The show that never ends. I went to work today even though I feel like crap. Apparently this is a cause for celebration in our household:
How you feel? You went to work even though you are under the weather. You are growing up!
Beyond the sea. You have no idea how strange it is to be walking along, minding your own business, when suddenly there's a guy swimming around in a huge frigging fishbowl.
David Blaine, why are you so strange?
She wants to move. As I'm sure many of you do, I get some pretty annoying SPAM mail. I never actually read any of it, but I've noticed that there are a few SPAMers out there who are really going that extra mile to entertain me with their witty SPAM names. Today I received one such SPAM titled "She wants a better sex? All you need's here." Now bad grammar aside, this made me laugh so hard. Why? Because I was immediately reminded of all those 19th century French novels I had to read which call a woman's reproductive organs "the sex." So basically this SPAM just asked if "she," whoever she may be, would like a better vagina. I assume this is for some sort of vagina accoutrement store...New Vaginas 'R' Us?
I have shamelessly used a run-of-the-mill SPAM e-mail as an excuse to put the word "vagina" to gratuitous use. It is all downhill from here.
Looks like FIFA has jumped on the anti-semitic bandwagon.
FIFA has condemned Israel for an air strike on an empty soccer field in the Gaza Strip that was used for training exercises by Islamic Jihad and the al-Aqsa Martyrs Brigade. This strike did not cause any injuries. But at the same time FIFA has refused to condemn a Palestinian rocket attack on an Israeli soccer field last week which did cause injuries....
[Jerome Champagne, FIFA's deputy general secretary, who personally condemned the Israeli attack] "wrote to the Jerusalem Post saying he couldn't possibly be biased against Israel because his wife was Jewish."
We used to be friends. I can't believe it. Jason Dohring is a Scientologist! Not my poor, sweet, beautiful Logan! How can this be?!
In addition, the above-mentioned list is a good reference of all celebrities you should no longer respect. Maybe the only way to curtail this whole Scientology epidemic is to boycott all entertainment industry members in any way affiliated with Xenu et. al.
Seriously people, Scientology bothers the heck out of me.
It may rain or it may shine. Today in Get the Hell Away From My Wall:
What the hell, Will Smith? Not only are you hanging out at my Wall, you interrupted a bar mitzvah with you paparazzi-inspiring celebrity. At least Sharon Stone dressed conservatively for her spectacle. Can't you leave the bling and the Kangol hat at home for one day? Have some respect, please.
I don't get it. I doubt the paparazzi would swarm some celebrity taking Holy Communion from the Pope, so why do they need to disrespect my sacred site in pursuit of mega-stardom? Is Judaism some sort of exotic circus attraction?
Calling to you. Today in B-List Celebrity Sightings:
Alexis Bledel crossing the street on her way out of Starbucks. I don't know if she wears color contacts or not, but her eyes are a really intense shade of blue. And, say it with me now, Much Shorter in Person.
Into this Earth. Today in Random Things I Saw While On My Way to Work:
There's this guy who takes the Express with me, and every time I see him, he's eating a Black and White cookie. Now, for those of you non-New Yorkers out there who have never had the good fortune to enjoy a Black and White (seriously, you are deprived), a Black and White is a mammoth cookie, half of which is frosted with vanilla and half of which is frosted with chocolate. It is a seriously delicious and rather large cookie, and I've often had one and been so stuffed I didn't need to eat dinner. Getting back to this guy, I've seen this guy twice already, and he never fails to disgust me. Not only is he eating a Black and White at 9 a.m., he shoves as much of the cookie in his mouth as possible before chomping down on the thing. He's not so much eating the cookie as he is inhaling the cookie. It is absolutely disgusting to watch, and I can only guess it's the epitome of stress-eating. Also, what a waste of a perfectly fantastic cookie.
Shivers up and down my spine. Seriously, why does the whole Cruise/Holmes baby thing give me the creeps? I mean, okay, Scientology? Totally creepy. Tom Cruise? Also creepy, in a repressed-homosexual-cult-member sort of way. Katie Holmes? Terrible actress; I never saw the appeal. So combine all these elements and it's just so creepy! If Katie Holmes really did give birth today, was she artificailly-inseminated? And if she wasn't, does this mean I'm supposed to assume that she and Tom actually had sex? Or did they simply buy a baby, which seems to be the standard defamer theory? Either way, the whole thing is just...Ew. Make it stop! MAKE IT STOP!
I turn my camera on. Today in B-List Celebrity Sightings:
During intermission at The Caine Mutiny this Saturday, which starred everyone's wet dream from the early '90s David Schwimmer, I happened to spot the beloved Baptist baby daddy from Saved! As is everyone in Hollywood, he was much shorter in person. I can now add this to my list of minor-stars-who-played-teen-gay-men-in-their-breakout-role-and-who-I-happened-to-stumble-upon-in-incredibly-random-situations. The best example of these being, of course, spotting Too Gay To Function at the Getty.
I am not pretending. As promised to Zap, below find some rather thought-provoking commentary from the Afterward by Primo Levi from his memoirs, Surviving Auschwitz and The Reawakening.
In an authoritarian state...there is only one Truth, proclaimed from above; the newspapers are all alike, the all repeat the same one Truth. So do the radio stations, and you cannot listen to those of other countries. In the first place, since this is a crime, you risk ending up in prison. In the second place, the radio stations in your country send out jamming signals, on the appropriate wavelengths, that superimpose themselves on the foreign messages and prevent you from hearing them. As for books, only those that please the State are published and translated. You must seek any others on the outside and introduce them into your country at your own risk because they are considered more dangerous than drugs and explosives, and if they are found in your possession at the border, they are confiscated and you are punished. Books not in favor, or no longer in favor, are burned in public bonfires in town squares....In an authoritarian State it is considered permissible to alter the truth; to rewrite history retrospectively; to distort the news, suppress the truth, add the false. Propaganda is substituted for information. In fact, in such a country you are not a citizen possessor of rights but a subject, and as such you owe to the State (and to the dictator who represents it) fanatical loyalty and supine obedience. (377-378)
Everybody must know, or remember, that when Hitler and Mussolini spoke in public, they were believed, applauded, admired, adored like gods. They were "charismatic leaders;" they possessed a secret power of seduction that did not proceed from the credibility or the soundness of the things they said but from the suggestive way in which they said them, from their eloquence, from their histrionic art, perhaps instinctive, perhaps patiently learned and practiced. The ideas they proclaimed were not always the same and were, in general, aberrant or silly or cruel. And yet they were acclaimed with hosannahs and followed to the death by millions of the faithful. We must remember that these faithful followers, among them the diligent executors of inhuman orders, were not born torturers, were not born (with a few exceptions) monsters; they were ordinary men. Monsters exist, but they are too few in number to be truly dangerous. More dangerous are the common men, the functionaries ready to believe and to act without asking questions, like Eichmann [Hitler's propagandist]; like Hoss, the commandant of Auschwitz; like Stangl, the commandant of Treblinka...
It is, therefore, necessary to be suspicious of those who seek to convince us with means other than reason, and of charismatic leaders: we must be cautious about delegating to others our judgement and our will. Since it is difficult to distinguish true prophets from false, it is as well to regard all prophets with suspicion. It is better to renounce revealed truths, even if they exalt us by their splendor or if we find them convenient because we acquire them gratis. It is better to content oneself with other more modest and less exciting truths, those one acquires painfully, little by little and without shortcuts, with study, discussion, and reasoning, those that can be verified and demonstrated. (394-395)
Right here in town. Today in Random Things I Saw While Walking To Work:
1) This total douchebag sporting a Michael-Jackson-circa-Thriller red and black leather jacket was mucking around on a skateboard (!!!) this morning when he sort of tripped off it. It skidded out into the middle of Spring Street right as a Verizon telephone repair truck was cruising along and...SMASH. Death to skateboard! The hipster douche was rather put out, much to my joy and amusement.
2) One of the guys who works at the hardware store on Spring Street near Ben's Pizza on Thompson (or is it Sullivan?) commented to his hardware store employee buddies that I had a fat ass. Granted, my ass is rather shapely, but I would not call it fat. I will have to take a poll on this. Does this look like a fat ass to you?
T.L. 1, NYC 1.
No birth of no nation. Yet more reasons to get the hell outta this piece o' shit country, courtesy of Dan Savage:
Straight Rights Update: Earlier this month, Republicans in South Dakota successfully banned abortion in that state. Last week, the GOP-controlled state house of representatives in Missouri voted to ban state-funded family-planning clinics from dispensing birth control. "If you hand out contraception to single women," one Republican state rep told the Kansas City Star, "we're saying promiscuity is okay." On the federal level, Republicans are blocking the over-the-counter sale of emergency contraception and keeping a 100 percent effective HPV vaccine—a vaccine that will save the lives of thousands of women every year—from being made available.
The GOP's message to straight Americans: If you have sex, we want it to fuck up your lives as much as possible. No birth control, no emergency contraception, no abortion services, no life-saving vaccines. If you get pregnant, tough shit. You're going to have those babies, ladies, and you're going to make those child-support payments, gentlemen. And if you get HPV and it leads to cervical cancer, well, that's too bad. Have a nice funeral, slut.
What's it going to take to get a straight-rights movement off the ground? The GOP in Kansas is seeking to criminalize hetero heavy petting, for God's sake! Wake up and smell the freaking Holy War, breeders! The religious right hates heterosexuality just as much as it hates homosexuality. Fight back!
Like a party that's over before it's begun. Why is Sharon Stone at the Kotel? No, seriously, why the fuck is she kissing my wall?! She's not Jewish! WTF?!
I like how every WASPy, self-righteous, white actress think she can "take up the white man's burden" and miraculously fix everything. Maybe if she flashes the entire Mideast her vagina, it'll bring about peace.
Absolutely nothing. Either I've become a bad feminist, or I'm too jaded and cynical to become upset by this country's inanity anymore, but this really doesn't upset me. Why? Because it's a cheap political ploy meant to challenge a pre-existing judicial statute. We all knew this was coming the minute Alito was confirmed, so, really, I'm not surprised. Although, I am intrigued by the fact that I'm just not upset by it. Maybe my father's incredibly jaded and acerbic political viewpoint has finally warped my brain, but the truth is that I will always be able to get an abortion should I need one. I'll always find a way to get enough money to go to Canada or France or some other non-Puritanical, non-classist, non-racist, non-oligarchical, non-misogynist country. So, here's the thing. If the nation keeps electing these Puritanical, classist, racist, oligarchical, misogynist politicians who are going out of their way to screw them over, why should I care? Now, as many of you know, I am big on the election day conspiracy thoeries (No paper trail, people! It's the perfect crime). My state legalized abortion before Roe v. Wade. Do you really think that, even if Roe v. Wade was overturned, it would seriously be an end to abortion across the country? Do you think that California or Oregon or Massachusetts would go along with it? Not likely.
Now, as a big ol' WOSTie, I know all about the poor women who don't or can't vote and who don't have access to birth control and how everyone is racist and how it is my job to protect them blah blah blah. Maybe my progressive liberal spirit has been broken, or maybe I just can't be bothered to give a shit anymore about this bullshit country. Land of freedom my ass.
Wrap me up. Here's the thing about my office that pisses me off: It's like motherfuckin' high school up in here! Seriously. All the EAs are painfully clique-y. They do that thing where they go up to one EA and ask if she wants to go to lunch, but all the other EAs can here her because we all work in cubicles. Everyone whispers behind everyone else's back, and one of my co-workers tattled on me to my boss for making too many personal phone calls. The cute blonde guy who I liked until he told me in his I-have-clearly-never-met-a-Jew-before awkwardness that I am "God's people" is trying to fuck the EA in the cubicle too my left. Today he told her that he liked her last name (!!!) and then he invited her to a bar with a bunch of other corporate drones.
This is exactly like high school, in fact. I again feel overlooked by the "popular people" who I don't necessarily want to talk to, anyway. I again feel hopelessly out-of-touch, fashion-wise. And I again feel like I have too much free time on the weekends. This is crap. I went to a women's college exactly to avoid ever feeling this kind of crap again, and now I'm smack stuck in the middle of it. Sigh. At least this time around I get paid to be here.
They take a polaroid and let you go. Pointless blog post-o-rama! I had two of the most gruesome experiences today while lunch-breaking/walking around SoHo/window shopping/lusting after things I desperately want but won't buy because I'm ridiculously cheap:
1) I was walking behind this woman for about a block; she was wearing this pair of very tall, brown, leather, pointy-toe boots. Instead of a heal, picture two unsharpened #2 pencils, only thinner. Yeah, these boots were creepy. And she couldn't walk in them! Seriously, she was standing at the most drastic angle (like when kids go ice skating and their parents are too stupid to know that you're supposed to go down half a size when you rent ice skates, so the kids can't skate because their ankles angle in and they're about to die...like that, only her ankles went out instead of in). I'm walking behind this woman, and I'm waiting for her heal to break and her ankle to snap. And I could hear the snap in my head! And I thought I was going to barf! *shudder*
2) I proceeded to return to my office building and get into the overly-crowded elevator. Someone smelled like a hamster's cage, it was horrible. And then I
realized the smell was not rodent-related. It was the stench of the McDonald's the guy next to me was holding. *shudder*
This revolution has just begun.
In my more bitter moments (usually when I’ve blown over two hundred dollars during an evening in a club), I sometimes imagine that lapdancing itself, in its modern incarnation as a widespread entertainment form, is not the logical evolutionary product of striptease, or a sexual shell game designed by clip joint hucksters, but rather an insidious invention, nay, a SECRET WEAPON, cleverly designed by a cabal of wily feminist supervillains to distract, befuddle, and weaken otherwise productive male members (pun intended) of Western society.Damnit, he's on to us. Who told?
We make love together. Yes, I know V-Day has passed and I should really move on, but I thought this contained some nice background information for those of us who resent Christianity's annoying faux-assimilation into our daily lives. Hmm, maybe that's just me.
Anyway, I like the whole year o' sex thing. Paganism is a whole lot cooler than any of us want to admit. Stupid monotheism ruining everything for us. Where's a good, guilt-free orgy when you need one?
Find out what it means to me. This is the kind of shit that pisses me off. "Traditionally Jewish women don't like sex but now we are known for giving head." Where in the hell did that come from? It's just as bad as any dragon lady asian or big-vagina black mammy stereotype. And this is even more insulting because it's coming from a Jew-produced magazine that's meant to "empower" us and discuss our "issues." These Jews think they have to prove themselves to a world that hates them. Instead of rebelling or giving the world the finger, they roll over and play the game. "I may be a Jew, but my penis is 18 feet long." It's Philip Roth, self-hating Jew, identity-crisis bullshit, and I refuse to be a part of it.
My issues do not rest with my need to "overcome" my Judaism by proving my mettle through my sexual prowess. My issues rest with my people degrading me be defining me as nothing more than a hoover-mouthed cum bin.
I will not accept this arrogant bigotry from the goyem, and I will not accept it from the tribe, either.
I pushed you too far. Are you shitting me? No, seriously, Hollywood...you and I need to have a chat. This time, you've gone too far.
These kinds of things make me want to break something.
Right back where we started from. Sarmo and I saw Luke from The O.C. at Cafe Europa on 6th Avenue today. He was eating a sandwich with some of his buddies. He's much skinnier and blonder than I thought he'd be. Also a bunch cuter.
Hell yes. I have just found the best, most appropriate Valentine ever. Like whoa.
As usual, the internet is populated by people who are more creative and articulate than I can ever hope to be, so, as usual, I glom onto their work. Sweet.
Dragging in your deep shag. Yes, fine, I am a Dan Savage groupie. For any of you poor saps who missed his interview in the A.V. Club, he makes a really interesting argument regarding straight-male sexuality, one that whole-heartedly agree with. Yes, yes, I am a big ol' feminist, but I have to agree with Betty Friedan that machismo kills. Here, Savage reiterates an argument we've been batting around every since Susan Faludi came out with Stiffed. Straight-male sexuality is defined in the negative by everything he's not: He's not a "fag" and not a "woman," so who is he?
I feel so sorry for straight guys. Because their sex lives are a terror, and are really circumscribed by straight guys policing the behavior of other straight guys—"Hey, you're a fag"—and by gay guys policing their behavior, and straight women. Paradoxically, straight guys run the world, but sexually, they're so imprisoned and it's not just a prison of their own creation. A girl goes to college and eats a little pussy and gets over it, and nobody thinks she has to be a lesbian because she did that disgusting pussy-eating thing once or twice. A straight guy goes to college and once or twice gets drunk and goes down on another guy, and if it gets out there, nobody's ever going to think he's straight, ever. It doesn't matter how much pussy he eats after that, or how many kids he fathers by a woman, he's secretly a fag. There's a problem with straight-male sexual identity where it's just a mass of negatives. It's not defined really by anything positive. Being a straight guy is not being a fag, not being a woman, and not doing anything that fags or women do, like have feelings or sit-ups or anything.
Half my mail sometimes is just straight guys going, "She put a finger in my butt. I liked it. Am I gay?" because he was penetrated. Or from women going, "I put my finger in his butt. He liked it. Is he gay?" And it's very sad. You wonder why straight guys are all so endlessly perverse. Like I said earlier, all the poo-eaters are guys. And it's just because there's so much more pressure laid on men about male sexuality that just squeezes out in weird, perverse ways. It's kind of tragic. It's also tragic that straight guys have so little access to sex. And it's always their fault....And men do sort of bear all responsibility—whatever's going wrong is completely their fault, women are always the victims. I just think there's no respect for male sexuality in this empathy culture that's shaped by and defined by a female perspective on relationships and emotions. I believe that if you marry somebody and you're gonna make the commitment to be faithful, you should be faithful. If your wife doesn't have sex with you for five years, I think you should fuck somebody else. [Laughs.] And it's not your fault if you're cheating at that point. You get a pass. Women are told that being in love means you don't want to fuck anybody else, so I get all this mail from all these women who are freaked out 'cause their boyfriend or lover or husband looked at some Internet porn. "Oh, he's got me, why would he look at Internet porn?" 'Cause he may have you, but he wants more. The measure of a man's devotion isn't that he doesn't want to fuck other people. It's that he doesn't fuck other people.
I actually think the solution to homophobia is eradicating misogyny. I think a lot of homophobia is hatred of women repackaged, 'cause gay men seem to preoccupy homophobes the most. It's usually about anal sex, and gay men are perceived as taking on the woman's role, and women are despised. The woman's role is less-than. And in a male-supremacy culture, men who take on the woman's role willingly kind of freak out some of the dudes. If you could eradicate misogyny, homophobia would evaporate. That's why I always tell women, "If you're dating a homophobe, you're dating a guy who's secretly a misogynist, who secretly hates you. And you shouldn't."
Numb and tired and perfect for the working day. I've been incredibly bored at work this week because my editors have been in Boston, so I've been trolling my faithful procrastination Web sites. Two interesting things I've gained from friendster:
1. This guy I went to camp with is now a woman who goes by the name Zoe. Interesting choice, considering I'm pretty sure his given name is Brian. Also, s/he's a lesbian.
2. Bennington College makes me think of Bret Easton Ellis. And that is not a compliment.
Right here's the spot. Apparently, January 24 is widely thought to be the worst day of the year. The New York Daily News (hehehe I am citing the Snooze as a reputable news source. I'm hilarious) reported that "British psychologist Cliff Arnall cited an avalanche of evidence testifying to the singular suckiness of January 24, including but not limited to the day's distance from Christmas (too far to look forward to next year's, with many citizens still mired in the debt of last year's); failed New Year's resolutions (with an excess of smoking, drinking, and overeating); and a uniquely bleak horizon, with no three-day weekends, just one unreliable holiday, plus tax forms and crap weather."
I believe it. January 24 was the day I went back to work after returning from Israel. Culture shock + jet lag + the flu do not a happy employee make.
Many thanks to The Stranger for pointing out more reasons why January 24 blows.
On the bright side, the next time you're having a bad day, you can think to yourself, "At least it's not January 24."
Out of body experience. Holy hell, how funny is this? I would love for it to be true. Love love LOVE!
Oh my goodness I missed the Slog.
I know there may be others. I saw Jason Schwartzman while I was on my lunch break today. He was ridiculously shaggy and wearing ridiculously huge sunglasses. Also, he's ridiculously short.
It's all part of this thrill-a-minute ride known as New York City.
You don't know where and you don't know when. This is my final half-hour at the Bank, and I'm a little sad to go, a little nervous about the future, but also really happy that I won't have to spend my days bored out of my mind (that's the dream, anyway). I give you an Ode to the Bank haiku:
Bank so fine and clean
No more envelopes to stuff
Thank the Lord I'm out
So this is the New Year, and I don't feel any different. Ohmgee, how much do I love Natalie?
Thiiiiiiiiiiiiis much!
I am a lyrical soul, bound to get carried away. I am officially in love with everything Roisin Murphy touches. Her new video is ridiculous. It's like she and Yves Tanguy went drinking one night, and this is the product of their hangover.
Fist, a brick in my hand. I'm not sure why, but my step-mother has started sending me what are supposed to be humorous fowards, but are actually thinly-veild portraits of misanthropy. Here's today's installment:
A study recently conducted by UCLA's Department of Psychiatry has revealed that the kind of face a woman finds attractive on a man can differ depending on where she is in her menstrual cycle.
For example, if she is ovulating, she is attracted to men with rugged and masculine features. However, if she is menstruating or menopausal, she tends to be more attracted to a man with scissors lodged in his temple and tape over his mouth while he is on fire.
Sweet in winter, sweet in rain. Once again, if you aren't reading The Stranger, you're missing out. This made me laugh so hard, especially this part, where the author discusses choosing a dating Web site handle:
I became "Nakedanddamned" because I have problems with intimacy and yet, ironically, look really good without my clothes on.
Can't you feel it burning. I may have my horror stories, but nothing compares to these babies. Oh ho ho thank the good Lord nothing this bad has ever transpired to, on, or near my naked flesh.
Nobody knows where they might end up. Sometimes a song comes up that encapsulates every little emotion that's working its way through my tired mind. Lately it's been Guster's "Come Downstairs and Say Hello," but as I was walking on the frigid island, Mike Doughty's "I Hear The Bells" got it right. I downloaded the song a few weeks ago in my quest for the Veronica Mars soundtrack and didn't think much of it on first listening, but it's a rather cheeky tune that sums up my current frame of mind surprisingly well. This part was especially trenchant:
You snooze, you loseBring it.
Well I have snost and lost
I'm pushing through
I'll disregard the cost
I hear the bells
So fascinating and
I'll slug it out
I'm sick of waiting
There's always something to remind me. Loo has sent me the best holiday card ever. It outlines her holiday plans for us when she returns to the city from the frigid north. Basically she has descriped the anti-tourist New York holiday, and she made me laugh so hard:
I think we should be totally different...and do everything opposite of normal tourist stuff in NYC when we hang out. For instance, instead of going to the Met, we'll go to the Museum of Natural History. And instead of going skating at Roc Center, we'll go ice skating in Central Park (like in "Serendipity"). And instead of going to the tree at Roc, we'll just pick a random tree in the sidewalk and gaze at it in awe, take photos, etc. Yay!!
To tell me what I want and what my life lacks. Every now and then, I go through my blog archives and delete my whinier posts from back in the day because, frankly, my inane brattiness does not need to be preserved for posterity. However, I have noticed a few interesting things after my most recent cleansing:
Tell me a fable. Film critiques don't usually include critiques of other reviews, but that's just reason #576 why you should love The Stranger.
Damnit, I really want to see this movie!
Happiness and cheer. I guess Linus really is the only person who remembers the spirit of the season.
Can I get a "Hell yeah!" This guy pretty much sums up everything my father and I have been talking about ever since November 27 when the crazies started coming out of the wood work and, assuming we're all God-fearing Christians, have been coming up to us and ranting and raving about this so-called "war on Christmas." Dear Christians: You make up 80% of the population of this country. It is, by definition, impossible for us to discriminate against you! Chill the fuck out!
Best part:
Well we’ve fucking had it. You want to play bullshit games and scream about how God’s fucking judgment is gonna come raining down on us if we don't start watching our vocabulary? Go right the fuck ahead. But let me clue you in on something: fire and brimstone ain’t no deterrent for us. We’re not going to hell, assholes, we’re fucking in hell. We live with you.
Ticking clock; everyone stop. I got my alum magazine in the mail today, and it made me so mad. It was all about the new campus center, and this thing is ridiculous! It's gorgeous and modern and has tons of windows and it's not fair! Stupid Swells, opening your gorgeous new student center the second I graduate. Here's the letter I want to write them:
FUCK YOU SWELLS, I DIDN'T GET TO HANG OUT IN YOUR SUPER-AWESOME CAMPUS CENTER.
p.s. Your career services suck.
I'll be your chauffeur on a midnight drive. Hats off to TWoP for actually making me laugh out loud with this oldie but goldie:
George responds that he's an "old-fashioned kind of guy." In my experience, that only means they won't go down on you. Oh my God, did I really just type that?
I'm just a notch in your bedpost.The business man who represents the GMAT on the Kaplan Scrolling Marquee is ridiculously good-looking. How am I supposed to care about memorizing new vocabulary words when Mr. Hotty McBusinessPants is taunting me with his dry erase marker? Also, if I get a high score on the GRE, do I get to date him? 'Cause then it'd be a very nice incentive...though I doubt he's Jewish.
Leave me to regard the world in better ways. My dad bought me a new computer for my birthday (so shiny!), and I've gone on a huge downloading binge. Months of pent-up music lust are coming out, and I'm completely in love with what I've found. It's quite distracting and is totally preventing me from going about my normal routine. Alas, I am an internet piracy junky.
Anyway, here's what iTunes and I are currently in love with:
Know it's time to wake up. Go check out "Was it Really that Bad: Black Death" from the Colbert Report. Colbert delivers the best backpacking-through-Europe rant ever. Reminds me of something that happened to me in Florence with two Canadians.
I don't know where we are going now. Fuck it. I think this guy is fabulous. And he makes me feel optimistic. So mock all you want; I don't care:
In her profile on poet John Ashbery in The New Yorker, Larissa MacFarquhar reports that his Manhattan apartment is deeply chaotic. "Everything needs to be open and nothing is ever closed," she quotes Ashbery's partner as saying. "Drawers. Cabinets. Closet doors. Everything! All possibilities must be available at all times." This happens to be my exact prescription for you, Sagittarius. Make your heart as innocent as possible. Suspend your opinions. Judge nothing. Be hungry for the raw truth and beauty that can be captured with the aid of naked receptivity. Oh, and keep all your cabinets and drawers open.
I'm not a player I just crush a lot. I have been reading a little bit of Jane Austen for its superior source of GRE words (Panegyric! Alacrity!), and I have stumbled upon what is, perhaps, the most fabulous pick up line ever. Well, maybe that's an exaggerated appraisal of the situation, but it still made me laugh out loud when I read it:
"I do not think we were speaking at all....We have tried two or three subjects already without success, and what we are to talk of next I cannot imagine."
"What think you of books?" said he, smiling.
At long last it's crashed. I'm not really into astrology, but sweet!
Wave farewell to your old self, Sagittarius. Maybe blow a few kisses as well. But don't linger too long. Refuse to get bogged down in ambiguous rituals filled with interminable goodbyes and meticulous inventories of the past. It's time to go! Off with you! You've got urgent appointments with the unsettling but fascinating future, and it's best to part ways with habits that have dulled your initiative and comforts that have numbed your courage. You're ready for more change than you think you're capable of.
Soothing rhythms stoke the fire in my belly. I'm going to get on my daughter-of-an-antiquarian-art-book-dealer high-horse for a second and agree with this article. I love modern art and was so excited for my first trip to MoMA after my modern art history class last winter. But what I encountered was not the celebration of art that I'd anticipated but an elitist, overpriced, overcrowded mess. Yes, the new MoMA is a beautiful space with an astounding collection, and, yes, I spent most of my time there going "Wow!" But my main problems with MoMA resembled my complaints about the Centre Pompidou. MoMA failed to display most of its permanent collection. If you have Duchamp's "The Bride Stripped Bare by her Bachelor's Even," you display it, damnit!
Saltz mentions the MoMA's hegemonic treatment of Modern Art, and this stance's failure to challenge the viewer. He juxtaposes this banal approach with the more inventive Tate Modern, and considering that the Tate Modern is one of my favorite museums, he's absolutely right. The Tate chooses themes--e.g. love and death, the body, or advertising as art--and organizes its collection around them. Consequently, you find Rodin and Dali in the same gallery, something completely unheard of in the stale environment of MoMA.
So I have to say, Saltz makes some excellent observations. Plus, points for mentioning Foucault's Penopticon.
I pieced into the girl I long to be. I've never been one to look in fashion magazines and compare myself to all the airbrushed models. I've certainly had many an I-hate-my-body moment, but never because of a magazine spread.
And then I saw that new Victoria's Secret commercial for the push-up bra without padding or whatever newfangled contraption promises flat-chested women a generous C, and Oh. My. God. I am not a bad looking woman, if I do say so myself, but Gisele Bundchen? HOT. If I buy the matching bra and panty set and break into a mansion and strip off my black gown and start strutting around, can I look like her? Because if so, sign me the fuck up! I want Gisele Bundchen's body in an unlesbian, body dysmorphia sort of way. This may make me a bad feminist, but fuck all you haters ragging on me and my new supermodel body-hottness.
This is probably a good indication that I've been watching too much television. GRE words, anyone?
You make it so good I don't want to leave. Bad news, boys. Oral sex has been linked to mouth cancer. "You should avoid having oral sex," says the researcher. Looks like you're all going to have to find a new favorite sexual activity. Maybe fucking will finally come back into vogue.
Too late, you say. Profound thought of the day: It's amazing how much time you can waste if you really put your mind to it.
Second profound thought of the day: Men are really, really, ridiculously strange.
Esoteric complaint of the day: It annoys me that I cannot read minds. (I do not mean this in the BtVS "Earshot" way because I like my sanity, thank you very much).
Creepy link of the day: Scooter Libby is hard-core fucked up.
It may rain or it may shine. Art humor! courtesy of Computer Blue.
Glen Baxter is so funny.
I'm wishing on a star. My step-mother sent this to me, and it's a doozy:
THE SHORTEST FAIRY TALE
Once upon a time, a girl asked a guy "Will you marry me?" The guy said, "NO!"
And the girl lived happily ever after and went shopping, dancing, drank martinis, always had a clean house, never had to cook, had sex with whomever she pleased and farted whenever she wanted.
THE END
Art for art's sake. Tomorrow, I'm meeting up with the Blue Man at Storm King to see some ridiculously awesome art. It's like Nature + Metal + Big = Whoa. In case you were worried that I was actually cultured and had rejected my pedestrian antics, fret not. I am still quite juvenile:
Me: I keep pictuing Storm King as some sort of skeleton with a bunch of heads. Like a cross between an Orch, Skeletor, and the mouse king from the Nutcracker. Oh my god, how many points do I get for writing that sentence?!
Ike: Hmm, at least 8 points. Probably a few more, it's hard to calculate all the fractional points in there. I think they called the Storm King mountain nearby Storm King because of stormy weather around it, but I'm not sure exactly.
Me: I like mine better
Ike: Yeah, but it's kinda hard to have lovely abstract sculptures on a fall day on some kind of giant undead skeleton god-emperor
Me: Makes it more interesting
Ike: 'twould indeed
You other brothers can't deny. As much as women may be obsessed with why men love breasts, male sex columnists are obsessed with writing about why men love breasts. There is not a year that goes by without some "Cosmo" or "Marie Clare" rag getting some "Average Joe" to write about why men love boobs. The answer is always the same: "Uh, we don't have them. And they feel really cool. And they're purrrrrty."
Nevertheless, the Lippy Imp has decided to weigh in on the subject. He says pretty much the same thing as every other "Average Joe," except with a really funny analogy about a penis located in the center of a man's chest. Or something.
You know what? Who cares why men love breasts?! Breasts are cool. Most of the time, I don't even notice mine are there, but I'm used to them. Frankly, I don't really care if a guy is breast-obsessed as long as he treats mine with respect and not like they're some novelty toy.
If women weren't educated to be so shy and repressed when it comes to our sexuality, the first time we saw a real, live penis, we'd probably poke and prod it and do similar things that uncouth adolescent boys do to boobs. Breasts are also more open to public consumption than penises are. Go into any art museum, and I guarantee you that the ratio of bare breast to bare dick is like a bajillion to one.
So whatever. Straight men love breasts. Fine. Do we really need to talk about it all day?
Shake up your bones. I had two really good dreams today in between alarm clock bleats. I'm sick, which always affects the vividness of my dreams. Both dreams revolved around weddings, which is weird because I've never been one of those girls who dreams about her wedding.
The first centered around my aunt and uncle's wedding (not their actual wedding, which was completely different from my dream). There were a ton of people in a synagogue, laughing and singing, and there were little kids running all over the place. And the rabbi walked around blessing people before he reached the beema to bless the bride and groom. He blessed me, and I felt safe. My family and I were very nonchalant about the whole spectacle, laughing and making jokes. I sat in between my aunt and uncle before they went to the beema, and then started crying because the whole scene was so touching and made me so happy.
The second dream was very "Fiddler on the Roof" (yes, I did just write that). It was the day before my wedding, and I snuck downstairs to see my husband-to-be, who was sleeping in a make-shift bed by the fireplace (where does my subconscious come up with this stuff?). We'd never been together before, so sneaking into bed with him was a big deal. And he wasn't wearing a shirt, which was even more scandalous. He asked to touch my hair, and I put my head on his bare chest. In a way, I think this is one of the sexiest dreams I've ever had. I've suppressed most of my sensuality in favor of sexuality because sexuality is unfeeling. So to dream about something as pure as beauty and intimacy is like an awakening.
Probably most of this post warrants a Saddam Hussein-style "What the fuck are you talking about?"
Turn to the left. Not surprisingly, I am bored at work. I read through all the blogs and TWoP recaps I can stomach, so I decided to hit the "Next Blog" arrow you see at the top right corner of this blog. This allows you to troll through complete stranger's blogs. Yay for voyeurism. I stumbled upon this, and I gotta say...ick. Sister needs to chill out. To me, dedicating a blog to your obsession with your fat ass is a bad sign.
It caught on in a flash. As many of you know, I LOVE Halloween. Historically, that is. This year, I did nothing to celebrate. Nothing! This is my first year without a pumpkin, no candy for the trick-or-treaters...I am the Scrooge of Halloween. Why? Because Halloween has lost all it's awesomeness. Case in point: I saw people driving their children trick-or-treating. That's right. People actually drove their children from house to house. Did these people miss the whole child obesity epidemic in this country? I mean, they're actually so fucking lazy that they're driving their children three feet at a time so that they can gorge themselves on concentrated doses of high-fructose corn syrup. This kind of behavior makes me insane.
So fuck you, lazy parents of my town with your fat, Type II Diabetes-children. Your children are doomed to have boring Halloween stories to go along with their boring, over-protected existences. Ha!
To prove my point, here are my two favorite Halloween memories from my childhood, a time when my mother made me costumes and I walked from house to house (Excerpted from T.W.N. Oct. 30, 2002):
My grandmother was born on Halloween, so, to celebrate her birthday, she used to accompany my mother and me when we went trick-or-treating. One year, when I was dressed as a princess in my grandmother's wedding dress and my own rubber galoshes (glass slippers were out of style that year), a woman approached us. She alerted my mother and grandmother that Jesus had instructed her to give me $20. She then handed my mother the bill and departed, leaving my mother and grandmother stunned and me confused (I didn't know who Jesus was at that time).
Flash forward to eigth grade, when I was past the acceptable age for trick-or-treating but still found it fun. My friend and I wandered the neighborhood, stopping at houses to pick up chocolate goodies along the way. We made a special detour to the house of my friend's crush, only to walk in on him and his friends watching porn.
Until they realize. I had training this morning for my super-cool volunteer position with Planned Parenthood (yay), and it just so happens that today was abortion day at the center. That's right, they actually have Abortion Day. Sadly, there were no balloons.
Before I go even farther into the Land of Extremely Poor Taste, I'll explain. There is one day a week dedicated to surgical abortions at the Centers which offer the service. At the Center where I was trained, this day is usually Saturday, but the doctor couldn't make it, so they switched it to Friday.
If you ever want to see intense, go to P.P. on abortion day. Holy shit! You have to wait at least three hours because there's so much paper work and sonograms and, well, stuff, that they have to do before you can undergo a procedure which takes--I am not kidding--three minutes. Seriously! A surgical abortion takes three minutes! There were tons of women, and some supportive boyfriends, sitting there, some trying hard not to cry, all looking uncomfortable and upset. There was this 14 year-old sobbing because she wasn't sure what to do, and it wasn't clear whether or not she'd been raped, and she was afraid she'd never be able to have children if she had an abortion, and HORRIBLE!
I think that the best form of Sex. Ed. you could have would be to make everyone sit around and watch people waiting to get an abortion. It'll make you the most vigilant condom user/pill taker/celibate ever.
Also, public health...wow.
You know you're gonna lie to you in your own way. Quick observation:
Did anyone else notice that, when asked about Harriet Meir's qualifications, Trent Lott said that there were several other more qualified "men, women, and minorities" that should have been picked? How did nobody else pick up on that?! Did he just say that minorities (*cough* black people *cough*) are not the same as men and women? I realize that some of you might call me out for nit-picking, but I'm sorry. The language people use says a ton about their thought process, and from my perspective, Trent Lott's got a huge neon sign blinking "racist" over his head.
It plays tricks with the eye. The painters are starting on my room soon, so I had to take everything off my walls. That's right, boys and girls. My walls full of post cards and door full of magazine cutouts has finally come down. I'm sure that, to most of you, this doesn't mean anything, but to those of you who've seen the damn thing, you know what I'm talking about. As I was ripping tape off my walls, I started to reflect (Of course I started to reflect. When has there ever been a time in my life when I don't reflect?!). So here are my musings as the almost-22 year-old me takes down what the 12-14 year-old me created:
Watch him as he goes. I'd never really thought much of Startship Troopers, that stupid movie about humans vs. space bugs starring Casper Van Dien (who's married to a Scandanavian princess. Not too shabby) and Denise Richards (sister had a nose job, what), until I read this in the Onion AV Club's "A Decade of Underrated Movies":
Among the most subversive and widely misunderstood studio films ever produced, Paul Verhoeven's anti-fascist satire was falsely interpreted as an endorsement of a fascist utopia that sends pea-brained young recruits on a dire, meaningless offensive against giant space bugs. Working again with Robocop screenwriter Ed Neumeier, Verhoeven casts utterly blank pretty boys and girls (including Casper Van Dien and Denise Richards) as brainwashed heroes rushing merrily to their doom. The state-of-the-art special effects make for some rousing action sequences, but Verhoeven is more interested in how propaganda works to convince citizens of the rightness of an insane cause. Witness this twisted piece of logic from teacher/recruiter Michael Ironside: "Violence has resolved more conflicts that anything else. The contrary opinion that violence doesn't solve anything is merely wishful thinking at its worst."
Mmmm skyscraper, I love you. Ike thinks he's sexist, but I think he's hilarious:
"Women would have a much easier time of things if they didn't destroy men's capacity to reason with their feminine lures and wiles." Or, in other words, women hate that they make men stupid.
A little more obvious. Snap! That's some tight-ass shit.
Interesting that I take such pleasure in ye olde fuck-and-dump considering I don't have the cajones for it. I really shouldn't revel in bitchiness as much as I do. Hmmm...
How much is that doggie in the window. A request was made about a month ago by an old friend of mine to dedicate a post to my dog, Chauncey. We made a deal: I'd post dog-alicious photos, and he'd post comments on my blog (I am an attention whore, and I'm proud). So, I am finally on my old, broke-ass computer with enough time to upload these darn things. And, assuming the process doesn't cause my computer to burst into a ball of flame, we should be good to go.
The question here is, can you guess which one is my dog? If you're thinking to yourself, "Well, T.L. is a pretty friendly, gregarious person. I could totally see her with a big, cuddly pooch like that black lab," you'd be...WRONG. Chauncey is an SBD--a small, black dog. He's about the size of a bread box, but his personality is larger than the Sears Tower. He's a chihuahua mix, but my dad and I are convinced he's a rat.
There are, obviously, other pictures, but they require docturing in the form of decapitating family members. I have, however, upheld my end of the bargain. Donc, voilà le chien. Tu en as besoin plus, mon petit morceau de sel, ou est-ce que ça suffit? Et j'ai toujours une jolie queue.
Doncha wish your girlfriend was a freak like me. Someone posted this on my friend's facebook wall, and I thought it was pretty funny. And naughty. And all those good things:
Stilettos $80
Nails done $30
Cute Dress $90
Finding out he eats PUSSY…………………………Priceless
Shit it Pays to DISCOVER!!!!!!!!
A time to laugh and shiver and cry. I have all this stuff floating around in my wee little mind I've wanted to write about all weekend, so I'm getting it out now. Lucky you, cyberspace. You get to listen to me ramble. Woot (I refuse to w00t properly. I'm all non-conformist like that).
Two observations:
First, if you missed it, and I'm sure you did because I'm the only person aside from my dad who watches PBS on Friday nights (Whatever, Gwen Ifill is the shit), you missed Kurt Vonnegut on NOW with Dave "Fake-Tan" Brancaccio. If you were too busy drinking/fucking/having-a-life-in-general to see Vonnegut rip the U.S.A. a new one, boy did you miss out. In one half-hour interview, Vonnegut calls for impeaching Bush and talks about checking out "hot babes." I am not kidding; he actually said "hot babes." It was awesome.
Second, there's this new, overly-hyped show on ABC called "Hot Properties" which stars a bunch of overly plastic-surgeried unpretty women, "Sex and the City" vet Evan Handler (awesome), and my gal Nicole Sullivan. The show itself is mediocre, but I love Nicole Sullivan, so I'm probably gonna watch it. I do, however, have a complaint. Why does Nicole Sullivan always have to play the ugly, neurotic, ignored girl? She's not ugly, or overweight, or plastic surgerified. She's hella funny (you might remember her as one of the original MAD TV cast members...on second thought, you probably don't). I mean, she's Joan of Arc! How much cooler can you be?! I don't understand why Joan of Arc has to spend her life pining away for that loser Abe Lincoln when she's totally smart, funny, interesting and sexy. Just because she's not generically sexy/slutty like Cleopatra, she gets the shaft. It's not fair! And if you don't know what I'm talking about, you need to get your hands on "Clone High" rightthehellnow.
The girl with khaleidescope eyes. I admit, one of the only reasons I read amNewYork is for the celebrity gossip. It's way better than the New York Metro (Incidently, I met the one and only staff reporter for the Metro at one of Chuck Schumer's infamous Sunday press conferences last summer. He's a nice guy; I think he hit on me. Whatever). Case in point, this is a frigging hysterical piece of trivial news that kept me laughing for a good long while:
Wintour Gets Pied, Again, By Activists
Vogue editor-in-chief Anna Wintour was hit with a pie this weekend by anti-fur demonstrators as she attended Paris fashion week. People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals' vice president Dan Mathews said the pie--a vegetarian tofu tart--was retaliation for the magazine's decision to run fur ads while refusing to use PETA's anti-fur messages, though the animal rights group offered to pay the same fee. Wintour was hit with the tart while she waited to see the Chloe fashion show Saturday in Paris. It was the second time in a year that PETA has hit her with a pie.
I've got my freaks to the West. I've said it before, I'll say it again. I have the best fucking friends in the entire fucking universe. Check out what Veggie made me and actually sent to me, like with a stamp and everything.
Yes, love is post-mail. Definitely.
In other news, I have this free download at iTunes that's going to expire October 15, and I can't use it because my step-mom is territorial and uninstalled all my iPod software from her computer. So, if anyone out there would like it, let me know. I'm sure we can work out some sort of exchange.
No sleep tonight. I overhear or am told the most ridiculous shit at this job. I know that one of my co-workers swings both ways, that another's ex-boyfriend was electrocuted, and that another has severe gas resulting from her pregnancy. Currently, several of my co-workers are discussing whether a certain actress appeared in Playboy or Maxxim, which has lead to a discussion of painted-on clothing and some other things I will not transcribe here because this is a family blog, damnit.
This shit is bananas. I just completed a 15-page copy editing and proofreading test for Simon & Schuster. I spent a good part of my evening in the public library with a copy of the 15th edition of the Chicago Style Manual. I did all this because, even though other candidates had a week to do their test, I had less than 24 hours because she wants to make a decision quickly.
Why do I do this? The odds are firmly against them hiring me.
Here's the truth. I am not special. There are a million, flabby girls wearing trendy shoes who've just graduated from college and who want to go into publishing. They can either copy edit well or their parents help them with the test. Donning pearls and enthusiasm does not make me special. I am not a rare, skilled worker. I am not a sought-after commodity. I am not even an easily-replaceable cog in a wheel because the motherfucking wheel doesn't want me.
I am so tired of interviewing. I am tired of getting revved up and walking around in these attractive yet painful shoes to impress a bunch of people who really couldn't care less. I am tired of jumping when they say jump, of worrying and waiting and wanting only to hit another dead end. I am tired of sending out resumes which get lost in e-mail overflow. I am so fucking tired.
I am not saying all this because I legitimately think that I'm shit. I'm just tired of feeling so pointless and unimportant. Why am I fighting so fucking hard to break into a world which clearly doesn't want me?
I will not be afraid of women. I'm not usually one to criticize PBS, but two things happened last night that really startled me. First, "Nova" chronicled the discovery of a sunken Japanese battleship from World War II. Every time a Japanese historian or eye witness spoke, they dubbed the translation using the most horrendously stereotypical Japanese-speaking-English voice possible. At one point, my dad started quoting Godzilla it was so bad. I don't understand why it was necessary to have stereotypically ethnic voices represent that ethnic background. I certainly wouldn't have been offended if someone with a British accent dubbed a Japanese translation. In the wake of Katrina, I find myself saying "That's so racist!" much more than I used to. I'll leave it to you to decide if that's a good thing.
After "Nova," "Frontline" explored the 10 year anniversary of the O.J. Simpson verdict and its affects on the judicial system. The documentary itself was fascinating, but at a few points during it, the director showed a discussion at Georgetown Law School, where the case is still debated. Every person who spoke was a white man. This could mean one of two things: 1) The director only used what the men said or 2) Women don't participate at Georgetown Law School. Think about the gender bias implicit in either of those options. All I have to say is up with women's education, down with patriarchy, and fuck you for silencing my sex.
I want somebody who sees me. I think today was the first time in years I actually got anything out of synagogue.
The Rosh Hashanah Haftarah portion discusses Hannah's silent yet fervent prayer for children. She is constantly taunted by her rival, her husband's other wife Peninnah, because Peninnah has two sons while Hannah has none. In the machsor's commentary, the rabbis and scholars focus on Hannah's prayer and the interpretation of her actions. But what no one seems to notice is that Hannah needs to bear a son to obtain socio-political standing within the community. She is part of a polygamous society where the birth of a male son equals security. Why don't any scholars talk about that?
What I do like, however, is that there is the possibility for discussion. All of our texts are allegories, and we are supposed to interpret and contemplate them. The rabbi talked about Adam's reaction after Cain's trial for killing his brother. Because Cain owned up to his sin by repenting, he was awarded clemency. Adam didn't do this. Adam could not say "Hineni"--Here I am. This is what Abraham says when he is called upon to sacrifice Isaac, and it is what Cain does when he repents. It is our obligation to follow Teshuvah, to say Hineni. And what does Hineni mean? What does it mean to say, "Here I am?"
I don't want to spend too much more time philosophizing on this. I don't want to take myself so seriously as to actually think I have an answer for any of these questions. But these thoughts make me go to a quiet place where it's just me, and I am humbled by the universe.
Joy to the fishies in the deep blue sea. In my office, there's an area known as The Fishbowl. It's a large, square area surrounded by cubicle walls with windows in the walls, so that, when walking to the coffee machine, you can stare at the six people who work in it. Hence the name The Fishbowl. Well, there is not a day that goes by when The Fishbowl does not have some sort of food for everyone. At least once a week, there are bagels, and more often than not, there are munchkins, cookies, fruit, and various grease-stained pastry boxes bearing who knows what. I wonder if you did a health survey of the office, would The Fishbowl occupants have a high rate of diabetes or obesity than other sections of the office? And would there be a radius of diabetes and obesity incidents radiating out from The Fishbowl?
These are the things I think about when I'm at work. Hence the reason I desperately need to find a different job.
You're gonna make it after all. Alright, this rant is going to make me sound whiny and bitter, but I don't care. Has anyone else noticed that damned annoying Chase commercial with the "cute" (i.e. dirty blonde, flat-chested and fugly) girl who gets her first pay check and runs around like Mary Tyler Moore with a worse wardrobe? She sticks it to her friends by buying them all lunch, she has a fabulous apartment, and she makes out with her generically good-looking boyfriend outside the movies.
I fucking hate her.
And, no, I didn't get the job, which is not as big a deal as it might seem because I have another interview Wednesday. I am just grumpy because work is boring and my brain falls asleep sitting in this damn office five hours a day. So, fine, I am a grump. But I am a hot grump.
