the national guard is on the road to make sure you’re not

snowday

Strange how we convert the whims of non-human nature to dollars lost, like a child bargaining bedtime hours. Meanwhile people will tell you what type of female to be and it seems that no one can read or write more than 140 characters. If I was truly erudite I’d be able to reference the sci-fi writer who predicted this one. But for now the snow falls and stops everything and we can be human again.

When I was writing the most, believed myself to be a writer, I comfortably occupied a space of solid sadness, melancholy sowed over a bedrock of something like ennui. I held onto it knowing that happy people don’t write or fight or leave a mark, happy people work for banks and come home to watch TV until they die. I wrote constantly, dissected and diagnosed everything; never was there a more smug and suspicious undergrad than I (except all the ones that actually went on to intern for the New Yorker). [also well that’s just fucking ridiculous that I just linked to my own former blog, but TEVS]

At 22 it seems like truth; at 25 it feels like you’re spinning your back wheels and getting buried by what they’re dragging up.

I’m not sure I believe in words anymore, to the extent that our culture seems to have abandoned them. The written word, for utility or enjoyment, seems to quickly be going the way of Latin; we’ll keep a few experts on had to preserve 5-syllable curiosities and to have the final say in the (losing) battle between you’re and your. Curiously concurrent with our refusal to absorb information over a period more cumbersome than 2.5 seconds is our seeming disinterest in actual experience. Clearly we experience more of the world through the internet than the world itself; no one can enjoy watching “Girls” as much as they enjoy soundbites and “what she wore”s pertaining to the (inexplicable) phenomenon. The same goes for the latest weather non-event: surely no one is as traumatized by a “storm” itself as one is by seeing a photo of a grocery store’s empty shelves via their ipad. But perhaps I’m showing my age: having never tagged photos of myself on Instagram as a 14 year old with “hottie” “cute” “pretty”  “hipster” AND “punk”, I’m rendered culturally irrelevant, thank god.

It’s ok, so is Rick Moody (as far as death-of-culture-porn goes, very satisfying).

genius, communist, muppets.

Upon second viewing, Jim Henson was a a subversive mastermind years ahead of his time. I still never hear “For What It’s Worth” without thinking of this clip that I first saw over 20 years ago. The singing possum was so subliminally affecting that I’m pretty sure it’s why I majored in Environmental Studies and will be underemployed for the rest of my waking life, and why I don’t mind that much.

unfortunate events of early December

I’m high on zinc and short on sleep + dignity. For a moment, laid up on the couch trying to get the snot to flow back into my nose while pouring hot ginger tea down my throat, Love Actually seemed like a good idea. Having seen the film in London in 2003 (me: “It’s like we’re at the premier!” my friend Avery: “no it’s not”) I’ve watched it a few times since (which I’ll blame on my sister) and what I can only explain as a strange combination of my double X chromosomes and sheer masochism keep me coming back for more. Stray thoughts:

!  Never does my inherent American femaleness make itself more apparent than when faced with Hugh Grant (whatever crags he may be assuming as of late),  for whom my inexplicable love runs as deep and dark as my natural hair color.

& If for nothing else, this movie is notable for its 2003-era barely veiled jabs at “American imperialism,” (despite Prime Minister Hugh’s weird “sympathetic” (?) 9/11 reference in the opening monologue).  The American president is sleazy, not good at playing with others, and Texan! Which may be preferable to the producers’ apparent assumption that all Americans are hot sluts? Thanks? Shannon Elizabeth (HAHAH my fingers just typed those words) and Denise Richards (annnnnd again)?

& Quite a bit has been made on certain corners of the internet about the all-but-blatant female subservient nature of two of the vignettes: Hugh falls in love with his secretary (who’s “fat,” OH GOD YES GIVE ME MORE)  and Colin Firth with his Portuguese house keeper. AND despite everything else I’ve ever said, I’m ok with both of these things, because I love both Hugh and Colin and both their chosen ladies are JUST so dark-haired and adorable that I find myself wishing I was a Portuguese housekeeper so I could fall in love with a handsome English turtle-neck-sweater-wearer (oh sorry, in British, ROLL-NECK JHAHAH) who like “writes” or something at a French (?) villa because his wife was fucking his brother. However, the real problem I have with this whole scenario, which is the real problem that I’ve had with being alive every moment since that moment in Boulder Colorado a lot of Augusts ago is this: Portuguese homegirl is sweet and adorable and natural-nosed, and she seems like she’d have, oh I don’t know, A PERSONALITY. And. Wait for it. Colin loses his manuscript to the French wind or whatever, because obviously writers in the 21st century practice their craft OUTSIDE ON A TYPEWRITER. So all the leaves of his work of genius (which we later learn is a crime novel, LOLLLL) blow away, and this beezie strips off her clothing to dive into the pond after the would-be movie starring Will Smith. And at the moment she’s in her virginal white bra and undies and her “surprisingly ” tight little brown body is on display (with full on-lower back tatt WHOLE NOTHER ENTRY) that little soft-sparse “falling-in-love-score” starts playing straight into the psyche of YOU THE VIEWER who is subliminally soaking up “oh they had this little cute thing before but now that he sees she has a beautiful body he’s in love with her and we’re in love with him being in love with her. I’M NEVER EATING AGAIN.” Hey kids, but obviously specifically women, NO ONE WILL LOVE YOU IF YOU DON’T LOOK GOOD NAKED. LOVE, HOLLYWOOD. (they won).

& THEN ITS EVEN WORSE because I’m like, UUGHGHHGHGHG I’m going to be one of those horrible people (in another universe, in which people actually want to date people and don’t have “baggage” or other bullshit I don’t care about because DUH) who passive-aggressively forces (like so p-a-ively that I make him suggest it or I’m dumping him on Christmas eve) her poor s.o. to watch Love Actually but then tries DESPERATELY not to like OOGLE the shit out of Karl (IRL some Brazilian cologne model) whilst he’s in his undies (black! undies!!) ??? HAHAHA EWWWW maybe we should stick to the Muppets or like nothing?

Statement of Purpose

Might actually go thru with “grad applications” this time around and now pretending to think about writing my “statement of purpose.” While justifying my existence to a multitude of strangers who might not even understand the concept of “post-structural blonde” is deeply undignified, the prospect of the rest of my life spent “serving people” is even moreso.

Currently mulling over a couple intros, or “hooks” [industry term, dawnworryboutit] that will convince the admissions committee that I’m the literary offspring of Joan Didion and Matt Taibbi, and at the very least will make an illustrious dead alumna when I kick it at 32 after I blow my book deal $$ on too much [vice of choice in 2017, probably still sriracha and PCP]. Here’s what I have so far.

Born 25 years too late to pursue my would-be destiny as an Eagles groupie, lounging around Laurel Canyon until marrying a producer or overdosing on Quaaludes, I might as well get an MFA in creative nonfiction. My erstwhile youthful idealism is petrifying into a slow, deadening misery and I have no interest in making it past 30 if Windex continues to be a daily component of what I get paid for. Please reference my twitter feed for further proof of my singular grasp on the nuanced truths of the human condition. 

I suffered a massive aneurysm when I read that  “Lena Dunham is the voice of her generation” and decided that hell is actually not having bourgeoisie Manhattanite  parents with contacts at the New York Times. My childhood fantasy of being an artist living on popcorn and wine in a cold apartment was fun for about a week until I realized that I like macchiatos and professional haircuts. As a white American chick who was born in 1985 + thinks that every other word out of her mouth is worthy of being recorded solely because I was awarded soccer trophies when I was 6 even though I kind of sucked, OBVS I’m going to get an MFA.  And better at soccer.  

Thank you for considering my application, and although you’ll be tempted to award me full professorship immediately, I assure you I look forward to the tutelage of your distinguished staff, and the opportunity to crash undergrad house shows in jorts and a crop-top without compromising my position at your institution. Please reply with a list of your local microbrews. 

I look forward to being referred to as a “woman of letters,”  plus wearing shoulder pads for my about-the-author shoot.

get high, fuck a bunch of girls: everything just got fun again.

Ok so who doesn’t feel like they just ate a packet of Nerds AND Sour Patch kids and just wants some more before they crash and have to take a nap and a shower. I think we officially just emerged from the dark acknowledgment of the world ending as we speak and now we just want to paint our nails and dance about pretending to care that someone we’re dating just cheated 0n us with a hairdresser.

We live in a magical age which can be demonstrated by a single entity: haircuts. This current vogue of the chicest females being these hyper-sexual but androgynous cyborgs with razor-sharp coifs: MOAR PLZ. MEANWHILE, I feel SO bad for dudes. How’s a guy supposed to navigate this GI Jane Barbie as Preying Mantis who is just Living Breathing Sex but looks like she also might kill him?  (*Everything just made sense. This is the reason internet dating exists, friends. [via everyone being too afraid/bored to actually approach another human being in person] [side note to all the Y chromo havers in the audience: UGHGGH how many times do I have to say: just be a good bro who’s generous sometimes and likes to walk around on a nice day and that’s all you have to do and that will be more than enough, unless the lady of yr affection sucks, in which case you should drop her yesterday DUH, grow some self-respect if that’s the conundrum you’re in][just looking out, love you])

Other thoughts: let’s wear denim bustiers all the time, DEH.

This is the first time the “culture wars” have revealed themselves to be a little bit fun: I’m glad that for every bloodied-fetus-sign-waving zealot that raises one’s blood pressure while crushing ones will to live, there’s a gorgeous, leotarded + mohawked faux-lesbian getting fake-gone-down-on by a chick singing “get high, fuck a bunch of girls”, all while wearing cross earrings . Our “fuck you” is fun, we won. The end ❤ ❤

edinburgh

one time I was at a show, and it was a lot of years after I started thinking that was a meaningful act or phrase or endeavor at all, years even after you look at your reflection in the morning and you look tired and older. and it was in a place so far from that time, and the name of the band recalled the natural world, which everyone stopped caring about a million internet years ago, and I owed the rest of my life in US dollars because I studied caring about it, and everyone at this show was young and simple and no one hated anything because they didn’t know anything and I’d left so many homes and saw people hawking their humanity on the other side of the world. Looking back, I see their hearts on the sidewalk, red wet & beating.

We played rummy on the buses there, on that side of the world, with the curtains closed, because gambling is against the law. In London a lifetime earlier we sat in the rain waiting for the bus and ______ and _______ and then ______ and In Belize there were waterfalls and ______ and _____ and I couldn’t quite keep it all straight anymore. There were strangers and eyelashes and afternoon sun. Everything that’s ever happened is October, young and ending at the same time. But in Edinburgh, getting out of the train, the sky was a cool white diamond in November and I won’t forget that.

let’s just try to imagine.

Also, human beings who identify as “Americans” and also “Republicans” think rape is an act of “god” (those same people like to think of browner humans on the other side of the world as “barbarians”). I’m not tagging this post as “girl life” because that would be to marginalize a human issue. Let’s try a thought experiment: imagine that the most important thing you own was taken by someone who knew they could because they believed that their humanity was more valuable than yours. Now let’s vote.

Pop Music and Power and Women and America// Quaaludes + Cages + 2001

Let’s drink some Brooklyn Lager and watch some videos.

First:

QUESTION 1:  Did the framers of the Constitution imagine a republic in which adolescent girls were  free to fantasize about abusive boyfriends and getting fucked on Quaaludes? My non-existent retirement fund says that “hopeless place” is more often than not sixth-period geometry.

Also strange: that Irving Welsh’s little known 1996 debut novel that was adapted into a little known film called Trainspotting (that certainly wasn’t misguidedly adopted by young white American hedonists at all as justification of blowing their trust funds on E and std tests)  is referenced by the biggest popstar in the known universe as a desperate bid for “edgy”/”relevant.”

Meditate on that for a moment and gchat me. EMILYSHORTSHORTS

Next:

Watch the segment of Nicki in the cage again (try to forget everything that’s beneath contempt about the song, which includes everything about it, actually, and is a topic for another time). Conventional wisdom: women + cage [divided by] progressive feminist/ sentient human alive in 2012= this table’s getting flipped. However. Nicki is not your Romney-voting great-uncle’s cage dancer.

Minaj takes our collective cultural lexicon revolving around  “woman as object” and rewrites the thesaurus. Intentionally assuming the role of caged female + therefore valuable commodity, she takes that table we almost flipped earlier and somehow turns it:  she’s in charge. She knows how to make you want her, this is how you want her, and now she has your attention and will tell you exactly what she wants to. She has the power. And that rug you were just standing on. In her teeth.

Finally:

Dug this one up from before the internet was invented and we used to listen to the literal radio, the top forty radio, when we were fifteen fifty years ago and quoted Jennifer Lopez in our AIM profiles (my life I live it to the limit and I love it, now I can breathe again, baby now I can breathe again). City High’s “What Would You Do” stuck out as an awkward, dull antidote to songs about crushes, love, and being real (all amounting to uh, LET’S GET WEIRD AFTER SIXTH PERIOD GEOMETRY, but only if you bring me ice cream, obs), a to0-hooky explanation of something that we like to call (or ignore as) “American Life [comma] A VERY ACTUAL PORTION OF.”  But, since we were fifteen, we were like, AM I FAT>?!>!>!

HOWEVER.  Not sure if it’s the decade+ that’s elapsed and the fact that I’m always sad about the bulldozer of the human experience that is hypercapitalism and the commodification of said experience due to said bulldozer, or the fact that I happen to be PMSing my head off (yes we’re over it & nice/hot/literate dude please bring me some fucking ice cream and a back massage and a bedtime story thank you) but I SOBBED (not like the normal ONE tear that happens during a movie preview about endangered whales saving a blind kid or  some shit, but the kind that actually infringes your ability to verbally communicate without collapsing into that Claire Danes circa 1994 crumple-face) at the imagery/thought of A CHILD CRYING BECAUSE HE’S HUNGRY AND HIS MOTHER IS STRIPPING TO PROVIDE FOR HIM BECAUSE HIS DAD IS [& i quote] SMOKING ROCK. Also HAHJAHAHA@ those dudes blaming the mother for stripping/prostituting (and the only way to feed him/ Is to sleep with a man/ For a little bit of money and his daddy’s gone/ Somewhere smokin’ rock now) rather than THE DAD WHO’S SMOKING ROCK WHILE HIS CHILD IS GOING HUNGRY AND THE MOTHER IS FUCKING STRANGERS FOR US DOLLARS. Where’s that song, City High? UGH get me that table again because now I need something to flip.

JESSICA CHRIST* I wish I knew in 2001 what I knew now because I would have just lit everything on fire.  Too bad I was straightening my hair and trying to garner the attention of White American Date Rapists (and failing, because I had braces and standards, thank you goddess). #prepschool

EXTRA CREDIT: Compare and contrast City High’s stripping single mother to Nicki Minaj’s intentionally caged cheetah/self. How has the image of the American female as sex object evolved in the context of Bush’s America to Obama’s? In Romney’s conception as 47% of the American public as self-styled victim, where does Nicki fall? Is Nicki’s win a success or loss? Where is City High now? Should we all dye our hair pink? Or just get wigs?

Peace, Love and Decoding Media. ❤ <3<3

*HAHAHA why do we not say that? HILARIOUS

empathy&andies

Meredith and I chatted about psychoanalytic theory, Snoop and the sexual politics of  Do Androids Dream Of Electric Sheep so read it before we’re offered a 3.5 million dollar book deal.  Maybe we’ll mention you in the acknowledgements.

everyone should have some semblance of a notion of what that feels like.

Photo by steely_emily

It kind of feels like leaving//  rolling thru even the Cuyahoga Valley in October when all the leaves are wet and red with the volume turned all the way up and the windows rolled a little down kind of feels like you’re as big as the world and you were just born and you’ll never die and you can feel the infinity coursing thru yr veins and tired cliches like “freedom” and even “america” are resurrected because now you know they’re true. And even pulling off for gas feels like a poem and the country is yours, the universe really, because nothing that’s ever happened before matters unless you want it to and the future belongs to you + the knife you’ll use to carve what you want out of it.  We love times + places like people; we need a break but we’re a little heartbroken. The breath of the season sighs everywhere quite the same & can you hear it?