Why I am Just In Love With Love

This is an article, written a long time ago for Bust Magazine by Courtney Love in which she is right about everything. The first time I read it, it was like something popped in my head in this "Oh my god, I totally get myself now!" kind of way. This isn't the whole article- just what I was able to find online a long time ago- I lent out my original copy of it to someone who needed it and never got it back. It's something I like to read now and then, sorta like I do with the Dorothy Parker poems, I guess to remind me why it's so fucking awesome being me :).
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Bad Like Me

By Courtney Love

I was born bad. My biological dad is a bad man, so mama simply thought, "Ooh, she's got that bad blood seed in her." At heart, home, hearth and boyfriend, I am a full-on good girl prude-but don't tell anyone.

When you're a bad girl, people are terrified of you. You don't get mugged or raped because you don't have any victim energy (I'm sure it has happened, just not as often). It's bad if you're a famous one, though, because the boys all wanna fuck you, but then you get all girl-gooey and they go, "Oooh," because they thought you were gonna spank them. Duh, asshole.

When you're a bad girl, everyone does what you want. You have room to grow. Bad girls are kinder than good girls and they are better to other girls, mostly, unless said other girls are boy-pleasin' users who want a little bad girl spice rubbed off on 'em like so much perfume. Bad girls are also more spiritual and less prone to drug addiction, or, if they have it, when they quit they quit.

Bad girls know genius before the other dumb good girls do. They get the hot guys first 'cause they aren't looking for that big stamp of popularity approval. In Amadeus, Soliari says Mozart is ugly; the Soprano (a naughty bad girl) replies, "A woman of taste only thinks of genius." Bad girls love boy flesh that has an astronomical IQ.

Most bad girls are not as libidinous as good girls. Sex is intrigue, not looks; it's build-up and mind-warping.

Bad girls love like lions and kill those who fuck with their kin.

Good girls steal bad girls' boys. Bad girls fuck your boyfriends, yeah, but we feel shitty about it, sort of. You're there to take care of the dog, to have the BBQs. We're there to fly in to New York or L.A. or Paris and lock up in a four-star for three days while your boyfriend and us do things you'll never know about and he'd never dare do to you. We feel a little guilty.

Bad girls are "femmenistes;" we like our dark Nars lipstick and LaPerla panties, but we hate sexism, even if we do fuck your husbands/boyfriends. We understand men, we love them, us hetero/bi bad girls. We are not psycho bad girls; those are evil and in a class of their own. Maybe BUST will do an "evil girl" issue and then we can out them all. They are usually considered good girls by the community (e.g. Mary Lou Lord in her high quaky voice and "widdle gurl" act. How could she be capable of severing the head of a kitty and putting it on your front porch with a syringe in it's cornea? No, not that widdle good gurl!).

Bad girls will get obsessed if you dump us nasty, but instead of resorting to evil good girl tactics we will do things like: make your band open for us someday; send all your mail to a Der Wienerschnitzel in Watts; get a guitar for revenge; do genius comics and be a genius such as my favorite NYC bad girl, Dame Darcy, goddess supreme. We met on the one day I'd uttered her name in a foreign country. She is a bad girl; she's friends with Lisa Suckdog who has that great zine Rollerderby. Lisa tries to be a bad girl, crawlin' around nekkid and stuff, but I think she wasn't born with it. Hey, I could be totally wrong. Darby from Ben is Dead is a bad girl. She makes fun of me but bad girls do that to each other, unfortunately. Shouldn't we all be piling up on Juliana or something?

Cristina Martinez of Boss Hogg is a hot babe bad girl-some day she'll lose that Spencer guy and come into her own fabulousness. She's got a swinging bad girl Puerto Rican booty. Man, you don't wanna get on the wrong end of her rattail comb. See, bad girls get fucked up, like me or Cristina or Inger Lorre-she's a natural star and the baddest girl of us all. We just cannot cross the line from bad girl to evil girl, leave that for the...no point in naming names.

Alanis Morrisette just won a bunch of Grammys and she went to the Grammys. No bad girl would go to the Grammys.

Don't dump a bad girl 'cause one day you'll have to come back and grovel for something; watch it, man-hell hath no fury like a bad girl dumped ill.

Bad girls can deal with a little infidelity; good girls will leave you on "principle." Bad girls can be as classy as Jackie O., who was a bad girl, she just didn't think it was our business to know that. My sister Ms. Barrymore is a way bad girl. We are going to wear acid-wash to the Academy Awards. Of course bad girls go to the Academy Award parties-only if you get nominated are you busy.

Good girls live in a state of sulking or gloating, 'cause they are getting their butts kissed or having to kiss butt. But my friend-who's a good boy outside, but a very bad boy inside-told me that there's a middle state wherein, like if you go to the Academy Awards you are going out of your way to get your butt kissed, that's lame. We can be total media whores, but we can also be completely mysterious.

All bad girls in the NYC and LA areas have slept with other girls just because. Bad girls love like no one else. Bad girls swallow-it is sooo rude to spit, but don't do it the first time. I don't know why I think that, I just think the good girl part of the bad girl says they know you give good head, so make the worms wait.

If you're a single girl on the make, I suggest power. You have to work hard to acquire it, and no one will help you. You will gain many girl enemies. That's 'cause you eventually wind up playing the wife of a huge publisher-who is alive and happens to like you-in some big movie and all the lame-o's that work at his magazines you could have chopped but you won't 'cause BAD GIRLS DO NOT EVER ABUSE POWER once they have acquired it, except occasionally for sexual purposes only.

Bad girls do not fake orgasms, or they betray only themselves. Bad girls have bad boy boyfriends but mostly good boy boyfriends 'cause the sweet-faced angelboy is really horrid and Mr. Gnarly is a big wimp who wants to know what sweater to wear onstage tonight; blechhh!

Bad girls sometimes wimp out and call, though that's separating the wheat from the chaff; the men from the wimps. If you can't be friends with him forget it. If he doesn't know how to actually get you to shut the fuck up, it's not worth that much. Fuck the phone game; other games are way funner. I'm a loser at the phone game. If you want to be a femme fatale, go for it and never call back, tally up, etc. The good ones do not even get the phone game. It's hard to believe but true. Cat and mouse is for Elizabethans and Victorians.

Bad girls will always give you the shirt off their backs. Bad girls are vulgar, but we have the potential for total class. The rest is my business, not the NY Post's.

Dueling Blogs: Robyn + Jill Wear Their Easter Sunday Best and Totally Blog About It

If my bruised knees and scuffed up palms are any clue, you should know that yesterday was FANTASTIC. So fantastic, in fact, that Jill (whom some of you may know as Blowjoy) and I have decided to blog about it in chorus.

Let me tell you- the day did not start out so swell. My lint brush was magically gone from it's proper place in the powder room and I was forced to run to Dominick's and procure one, since Joan Holloway Dress had apparently mated with Mr. Catface in my closet since coming back from the dry cleaners. Still, I got my Sunday Best together in time to meet Jill at Cleo's at 12. We had a delicious matching brunch! Coffee, Mimosas, and French toast. Is French supposed to be capitalized in the case of fries and toast? I feel like it is, so I'm just going to go with it. Anyway, it was totally romantic, and Jill looked super hot in her bunny ears.

After our delicious brunch, we popped in the car and headed off downtown to go to see the matinee showing of Rent- which of course, was the crux upon which our day of fabulousness was built. Oh, but we had to stop back at her place beforehand because she could not locate the theatre (or downtown) without putting the address into her GPS. So I was all like "It's by Loehmann's!" and she was all "What's Loehmann's?" and I was all "Oh my god, we will go after the show and you will die." So yeah, anyway, we go to the theatre, and spend about an hour trying to find free parking which did not happen. (My body's talkin' to me, it says time for danger. Danger like walking into traffic. Which we did. Several times.)

Once there, I freaked Jill the fuck out with my in-depth knowledge of Rent and everything Broadway. By the way, you should know that this was my second time seeing it this week- god knows how many times total. It's a lot. I squealed often, and we cried a bunch- which was ok because she was all sorts of prepared with the Kleenex, and also I gave a five year old the finger for turning back and giving me the stink-eye when I squealed. Whatevs. I don't go and try and ruin her good time at Mary Poppins, do I? If one is old enough to see a show with a line like "There will always be women in rubber flirting with me!" (and ain't it the truth?), then one is old enough to get the finger for being a little snot.


(You down with OBC? Yeah you know me. Yes, I just wrote that, and I am lame times a thousand. This is Anthony Rapp and Adam Pascal who originated the roles of Mark and Roger. I made the sexy eyes at Adam Pascal from the audience during the final bow, which I firmly believe he saw. He is probably in love with me now. I will invite you to the wedding.)

Then it was off to Loehmann's, but not before going to a Bank of America so's I could cash a check or three ("When you're at Bank of Amer-i-ca, standing in line for the ATM" was the song we sang and it was pretty special).



If you, like Miss Jill, have never been to Loehmann's, you have not yet lived. We tried on lots of dresses, and it was a lot like one of those makeover montages in the movies, except there was not as much fun, inspirational dance music and more "I feel like this dress makes me look like I might be Aunt Marilla" and unnecessary voiceovers about the store closing in an hour. Jill, I will not make fun of that seafoam green number again- I've put you through enough already.

Eventually, I purchased some hot ass blue grey shoes that sort of verge on stripper/drag queen, but that I think I can pull off, three pairs of ruffly bloomer-type underwear that will not look good under any sort of outerwear--- but they had PEARS on them, and also polka dots, and purple zebra print. How could I not? I love pears. In fact, I am going to go eat one now. Oh, and two bras, which amazingly were in my weird ass size and cost only 25 bucks. This never happens.

Oh! We also totally almost bought matching Ed Hardy Wellies so we could look like the Rock of Love girls, but in the rain. Ok, no we didn't. But we saw them, and they are things that exist.



We realized upon getting to the counter, that we if we were like, walking gay male stereotypes, we would have had the best date on EARTH, and would probably be in love by now.

(Gah! I know I'm forgetting things. It was all such a whirlwind.)

Then we decided that we should probably eat hamburgers and reflect on our awesome day, and that we should probably do so at a terrible place... like BOUNDARY. On Division. Because, as a rule, terrible places have better hamburgers than most of the places that we go to. On the way there I explained half the plot of Gone With the Wind, and why Melanie sucked at life. The hamburgers were delicious (and, like the brunch, were matching. Fiesta Burgers per deux! Jill totally ordered for me. She's such a gentleman.), and the dude in the camoflauge hoodie did not spoil my appetite like I thought he would.

I told Jill the charming story of the two dudes who collectively broke my other, way more expensive bra (on separate occasions, mind you), and she told me a charming story about mucous plugs and monkeys. There are apparently monkeys that. when they mate, the male shoots a mucous plug into the lady monkey after he ejaculates in her, which falls out after a couple days. And her friend had a job running about the jungle picking up said mucous plugs. And I complain about retail! Mucous plugs are on my list of reasons that I refuse to ever have a baby. That and the belly button popping out and the ladyjunk turning black. And the whole baby eating predigested food inside of me thing. And the pain. And my boobs getting even more out of control. And the fact that I flip off five year olds.

So, anyway, as we were walking out of the restaurant, she starts going on about "Stuff White People Like" and pointing out those things around us: "Scarves! Fancy Sandwiches! Expensive baby furniture!" and as we're walking to her car, I see the fancy baby furniture store, with a fancy baby chair, and I totally lose my shit giggling and going into a mind fog about the image in my head of a baby in a chair, smoking a pipe and asking someone to fetch his slippers... and I end up in a faceplant on the sidewalk. Because that's just how I roll.

Easter Sunday Best Indeed!

Confessional: The Fellas

I started working on this list the other day whilst on break at work. If nothing else, I find it entertaining and cathartic. It's basically a list of confessions regarding various dudes over the span of my life. I am sometimes an asshole, especially since many of these things apply to several instances.

• It's not that I wanted to "wait" because I thought you were special. I just didn't want to sleep with you because your eyes were kind of yellowy and I thought you might have the hepetitis. It was either that or you were perhaps an albino. I was entirely unsure.
• I'm sorry I told my girlfriends your shit was deformed, but really, you should not have gone around bragging.
• I did not really have to go to church. In fact, I am an athiest.
• I only dated you because you were so enthusiastic about me
• I mostly dated you to spite a girl who hated me and had a crush on you- primarily because she told you to stay away from me because I'd like, crush your soul with my badness.
• I'm sorry I acted like you were stupid.
• I actually liked your friend.
• I thought your writing was painfully cheesy. Like, nails on a chalkboard, total ladybonerkiller cheesy.
• I didn't forgive you for something stupid because it was a good excuse to stop seeing you.
• I thought your tattoo was absolutely moronic.
• I went for the jugular because I needed a clean break.
• The primary reason I was hanging out with you is because I was feeling lazy, and I was so out of your league that I didn't feel like I had to bother with make-up and such.
• You used to be my "the one that got away," but now I am yours and I'm rather smug about it.
• I did not invite you upstairs after our date because another dude was coming over.
• Even though I still wake up every morning with your name on my lips, it's only force of habit now and doesn't mean anything.
• I did not think you were all that funny.
• I used to put the phone down while you were talking, make coffee, and then come back and pretend I was listening.
• I am reasonably sure that you are still in love with me.
• If I had not been a good friend to a bad friend, things might have been different
• My mom said you looked like an unhealthy goat.
• I met your girlfriend in the bathroom at a bar, and now understand why you are always grabbing at my ass. She was thoroughly unpleasant.
• I did not go out with you again because you sent me a myspace message full of spelling errors and internet abbreviations, and I just couldn't find you attractive anymore after that.
• It annoyed the crap out of me that you pretended to be like, totally hip to that whole feminist thing I got goin' on, when in fact you understood it less than any carfone I could name.
• I only went out with you because I was pretty sure it would be a good story later.
• I sincerely think you are the biggest coward I've ever met in my life.
• I was not half as impressed with you as you imagined I was.
• I tried so hard not to be shallow, but I failed. I'm sorry.
• I told my friends that if I were to continue dating you, I'd have to convince you to dye your hair.
• You were way too old for that shit.
• I really, really liked you- you wore neat jackets and you memorized and recited my favorite poem to me in the original French, which was maybe the most amazing thing ever, but I couldn't date you because my friend liked you first and had asked me to help hook her up with you. I am probably a putz.
• I partially started dating you because while I thought you were super dishy, I didn't think you were smart enough for me to get attached to or to figure out how to hurt me. I was wrong on all accounts.
• I wasn't there that night. Not physically anyway. I didn't have the balls at the time, but my brain walked out in a huff for me.
• It totally wasn't going to happen.
• I guess the thing I was most offended by was your lack of taste. Because in case you didn't notice, I am awesome and hilarious and generally rather attractive, whereas whatsherface clearly sucked at life and had no style and brought nothing to the table except maybe being more of a mealy mouthed wimp and looking more like she had fetal alcohol syndrome than I do, if you think of that as a good thing. In what world, seriously? (Not that I'm bitter.)
• I never expected any more from you than I would from my friends. Unfortunately for you, my friends are awesomely bad ass.
• I wasn't Catholic, I wasn't a virgin, and I wasn't going to stay home and make you gravy all day. I don't know what made you think that, other than my ethnic make-up.

Happy 101st Birthday Bette Davis!

The waitress leaned over the table- "And what will you be having today, little girl?" I popped my eyes as wide as I could, announcing loudly "I think... I will have a large order of PROGNOSIS NEGATIVE!"

My mother rolled her eyes and said that, no, actually, I would be happy with the Little Red Riding Hood Spaghetti. I was probably about 7 when I started thinking this would be a fantastic thing to say every time my family took me out to dinner. It's something Bette Davis said in "Dark Victory," and I thought I was a terribly clever little girl, and I also thought that it was not long before I would be a glamorous movie star in my own right, hailed by all of America as the second coming of Ms. Davis.

In reality, I was a very strange, very friendless little girl. But, truth be told, I was so firmly convinced that everything that I was going through socially at school and such was "paying my dues" for my soon-to-be fame, that it never bothered me. The kids on the bus called me "Miss Hollywood." Swear to god.

Hers was the first death I cried over.

I idolized Bette Davis- my image of myself in my mind was not of a young, 7,8,9 year old girl, but of a sassy, sharp-toungued, tough-as-nails broad. For christmas one year I wanted a floor length white fur (which I would need when I walked the red carpet in winter). I swanned around the house in a long fake fur robe, pretending a plastic straw from McDonalds was a cigarette in a long holder. I focused on Davis not just because she was probably the greatest film actress ever, but because she was so tough, you know? She was someone who couldn't be fucked with.

I wanted desperately, viciously, passionately to be an actress. I wanted it more than anything in the world- and I probably would have managed to get in a lot more trouble were I not firmly convinced that people would come back later in my life and report all that trouble in tell-alls to the tabloids. This was back when that was a bad thing. I worked towards that goal, and nothing else in life, until I was 19 and suddenly realized that I'd lost all that drive to claw my way to top, to starve in waitressing jobs and schlep to auditions every day for a dream that just might not happen. And it didn't break my heart the way I thought it might. I was totally ok with it. I stopped acting and decided to find something else to do.

The fact was, I lost my passion for it because I didn't need it to get me through the day anymore. Theatre, and acting, and the thought of someday being Bette Davis were the things that got me through the most craptastic parts of my life unscathed- but by the time I was 19... I was ok. I didn't need to focus so hard on the future because the present wasn't all that bad. In fact it was pretty swell. The only problem was that I was horribly, terribly lost- because I'd never considered any other future at all. So, as we all know, I was completely lost and totally floundered for a number of years, went through 87,000 majors and plans and schemes, until I finally settled on writing. It's tough because I still haven't felt as insane, and unwaveringly sure about anything as I did when I was younger about the acting- but on the other hand, I'm glad I don't have to be.

I still like to get inordinately dressed up and watch Bette Davis movies by myself. I've seen every single one of them, and I've read all of her autobiographies multiple times. And sometimes I do still need to be tough as nails, and when I do, I channel her. It works for me.

Remember last night when I had an alligator on my head?

And it was supposed to be a grasshopper, but the I left the grasshopper I made out of construction paper in a cab on the way home from work, and I bought construction paper to make another one, but then I found an awesome squishy alligator at Walgreens, and I put that on my hat instead? Because I went to my friend's birthday party dressed as Helen Hunt in "Girls Just Want to Have Fun?" And then I went there, and there was another girl dressed as Janie (SJP), and we both totally had the most accurate costumes ever? I had leggings, and a tank top, and a ginormous yellow shirt with a hole cut in the back, and a beret with an alligator on top, fishnet gauntlets, my stripper boots, two different earrings, and let me tell you, ladies and gentlemen, that I was a motherfucking VISION.

And I'm still quite drunk. Also, I bit my toungue whilst doing a split and it still totally hurts.

Some quick things, varied and sundry. About Last Night edition

• Had a lovely dinner last night with Jill, during which I had a delicious sandwich, and decided upon the three primary reasons for my being so keen on being single:

1. I have no interest in telling people what to do. I cannot do it. Despite my gift for dispensing sage advice.
2. I do not react well to anyone telling *me* what to do. In fact, it makes my face burn, and I will be compelled to do the opposite, even if it is a bad idea.
3. I am terrified of being stalked again. Terrified. It's the worst feeling, and I don't want to go through that again. I feel like I bring out the Glenn Close in people, because they think I'm so strange that I must "understand" them. Which I don't.

• On the way to the Burlington, I explained my distrust of and distaste for dudes raised in the Midwest. A) They've never been as good of a time compared to east coast and west coast fellas. B) They're too conflicted, ie: "You're awesome and smart and hilarious and the best time ever... but I feel like A BAD PERSON for liking you, because I should really be dating a NICE girl. Jill thinks I've just been around too many douchey midwestern dudes, and is convinced she can change my mind. I am not so sure.
• Lessons passed on: Spencer [Pratt]-face is a clear sign of douchebaggery. Beware.
• Oh, also, some dude at Schuba's said that I am "a girl who takes the most pride in being sarcastic." I informed him that I in fact take the most pride in my ability to walk a tightrope without a net.
• Lessons learned: If I don't tell someone off who deserves it, and just let it be, my stomach shrivels up the next morning and I wake up with a bad, bad case of esprit d'escalier. It eats at my soul.

Ok, I'm already late for work. Going to the party tonight and have yet to assemble my entire Helen Hunt costume. Although am taking excessive pride in the fact that I am probably the first person to ever, ever dress up as Helen Hunt for any reason whatsoever. SCORE.

FACTS! (and things)

• I am making a return to the acting thing (after a bajillion years)! My very talented friend Michael is directing a short film this April, called At Last, Okemah! in which I will be playing the bitchy ex-girlfriend of a musician. Which, of course, is a huge leap for me.


• I am hugely overwhelmed by the amount of people that want to read at next month's show. We can really only do like, 6 people, so I'll probably have to schedule some people for May even though I don't want to.


• I feel like something is "off" about my eyebrows as of late, but cannot pinpoint what.


• FACT: Dudes who complain about other dudes being assholes are usually way more terrible than the dudes they're complaining about.
• OH MY GOD. Ok, so I've been working for a while on a story in which one of the primary characters is a sex worker- so I was looking at the Craigslist Erotic Services section for research on how to write one for the story, and I totally saw a chick that I used to know whom I haven't seen in years who was A) a horrid rotten bitch to me, and b) claiming to be 18 when she is in fact older than I am! Also, retinas=scarred. I did not need to ever, ever, ever see that. Ever. And it really just did not need to involve pigtails. The sad part about this is that the only person who would even get why this is so insane is in the "dead to me" pile- for good reason, of course- but still, I'm a bit of a pathological gossip when it comes to people I dislike, and I really, really need to think of someone else who would understand. (yes, I know. I'm a totally bad person.)

SQUEE!!!!

Oh my goodness!

When we first started doing the Sunday Night Sex Show, I'd walk into the bar at 7:30, find that I was the only one there, and panic and drink too much until like, my 20 or so friends showed up (after I sent them many panicky texts). Well, 20 would be a number I was thrilled with. But like, NOW, I get there, and there are like, already like 30-40 people that I don't even know, already there! According to the bartender, we had about 70 people total! They're actually getting worried that we might be bringing *too* many people, but the owner says he's possibly going to open up a space in the back for larger events. That would be totally amazing, since we keep getting more people each time and we absolutely refuse to leave The Burlington.

YAY.

Check out pictures of this month's show here, courtesy of the lovely and talented Melissa Fisher.

UPDATE: Due to popular demand, I have officially created a site/blog/whathaveyou for the show! You can find us at http://sundaynightsexshow.blogspot.com. Adjust your blogrolls accordingly, bitches.

Do you really love me, or am I just your booty call (Title, Ricki Lake show, circa 1993)

Britni has a great post up about booty call etiquette, which everyone, especially every dude, should definitely read. Now, I myself- not so much a fan (of booty calls. I LOVE etiquette. Manners are my favorite.). My new rule is that I won't even answer calls or text messages from a dude after 9pm unless the plan to make contact at such a time has been established beforehand. I just won't. I have too much other shit to do, rather than deal with the whims of some idiot who doesn't have enough respect for my time to give me more advanced notice.

But I get them. OH, do I get them. I wake up every morning to 6 or 7 missed calls and text messages. That doesn't really bother me. What bothers me are the dudes in booty call denial, who call you at 3am, but pretend that it's totally NOT a booty call. Because he's a "good guy" who would never, ever, do such a thing in all his days. "God! Why does your mind have to go there! I'm calling you at 3am because I think you're smart!" It's such a NiceGuy(TM) move.

Now, I don't know if they think this is true, or if they just think it's a smoother angle than "Hey, I'd sure like to do ya." I have yet to figure that out. Personally, I like to know what I'm dealing with, because like, if I think you're full of it I'm going to get all pissy trying to get you to admit it.

OH MY FUCKING GOD!!!

Do you know who this is? Do you KNOW who this IS? I will give you a clue. It is the motherfuckin' SHAMWOW guy. THIS guy:



And do you know why he's in that mugshot? Because he punched a prostitute in the face. Let me repeat that for you in case it wasn't clear. The Shamwow guy was arrested, because he punched a prostitute in the face. Because she bit his toungue. Nice.

Unfeminism is undoubleplusgood

Cardinal Says New Feminism Must Include God

FACT- When you have a penis, and are a representative of a notoriously patriarchal and sexist institution, such as the Catholic Church, you don't have any say in what "the new feminism" will be. Especially when this "new feminism" involves being anti-choice and homophobic- which, ya know, are two things that feminism is pretty specifically not about being.

How would you like it if I, as an athiest, decided that the new Catholicism was going to be about worshipping Buddha and eating meat on Fridays? It would be ridiculous, because it's not something I have any say in. Duh.

Now, I am totally of the "everyone can and should be a feminist" school of thought. My dad is totally a feminist and also a Catholic (although he belongs to a church that was ex-communicated for allowing women on the pulpit and performing gay marriages/commitment ceremonies. Also, he's pro-choice.). However, he doesn't go around telling women what feminism is or should be about. For heaven's sake, I don't even like other feminists telling me what feminism is supposed to be about!

I am all for the Catholic Church advocating for women's rights. I think that's awesome. I hope that some day they get with the times and allow women on the pulpit. But at the end of the day, the Catholic Church, as an entity, does not get any say in what feminism is or is not.

And this one goes out to Alix...

For reasons well known to her.*

*That's what she said. And by she, I mean Faye Dunaway as Joan Crawford in Mommie Dearest.

Malocchio!

I just found out yesterday, that a woman I believe to be highly sensible and rational, totally believes in the evil eye. Once upon a time, she said, a guy asked her out and she said no, and he gave her the malocchio, which caused her to fall and sprain her ankle later that day. It, of course, had to be cured via that oil ritual thing that people do.

To quickly explain, the evil eye is when someone thinks bad thoughts about you (sometimes disguised by a compliment), and then bad shit happens to you. It is considered fact, not superstition, by many people in my family.

I sometimes suspect that it might be a thing that exists. It's kind of an odd thing because it's not like you always give it by announcing "I place the malook on you!" or whatever- it's not always conscious. You can give it by admiring something and being envious of it at the same time. Because of the color of my eyes, I'm supposed to be especially inclined to give people the malocchio. If it does exist and is something I do, I'm totally an asshole, because I can name like, 50 bad things that have happened to people after they've pissed me off significantly. But so can anyone, I would imagine, if they think hard enough on it- these things are just coincidences.

I also think that sometimes things of that nature are self-fulfilling prophecies. Once upon a time, back in NY, this one chick went and tried to put a curse on me. I found this out because my friend's aunt and uncle ran a Santerian store, and she happened to be there that day. Despite my rational nature, I gave second thoughts to every crappy thing that happened to me that week. I also used to believe that there was a curse on my birthday. I believed it so much that I'd end up freaking out over every little thing that happened on it and blaming it on the curse. It was pretty spooky though- one year a tree branch fell on my new car and totalled it. I think a Ramone died on my birthday as well. I also broke my foot one year. But it stopped when Reagan died on my birthday and I decided that that meant the curse was over. Nothing bad has happened since.

I don't really believe in these superstitions, but if I were you, I'd be nice to me.

You can take your kool-aid, your nikes, and your e-meters, and go elsewhere.

I live like, two store fronts down from a mysterious "store" that is never open, which boasts a sign in the window reading "HOLY WAY MINISTRIES.". Just now, as I was standing across the street, waiting for the dude from the Jalisco to come back so I could get some cigarettes and a diet coke, I noticed that the lights inside were blinking on and off. Naturally, I started to panic a little bit, because I'm just like that and I have a rather vivid imagination. Naturally, as soon as the guy comes back and I get my cigarettes and my diet coke, I go across the street and announce to my friend who works at Cleo's and is outside smoking, that the weird store is blinking and freaking me the fuck out. Naturally, I decide that I am going to play Nancy Drew and investigate, because I'm just curious like that. I must have answers.

This is what is in the window (besides the sign)

- Weird strobe lights from Spencer gifts (including the stop sign that I totally wanted as a part of my decor in 3rd grade)
- Books about Jesus
- A christmas tree
- A picture of Santa Claus
- Tweety Bird's head
- A giant divider wall type thingy preventing me from successfully seeing inside.

I have come to the conclusion that this is either A) a cult, or B) a front for the mob. I'm leaning towards A.

I have a long history with cults, in case you didn't know. My mom had to drag me away from Hari Krishna's offering flowers at Logan Airport a number of times- and... I was once rejected from a cult. I am still bitter about this. Allow me to explain.

Once upon a time, I, like many girls at age 15, was convinced that I was indeed the next Bette Davis. I signed up for an actor's studio class at a place called "Magnum Opus" in the next town over from mine. The studio's claim to fame was that the woman who ran it had once played Marian the Librarian in the touring production of The Music Man. Nothing about it was especially weird at first, as far as I could tell- not any more than any other place I'd taken lessons, anyway. The weirdest thing is that they felt really importantly about my quitting smoking, which I had no intention of doing.

So, anyway, there was like, one straight dude there around my age, and boy, did I think he was dishy. He was in the advanced class, and I totally had plans for us to be madly in love- which I imagined would happen during a production of "Desire Under The Elms" in which I would play Sophia Loren and he would play Anthony Perkins.

However, fate threw a wrench in my dreams, when, after class one day, as my parents were picking me up from class, we all witnessed the dreamy boy get pulled into the back of a van and driven away while a lot of people from the studio yelled after him. We were told that he had come from an abusive family and had been hiding out at the studio to escape them. My dad called the police to report it on his car phone, and I sat in the car and pouted. Because I was deep like that.

I never saw the dreamy dude again. Then, a couple of weeks later, I went to class- only the studio was gone. All the furniture was gone, and there was a sign in the window apologizing and saying they'd left town.

A year later, I opened up the paper to read a story about a creep sex cult. A creepy sex cult that masqueraded as an actor's studio- called Magnum Opus. Apparently, the dreamy guy had been like, brainwashed or something, and was being rescued by his family when that whole thing with the van had occurred.

The thing is- no one even tried to brainwash me. And I'd like to say that this was because I was so clearly strong willed or something- but dude, I was 15. I was retarded- as so clearly evidenced by my Eugene O'Neil plot. I've always felt that it was because they thought I was either unattractive, or because I wasn't a good enough actress. I mean, they could have at least made a gesture of brainwashing, if only to be polite. Everyone likes to feel wanted.

Moving on. My third experience with cults was the time I was asked to leave a Scientology Center. See, this one time my mom and I were having cocktails at some outdoor cafe in Toronto, and across the street there was a Scientology Center advertising free "personality tests."

"I'll give you 50 bucks if you go in there and get one. Swear to god. 50 bucks. Do it, it will amuse me!" says my mom. So, of course, I do- because it's 50 bucks, and she's right, it will probably be hilarious. I go in there, and they hook me up to an e-meter. The guy asks me some questions like "Do you sometimes feel stressed?" I manage to mumble something about demanding to know how many body thetans I have, and then start hysterically laughing so hard I started to tear up and got a stomach cramp. Naturally, they asked that I leave.

I am wanted by no one. At least no one in a cult. Which is why I am so resentful of the one that has taken up residence a few storefronts down from me. They will never let me play their reindeer games.

If I were like, fighting crime or some shit, I would look just like this

ESPECIALLY the hat. I would wear the hat now, actually. I like how the skirt comes with camel toe, as well, as that is always an attractive look for anyone.

But anyway, I spent 20 minutes making a superhero version of myself (and you wonder how I manage to reel in that oh-so-desirable mid-30's dude who still collects action figures market!). Why? Because I'm awesome and also a bit bored. Actually, this is not even far off from how I dressed in high school, after I fell in love with the Army Navy Surplus.

You can make one too with the Heromachine

The Interview Meme from Ren

Oh, memes are always a fun timewaster. This nifty one is from Ren, and the way it works is that you volunteer to be interviewed in the comments, and then I interview you and you post it on your blog. However, I don't think too many people who read this even *have* blogs, but if you do, feel free.

Jazz or Blues?

Blues, definitely. Bessie Smith is pretty much my favorite ever.

Your dream job is?

Something that involves not having just one job. I am compulsively all over the place.

One thing you always have in your purse/pocket?

Chanel Red No. 5 Lipstick

Your motto in life?

I have many sayings- but I don't think I could settle on one as my official motto. Some favorites are:
"I have a gift for enraging people, but if I ever bore you it will be with a knife"
--Louise Brooks

"Throw your crazy on the table"
-- My mom. (Basically it just means that if you freely admit to everything horrible and ridiculous about yourself it becomes less horrible and ridiculous, and also no one can accuse you of being a hypocrite)

“I've been a wicked girl," said I: "But if I can't be sorry, why, I might as well be glad!”
-- Edna St. Vincent Millay

"I shall stay the way I am, because I do not give a damn"
-- Dorothy Parker

Favorite food?

Baked stuffed lobster and clam cakes- but only when I'm back in New England. Otherwise, eggplant parmesan.

Confession: I think Sylvia Plath was kind of an asshole

It was the summer Lorena Bobbitt cut her husbands dick off with a Ginsu knife...

I first read The Bell Jar when I was 11 years old. I often joke with my mom about how appropriate it was for her to hand that particular book to a girl that age- but she maintains that 11 would be the time to read something like that, considering how mental everyone is during puberty. I think now that it might have been because it's one of the few times in one's life where being an ungrateful twit seems like a rational personality option, and thus the book would be more appreciated at that age.

Truthfully- the only thing I *really* liked about it were the parts with Doreen- who seemed pretty bad ass, and I didn't quite approve of Plath's somewhat snide attitude towards her, anyway. Even when I read it later in highschool, I found it difficult to muster up a huge amount of sympathy for either Esther or Sylvia. It just wasn't in me to do it. I tried, but my head kept popping up with things like "Oh for godsakes. She should go out in the world and meet some people with real problems and then try feeling sorry for herself." She just seemed so ungrateful for the things and opportunities she was given. I don't know, I think I read Jonothan Kozol's Amazing Grace at around the same time- so my empathy level for such people was not exactly at an all time high.

It's not that I don't think she was a good writer, but I do think she was an asshole. It's perfectly possible to be an asshole and a writer at the same time. I can provide you with some examples if you like.

I think she was an asshole for killing herself with her kids in the damned apartment. I mean, I think you have to be pretty selfish if you're going to go and off yourself when you have children that are dependant on you, and, you know, might want a mother-- but to not care if your kids saw you lying there dead- well, you might as well be a sociopath.

I think she was an asshole because Olive Higgins Prouty was kind enough to finance her education, as well as her stay in the sanitarium- and she thought she'd pay her back by writing a scathing caricature of her as Philomena Guinea. That was a crappy thing to do. If someone paid for my school and my treatment in a fancy dancy sanitarium, I would probably have nothing but lovely things to say about them. But that's just me. What kind of an asshole to do you have to be to turn around and do that? And may I just mention that Prouty was alive and well at the time The Bell Jar was published (which, along with her snide depictions of other people, is why it was originally published under a psuedonym).

Would you want to be friends with Sylvia Plath? I sure wouldn't. Nothing you did would ever be enough for her. You'd probably have to sit and listen to her prattle on endlessly about her psychic pain for hours and hours, and she'd never say thank you- she'd just assume that the privilege of being privy to her deep thoughts and unending anguish was thanks enough. She'd deliver a lot of hidden stabs about you being "shallow" as well.

By the way, I happen to like Prouty a lot- she wrote the novels that two of my all time favorite movies were based on- Now, Voyager and Stella Dallas, which is how I started reading her books in the first place. She's actually pretty awesome, and I'd heartily recommend checking her out.

I've never found weakness and frailty to be especially charming qualities in a person. I think that part of what bothers me about Plath is actually something Bette Davis once said:

"The weak are the most treacherous of us all. They come to the strong and drain them. They are bottomless. They are insatiable. They are always parched and always bitter. They are everyone's concern and like vampires they suck out life's blood."

True dat.

A girl you can take home to meet your mother...

(Not a picture of Robyn. At all. For any reason.)

So, the other day, I watched the premiere of VH1's Tough Love (What can I say? I'm a masochist.)- and by the way, can I just tell you that the host dude sounds exactly like Scott Baio? Anyway, the "sad and pathetic" women did some challenge where they got makeovers and then went to some fake party to socialize with fake dudes. Then, after the challenge, the fake dudes critiqued them and talked about what they did right and what they did wrong. I'm not even kidding.

So, anyway, the girl that won the challenge won because some dude said "She's the kind of girl I could take home to meet my mother!" Which the host informed us all, was the single greatest compliment a man could give you.

Oh puke. Coco Chanel was a girl you couldn't introduce to your mother, and I would way rather be Coco Chanel than the lady on that show. Fact is, the type of girl described by men who say that sort of thing isn't the type of girl I'd ever want to be- and those are the kind of men I'd never hang around with anyway. They're always total sickos- trust me. Someone in that equation is an asshat, and it's not the girl you can't take home. But I digress.

After I thought about it for a while, I called my mom to thank her. Because that thought has just never occurred to me. My mother always says "In some families, people keep the crazy relatives in the attic. In our family we sit them right down at the dinner table and have a lovely chat." I am not accustomed to being ashamed of people.

She, of course, says "Oh, you think that's because I like everyone. Not true. I hate everyone. But I hate them equally." This is just her way. But the fact is, I'd never feel uncomfortable introducing anyone to her, because she really is awesomely accepting. It's not even a second thought with her, it's not like she's all "Hello! Look at what a tolerant person I am!" or anything- she just has this innate ability to find everyone interesting, and to bring out the best in people and make them feel important. She firmly believes that everyone has something to offer. She can sit and talk for hours with a good ol' boy from the South (mind you, she's an East Coast feminist and radical liberal), or with a heroin addict, or anyone else for that matter.

My friends have always LOVED my mother. Ever since I was a kid. I remember this one time, she volunteered to work at our school's Santa's Workshop- you know, where you go and get cheesy weird presents for your parents and siblings during school? Well, all these kids came up to me saying "Your mom is so cool! She taught me how to shoplift!"

I asked her about it when I came home, and she told me that the teacher had made the kids who didn't have money with them sit up against the wall, and they weren't allowed to walk around with the other kids who did have money. So, my mom walked up to the kids and announced that they were going to be in her group, and then walked them around and jokingly taught them how to shove things up their sleeves. They didn't ask her to volunteer again, but she wasn't too broken up about it.

I ALWAYS want people to meet my mother. Although, I'd have to say that the people generally thought of as the type others would introduce to their mother would be further down on her list of people she'd want to hang out with.

Notice!

Once upon a time there was a giant douchenozzle named Kyle Payne. He wrote a smug little blog about what a super awesome feminist/pro-feminist/feminist ally he was. He counseled rape victims. He was totally against porn because of how totally awful it was. He talked a lot about social justice. And then, one day, while working as an RA at a college, he walked into a girls room, lifted up her shirt, and filmed her bare breasts. He was charged, rightly, with sexual assault.

And now he's back- not mentioning his abuse, blabbing on again about what an awesome "feminist ally" he is, and linking to blogs about feminism, and blogs by rape and sex abuse survivors. This man has absolutely no place in any nook or cranny of feminism, and though he probably loves the attention, as Ren says, it's better to make sure that any Google search of his name turns up this information about him.

Fucker.

The Fuck-It List

Inspired by Jill at Feministe, who was in turn inspired by the always glorious Kate Harding, who was inspired by the generally dreamy Michael Ian Black... I am creating a "Fuck-It List." Which is like a Bucket List, except it's things you don't care if you ever do. Best idea ever.

Miss Robyn's Fuck-It List

- See the Grand Canyon.
- Swim with Dolphins
- Get Married
- Have babies
- Go Camping
- See any Star Wars movie all the way through
- Own a Car
- Be Mysterious
- Cut out Carbs
- Take dance classes again
- Quit Smoking
- Quit Drinking
- Stop Being Petty and Spiteful (at the end of the day, it's just more amusing that way)
- Stop buying new clothes in order to put off doing laundry

I don't want to die in the dairy aisle.

There is a very, very creepy dude who works at the Dominick's next door to me. He looks like he's disintegrating. He looks hepatitis-y. He looks kinda like Iggy Pop. His yellow face, which looks like it might fall off at any second, blends in with his straw-like yellow hair. His eyes are that weird super pale blue/almost white color that always reminds me of this:




And he stares me down. Always. Always asks if I need help. Follows me from aisle to aisle. Always smiles at me with his yellow teeth that match his yellow skin and his yellow hair. I'm pretty sure he wants to kill me so he can wear my skin around or something, and I spend a good deal of time suppressing my instinct to say "Just so you know, dude, I am not in fact a size 14."

My grocery store time is my "me" time. I like wandering aimlessly through the aisles, putting things in my cart and then taking them out because I don't really need them. I like hearing Wilson Phillips' "Impulsive" while I carefully decide which bag of "8 O'Clock" coffee is best suited to my purposes. I like "8 O'Clock" coffee because drinking it makes me feel like an old-timey film noir detective. Don't ask me why, it just does. I like hearing Kelly Clarkson's "A Moment Like This" while I stand there with a box of wine, in my yoga pants and Slits t-shirt- with my hair all gagoots, staring blankly at piles of Brie and Camembert at 12 o'clock at night. I hope to god that no one waits a lifetime for a moment like that. I like it when some dude walks up to the Starbucks counter and asks for a bottle of water, and then gets mad that they don't have one. Like he's not even in a grocery store.

And, you know, I really don't like being watched. Or followed. Or smiled at. Not while I'm contemplating whether I should bother getting two bags of Nature Sweet tomatoes- because I really only need one, but they're buy one get one today, and I might as well.

Leave me be, creepy grocery store dude, leave me be.

Guess who is totally famous?!?!? I'll give you a clue!

Oh, fuck clues. It's totally me! And Allen! And The Sex Show Team! I present you, in it's entirity, the New City article this week about The Sunday Night Sex Show (with a couple small corrections, from me, in bold face):

Sex School: The Burlington offers everything you’ve ever wanted to know

Where can you find six women in one room who would happily don a strap-on and take on a guy? Or a bar full of men who shout out the maximum distance they’ve managed to shoot a load?

Logan Square bar The Burlington is home to the monthly Sunday Night Sex Show, where creators and hosts Allen Makere and Robyn Pennacchia infuse your mind, libido and sense of humor with any and all things sex-related. In case you were wondering, the longest distance shouted was nine feet.

With the Sunday Night Sex Show celebrating its sixth month in existence, it’s no surprise to find that most of the audience members are regulars and well acquainted with Pennacchia and Makere. The room fills up quickly and nearly every seat in the place is occupied.

Trivia questions that win you leather whips and penis-shaped lollipops teach you such things as Objectùm-Sexuality (to love and be intimate with objects; from the massive Eiffel Tower to the average clock radio), the state with the highest in-state percentage of porn subscribers (Utah, 5.47 people per 1,000) and that a former second lady wrote a controversial novel allegedly depicting graphic scenes of rape and lesbian sex (”Sisters” by Lynne Cheney). (The creepy-ass graphic scenes of rape were actually from Scooter Libby's novel "The Apprentice"- but there was a lot going on so ths is understandable, duh)

In between the various questions and naughty prizes, local writers are given the chance to read short works of creative non-fiction about their past and current sexual experiences. While most of the writers seem to be Fiction Writing students from Columbia College, anyone with a fun and wild tale of sex, or attempted sex, is encouraged to read.

Audience members are encouraged to write and anonymously submit questions concerning sex and relationships. The audience is also asked to participate if they know an answer or at least have a suspicion about it, and everything is open to a fun, laugh-filled debate.

Sounds a bit group-couples counciling-ish, but with questions like “Can you get a guy off by just kneading their tank?” (Taint, is what that was supposed to be, actually. But, you know, it was loud in there.) to “How does one become a squirter? Is it a learned ability or are you vaginally born with it?” it’s anything but. While Makere and Pennacchia don’t seem the doctoral types, they answer questions based on their past experiences. In response to the squirting question, Makere tells a hilarious tale about his encounter with a Spanish boarder with “a cooch like a volcano.” (Khaveri Campbell)

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

The two small mistakes are totally nothing, because they actually spelled my name correctly, which is pretty fucking awesome and impressive. I'm so excited! It's like, the first official article about us so I am just kvelling all over the place! Eee! Go Team Sex Show!!!

Jigsaw Youth

I got all sorts of nostalgic last night after seeing this posted on Jezebel last night- it's an 11 part documentary on YouTube titled "Riot Grrrl Retrospective," featuring Tobi Vail, Corin Tucker, Allison Wolfe, Sharon Cheslow and other heroines of my youth. I get really gushy about that shit, you should know. It turns me right into a 12 year old fangirl.

When I was in middle school, I lamented the fact that I wasn't quite old enough to really take part in the whole riot grrrl thing- other than reading Sassy and a bunch of west coast zines, buying albums and writing "riot grrl" on my knuckles during study hall. But, you know, upon further thought- I was the exact right age at the exact right time. A couple years later, middle school girls would be fed "girl power" in the form of the Spice Girls and Britney Spears... and Sassy wouldn't even exist anymore. It was an important age to get that message- that feminism was awesome, that you were awesome, and that you shouldn't take any shit. It's a message I got from my mom, of course- but who listens to their mother half the time anyway? Who knows how cool I would have thought feminism was if it weren't for these chicks?

I'm a tough ass broad, ya know. I owe that to my mom, to The Golden Girls, to Jem and to Kathleen Hanna and the whole riot grrrl movement. I still listen to Bikini Kill, Bratmobile, The Gits, Heavens to Betsy, Sleater-Kinney, Babes in Toyland etc. I still have copies of Girl Germs and Rollerderby and Sassy tucked away somewhere, and knee-high black docs in my closet here. I like to think of my show, and of most other things I do as a product of the riot grrrl aesthetic. Things change, ya know, we don't wear baby barettes anymore, but the message is still the same.

/sap.

I will not be ignored!

So, according to some study I read over the weekend, the Justice Department has found out that text messaging is becoming a popular method of stalking. To which, I say- duh.

Let me tell you a story. A couple weeks ago I was out with a friend, and a friend of her friend decided I was very impressive and awesome or something due to my ability to sing along with both Frank Sinatra and Biggie Smalls (which, you know, means a *lot* of people are very impressive and awesome. Probably most people you and I know.). He went on about this for some time, and when I went to the ladies room, he took my phone, put his number in it, and then called his own phone.

THUS, I have been receiving various random messages from this dude for the past three weeks or so. I have yet to respond. He has also found me on Facebook and "poked" me like 37 times. I have yet to respond.

I don't think that's actual stalking, of course. But it is annoying. In the olden days, people were much easier to avoid! The thing about text messaging is that it's less ignorable than other things. You can't really pretend you never got it- and if you don't open it, your phone is going to keep beeping at you until you do. Oy.

Varied and Sundry- Daylight Savings Time Edition

1. Happy Daylight Savings Time! I have yet to figure out how I ought to celebrate *this* Daylight Savings Day... other than being annoyed at having to wake up an hour earlier. It's not like Time Travel Day or anything amazing like that. I'll figure it out.

2. I got a weird text message at 5am. Which, you know, is not unusual for me, what with the hours my friends keep and the creepy stalkers I seem to attract. But it was from a number I don't know, and it read "I've got the guy for you and he has your number." Ok- now, I'm missing a lot of numbers because I got a new phone recently, and for some reason the back-up assistant only backed up numbers I'd gotten prior to June, and I also tend to delete numbers pretty often, especially if it's a dude I've decided to stop seeing. It's a good way to avoid calling them whilst intoxicated, and you get the added pleasure of sending them the "Who is this?" text... but still. How weird is that?

I mean, I met some dude last night whom I think called me an Eskimo and asked me to go to Tavern, and I gave him my number for whatever reason before going home- but then he called my phone right after and that's not his number. MYSTERY!

3. A five year old invented my outfit today. For god knows what reason (well, rain, I guess), I felt that I ought to wear a 1950's style polkadot dress with a beaded cardigan, bright red tights... and my black hunter boots. I am a vision, I tell you.

4. Last night, after having smoked grass- not something I generally do, so it tends to affect me a bit- I came home to find a letter my dad. In it, was a page torn from a magazine, an advertisement featuring an astronaut and reading:

Private Astronauts Wanted

If you have ever dreamed of space flight, space adventures can turn your dream into reality.

And then a bunch of stuff about how you can go fly around in space for ten days if you happen to be really rich. What the fuck?

"But I hate regular travel, even! With regular planes! For an hour, going back to NY!" I thought. "Did I want to go to space camp when I was a kid? I don't think so. I really don't think so, I mean, I remember seeing the commercials come on after Punky Brewster... but I don't recall ever wanting to go. I do, however, remember thinking that that spinny hamster wheel thing they always showed people riding in looked like something that would make me nauseated... Why? Why would my dad want to send me into space? Did I screw up? Is 'space travel' the new 'boarding school'? Maybe he wants to go there for a vacation? Mom will never go along with that, she's claustrophobic and I doubt they let you smoke in space..."

And it went on, and on, and on... until I turned over the other side... and saw an article about the Hunter boots I was wearing in RI (the same ones I'm wearing today), with a note saying "And you thought I was out of it! I'm learning! ---love, Dad" The article, of course, was from Forbes, which is what all the hep cats are reading these days.

So, yeah, that's my story. If you, however, feel differently about space travel... you can go to www.spaceadventures.com. And be my private astronaut, astronaut for money...

Love to laugh, but you're making me gag

As you may know, one of my favorite hobbies, for various reasons, has always been reading personal ads. I'd like to say it's because of the interesting cross-section of humanity, or something like that- but really it's because they're hilarious, and also I like the feeling of superiority I get reading them. You know, because I can spell and form complete sentences. Also, I tend to have an instinctual aversion to saying painfully cheesy things, especially self-complimentary cheesy things. There's nothing like someone trying to sound deep, or super hip to trigger my gag reflex.



But anyhow- out of the kindness of my heart, and because the bus took forever yesterday, I have compiled a list of the most painfully cheesy phrases written in the Reader personal ads this week!



"My attributes are still being discovered"

"appreciates every day"

"Someone who knows what they value, what's important to them, and can take a moment to enjoy a moment: a hug, a sunset, a cup of tea, a smile, a song."

"regular kinda gal"

"heart of gold"

"I'm a smart alack" (SIC)

"I am looking for the soul that can not only keep up with me, but make every day of my life that much better just by being there to share it"

"Would love to meet people who don't ask me who Fellini and Bergman are." (Oh, puke. How awesome and deep you are that you can name the two most well known "art film" directors ever. I knew who Fellini and Bergman were when I was 11, ok? It's not a major accomplishment.)

"I enjoy the art of curiosity."

"heart of gold"

"I'm looking for a girl who is interested in interdependence"

"My family is worldly"

"Simply looking for friends who are transparent, earnest, and attach value to living life"

"My short and sassy haircut sums me up. Short and sassy!"

"I've been told I have an outgoing personality making friends easily." (This is not a sentence.)

"There are no strangers in life, only friends we have yet to meet" (Like Ted Bundy.)

"Protege wanted for life expedition"

"Muse Wanted"

"I am very much grounded in the present. I believe that it is our responsibility to paint our masterpiece we call our lifetime. I have a cornucopia of activities I like to do from yoga to found art sculpture and everything in between (like Mongolian throat singing and eating mushrooms)."



And then there is one truly priceless ad, which I will post in it's entirity, just because it is *that* amazing.



OPEN HEART AND ACTIVE MIND

(Note: please imagine this in the J. Peterman voice)



I love to lay on a beach, and journey through the stars and wonder about the universe. The innocent joy of children singing (Your first date will be a 2nd grade choir recital!). Self effacing humor. To be at a trancendent symphonic performance. Service. Culture and nature. Being present. You: interested in exploring Chicago, museums, music, ourselves and life, with a potential for a long-term connection. I love to learn, and am willing to try anything I haven't already done. Love stretching the mind and the body. I'm seeking a woman attractive on the inside and out. More than just a pretty face. Independent, and willing to try new things.



Analysis: He has a totally deep reason for wanting to fuck you in the ass.

I thought I wanted an apple cinnamon muffin, but it turns out I want to eat a baby

Oh Christ. I thought/hoped I was hallucinating the other night when this thing popped on the telly:



Via http://www.videogum.com/


Really? Baby hungry? Baby hungry? Ew. I don't know a single "single girl" that doesn't screech in horror or throw up in her mouth at the mere mention of child bearing/rearing, so I do not know where you are getting your information from, Mr. Dude I've Never Heard of Before, but I suspect that you might be the delusional one here.

Yeah, we're all totally after your super high quality sperm, there. I dream of the day when I might drop a mucus plug and squeeze out a nine pound demon child with my eyes and your hairplugs. Also, I want to be your girlfriend and subsequently marry you, despite the fact that you are basically terrible in every way possible. You know, because you've got a penis and all. Everything else is just gravy.

Oh, and also, I'm Cathy. Ack! And I love shoes! And chocolate! And talking about my weight! And, um, whatever else the womenfolk are into these days! Ack! Marry me!

See, this is the thing- women are just not like this any more- not the vast majority anyway- and at least no one I personally know. To tell me to stop being desperate for a man and baby hungry is in the same league as telling me to stop speaking German and wearing leiderhosen all the time. In fact, as a whole, I think we're way better at being independent than men are. And I think that's a kick in the balls to some dudes who might prefer that we were not.

I don't think that the weirdo who tells me he's not "ready for a relationship" after two dates really thinks that that's what I'm after- I think it's wishful thinking. Not that I'm such great shakes, but I think he would like to assume that pretty much any lady in town would be thrilled to pieces to have him all to herself, or to bear the fruit of his loins or whatever. It's nothing but blowing smoke up your own ass.

It seems as though certain men are trying to create a strawwoman narrative that just isn't there anymore. It's a narrative more flattering to themselves than based in reality. And despite the fact that shows like this, and books/movies like "He's Just Not That Into You" claim to be intended to show women how to not be pathetic, they seem to be more hung up on creating perpetuating the idea that this is what we are in the first place - and that we, of course, need a brilliant, tough lovin' dude to show us the error of our sad little ways.

Shut up and let me go

Hey, here's a tip! If you are interested, for whatever reason, in not seeming like a creepy stalker, it would behoove you to not text a girl late at night telling her you can see her in her living room from the bar you are at on the street below her window. That would not be the best way possible to ask someone for a drink. And, um, even if a girl really, really likes Tom Waits, it's still weird to follow that up with seven text messages highlighting various stalky sounding lyrics from "Downtown Train." And then later, some stuff about your being "broken." It's just weird. Weird, weird, weird. Especially considering the girl lives nowhere near the train, and is firm on her position that you are, in fact, an asshat.

I am PLOTZING, I tell you!

Last night was our half year mark at The Sunday Night Sex Show... and it was GLORIOUS. Glorious I tell you! There were so many people there that I did not personally know! We were almost at capacity! Oh, and a girl from New City came to write things about us- it'll be out on Thursday, I think. How nifty is that?

Eeee!

I'm working on some stuff too- like someone to be officially in charge of taking pictures and stuff, and possibly video. Yay!

How very strange...

I am an hour early to work. Why? Because for some reason, my mind decided to play tricks on me and I thought it was 9:15 when it was 8:15. I'm probably losing it, you know. I didn't even realize until I got here and was thinking everyone else was late.

Funny. I think I was just kind of stuck in my own head this morning so much that I failed at time. These are the things I was thinking about:

1. How irritating adults who think they're adorable are. The other night one of the ladies from work and I went out to Bin Wine Cafe, for the delicious sparkling Pinot Noir- which is my favorite thing ever... and there were totally a pair of same-side-of-the-booth-sitters. Is that appropriate? In a place where you're drinking wine? I mean, I'm opposed to it in diners- and there are people that think that makes me a bit prim... but in a normal restaurant? You have to admit that's weird.

I am not adorable. As an adult, I understand this. I refuse to strive to elicit "Awww's!" from others. I am much too tall for that.

2. I've decided that a dude who tries to cheat on his girlfriend with you after having dated her for two months is more of a cheesedick than the married guy who tries to cheat on his wife of several years with you. I get this a lot. For some reason, I get a lot of dudes who think I'm like, some magically understanding, non-involved third party. I'm not even really human- I'm like some hookerwithaheartofgold/headshrinker/figmentofyourimagination thing. If I had a dollar for every "If only the world were different, and I didn't have these wretched societal obligations! I could be a free spirit like you are! You don't understahnd! You can just do whatever you want!" or whatever speech I'd heard in my life I'd be a bajillionaire or something. But anyway- this is the thing, and I'm not saying it's cool either way... I just think it's way weirder to try to cheat on someone you just started dating than someone you've been with forever and share a bank account and possibly children with. And yes, I understand that it's like, a way bigger and more important commitment. But the dating is far easier to get out of, I imagine. Especially if it's new. You can just break up with that person. I break things off all the time. Although I do it by not answering my phone- that may not be the route for you. You may be fond of talks. I might be entirely wrong about this, but, well, it was 8 in the morning, what do you want from me?

- Oh, I can start working now. I'll finish this later. There were quite a few more... all equally ridiculous

Varied and Sundry

1. I have taken up the peculiar habit of drinking straight lemon juice.
2. It is possibly not the best of all ideas to have two glasses of sparkling pinot noir (which, if you were wondering, is the best thing ever), two vodka and seven-ups, and two glasses of sangria. While I am not hungover, I am still a bit nauseated. But I'm in a *splendid* mood, so it doesn't matter.
3. I've been back from Rhode Island for several days now, and still my accent is lingering and popping up here and there. I suspect it was on full force last night. Which is irritating because I get really bothered and self conscious anyway when people feel the need to shriek "I just heard your accent!" at me when I say certain words.
4. As usual, we've had a drop-out for Sunday's Show. So now I've got to scramble and find me another dude to read. Eek! I might have to drop the gender parity concept, because it's way harder to get guys involved- oddly, I think they're just not that comfortable with the subject matter.

Good Skin

I feel pretty importantly about good skin. So much so that I once plotted to moisturize a man in his sleep. It's true. So... I thought I'd share with you my absolute favorite skin trick. Mostly because I don't quite feel like going off to work just yet.

All you need is Albolene (if you don't have any, run over to Walgreens and get some. It's the cheapest miracle worker ever) and a business card/credit card/ID of some sort. Smear the albolene all over your face, more thickly than you normally would. Leave it for about 15 minutes, and then scrape it off with the card. Then put it on again and massage your face for about ten minutes. Then, scrape it off again with the card.

And that's it. It's a little gross, especially because a couple layers of skin are going to come off with the Albolene, and if you haven't exfoliated in a while, it might be a bit, well, black. But I promise you'll look prettier afterwards. It's true. And now, off to work.

I need to get out more

I have just been ever so Garbo-esque lately- not because I've managed to figure out being mysterious (I'm just not. I've accepted it.) , but because I've barely left the house lately. I actually think I haven't been out-out since the last show (and the next one is this Sunday). There are several reasons for this:

1. Stupid recession. No one has money to go anywhere.
2. It's cold and I don't so much feel like going outside to smoke.
3. I sort of got out of the habit, mostly because I avoided going to my usual places for a while because I was avoiding various sorts of unpleasant confrontations with various Mr. Goodbars.
4. I am doing lots and lots of writing
5. I was, after all, quite sick for about a week there. That might have something to do with it.
6. Oh, and then I went to Rhode Island this past weekend.

Maybe I don't know what I'm talking about.

Movies I Think You Should See (That Are Free Online)

For your convenience, and because I love you, I have compiled a list of some of my all time favorite movies that you can actually see online, for free! Yay!



Now, Voyager - If we are at all aquainted, you've probably heard me mention this movie at least 45,000 times. Bette Davis is spinster aunt who gets sent to Claude Rains' sanitarium, gets a makeover, goes on a cruise, meets Paul Heinreid and is all sorts of glamorous and selfless, and you will cry at the end. A lot.



Cat on a Hot Tin Roof - "Why do I always feel like a cat on a hot tin roof?" Because you *are* hot, Elizabeth Taylor. And so is Paul Newman. Burl Ives, not so much, but the other two make up for it.



The Philadelphia Story - Starring Katherine Hepburn, Cary Grant, and Jimmy Stewart. Kate plays a fiery socialite set to marry a kind of lame nouveau riche type dude, Cary Grant is her far more exciting ex husband, and Jimmy Stewart is a journalist covering the wedding. It's yar, darling, really it is.



Holiday - Another picture starring Katherine Hepburn as a fiery socialite and Cary Grant as a love interest, except this time it's Grant who's engaged to the lame person, Hepburn's sister in the movie.



Dark Victory- "I'll have a large order of prognosis negative!" Another Bette Davis picture, which could have been ruined by the presence of Ronald Reagan in it, but is not. Also, a young Humphrey Bogart is so retardedly sexy in this movie that you may have to fan yourself.



The Lady From Shanghai - "I told you, you know nothing about wickedness." I promise you that this movie will rock your face. If you've never seen it, you ought to be ashamed of yourself.



Camille - My favorite book, movie, and opera. Greta Garbo stars as Marguerite Gautier, the original hooker with a heart of gold (also, consumption). You actually may want to watch this before "Now, Voyager" to get some of the references.



Grand Hotel - If you were ever wondering what movie it was where Garbo says "I vant to be left alone"- it would be this one. And it is glorious.



Affair in Trinidad - Since "Gilda" is not available, here is another teaming of Rita Hayworth and Glenn Ford, where Miss Hayworth is a glamorous femme fatale, that I happen to be especially fond of.



Horsefeathers- I heart the Marx Brothers. This movie includes the song "Everyone Says I Love You" and is generally quite awesome.

Enjoy!

Triskaidekaphobia? Not so much.

You should know that in the third grade, one of my favorite hobbies was spelling that word- so, despite the Murphy's Law aspect of my life, I have no ill will towards Friday the 13th. I like Friday the 13th. Friday the 13th comes right out and says "You know what, shit's probably going to go wrong today"- I like a honest holiday. Not like Thanksgiving, which never says anything about the fact that while you're being grateful and bonding with your family, that you're probably going to get into a giant fight with your sister and one of you will end up leaving the table in a huff. New Year's talks only of champagne and confetti, and never mentions that you're going to accidentally make out with some dork who will message you on Facebook a few days later to let you know that he is not looking for anything serious (Oh, the egos on these boys, really! I suspect we're all going to have to get some pins that state "Oh for godsakes, I don't want to be your freakin' girlfriend! I don't even like you that much! I'm just bored!" so as to avoid future confusion).

Friday the 13th is just like any other day, just more honest. Tomorrow is Valentines Day, the time of year where I stealthily avoid any and all Gentleman Callers and watch horror movies and drink wine with my girlfriends. Meanwhile, every dude on earth will be stressed out trying to plan shit, and every woman on earth will be slightly disappointed but trying to pretend she isn't. Awkwardness all around.

Flossin'

This morning I was late for work because my dresser attacked me, so I had to take a cab. No big deal. I get into the cab, and see that the driver appears to be rather dishy. Well, I don't know that he was dishy as much as he was wearing a tweed sportscoat... and I have a longstanding weakness for men in tweed sportscoats. But anyway, we got to talking, and he was a Frenchman from Algiers, and then proceded to explain colonization to me, which I explained that I understood from having taken history classes and reading Camus. Also, there's a movie with Hedy Lamarr. Then we got to talking about Italy, and how it's pretty much the best place ever, By the time we got to my stop, dude was still chatting about the train from Naples to Palermo for like, five minutes, which was cool because I ended up being a little early anyway.

But then he turned around. Dude had like four teeth in his head and they were all black. Shiny black, like an oil slick. It was nothing if not disturbing. And he wasn't even that old- he was only a little older than me. How does that even happen? I mean, you'd basically have to not brush your teeth for 20 years straight, right? I've never seen anything like it.

As a result, I have flossed four times today.

A Mature Model Who Sizzles for Clients

The girls at my work totally get me (and my deep, nearly obsessive love for fantastically terrible things), which is why when this lady came in and dropped off a brochure of sorts for her "services" they totally saved it for me.

It is, without a doubt, one of the greatest single things I have ever encountered. It's in the shape of a purse, hand decorated with a sharpie. And on the outside it states:

"With customers clutching their pocketbooks this winter as tightly as their
coats, 2009 is proving to be a challenging marketplace..."

But it gets better! on the inside it reads:

"Let's brainstorm ways to make your business irresistibly "hot" in 2009.

As a model/actress/spokeswoman, a writer and creative producer, I'd
like to discuss ways we can create an event tailored to your store.

What makes me different is I am a model who not only can wear a size
6, but a mature model with whom your customers will
immediately identify--- and I have the experience to interact with your
customers and bring the sale home.

Whether you are already planning a modeling event of your merchandise, or would like to consider asking me to create something special at your store contact me at (email address).

Looking forward to meeting you at your earliest convenience."

And then there are the pictures. Which I would feel bad about posting, but like, picture Susan Powter in a Glamour Shot wearing one of the hat's from In Living Color's "Men on Film"


+

(Except with sequins! And photoshopped eyelashes!)

And on the side of these pictures, it reads "A Mature Model Who Sizzles For Clients."

Now, of course this is hilarious. However, I have decided that this lady is in fact my new hero. Because clearly, she wakes up in the morning, looks in the mirror and thinks she's the best ever. I do not. I wake up in the morning, and look in the mirror and think I look a bit like Marla Singer- not in a hot way- just because I forgot to take my eyeliner off last night. I don't sizzle, nor do I make any claims otherwise. I hardly have low self esteem, but any delusions of grandure I might have are nothing in comparison with hers. I kind of want them. My goal this year is to come up with a shit ton of fake sounding jobs and then go around offering my non-existant services. Also, to have a fancy picture in a sequinned hat.

Comparitively, Your Love Life is Pretty Boring

We all have *things* that we love. I love my non-functional lamp, One-Arm Juanita; my shoebox full of pictures of people I don't know; terrible/wonderful things I've found at dollar stores and flea markets; books; crates full of clementines... etc. But, um, there are some people who have things that they love love. Like, romantically. And sexually. And no, they don't require batteries.

Meet the Objectum Sexuals. One lady is married to the Eiffel Tower. Another to the Berlin Wall. Another to some weird German amusement park ride.


Watch Married To The Eiffel Tower [Part 1] View More Free Videos Online at Veoh.com

The rest of the insanely amazing doumentary can be found here. I guess you could say it's sad that they've had such crappy relationships with people that they've convinced themselves that they are in relationships with inanimate objects and monuments, but I'm kind of happy for them, actually. Like, if that's what gets them through the day, and they're into it, I don't see much harm in it- I just find it fascinating. Although I will be avoiding touching certain areas of the Eiffel Tower on my next trip overseas.

HA! I told you Etta wasn't going to be happy about that.

You know, sometimes people say "I hate to say I told you so"- I don't. I love to say I told you so. It's one of my favorite things to do. It makes me feel vindicated. I like feeling vindicated.

And so it goes with this. Now, after the innauguration, many people had the pleasure of hearing me kvetch about Beyonce singing "At Last" while Etta James was alive and well and in fact still touring. I was not pleased with it. And I knew, deep in my heart of hearts, that Etta wasn't either. "Maybe she was sick with a cold!" some people said, "Maybe she *wanted* to pass on the torch (song)" said others, but I knew, I just knew, that Etta was not pleased, and did not sign off on that.

I win. Also, if there is in fact a fight, my money is on Etta.

Dago-fabulous

I just read this article in AdAge about the Verizon Wireless commercial featuring Italian American stereotypes, and I've been seeing more and more like it lately. I've been trying for some time (like, 18 drafts worth) to iterate how I feel about this sort of thing. It's not easy. I'm not really sure how these stereotypes affect me. For the most part, I don't feel like they do, and I don't feel like I identify with them other than "oh, some people on the outskirts of my family are a bit like that, maybe." Also, I have little issue with people assuming I could have them killed at my whim.

But then again, I do get some things here and there. "You must be crazy/have a bad temper" is a big one. I was once told that I didn't "seem Italian" by some dude from Indiana, which was kind of shocking (I told him I left my gondola and dancing monkey at home)- but then again, he was from Indiana. I've been told I'm "white," "ethnic white," "mediterannean" and "not white, Italian" by various people. At the same time, I am the recipient of white privilege more often than not. Race, darlings, is a social construction.

The stereotype of (younger) Italian women as vamps and femme fatales is something I have both benefited from and been negatively affected by. As a result, I am cautious when dating men who are more "officially white in a midwestern sort of way," because I've had a lot of issues with those types making assumptions about me based on my ethnicity, or seeing me as somehow less important than girls who are non-ethnically white.

Truth be told, however, I think that "The Godfather" and movies like it actually helped the Italian American community more than anything. People forget- hell, I forget- that when Italians first came here, we were not exactly welcome. The largest lynching in history was of 11 Italians in New Orleans, not to mention Sacco and Vanzetti, and internment camps in WWII. After The Godfather came out... they didn't really fuck with us so much, did they? Not to mention the fact that well, weird as it sounds, it made us look really cool. It made being Italian something people would want to be if they could, rather than something they looked down upon. It didn't, like so many other portrayals, make us look buffoonish and ignorant (well, except for Fredo)- but rather extremely perceptive and intelligent- if a bit calculating.

I tend to laugh a bit at Olive Garden commercials and the like, but I don't totally fault people for thinking that the Italian American concept of family is an aspirational one. It's one of the things I think is kind of awesome about us.

We tend to participate in our own stereotyping more than other ethnicities do, but a lot of that is because, despite the whole American "melting pot" thing, we've held onto our ethnic heritage and customs pretty tightly. Which is pretty cool, for the most part.

I am now convinced that Andy Kaufman is alive and in charge of Christianity

There's just no other explanation anymore- this shit is just getting too freaking hilarious:



But wait... there's more! The comments are also genius- per essample:

WOW !!!! To Glory be to God forever the
ex-masturbatur [SIC] t-shirt is blazin hott [SIC] got to purchase me one i'm a witness that freely by grace through faith proceeding with true repentance JESUS is a habit breaker. I struggled wth masturbation and was bound by my own self ambiton [SIC] at times when I wanted to worship God my sprit [SIC] was willing , but my flesh was weak so when I realized I had a problem and ask God to examine my heart he uveiled [SIC] my mask and wicked heart Christ broke me down and renewed my mind I have'nt [SIC] been the same since.

I'm telling you, this is a work of comic genius. Someone decided to see what ridiculously embarrassing sort of attire they could convince people to wear in the name of Jebus, and came up with this. I'm getting them for all of my friends. I also recommend you watch their movie, and giggle maniacally each time the girl talks about people being "in bondage to masturbation." Unless, you know, you're more mature than I am or something. Which I doubt.

Allen says: That God sure is petty, running around being worried about people touching themselves...

via Feministe

Because Diet Coke Is For Pussies?

Last night, I was innocently watching Heroes and trying to figure out what the hell was going on, when I saw a charming commercial for "Pepsi Max." It's a new diet cola... for men!



Soda as a gendered product kind of blows my mind. I remember when Tab came out with that whole pink can, it's a cola for women thing... but I don't recall that taking off so well. My dad has been drinking Diet Coke (Caffeine Free!) for as long as I can remember, and I just cannot fathom any dude I know getting all "Oh, no thanks, that soda is for the ladies, it might make my dick fall off. Thank goodness they're making a diet soda for my needs now!" Really, just outside of it being bizarrely sexist for no apparent reason... they're addressing a need that I'm pretty sure isn't there. I've seen some unnecessarily gendered products before, but mostly they were from other countries, such as this candy bar, which I saw once at the World Market:



They use a special kind of ball enhancing chocolate maybe?

And this, which I see in Chinatown:



It's not subtle, I'll tell you that much. The thing is, there are lots of products that are marketed specifically towards one gender (cleaning products, yogurt, power tools, cars, etc.)- but this direct "It's for men!! Manly men!!!" direct approach seems especially disconcerting.