I love Randy Newman... I don't care what you say.

Most of the time, when I unashamedly tell people that I love love love Mr. Randy Newman (and am totally *in* love with him. Because I'm totally hot for genius), they look at me like I just told them I was way into Michael Bolton, or Kenny G or something. I think those people are retarded. I mean, yeah, he does soundtracks. To Pixar movies. It's true. But um, dude also wrote "You Can Leave Your Hat On." And like 85,000 other songs.

This is actually my favorite song ever. Not just by him, by anyone. It's proof that I have tear ducts, because I totally sob everytime I hear it:




When I was like, 2 or 3 years old- before my sister was born and we had to keep up with her nap schedule- my mom and I would drive all around Plymouth in her silver Chevy Citation with the navy blue pleather seats that stuck to your ass in the summer. We'd get breakfast at "The Mug and Muffin," and afterwards I sometimes got to get a rootbeer flavored hard candy stick (which was a huge deal because I wasn't allowed to have sugar). We'd go to all the little shops, and the old mill that they turned into a sorta-mall, and to the playground, and to the shore where they kept that big ol' rock, which I promise you isn't that interesting to look at. I'd practice counting to one hundred and speaking in a cockney accent. And my mom always, always played music in the car- lots of Lou Reed, Tom Waits, Aretha Franklin, Cat Stevens and Randy Newman. The Randy Newman is what sticks out the most for me, maybe because before I knew that "Sail Away" was about slave traders, it sounded like a lullabye- especially to a girl who was partial to sleeping on sailboats. My mom didn't know any, really- she sang Motown songs to get me to sleep. And this:






Which I think is partially responsible for my world view. It's strange, there's something about listening to the music you listened to as a kid that reminds you who you are. It keeps me from being hardened and cold all the way through, which is something I sometimes am afraid will happen, and something I occasionally wish for. It's difficult when you equate being hurt with not having been smart enough- especially when the thing you're most afraid of is finding out that you're not as clever as you think you are, because being clever is the only thing you were ever good at, besides singing, but you don't do that so often anymore unless you're drunk or alone because it makes you feel like a circus freak...

Gah. Oh, and this is my other favorite song by Mr. Newman. I couldn't find his version of it on the YouTube, so I'll post Bonnie Raitt's...

So I wasn't Ann Shirley in Stella Dallas.

So, the reading the other night actually went surprisingly well! Like, people actually came and had a super time and it was nothing like Stella Dallas or Carrie, or any of the many other movies I have seen featuring people getting dressed up and consequently embarassed. I am still bizarrely impressed that someone got the question about dendrophillia right (it means you want to fuck a tree!). I think we got maybe 25 people, which I think was pretty decent considering it was a first effort- and, you know, a reading.

Unfortunately, I was so nervous that I didn't consume anything other than diet cokes that day, and then drank 5 vodka pineapples... and that was kind of a bad idea. I am not really a drinker.

Oh, but awesomely- people seem really super psyched about making this a monthly thing, which would be awesome- I don't think I'd be so freaked out the next time. I think we've gotta find a different place though, because- you know, having not really done anything like this before, I kinda screwed up on timing and stuff, so we went a little long and I think they got mad at us because there were DJ's and stuff that had to go on. Eek! Still, I think we can get a lot more people to come to the next one when we have it. There are a bunch of people who want to read as well, which is also quite neat.

I'm like, retardedly happy about the fact that we pulled it off. Go team!

Stop the insanity!

Ok.... I have seen like, 50 pairs of these damn shorts lately. Stop it. Now. If you own a pair, burn them. They are seriously the most horrifying things I have ever seen in my life. They are sneaking into my dreams at night and giving me nightmares. I cannot begin to comprehend why anyone would think these are in any way a good idea- it's like, taking a horrible idea (cargo shorts. I'm sorry, they will never, ever be acceptable outside of a camping environment), and making it 80,000 times worse. STOP IT. If you own a pair, burn them.

Also, yesterday I witnessed a couple wearing matching salmon colored shirts and cargo pants and toting around a screeching baby. It's just wrong. What were they doing here? Why weren't they in the suburbs. Suburbs exist for this exact purpose. I live in the city, because I find it preferable to avoid people wearing matching outfits and toting around screaming babies. The stroller derby is totes starting to invade my neighborhood, and I can't say I'm happy about it. Once a neighborhood has been deemed safe for yuppies and their double wide strollers, it is no longer safe for people interested in living in areas that don't totally suck.

Genius!

This is my latest addiction...

Presents!

I invented this mug two seconds ago. Not in reality, just on MS Paint, but it should totally exist, and I should have like, 2,000 of them from various fellas as a testament to my skill and labor in this particular field.

More about The Sunday Night Sex Show!

Go! It will be chock full of hotness and possibly prizes!

I am dead, but other than that, things are swell!

I am just going to die today. Seriously. I only got like, four hours of sleep last night, because my stupid phone woke me up (why do I always forget to put it on silent?), and then it was too hot to manage getting back to sleep until like, 4:30am. And today the store is full of delusional people who think they're a size small when even the larges wouldn't fit. I don't get that. Do they think maybe I'm blind? Oy. Who are they trying to fool? Me, or themselves?

Oh! But in awesome news...

1. I saw my dad yesterday and we went out for dinner and it was lovely, and I got to have lobster because I'm awesome, and also my mum sent me a pink umbrella because she's adorable.

2. Project Runway starts tonight! This is the last season, basically, since after this one, it's movie to freaking lifetime, and probably changing it's name to Project; Designers on the Run.

3. And if that wasn't glorious enough... my bad reality show dreams have come true! Rock of Love 3!! And this time... it's on a bus! Sweet!

4. Ok... this is going to sound so, so lame... but I got "Comment of The Day" for the first time over on Jezebel yesterday, and I'm like, retardly excited about it. Yes, I know, I have no life: http://jezebel.com/5025527/reader-roundup.

5. Fun tidbit of conversation:

Robyn: I truly have no desire to see the Grand Canyon or swim with dolphins, and for some reason this bothers people.

Dude: Well, the Grand Canyon is pretty awesome...

Robyn: I don't know, I'm sure it's probably pretty, but how long can that even be interesting for?

Dude: Well, if you like hiking...

Robyn: I totally don't hike. I don't hike, I don't jog, I don't date guys with the last name Peterson, or do anything else that seems to directly correlate to being murdered. It's a thing I have. Seriously, I watch a lot of Law and Order. Hiking= death.

Sunday Night Sex Show (not today, two weeks from now)! Hooray!

Guess what? In two weeks, a glorious event shall take place- The Sunday Night Sex Show! (Duh, I know I stole that from Sue Johannsen. That's the point.) Anyway:

Who: Hosted by my dear friend Allen and myself, with readings from us, and also the lovely and obscenely talented Jessie, Monique, Alex and Teddie- with some other guests to be added as soon as I confirm them.

What?: A creative non-fiction reading on the subject, in some way or form, of the sexin'- it'll be hot. Also, Allen and I will be passing a hat around for the audience, if there is one, to submit their (hopefully not) burning questions about sex and love etc. And there may be prizes if I have the extra cash! But I haven't figured out for what, yet.

When?: July 27th @ 8pm

Where?: The Burlington. Because they're super nice.

Why?: Because it's going to be awesome.

I am probably going to be harassing the crap out of people to go- even though I hate being that person, because I have a massive Stella Dallas complex. You know, like that part in the movie where Ann Shirley gets all dressed up and has an elaborate birthday party and no one shows up because Barbara Stanwyck is a sauced up hussy? Ugh. I swear to god, that movie is like, the whole reason I didn't have birthday parties after sixth grade- not that my mom is a sauced up hussy, but still. Well, except for when my friends threw me surprise parties- but that's totally different, because then you just, you know, show up. Actually, I think it's kind of weird to throw yourself a party anyway. But still- total Stella Dallas complex. The fear of being dressed up with no place to go...

Happy Thoughts?

I think terrible things all day long. I really do. Like this morning, I saw this woman wearing a t-shirt that said "I'M THE HOT FRIEND!" on it. I have seen her before, wearing a shirt which said "I'M BRINGING SEXY BACK!"

Neither of these things could have possibly been true. I promise. Unless like, her friends exclusively hang out with the John Merrick Look-Alike Chapter of Chicago. Or like, there is a new strain of sexy going around that is not at all like any sexy we have known before. And I wish I maybe thought something like, cheery and supportive, like "Good for her! I bet to someone, she totally is hot and sexy!" But like, even if the chick wearing the shirt was really hot, I would find the shirts unforgivable, and wrong in every way a shirt can manage to be. But like, when there is just such irony! How can you not notice? I can't handle braggy shirts. I'm generally unfond of clothing with anything on it to begin with, but when you start using your shirt as a forum to declare your hotness to the world (instead of like, wearing a cute shirt), you set yourself up for judgement.

That being said, I would totally like this lady's mirror. Five of them in fact. I'd like someone to follow me around with that mirror all day long.

One time I saw a woman wearing a shirt that said "Your boyfriend bought this shirt for me!" Which also, um, had to be a lie- for 99.9999999999999999999% of the population, at least. I bet it was awkward to buy that shirt- you know, if you were in fact buying it yourself. I mean, even if someone else's boyfriend was buying it for you, I bet you'd get some weird looks at the cash register. Awkward all around.

But yeah- see, I'm totally not a good person. Maybe that's why I have the worst time ever accepting compliments- or really, knowing what to say other than "thanks!" I'm really anti-flattery- I so much prefer constructive criticism. I know how to work with that, and maybe I feel like it's more honest. I'm really wary of people blowing smoke up my ass. It's even worse to be flattered when you have nothing to say back- like, you know, like if a really boring guy tell you you're interesting. I avoid that anyway, because I don't want to be anyone's foray into whimsicality as I so often have been (what was that movie with that guy from Scrubs? Yeah, I totally don't want that.). Seriously- the totally reg dudes dig me and tend to find me "fascinating." Which is awkward and makes me feel more like a sideshow exhibit than a person. Anyway... what do you say to that? "Gee, you're interesting too!" Even though it's a lie? My mom believes that everyone is interesting- and she has this amazing talent for drawing that out of people. I don't. I totally think most people are painfully boring.

I want to be like, one of those people that sees the good in everything, and doesn't judge others... but then I think I'd bore myself and what would be the good of that? Sigh. Well, if you don't have anything nice to say, my dears.... come sit by me.

Who has time for this?

Ok, so--- in the course of a trip to the powder room just now, I noticed that the label on my underwear says "Do not iron."

Does this warning need to be there? I mean- are there people going around ironing thongs? I mean, shit, it's not like I do anything, but I sure as hell don't have time to iron my damned underwear. And would anyone notice if I did? I have like, four things that require ironing, and I pretty much never wear them because of that. Sheesh.

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!

http://rupaulsdragrace.logoonline.com/people/Pandora/

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.

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!

EVM
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
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.

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.

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.

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.

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:

Bohemia

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

Trainwreck!

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.

Ahoy!

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Catrimony!

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
one.

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.

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

It's fast and easy (just like Pandora)!

Just log onto:

http://rupaulsdragrace.logoonline.com/people/pandora

Click vote. Enter a CAPTCHA and bam you are done and you've help a little drag queen in Rochester, NY achieve her dream of getting on a fabulous new TV show!

And for that you rock! Now tell all your friends! Start a campaign!

And remember vote once every 24 hours!

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!

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.

Robyn Pennacchia's "A Series of Unfortunate Hair Styles"

So... I totally need to get my hair cut- I have a bad habit of putting it off until the last minute. But I was thinking today about the various retarded phases my hair has been through.

1. I swear to god, when I was like, 3, my mom brought in a picture of Scout from the movie version of To Kill a Mockingbird, and told the stylist - This! This is what I want! And thus, I looked like this:


Almost exactly, actually.

2. And then I had that hairdo, but with sausage bangs. Sweet!

3. Then, my sister came along. And my sister, unlike me, had pretty pretty princess hair. Long, blondish hair, with perfect little ringlets that formed at the bottom. Totally not fair. I demanded I be allowed to grow my hair long.

4. And it was long. For a ridiculously long time. But I did not have pretty pretty princess hair like my sister. I had hair like this:



5. Around 6th grade I started getting all experimental and shit. The first real damage I ever did, personally, to my own head, involved, of course, Sun-In. And a day spent by my friend and I devoted entirely to dousing our heads with the awful crap, blowdrying it, and doing it again. Over and over again. It didn't work wonders, of course- we both had super dark brown hair- it only got slightly lighter. But then, we figured, in all our genius, that if we each used a whole bottle on just our bangs- we could get them pretty bleached. And it worked! We looked completely retarded, but it worked.

6. But it got better! Oh, it did! It truly did! Because then we discovered food dye! Yup, food dye! We dyed our sun-in bleached bangs blue and red and green with food dye, and my, wasn't that attractive! Then we tried koolaid- which of course only lasted like, 5 days and made my hair smell like raspberries, but not in any kind of good way. Also- kinda sticky.

7. 8th grade was my first foray into the world of permanent (read: not food dye or kool-aid). A bottle of "Purple Haze" Manic Panic purchased from Newbury Comix. Which destroyed my bathroom (to my mother's dismay) and didn't really show up so much in my almost black hair. Still, I thought I was totally bad ass. The use of Manic Panic continued perpetually, and unattractively through my teenage years.

8. When I was about 16, my hair was probably down to my ass- and, really- not so cute looking. However, for whatever imaginable reason, I thought it might be swell to chop it all off. Like, all of it. It looked so terrible that I couldn't bring myself to cut it again for quite some time, and when I let it grow out, I had this hideous Indigo Girls mullet- well before the fashion mullet ever existed.

9. When I was about to turn 22, I came to the realization that this was the last time I could dye my hair bright pink and not look, you know... sad. So I did it. I bleached my hair out, and dyed it pink for the last time. Oh, by the way, you know how you kinda have to wait for a bit before you dye hair after bleaching it? Yeah, well, in case you never guessed it- I look horrifying with blonde hair. Horrifying. I scare children and animals. Oh, and despite my plan to not look sad, I kinda did- because I just wasn't that person anymore. Still, glad I got it out of my system.

Since then, my hair has primarily been either burgundy, or as close to my own shade of almost-black-brown as I can find in bottle (yeah, the red keeps showing up, so I have to dye my hair until it finally all grows back in. I am fine with that. And I keep it at a reasonable length, and really, my only major mistake is going too long without bothering to get it cut. Which I'm totally not going to do this time.

If I were rich, I'd get you this for your birthday

But alas, I don't have 5k. So, um, I could just go to the thrift store and get one for 3 bucks. What the fuck am I talking about?

Bill Cosby is auctioning off his Cosby sweaters on Ebay. For like, five grand a pop. I really, really want to know who would pay that. I also would like to know if they come with a package of Puddin' Pops. Because, man, do I ever wish those still existed. Fuck you, they were delicious. And it doesn't work the same if you just throw some pudding into the fridge. I should know.


http://www.eonline.com/uberblog/b139998_pattern_recognition_cosbys_sweaters_are.html?sid=rss_topstories&utm_source=eonline&utm_medium=rssfeeds&utm_campaign=rss_topstories

Pride and Prejudice

For the past two weeks, I have harbored a strange and bizarre craving. I kept thinking about it, and thinking about it, and finally I gave in.

I bought a copy of Pride and Prejudice. Which I have read before, along with all the other Jane Austen stuff when I was a kid staying at my Nana's house- mostly because, well, it was there. I don't remember anything but thinking that Mr. Darcy was quite dreamy... probably because I was like, 10 at the time- and I'm guessing that most of it didn't sink in. It's entirely possible that it did, though, on some subconscious level. Because- like, I fucking love it when I think someone is, at first, the most awful person ever, and then have them turn out not to be. It makes my life. I like being surprised. In that way, at least. I much prefer it to the opposite situation, which, unfortunately, is a bit more prevalent.

But if there is anything that makes you feel like a lame-o, it's reading Jane Austen on the bus. Especially when you notice that one part of your skirt that you forgot to attack with the lint brush. And you realize that you're like, that chick. The chick who has some cats and is reading Jane Austen.

It's too late baby, now it's too late

So, there's a lot being said about this new Scott McClellan book. First of all, like most people, I feel like it's too little too late. But second...

Duh? I mean, really- I feel like I could have written this book just by like, guessing around at shit and been at least 85% correct. I can't see what would make me purchase it. It's like purchasing the novelization of a movie you've already seen.

A movie? Really?

Ok... so it has come to my attention (maybe I'm slow on the uptake and this was a big deal or something) that the book "He's Just Not That Into You" has been made into a movie. Here, I present to you the trailer, which may make you want to stick things in your eye (Seriously. It involves Ben Affleck, Jennifer Aniston, Drew Barrymore and Scarlett Johannsen.)




Oh my god! Isn't it just hilarious how women are like, just so pathetic, and so desperate to find a man? Any man? And isn't it just so terrible that all these men are horrible douchebags who will step all over their fragile hearts if given the chance? Wow! I've never seen this movie before! I can't imagine how it might end! Ooh! And there's a Cure song in it! Won't someone please mend Scarlett's broken heart? Oh! Thank goodness there's a man around to tell them all the big scary truth!

This shit goes right up my ass. It just does. These women are totally imaginary- they're like, figments of some asshole dude's fantasy about how every chick on earth is secretly scheming to be his lawfully wedded wife. I do not personally know any human being this pathetic.

I don't know, the moral of this story seems to be the old adage... "When a person has the courage to tell you who they are, believe them." Which has never been difficult for me.

Yay! I'm actually working on this shit again!

I am in fact once again working on my illustrated interpretation of a piece I wrote a couple years ago called "I Never Liked You Anyway." Basically, it's like a field guide to Robyn's occasionally horrifying incidents involving the opposite sex. It totally needs to be updated to include flip phone pick-up artist. Here are a few of the ones I did before... (it sucks because I totally cannot locate the one about my gothic cookie guy stalker. Alas...)

You'll have to click on them to actually see them, and then click on the large size. Because they just won't fit on here. Sad, but true.

Cult...




Children of the Corn...



Brits...



Dreams...

When I was a teenage whore...

I can't tell you how much it amuses me when I wake up in the morning looking like Courtney Love. It happens more often than you'd think- mostly because I got home too late to remember to take my make-up off and wear vintage slips to bed as a matter of habit once it gets warm enough. I am also wearing my pink mental patient slippers with the pom-poms on them, which totally makes the whole look even more awesome. Oh, that and I have mystery bruises all over my legs, which is always attractive. I think I just don't even notice when I walk into things anymore.

But today, today, my friends... is the most glorious day of the year. Memorial Day, you ask? But Robyn, it's not like you give a shit about patriotism!

Hah! Today is also the day that we are going to the International Mister Leather Convention! Assless chaps as far as the eye can see! Yeah bitches, we go every year.

This is totally how I dance.

Holy crap. I do not feel like going to work today. I stayed out a bit too late last night and thus feel like death.

Word of advice- vodka cranberries at Subterannean eat your stomach. Seriously, I don't know what kind of juice they use, but it's like drinking a Warhead. Replace at least half of it with water. Oy.

The positive thing about going to work today, is the fact that we found an old copy of "ABBA Gold" and have been having dance parties when no one is in the store. Which is why I woke up this morning singing this!



SO much winking and crimped hair in this video! And the big black boots? WANT.

Rethought post...

I still haven't been able to figure out how to articulate what it is I mean to say. Which is not an issue I generally have.

I do know that I don't like being a novelty. I feel like that happens a lot because, well- shit, I'm a tall, dark-haired, mouthy, overtly opinionated, very frank Italian girl from the east coast in like, a midwest city full of these super sweet, demure, tiny blonde chicks who like, grew up milking cows and shit and then moved to the big city. I am not something you come across every day here- and yeah, in comparison, I probably seem like the freakin' whore of Babylon. But I never thought of myself in that way before I moved here. It's a difficult transition to make, mentally.

It is weird to me that when I date these super super white guys here, that they totally think that they are doing something risque by hanging out with me. I don't see it that way. I'm kind of used to being the funny girl who says snarky thing sometimes rather than like, Sophia Loren or whatever. I don't know what to make of it. Seriously, if anyone back home saw that people acted like that's what I was, they'd probably fall down on the floor in hysterics. Part of me thinks that I don't really want to date them anymore, because I don't want to feel that way, or be forced to think of myself that way. I want to go back to just being a person.

Prior to moving to Chicago, I had to deal with a lot of things, but not like, assumptions about me based on my ethnicity. I didn't even really feel like I had one until I moved here. I also never had to explain what "agita" means- which, let me tell you, is not an easy thing to do.
I don't know if my cultural issues with Chicago have as much to do with my dago-ness as I feel like they do sometimes. I'm really not sure. I do feel like a lot of people here place a high value on like, middle-of-the-roadness. Like, you achieve some level of special sainthood by no one being able to point you out in a crowd. You're not supposed to draw attention to yourself, really. Which, yeah, is something I do, but not really on purpose. It's just me.

The one guy I did date in Chicago for a long time used to get people, mostly girls, coming at him left and right (who didn't know me) telling him that I was "a really bad person and to stay away from me." Then, he dated a much plainer (trust me, I'm totally being nice by saying plainer) looking girl and thus gained public acceptance. I couldn't figure out why that was then- because I think I'm quite pleasant, but I think I sort of have a handle on it now. It would take more balls than most guys here have to hang out with me in public, because I guess I look less wholesome than the nice, short, blonde farmgirls. Like, they might be more attracted to me, or even like me as a person (gasp!)- but to admit that publicly is tantamount to admitting you like to kill kittens and then masturbate with their corpses or something.

This one time, I was at a bar here, and this girl walked in who was just absolutely stunning. I mean, really, she was just so freakin' gorgeous and well put together that even I couldn't stop looking at her. And I heard these guys next to me talking about her, and the thing that struck me was that one of them said "Yeah, she's really hot, but she knows it." And it was said with such bitterness, you know? Like this girl had committed some terrible sin by not having low self esteem, by not looking like every other girl around. I don't quite get that. But that's the way things are here.

But, at the end of the day, I'm truly happy with who I am. I don't want the way people think of me to affect my feelings about myself.

Stuff and things.

1. I have decided that the Red Eye needs to replace their sex columnist with, um, me. Because, I'm sorry, but Dustin J. Seibert (I just looked up his name.) seems to be hell bent on making what should logically be a hilarious and interesting column- as most sex columns are- the most boring and retarded crap I have ever read in my life. Which, you know- isn't that surprising seeing as how it's the Red Eye. However, I think it's the only job of that sort in the city, and I would very much like to have it. I promise I will not begin anything with "I couldn't help but wonder..."

However, I think I'd have to write it under a pen name, as I have a lot of especially Catholic relatives back in New England. Who would probably freak the fuck out if they ever even googled my name now.

2. I like juice. Especially in the morning when I'm hungover. Like today. And not like, juice flavored water. Actual juice. The kind that comes from fruit. Particularly strawberry kiwi juice. It is maybe my favorite thing ever. But, as I realized this morning, juice is now an endangered species and has been replaced in near entirety by juice flavored water. Now, fine- maybe the juice flavored water is better for me... but it is nowhere near as delicious, and is of no help in the morning when I am hungover and would like to actually taste something. I implore you, corner stores of the world and specifically Chicago Ave... do not give up on Strawberry Kiwi Snapple!

3. You may or may not have noticed that I took a post down like, a day after publishing it. Mostly because I decided it needed more serious thought. I plan on working that out today, along with doing laundry!

Happy Birthday Mum!

Today is my mother's birthday, as you may or may not have guessed from the title of this blog entry!

She's quite a bit more awesome than anyone, ever. It's a fact.

Let me tell you a story. In highschool, when I was having some ridiculous 16 year old freak out over something stupid, she refused to let me address her as Mom, and insisted I call her Tupac. Which is brilliant, because it's awfully hard to take yourself so seriously when referring to your 50 year old mother as Tupac.

Thank god for that, really, because, with my disposition, I very well could have been someone who takes themselves waaaay too seriously.

She used to say she'd prefer that I smoked pot rather than drink because drinking was what the "straight people" did, and it was corporate, or something. She discouraged me from harder drugs by pointing out all the people she knew who had become Jesus freaks after getting off of them ("Scratch a Jesus Freak, find a junkie!," she always says)

She didn't raise me with any fucked up notions about what it means to be a woman. Which is the single greatest thing anyone can do for their daughter. I'm damned lucky to have been raised by a feminist. Even if most of the time she's so 2nd wave about it ;). I am so fucking glad that it doesn't even occur to me to sit there and be demure and let the boys talk. Back in my organizing days, even among radicals (fuck, especially among radicals- see, because they usually consider themselves "exempt" from sexism, which makes them 80,000 times worse)- I was usually the only woman talking at meetings. And no matter how hard it was to get a word in edgewise, I did it. And it just has never occurred to me that what I have to say is any less important because I have lady parts. I have my mother to thank for that.

In my life, I have never met anyone as funny or as smart as my mother. And I'm not just saying this because I love her and she's my mom. The woman is freakin' brilliant. She can solve the Sunday crossword in pen in an episode of Law and Order, and thinks nothing of it.

Because of my mother, I don't just throw my opinions out there without being able to back them up. I learned how to know my shit.

People love my mother, because she makes them feel important and interesting. She actually finds everyone interesting- I wish I did, maybe it will come with age, I don't know. Like, this one time when she was at the Barcelona Olympics, I think, she met this Mormon kid (and, by the way, my mother is quite the athiest), who ended up writing to her the whole time while he was on his mission. I'm serious, people just absolutely love her.

I am trying so hard to not let my anger get the best of me. I am trying to not, as she says I have a tendency to do, make sweeping generalizations, and theorize everything.

The best thing about my mother is that she always makes me want to be a better person.

:)

Television will be 80,000 times better!!!!!

Hello All!

My dearest friend, and occasional contributor to this blog (as The New Jan Brady), Miss Pandora Boxx needs your votes to get on RuPaul's Drag Race!

In defense of my bad self

I went out last night with a friend of mine who likes to refer to me as Evil Robyn- to differentiate me from another Robyn he knows (oddly, I think I have the more complimentary name, but that is beside the point). He claims that I have no sense of morality.

Au contraire! See, I admit that I am a bad person- freely- but when I say this, I say it with my toungue firmly in my cheek. It's not that I'm bad, it's just that I am very, very honest. With myself. I don't mean to say that I've never lied, because of course I have, everyone has. But I could never be accused of "being-in-itself" or "being-for-others"- or of having bad faith.

If I am not concerned with convincing others that I am in fact a good person or a nice person, I am more free to be a good person than I would otherwise be. Does that make sense? I like to be on solid ground. I would rather know that someone has a problem with me, and start from there, rather than have them pretend to like me so we all get to be in happy happy land where no one is a jerk. And the thing is- I have the worlds most well-developed bullshit detector. I know when someone is blowing smoke up my ass. And I would rather they did not. For instance- I would vastly prefer it if a guy coming on to me at a bar said "Hey! I have absolutely no interest in your aesthetic opinions! However, you have got a swell rack there and I'd sure like to do ya" rather than feigning interest in anything I have to say (ie: "being-for-others"- acting in the way he thinks I want him to act). Because then we start from solid ground. I am allowed the privilege of making my choices based on facts rather than bullshit.

I don't believe in "niceness"- I believe in "kindness" and I believe that there is a difference.

This, I guess, is where my weird feelings about committed relationships come into play- which, I believe, is the primary reason for my friend thinking I'm evil. Because basically, I've always been irritated by the idea of people being in relationships just to not be alone, rather than because the idea of being with another person makes you nearly physically ill and you do not personally want to do it. Like, I get what people are trying to say when they say that, well, in order to feel that way about someone you have to commit yourself to them first. I don't feel like I do. I am like, awesome at multi-tasking. Like, I've never been able to wrap my head around the concept of cheating, because... well... if I wanted to get with other people, I wouldn't be in a committed relationship in the first place. But then again, I am an especially entertaining person and thus have no issue about being alone. Unfortunately, in order to get anyone to go along with me on this trip, I pretty much have to make them read "Being and Nothingness." Which, you know- is honestly not that great of a time.

I don't feel like I owe people things. I really don't. Maybe I'm deficient in that way. Maybe we just all assume people sort of think like we do- you know- like how if you don't lie, you don't expect other people to? I don't want people to ever feel like they owe me anything. That makes me uncomfortable in the worst way. It's like, I would rather people be decent to me because that's their personal choice, rather than something they feel they have to do.

(Full disclosure- am PMSing and have taken codeine... so this may not make nearly as much sense as I want it to.)

Neither bloody nor bowed

"There is something about that woman -- that woman! -- that refuses to bend, and something about a large portion of this country that despises her for it."

You know, I actually think Clinton might cut your face if you called her "Poor Hillary" to hers.

That's what I would do. And at the end of the day, that's why I'm still gunning for her. I am that woman. At first, my support of HRC was primarily based on the fact that it would annoy the largest numbers of people I can't stand. I'm a big fan of schadenfreude and ball busting. And it's still partly that. I'm not exactly the worlds biggest fan of the Democratic party- I don't think they're all that different from the Republicans. At all.

But this is the thing- the main thing. People feel the same way about Hillary Clinton as they do about me a good deal of the time. There is just something about being that sort of woman that gets under people's skin, and I see it all the time. It drives me crazy, especially because it's usually coming from other women. And I get why she's staying in the race. I totally get it. Because, whenever I'm in a political argument, the more "Oh my god, will you just shut up and go make some cookies!" vibes I get, the more I am determined to continue.

The two criticisms I hear about myself most often are the following:
- I talk too much
- I am too opinionated.

Think back now, and try- just try to think of time when a man has been described in those terms. I can't think of one. Men have opinions, women are opinionated. Men are talkative, women just won't shut up.

And when they say I'm strong, it always has that tinge of resentment to it, a bitter aftertaste I can smell on their breath.

And with Hillary Clinton, this whole "Oh! It's cute that you tried, now go home to your family and let the boys play their game" thing gets right under my skin, and if she did bow out without fighting it to the end, I'd be fucking pissed.

This whole "Poor Hillary" thing is nothing but a perverse desparation to always see women as victims. It's a place where people are comfortable, and that disturbs me on a very deep level. If people can put you in the category of victim, it makes you much easier to deal with. Because the opposite of victim is victor. And no one likes losing to a woman.

I don't know how to act like a victim. It's just not in my bones. My mother is not a victim so I never learned how. We have too much pride, the women in my family. I would fall down dead before I manipulated anyone with tears. Even to get out of a ticket. Which is why I know she wasn't faking that day.

What does it say about our society that we are more at home with women cutting themselves, and starving themselves than fighting? Or being president. Why do we need women to be pathetic? Why do we need to insinuate that need onto a woman that does not need, ask for, or want our sympathy?

...and though to good I never come,
Inseparable my nose and thumb.

In which I take issue with Madame Butterfly.

(I would issue a spoiler alert... but I'm sure you don't really care)

I fucking love Madame Butterfly. I do. Seriously, everytime I listen to Un Bel di Vedremo, I sob. And I am totally not a cryer.

Ok, so let me get this straight-Butterfly is "married" to this douche nozzle Captain Pinkerton who is all "Sweet! I'll have a good time when I'm here with Butterfly, and then I can just dump her ass and not even have to officially divorce her!" And that's what he does. He leaves her ass for 3 years, and doesn't come back until he finds out she's had his kid. He comes back with Wife 2.0, a fellow American, and then they demand that she give them the baby. In fact, at first, he just sends Wife 2.0 over to get it, because he's too much of a pussy to do it himself.

And then instead of cutting their faces, she gives them the baby! She changes the kids name from "Sorrow" to "Joy," and then she kills herself.

Fuck. That. Shit.

Totally don't get it. It makes me sad, yes- but I totally, in no way, understand the logic behind it. I do not know how that thought process works. I am right now making the face that I would make were some asshat actually have the balls to act like that, and then demand I give him my fucking kid. It's not pretty. It's very incredulous looking. I can't fathom the day when anyone would even have the cajones to try and pull that shit with me. Balls on a silver platter, motherfucker.

I have just seen the trifecta of awful

At Dominicks. Guy in his late thirties wearing shants (you know, the big pants cut off into capri-length shorts?), a fucking shiny flame shirt, and a goatee, with soul patch. And it was pointy. And I bet you he was probably planning to grow it out so he could braid it. I'm also sure that somewhere there were tribal tattoos.

Sad. Clearly, 1997 was a momentous year for this man. I've decided to think of him as a modern day male counterpart of Miss Havisham. He was probably stood up by the love of his life at a Limp Bizkit concert or something, and decided to stop time. Like, I bet you he has a ton of kitschy clocks from Spencer gifts around his house all set to the time when she was supposed to be there. And blacklight posters. So many black light posters. And inflatable couches galore. And one of those weird lightning globe thingies! You know what I'm talking about? Like you touch it and all the crackly light goes to where your hand is, and then your hair is supposed to stand on end? He totally has one of those.

I have like, such a giant fear of becoming that, though- I'm pretty vigilant about it. You know, like I still see women with those teased up hairsprayed 80's bangs... and it's so sad, really. It's as though they're still clinging to the time when they were on the cutting edge of life. On the other hand, I don't want to like, be in my 30's or 40's and still trying to be super hip. Because that's pretty sad as well.

When I was 22, I dyed my hair bright pink for the last time, officially. Because I told myself- you know, this is the last time you can do this without looking like some giant weirdo desperately clinging to 17. And I haven't done it since.

Did you know that my boyfriend is married?

I found out recently, that my boyfriend, and love and light of my life, Mr. Vincent D'onofrio (Det. Goren!) is totally married. With children! I'm so disappointed you don't even know.



And I totally don't even know who she is, really. So it's not like with Elvis Costello and Diana Krall, as I know for a fact that I am way more awesome than Diana Krall. I do not know for certain how I compare to Mrs. D'onofrio. Except that clearly, I have better fashion sense.

Also- I hope that he's just really tall- and that she is not in fact a short chick- that would be so disappointing! See, the moment I truly fell in love with Det. Goren, was on this one episode where he told this guy that the reason he was into short blonde chicks was because a) his dick looked bigger in comparison, b) he was secretly a pedophile, and c) he wanted someone he could kick around. And then he added that he liked tall, dark haired, unkickable women. Much like myself. It made my life!

Sigh.

*** UPDATE!- for the many of you out there searching for actual advice of some sort as to what to do if your boyfriend is married, I wrote a special blog post which may or may not be helpful. http://notesfromtheunderwhelmed.blogspot.com/2008/06/robyn-answers-your-burning-questions.html