then we made out

People make everything worse

2007-04-07T21:49:00.000-07:00

To the smelly old man and his insufferable and very talkative companion tonight at 'The Wind that Shakes the Barley'. Fuck you. Frankly, I do not care if you understand what is going on in the film. If you are not capable of deciphering an Irish accent, or following the plot of a historical film, that's embarrassing. Which is why I'm confused as to why you wouldn't shut the fuck up about it. If I were on a date and had no idea what was going on, I would watch silently and quietly agree with my date's opinions, hoping he didn't ask me to contribute lest he realize what a fucking moron I am. And I would create this deception ONCE THE FILM WAS OVER. During the film? Not such a hot idea.

Moreover, when you spend such a large amount of time during said film unable to follow along, the last term you should be using to describe it upon getting up from your seat is sophomoric. Really? Sophomoric? I'll show you sophomoric as I 'accidentally' stretch my leg as you are passing me and watch you fall flat on your ugly fucking face. And then laugh. Really, really hard. That is sophomoric. The beautiful and incredibly disturbing film you spent two hours ruining? Not sophomoric by a long shot.

It's a wonder the feisty gay man to your left didn't clock you. He certainly joined the chorus when we were bitching about you once you'd left. I wonder if you realize how much everyone hates you. Probably not, because you are making out with your date, the man with a mouth that smells like rotting dentures, which I know even from sitting two seats away. Enjoy. Sounds delightful.

I don't like to make a scene and create an uncomfortable situation for all the people in the theater who aren't subjected to your inane commentary. Thus after politely asking for you to shut your pie hole, I shut mine. I realize now that maybe I shouldn't have. Maybe I should have told you that if you didn't cease and desist immediately I was going to get the usher and have you thrown out. Or I should have asked you to give me $11 on your way out to make up for you crapping on my movie night. I realize any or all of these would have been viable options, and next time I won't be afraid to use them. So watch out. I am well aware that stupidity is everywhere, and I've reached the end of my rope.

Bat, Balls and Dugout

2007-03-24T17:12:00.000-07:00

I was privy to a debate last night that involved discussing the merits of hair removal in the male nether regions. At the heart of this issue was whether to do the "bat, balls and dugout". The consensus among the men involved was bat and balls: no, dugout: yes. This surprised me. I always thought the idea was the less hair, the bigger everything looked. But it turns out the guys think bare balls make them feel, and look, like 8 year-olds.

Which brings me to a very important point.

Not having hair on your hoo-ha is unnatural. For men or women. The expectation that women should groom themselves to look like pre-adolescents, in some ungodly union with the porn star aesthetic, is ridiculous. Groom away--trim, shave, maintain. But bald is weird, and has always been a double standard. The argument men like to make is that hair gets in the way. Well then, wax your sac. Oh, that sounds unpleasant? Welcome to the club. If I have to deal with your short and curlies, you have to deal with mine.

There are plenty of things women have to do already to spare men the reality that we are human. In fact, it seems to be a sentiment at the heart of the entire beauty industry. Cellulite does not exist. Dark circles under the eyes? Forget it. Pouty lips, no underwear lines, padded bras, corsets, high heels. All an effort to disguise if not outright deny the existence of limp hair, a bad complexion, or a flat chest. To be fair, we still judge men on many levels, but, judging based on physical qualities is not something immediately available to us. (Read: it's easier to tell what a woman's body looks like under her clothes than a man's. Don't think you're the only one who's been in for an unfortunate surprise).

So please, please, before we all become freaky, plasticized versions of humans, devoid of hair, sweat, and imperfections, let's not peer pressure each other into painful and unpleasant hair removal for no reason. Unless you're ready to go bat, balls, and dugout. You should think long and hard: is that what you really want?

The Backlash Rule

2007-03-08T19:40:00.000-08:00

I'm listening to the new Arcade Fire album. OK I KNOW. Apparently that makes me one of the mindless drooling hipsters who can't tell their heads from their asses and insist the Velvet Underground were "very influential" in their decision to become an artist. For the record, I don't really like the Velvet Underground (now I'm REALLY a fake hipster) and secondly, fuck you.

I would like, once and for all, to say that just because a band is popular doesn't make it shitty. Coldplay used to be good. I admit their most recent album really sucked, BUT I saw them live a few years back, and unless you have a shriveled, blackened heart, they are fun live. The Coldplay phenomenon sort of happened to Snow Patrol too. Two years ago they were so on the edge, and now because VH1 decided to play that video where the guy is laying down all over the place every five minutes, they are the epitome of uncool.

Arcade Fire may have tickets on Craigslist going for $200, but so what? Those fuckers are energetic if nothing else. There are like 14 of them, and they jump around and hit each other in the head, and the lead singer sort of looks like a cross between Michael Pitt and Billy Corgan with hair, and they're French Canadian. So there.

The backlash rule is very well documented. Small group of totally edgy 20-somethings find a new band to love. Band plays a few shows in random, shitty venues, and gets a bit of a following. Band plays slightly larger shitty venue, which sells out in nanoseconds. Suddenly promoters see they have something to exploit. Word spreads. Other, slightly less edgy 20-somethings begin claiming they listened to the band "back then". Pretty soon the lead singer is dolled up on the cover of Rolling Stone and they are officially NOT HIP anymore. I'm surprised the cover story on SPIN didn't ruin TV on the Radio's street cred, but I think their music is just bizarre enough that they'll never be totally popular to the masses.

Anyway. Since we all recognize this backlash rule, can we just let it go? I want to be able to admit I like Arcade Fire in a room full of people and not have someone with an asymmetrical haircut roll their eyes at me. Actually, nevermind. I don't really care what people with asymmetrical haircuts think. They can roll their eyes. Whatever. But my point is, I guess, I like some bands that may be considered uncool these days. And instead of lament the day I graduated college and began the slow decline into cultural irrelevancy, I can rejoice in the knowledge that I graduated college at all and don't live in some converted loft, pretending like my giant, drafty windows and lack of a proper bathroom somehow give me legitimacy.

Even though it's been totally obvious since childhood, I am officially coming out of the closet as slightly uncool and it feels SO GOOD to finally stop living a lie.

Open Letter to the MTA

2007-03-06T11:23:00.000-08:00

Dear MTA,

Not cool.

I took four trains to get to work today. This makes no sense. Ok, I’ll admit, I was running a little late to begin with. But when, at Bergen Street, you turned my F train into a G train, that was not okay. Then, after waiting on the platform with about 1,000 other disgruntled people for another F train, you turned that one into a G too. Then I got angry. At that point I’m thinking, “Do I join the other angry people on the platform again, or do I stay on this train one stop and transfer to the A?” Because as you know, the G train, if you’re trying to get to Manhattan for work, DOES NO GOOD. And if two F trains in a row are re-routed, it stands to reason that maybe, just maybe, ALL F trains are going to be re-routed for the foreseeable future. And then I really would’ve been fucked. Had I known this was not the case, perhaps I would have made a different decision about staying on that God-forsaken G train, transferring to the C after one stop, and then transferring back onto the F train again. Because that’s what I did. And it sucked.

I usually love you, MTA. Despite the fact that you house rats, crazies, and other unmentionables, you are useful to me.

That is why it pains me so when you do this to me so unexpectedly. All I need is a little communication and we’ll get through this. Even when you screw me on weekend travel, there are signs posted (most of the time) that warn me in advance. Or if it’s really important, I can check online. When you pull this right in the middle of my commute, I’m up shit creek without a paddle, and after spending over an hour with you, I become homicidal. This benefits no one.

For your sake and the sake of all your other loyal passengers, I hope this is the last time we need to have this talk. I’m counting on you. Please don’t let me down.

Love,
Passenger # 2,876,541

Hooking Up is Hard to Do

2007-03-02T11:24:00.000-08:00

“Unhooked: How Young Women Pursue Sex, Delay Love and Lose at Both” is a book by Laura Sessions Stepp that I have not read. Thus, I will not comment on its contents specifically, but rather the apparent themes within it according to a NY Times article published yesterday.

The issue at hand is whether “hooking up” is a good thing for women emotionally. Whether, in an effort to “liberate” ourselves, we are really playing right into men’s hands, giving them sex too readily and depriving ourselves of the ability to have fulfilling emotional relationships.

According to the Times article, Step asserts that “This culture of sexual aggression…often leaves young women physically and emotionally unsatisfied. It leads them to gamble with their health. And by never taking the time to get to know and care about one man…young women may be rendering themselves incapable of forging stable, loving relationships.” Couldn’t the same be said for men?

Although women may be the “sexual gatekeepers,” it takes two to be emotionally willing to enter into a more complex romantic relationship. (Just because a woman says “I’m ready for more” doesn’t mean she will find the man to give her that). Sometimes the choice for women (particularly in an urban dating environment, when everyone feels the “grass is greener,” because of the sheer number of people around) becomes hookups or nothing. Is women’s willingness to buy into the hookup culture partially due to men’s general reluctance to be equal partners in serious relationships? Or is it because we are too picky? In a culture where women have supposedly been sexually liberated, it seems unfair to deprive ourselves of physical pleasure merely because we cannot find someone with whom we want to spend the rest of our lives.

There is of course middle ground between celibacy and just hookups. But try being a woman with remotely high intellectual and physical standards, who enjoys sex, and suddenly hookups don’t seem like such a bad idea. And let the record show that sometimes hookups lead to relationships—healthy, loving relationships.

Perhaps it is a larger cultural problem: now that we can openly have sex outside of the walls of marriage, we wonder, why buy the cow? Or, perhaps the expectation of love = good sex has been shattered too many times to make us believe in it anymore. And why subject oneself to the pain of loving someone and finding out that you don’t fit together in that (arguably) most important way? I think we can all agree that no healthy relationship is built on sexual indifference.

Regardless, I don’t think hookup culture is going to go away. So how do we learn to live within it, enjoy ourselves, but also leave open the possibility of something more?

Praying for No Rain

2007-03-01T13:25:00.000-08:00

Praying for no rain is a lot harder to do when you don’t believe in God.

I suppose you could be saying, “isn’t praying for anything a lot harder if there’s no God?” Well, yes, technically. But weather is one of the few things in life we have no immediate control over, and were you wishing for weather-related intervention, it would have to be divine. I’m not talking about global climate change obvs, just things like avoiding ill-timed torrential downpours (no! I just straightened my hair!) or the vain hope for snow days when you haven’t done your homework.

Come to think of it, even if there were a God, I think it would be hard to convince Him that it was worth working up a snowstorm to save your sorry ass from a test, or your stupid shoes from the rain. Given the amount of global famine, disease, civil unrest, domestic violence, child molestation, animal cruelty, homelessness, unemployment, racism, sexism, ageism, crap TV shows, snuff films, and Jessica Simpson, you’d think He’d be a little too busy to listen to your stupid fucking wish.

In fact, I would hope that if there were a God, and you had the balls to ask Him for a snow day, that he would smite you for being a sniveling little brat. Stop whining already.

But the more I think about it, the more that list comes to mind and I start to feel a little less sympathetic toward this God who may or may not be listening to all your meaningless prayers. So what is the deal with all that suffering, anyway? Is God just really lazy? Are you telling me that every single one of the people going through those things has somehow sinned enough to deserve it? Ohhhh, you’re saying humans are too stupid to understand God’s will. I get it. That makes PERFECT sense.

While you all wait around to die and find out the truth once and for all, I guess I’ll just pack my umbrella.

The Roommate Search: A True Indication of Karma

2007-02-27T14:34:00.000-08:00

For anyone who has ever looked for roommates or needed a room in New York City, a mention of Craigslist can cause a reaction not unlike that of a Vietnam vet hearing a car backfire. Anyone who has had completely painless experiences with Craigslist are either lying, insane, or a reincarnation of Ghandi or Mother Theresa and have enough good karma to last forever.

Some pieces of advice for those searching for either place or person (hopefully no one is searching for “thing”):

1) Make your ad awesome. If people read “$640 pad in willyburg avail 3/1 or asap heat hot water included cozy bedroom with cool roomies” they will respond in kind. If you receive a ton of abbreviated, incoherent e-mails, there is no way to weed anyone out. And you do not want the crazies knowing your real address.

2) Make your response awesome. If someone went to the trouble of putting up a well-crafted (for Cragislist) posting, do not insult them with “sounds awesome can i come 2mrw?” You will not hear back from anyone sane, and you will be homeless.

3) The internet is your friend. If full names are included, do not feel bad about internet-stalking people. Even if their name is not included, you can use e-mail to search in MySpace, Frienster, Facebook, etc. It’s free, it takes five seconds, and it immediately helps you eliminate people who include “Linkin Park” on their favorite bands section.

4) Know the Code. “Cozy” = small. “Safe neighborhood” = You might get shot. “Clinton Hill” = Bed Stuy. “South Park Slope” = 4th Avenue and 23rd Street. “Close to Express Train” = Coney Island. “Fun Roommates” = Coke heads. “Affordable” = Shitty.

5) Do not hold open houses. Regardless of whether you think it will be more convenient, schedule appointments. There is nothing more awkward than having 13 people in your apartment who, unless they impress you, will be without a home in 3 weeks. As they leave they will vigorously shake your hand, saying THANK YOU I JUST WANT TO LET YOU KNOW I LOVE THIS PLACE AND AM READY TO TAKE IT TOMORROW. Scary.

6) Don’t choose/move in with roommates you’re sexually attracted to. You are asking for trouble.

This is merely the tip of the iceberg, but with common sense, gumption, and a little luck, you too can use Craigslist to help you live with strangers who hopefully will not harbor fugitives in your living room.

A Little Piece of Hipster Heaven: French Kicks play Union Hall

2007-02-23T20:53:00.000-08:00

Union Hall. Bocce. Beer. Books. Bands. And lots and lots of hipsters.

What a perfect evening. Firstly, trekking 25 minutes in sub-zero temperatures is a joy. I can't feel my legs when I get there, but that's usually what alcohol's for, so tonight I'm just being more efficient. Besides, the large plate of pasta I've just eaten has pretty much guaranteed that no amount of beer will get me drunk. I resign myself to an evening of sober entertainment, surrounded by drunk morons. I am not disappointed.

The space at Union Hall is tiny. It's pretty much like seeing a band in someone's basement, because it is a basement and the decor is reminiscent of your creepy uncle's house, only you know, in an ironic way. My friend and I get downstairs before the big rush, and manage to claim a piece of real estate front and center, which, once people start pouring in, becomes smaller and smaller and closer and closer to the monitors. Add to this the fact that the stage is about .5 inches off the floor, and we are practically part of the act, for better or worse.

It's time. Opening band. A scary moment. Knowing you may be subjected to an entire 45 minutes of horrid, derivative crap. But lo and behold, the band is actually good. Very good, in fact. White Rabbits is their name and you should check them out if you know what's good for you. Their set ends and at this point my lower back hurts and I realize I am an old woman. Also, welcome to the sweet sensation of permanent hearing loss.

Despite this and the fact that I've had to bundle my 17 layers of clothing and essentially stand on them, things are going well. Then the crowd becomes denser and I begin to realize there is a trifecta of evil surrounding us. To our left: obligatory awkward sexually confused trio. It is clear immediately they will be dancers. Combined, their body mass probably quadruples that of mine and my friend's. This is a bad sign.

Bad sign #2: Another trio behind us. "omigod! look at this picture! I took it yesterday!!!" screeches a voice. A girl is walking her friends through all the photos on her camera phone. Scintillating, I'm sure. Her friends nod enthusiastically as she continues in the loudest voice I've ever heard. When you remember that I have already suffered a great deal of hearing loss, you will understand the magnitude of this situation.

The worst is yet to come. To my right is a duo. Breasts hanging out. Tacky, synthetic tops, purchased for "going out". Bad hair. Dark brown lipstick. The works. And we have another loud talker. Ok, maybe she isn't so much loud as speaking at an octave that manages to cut through the music they're piping through the sound system and go directly into my brain. I cannot figure what they are doing here besides trying to ruin my night.

As I am about to punch someone (I can't decide who is more annoying, the loud talker behind me or the total trian wrecks to my right), the French Kicks come on stage. The lead singer is 8 feet tall. I am not kidding. Dude is fucking huge. And he is standing directly in front of me. My face is essentially navel-height. He towers. I am slightly frightened. We make eye contact once and it's so awkward because of our physical proximity that he looks out over the crowd and never down at us in the front ever again. It is really hot down there. They play some awesome songs. 11:30 curfew rolls around (what? curfew? really? not cool, Union Hall) and they have to stop playing, anticlimactically. The big girl from our left grabs the set list that is directly in front of me, so I lean over and grab the one at the side of the stage. Yes! Set list!

After squeezing past the now insane crowd of more and more hipsters upstairs (cute boys! they are wearing glasses! their hair is mussed!) we go outside and immediately realize it is now not only sub-zero, it's fucking windy and oh yeah, it's really annoying catching a cab in Brooklyn. Somehow I manage it and here I am. I think I'm listening to music on my computer, but I'm not sure. I don't remember Beethoven sounding so much like a high-pitched whine...

Maria Sharipova Not Only Woman on Tennis Tour

2007-02-22T07:56:00.000-08:00

WIMBLEDON, ENGLAND, Feb. 21 – In a shocking announcement today, the All England Club has revealed that it will now pay women the same amount as men in Wimbledon prize money. This came as a surprise to much of the casual tennis-watching populous, as most Americans believed Maria Sharipova to be the only player on the Women’s tour. “She’s in them ‘Power Shot’ commercials,” commented one man from Texas. “I’d like to give her a ‘Power Shot.’ Heh heh heh.” President Bush then glanced around to see whether the First Lady had heard him, and hurried away from the baffled reporters gathered on the White House lawn, who had been expecting an update on Operation Shitstorm in Iraq.

Rumor has it some of the officials who made the decision felt physically intimidated by the mere presence of Amelie Mauresmo, who at some angles is nearly indistinguishable from the longer-haired pretty boys on tour. “The difference between the men and women on the tour is negligible at this point,” said one high-ranking official. “If it weren’t for the skirts, I would have no idea who I was watching half the time.”

Despite widespread apathy, it is a surprising decision for the tradition-steeped Club, where at one time tennis players not only had to wear white, but they had to be white. “Arthur Ashe was one thing,” said an anonymous staffer, “but women making the same amount of prize money as men? That’s just ridiculous.”

“It just doesn't seem right to us that the lady players could play in three events and could take away significantly more than the men's champion who battles away through these best-of-five matches,'' club chairman Tim Phillips said last year. ''We don't see it as an equal rights issue.'' However, when Serena Williams, who had been in attendance at the press conference screamed, “Who are you calling a lady??” and smashed her racket over her own head like a piece of balsa wood, Philips said, shaking, “I mean, we will pay you as much as the men. It’s clearly the right thing to do.”

Movie Reviews: Sight Unseen

2007-02-21T20:15:00.000-08:00

Helping you wade through the stinking pile of shit that is popular film.

Bridge to Terabithia
A heartwarming tale of two youngsters who go on the adventure of a lifetime, fighting dragons and defending the earth from the reign of th—wait, doesn’t she die of cancer in the book?

The Number 23
Another wacky turn from rubberface himself, Jim Carrey. Watch the hilarity ensue as he tries to figure out the mystery behind a violent prophecy revealed through a series of numerical signs and a creepy-ass book he receives from his wi—oh, this isn’t a comedy, is it?

Reno 911: Miami
Dude falls into a dead whale. That shit is funny.

Ghost Rider
Nicholas Cage rides around on a motorcycle seeking revenge on someone or something for turning him into this flaming skeleton ghost…did this movie seriously make $44 million in its first weekend?

Norbit
Eddie Murphy in yet another film that involves him wearing a fat suit. On the upside, no sign of Janet Jackson this time. If you don’t consider this a colossal waste of $10.50, then you almost definitely have some kind of mental deficiency.

Welcome to the Internets

2007-02-21T11:47:00.000-08:00

An inexplicable power has drawn you here, like pheromones, or the promise of an open bar. Don't question it. Embrace it. Drink in its sweet ambrosia. Enjoy. You won't remember a thing in the morning.

Fun with Food & Clothing Analogies

2007-02-21T11:46:00.001-08:00

“How has frozen yogurt, the leg warmer of food trends, managed to stage such a showy comeback?”

Touché, New York Times.

But who decided frozen yogurt = leg warmers?

How about....

Carb-free bread: the Uggs of food trends
Energy drinks endorsed by rappers: the Lucite Shoes of food trends
Ratatouille: the Espadrilles of food trends
PB&J sandwich: the Romper of food trends
A $60 Burger: the Empire (pronounced “aahm-peer") Waist of food trends
Raw food: the Skinny Jeans of food trends
Meatloaf: the Overalls of food trends
Foams: the Velvet Capelet of food trends

Ratatouille...mmm...unpronouncable