I Am Terrified...

Because I think I might be a hipster. I was playing on the internet today and found this article on "Hipster Interests." As you probably know if you've been reading this blog with any sort of semi-regularity, I LOVE hipsters. And by "I LOVE hipsters," I mean that I think they're terrible and mainly enjoy mocking them. Moving on, I obviously had to read this article so that I could laugh at everything hip, and I did laugh...for about 10 seconds until I realized that I actually like almost everything on the list. I had never really thought about it that much, but I have seen all of those movies multiple times. And I own several of them on DVD. And watch them regularly. Ditto for most of the music. And I have been known to watch Shark Week, though that's usually at the behest of others, because I don't really care that much about sharks. Shit.
Although, now that I think about it, since I enjoyed most of that stuff without feeling like I was supposed to enjoy it just to sound cool in conversation, maybe I'm not trying to be a hipster, maybe hipsters are trying to be me. Yeah, I'm going to go with that. So all of you hipsters who follow my blog should also start reading P.J. O'Rourke (particularly Holidays in Hell) and listening to Childish Gambino. Get on it.

Celebrity Guest Blog

Yikes. So I haven't posted on here in over a month, and, technically, I'm still not right now. My brother, Johnston, was oddly not busy at his very important job and was randomly inspired to write this post. It's an opinion piece like those found in The Onion, from the point of view of a working class 10 year old boy. I choose to name him Craig Jenkins. Thanks for taking the reigns on this whole blog thing, bro; clearly I'm kind of slacking. Whoops.

With Christmas quickly approaching, I have had Santa on my mind almost non-stop over the past week. And I have reached a philosophical impasse. It has been known, since time immemorial, that Santa Claus is watching all of us year-round and keeping tabs on how good we are, placing us on his lists as either good or bad. Assuming we make it to the good list, and since not all children receive the same type and number of gifts, or even gifts equal in cumulative monetary value, it stands to reason that any disparity in those gifts must result from exactly how good we are, as compared to other children. For instance, if we are polite, do well in school, help others and the like, we should receive superior gifts to say, those children who barely make onto the good list. So my question is this: if Santa is really keeping track of all these children and how good they are during the year and rewards them proportionately based on how good they have been, then why do all the rich kids get better presents?

Let's take my fourth grade class as a case study. Last year, my friend Mike Donnelly received a gold star in class for good behavior every single day. He was always polite to the teacher and all of our classmates. He helps his parents around the house and is a generally all around good kid. His only shortcoming may be that he is not the most intelligent, but that is never listed as a criterion for the good list, so this matter is negligible . Now let's tally up what he got for Christmas last year: socks, blue jeans, candy in his stocking and a Nintendo DS. Not a bad Christmas, but for such a good kid I would expect something more substantial. His father is an accountant and his mother a teacher, for reference.

Now compare him to Charles "Chaz" Winthrop Archibald, III. His father is a lobbyist, his mother is a socialite, from what I can tell. Chaz received gold stars on barely 1/4 of the schools days last year. He was consistently rude to our teacher and classmates. He never shares, throws temper tantrums when he doesn't get his way, and generally regards all of us as peasants. Further, his grades are atrocious - he can barely spell anything over two syllables and can't multiply to save his life. By all measures, I'd say he deserved a lump of coal at best. But let's look at a small sampling of what he found under the tree last year: XBox 360 fully loaded with a dozen games, Cannondale bicycle, new laptop, and a trip to Europe with his family.

How do we account for the disparity in gifts? Is Chaz doing charity work outside of school that none us knows about to make up for his poor behavior in the big man's eyes? I don't think so, he's not the type to help the homeless, sickly or elderly. As he readily admits, the only reason he even speaks to his grandmother is because she pays him $100 a visit. Am I missing something, or is the only logical explanation that Santa likes wealthy kids better than the rest of us? Are they somehow inherently better than us? Does being rich make you implicitly good? Or did they get placed on some sort of special list, on top of receiving preferential treatment in literally every other facet of life? It makes no sense - Santa is supposed to be the great equalizer, not caring if we are rich or poor and loving us just the same. But in reality, it looks like he gives gifts based entirely on how much money your parents have. Is it possible that the wealthy are bribing Santa? Has he been corrupted too? I certainly hope not, but there has to be some plausible explanation behind why Chaz receives a Mercedes PowerWheels after pushing Sara off of the jungle gym and I receive Yahtzee after receiving the 4th grade science award. Perhaps, there is some direct correlation between . . . wait, what's that mom? Oh. I see. Son of a bitch. Santa's not real. Sorry to have wasted all of your time; mystery solved. I'm off to take up juvenile delinquency.

The Big 2-3

As you would know if you were all true friends and not just imaginary people that I write to on my blog, today is my 23rd birthday. Yippee? I also recently learned that not only do I share this illustrious day with Art Garfunkel and Ryan Adams, but another famous songwriter. Well, she's not so much famous for songwriting as for doing nothing, being married to a former Olympic athlete, and having several children who also now do nothing. That's right. America's sweetheart: Kris Jenner. Here's a fun video that she made for her 30th birthday, 94 years ago today. Look out for the part when O.J. Simpson cheerfully shouts, "She loves you!" Do you think he was singing this as he murdered his wife and another person? I like to think so. Also note that music is credited to Randy Newman and lyrics to Kim, Kourtney and Khloe. Yes, an award winning songwriter has been lumped in with the Kardashian sisters. I think the apocalypse is now.

Happy 124th birthday, Kris! Next year let's totes do a party together. I'm thinking Vegas. Or female fight club. Or roller skating. Whatever, we'll figure it out. Love ya, girl, LyLaS OmGgGgGgG~~~~~@ ;)
You're awful.

Also

BULLDOGS WON YESTERDAY. I'm still so excited about this, it's actually a touch pathetic, but we haven't beat those shitheads down in Florida since I was a freshman, so yesterday was a big deal. I just had to mention something about that and leave you with two photos that really capture the essence of the day.

And I know that Tebow doesn't play for them any more and that that picture was from when they were playing Alabama, but it still makes me happy. Also this:

Today I Saw a Thing

Today my very best friend since 5th grade, Michelle, and her delightful boyfriend, Sam, were visiting me in the Big City. We touristed around all day (which was pretty fun for me, because, as someone who lives here, I generally get judged for doing this kind of thing) and went to Magnolia Bakery for cupcakes. Actually, Sam got some other sort of cake because he just has to be a crazy radical and rock the boat, but that is neither here nor there. We then went and sat in a little square to enjoy our confections, and just as I was digging into my cupcake, I glanced to my left. At the end of the square, about 10 feet from us, stood one of two trash cans. Perched daintily on the rim, like a beautiful, lithe ballerina, was a very large rat. Okay. I've seen rats before. I mean, I live in New York City, and I regularly ride the subway; I see rats like every other day. But generally they are not hanging out on top of a trash can in the middle of the afternoon in a relatively clean city square. So, of course, we were kind of horrified, but then we realized it was actually pretty damn funny. We fumbled around trying to get a picture, and then the rat, let's call him Templeton, fell into the trash can. We then spent a good amount of time speculating as to what would happen to Templeton. Would he be able to scale the trash bag, even though it had little to no traction, being a trash bag? Did he have some sort of rope with which he was going to lasso a tree and climb out? Would he be able to gnaw his way through the steel drum trash can? What kind of vertical leap do rats have? We were pretty concerned. Then we got distracted by other things. Upon finishing our cupcakes and non-cup cake, Sam went to throw the remainders of his treat out, because we were all too full to finish it. We remembered Templeton and decided to give him a sugary snack to make his imprisonment less painful. Sam crept up to the trash can, just close enough to see in, and tossed in the end of his cake. That's when he discovered that it wasn't just Templeton, but his whole rat family in that trash can. It was their smelly rat home. How quaint. Michelle then went over to view the Templeton family, and as she was creeping up, as both Sam and I are assuring her that there's no way a rat can jump high enough to get her if she gets a little closer, he jumped. If NBA players had a proportional vertical leap, regulation net height would be like 40 feet. I have never seen anything leap as high as this rat and he chose when Michelle was just barely peering over the edge to show off his skillz. It was basically the best possible timing, like the universe telling me it loves me. Michelle screamed like a little tiny girl and Sam and I laughed and laughed and laughed and laughed. It actually may have been the most hilarious thing I have ever seen. And so it was that I saw Michelle almost be accosted by a rat, and now October 30th will forever be remembered as Rat Day, or El Dia de los Ratos, for our Spanish speaking brethren.

I Watched Boogie Nights Tonight

Well, I watched the edited for TV version, but that still sort of counts, right? Anyway, while watching it I had many thoughts, one of which was that I would have really jived with disco. I actually said that. Out loud. To my roommate. I'm such a fucking weirdo sometimes; I legitimately worry myself. Some other thoughts I had were about how amazing '70s porno names were and whether porn "actors" still have fun names. Because I didn't feel like doing the kind of research necessary to answer that question, I just made up a bunch of porn names myself*. If you are an aspiring porno starlet/studlet, please feel free to borrow one of these, but I expect some sort of royalties.

Porno Names:
-Tiffani Lalane
-Sheree Bandeau
-Jock McHart
-Picabu Street
-Dash Hightower
-Destiny Childs (this is also an effective drag name)
-Rick Maxfield
-Tina Shine
-Crystal Jaggers
-Megan Foxx
-Gina Jones
-Shane Skyy
-Trip Scott
-Scot Tripp
-Mandy Pepper
-Ryan Seacrest
-Chassidy Lyles


*Any similarities with actual people's names are purely coincidental. Also, I'm sorry your parents gave you a porn star name and you decided to keep it instead of changing it when you got famous even though your manager probably told you it sounded like a porn star name.

Excuse Me?

Rand of Horses? Sounds kind of dirty. Sometimes you make me uncomfortable at work, Shazam.

Atlantic City

Clearly, I'm a terrible blogger. I said 2 weeks ago that I'd write a hilarious post on my weekend of nonsense in the most elegant city in the world, Atlantic City, New Jersey, and have I? No. Luckily for all of you, my friend Clay pointed out my extreme neglect and now I shall right that wrong. Here it is: my journey to the Shore.

Note: This picture doesn't even come close, but it's the best I could find.

Two weeks ago, roommate Lyndsay's company sent her to AC (as it is known to locals, aka hardcore gamblers and people on vacation from Cleveland), and they kindly allowed her to bring friends, so Virge came up from GA, and we all headed to the Shore. As we didn't arrive until 10:30, we felt it necessary to start drinking the minute we got to the hotel. I might mention that we were staying at Caesar's. No, we didn't ask if that's where the real Caesar lived, because we're not 14 year old boys, and I'm sure that joke's been done to death. Stop it. After dressing in our sparkliest attire and consuming a large bottle of wine between the three of us (after having not eaten dinner, a detail that will be important to remember later), we were ready to hit the slots. Since we are not hardcore gamblers, we felt that slot machines would be the best bet (no pun intended, but definitely enjoyed), because the minimum is only a dollar. Little did we know that slots take extreme strategy. There are at least 6 buttons on every machine, which was disappointing for several reasons:
1) You don't get to pull the lever, which is kind of one of the most fun parts of the slots.
2) The only directions (if there are any) use weirdo gambling jargon that you would only understand if you spent many days of your life in a casino.
3) They make you bet at least 30 cents on each spin, meaning that dollars don't go as far as they should.
Basically slots are awful but were the only type of gambling we felt comfortable around. Also, when you're gambling, the casino has lovely cocktail waitresses bringing you free drinks of which we had several. By the way, "lovely" here means "old and haggard and wearing white dresses that appear to be from Bebe ." Virge and I quickly lost $10 a piece and decided to give up. Lyndsay, on the other hand, only spent $3 and won. She won A HUNDRED FREAKING DOLLARS. What a bitch. Well, then Virge and Lyndsay went and cashed out and the cashier looked at them like they were idiots for being so excited over $100. Clearly, she wasn't aware that we're not hardcore gamblers. Have I said that enough times? Good. I'll move on.
Though we briefly thought about going to the "club" on the premises, we opted for the very elegant bar, Toga (Caesar's has a bar called Toga, get it? sOoO fUnNy oMg). Obviously, we forced Lyndsay to put up the dollars for drinks. For some reason, our drink of choice that night was vodka and Diet Coke. Why? Because we're great. Anyway, Virge insisted on light ice in these drinks. If you haven't been paying attention, we've had many drinks at this point. How many? I have no idea. The point is, there was no reason to put less diluting substances in our drinks. But you're only in Atlantic City once. If you're lucky. For some reason, none of us realized that by not going out until midnight, it was automatically about two hours later than we assumed it was. That and the fact that casinos never fucking close and don't have clocks anywhere, so we had no idea what time it was. After a few more vodka DCs, we met some lovely gentlemen, who we chatted up until they bought us more drinks, including some Jager bombs that were the same size as regular drinks. Woof. Clearly, the rest of the night got interesting. I won't go into details because this is the internet and I may want someone to give me a job one day. Needless to say, we made bad decisions and one of us may have vomited into a toilet while sitting on said toilet.
Also needless to say, we weren't feeling too snappy the next day. Poor Lyndsay had to get up and go do work things, but the only reason Virge and I got out of bed at all was to walk to the Mickey Don Dons. Seriously, that was the only reason either of us got out of bed until 6 o'clock that evening, going to McDonald's. It would have been a lot sadder if it didn't seem that every other person in Atlantic City was doing the same thing. It's possibly because there are no real restaurants in AC; it's like the entirety of the Mid West was transported to the New Jersey shore. The nicest restaurants appeared to be Applebee's and Longhorn, but there was also a delightful "gourmet" establishment right on the boardwalk in Trump Plaza where we dined Saturday evening. They had a prix fixe menu (probably pronounced as it's spelled by most customers) for $19, if that gives you any idea of the level of cuisine we faced here. I order what was called a pork tender on the menu, and ended up being two huge pork medallions stuffed with ham and cheese and covered in some sort of sauce. It was delightful. I also have type 2 diabetes now. We played the slots for a while, but Lyndsay wasn't on fire that night, so after spotting a very large woman in a pink, leopard-print, spandex unitard, we decided to call it quits (I tried to find a picture of this, but, luckily for your retinas, I couldn't). After Friday night, Saturday was slightly more low key; especially after we tried to go to Dusk (the club), and found out there was a $25 cover. I'm sure you're surprised to know that none of us wanted to pay to hang out in a darkened club with the types of people who go to clubs in Atlantic City (think Jersey Shore cast if they were from Nebraska) and listen to house music, so we went to the "beer garden" on the boardwalk. I put "beer garden" in quotes here, because it was really just a bar. They had about 8 beers on the menu, all of which were bottled, 4 of which were Budweiser, Bud Light, Coors and Coors Light. I'm not sure what they think a beer garden is, but it's not that.
On Sunday, we couldn't spend the entire day in bed again because we had to check out at noon, which was sad, so we spent the day on the boardwalk and in the mall. Both were about as depressing as you would imagine, with the high points being the souvenir stands at which you could buy shirts that said things like "A Special Lady" with a picture of kittens (or other adorable baby animals) and The Show. The Show was every hour on the hour in the mall. It was amazing. It was hilarious. It was a fountain with lights that synchronize sprayed to a variety of awful music. After The Show we had a delightful seafood lunch in the mall. Yes, I ate seafood in a mall. Fortunately, we were in Jersey, so that's pretty average. Sadly, it was probably the best non-McDonald's meal we had all weekend. That night after the premiere of Boardwalk Empire (the entire reason we were in AC, because Lyndsay's company does marketing for the show), we were driven back to the city in a really fly SUV with a tv and watched a movie called Flight of the Phoenix starring Dennis Quaid. I have no idea what happened in the movie, but old Dennis looked pretty good.
Virge said it best, "I feel like everyone here is on their bucket list." There is seriously no other reason that any person should ever go to Atlantic City, but every person should go at least once. It's dirty and old (in a sad, post-nuclear meltdown Chernobyl kind of way) and filled with people who seem at once depressed and too stupid to realize they're depressed, also very old people; of course, being very old gives you the excuse to do anything and be neither pathetic nor stupid. Old people don't give a fuck.
Here is a list of things I learned in Atlantic City:
1) Casinos are filled with broken dreams and elastic waist pants, and therefore hilarious if you have no soul (like me).
2) If faced with restaurant choices that include Applebee's, McDonald's, Melting Pot, and Longhorn, I will have no problem with going to McDonald's twice in two days.
3) Though I will never ride in one, whoever invented the "adult strollers" as we called them (basically pedi-cabs without the bicycle that are pushed from behind) was a fucking genius. If there's one thing that the type of people who go to AC hate, it's exercise of any kind, and so love any way to get from buffet to buffet while moving as little as possible.
4) Wearing a tiara and/or boa and/or veil to your Atlantic City bachelorette party is even more embarrassing/depressing than doing that at your bachelorette party in any other city.
5) I will never tire of judging people based on their outfits and life choices.
6) Even though I smoke occasionally, smoking indoors is just really really gross.
7) Giving your number to a guy is a really terrible, awful idea. I'm a fucking moron.
8) Atlantic City is the worst place in the world, and therefore, kind of the best.

And here's the song that was stuck in my head all weekend. If you can't guess what it is just by virtue of the fact that this is a post about Atlantic City, just stop being dumb.

Coming Soon...

I'm at work right now, and don't have the patience to stand here and write a full blog post, but tomorrow there WILL be a new post about my weekend in Atlantic City. I'll leave you with these words: pink, leopard-print cat suit. See you tomorrow!

I'm Tired. Also, Fashion Rant

I know that last week I said that I'd write a new post after I had a few days to recharge from the booze-a-thon that was last week, but here's the thing. The thing is that I started my second job this week on top of my internship and now I'm freaking exhausted. The internship at Grove/Atlantic is pretty great, but I was very busy this week. Yesterday I sent out 152 copies of the same book. It took four hours. Woof. Second job is at a brand new skin care shop called Cellure. The store hasn't actually opened yet so we've been running around like a bunch of bufoons trying to get everything ready. It's a really cool product line, though, so everyone should check it out. I'll wait. Neat, eh? Now I'm tired. All this is to say that I have neither the energy, nor the mental capacity right now to write a full post. Sorry. I'm a bad blogger. Here's a post I wrote in the airport 2 weeks ago. It was written at 8 in the morning and I'm not even going to read over it, so it may be stupid and/or offensive. Again, sorry (not really).

Fashion Rant

I know that I am not the first to say this, nor shall I probably be the last, but as I sit at LaGuardia waiting for a flight to Atlanta, I cannot help but despair at the state of my fellow travelers’ vestments. Though I realize that flying is not the rarity and therefore not the special occasion that it once was, I can’t help but ask, “Does no one care anymore?” To look around at the people both boarding and disembarking, it seems that everyone has decided collectively to not give a shit how they’re perceived. While flying is a fairly unpleasant process, especially for those of us in steerage, and I don’t think it’s necessary to wear a suit or an Easter dress, would it kill people to not look like they had just rolled out of bed. Perhaps it would be a better experience overall if everyone came together and at least tried to look like they’ve achieved the level of success needed to be able to afford to fly. Even at my best, I generally look a touch rumpled and shabby next to my more stylish peers, so when I am one of the best-dressed people around, it’s not a good sign for society at large. Of course, there will be people who disparage this opinion, shouting, “Clothes are superficial! What does it matter what you wear so long as you know that you’re clever/successful/interesting?! Why should we kowtow to materialism and the status quo beauty ideal?!” To these people I will say, “Shut up. You are wrong, and here’s why.” Whether we like to admit it or not, the way we feel about a person on first meeting has a great deal to do with how they look. If a person is tidy and nicely dressed and appears well rested, we generally think of that person positively. Conversely, if a person appears slovenly and unkempt and like we’ve caught him readying for bed, we feel ill at ease, as if perhaps something’s gone wrong in their life and why on Earth would you want to be around a stranger in the middle of an emotional crisis? That’s just awkward for everyone involved. Obviously a plane trip is not an interview and if you would really rather be “comfortable” than have people treat you with respect, that’s your prerogative. Though as for that, who says you can’t be comfortable and also look like not a hobo?

This discourse leads me into a larger matter altogether. There are certain pieces of clothing that people insist on wearing that actually upset me upon sight:
The first offender: tennis shoes, or “sneakers” to our yankee brethren. There are precisely two times when it is appropriate to wear these shoes, and all of them involve physical activity. If you are exercising or performing manual labor, tennis shoes are 100% appropriate. They provide the proper amount of traction and support, as well as protection of the feet for such strenuous activities. If you wear them at any other time you just look depressing and you might as well change your name to Tiffani and move to somewhere in middle America, because I am sick of having to see you scuffling around.
The next offender is cargo anything. Ask yourself these questions when deciding whether it is appropriate to wear cargo pants: Am I in the military? Is this part of a required uniform? Am I doing some sort of construction that requires several easily accessible pockets in which to keep nuts and bolts and the like? If the answer to any of those questions is “Yes,” then congratulations, you are in the very tiny minority of people who are allowed to wear cargo pants/shorts. If the answer to all of those is, “No,” then climb back in your time machine, remember that it’s not 1997, and you look like a giant douche.
The next is going to involve some explanation, so stick with me here: hats. Not all hats are bad, but not every hat looks good on every person, and, in fact, it takes a very specific type of person to pull off a hat, and that type of person changes depending on the chapeau. For example, a straw fedora only looks good on the absolute hippest of hipsters; those of you trying to emulate the hipster style with a hat you picked up at Urban Outfitters, might want to look in the mirror once more. See that goon staring back? That’s you; now take off the fedora. Newsboy caps, on the other hand, look good on exactly no one and should all be burned. That may sound extreme, but it’s for your own good.
The final item I will discuss has not always been an object of my disgust; in fact, I am ashamed to say, I wore this item for many years and so am using my knowledge to help others. I also know that I'll probably get in trouble with a lot of my friends for saying this, but I'm willing to take that chance, because I am an innovator. Offender #4: Flip flops. Like the cargo pant, flip flops are appropriate at exactly two times: the beach/pool and communal showers. Actually, I’m being generous with the beach/pool, but it’s understandable that one would not want to get their cute sandals sandy/chlorine-y. Not only do these “shoes” (if you can even call them that) make a horrible sound, but they make everyone’s feet look fat and flat and sad, like little pig feet sprouting from enormous cankles. I have been told on more than one occasion that I have beautiful feet (seriously, and, yes, I realize how creepy that compliment is), so if they make my feet look bad, they must be truly awful. For some reason, the professional women of New York have decided that flip flops are the most comfortable shoes in the entire world and immediately change into them upon leaving the office. To them I must say, “You have a good job; you are obviously successful, so why do you feel the need to look like idiot trash? Go buy some Tory Birch flats and be done with it.” Of course, not everyone can afford Tory Birch, myself included, but luckily we live in America where you can get a comparable knock-off of just about anything. I’m sorry if I sound like a snob (not really), but I’m sick of being ambushed by sadness and anger every damn day. Take some pride in your appearance, or at least try not to look like a blob of melancholy.

Rules, Rules, Rules

Guess what! I found this unpublished post on my computer and now you get to read it. Wouldn't wanted any of the 7 people that sometimes read my blog to go into withdrawals because I made bad decisions last week. Read and be delighted!

As I have said before, I went to private school (I'm a pretentious asshole, remember?), and, as is the case with many private schools, we wore uniforms. Starting in first grade and continuing all the way up to twelfth, I wore basically the exact same thing 5 days a week, 9 months a year, and I freaking loved it. Actually, at the time I didn't really think about it at all, but now I'm glad for the experience. Never once did I have to think about what I was going to wear to school. Sure I spent hours deciding what color ribbon (or scrunchie between 1995 and 1998) to wear and whether to bunch my tube socks at the ankle or pull them to the knee, but that was about the extent of my worrying for a good 12 years of my life. By the time I got to college, I actually had a hard time dressing myself for class [Note: this is a joke, if you didn't get that, stop reading here]. Not only did it save me a lot of time, but it saved my parents a lot of money, which they then funneled directly back into the school. My point is that, for the most part, uniforms were a good thing. They served not only as an equalizer, but also, and it pains me to say this because it's exactly what the school wanted, it helped me to define my character as something separate from the way I dress.
Of course, as a child I bitched and moaned when I would get in trouble for wearing non-uniform shoes or socks or jackets, and it only pissed me off more when my parents took the side of the school. How dare they?! I am their child, their baby, they should always agree with me. ALWAYS. Their "reasoning" (if you can even call it that) was that I knew what I was doing was against the rules and I did it anyway, so I deserved the consequences (which were usually nothing, I was a nerd, teachers generally let the nerds get away with more). Now, being a wise and mature 22 years old, I actually agree with my parents. It's amazing what a few years can do for your reasoning skills.
I've been ruminating on this because of a news story I recently read. Some first grade boy in San Antonio was suspended from school for wearing an earring and refusing to cut his hair. Now every idiot and his mother, including that beacon of stupidity, Perez Hilton, has jumped all over the school for their evil policy. People are mostly enraged because the little boy in question is growing out his hair for Locks of Love and how dare the school not allow him to help kids with cancer. Ok, here's the thing, I think Locks of Love is a fantastic organization. I have donated hair to them twice. I support Locks of Love. BUT it's against the school's policy for boys to have long hair. Also, what the hell is a first grade boy doing with an earring? My annoyance has nothing to do with his being a boy and everything to do with him being in first grade. Children with earrings are trashy. Sorry. Anyway, I realize that a lot of people view traditional gender roles as being on par with racism, but just get over it. Honestly, I think gender roles are wonderful. Sure they shouldn't dictate every single decision made in a person's life (I'd go so far as to say that almost nothing should hold that sort of power over a person's rationale), but they're nice. After all, how can I be proud of being a woman if being a woman is exactly the same as being a man? Also, androgyny creeps me out a little bit. Back to the issue at hand. The kid, or rather his parents, as he's only 7 so I don't hold him responsible, broke the rules. If they would like to change the rules to fit with their very lofty ideals, then perhaps they should engage in a rational discussion with the school. If they cannot persuade the school to change their policy, then they either need to switch schools or move on. Believe it or not, there are actually a lot of things in the world a lot more worthy of outrage than some kid getting in trouble in school because he broke the rules. Teaching your child to answer opposition with whining rather than reason is only setting him or her up to be a lazy, impotent adult with entitlement issues. Shocking as it may seem to the generation of "adults" currently raising small children, rules and boundaries are a good thing. They teach children that there are consequences for actions. I'll use my own life as an example here. I fucked around in college and now I'm having a hard time finding a job. Whose fault is that? As much as I'd love to say that it's UGA's fault for being located in Athens, GA (a line of reasoning that these people seem to think makes total sense), I know I can't. It's my fault. I could have studied and worked hard and done internships and been a research assistant, but I didn't, and now I have to live with the consequences. Obviously, a little boy having long hair and an earring does not necessitate his being unsuccessful in life, but rewarding him for breaking the rules might. Change is not gotten by complaining, but by being proactive. Rules are set in place for a reason; if you break them, you will be punished. If you sense that the rules are unjust, set about changing them in a calm, mature fashion. If you have enough free time to worry that much about something as insignificant as a school's dress code, you need to grow up and get some real problems. I don't even have real problems, and even I think you sound pathetic. Really the only part of the school's decision I disagree with is that the parents went unpunished. They knew that his having an earring and long hair was against the rules, and they chose to ignore that, which in turn teaches their son that if you disagree with a rule you can just break it, thus perpetuating the problem. It sounds to me like this poor kid's parents are using him as some sort of statement against authority because they weren't loved enough by their hippie-turned-yuppie parents. Also, the mom's name is Kandi, which basically says everything right there. Sorry if this turned into a bit of a rant, but, as someone who fully supports civil disobedience when it actually means something, this little bullshit really annoyed me. Go about your day.

It's Been A Long Week

Sitting in the airport last week waiting to board a plane for the ATL, I came up with all sorts of great ideas for a blog post. I even started writing a few. Then I went on what was basically a week-long drinking binge. I feel like I've had a stroke. Also, my hip hurts. The point is, I won't be able to type out any of the incredible, brilliant, and hilarious things I thought up to write about for at least a couple of days, but here are the possible/probable topics to tantalize you while I go on a juice cleanse*: -The awful way people dress -People who try way way way too hard -Differences between the north and South (that's not a typo, my respect for the South requires that I capitalize the 's') -My internship at Grove/Atlantic -The dangers of drinking wine at lunch or gin in the middle of the afternoon. -Candy *I will not be doing a juice cleanse. I don't even really know what that means, I was just trying to sound cool. I'm cool, right? Right?! WHY DON'T YOU LOVE ME?!

Come On Irene

I've prepared for this storm as much as I feel is necessary (I bought a bunch of junk food and went to the liquor store, see above), and now I'm just looking forward to a Sunday Funday. The power might go out, so I've got some candles (actually, my roommate already had about 10,000 tea lights for some unknown reason), but it probably won't. Unlike me, everyone else in the city is FREAKING OUT, due in large part to the sensationalism of the news media, and I feel like I'm taking crazy pills. I went to the store just to buy orange juice (for cocktails) and Doritos (for deliciousness), and everyone there looked at me like I'm an idiot. I want to make a t-shirt that says "I have lived through 15+ hurricanes, I know what I'm doing, you assholes." Maybe I'm being a little cavalier here, but mostly I think I'm just being right. I win. I win the hurricane. Back off.
Also, a note to New Yorkers: It'll most likely be a Cat 1 by the time it gets here. The water is too cool up here to sustain a massive storm, so you can stop rehearsing for your news interview when you describe the atrocities of a storm that was basically just a windy rainstorm. This isn't Katrina, calm down.
A friend of my roommate's is having a "Come on Irene" hurricane party, which I thought was terribly clever (hence the name of this post), and now I have this damn song in my head and I think you should, too. Enjoy! Come on Eileen, Dexy's Midnight Runners.

Storm's A-Brewin'

Looks like Hurricane Irene is going to probably hit New York, and people are starting to freak out. I'm not. You see, I grew up on the Gulf Coast and have lived through upwards of 15 storms, including Katrina (and Ivan, for that matter, but since Ivan only destroyed uncool parts of the South, like the Florida panhandle, no one really gave a shit). Having lived through all of these storms, here are some pro tips to stay safe and happy during and after a hurricane:
1. Make sure you have flashlights and batteries, or candles, if you're a hipster. As my father called to tell me, for added safety put your candles in a glass jar so as to keep from catching anything on fire. As my father also reminded me (because he apparently thinks I don't understand how fire works), don't put the lids on the jars when the candles are lit, as the candle will then go out.
2. Get some jugs of water and food that doesn't need to be refrigerated and/or cooked. The food thing makes total sense, as the power could very likely go out, but I've never understood the water thing. I assume at some point a hurricane destroyed some water mains, but I've never had water shut off because of a hurricane. Ever. I guess it's best to be prepared, but you can probably look forward to having several jugs of water hanging around your apartment for a while.
3. You might want a battery-powered radio. Because your power will be out, you'll need this archaic piece of technology to stay up-to-the-minute on storm news. Unfortunately, that means you'll have to listen to DJs ramble on about nonsense, but that's the price you'll have to pay if you want to be informed. Sorry.
4. No matter how cool it looks, don't go outside during the storm. There could be falling tree limbs and power lines and...you know what, this is bullshit. I have gone outside during most hurricanes for which I've been present and I've been fine. Obviously, if it's still a Cat 3, this might be a bad idea, because of the hundreds of mph winds that will probably knock you down, but I leave it up to your judgment. Definitely go out if the eye passes over. The sky turns a really weird color and it's creepily still, definitely something to see.
5. Be sure to have plenty of booze on hand. This is a given any time, really, but it's especially important after a hurricane. The power is going to be out and you're going to be bored as shit. Once you realize that a 700 square foot apartment doesn't really give you a lot of room for flashlight tag and you're sick of making wax balls from the candles and you've realized that the light bulb was invented because trying to do anything by candlelight sucks, there is literally nothing else to do but get hammered.
6. Charge your phone. Better yet, buy a solar charger, because I have a feeling a good majority of people might actually have nervous breakdowns if they couldn't use their phones. Many moons ago, people had magical devices called "house phones", and it was very rare to lose one's telephone service because of a storm. Sadly, it seems we have actually regressed in that sense.
7. Don't worry about charging your computer. Your power's out; the internet won't work no matter how much you cry. Don't be an idiot.
8. Keep your shotgun in plain sight to ward off looters. They'll be everywhere.
9. Get ready to loot! It is a little known fact that when the power is out, all laws become moot and anything you've ever wanted is up for grabs.
10. Try not to open your refrigerator/freezer too much, that way, the 16 pounds of buffalo wings in your freezer will have better chance of staying frozen longer. Don't want to waste that investment!

Those are the best tips I can think of right now, but I'll be certain to update this if I think of anything else. A fun game you can play right now is to figure out which of these tips are real and which are totally made up. Have fun!

So There Was an Earthquake Today...

Well, there was an earthquake today on the east coast, and pretty much everybody is acting like it was the end of the world. The epicenter of the 5.9 magnitude quake was in some made-up-sounding place called Mineral, VA, where there are apparently a lot of nuclear power plants, which is not at all unsettling. When the shock waves hit NY, I was sitting in a movie theater watching The Help, which was awesome, and it felt like all the muscles in my legs had started spasming. I got really worried for about a minute, I actually thought I was going crazy, but then it stopped and I promptly forgot about it. Until I left the theater. As I was walking down the street I heard some dude screaming into his phone that there had been an earthquake in Brooklyn. That confused me until I remembered my "leg spasms." Then I felt like an idiot.
Luckily, nothing too bad happened here, and, from what they're saying on the news, no severe damage has occurred. Still, really weird day. I'm sure everyone on the west coast is rolling their eyes and acting all aloof, because the babies on the east coast have flipped out about a little 5.9 magnitude earthquake, but it's a damn weird feeling. We don't do that kind of thing on this coast. That's why we live on the east coast. That, and because it's obviously superior in every way, but I digress.
I must say that between an earthquake on the east coast, tornadoes in the Southeast earlier this year, and Hurricane Irene thundering towards the coast, I'm not so sure those Mayans were as full of baloney as I had thought. I'm just going to go ahead and say that if another weirdo natural disaster happens any time soon, I'm going to start gearing up for the dystopian post-apocalyptic landscape. Anybody got a cheap bowie knife I can buy? Also, you best believe I will not hesitate to go to the library in hopes that Jake Gyllenhaal will be there to save me/fall in love with me.

Pathetic and Hilarious

I know everyone has already seen this, but it's just so damn funny I had to. After four years of rush, I understand you have to to really awful, stupid things sometimes, but this just takes the cake. Bravo, Alabama. Thank God no one at UGA has ever done anything this embarrassing.

The Fear

Somehow, for the second Friday in a row, I'm unbelievably hungover. I mean, I know how it happened; I understand how booze works, but I'm not sure why I keep getting drunk on Thursdays. Wasn't that supposed to stop when I graduated? I guess it's probably more something that happens when you get a job, something I still haven't been able to get.
Ah well, back to my hangover. This morning I woke up with a bad case of the Fear. I know that's something usually reserved for those who enjoy a touch of the nose candy (or what-have-you) and Hunter S. Thompson, but I get it from drinking too much cheap pinot grigio on an empty stomach. And, even if I was tempted to begin dabbling in drugs, I drunkenly decided to watch Trainspotting on Netflix last night and am now terrified of everything, yet deeply in love with Jonny Lee Miller and Ewan McGregor. What was I talking about? I just started drooling on my keyboard. Oh, the Fear, yes. You see when I woke up this morning to the incessant ringing of my doorbell because I forgot I had signed up to have the exterminator come this morning, I was terrified. Anyone who has been insanely hungover knows this feeling, but may not have had a name for it until now. You're welcome. It's that feeling that if you get out of bed you will absolutely dissolve into a puddle of sadness and despair; when you can't complete a single thought and your arms and legs feel like lead weights attached to your jelly torso and having to talk to a single other human being makes you break into a cold sweat. Know that feeling? I assumed as much.
This is the way I've woken up the last two Fridays in a row, and frankly I'm intrigued to see if this pattern continues. It wasn't a conscious choice. Last Thursday I went out with a friend, which I think is a good reason to be hungover the next day. Last night, however, I didn't do anything. I just bought a bottle of wine and watched Jersey Shore. I guess it would be possible to blame my hangover on that show, but let's be honest, I started drinking at 7, and I had forgotten that it was Jerzday. I'm an idiot.
One good thing that came out of this sad, sad routine is a fantastic Fear playlist on Grooveshark. And so I invite anyone and everyone who had the Fear this morning, and even those of you who are actually responsible human beings, to partake in this fine selection of songs:
Choices, George Jones
The Galway Girl, Steve Earle
Every Man I Fall For, Cold War Kids
Devil Town, Tony Lucca
I Will Follow You Into the Dark, Death Cab for Cutie
Sleeping Sickness, City and Colour
Talk Show Host, Radiohead
No Cars Go, Arcade Fire
When the Lights Go Out, The Black Keys
Town with No Cheer, Tom Waits
One Big Holiday, My Morning Jacket
We Are Nowhere and It's Now, Bright Eyes with Emmylou Harris
Jolene, Ray LaMontagne
Head Full of Doubt/Road Full of Promise, the Avett Brothers
The Ragged Sea, Alexi Murdoch
West Coast, Coconut Records
It'll All Work Out, Tom Petty
End of the Line, Traveling Wilburys

If it helps just one person get out of bed and face the mistakes they made last night, the last hour that I wasted putting together this playlist will be worth it. No need to tell me how awesome it is; I know.
I just found out when I googled "the fear" to find a picture for this post that that is the name of a Lily Allen song. I will not put it on my playlist. Sorry. Sort of.

National Book Week

Well, I just found out that it's National Book Week, which makes me very happy, but also makes me feel like an idiot for not knowing this until Tuesday. So. Many. Emotions. Anyway, in honor of this most joyous occasion and ridiculous made up holiday, here's a list of books that I've read lately and greatly enjoyed.
1. Just Kids, Patti Smith: Her memoir about her early days in New York and her friendship with the photographer Robert Mapplethorpe. The prose is beautiful and poetic, and Smith tells her story with the sort of forthrightness that could only come from the Godmother of Punk. I highly recommend this for anyone who has ever romanticized what it is like to be young, poor, and talented in New York City. It also won National Book Award, so it must be good, right?
2. This Is Where I Leave You, Jonathan Tropper: The story of a man returning home to sit shiva after his father's death from cancer, it is also the story of a dysfunctional family at it's most vulnerable. Dealing with the recent infidelity of his wife, the death of a father with whom he had a strained relationship, and the stress of being trapped in his childhood home with his 3 siblings and sex-therapist mother, the narrator tells a tale both heart-breaking and darkly hilarious.
3. Gilead, Marilynne Robinson: The narrator, a preacher in a small Midwestern town, has come to the end of his life, and so, to deal with the fact that he will be leaving behind a much younger wife and his very young son, he has set about to write a letter detailing his life and his ancestors' lives so that his son may at some point know the man who died when he was so young. Both beautiful and heartbreaking, it is the type of book that will reaffirm your faith in human kind.
4. A Girl Named Zippy, Haven Kimmel: Another memoir, this tells about the childhood of a very funny, very strange little girl in rural Indiana in the 1960s and 70s. It outlines her family, friends and her struggles with faith as a small child. It's hilarious at some points and poignant at others, a very light read that can be easily finished in a day or two.
5. One Day, David Nicholls: The movie version of this starring Anne Hathaway and Jim Sturgess (that guy from Across the Universe) is out soon, so I suggest reading this asap. It's the story of two people and their lives together and apart over the course of twenty years, each chapter covering the same day (July 15) of each year. It's like a Nicholas Sparks story, but well-written and clever. Oh, and it will make you cry so many times. If it doesn't, you have a cold robot heart, and I don't want to know you.

Those are the best that I've read lately, but of course, any book is worthy, just as long as you're reading and learning. And as long as it's not actually a Nicholas Sparks book; that doesn't count.

Watch the Throne

Yesterday Kanye and Jay-Z's new album Watch the Throne dropped and I don't know how I feel about it. I also don't know how I feel about the fact that I've become one of those people who use the word "dropped" in that context. Back to the album. I've listened to it twice now in its entirety and I've listened to a few tracks more than twice, and I have to say that overall, this album is not good. Maybe if it was the sophomore effort of some B-list rap duo that was only famous for that one super catchy single that was stuck in everyone's head last summer it would be acceptable, but this is freaking Jay-Z and Kanye mothafucking West. I expect more from them. The track "No Church in the Wild" is fantastic and I really love "Made in America", but, not to be over dramatic, "Otis" made me want to fly to London just so I could join in on the riots. It sounded like I was driving around in my car, listening to "Try a Little Tenderness" at a reasonable volume, and some dickbag pulled up next to me blaring his cousin's shitty rap demo album. It's fantastic that they wanted to pay tribute to the King of Soul, and I laud that effort, but rapping nonsense over his singing is not much of a tribute. It just sounds like they were listening to Otis in the studio and forgot to turn it off before they started recording. Ducky's lip synch in Pretty in Pink was more of a tribute than this drivel.
Then there's the song "Ni**as in Paris." Not only is the title delightful, but it seems to have almost nothing to do with the rest of the song, except for the line where they say "ni**as in Paris and they going gorillas," which I assume has something to do with going bananas or perhaps going ape shit? When I first saw the title I assumed it had something to do with racism in France, which would be very much worthy of commentary, but it's not; it's just Ye and Jay rambling about being rich. Cool? I also don't know what to think about this song when it appears alongside a song like "Made in America", which comments on the strides made in the past century by African-Americans and "No Church in the Wild", which comments on the role of religion and celebrity both in history and modern society. Basically, this album is half powerful, thoughtful verse that elevates rap to the level of poetry, and half mumbled nonsense with the same trite rhymes about being rich and famous that make people hate rap. Of course, there's every chance that I'm an idiot and I'm missing the point. Maybe the half of the album that sounds like garbage to me is meant to sound that way as some sort of meta statement about the rap industry in general. Or maybe they just got sloppy because they tried to put out an album too quickly.
In short, I think I'm just irritated because I really love Jay-Z and Kanye and I expected better from them. Maybe I just need to listen to the album again.

How I Feel About Harry Potter

I have been hesitant to make this post for about the past month for a couple of reasons. 1) A lot of my best friends (including my roommate) are absolutely obsessed with Harry Potter. 2) I would like to try to submit it to real websites where they'll pay me to write, and often those sites won't accept stuff if it's already been published, and, apparently, putting stuff on my stupid blog that about 4 people sometimes read counts as "published" which makes about as much sense as the things I'm about to make fun of.
I decided to go ahead and "publish" this because I figure if I can get more people to read my blog by posting my best writing, other people will ask me to write more articles for which I will get paid. Hopefully.
Anyway, these two rants were inspired by my midnight viewing of the most recent Harry Potter, my texts to my brother about that viewing, and an article from Sports Illustrated he sent to me later about Quidditch leagues on college campuses. In short, I'm worried about our generation.
DISCLAIMER: I do not hate Harry Potter. The movies are entertaining, and I'm sure the books are great for a lot of people who aren't me. That said, it's still a series for children and teens and no amount of arguing will elevate the stories and writing beyond that plateau, so please stop trying to convince me.

Rant 1:

The Harry Potter showing last night was freaking horrendous. The movie is good, well, as good as it could be. I enjoyed it, but the fans are so pathetic; it's depressing. First of all, Lyndsay made me get in line an hour early, as I told you, and the line stretched around an entire city block. If you already have tickets, which means that you have a seat inside, why the hell are you waiting in line? I understand not wanting to sit in the front row, but come on. And the amount of middle-aged adults that were in line sans children kind of made me want to join those people who always protest the movies with signs that say things like "Harry Potter=Satan." Every time something even marginally entertaining happened, they either applauded (a reaction to movies that has never made the slightest bit of sense to me; do they have that little impulse control that they can't help but clap for people that aren't really there?) or laughed so hard that I couldn't hear the movie, which really annoyed the hell out of me. Several people cried, and it took every bit of my energy not to start laughing hysterically. How are they having such strong reactions to something they already know is going to happen? It's not like the acting is that amazing or the writing that incredible. I honestly don't understand what happened to our generation (and apparently the one that preceded us) that so many people cling so desperately to the story of a bespectacled wizard child, a story of good v. evil that is about as original as a body switch movie. Are people's lives that pathetic that they have to throw themselves so totally into a series of children's books? It actually worries me. A lot. I also realized that by going to the movie last night, I'm part of the problem. Yikes.

Rant 2 (in response to this):
I already knew that there were doofuses playing quidditch on college campuses, but I had never seen pictures before, so it didn't seem real to me until now. As a result, I have many questions.
1. Why do they need the brooms? In the books/movies the brooms are how they fly, but, since we are not in fact in the mind of an old hippie who took too much of the "bad acid" in 1967 staring out a window, brooms do not fly, so they seem to just be a way to actually make the game harder.
2. Since there is no such thing as a "golden snitch" in this non-peyote-fueled world, do they just throw a tiny ball at each other really fast?
3. What happened in their childhoods to make being on a quidditch team seem like something that is not going to make future friends and employers either laugh or back slowly away?
4. Why is Sports Illustrated publishing this? Have they just decided that because print media is becoming outdated that they no longer have to have any sort of credibility and who really gives a shit anymore anyway?
5. Did everyone in the country just get smacked on their little heads with a ball-peen hammer when we were out of the country at some point?
Thanks, Sports Illustrated, for making me want to totally divorce myself from my entire generation. Harry Potter is a wonderfully fanciful children's book that should be read and enjoyed. The movies are entertaining and well made. But when people start taking things they see in movies and books and acting them out in real life we end up with a country full of fat, pale, middle-aged people living in their mothers' basements. It's all yours, China; I'm out.

Also, I am glad that your Potter viewing experience wasn't nearly as horrific as mine. I understand that plot lines are often recycled, and that's perfectly fine, but it's when people take something like Harry Potter, a dumbed-down version of Lord of the Rings as you said, and act like it's freaking Citizen Kane is when I begin having problems.



Again, Harry Potter is a lovely series, but obsession over anything is worrisome to me, especially when that anything is a wizard series aimed at the 9-16 age bracket. I know that I'm not the coolest person on the planet (I'm wearing a Three Keyboard Cat t shirt), and that I've momentarily become obsessed with certain pop culture phenoms (I once spent around 8 hours googling Robert Pattinson. He's good-looking, I'm not made of stone, give me a break), but, like many well-adjusted humans, I let things go after a few days or weeks; I don't adopt a lifestyle so that every aspect of every day reflects some fictional world. In 100 years (if the Mayans were wrong, that is), there will be whole psychological theses published on this specific brand of personality disorder. Rant over. Maybe tomorrow I'll rant about Kanye and Jay-Z, because this new album is insane, and I don't mean that as a compliment.

Photo: Michael J. LeBrecht, Sports Illustrated

Big City Living

I just read over my last few posts and realized that I bitch a lot about being unemployed, so I'm going to give that a rest for now and walk you through an average day for me in the Big City. Refer to the picture at left if you're more of a "visual person." It was taken about 10 minutes ago. Yes, my glasses are on my head, because, as my grandmother told my mother when she was a child, I "look so much prettier without my glasses." Almost every picture of my mother from the time she was 10 features her with glasses on her head or in her hand. Knowing that fun fact about the level of functionality of my family, please enjoy a day in my life.
1) Wake up around 9 or 10 and look out the window for a couple of minutes and hope that it's raining or at least overcast so that I won't feel like as much of a piece of shit for what I'm about to do next.
2) Pee. (Hint: this is not the part I feel like a piece of shit about. It's a normal bodily function)
3) Get a Diet Coke and my computer, turn on the TV, and play on the internet for the next few hours. I generally prefer to watch The New Adventures of Old Christine and How I Met Your Mother first, then go through the guide to find an episode or 4 of Law and Order. Little known fact: It is a law in New York State that an episode of one of the Law and Order franchises must be playing on some channel at all times. Failure to adhere to this ordinance will result in a fine of up to $500 and being forced to watch the guy from Criminal Intent freak out for 24 hours straight.
4) While watching TV I set arbitrary little deadlines for myself to either get up and shower or apply for jobs on Media Bistro. The deadline is usually the next hour. For example, right now it's 2:16, so I'll get up at 3. (Hint: I probably won't)
5) Finally make myself get up, shower, apply to a few jobs while waiting for my hair to dry, grab a book and my journal and get out of the apartment.
6) Try to find a place just like Walker's in the city. Fail. Sit at the least threatening looking bar and try to read.
7) Write down horrible things about the other people in said bar.
8) Get slightly drunk.
9) Walk home and think about how it's just a matter of time before I'm a well-known, beloved American authoress.
10) Think about how underused the word "authoress" is these days.
11) Resolve to repopularize the word "authoress."
12) Sit on the couch and play on the internet and watch TV with Lyndsay until she goes to bed, because she has a job and I'm not bitter.
13) Get in bed and set my alarm for 8 because I'm going to get up and exercise and write all morning.
14) Play on the internet or watch BBC miniseries on Netflix until 3 am. Turn off alarm.
15) Fall asleep to dreams of being rich and famous.

Mixed in with all of those things are several minutes of me talking to myself or pretending to talk to others (usually famous people), because I'm totally delusional. Right now I'm wearing a Three Keyboard Cat Moon tshirt given to me by my brother for Christmas last year. I have no qualms with wearing this shirt in public. If anything, living in New York has made me really really not give a shit about anything, and, I must say, I'm pretty happy about that.
I suspect my parents think I'm depressed, because I spend so much time alone. Clearly they never paid any attention to me at all as a child, because if they had, they would know that I love being alone. That whole "talking to myself" thing is actually really fun for me, because then the conversation always goes how I want it to go and I always get in the best one liners. Why would I want to talk to someone else where I could (and probably would) sound stupid when I can talk to myself and sound awesome? Yes, I do have a very inflated sense of self, and no, I don't feel bad about that. I'm better than you. I always win.
Well, I guess I should get back to my schedule. I've got to change the channel, because some Law and Order knock off show is on and I'm scared I'm going to get in trouble.
Here's the new Jay-Z and Kanye West album Watch the Throne about which I'm very conflicted, as you will know if you follow me on Twitter.

We'll Get Back to You

Bullshit. I've been in the city applying for jobs for over a month now, and that is the generic response from HR when they receive your resume, "We'll get back to you." I understand that they're trying to be polite, and I shouldn't take it personally, but seriously? Just be honest with me here, people. My resume is one page, you know from one glance whether or not you're actually going to think about hiring me, so just tell me. If I'm "not taking it personally" anyway, then just man up and say it, "Sorry, you're mediocre achievements and glaring lack of experience indicates that we will never hire you ever. Good luck somewhere else, asshole!" Well, maybe they shouldn't be quite that blunt, but don't string me along, don't give me hope where there is none.
I know that I've only been on the job search for a month, and some people have it a lot worse than I do, so I really shouldn't complain, but it's frustrating as hell. I feel like I'm going through rush all over again, except this time they won't even let me have a forced, inane conversation with them. Clearly when I was skipping class most of my freshman year I missed the day when they said that if you didn't pick a career path and stick to it and get around 14 internships in that exact field throughout college then you might as well pack it in, you jerk, because businesses today have no room for enthusiastic, intelligent (sort of) recent college grads unless they already have 3 years of experience. That's right, you can't even be an assistant unless you've already been an assistant for at least 3 fucking years. I feel like I'm taking crazy pills.
I guess that's enough bitching and moaning for today. Check you later.
Here's a song. It's kind of morbid, but I think you can handle it.
Murder in the City, The Avett Brothers

Moving On Up

Well, as I drunkenly blathered in my last post, I've moved to New York. It's really great, and by "really great" I mean I'm bored out of my mind. I love living in the city, but being unemployed may actually be as soul-deadening as having an office job. Except that not only am I bored, but I'm too poor to do anything. I can't even go to the movies after noon, because I don't have the $13.50 for a matinee (before noon, though, tickets are $6, chicka yeah). Mostly we just watch a lot of TV. We're actually watching TV right now. We generally favor Law and Order SVU, which is what we're watching right now.
It's a really great episode about a "musician" who thinks he's a vampire. He has followers who allow him to suck their blood, or steal blood from the blood banks where they work, because he's scared of getting HIV from sucking random people's blood. It's especially entertaining to watch Olivia read his lyrics in the most serious, non-humorous voice ever. I like it because it's kind of like leaving the apartment, without actually leaving the apartment. I don't even have to put on pants.
Now that I've started rambling, I think it's best that I go, don't want to scare off my avid fans. Is anyone even reading this?
Going to go hump the fridge.

Many Moons

Well, I haven't posted on here in many moons, so I thought I'd give it a shot. I'm a little tipsy, so please don't be too harsh on the judgment (why is there no 'e' after the 'g' in judgment? that doesn't make any sense).
Moving on. I have officially relocated to New York City. That's right, the Big Apple, NYC (or Enyce, if you prefer), the City of Dreams (I made that one up, but it seemed fitting). It's glorious here, but I still feel like such an outsider. I try to fit in, try to seem like I know where I'm going, but it doesn't really work. I mean, I'm learning the neighborhoods, but I still get the odd sensation that everyone looks at me and assumes that I'm some redneck who's on vacation and can't handle herself in the Big City. It's kind of like how I still felt like a freshman at UGA even as I was completing my final semester. Which reminds me, I got my diploma! The high and mighty overlords of the University of Georgia actually decided that my mediocre grades were enough to let me graduate. Huzzah! It's kind of odd, too, because no one else I know has gotten his or her diploma, but whatever, I got mine and they can't take it back. So there.
Other than my feeling like a total outsider and the fact that I did not bring nearly enough clothes, New York is groovy. Lyndsay and I lucked out and got a super-great apartment in Murray Hill (Midtown, central location=perfection). Though our apartment broker may have been a criminal, apartment 2F is now all ours and I am so beyond thrilled. It's a one bedroom, but splitting a one bedroom between 2 people is actually fairly common in Manhattan and we really do have tons of space. One ridiculous thing about NYC is that landlords apparently don't understand the need for central AC, so we have none. It's been fine so far, but seriously, it's 2011, and we're not in Europe. Why the hell do these people think AC isn't necessary? Other than that (and the tiny roach problem that has now been quashed), our apartment really is fantastic. I am just still having a hard time believing that this is not a vacation.
I should probably write a more coherent post in the morning when I'm a touch more sober. Until then, hasta la huego (I have no idea if that's spelled correctly; I took French)!

Animals

Two close friends have passed away in the past two days, and it's got me a little shaken. The following is a poem by Frank O'Hara entitled "Animals" that I'd like to dedicate to the both of them. You will be greatly missed.

ANIMALS


Have you forgotten what we were like then
when we were still first rate
and the day came fat with an apple in its mouth

it's no use worrying about Time
but we did have a few tricks up our sleeves
and turned some sharp corners

the whole pasture looked like our meal
we didn't need speedometers
we could manage cocktails out of ice and water

I wouldn't want to be faster
or greener than now if you were with me O you
were the best of all my days


[1950]

Hipster Gambino

This whole "only taking 9 hours" thing has given me a lot of availability this semester. Instead of being super involved and productive, though, I spend a good amount of time on the internet. This morning, via a long, convoluted chain of events, I found a website that combines two of my favorite things: hipsters and Donald Glover. Well, actually it's Donald Glover's rapping alter-ego, Childish Gambino, but it's great none-the-less. I haven't listened to much of his rap as of yet (that will probably change in the next couple of hours), but his stand up is hilarious, as is his acting on Community. And, if you know me at all, you'll know I'm absolutely fascinated by everything hip and can be heard saying, "Hip, hip, hip hiphiphip," whilst walking past Manhattan Cafe and Max, the bar formerly known as The Max Canada. Clearly, I'm not hip as I have a blogspot instead of a tumblr, but that does not detract from my love of hipness. Moving on, the blog is called Hipster Childish Gambino and it combines pictures of hipsters with Childish Gambino lyrics and generally just makes me giggle. Also, the girl that writes it is apparently from Alabama just like me, so I think we're probably going to be friends.

New York, New York

To quote my friends, "It's all happening." In a few months I will be a proud resident of that great metropolis so disparaged by cowboys and so esteemed by hopeful immigrants, New York City. What am I going to do up there, you may ask. I have no idea. Where am I going to live? Not entirely certain of that either. But I'm 22, and if I can't embrace uncertainty right now, when can I?
All this talk of the big move sent me back to some of my favorite poets, the so-called New York School, especially Frank O'Hara and Ted Berrigan. I don't know if it's their respective styles, their subject-matter, their words, or my post-adolescent idealism, but few poets have ever meant more to me than these guys. It was as I was reading over some of my favorite poems that I noticed a huge injustice has been dealt to Mr. Berrigan. His short poem "Things to do in New York City" is almost impossible to find on the internet, a huge problem when you're looking for advice on just that topic. It's as if the internet gods have decided that this beautiful piece of writing isn't worthy of their hallowed domains. So, I shall here right this egregious injustice with a transcription of said poem.
"Things to do in New York City"
for Peter Schjeldahl

Wake up high up
frame bent & turned on
Moving slowly &
by the numbers
light cigarette
Dress in basic black
& reading a lovely old man's book

BY THE WATERS OF MANHATTAN

change

flashback

play cribbage on the Williamsburg Bridge
watching the boats sail by
the sun, like a monument,
move slowly up the sky
above the bloody rush

break yr legs & break yr heart
kiss the girls & make them cry
loving the gods & seeing them die

celebrate your own
& everyone else's birth:

Make friends forever
& go away.


To hear some more of Ted Berrigan's poems (including this one) go here.
To read some of Frank O'Hara's go here, to listen go here. I recommend "A True Account of Talking to the Sun at Fire Island."

Well, that's all I have to say for now, and so I say adieu.
Listen to this great song that's greatly at odds with the rest of this post!
"West Coast", by Coconut Records

If My Friends Were Famous

My totally normal and dignified friend Emily Elizabeth Burgis (not to be confused with Emily Elizabeth of Clifford the Big Red Dog fame) and I are, more than likely, two of the funniest people on the planet. I'm not being pompous, I'm just being honest. We spend hours talking in an assortment of accents about an assortment of topics including, but not limited to: bourginess, cults, Italy, booze, Scooby-Doo, really anything that happens to come on television or pop into our little brains. We also like to say "boom" at the end of phrases for emphasis. Sometimes just to say it. And, if I do say so myself, we are freaking hilarious. This afternoon, Christina and I had to talk Emily out of going to a "meeting" in the Ambassador Room at the Holiday Inn with a woman named Claire Elliot who had gotten Emily's information from an undisclosed source and had offered her the chance at an "internship" that paid up to $8,000. In this context, "meeting" means kidnapping and "internship" means cult induction. Either that or pyramid scheme. Back to the issue at hand, it is an acute understanding of our incredible God-given hilarity that has led us to the conclusion that we should have our own television show. It's going to be called "If My Friends Were Famous" and we're planning on pitching it to CBS. I'd prefer NBC, but they have a pretty successful line-up already, and FOX has Glee to compete with, so I figured the channel that features Two and a Half Men and about 8 different variations of How I Met Your Mother would probably be the easiest sell. The show will be a sort of Seinfeld meets the Real World; a situational reality comedy about nothing where there is little to no drama or sex, but mostly just really, really ridiculous girls getting drunk and bro-ing around with horrible fake English accents. Be sure to check your local listings this fall. I think it will be big in Romania.

The Beginning of the End

It's finally here. For the past 22 years this moment in my life has been lingering on the horizon, unreachable, but always there, lurking and waiting, and now I'm upon it. Somehow, without my even noticing, I crossed the valley and reached the point where sky meets land, the point that everyone assumes does not really exist until they are right on top of it and the breath is knocked out of them and they can feel their hearts seizing up. In about 3 and 1/2 months I will finally be graduating from college, a moment that stirs within me the most incredible mixture of utter terror and unadulterated joy that I've ever known. Maybe I'm being melodramatic, but I am absolutely terrified to think that soon I will be entering the work force, that I will be a "grown-up." I can't be a grown-up; I still get nervous raising my hand in class, even when I'm completely and totally confident that I have the right answer. How am I supposed to go on job interviews? How am I supposed to put on panty hose and sensible pumps and command to sort of respect that the businesswomen on TV have taught me to expect? I've already begun applying for jobs in places like New York and Boston, places that I've so romanticized in my mind that I imagine just living there will give me the sort of confident swagger that a young professional should have. I know it's too early to start applying for the kinds of jobs I want (publishing, magazines, all of the industries that my father assures me are quickly dying and so are wastes of my time, but from which I can't seem to turn my attention); most of their openings are looking for immediate hires, but I feel like if I can just get my name in their heads, maybe they'll look past my mediocre grades and minimal involvement. Maybe my sheer persistence will finally crack them and force them to give me a job. Maybe, like Anne Hathaway's character in The Devil Wears Prada or America Ferrera's character on Ugly Betty, the decision makers will be intrigued by my "differentness" and hire me on a whim, only to realize it was the best decision they have ever made. Or maybe I'm, once again, romanticizing the future and I'll end up working the drive-thru at the Burger Doodle and adopting stray cats, but I really hope not. I guess, at the risk of sounding absurdly cliche, only time will tell.
Here's a song:
It'll All Work Out by Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers

Signs That You Are a Pretentious Asshole

Have you spent nights tossing and turning, just wondering if your prentention was really enough to warrant the title of "pretentious asshole"? Sure, you had the Hermes ties or the Longchamps luggage, but was that enough to take you from simply snobbish to truly pretentious? Here is a list, a collaboration between my brother and myself, two of the most pretentious assholes you may ever come across, that can put your mind at rest. It was inspired by a blog post of the same name, that was simply insufficient. What they were describing was a hipster douchebag, and no true pretentious asshole would be caught dead drinking PBR or listening to Animal Collective. If at least 10 of the following apply to you, then congratulations, you are a pretentious asshole.

-You attended prep school (boarding is better, but day is fine), preferably in the Northeast or Virginia.
-You joined or plan on joining a country club immediately upon graduation from higher education.
-You have the numeral III or higher behind your name.
-You have referred to others as commoners, peons, rabble, prole (proletariat), LC (lower class), or not PLU (people like us).
-You insist on pronouncing non-English based words with their respective foreign accents and correct others when they do not.
-You snub those who attended public school.
-In college, you joined a top-tier fraternity/sorority and a secret society (if applicable).
-After college, you joined a secret society (again, if applicable).
-You refuse to eat Chili's, TGIFriday's, Bennigan's, or any other chain, eschewing them as "middle class," and opting instead for local dive restaurants because they are more "authentic."
-When someone walks by in particularly ostentatious garb, you roll your eyes and whisper "new money" to your group.
-You have an extreme aversion to "hip" bars and, instead, insist on wearing trendy clothing to dive bars.
-You frequent private clubs.
-You only use the word "classy" ironically, as no one raised properly would discuss class in such a crude manner.
-At least 3 of your 4 grandparents went to college during the Great Depression.
-You have engraved calling cards.
-You own opera-length kid gloves or a white tie and tails by the time you graduate from college.
-You have known what the term "costume de rigeur" means since you were 5-years-old.
-After college, you wouldn't be caught dead buying furniture from a furniture store.
-You know the difference between a "woman" and a "lady."
-You had to pick out china and silver patterns as a child so that your godparents could by you pieces for Christmas and birthdays, even though you are set to inherit silver and china from both grandmothers.
-You know that "season" has nothing to do with weather or time of year, but can either be good or bad depending on whether or not you're asked to be a deb or stag.
-You know that a true gentleman's club does not employ strippers, and escort is not a euphemism for prostitute.
-You know at least 5 people whose first names are variations on their mothers' maiden names.
-Whenever you mention a new friend, your parents want to know where they're from and who their people are.


Remember, you're either born to be a pretentious asshole, or you're not. If you weren't, it's okay, you're just less of a human than those of us that were.