me: wait should I get morally vacant and spiritually dead tatted on my thigh?
kelly: the answer is YES
thigh tatts are so hot forever
me: totally doing it.
also just watched an ESPN docu on pablo escobar and the colombian national soccer team of the early nineties
first of all, cried
drugs are a bad idea, officially.
mostly because colombian babies are lying in the streets for our noses
which is really unsettling
holy shit, colombian drug cartels
they like ran the country for real
as in owning the police force and whatnot
and then killed their star player
after the team failed to advance in the world cup
kelly: ok holy shit knowledge drop
i feel like
you should give me your mom’s netflix login so we can be in a digital bookclub
kelly: and i can have knowledge
me: I DIED.
kelly: i guess it’s like 7$/month
i’m making coffee right now, also?
and bout to collage for Thrashin’
me: espn’s 30 for 30 series is s0000 intense
you JUST SAID THAT
me: sports are like really a metaphor for the human experience, kind of
or the modern human experience
kelly: ohhhhh yeah
me: plus, nationalism!!
kelly: watching a player’s career as the arc of a human life
drama (trades, fights)
me: i cried during the one about the Gretzky trade too
i need to retire from netflix
but it goes really well with embroidery, you know?
kelly: uh YEAH IT DOES
that’s why i need it for cut/paste
me: also check out this artist’s website!
shes kind of a baller
her “paintings” are mostly embroidery
i was like HOLY FUCK
also shes Egyptian but a lot of her subject matter deals with explicit imagery
kelly: damn that’s awesome
me: AH look at this one
its refreshing to see a successful contemporary artist that doesn’t blow
kelly: yeah no shit
also it’s time to learn another language probs
and get an EU citizenship, defs
i am speaking the bored language of mortals // americans
want 2 speak teh dark tongue of bears
me: wait have you seen batman yet?
kelly: god dammit no
supposed to go on a date with a bro to see it, so.
i kinda feel like my response to a bro letting me slip through his fingers is always something along the lines of “you’re gonna regret this”
me: the best way to go about it, of course.
also, i am legitimately pissed about miley cyrus’ new haircut. As in the one she STOLE FROM ME
kelly: also, who//what is she?
called her as a hologram in ’09, world
me: i kind of h8 everyone who would identify in her peer level
kelly: i kind of h8 anyone that earnestly identifies with any celebrity
like people commenting on kim kardashian’s instagram photos
so many levels of ew
“oh that? that’s me being embarrassed for you”
me: at least they’re all miserable people, so that makes me feel better
kelly: it’s like playing along with kids about santa
like, alright, you believe that huh?
i guess you’re entitled?
and that makes you happy
but i can’t believe you haven’t figured this shit out yet
Get out your 3×5 index card labeled LANGUISHING IN OBSCURITY BUT ABOUT TO BLOW UP and jot down this hyperlink. That is one Kelly Schirmann, who is, full disclosure, my sister in arms in running the train/wrecking/leaving a trail of honest mistakes and SOOPER sad dudes in our wake (uh, cause we’re riding out on the same horse we rode in on, sorry bros), and also a genius for real. She has a PhD in metaphorology and will make you feel like you never went to college. The aforelinked post garners her the coveted “Walt Whitman Of Our Generation” bestowed by yours truly only once like every seventeen months, the last recipient being LCD Soundsystem for the illuminative “Drunk Girls.”
kelly: als0000 should i give my cat up for adoption?
my chill ass cat bro?
me: aw lil chill ass cat bro!
kelly: REAL TALK
RILL RILL TALK
me: will you miss that lil felinecorebro?
kelly: yeah i totes will
he’s chill as fuck
me: sounds s00 chill!
kelly: but he’s needy. emotionally and financially
me: yeah, fuck him
like all the time i’m like, how weird that i’m responsible for your life!
me: I KNOW, RIGHT
GET A JOB BRO
kelly: PULL YR WEIGHT CAT
me: PULL YR CAT ASS WEIGHT
STOP BEING GARFIELDCORE
AND HATING MONDAYS AND SHIT
me: also, whoa caps
kelly: YR FUCKING FAT
me: its like ’97 up in here
kelly: i am laughing, irl, laughing out loud
LAUGHING OUT LOUD!
from now on i’m gonna shorten that to L.O.L.!
pfft, fucking humans
starting avalanches of culturally devastating shitspeak
three girls living in the literal woods, the proverbial woods and Mexico take on the West Coast with Steely Dan in their hearts and whiskey in their coffee cups. The authorities were mostly avoided, everyone was offended, and all the problems of the world were solved.
Back in 2003, I was living at home, wearing purple eyeliner to my boring service industry job and spending most of my time collaging. I had a fresh driver’s license and the thrill of rolling around in my mom’s car at night listening to the Raveonettes and using her Hollywood Video rental card to check out Marlon Brando movies was unparalleled.
The guy at the counter was a plump ginger with a long ponytail under his Hollywood Video-issued baseball hat who I suspected had a crush on me since I was the only teen coming in without my kid and buying the king size pack of jujufruits. I ignored his halting glances since I didn’t really start talking to boys until I was about 20, even ones I had no interest in.
One day, I checked out Slacker, because the case looked weird and I had just recently discovered that I was cooler than anyone I knew, having been educated at a prep school in which my peers’ interests ranged from the fall j. crew catalog to the spring j. crew catalog. I got home, popped in the VHS (earnestly) and got to work stenciling “London Calling” lyrics onto t-shirts I’d just picked up at the Gap on sale for $9.99.
Slacker was weird, I couldn’t really make sense of the characters and the lack of plot line got lost in my intense stenciling session– I later moved onto Bowie lyrics.
Eight (!!!!11) years later, my life is eerily (depressingly?) similar to that of my eighteen year old self. Despite my B.A. and having traveled the world, the only tangible element that’s different today from the scene described above is that I now use my mom’s Netflix account. And I know how to talk to boys now, but that’s a different story entirely. Tonight as I was sitting around making record cover journals, feeling inexplicably attracted to Ted Nugent, I decided to scroll through the Netflix collection, and Slacker caught my eye once again.
The film that I watched tonight, of course, is the same as the VHS I rented a thousand beers ago, but oh how my perception of it has changed. What once seemed like dreamy esoterica has since become the soundtrack to my own life; the characters, once just that, are now people I have met over and over, comprising my own anchor to post-collegiate reality. While I was completely engrossed in the film and finding myself in conversation with these people, a thought entered into my head: Is this movie making fun of us? Is Richard Linklater looking at 20-somethings who sit around drinking beer, talking about their lives and the world, politics and their relationships, with their friends and roommates and strangers, and deeming it all a waste of time? The film is called Slacker. Is the film’s thesis that we’re aimless, rootless, wasting our time and our potential to fulfill that great American myth of “making something of ourselves”?
As anyone with a hundred thousand dollar degree in Why The World Sucks and a barista job to prove it knows, “Our Generation” is the topic of a thousand porch/bar/breakfast PBR 30-packs. The Oxford English Dictionary defines “slacker” as “a person regarded as one of a large group or generation of young people (especially in the early to mid 1990s) characterized by apathy, aimlessness, and lack of ambition”. They may have to alter the era included in their definition. Is it not “Our Generation,” the children of those hardworking model Americans, the baby boomers, that has been called out on a hilariously frequent number of occasions by the New York Times for being lazy, ego-driven, sext-crazed narcissists? Slackers, in the truest sense of the word? Intra-generational hand wringing abounds at the NYT as their op-ed columnists tell us to stay out of restaurants and save our money. In preparation for footing the bill for “Their Generation’s” gross mistakes, of course.
Every conversation over porch beers at noon on a Tuesday elicits the same conclusion: we’re not unmotivated, the ones pushing papers and paying their bills are. We’re the ones who are looking for something more, the ones who refuse to settle for what we’ve been given. We’re taking the path of least resistance, fighting with ourselves and everyone else for answers instead of with the TV over Dancing With the Stars.
And it turns out Linklater agrees: “Slackers might look like the left-behinds of society, but they are actually one step ahead, rejecting most of society and the social hierarchy before it rejects them. The dictionary defines slackers as people who evade duties and responsibilities. A more modern notion would be people who are ultimately being responsible to themselves and not wasting their time in a realm of activity that has nothing to do with who they are or what they might be ultimately striving for.”
Slack on, “our generation.”