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?!