cookies from Dominick's that I love so dearly. Yay!

I should go downstairs and get my laundry so's I can pack for tomorrow... but I've had too much wine and the stairs might be a bad idea. Do you know how much I hate planes? I'm not looking forward to it. I am, however, looking forward to seeing the fam, especially my mom, who is pretty much the greatest ever.

I'm the man of my own dreams

You know how you have this idea in your head of like, how the "ideal person" would be? I think when I was younger, and maybe even now, the main "ideal" was that they would say or write things that I'd wish to god I had come up with- where I'd get that pang of envy or awe. Or that they'd know things I wish I knew, or be able to do things I wish I could do. Or that I'd just want to walk around their head and see how it worked. It happened a lot when I was younger, but not so much now.

Maybe because I'm happy, and no longer awkward, about the things I say and write. Maybe because I teach myself the things I want to know about, and learn the things I want to know how to do. I don't feel any deficiency in these things anymore. I used to be so impressed by fellas who could beat me in the verbal sparring, I used to be impressed by men who would make reference to something that I'd be dying to go home and look up and research- but it doesn't happen anymore. I've won, but it's, on some level, a Pyrrhic victory. I don't know what to be impressed by anymore.

I am tall, dark, and handsome. I am culturally literate. I speak three languages. I play several instruments. I'm well read. I'm well informed in terms of current events. I'm excellent with the snappy comebacks. I am a walking reference book. I think about how what I say and do will affect other people. I will throw down if someone hurts anyone I care about. People know when I am insulting them. I am the man of my own fucking dreams, and I am choking to death on a silver tongue.

And it's not that I'm the greatest thing ever. I assure you, I'm not. And I don't think I'm smarter than anyone else- I'm just well versed in the things that are/were important to me. I'm fucked up in a lot of ways as well, and will gleefully recite them to anyone who will listen. Maybe I'll make a list later. But right now, I'm jaded and I'm tired- and it's been awfully hard for me to be funny lately. And I'm tired of thinking- "Well, if you can't be endlessly clever or interesting, can you at least be kind?"- and having that be an impossibility.

Oy. I'm such a kvetch.

Odd fact.

We were watching the Sarah Silverman Program last night, the episode where she forms a Lisa Loeb cover band with her dad that she thought was dead. And, um, as it turns out, Jen, Allen, Nicole and I all know every lyric to that "Stay" song, except for the part right before "dyin' since the day they were born" (when, you know, we just mumbled)- and not on purpose for any reason. Which was, you know, odd, since I can't recall the last time I actually heard it. But I did in fact own the "Reality Bites" soundtrack in 8th grade, so that might account for it.

I can't give you anything but love, baby

Love in the 90's


Bullshit in the 2000's... (or what I did on Thursday night)

Boy (via text message)- What r u up to?
Robyn- Watching Bringing up Baby.
Boy- Huh?
Robyn- It's a Katherine Hepburn picture
Boy- Come to ___.
Robyn- It's 1am. I can't.
Boy- That's stupid. Come out.
Robyn- Sorry, I'm tired. (and frankly, after watching Cary Grant all night, you're going to look like pretty lame anyway.)

Gah. I don't know which is more terrible- the term "hunk" being at all acceptable, or the fact that this particular text message conversation has taken place more times and with more dudes than I can possibly name. Occasionally more than once a night. Also, have had four or five conversations with the ladies this week in which I have advised, "If he's only calling you at one am, he is not all that interested in your sparkling personality or witty conversational abilities. Promise." Which is always easier to say than it is to remember.

This is the thing- in order for me to put forth the effort tear myself out of my warm bed and away from Cary Grant and then get myself gussied up quickly, the dude has got to be pretty damned awesome. If he is texting me at one am, and cannot get it together to plan a day ahead of time, he is, clearly, not all that awesome. Or at least not all that well mannered. So I stay in bed. Call me lazy or whatever, that's just how I feel.

Song For One of The Girls

Here in my heart I am Helen;
I'm Aspasia and Hero, at least.
I'm Judith, and Jael, and Madame de Stael;
I'm Salome, moon of the East.
Here in my soul I am Sappho;
Lady Hamilton am I, as well.
In me Recamier vies with Kitty O'Shea,
With Dido, and Eve, and poor Nell.
I'm of the glamorous ladies
At whose beckoning history shook.
But you are a man, and see only my pan,
So I stay at home with a book.
-Mrs. Parker.

The most horrifying thing ever?

So the other night I'm sitting on the couch with Allen watching Paris Hilton's My New BFF (I promise you it is comedy gold.) and I see a new commercial, and I freak the fuck out.

The horrifying FreeCreditReport.com guy is in a new commercial. A new commercial in which he is at the goddamned Renaissance Festival. Do you have any idea how I fear the Renaissance festival? I went once when I was a kid and was practically traumatized by all the delusional Olde English speaking people and the whole thing where everyone was eating giant turkey legs with their hands (it's not festive, it's unsanitary).

So, anyway this commercial is basically like a cornucopia of my absolute worst fears in the world. I seriously dived under the blanket and covered my head until it was over. This is what I imagine it looked like:
(click to enlarge and see all of my worst fears come true!)

Yup. That was pretty much it. The worst thing ever. I will have nightmares for years to come.

Soooo....

After a reasonable amount of harassment, we've got most of the show lined up (could use one more dude, but there's a reading this Sunday where I think I can yoke one in, plus a few other people are working on it as well, so we should be all set.)

Oh- and I will actually be reading as well this month. Either from "I Never Liked You Anyway" -an ongoing piece that I've read from before- which is basically a series of short paragraphs about dudes I've been involved with on some level, that I need to update anyway. Or, I'll write something new, which may be tough considering how much other crap I've got to write at the moment. Blah.

We need two fine men!

And who doesn't?

Anyway- we've got most of our readers set for this month's Sunday Night Sex Show, but we still need two more fellas to complete the line-up. This whole gender parity thing is kinda stressful. It's funny, because most readings I go to are so heavily dude-oriented that the main reason we wanted to do it this way in the first place was because we really wanted to encourage as many women to read as possible so we wouldn't have to do a "ladies night" type deal- but we're finding it harder to recruit guys. Isn't it ironic, Alanis?

But yes. If you are a dude (or transman) who would like to read this month, or happen to know one, let me know.

Thought you should know.

"Fashion Tape" (available at department stores, boutiques, etc)- $13
"Hem Tape"- (available at dollar stores, CVS, Walgreens, where ever)- $1

And they are pretty much the exact same thing. Actually, hem tape works better. Just thought you should know

Hot trends for your vag

You know, if you seriously feel as though you have to dye your pubes pink and have them fashioned into a bow, I feel like you're maybe missing something in life or in your relationship that will probably not be solved by dying your pubes pink and having them fashioned into a bow.

I refuse, refuse to believe that this is something that is happening anywhere. Mostly on the grounds that I can't imagine any woman would prefer sticking a soaking wet tampon up her vag (which I cannot imagine can be done gracefully or without difficulty) to sipping a cocktail. Nothing about that seems like it would be at all pleasant for any reason. Although, a part of me hopes that this will become a national moral panic, and that there will then be a PSA about it and possibly an episode of The Tyra Banks show dedicated to the subject. Just for my personal amusement.

I should go to bed, but instead I will tell you some stories.

Story #1- When I was in 5th grade I went to Hawaii with my family, and everywhere you went there were signs such as this:

Please Do Not Litter-- Mahalo

or

Please Do Not Lean on Railing-- Mahalo

And for the first few days I thought that Mahalo was the name of an especially involved, or rather vain, Mayor or Governor. I would feel lamer about this if my mother did not think the exact same thing (and she wasn't 10 at the time)

Story # 2- This one time when I was back home visiting, I introduced myself to this one guy only to have him inform me that we had dated for a month. I still feel horribly embarrassed when I think about it, and yet I still do not remember him. I am haunted by this as I usually have a fantastic memory.

Story #3- I go through a tin of hot chocolate a week, and am suspecting that this cannot possibly be healthy.

Story #4- I accidentally took Sudafed PM today and tried to correct it by drinking a lot of coffee. The Sudafed has worn off (I think!) but now it's 3am and I can't sleep. This has happened before. In high school, my mom accidentally gave me NyQuil or something instead of DayQuil, and I got a little kooky or something in bio, and was sent to the nurse's office. They called my mother and told her I was probably on drugs. She told them about the NyQuil and they thought she was in denial.

Story #5 (A Secret!)- I can be bribed with egg cream sodas. Seriously, if you were like, "Hey Robyn, haul like, 15 tons of bricks across the street and I will take you out for egg cream sodas!" I would be sold on that arrangement, as it will always sound like the best time that can possibly be had. In this regard, I am five.

Notice!

David Shrigley is a glorious genius and I want to be his best friend forever and have ten thousand of his babies.

via Reverse Cowgirl

People who need people.

Ok, for years now, I have been weirdly obsessed with personal ads. Not like, writing them or responding to them- because, frankly, I watch too much Law and Order and generally have enough trouble dealing with the dudes I know in real life. I just like reading them. I find them fascinating and hilarious. Plus, I think it's an interesting way to find out about people.

Things I have discovered about people in personal ads, a not-yet comprehensive list.

-They like fun. As opposed to everyone else in the world.
-They like to laugh. See above.
-They like "enjoying life" "exploring everything that life (*or the city) has to offer."
-They like going out to a foreign movie, an art exhibit, or to dinner- but they also enjoy just cuddling on the couch.
- They like movies and also music.
-They either are, or seek a woman who is just as comfortable in jeans and a t-shirt as she is in an evening gown. This seems to be an especially important and sought after quality.
-Older dudes refer to themselves as gentlemen and are usually looking for a nice or special lady, gal or companion- which I suspect means they are looking for someone their own age because I think most girls I know would balk at being called any of those things. Oh, and they use the term "petite" a lot.
- No one under the age of 40 refers to themselves as being sexy, or as having an "amazing" smile or "amazing" eyes.
-Women who want to be treated as "princesses" and men who are looking to treat a woman as one often express a love for boating.
- Most enjoy camping or hiking. Odd, considering we live in Chicago and I do not imagine there is much of that going on here.
- Younger women toe the Manic Pixie Dream Girl line. We used to call these "Amelie" ads, since most of the women writing them would describe themselves as such.
- Younger dudes go for absurdity. Sort of like Ubu Roi meets Must Love Dogs kind of thing. I guess.
- Forced sounding whimsicality on all ends.
- Dudes are way bigger on cuddling. snuggling etc.
- All very fond of that whole "dance like no one is watching" greeting card poem thing.
- Older people always claim to look younger than they are. No one ever writes "50 and totally looks it"
- Phrase "free spirit" thrown around way too much.
- They often like "this" and also it's total and complete opposite. Which indicates well roundedness I suppose?
- Those who use the terms "good hearted" or "god fearing" can rarely spell.
-Older men in the personals tend towards being musicians, while the older women tend to be, uh, writers. Which is slightly depressing.

PS- I've developed a fondness as of late for the totally resentful and angry ads, which are generally written by men. Features of said ad often include some sort of espousing about how said dude is only nice human being ever and how you probably just want to take his money and fuck with his head anyway. Total laughs.

The Kiss of The Spider Woman

According to the Daily Mail, Jennifer Aniston said in an as yet unreleased interview with American Vogue "What Angelina did was very uncool." (ooooooh!)

This, of course, passes for news. Even, you know, when actual things are happening in the world.

Let it be said that I have never found Jennifer Aniston to be in the least way even remotely tolerable. I got sick of her in the 90's- primarily, I guess because my sister, in middle school at the time and going through the age of obsession, was overly enamoured with all things Aniston, and even had her hair cut into "The Rachel"- which totally made anyone wearing it look just like a cocker spaniel. Talking about her, writing about her, or acknowledging her existence at all is irritating business for me. But, some things must be addressed.

All the world loves a catfight. So, I don't know- maybe Aniston saying that what Brad Pitt did wasn't "cool" wouldn't sell as many magazines... but still- isn't what he did a lot less cool than what she did? I don't see that Angelina owed her anything- she wasn't the one who married her. To read the tabloids, one would think Angelina had slipped some magic seducing powder into his drink and he couldn't help himself. Which, I'm quite sure, is not the case.

This has happened before (and I've discussed it here before, but I will again). In 1958, Elizabeth Taylor's husband, Mike Todd died in a plane accident- she leaned on his best friend, Eddie Fisher- who was married to Debbie Reynolds at the time- for support. And then in 1959, she married him. This was one hell of a huge ass scandal. People loved Debbie Reynolds- she was a sweet girl, she was an everywoman... She was Tammy. Taylor, on the other hand, was darkly beautiful- considered, in fact, to be the most beautiful woman in the world, a far superior actress, a classic vamp with violet eyes and a bad temper. People hated her after she married Eddie Fisher, and for this reason, was blackballed out of the Academy Awards that year, despite phenomenal performances in Cat on a Hot Tin Roof, Suddenly Last Summer and Raintree County.

There are kind of a few similarities here and there, ya think? History repeats itself. But the biggest similarity of all- no one ever thought Eddie Fisher was an asshole. It was all Elizabeth's fault. She seduced him- of course he didn't have a choice! And they felt even worse for him when she left him for the true love of her life- and possibly the sexiest man ever, Richard Burton. Poor Eddie Fisher. Poor Debbie Reynolds.

It disappoints me that we haven't evolved all that much since the late 50's. Why is the woman to blame and not the man- even when it's clear that he's done more wrong than she has? Why are we as a culture so eager to think of men as helpless victims of a woman's sexuality? I think it goes back to the Victorian idea that it's the job of women to keep men moral- because I don't think we fault men who "steal" women to the same degree. Personally, I could do without that responsibility.

At the end of the day, though- I just don't believe people can be stolen. I've never understood that idea. I think that if someone can be "stolen" than they weren't really yours to begin with. I don't ever want anyone to hang around me because they think they have to. I feel as though it would be doing me a great disservice, as I am quite charming enough to find people who would hang around because they want to. If you want to hang out with someone else who is not me, than go and be well, and let's not chat about it any further. I do not compete.

Honestly, I truly think that Aniston ought to be grateful to Angelina Jolie for ridding her of someone who did not want to be with her and probably just didn't have the balls to do it on his own without being "seduced."

The House of Oh Hell No.

So the other day I saw this BBCA Reveals Documentary (unfortunately cannot find clips anywhere) about Genetic Sexual Attraction called "Brothers and Sisters in Love."

Genetic sexual attraction, if you don't know, is this whole phenomenon where people who are related, meeting later in life (as in the cases of children who are adopted) feel an intense sexual attraction towards one another.

I have to tell you- the whole thing kinda triggered my gag reflex, and caused me, several times to cringe into the fetal position. I mean, I get the Westermarck effect when I've known someone only platonically for longer than a month. I don't even date within my own social circle (though this is primarily because I like to keep it drama free, and am also not so into the whole "let's be friends" thing after it's over, which would make social outings rather awkward. Also, I like to be sure my friends side with me in the event of douchebaggery.).

However, I feel as though I am, perhaps, being inappropriately judgey. Let me explain- while it grosses me out and makes me want to die- I also think it's kinda icky to tell consenting adults who they can love and what they can do behind closed doors. It's hard for me to agree completely that anything relating to that sort of thing should be illegal- especially because many of the arguments against it are the same ones they use against gay people.

While it's true that children produced from such a union have a high chance of inheriting recessive genetic defects at birth (such as the infamous Hapsberg lip)- the idea of telling people they can't have children because of this poses a few problems for me. Because I wouldn't think it was right to tell someone with some sort of inheritable disease that they couldn't have children because of it, because the children might get it.

It isn't easy for me to conclude, definitively, how I feel about this- which is kind of unusual for me. Usually I feel passionately one way or the other about things. In spite of my reeling, I did feel a lot of empathy for the people involved in these situtations (though less for the parent/child relationships than for the brother/sister ones- I suppose because even at an adult stage of life it still seemed to me like the children and their need for a parent was being exploited on some level).

I don't know.

Overthinking the Shirelles

Ok, when I was like 8 or 9, this was maybe one of my favorite songs ever. It was on one of those cheapo compilation tapes that I think I got from Caldor or someplace, and I actually haven't heard it since. So I'm quite excited, as it is just as awesome as I remember it being.



HOWEVER... I was confused then by the logic of the song, and I remain perplexed. Of course, a lot of these old songs are a little odd- The Duke of Earl still makes no freaking sense to me, and it took me years before I understood that Carole King had written the song "He Hit Me, and it Felt Like a Kiss" as an anthem against domestic violence, and Dion is a total hypocrite (What? He gets to be The Wanderer and at the same time condemn Runaround Sue? What the fuck ever). Still, it makes me a bit uncomfortable. But this song, while lovely, is such a glaring example of weirdly flawed logic, that I feel the need to examine it.

Shirley- seriously, just break up with the other dude. It's that simple. Honestly, what good are you doing him anyway when you're all into the other guy. How is that fair? And is he really all that fragile? Maybe he could find someone who actually likes him and isn't staying with him out of pity. And then everyone could be happy. I mean- what are you going to do? Marry the guy? Spend your life in a loveless relationship because you didn't want to hurt his feelings? Eventually the resentment will pile up and you'll both end up hating eachother- this scenario doesn't end well, I would imagine.

Good song. Flawed logic.

Did you know they can get you for wearing red shoes on a Saturday in East Hampton?

Have I ever mentioned the Little Edie Beale look-alike of Old Town? If I haven't, you should know that there is one, and everytime I see her, I cannot look away. Because, seriously, she looks and dresses just like her- complete with the Revolutionary Costume, and I can't figure out if it's by coincidence or if she knows who she is and is totally doing it on purpose (which, for the record, would be amazing and she would totally become my hero). I have only spoken with her once- when she came into my store and talked to me about cheapo rings for an hour. Anyhow, I saw her yesterday at the Treasure Island, whilst I was debating whether I wanted Gruyere or Emmentaler for my petits toasts (should you care, I went with Gruyere.), I totally saw her again. It was an especially thrilling coincidence, as yesterday was actually Little Edie's birthday. If she looked anywhere near 90 years old or had a strong New England accent, I would be totally convinced that she'd faked her death and was in fact living in Chicago under an assumed identity or something.

Oh... but anyway- if you have no idea what I'm talking about, the Grey Gardens documentary is now on You Tube and you should totally watch it. It's so my favorite thing ever.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-0kXcAIQ2wg

It was a typical day at The Maxi Pad...

And all were happy about the Democratic victory, and sad about the passing of Proposition 8. And we drank wine, and we bitched about some dudes and our lack of desire to be manic pixie dreamgirls, etc. etc., and re-watched a documentary about Siamese twins on the YouTube.



I am tired now and must retreat to bed. But, you know, good times.

Delta Dawn of the Dead...

I have to be up in a few hours to go to work. I will possibly be going to work green, as who knows how hard this makeup is to get off. But I am going to write some shit and eat some hot dogs, so there. Hah.

I am so in love with Halloween it's insane. I ran into this dude tonight that my Dad totally wants me to marry despite the fact that he looks like Derek Jeter and my Dad loves only the Red Sox and hates the Yankees so so much.

I discovered some important things in the past few nights, some good, some bad.

- I like the fact that I am still comfortable being hideous for Halloween.

- The diner next door to my apartment was obscenely busy, so while I waited for my hot dogs I bussed dishes because the lady who works there is always very nice to me. This is how things should work in life.

- My inability to throw away a crossword puzzle unfinished is affecting my sanity. Sometimes there isn't an answer, sometimes there isn't an explanation, and sometimes people are just douchebags. I am not Nancy Drew. I must become content with not having an answer or explanation to everything. Even though it is obscenely frustrating.

- In a somewhat perfect world, everyone would throw their crazy on the table.