Isn't this what we had a third wave for?

I just read this article in the Guardian about political lesbianism- or rather, the idea of women "becoming" lesbians as a feminist statement.

Um.... No.

I call shennanigans. For one, um... that is one choice you don't choose. If we say that women can magically become lesbians to fight the patriarchy or whatever, than we give credence to religious weirdos who think they can turn gay people straight with a dash of holy water. It just doesn't work like that. For another- didn't we get over that shit when the third wave happened? My mom stopped going to a lot of feminist meetings because she got a bunch of shit for being a "breeder" because she was married to my dad (who happens to be awesomely feminist). The reason for my mother's feminism in the first place was because she didn't take kindly to people telling her what to do or how to be, so that just didn't sit well. Also, I think men are perfectly capable of being feminist, and in fact expect them to be. Or else. But how will they become more feminist if we go off into the wilderness to hold potlucks and sing Joni Mitchell or whatever?

I, obviously, think it's swell that my mom was a "breeder"- and not just because I wouldn't exist if she wasn't. She raised me as a feminist, she raised me as a woman who would never even consider that she was inferior for even a second, she raised me to be smart and funny and to not take any shit, she raised me to understand gender socialization, and to know that Barbie was not an accurate representation of what a woman should look like. I consider myself especially lucky in this aspect of my life. She also helped my dad, who came from an insanely chauvinistic culture, understand feminism, and become a feminist himself. He went on to help create diversity training programs for companies like his own that are still used today. What's more awesome than that? That is feminism in action.

If feminists retreat from the system, feminism will never *be* the system. And it should be. This sort of "we'll just take our toys and go home" feminism is totally unhelpful, and assuming that all men are out to get you is prejudicial and also, um, crappy. How can we expect men to be feminist, and to reject male privilege if we go off on our own, ignore them and refuse to tell them what that even entails?

Varied and Sundry- Superbowl Edition?

• Last night, we went to the Darkroom and I debuted my fancy new Joan Holloway dress with my glorious red shoes. If you think you're sick of hearing about it now, just wait until you see me wearing it every time you see me, because wearing it as a uniform is the only way I can justify it's purpose.
• Speaking of uniforms, some unfortunate looking creature wearing a lavender paisley ascot comes up to us last night (for the third time) and asks me if I am an airline stewardess. Mind you, dude was wearing a fucking lavender paisley ascot. Who is he to judge my fabulous dress.
• I am going to my first Superbowl Party ever today. I know nothing of football. I will be the girl bringing the brie and petits toasts.
• Mr. Catface is being a nudge. He wants to make sweet love to my laptop.
• We talked last night about crying in bars. I have an excessive amount of pride and don't cry much, and have thus only cried in public once. It was in the bathroom at Orzo's, and it was my lady time, and the boy I was with (whom I was retardedly smitten with at the time, despite his conservative leanings, possibly because he resembled True Love Elvis Costello and liked horror movies) started making fun of anti-war protesters. Which, you know, I was. I got really upset because I felt like everything I liked about myself and was proud of was something he thought he'd have to overlook. I don't know, but I totally lost it. It was worlds of embarassing- and it was a bajillion years ago, but I still get redfaced thinking about it.
• I have no idea about what I am going to wear today. I really have to do my laundry. I do not want to go to work. I want to stay in bed with Mr. Catface and eat clementines.

You can't take me anywhere

Ew. I have to be up tomorrow at the ungodly hour of 6am, as we are having a "doorbuster sale" at the store. Honestly, I do not understand the mindset of people who would be willing to wake up that early in the morning to go shopping.

Oh, but I had to share this. Tonight I went out for a lovely dinner with Ms. Blow Joy and several others at Moonshine... and after dinner I go up to the bar to get another vodka pineapple, and this creepy ass guy with a Growing Up Gotti blow out stands right in front of me and will not let me get by. Then he says, whilst not exactly looking at my face "You've got some real pretty eyes there" Ew. So what do I say? "Uh, thanks. And you.... have a really... square head..." And then he let me by. I am an asshole, it's true.

On the bright side, however, I came home to find the J. Peterman Catalog waiting for me! I haven't looked at it yet, but it is certainly promising, what with the Carnivale Masque on the front and whatnot. I could not be happier. Good night.

All of my sorta revenge fantasies involve being a lounge singer

Whenever I'm like, really pissed at someone, I have this elaborate semi-revenge fantasy that happens in my head. I don't like, stab them in the face, or enlist a hired gun, or burn down their prom with my mind, or anything like that...

In my revenge fantasy, I am a lounge singer- complete with floor length red sequin gown- and the person I am mad at comes into the bar where I am doing said lounge singing, unaware that I will be there. And then I see them, and I sing a really pointed song that is obviously about them and how I don't like them anymore (often "Mein Herr" or "Hard Hearted Hannah" or "You've Been A Good Ol' Wagon But Daddy You Done Broke Down") and never did to begin with. Then they feel really bad, but also vastly impressed by my singing voice, and also especially guilty for having been douchey to a such a talented human being. Then they try to talk to me, but I disappear. Or I say something really clever. It changes.

This song also figures heavily into things, because of it's amazing badassness.



And it goes other ways too, depending on how I'm feeling. It could also be a person I still like, in which case the song choice will change to like "Come Rain or Come Shine" or "What'll I do" or sometimes I'm the one who screwed up, in which case I'll sing a song like "Guilty" or something. And then, of course, I will be totally forgiven, because the song was so very moving.

Suffice it to say, a great deal of my childhood was spent watching musicals- which has contributed to my feeling that nothing solves shit like Gershwin. The funny thing about this is, I've never really mentioned this before. I don't know why, I'm pretty open about things. But I mentioned it yesterday on the Facebook when I caved into peer pressure and filled out that damn 25 things about me thingy that people won't let you alone about. As it turns out, I am not the only one who does this- which is kind of hilarious and amazing and comforting at the same time.

Oh they so ripped off my mom for this

Back when I lived in Massachusetts, my favorite part of going up to Boston on weekends was the time I'd spend with my mother, sitting at the Ben and Jerry's on Newbury Street, drinking iced coffee, chainsmoking, and cleverly mocking passerby under our breath.

Hey, you know, some people have Monopoly or like, scrapbooking or whatever, this was our idea of family bonding.

Her favorite targets were always couples. Everytime, without fail, that my mother sees an overly PDA-ish couple she will remark "Oh for godsakes. You know they go home and have nothing to say to eachother!" or "You know... they're just doing this because they're so hideously unattractive that they need to telegraph to the world that someone finds them non-repulsive enough to be seen with their toungue in their ear!" or something to that effect.

But her favorites, her absolute favorites, were always couples in matching outfits. Always. I have never seen my mother more delighted than the one time she saw a middle aged couple in matching beanie-copter hats!

I should post some of our vacation pictures sometime- we take pictures of two things: couples in matching outfits and my dad accidentally falling asleep in unusual public places. He's not a narcoleptic or anything, he's an Italian man. This is not a popularly known stereotype- in fact I doubt anyone outside of an Italian family knows about this phenomenon- but it's totally true. They can fall asleep anywhere, usually with their mouths wide open. The pictures of my dad sleeping on every park bench from San Francisco to London prove it. We have a gallery in my house back home should you doubt me. And if you think that's bad, you should see my other relatives. It's just bizarre.

I digress. So, anyway, after years and years of my mother taking pictures of couples in matching outfits, I stumble upon this!

Look-alike Couples- via Lemondrop

Apparently, my mother is not alone in her pursuit of this particular phenomenon. Amazing!

I told you this existed!

In case you thought I might be lying about having seen a commercial for a penis pump (that's covered by Medicare!) on television late at night, here it is. I can't stop thinking, however, about how amazing it would be if instead of that no-name guy they've got hosting it, if they put Billy Mays in charge of that shit. You know, this guy:



Also, I just want to put it out there that I will totally marry whoever made this video. Especially if he/she is willing to make me a montage of all the black and white "struggling" scenarios from similar commercials (like the one where the lady for some reason can't shave her legs without screaming in pain, or the part of the Snuggie commercial where the lady "struggles" to talk on the phone or change the channel whilst holding onto a sleeve-free blanket).

(PS- I put the link in to the Billy Mays Wikipedia article because it is also hilarious. I especially dig the fact that there is a section titled "Rise to Prominence.")

And what did we learn from this?

Once upon a time, when I was a girl of 11 standing in the girl's room at school, my arch-nemesis, in a moment of magnamity, informed me that because I was "pretty," if I were to just tight roll my pants, wear Champion sweatshirts, and stop being peculiar, people would stop tormenting me and I could maybe even (gasp!) be popular.

I did not take her up on her offer. Why? For a lot of reasons, really. For one, I knew that there would always be something else. There would always be something I had to change about myself, or do like everyone else in order to "fit in." I didn't want to sign up for that.

For another, quite frankly, I thought the people who picked on me were assholes, and did not give a good goddamn whether or not they liked me. I truly didn't. It did not phase me in the least. I've never had the "I only want to belong to clubs that don't want me as a member" complex- if people don't like me, I merely assume they have poor taste, and why should I want to be around people with poor taste anyway? I have a lot more confidence and trust in people who like me than in those that do not. And I'm going to care about them, and have their backs, long before I start giving a shit about the people who don't.

Which is why I think bipartisanism is total bullshit. Obama removed birth control from the stimulus package... and yet, not a single Republican voted for it. BUT... it still passed- which means it would have still passed if the provision for birth control had been left in. What does this tell you?

Now, when Bush was in office, I never heard a damn word about anything in any bills being thrown in or thrown out to appease progressives. Not one. They did all they could to swing this country as close to facism as they could get it, and not once did I hear anything about "bipartisanship."

Obama... there are people in the world who just are not going to like you. It's not you, it's them. Nothing you can possibly do will change their minds, and if you scratch their backs, they will turn around and claw off your face. But guess what? You don't need them. Anyone whose ass you have to kiss in order to garner their approval will never really like you anyway. You make the people who already like you happy, and you've got people who will be loyal to you for life. You throw the people who already like you down the stairs to get attention from the popular kids, and eventually you've got no one.

Come, therefore, and let us fling mud at them!

Ok, so there are all these reports about Obama begging Waxman to get rid of the provision for contraceptives in the stimulus package. Mostly because the Conservatives are threatening not to support it if it's included.

On the face of it, one would imagine that these conservatives, being all anti-choice and shit, would think contraceptives were totally awesome. And they probably would, if their problem with abortion had as much to do with saving the fetuses as they'd like us to think it did. But it doesn't.

See, while most of us read "The Scarlet Letter" and think "Whew! Thank god that doesn't happen anymore!," I kinda feel like these conservatives look at it with a wistful tear in their eye, pining for what once was. A time when street urchins might yell this at you as you walked down the street:

"Behold, verily, there is the woman of the scarlet letter; and, of a truth, moreover, there is the likeness of the scarlet letter running along by her side! Come, therefore, and let us fling mud at them!"

Whatever. Street urchins so never talked like that. In any era. But, you know, they hold onto that hope. See, these people, I believe, look at STD's and unwanted children as today's Scarlet Letters- ways of punishing women who are "impure," and also perhaps giving them an identifying marker- a child. They want to punish them, not because of a moral failing, but because they believe that in being "impure" they have stolen something from men that is rightfully theirs.

For most of history, women's bodies were bought and sold between men, with the women having very little to do with it at all. You know, like "Hey, you give me some chickens, and you can have my daughter's hymen." The idea that women's bodies are their own, and not the property of men is a fairly new concept- one that some people have yet to accept. The idea of having a virgin bride who will never know how much they suck in bed is just too tempting. Unfortunately for these people, 97% of Americans have had premarital sex (which, duh, must include some of these people), and that statistic is unlikely to change.

Maybe I'm blind?

So I've seen this all over the place today, and everyone seems to think that Bill Clinton's rebuttal was either not enough, or was racist.

First of all- let me just say something- when I say "Shorter girls can get away with baby talk, whereas I would look mental should I attempt it"... it's not because I actually want to be able to get away with such a thing. In fact, I find it insidious and obnoxious and even if I wasn't especially tall, I would not attempt it. In all actuality, anyone over the age of three appears to be mental when speaking in baby talk. So, you know, I kinda see what he's doing here. I think the subtle, and self-deprecating dig was a better choice than to go apeshit. I think he was pretty classy about it, all the while making his point (that he was disgusted) known.

As for the racist thing... I honestly don't see that either. Really. And I've looked for it, and I've thought about it, but no. I don't think breakdancing has been specifically tied to the black community since "Breakin' 2: Electric Boogaloo." And most certainly, it has not been especially edgy since I saw that lady on the Real Housewives get her kid breakdancing lessons. Which, by the way, was totally freakin' hilarious. What was he supposed to say? Country line dancing? Because that's the only form of dance I can think of that has even been invented by white people within the last 100 years. And it hardly involves an excessive amount of movement. Yeah, the joke was a corny old man joke, but I sincerely don't think he meant anything sinister by it- whereas Bush I's "joke" was just icky, and vitriolic, and not at all funny. If I did, I'd be up a wall, but I truly don't.

An understanding

Being recent transplants from the liberated coasts, neither of us had the slightest idea what to do with the moral hang-ups/conflictedness that seemed so prevelent in the Midwest. It was probably the crux of our non-relationship relationship. He knew more about it than I did, starting out, telling me varied and sundry horror stories of wholesome girls who thought of England and sometimes cried- and even by then I had a few myself about dudes who threw down the barricades between virgin and whore, good time and future suburban housewife, as though women were factory widgets that could be easily sorted in labeled boxes.

I have many more now, and I understand it still less. My non-understanding of this has sent me into more than a few fits over the past two years since the non-relationship has been non-existent. I am supposed to be understanding, but I am not as good at it as you might think. I can't possibly imagine that I'm as bad as all that.

He was handsome, and funny, and he put up with me for two years, moved me into my apartment, was always happy to see me and thought I was way more awesome than any plain jane wholesome girl (and not in an "Oh my! But aren't you fascinating!" kind of way). I don't care that he never read my writing or went to my readings- it's actually better, I think, for me to keep those things separate. I don't care that he wasn't a radical- I already know what I think about things. I don't care anymore if one time he left dinner early to go watch a giant squid on television, and I don't even care that he eventually did ditch me for that awful, awful girl.

I think maybe I screwed up somewhere along the line. I wasn't very nice always. I kind of took some things for granted. I listened too much to other people. I held onto a torch that had already burned off half an arm.

I liked being able to just be a person- not something in a box. None of the dudes that I've hung around with since then have allowed me to do that. Mostly they just see me as some grand experiment in playing the libertine or intellectual they like to pretend/dress like they are, and then return to their dreams of I don't know what- probably chicken farming or something.

I talked to him for almost two hours on the phone the other day, and we're hanging out this week, and I'm happy. For all the talk I got from dudes who were writers or scenesters or whatever about him, or guys like him not being able to "understand" me... I've found that few of them were ever able to carry on a two hour conversation with me (or do so without boring me to death).

A Question I Never Needed To Be Answered

How Many Babies Can Fit Inside One Woman?

My uterus is still crying from the news of that lady delivering octuplets, and now this? This is something I just do not need to think about, ever. I can't even watch those shows on TLC about the people with all the babies, and most of them at least came out one at a time (although I think all my grandparents have those people beat- most of them came from families of like, 20 kids or something insane like that. They were Catholics. Practicing ones.).

Happy Birthday Etta!

I love, love, love Etta James. I was insanely unhappy about freakin' Beyonce playing her in the movie, and even more perplexed as to why she sang "At Last" at the inauguration, despite Ms. James being alive and well and in fact still touring.

But all of that aside... here is Etta singing my favorite song ever in the history of all songs, ever- Harold Arlen and Johnny Mercer's "Come Rain or Come Shine." (No, really. I actually made myself a cd that is composed entirely of various versions of this song. It's been my favorite since childhood.)

Are you ready for a sensual experience (like no other)?

Then come to the Burlington tonight at 7:30 and see the Sunday Night Sex Show! It's about as sexy as this video, but without all the ducks.

And also some other things?

God- I won't shut up lately, will I? It's probably not the best idea considering I've been feeling so curmudgeonly lately, what with the weather and all.

But do you know who makes me happy always? Katherine Hepburn. It's true, and this interview is awesome.

I plan on staying in tonight, as I remain phoneless until tomorrow, and have plans for tomorrow (actually suspect I have a number of plans... but I don't recall what they are), and Sunday is of course the first Sunday Night Sex Show of the new year (7:30! The Burlington! Do not be square!) So I am going to play hermit this evening, because in addition to that stuff, I just bought prizes and new movies and am not made out of money. So I will stay at home and watch them and be all sorts of hermity.

What movies, you ask? Awesome ones. On VHS. Most of which I have seen but do not own (or did own and no longer have, like The Philadelphia Story, which I once lent to someone and never got back. You know who you are! I also had to buy another copy of "A Confederacy of Dunces" thanks to your evil non-returning-of-stuff ways!)- but here is the list. Because I'm bored.

- As previously mentioned, The Philadelphia Story
- Camille (Which is just one of my favorite movies ever, I lost it the last time I moved, sadly.)
- Stella Dallas
- Arsenic and Old Lace
- Platinum Blonde
- Lady Killer- the only one I haven't seen! Starring James Cagney! Who I think is neat!

By the by, speaking of old movies that no one gives a crap about but me, I should tell you that you have not lived until you have seen me have a bit too much to drink and try to explain the plotline of Gilda to people who haven't seen it yet (which, weirdly, is something I tend to do somewhat often). It involves hair flipping, and singing and dancing, and the occasional attempt to recite this scene from memory. I try not to brag, you know, but this really is an exceptional talent of mine.

And now, with our weekend editorial, Miss Emily Litella...

Nevermind....

Ok, so it seems as though I jumped the gun a bit on freaking out over the Obama not repealing the global gag rule. He did it today, and thank goodness for that. I can admit when I'm wrong, see? I was wrong. I'm glad I was wrong. I have a bit of a temper when it comes to these things, as you may well know. I'm also an especially cynical person- but I would always prefer to be proven wrong about this sort of thing than to be right.

Still not drinking any kool-aid...

Ok, so I've read the articles about Obama still planning to repeal the global gag rule (but just not on the anniversary of Roe v. Wade because it was a "sensitive" day for anti-choicers.). And still, I am pissed. And not quite sure I believe him.

I have a basic distrust of people who think that way. I also get insanely bothered when politicians say they're for civil unions, but not same sex-marriage because people with weird prejudices just aren't "ready" for it. It goes right up my spine. Also, reading a thing where some dude talks about how Jan 22nd is the day of a "very hurtful decision" makes my face burn up into flames.

Yes. It is in fact very, very important that something like this, something that endangers the lives of women across the world, be repealed immediately. It is not just some willy nilly fluff thing that doesn't affect millions of women every day. It's much more important than protecting backwards people from feeling "upset." The reason I don't believe him when he talks about "change" is because of things like this- because there is no way there can be progressive change without ever offending regressive people, which seems to be what he is attempting to do with these "baby steps." Baby steps? What is this? What About Bob?

I keep hearing a lot about how "women's issues" are going to have to be put on the backburner for a while until the economy is sorted out. Which I guess is the Democrat version of "Feminism is a 'soft' issue for middle class white women! We're fighting the class war! But don't worry, we'll totally get back to your shit after the revolution! Wanna do me at the hostel after the WTO protest?" "Women's issues" get put on the backburner because we are supposed to be patient. We are supposed to be understanding. We are supposed to put the needs of others before our own. Because we have vaginas.

Truth is- things that affect women will always be on the backburner- not because they aren't as important as other issues, but because we are not considered to be as important. I think it's very convenient for the patriarchy to think of us as being patient, and understanding, and always willing to put the needs of others before our own, as these are code words for "will take some shit." Am I wrong? When was the last time someone asked you to be any of these things, and was not trying to put one over on you?

Village of the Clones

A few weeks ago, I was sitting on the bus across the aisle from two expressionless blonde haired/blue eyed twins in matching outfits around the age of 8 years old. It embarasses me to admit that a) I quite honestly started to panic a bit, b) the thought popped into my head that if I was their mother I would dye at least one child's hair a different color so they'd be less creepy, and c) I panicked again, thinking that they might be able to read my thoughts, and were now especially angry with me.

Why yes, I have seen the Village of The Damned a surprising number of times. And yes, I realize that this kind of makes me a jerk because obviously they were children, and (probably) not mind reading aliens, or junior members of the Aryan Nation.

So, suffice it to say, I am having some trouble getting to sleep tonight after having read this. Apparently, there is a village in Brazil where 4 out of 5 births are twins (compare to 1 in 80, normally)- mostly blond haired and blue eyed, and that in the 1960's, Joseph Mengele was hiding out there and playing doctor, and continuing his freakish Nazi medical experiments designed to artificially up the birthrate of the Aryan race. It's going to give me nightmares for at least a week, I promise you.

That old familiar feeling... (or, Pretty Words Make You Reagan)

You know how sometimes your gut tells you a guy is full of shit or an asshole or whatever at first... and then he says all these nice things that he probably knows you want to hear, talks about how he's so, so hip to that feminist thing you've got going on and you start to think "Wow! Maybe I was wrong! Maybe I'm just too cynical, and maybe he doesn't suck at life after all! I should give him a chance!" and then not two seconds later he comes at you with a jugular thrashing load of asshattery which he then tries to cover up with more nicety nice words which you now realize are as bullshitty as you thought they were in the first place? (see around 45% of my relations with dudes, particularly during my early years of Ice Queenery.)

Well, that's kind of how I feel about Obama today. This morning when I read that he was supposed to repeal the global gag rule, I chastised myself for the lingering feeling I had that he was not actually going to do anything other than talk about his hopes and dreams. But while he did have the time to write and release this statement about the anniversary of Roe vs. Wade, which is very pretty and nice... he did not in fact repeal the Global Gag Rule (as Bill Clinton had, and as he was rumored to be planning on doing- also, Bush put it back into effect on Jan. 22nd his first year in office. It's a tradition for godsakes!).

I CALL SHENANNIGANS!

Do not get all "I'm down for the cause" with me, Mister, until you actually do some shit. The global gag rule is insane and dangerous for women all over the world- so do not go around talking about my having no limits on my "dreams" until it is repealed. What that says to me, is that while I am more than free to "dream" about human rights and women across the world not being forced to have babies or getting the healthcare they need... that these things are not going to happen in reality. Which does not do much for me.

Words are lovely things- I use them often, and rely on them just as much as the next person for the majority of my day to day communication. But at the end of the day, existence precedes essence- dig? Show, don't tell. I don't want your letter, I don't want your words, I don't want your hopes or your dreams-- I want your signature on that damned piece of paper. And *then* we can talk. Ok?

Happy 36th, Roe vs. Wade!

Today we celebrate 36 years of reproductive choice in America (and an end to 8 years trying to abolish it). It is also the annual Blog For Choice Day, and the topic this year is: What is your top pro-choice hope for President Obama and/or the new Congress?

Well, um... all of them! From rescinding the global gag rule to the Freedom of Choice Act, to (fingers crossed) banning the "partial birth" abortion ban. In fact, I'd like a reversal of nearly everything Bush ever did over the past 8 years, regarding choice and otherwise. None of it's been any good. I don't think I can choose just one thing.

Supposedly, Obama is going to rescind the global gag rule today, and if so, I will be pleased as punch.

But sadly, Jenny will never be popular, because Jenny's a whore.

So, recently I was going back through many pages of posts at the insanely amazing Sociological Images, and I happened upon this little gem, featuring Caroline, who is apparently flawless in every way humanly possible, all the dudes that want a piece of her pristine ass, her frumptastic friend Ellie, who is stuck with a douchey boyfriend that leaves her stranded places, and a vaguely ethnic looking chick named Jenny who isn't allowed to mar their holy cafeteria table with her whorish ways and flamboyant headbands.

What they don't show you is the future, where Caroline marries Wally, settles down in the burbs where she has babies, hosts many a Junior League luncheon, and then eventually hangs herself in the closet because she just can't take being perfect anymore. Also, Wally is totally into wife swapping.

Ellie marries her douchey boyfriend because she thinks she doesn't have any other options, but eventually smothers him in his sleep, gets away with it and joins a radical feminist commune.

Jenny, however, stopped giving a shit about people named "Wally" liking her, and started an awesome girl group much like the Shangri-la's, rides a Vespa and lives in a fabulous bohemian loft in the Village where she takes many lovers and tosses them away at whim.

**Gah! This thing refuses to properly embed! So if you can't see it, click on the link for Sociological Images, which goes directly to the video. It's totally worth it.

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.