Wednesday, December 31, 2008

Atypical apathy

One of the promises I made to myself when my last relationship hit the skids and I watched as, one by one, all the plans we'd made for the rest of our lives together died slow deaths was that I wouldn't plan so much. I am better at keeping to this at some times then others. I am exceptionally good at keeping to this when my good friend depression is at my elbow.

I have been in New York again, futilely doing New York-y things to try and drum up more work, see friends, avoid home for reasons I can't articulate other than that it stopped feeling like home about the same time I realized it would only ever be my home and never our home, etc. Strangely, I have been very ambivalent about staying for the holiday. Yesterday afternoon and evening, I even contemplated finishing work and just driving home this afternoon despite NYE having been kind of a big deal to me in the past. It is 6:00 at night and I don't even really have plans, which is actually a great accomplishment for an over-planner trying to break the habit, if I was just trying not to plan.

But I was talking to my friend Braak, explaining that I didn't have any plans, and how part of me wanted to sort of tell all my various friends that I was going out with a different friend and then curl up on the sofa in the house of the friend with whom I am crashing with my 10-year-old bottle of wine, his cat and a movie and wallow. And then I thought, wait, that's not like me. I mean, it's sort of like me, but it's not very like me, and it's not like me on New Years, and it's not like I actually am even that depressed at this moment in time. And he said something about it not being very exciting for my first New Years in New York and I said, well, it's not. And there it was.

I spent the millennial New Years in New York, actually, celebrating with Tom (who I'd been dating for 2 years at that point). That New Years ended with me crying hysterically in the coatroom, having found out that my 2 year relationship was basically over, in the middle of which he came in to yell at me for ignoring his friends and embarrassing him in front of them. It was a great night -- so great that I successfully avoided thinking about it for 9 years and allowed it to sneak up on me again.

Anyway, so, Erica and I have since made a pact that we won't dump each other, neither of us will cry in a coatroom, we will not go anywhere that has a fucking dress code or a cover charge and we will be happy drunks tonight if it kills us. So that's the plan. I should probably find something to wear to help accomplish that. Happy New Years.

Sunday, December 28, 2008

Wednesday, December 24, 2008

Things I don't need #3,467,518

And my lizard brain screams, "But they're on saaaaaale!"

Why Jason Linkins is my friend

Yesterday, I wrote a column deconstructing Dennis Prager's column about how wives should just shut up and put out to keep their husbands happy. For the record, Spencer Ackerman sent it my direction, likely figuring that I would do to it about what I did to it. After it was published, I had this IM conversation with Jason Linkins:



Jason: Hey. I just wanted to point out something.

me: yeah? what's up?

Jason: There's this thing called the "entertainment industry." They produce all manner of things that entice men to spend their free time on.

me: i have heard! are we talking about porn?

Jason: So, if what Prager is saying is true, that men are like crazy, rutting animals that need to FUCK ALL THE TIME, this "entertainment industry" wouldn't exist. Why would I watch FRINGE when I could be sticking my dick in a raccoon snizz or a nice knot in a piece of wood?

me: my dad now wants to know what i am laughing so hard at, but my mom is standing here.

Tuesday, December 23, 2008

Someone is watching, anyway

This is an actual store in an actual mall near my parents. If it isn't obvious, it is filled with the same faux-crafty Made-in-China bric-a-brac as any other crap-filled tchtotke store in any other fucking mall in any other Real America part of the country. Only this time God wants you to buy it so the terrorists don't win. The Chinese are fine, though.

I am always a sucker for these kind of jokes.

From Sarah Hepola at Broadsheet today, a list of the most misogynist lyrics of this year's music and her response.

Pharrell, Common's "Announcement": "My dick is like a Blow Pop, baby"

Does that mean I can chomp it real hard to get to the bubble gum?


There's nothing like a good penis-injury joke to start my day with a laugh.

Sunday, December 21, 2008

Christmas clean-up

So, it's blizzarding here in upstate New York, which causes my parents to bicker, my sister to work and me to get ordered upstairs to clean out my closet (a situation made more necessary by the carload of staff I brought home to store). I started with old cassettes, during which I gritted my teeth and decided to download necessary songs off of iTunes. Not necessary: Debbie Gibson, Whitney's first album, Timmy T or Patty Smyth and Don Henley. Sue me, I was like 14.

Things that were hilariously necessary:

"People Are Still Having Sex" by La Tour


"This Is Ponderous" by 2 NU


God, I fucking love that song. So my taste in music in high school wasn't utter, utter shit. Ok, it was, but that song's good.

Is it too early to start drinking? Cleaning goes better with booze.

Wednesday, December 17, 2008

Me on video

Back in October, I sat down for an interview with Allison Esposito for her project The Future of Roe. Hilariously, it turns out that I just hate shitty campaign commercials.





I do, however, like my blue corduroy coat.

Monday, December 15, 2008

Maura Johnston Is The World's Nicest Person

Maura Johnston is the editor of Idolator, which used to be part of the Gawker Media family. We met at a party on Thursday night and she invited me to accompany her to the infamous Jingle Ball (about which she wrote, so click), in which a Top 40 station -- which has partly to do with her awesomeness and partly to do with the fact that I will obviously try anything once even if that "anything" includes 15,000+ screaming tween girls and boy bands that are missing their bands (i.e., Jesse McCartney).

Anyway, although it was an event I possibly could've live-blogged due to its complete range from the ridiculous to the sublime, the one thing Maura did not put in her post was the fact that, on the Jumbotron, you could completely see the outline of Ne-Yo's (huge) cock. If we had been three rows closer, I would be able to tell you now if he was circumcised. As it is, the view was mighty fine. Also, Kanye's show as a performance was fucking awesome, Katy Perry's dress was annoying and Chris Brown's decision to eschew singing at his, you know, concert in favor of dancing might have been all right if two women in their mid-twenties hadn't decided to stand directly in front of us and get all I-Kissed-A-Girl about it to try to entice the cameras.

Fuck You, Says The Universe

For the second time in as many weeks, my (parked, unoccupied) car was hit by a speeding automobile. It's almost funny, except for the fact that my car has $4,000 worth of damage -- two-thirds of its value -- at the same time that I find out have have 1/2 of my job.

This afternoon, a diamond catalog arrived in the mail. Fuck you, too.

Thursday, December 11, 2008

Subversive foreign policy

One of the virtues of having most of a day off is that, when you run out of things to do, there's all kinds of stuff on the Internet that you sometimes don't get around to reading when you have to write for the Internet. Today, I was perusing Foreign Policy's blog Passport and saw the most hilariously subversive OpEd in a long damn time, written for South Africa's Mail & Guardian by Binyavanga Wainaina. It's called "The Aspiring Dictator's Guide," and contains 12 easy ways to be a successful African dictator. Examples?
Rule 3. Make America or China happy. Make Israel and Saudi Arabia very happy. Become a Muslim, like Idi Amin. Visit Moammar Gadaffi often. He likes African leaders. We do not know why. Pray with George Bush and let him see your soul. Make your country's leading supermodel the ambassador to France and Italy. Ask her to wear a mini when presenting her papers to Nicholas Sarkozy.
And
Rule 11. Do not send all the money you steal to Switzerland and do not give it to your wife. Buy US treasury bonds and hide them in your children's library. They will never use it. Why should they read? Daddy is rich. Do not have businesses in your wife's name. Or in your children's names. Deal in euros, Krugerrands and diamonds.
And
If all these things fail and you find yourself in State House surrounded by screaming citizens carrying homemade weaponry, make sure you have a Hummer (Raila Odinga) in your garage. They are cheap now in America. You can burst out of your palace and make your way to Somalia, where you can become a pirate who earns $50-million a year.
Man, has Nick Denton heard of this guy? I bet he comes really cheap.

That face

Created by my friend Joy, I have completely made that drunken sneer-y face at people when I've been drunk and sneer-y.

Wednesday, December 10, 2008

Hard things

When I was about 9, someone gave me the full hardcover edition of "Little Women." Unsurprisingly, I was in love (and, despite my name, a Jo fan). I read it more than once, usually devouring it in huge chunks on a school break curled up in the blue chair my the window.

My mom, trying to get me to eat/have human contact knew one sure way to get me to eat was to bring me a cold, sliced, rock-hard Bartlett pear. It took a lot of pears to get through "Little Women."

When I eat pears, I am that age again, curled up in that chair in the winter afternoon sun and 100 miles and 100 years away besides. I bought some at the grocery store on Sunday. It's my stressed-out comfort food. I even sliced this one, for the extra-tangy nostalgia.

Saturday, December 6, 2008

Reclamation

This is my first denim skirt in probably 20 years that my awesome cousin Stacey convinced me to buy in the summer of 2006. I think I might have worn it for the first time in January in my post-Wonkette-firing binge at Sonoma. In March, I wore it out with friends for a night of boozing, after which I came back (alone) to my apartment and was sexually assaulted. The cops collected it as evidence and there it sat until I got "justice."

Recently, it was returned to me. I washed it just before Thanksgiving.

Tonight, I am wearing it out. I'm taking the pieces of me back, one at a time, metaphorically and otherwise. This is piece two. I wore the bra I was wearing that night last weekend, but I wasn't going to take a picture of that and post it on the Internet.

Tuesday, December 2, 2008

Bad News, Again

So, there's this. I'll be only partially employed relatively soon.

Also, a note. Someone that was following my Twitter feed decided to tip off Fishbowl NY for the purposes of their article, which pissed my higher-ups and me the fuck off. So, fuck you nameless Twitter-follower who got a boner off of tipping off the Fishbowl people that had contacted me for comment and who, for the sake of my continued employment, I had refused comment to. Are you proud of yourself now? Because of you, my Twitter has gone private. If I don't know you personally, don't bother asking because, no, you can't follow me anymore. Your Twitter compatriot fucked it up. Since I don't know who did it, everyone is out.

That, sadly, marks the end of the Huffington Post Challenge, as their following of me was enabled by my open Twitter feed. My last post was "Hey, asshole who sent my Twitter to FishbowlNY: Fuck you you fucking fuck. This will likely be the last Twitter you see." It seemed a good way to go out.

Monday, December 1, 2008

"The Curse of Sargasso"

A long time ago, in a city far, far away, my best friend was a film student and needed someone to star in his horror film. More recently, my parents gave me a slightly belated birthday present of a DVD recorder, which I naturally immediately used to convert a very old VHS tape of the results of that film to DVD. Ladies and gentlemen, for the first time in digital format, J.C. Johnson's opus: