I = Sarah Palin? NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

Let's all get something straight: Tina Fey and Sarah Palin do not look a goddamn thing alike.

As soon as Palin's mug was broadcasted on tv screens across the nation, everyone just couldn't believe the uncanny resemblance Palin bore to Fey (or Fey to Palin? What's the chicken and egg in this instance? Oh god, nevermind, please don't waste brain cells considering that). "What a boon to Fey's SNL career!" everyone proclaimed. In fact, a Mr. Scott Sode of NYC took the time to write into TV Guide about the dopplegangers - he's quoted in the September 15 issue of the magazine, next to side-by-side photographs of the 4-eyed brunettes. "Separated at Birth?" TV Guide inquiries of the the ladies.

But I'm here to state - for the record - that Tina Fey and Sarah Palin look nothing alike! Sure, Fey is the most qualified to play Palin on SNL, but the mild likeness they share is not something people should be in awe over. Observe:

(Ok I know, Fey's is a recent pic while Palin's was taken when she was a baby fetus, but it was the only pic of Palin I could find where she wasn't wearing glasses and that is the crux of my argument)


Their jawlines are different. The shape of their eyes is different. The structure of their faces is really not all that similar, yet because they are attractive brunettes who happen to wear glasses, automatically they are twin sisters that has everyone wondering if they, too, have a mysterious lookalike hiding somewhere on the globe.





Put a pair of glasses of any of these lovely ladies, pile their hair on top of their heads, and bam - you've got Sarah Palin lookalikes.

Now why the reason for this petty bitching, you ask? (You are wondering that, right?) Because I have heard from three different people that, while wearing glasses with my hair pulled into a ratty bun, I look like Sarah Palin. And that's bullshit because I don't look like Sarah Palin, and furthermore, I don't wanna look like Sarah Palin!!!!!!!!!

I'm super self-conscious as of late to pull my hair up - which is my daily hairstyle - while brandishing my spectacles, which is currently a necessity because my contacts have been feeling like the devil's fiery tea saucers when sitting on my eyeballs. Palin is a household name now, so if three people think I resemble Palin, there's a good chance that every person I see, ever, is thinking the same thing. This is a heavy burden to endure, people! I don't want my looks to be synonymous with some babbling moose killer, an idiot who needs no mocking because her ridiculousness is so blatant. This is so goddamned unfair.

I'd love to wrap this post up with a cute little moral or expletive filled rant, but I need to find another day to day look that is nothing like Sarah Palin. What do you guys think - should I aim to look like Paris Hilton or Tila Tequila? I just need to look like less of an idiot than Sarah Palin, so either one of those ladies' styles should work.

UPDATE: An old college pal sent me this link after reading my blog - maybe I'm perceiving this likeness to Palin in the completely wrong way. I should be monopolizing on it, not hating it!

NEED SARAH PALIN LOOKALIKE ASAP (craigslist)

Who do you want to punch in the face?

I've been having trouble drumming up a topic to blog about, and I blame Will Smith for it. It's not the meltdown of Wall Street that has me troubled, it's not the specter of a McCain/Palin presidency that preoccupies my thoughts, it's that bothersome character who was plucked off the streets of Philadelphia and unleashed upon his rich aunt and uncle only to annoy the hell out of them - and me.

All I can think about (seriously, this has been on my mind for the past 4 days) is how much I fucking hate Will Smith's character on The Fresh Prince of Bel Air. I was watching it late the other night just before I drifted off into sleepy goodness, and it was unbelievable what a punk he was in that show. All I could do was lay there, my lip curled in disgust, and fantasize about punching him in the face.

Don't get me wrong - I like Will Smith just fine, and generally like him in other roles. Though The Pursuit of Happyness made me want to slit my wrists, Will Smith was well-deserving of his Oscar nod for that performance, and Men in Black will always hold a place in my heart on those Saturday afternoons when it's playing on cable and I'm hungover. But hay-zeus, what a mouthy, inappropriate little prick he is on Fresh Prince. If that were my household, his ass would have been in the juvenile delinquency center after the first week.

All this vitriol toward Fresh Prince era Will Smith got me to thinking about other television characters I'd like to punch in the face. Readers of this blog are familiar with my previous lists involving television - I detailed the Television "Friends" You Would Never be Friends with in Real Life, and The Top Six Kids Shows I Had No Right to Be Watching, so I thought maybe I'd do a post listing the Top TV Characters I Want to Punch in the Face. Fresh Prince Will Smith would be number one, with Carrie Bradshaw coming in at a close second...but that's all I got. This shouldn't be hard, television is practically my second mother, I've grown up with all kinds of horrible protagonists who the audience is supposed to relate to, but really all you want to do is shoot a harpoon gun through their eyeball.

Well you know what to do folks - what tv characters do you despise? Try not to make them "bad guy" characters either - you're supposed to hate those characters, they're written explicitly so you have a reason to root for the good guy. It's the loathed "good guys" that I'm looking for.

A tale of an annoying one-night stand

During the summer between my sophomore and junior years of college, I was working two jobs - one as a waitress, and the other as a cashier at a franchise hardware store. I won't name what particular franchise it was, but I will say it is the worst job I have ever had. It was boring and demeaning and chock-full of anal rules that could cost you your job if broken. Not to mention that the people with the authority to boss me around were all pervy drug addicts only a few years older than me. Anytime you shop at a large retailer, take a look at the workers and be assured they are not happy - their workdays are made up of mundane tasks that serve not the customer, but the bureacratic overlords that crack the whip. The overlords want to break the employees' spirits, and that's not just hyperbole - they will do anything to brainwash workers into servile robots.

But I digress from my Marxist rant. At the beginning of this summer, I had no friends. Being a bitch in high school who hated the people I was forced to hang out with, I'd done little to retain the strained connections with my school chums. The only option was to go out with my mom, but there is only so much a 20 y/o and a 45 y/o can do together; partaking in ribald activities - my highest desire - was not on the calendar.

I continued my work at the hardware franchise with the desperation for a pal scrawled across my face - thus, horny-boy buzzards started to circle. They could smell how lonely and bored I was. A guy who acted like a 20 y/o but turned out to be 32 introduced himself to me my 4th week in. A few days later, he invited me out with himself and a bunch of other guys from the hardware store family - "Meet us at Q's, it's right near the store" - and with that it seemed my isolated days were over.

My demeanor can be deceiving. Though I don't think so, it seems I have the face of a cherub - people see me, not a trace of evil or hate in the way I carry myself, my chipmunk cheeks aglow - and assume I am a straight-edge innocent. Nothing could be further from the truth. Ever since high school I've been drinking, smoking, and doing drugs (all in moderation, of course). Even today, if I light up a cigarette in front of a person I just met, they will reel from the fact that I partake in such a nasty habit. "I didn't know you smoked!" they exclaim.

"Well why should you?" I retort. "You just met me."

"I know, but...it just surprises me."

When I was 20, this perceived innocence was like a bad reputation I had to shed - I wanted the franchise boys to think I was tough, someone who could party it up like a rock star. No, not a "Girl Gone Wild" - a Keith Richards-esque hedonist who could drink beer like I invented the stuff, puke all over the bar, then rally up and repeat the process. So I joined them at Q's prepared to pound shots of Jager and chug pitchers of Budweiser.

The night was tamer than I expected, but when the bar closed at 2 am, I wasn't prepared to end the party - remember, I wanted to be a rock star. This is how I have gotten into every weird, shake-my-head-in-disbelief situation I've ever been in - when I'm not ready to call it a night, when there's something left to prove. So I accepted the invitation from one of the boys, Brian, to join him for a nightcap at his house.

I'm sure we shared some light getting-to-know-you banter and remarks about his Bob Marley posters (the ultimate in guy decor), but since I don't remember, I'll skip to the sexcapade. We were both wasted, losing balance as we twisted ourselves into an array of positions, not having sex to have fun, but having sex to be fun - this was my thinking, anyways. I'm sure he was having sex to bust a nut. The television blared in the background as we climbed all over each other like orangutans.

In the morning I woke up with a pounding headache and cotton-mouth. I stumbled into his bathroom and drank from the faucet, careful to avoid my reflection in the mirror - to see my face smeared with eyeliner and the bad skin exposed would only exacerbate the stress felt from awaking in a stranger's bed.

As I searched for my clothes - had I worn a bra? - he woke up and pulled me back into the bed and got on top of me. "C'mon, morning sex," he said.

"No fucking way," I laughed. "I gotta go."

"Aww, you got time," he replied.

He tried to yank my limbs into a coital position, and I yanked back. "No, I'm done, I have to go home."

I giggled uncomfortably as he persisted, but when things started to get too rapey, the giggling stopped. "Get the fuck off of me," I told him; my legs were crossed, and my feet had found their way to his crotch.

He didn't realize the precarious predicament his ballsack was in - maybe his boner was the only thing he could feel - and as he attempted to access my breasts I gave a hard shove with my legs and hit pay dirt.

"OOF!" He careened back, arms akimbo, and sailed off the bed. I think his head cracked the tv stand as he thudded to the floor, and I got off the mattress, surprisingly calm. Nowadays I wouldn't give a shit about assaulting a guy in his family jewels, particularly after trying to force himself on me, but at this moment I felt a twinge of guilt. Just a twinge.

He was too humiliated to be mad. "Fine," he aquieced, and he crawled back into his bed to sulk. As I picked my way through his piles of dirty laundry, he tried to smack my ass - I don't know if this was an attempt to be cute, but the fact that he missed and ended up slapping the bed was embarrassing to see.

One of the most annoying situations in the world is when you are a girl, trying to find the pieces of your wardrobe that were launched across the room the night before, and the entire time your hook-up is watching you. It's just plain rude on the guy's part. As I scanned the floor, I noticed I was wearing an old Beatles t-shirt; he noticed too.

"Hey, get out of my Beatles t-shirt before you jinx the band and they break up," he said, just before snickering stupidly to himself.

I rolled my eyes but didn't respond to his lame joke that he ripped off from The Wedding Singer. I guess he assumed that I hadn't heard him, so he repeated it: "Get out of my Beatles t-shirt before you jinx the band and they break up." He let out more retarded, satisfied giggles.

I should have explained to him why he was an idiot. In fact, my failure to do so is almost inhumane, a crime against the women who would endure his attempts at humor in the future. His stolen joke was inaccurate and borderline disrespectful, seeing as the Beatles broke up in the late 60's and two of the members WERE DEAD, yet he thought himself so clever (and conversely, he thought me so dumb) that he needed to say it again.

Without an ounce of help from Brian, I procured my clothes, pulled them on, and considered what directions to take home. Then I realized that I had no clue what town I was in. "Where the fuck am I?" I asked.

Maybe he could sense how aggravated I was by his predatory antics, because he stopped being a pouty brat and attempted to tell me how to get home. I ignored him; my brain was too muddled to remember what he said anyways.

Before he could consider a hug or kiss good-bye, I gave a flippant wave and dashed out the door. I climbed into the cab of the beat Ford I was driving, and on the way home I realized the tale of our debaucherous night would be heard by all the franchise boys. But in my youth, this notion was something I celebrated - I would just have to make sure it got back to the franchise boys that I had kicked their friend in the nutsack when he got too sure of himself.

In the company of old, misogynist men

I like to consider myself a guy's girl. When in the company of men, I can hold my own; discussions about sports, boating, or tawdry sex do not bother me - in fact, I revel in the latter. When I'm talking about the lewd and crude, I've found my niche and am completely comfortable.

The bf and I went camping this weekend, and whadya know - I was the only chick there! Save for the female doggy that was limping around on a bum leg, I was the only creature with ovaries in the vicinity of our campground.

At first, this situation was fine. We're all human before we're our gender, am I right? So I smoked, drank, and in general caroused with the guys. While we imbibed Yeungling from a keg and toked our Parliaments, the conversation revolved around general "man" things (nary a discussion about lipsticks and nail polish was to be found. Not that they would have been had the group been comprised of mostly women, but you get my point). As dusk turned into night, the lot of us got drunker, and I took a small stroll around the lake with my dog. Upon my return, I was told by an older fellow that I needed to turn right back around - the conversation being had was not intended for a lady's ears. My boyfriend merely shrugged when I looked to him for instruction, and that was all he had to do - apparently he agreed that I should not be in the midst of whatever chauvinist, sexually-charged dialog they were having.

Being too drunk to produce a witty retort opposing my dismissal, I wandered away from the crowd, my dog in tow. My alcohol-addled mind began to debate what had just happened - I had just let a man talk down to me? I, Ms. Fuck-You-and-the-Misogynist-Horse-You-Rode-in-On, had allowed a dude to treat me like anything less than the autonomous, knowledgeable adult female that I am? Worse than that, my boyfriend didn't defend me, and I should have promptly commenced to making his life miserable for that infraction, yet I didn't! Well, these wrongs certainly had to be righted. I stumbled back over to the group.

"So what, are you guys talking about dirty sexual exploits over here?" My query was dead-on - yep, they were exchanging their most salacious bedroom stories. I knew immediately they were all just bullshitting each other. "Tell me some," I demanded.

"Oh we couldn't," one of the dudes said.

"Why not? I bet I've done filthier, more dastardedly things."

They all guffawed and exchanged curious looks. "Really?"

"Yeah, but I can't share my stories with him around." I jutted a thumb at my bf. "He couldn't handle hearing them." My bf's eyebrows lifted, then furrowed.

"Well he should leave, then!" All the guys were eager for my bf to take a hike. The bf gave me a look that said are you serious? "You should probably go somewhere else for a while," I told him. Taken aback, he did as I and the other dudes told him. That'll teach him not to have my back.

Well now I had to live up to my promise of delivering a sex story so demented it would make Caligula blush. I regaled them with a tale that involved multiple sex partners, but overall the story was a massive fail. They were all so disappointed in my tale and accused me of building up their hopes, but their attitude toward me had shifted - no longer was I a lady in their eyes; I had devolved to their gross male standards, and in this devolution, I found acceptance. Dare I say I had found a home?

Uh, no I do not dare. Because even though my refusal to be silenced (gosh I make telling sex stories sound so righteous!) had allowed me a spot in their male-centric circle, the lewd but fun conversation eventually spiraled into an out-and-out misogynist rant on one guy's part. Not only was it misogynist, but it was downright weird. The booze has fuzzed my memory, but somehow I found myself having a discussion with a man in his 60's, and this man could not keep his mouth shut about how much both of his sisters weighed. He was practically frothing at the mouth because his sisters, according to him, were "fat pigs." When and where is it ever normal to talk to total strangers about your sibling's weight?

At the beginning of the conversation, I thought maybe I could sympathize - maybe his sisters were dangerously obese and he was scared for their health. I asked him how tall they were, and how much they weighed.

"Oh, they're both about 5'11" and weigh like 180." I almost fell over upon hearing this revelation, because if what he said was true (and who knows? He might have been exagerrating their weight so I'd agree with him), this would give his sisters a BMI of 25.1, which is not problematic when you consider that a healthy BMI is between 18.5 and 24.9. Not to mention, his sisters have given birth to two children each!

Why was this douche's hate toward his sisters misogynist, and not just anti-fat? Because his younger brother was at the campground with him, and he was a chunky lard-ass if I ever saw one!

I started to lecture the guy about his ridiculous critique of his sisters, and it quickly escalated into a full-fledged "Gah you old men are so retarded!" tirade, so my boyfriend came over to calm me down. I was kind of wasted at that point, but I don't know if my reaction would have been any different had I been sober.

As I continued to drink, I also continued to talk - not a good combination. As punishment for banishing me in the first place, I made them all listen to my theories on the lives of heterosexual men when their significant others aren't around. I won't detail my theory here - but in a world of Larry Craig's and Mark Foley's, you can guess what it is I think heterosexual men do when the women are shopping or visiting their mothers.

In all, I was able to handle being a lone girl thrown in the mix of 10 straight, old-school, kind of uneducated, perverted guys. But I don't think I'd voluntarily choose such a situation, because seriously old men? You make me weep for the women of your generation who had to put up with your stupid asses.

A few demands for the parents of the world

I like little kids. I think they are cute and smart and fun to talk to. Whenever I see a 3 y/o toddling down the sidewalk, it makes me smile and dream about the day when I will have one of my own.

But lately I've been hardpressed to call upon this fondness when trapped in confined places with children. A recent lunch at a pizzeria had me rolling my eyes and cursing under my breath because I was so annoyed with the little kids sitting next to me. My manners left me - I actually stared the dad in the eye and shot him Angel of Death daggers because his youngins were bothering me so badly.

I left before I had the chance to throw a highchair through the soda cooler, and the walk back to work gave me time to ponder my sudden aversion. Had New York jaded me so? This post is a bit cliche in the fact that nearly every single 20-something living in this town despises children; it's almost a prerequisite to move here. But I soon realized that the kids weren't the problem - it was the fucking parents! So here I am, a single 20-something with no children, detailing what parents should and should not do to make my life easier and more enjoyable.


1. QUIT BADGERING YOUR KIDS

Since when did little kids start getting interrogated like hostile teenagers? Whenever I'm sitting down at a dining establishment and some mom or dad has hauled along their toddler, the parent won't stop talking, when clearly the kid is preoccupied with picking their nose or tearing up a napkin or drawing on the wall or some other innocuous thing in silence. Their child has found something interesting and quiet to do, but the parent drones on and on - "How are you feeling? What do you want to do today? How many juiceboxes did you drink today? Tell me your ABC's -" And the kid says nothing, just concentrates on their activity. But the parent pursues the conversation, and even seems to be taken aback that their child doesn't want to talk to them. God, JUST SHUTUP WOULD YOU? Give your child - and me - a moment of peace.


2. STOP GIVING YOUR KIDS SO MANY OPTIONS

A common misconception in life is that having lots of options is enriching. Sometimes it is, like when choosing a color to paint your nails, but not so much when you repeatedly ask your kid, "What do you want to eat?" within my earshot. I know it's just a pizza parlor, it's not like they have decide what vintage wine would pair best with their glazed duck, but demanding that a 3 y/o choose what toppings they have on their pizza is fucking insane! It's insane because that kid probably doesn't know a pepperoni from a sausage, or a pepper from an onion, and don't swear to me up and down that your child knows "because they are gifted" - they aren't. Maybe they are, but you can't claim that just because one time they pointed to a picture of a mushroom and said, "pizza."

Another reason it is insane is because toddlers don't like any toppings on their pizza; hell, I ate cheese pizza only until I was sixteen years old. So parents please, do us all (me) a favor and order the simplest item for your child, or offer them two choices, both of them simple and common so you won't have to badger your kids them for a decision. This will make for an optimal experience while I am forced to share a public space with your family.


3. CONTROL YOUR GODDAMN CHILDREN

I feel like this complaint is on every list ever written about the problems singles have with other people's kids, but it's always on said lists because the parents have yet to learn.

I was walking my dog from the park one day when a little boy, four-years-old I'd say, ran off his front stoop and followed me around the corner. His mother didn't stop him, so I got worried and slowed down my pace, afraid that he would follow me too far and get lost (it takes a village, people. Oh ha, totally unintended pun!) As the little boy followed, he ran up and started to hit my dog on the back. "Don't do that," I warned, "he doesn't like that." When my dog turned around to see what rude jerk was hitting him, the little boy ran away. But 30 seconds later he was behind me again, this time with a stick in his hand, which he proceeded to hit my dog with. This kid must be the next Jeffrey Dahmer, since he was so obsessed with abusing my dog.

"No, don't do that," I told him, trying not to be a total bitch but at the same time furious that his mother thought it appropriate to let her little freak of nature wreak havoc on me and my dog. My dog turned around, and I didn't hold him back - he lurched at the boy, thus sending him running home. That was the last we saw of him.

Parents: I understand that you think your child is special and that they should be allowed to roam wild so as to find their unique talents. I also know that you believe that we as adults should understand that for a child to fully develop, we need to be understanding when the child throws tantrums at the post office and uses your keys to draw SpongeBob on the side of our car. But what you think is not normal, so your opinion is moot. Therefore, stop raising monsters. I shouldn't have to deal with your uncontrollable child now, and I certainly don't want to pay for your uncontrollable child when he or she ends up in the state pen.

VIP tickets are for suckers

This past Sunday the bf and I went to All Points West, a music festival headlined by Jack Johnson and Radiohead. My bf is friends with the bodyguard of a very famous set of sisters, so he was able to procure us two VIP passes free of charge. When we went to the venue on Sunday and picked up our tickets, we were ecstatic to find the them waiting for us, as if we had hobnobbed with Jack Johnson and his manager ourselves! Maybe that's what was in store for us! Our heads (well, mine) swirled with glitzy thoughts of watching the artists perform ten feet away while standing in the wings of the stage.

But that was not what happened...at all. These VIP tickets, which cost $50 more than the general admission tickets, weren't shit. Or were shit. And here I am to expound the reasons why the extra price is totally not worth the "perks" promised by VIP tickets.

Nevermind that it started raining as soon as we got through the VIP entrance, which had a marginally shorter line than where the general admission peeps waited. Confused as to where the VIP section was, where there was free champagne and hors d' oeuvres waiting for us, we slipped into the nearest beer garden. But it's hard to drink beer while being pelted with globules of water, so we draped ourselves in $2 garbage bags and went in search of the other VIPers. Where WAS the section designated for the elite? Where would we find shelter from the rain while conversating with Cat Power and her roadies? Where would I chat up other celebs partaking in the festival?

We asked a worker where the VIP section was, and he pointed to somewhere in the distance. Our gaze followed his finger...many, many yards away from the stages and festivities sat a remote cluster of tents, closed off from the public.

That doesn't make sense, I thought. Why would the artists trudge all the way from the stage to the far-removed VIP area? I don't even see the tour busses. But we walked over to what we presumed the promised land.

The "promised land," we soon found, consisted of three cramped tents brimming with VIPers seeking shelter from the weather. The few couches alotted were piled with people lounging, bored by being forced to watch the concert from a couple of monitors. In lieu of champagne and hor d'oeuvres, there was a BBQ vendor charging $17 for a pulled pork sandwich and $4 for a 20 oz. bottle of Pepsi. Though it was freezing, a shoddy AC bathed us in chilly air. Because we had arrived to the VIP section late, we were left with no room to sit.

I was shocked. THIS was what an extra $50 afforded you? A few rickety tents with our own food vendor charging exhorbitant prices? Since the tickets were free, I was able to roll with it, but I couldn't help but think what fools the other patrons must have felt like.

I thought maybe the VIP stages would make up for the dismal VIP section, so we waited out the rain, then ventured back to the festival. We came to find that the VIP stages were nothing but an elevated platform roughly 50' x 40' in size, 40 feet back from the stage. And it was packed. At maybe 5 feet higher than the ground, it didn't afford us that much better of a view.

So we watched a bit of Ben Harper's set from the platform, then traipsed back to the VIP area to use the bathroom (I will say, the lines for the toilet were pretty short). We got back to the stage area as Jack Johnson was performing, and the bf wanted to try out the VIP stage again. But just as we approached it, a worker said, "No more! It's full!"

Wha-whaaaat? We, who had presumably paid at total of $140 per ticket for one day of festival, would not even be aloud in the VIP section, which we had presumably paid for?????? My bf was livid - it was total bullshit! That moment effectively jaded us both on VIP ticket-holding; it's for suckers.

Oh and also: the beer system was bogus. It worked like this: There were four beer gardens, removed from the stages, and you could only drink your beer in the garden. Once you presented your ID to the workers, they marked your hand with a purple Sharpie and wrapped an orange band around your wrist with 5 tabs hanging off of it. The 5 tabs signified the five beers you were allowed to drink while at the festival - for every beer you purchased, they ripped off a tab. Once you'd had your five beers (and what beer drinker WOULDN'T imbibe five beers at an all-day festival?), that was it. If you were lucky enough to find a worker sympathetic to your tab-less plight, they would sell you another wristband for $20. Yeah, fucking classy.

But fuck you, greedy festival workers, my bf was sly and found a way around your bullshit rules: He tore his empty wristband off and scrubbed the permanent marker off his hand. When he went to procure another band, the bartender questioned why his skin was raw and red, but with little to prove my bf was putting one over on him, he gave him another band. Still, we had to pay $7 a beer.

Also: the festival workers were ratting out the ganja smokers! I saw one kid get pulled from the crowd and escorted out by 5 state troopers because he was puffing on a joint. I'm not a big mary jane connoisseur, but even I thought the kid was written a bad check. You should feel safer at an outdoor music festival than in your own home to smoke some reefer.

In all, what saved us from being totally pissed off at All Points West was the fact that our tickets were free (and Jack Johnson's set was wonderful). But when it comes to my own money, I will never buy VIP tickets, and I will never go to the APW festival again. Festivals are nothing but corporate greed these days, anyhow. I wish it was 1969 so I could go to Woodstock and roll around in the mud with hippies.

Though your music is brilliant, your greed is ruining my fond memories!

"How much money does Led Zeppelin need that people imagine a shitty car whizzing by when they hear their songs?" - Trent Reznor

Ok, that's not an exact quote, it's the gist of what I remember reading in a 2002 issue of Rolling Stone. It was such a funny and poignant comment that I remembered it six years later, and I wanted to use it for this post, even if I am committing some form of libel.

Because I am cheap and poor, I still use an old-school iPod shuffle, these days available for $20 bucks in the Apple store bargain bin. But what it lacks in size it makes up for in size (memory vs. weight, sillies!) Also, without a screen to tell me what song is playing, every song is like a fresh, Christmas-morn gift. Morose Beck followed by groovy Dead is like bawling your eyes out at a good movie, and immediately afterwards seeing a skateboarder crack his nuts on a guardrail.

So my iPod constantly surprises me with music that I unintentionally uploaded to it. This was the case with INXS's "New Sensation," a poppy tune from a much-loved 80's band. When it played on my iPod today, I was at first elated and energized, but the feeling quickly left me - instead of imagining Michael Hutchence's beautiful visage crooning the lyrics, all I could think about was a fucking Bally's commercial.

People sweating on stair-steppers, be-spandexed trainers giving the thumbs-up, and lots of close-ups on abnormally taut abs - ahhhh! The image was more visceral than the actual music video. I had to skip the song; listening to it was actually churning my stomach.

And what a fucking shame. When I was little, my mother's greatest loves were cleaning the house and jamming out to INXS (my father could rot with his tools for all she cared). So we'd grab the mop buckets, crank up the stereo, and let the rockin' songs of INXS guide our soapy rags over the messy counter and dusty bookshelves. Maybe not a noteable memory to some, but an important one to me.

But now that's all been overshadowed by the Bally commercial and INXS's filthy greed. Why'd you do it, INXS? Hutchence has been dead for several years now, so he had nothing to do with the leasing of your rights - would it have never happened if he were still alive?

INXS isn't the only perpetrator to grant some corporate conglomerate the rights to their songs. Here's is a list I compiled SANS INTERNET SEARCH:

The Cars, "Just What I Needed" - granted rights to Circuit City
Heart, "Barracuda" - some car company that's shilling a van
Whoever sang "Fly Like an Eagle" (The Eagles?), "Fly Like an Eagle" - US Postal Service
Led Zeppelin, "Whole Lotta Love" - some car company

Hmmm, can't think of anymore off the top of my head. But there's more, I tell ya!

It's different, though, if a band leases rights to a movie; it doesn't bother me a bit. I guess that's because I regard movies as works of art, and the music is there to stylize the art, not convince me to waste my money on a crappy product...even though movie studios are just as guilty of trying to sell me crap. Hum...

Then again, I have loved - and actually bought - music that I heard from a commercial, like The Greenskeepers "Vagabond," the song used to promote the Liberty City Grand Theft Auto game. Boo-urns to this whole argument - I'm more contradictory than McCain, or the Bible.

Should I just forgive these aging artists for allowing companies to prey upon consumers with their music? Ok, I forgive you, but it doesn't change the fact that when I hear your commercialized tunes on the radio or iPod, I opt not to listen; in fact, I get soured on the other songs in your library, too.

Can someone explain the mechanics of oatmeal to me?

The other night I decided to have some honeynut oatmeal for dinner.

After dumping one packet in a bowl, it was apparent that one packet would not suffice. So I poured in another.

The cooking instructions called for 2/3 cup of milk (or water, if you're lame). Now it didn't say 2/3 cup per packet, but it seemed obvious that if you were making two packets of oatmeal, then you'd double the necessary ingredients labeled on the package.


2/3 cup + 2/3 cup = 4/3 cup, or 1 and 1/3 cup. Right? I'm no Pythagoras, but basic fractions are not beyond me. So I poured in just one full cup of milk, since I like my oatmeal thick, and popped it in the microwave.

What I was presented with when the mike timer sounded was a soupy mess akin to pig slop.

I mean, I still ate it - I'm not the most discerning when it comes to what goes in my mouth (That's what she said! - hey-o! - ba-dum-ba!) - but wtf? My homemaker skills are bad enough as it is without Quaker Oats giving me shitty cooking directions.

All my life I've been told to use common sense, even after people (my mom) told me I have none. My common sense told me to double the amount of milk if I was making two packets. But that was wrong.



Do I have horrible logic, or is Quaker Oats run by nazis? My common sense is telling me there's truth in the latter part of that statement.

If I don't blog again in four days, call the cops!

So tonight is the night.

After work, I will briefly visit my boyfriend at his apartment, maybe even have dinner with him.

Then I will go to my apartment, and ask the roomie if we can have a chat.

Then it will be said: "Roomie, I am moving out in January."

!!!

Actually, I'm probably making a bigger deal out of this than I should be. I'm starting to psyche myself out. This is in no way a big deal...unless he ends up having some sort of nervous breakdown, which, knowing my roommate, there's a 75% of that happening.

I'll try to take pictures so as to best capture the moment then blog about it. No, I'm kidding.

But I will tell you all what happens (so long as he doesn't murder me when I tell him the news).

Keep me in your Thoughts and Prayers, folks!

The Yard: Epicenter of Hipsterdom

I've been a bad blogger. To the five of you who selflessly humor me by reading my site, please accept my heartfelt apology. You see, I've been busy. And even a little lacking in inspiration. I think of about 20 different things to blog every day, but after giving said ideas a little thought, I realize that no one really wants to read about the inane minutia that I encounter.

But I think I've found something that will forever haunt me if it's not written in a cohesive thought, hence...to the blog cave! (Quite an accurate description of my room, I must say).

I went to a show at The Yard this past Saturday, and partook in the enjoyment of some indie rock, drank PBRs (I wasn't trying to be ironic, it was the only cheap beer they had), and gnashed on some chicken burritos. Also...I WAS SURROUNDED BY HIPSTERS.

Some of you may be wondering what a hipster is...how to explain? As my friend Aaron once put it, a hipster is someone who pays a lot of money to look like a homeless person. Here is the definition I lifted from Urban Dictionary.

Hipster:

Listens to bands that you have never heard of. Has hairstyle that can only be described as "complicated." (Most likely achieved by a minimum of one week not washing it.) Probably tattooed. Maybe gay. Definitely cooler than you. Reads Black Book, Nylon, and the Styles section of the New York Times. Drinks Pabst Blue Ribbon. Often. Complains. Always denies being a hipster. Hates the word. Probably living off parents money - and spends a great deal of it to look like they don't have any. Has friends and/or self cut hair. Dyes it frequently (black, white-blonde, etc. and until scalp bleeds). Has a closet full of clothing but usually wears same three things OVER AND OVER (most likely very tight black pants, scarf, and ironic tee-shirt). Chips off nail polish artfully after $50 manicure. Sleeps with everyone and talks about it at great volume in crowded coffee shops. Addicted to coffee, cigarettes (Parliaments, Kamel Reds, Lucky Strikes, etc.), and possibly cocaine. Claims to be in a band. Rehearsals consist of choosing outfits for next show and drinking PBR. Always on the list. Majors or majored in art, writing, or queer studies. Name-drops. May go by "Penny Lane," "Eleanor Rigby," etc. when drunk. On PBR

A lot of people in these parts, who aren't hipsters, don't really like hipsters. When I first moved to NY, I didn't get all the hipster hate - so what if they dress differently? Who cares if they are pretentious and parade around posing as "artists"? Hipster-haters complain that they drive up rents here in the city, thus driving out lifelong residents while they laligag and let dad pay the rent. But, after attending The Yard this past weekend, I have realized there is more to it. These hipsters are kind of a bane on society and give hard-working, honest kids like myself a bad name. Allow me to explain.

First off, I didn't realize what I was in for before the show. As my bf and I drove to the venue in Park Slope, I noticed many many bikes chained to fences and street signs. "Wow, it feels like we're in Williamsburg," I noted. For anyone unfamiliar with Williamsburg, Brooklyn, the streets are INUNDATED with bikes and the hipsters that own them. Chrome litters the sidewalk in that neighborhood, and it's like you are walking in a scrap yard, and the bikes are all consumed in this metal-painted orgy, piled on top of each other and toppling into the streets, prepared to ruin some innocent driver's day.

So the bikes were upon us, strangling the street signs and fledgling baby trees with their chains. At the entrance, the attendant stamped the insides of our wrists. Why the insides of our wrists as opposed to the backs of our hands, I don't know, but I have realized that there is a good reason to stamp the back of the hand instead - because the ink can't get all over your skin and clothing as easily. Seriously hipsters, I don't know if you were trying to be ironic with the wrist stamping, but by the end of the night the ink had smeared on my legs and skirt. Tools.

When we made it inside, it soon became apparent that the bf and I were out of our element. A thick stench of B.O. hung on the air. Boys clad in scummy keds and green socks crept around with PBRs in hand. Girls stood hostile behind their bug-eye sunglasses and high-waisted shorts. In general, the crowd was just one giant ball of smell and ugly, of self-importance and hypocrisy.

The bf and I, who are by nature warm-hearted and open, realized that we would be making no friends there, and that is my general complaint after going to this show Saturday night. It's not like we were expecting to become best friends with anyone, but when I ask if this is the line for beer, I'd appreciate more than a grunt for response. If you bump into me, I'd like it if you could just look me in the eye and acknowledge that accidents happen, instead of shooting me a loathsome look. Get off your high-horse and ditch the "tortured artist" attitude, because if your idea of personal style is any reflection on your "art," whatever you "create" is ordinary and copied, thus you have no more cultural significance than I do.

And more on the hipster "personal" "style" - never have I seen so many tattered, threadbare and mismatched outfits in all my life. My bf compared many of the girls to Laura Ingalls and Little Orphan Annie because their dresses were literally disintegrating. It's all part of the hipster schtick to look like a poor and starving artist, but the jig is up when you are seen chatting away on your BlackBerry Pearl. There was even a girl decked out in a majorette uniform, complete with a coiffed camel toe. Um, let me just say this - I used to be a majorette and I was forced to strap myself in those lycra jumpsuits throughout high school...and it sucked. The uniform was uncomfortable and unflattering, and the fact that you, girly, voluntarily wore that ridiculous outfit makes a mockery of the suffering endured by all the poor majorette girls in the world.

As for the guys, their hairdos and beards were perfectly greased and uncombed, and their socks evinced all the colors of the rainbow - observe:



















We made it out alive, in no small part due to the many beers we imbibed, but I am still thanking my lucky stars that I don't live in Williamsburg (though I'm sure the infestation will take over Bay Ridge by the year 2012).

Oh, and more bonus pics of moi and the crowd:

For more anthropological studies on hipsters, visit www.diehipster.com

The voices in my head commanded me to write this post

I can't really think of anything cohesive to write at the moment, but I don't want to let the blog go another day without posting...so I'm just going to write a bunch of random shit I've been thinking. You can do the same in the comments.

- I quit smoking, or rather, I have gone all of today without smoking, not because I resolved to quit but because I was too lazy to take my ass to the store to buy some. Well. Maybe the fact that my laziness trumped my addiction is a good sign.

- omigod I have to wake up at 5:15 am to take my roommate to the airport. Gah! He's so fucking cheap, I know he has the $30 to get a cab to the airport, but he still had the gall to ask me to drive him. Eh, small price to pay for one blissful week without him. I am going to walk around naked every day until he returns.

- speaking of the roommate, it's getting to that time when I need to tell him I'm moving out. How will I do this? What will be his reaction? I kind of hope he reacts badly, because it will give me an excuse to be a raging bitch and let loose bottled resentments.

- sometimes I wonder if I hate men. I'm talking vehement hate - I hate religion, but really, I can chalk up that loathing to a hate for men. I don't want to hate men, namely because I like having sex with them. But wow, so much heartache and pain in this world comes from their hands.

- I have been afflicted by some serious stomach problems lately, and when I started thinking about it, I realized that I have had stomach problems for quite some time now. Do you think I have ABS? Or Crohn's disease? (Sidenote: I once f'ed a guy who had Crohn's and he was soooooo annoying, and partly a psycho. I hope psychosis isn't a side effect of the disease).

- Ugh, I did E again the other night and I'm done. At my bf's prodding we did too much (again), and though the recovery wasn't as bad as last time, I DO kind of feel stupider after taking it. Maybe that's because someone warned me of the ramifications of Ecstasy...? If I do it anymore, I'm sure I will become a vegetable, and that's pretty much the worst thing that could ever happen to me.

Remember when you read this blog post? Those were good times, man

I Love the New Millennium is playing on VH1 as I type this, and I have to say, it really fucking blows.

VH1 really couldn't wait another 1.5 years for the decade to be over? (I know, technically the decade wouldn't be over until 2011, but the rules of time aren't recognized by VH1) Just saying, I would find I Love the New Millennium infinitely more interesting if I wasn't living in the same decade that is being profiled.

It's a shame that they have ruined my inevitable nostalgia for the early millennial years. Even though the talking heads can get annoying, I have thoroughly enjoyed watching Michael Ian Black, Hal Sparks, and the various other I Love commentators regale me with tales about the 70's, 80's and 90's - omg it was all so crazy, fun and kitschy! Sure, there might have been wars, riots and drug epidemics happening throughout the latter part of the 20th century, but when Michael Ian Black talks about "new-fangled" inventions, like Post-Its, I'm in awe of just how easy the peeps of yore were entertained by something so simple and stupid. OMFG, people back when must have been retarded! Not like us millennial geniuses who have made Flavor Flav and Paris Hilton national icons.

No, I kid. But it is interesting to experience the pop culture your parents did when they were growing up, and it's fun to revisit events that happened when you were a wee child so you can go, "Hey, I vaguely remember that! Wasn't Uncle Harold super-pissed about that New Coke stuff?"

But I Love the New Millennium takes a look back on stuff that happened, like, two hours ago. Their witty commentary falls flat when they discuss American Idol because how in the fuck can you wax nostalgic about something that is still on the air and viewed by millions of people? You can't really make any "historical" opinions about it because you don't know its fate. People might say "Wait a second Marcie! People wax nostalgic about SNL all the time" but the vast difference there is that SNL has been on for 30 years and launched many a career, as well as many an untimely death. It is steeped in much lore and wonderment. American Idol needs time to mature, its contestants need time to succumb to debilitating drug use and/or a gay sex scandal before we can look back on it and determine what its existence says about that time in American culture.

I Love the New Millennium is a show I could have enjoyed if they made it, say, in 2012. But to watch it now is stupid. And since HBO On Demand can't seem to get its act together and make that Polanski film available, I'm going to keep watching it since there is nothing better on, and its easier to zone out than read a book.

I am the problem in America after all. Yikes.

Hey look - a roommate-bashing diatribe!

This is a post I've been hesitant to write, though the urge to write it has hit me many, many times. Before, my reluctance was out of an unsaid loyalty, a respect to not air the dirty laundry of the people you know, especially the people you live with. The sheer fact that you share a household with someone makes you privy to private aspects of their lives, and if you have any morals (or sense of karma), you refrain from telling the rest of the world about their bathroom habits and annoying foibles.

But my fuse is burnt. My roommate has gotten on my last nerve, and I need to vent, despite the fact that people who know him may or may not read this. Despite the fact that he might read this.

Let me preface by saying that he has blogged very private things about my life on his livejournal. Things about my sex life, and although these walls are thin, I expected a little more respect for my personal life. His blogging wouldn't have been so bad if it wasn't being read by people that know me. Furthermore, though I don't know for a fact, I'm 99% sure he still blogs private things about my life on his livejournal - only now, he's smarter than to let it slip that he has been busy publicly writing all the dirty details that I prefer kept private.

Thus, I feel entitled to vent in a very public forum.

So picture Dom Deluise, but not as funny. Now forget anything cool and delightful you know about Dom Deluise, and imagine he is awkward. And weird to be around. And so socially inept it KILLS YOU to be out in public with him. There you have my roommate, and it is no joke that just going to grab a beer with the guy will make you want to gag yourself on 30 shots of vodka; you almost have to just to tolerate his presence. It used to be that, when I'd venture out with him, I worried how others would react to his non-sequitirs, his ill-informed yet strong opinions, his tendency to comment on conversations that he wasn't even a part of in the first place. But now, I just ignore him, as do most of the other regulars at the local bars. My roommate is a weirdo; just chalk him up to that.

When I first lived with him, I tried not to get down about the situation. At least he pays his bills and rent, I thought. At least he knows better than to lay a hand on me, because I'd bash his fuckin skull in. Though in the beginning his crush on me was palpable, his romantic affection for me waned; after about 5 months of living together, it finally felt like we were really becoming friends, and the giant elephant that was his crush evaporated.

But everything I have ignored, all his quirks, his awkwardness, his cheapness, his ability to mooch off his mom while simultaneously despising her, his unwarranted touching (not as weird as it may sound, but still), his laziness, his arrogance, his talk of doing great things with his life
yet sitting on his ass playing video games and watching anime, his rudeness toward my boyfriend, and most of all, HIS SENSE OF ENTITLEMENT - it has all come to a head.

What has set it off requires another long and involved story, so I'm not going to get into it. I will sum it up as this:

The lease for our apartment requires us to pay our gas bill separately. In two winter months, the bill reaches $750 (the rent is $1500). After a huge hassle, we discovered our bill is so high because the boiler is severely outdated. We asked the landlord to compensate us, and he refused.

Ok, so folks, what would you do in this situation? You've found out you're not at fault for the high gas bill, and that in fact your landlord has been scamming you. Get pissed? Sure. Get a lawyer? Quite possibly. Bitch to anyone who will listen? I totally recommend it.

But, above all, the one thing you would do that makes perfect sense, is move. You. Would. MOVE!!!! And you know better the second time around, when looking for apartments, to ask for a two-year record of all the utility bills.

Yesterday we got our gas bill. Only $100, but still high when you consider the fact that we don't even have the heat turned on. My roommate and I commiserated over it, then I said, "There's no way we can live here next year."

"Why not?" my roommate asked.

"Because we can't afford the gas bill," I replied, rather feeling like I was speaking to a retard. "And I don't want your mom taking care of the $1700 balance like last time." (Yeah, that happened)

"Well we don't have the choice to move," he said.

"Umm, why not?"

"Well because," he mumbled, trying to think of a fake reason. "The landlord already replaced the boiler. Now all he has to do is fix the plumbing."

Digression: The landlord did not replace the boiler, and do you know how long it will take to replace the ancient plumbing? Months, and it would require us to vacate the apartment in that time. Not gonna happen.

"Also," my roomie continued,"I just don't feel like moving."

You fat, lazy, mommy-mooching piece of shit. Maybe you like your mom paying your credit card bills, car loan, and insurance payment, but I wasn't raised that way. Yes, it will be a pain in your dimpled ass to haul your shit and move, but when you consider the fact that your mommy will hire you movers and the most you'll have to lift is your ass from the couch, why in the fuck are you reticent?

My roommate is the reason I'm glad I grew up poor. I know the value of a dollar, and I know that the worst thing to take for granted is that life is easy. Life is not easy. Your normal, day-to-day, just-trying-to-survive life is not easy. Shit is going to fly at you, and you will moan and groan and go why do I have to deal with this? But you deal with it because you don't have money to throw at it, and you deal with it because you know it's the right thing to do.

It's not right that our landlord is scamming us, yet my roomie lacks the sense of pride that makes me want to move. I don't like being scammed, and I HATE the fact that his mother, though fairly rich, paid our fucking gas bill. But the roomie is fine with this set-up. Whatever you pussy piece of shit, go read some manga and jerk-off to Sailor Moon.

But hey, happy ending: I've decided to move in with my boyfriend! Let me make it clear, I'd been wanting to move in with him for a while, and not because I can't stand my roommate, but because I love him and want to make a life with him. So yay for me!

I'm sure my roomie will be fine - his mom will cover my share of the rent.