Tuesday, June 29, 2010

One Ticket to Pound Town...Err...Forks

I just... I can't... You guys...

OK. I had resolved to myself to go easy on the Twilight rage in future posts because I fear I'm becoming a bit of a one trick pony. Is that the phrase? One hit wonder? The Proclaimers. I'm becoming The Proclaimers, you guys. So I was gonna ease up until I have my thoughts organized into a multi-chapter thesis paper detailing the evils of "the saga" and how we need to protect our innocent daughters from its awful, bubblegum, anti-feminist, pro-submissive message, but then, I saw this:


I just. I mean. I...

I can't not say anything. This is like dangling a hun cal fro yo in front of Bubba, but telling him he can't have any. It's cruel, and ultimately we know how it ends. He whines until he gets the Pinkberry.

At the same time, however, I'm speachless and stuttering. I mean, Twilight Barbie dolls? Of course. I've already trashed the perfume, and if Paris Hilton can bottle her stench, why not crappy teen lit? But the Manllow? Sad. Just so sad.

I mean, the condom, while ridiculous, at least had a good message, which shocked me actually, as in my mind that Mormon Meyer and Sarah Palin are actually the same ignorant fembot created by the male governmental elite to keep us ladies down. I mean, at this point, I reject that either is actually biologically female, because why oh why would you do these things you do to your own gender? Windex the glass ceiling, why don't you?

But really, as I'm sure you all suspected, it's the rubber vampire viberator that really leaves me choking on my words. Firstly, I'm surprised it's not sparkly. And secondly, I don't think the tween audience for whom these "novels" are intended are the ones buying this appliance. It's their awful divorcee mothers who are wearing the "Edward likes cougars" shirt and supporting terrible writing, abusive relationships, and throwing your life away at 17. I mean, clearly their marriages to their high school sweethearts didn't work out, hence the alimony check they're using to buy young adult themed sex toys, so why in the name of Neil Patrick Harris would you tell your daughters that opting for eternal life with their 17 year old boyfriends is a good idea?

I mean, I liked my HS BF a lot. A whole lot. I almost threw away my college plans to run away to Canada with him. What a mistake THAT would have been, let alone letting him chomp on my jugular and then fill me up with sparkle juice so that I'd be stuck with his sorry ass for the rest of eternity. Holy shit. That truly would be Hell on Earth.

But dildos. Lets get back to dildos. It's the self-declared MILFs using the dildos, propped up against the Manllow, imagining taking a trip to pound town with some albino emo kid who's perpetually 17. Not only is it completely gross and depressing, it's statuatory rape.

OK. Deep breath. I can feel my blood pressure rising. I'm gonna go YouTube "I'm Gonna Be (500 Miles)" because it's totes stuck in my head now.

da da da (da da da)
da da da (da da da)

Da Da Da Dun Diddle Un Diddle Un Diddle Uh Da

Wednesday, June 23, 2010

It's Only Teenage Wasteland

Oh. Em. Gee. Tavi Gevinson. The Style Rookie. Too much awesomeness for complete sentences.

Girlfriend is 14 years old. She just graduated middle school, about which she wrote this:

As for me, I learned about a few financially secure men who wisely keep some of their money saved in the bank. I considered Jay Sean's inquiry of whether or not I was "down." But mostly I put away my unreasonable cynicism and insecurities -- that having fun with my peers would mean contradicting my "non-conformist" attitude, hairy legs, granny glasses, and big, fat, pimple. I danced and enjoyed myself and realized that not being the conductor of a grind train doesn't mean that I have to be a wallflower, and then realizing that any labels are stupid, and that I shouldn't make my dress look ugly because I didn't feel "different" enough, and that I shouldn't buy a Daniel Johnston record because Kurt Cobain wore the shirt to the VMA's, and that I can listen to him and enjoy a little Beyonce on the lunchroom dance floor, and that I would really rather everyone just be themselves. And then I was happy because it seemed like everyone was just being themselves. Normally passive-aggressive, catty types seemed sincere when they said they liked my eye makeup. The Dudeliest of Dudes grinded with the girls that hadn't considered a hair straightener or spritz of perfume for the night, maybe because...what's the big deal? I think everyone was just into the music, and into doing what they wanted, and was trying not be dramatic and shut other people out, and to appreciate one another, and to appreciate the small size and community qualities of our grade that we won't have when we enter high school in a few months. Holy shit, a FEW MONTHS. Anyway, that's that.

And about Gaga she wrote that. And her blag is filled with Freaks and Geeks references. Fucking incredible right? She's so ME at 14, but so much cooler and smarter and better dressed. I just want to go back in time and enter high school with her. Eat popcorn and watch Daria with her. Peruse thrift shops and support local bands and drink gallons of coffee at Denny's with her.

Uh oh. That sounds dangerously like "that girl." The one who wears thick framed glasses for the look of them and listens to bands that don't even exist yet. The hipster for the sake of hipness. I hate that girl. I pray to the blag gods that Miss Gevinson maintains her originality through her high school years and embraces the wasteland for what it can be, rather than what it's supposed to be. And then I hope she goes to a university that is way more diverse than mine, so she doesn't get called a hippie simply for having a Bob Dylan poster on the wall of her dorm room, but also that she doesn't get too sucked into the counter culture that she goes vegan or starts protesting football games.

Stay away from the theater majors, Tavi! And the boys who wear girl jeans! Go to keg parties! Listen to country! You can still listen to Dar Williams too, it's OK. Sometimes I paint while watching Jersey Shore. It's all good. Except for Twilight. Twilight is bad, but I have a feeling you already know this. I have faith in you, sistafriend. My So Called Life was totally pop in its prime, but now is neo-retro and awesome. It's all about balance, girl. Go get em.

Monday, June 21, 2010

Neo-Hippie Spa Monday

I'm having an existential crisis, friends. I fucking hate hipsters, but I'm finding myself curious about some new natural and home made beauty treatments I've been reading about. I really want to try sugaring, cuz it sounds cheap and awesome, but I've finally outlived the constant accusations of hippiedom I earned in college. (Note: I did not feel these were warranted. I think it was because I had a Dylan poster in my dorm room, and apparently that's reason enough.) No one wants to be a neo-hippie, guys, but I really like nag champa and sundresses.

I need to mull over this a bit more before I can take a stance. I'm hoping that my desire for hairless legs will outweigh the fact that I'm going DYI and rather green. Don't get me wrong, I like doing things and I enjoy not murdering the environment, but proclaiming to do so is so self-righteous and smug that it makes me want to buy a chalupa and then throw the wrapper out the window of my car.

So I'll get back to you on this one. I just wanted to share my inner turmoil. I made couscous yesterday. And gazpacho. I accidentally ate vegan. And it was delicious. But then this morning during my interwebs perusing I see that not only does the Pitchfork Music Festival list directions to the site by vehicle starting with bicycle, they actually encourage biking to the fesival. Oy. This is why, friends. This is why.

Thursday, June 17, 2010


Oh geez, two post day. This is just a quickie cuz I found the awesomest website ever. Behold! thxthxthx

At first I was like,"this is pretty sweet." And then I saw this:


And P.S. I love using words that aren't really words. Like "irrendundantless."


I'm not so sure about this 1000 Awesome Things website, guys. Should be right up my alley because I love awesome things and I love making lists, but... something about it feels... forced. Or stale...

Maybe that's because it is. Back in 2000, my HS BFF bought me the book 14,000 Things to be Happy About on a whim, because, well, that's what HS BFFs do. This book, much like the site, lists awesome things. The book, however, does not explain why said things are awesome, or in its case, things to be happy about. It's just a really long list. And I think I like it better that way.

I mean, sure, there were things in there that none of us could identify. Those things are often labeled with handwritten question marks or the occasional, "WTF?". Yes, The Happy Book, as we call it, is annotated. We passed it around the school hallways for weeks. We loaned it to friends and acquaintances who were having especially bad days. We added to it. And we crossed out things that were deemed not awesome.

The Book, which now sits immediately to my right on the lowest shelf in my office, is still present for reference. And though it probably only gets use on the rare occasion when somebody asks, "What the fuck is 14,000 Things to be Happy About?" or when I'm having a really rough day, like when Corey Haim died.

I can still recognize the handwriting of each contributor. Sometimes this is because he added his own name as something to be happy about. Yes, AJ, that means you. Other times it's because she felt the need to make a special section in the back to chronicle exactly the date and time of the additions, as well as what she was wearing, and the fact that she was listening to "Girls Just Wanna Have Fun," by Cyndi Lauper. And clearly, Durden is identifiable by the excessive number of "your mom" jokes and references to Fight Club.

So, good try Neil of 1000 Awesome Things website, if that is your real name. Mine certainly isn't Kate... Anyway, "Neil" and his site can suck it. It's been done before and my personilized book is better.

Why do all my conclusions need to be laced with blatent hostility? Seems I need me a little Happy Book right now.

Oh, boy. Seems I published this post too soon, and that hostility I was feeling was completely justified. I had read through the latest couple of posts by this "Neil" fellow, and was pretty meh about them, cuz duh, everyone likes driving with the windows down on a hot summer night, you don't really have to explain it, but then I just decided to peruse the top 1000 things, just for funsies. I was not pleasantly surprised. In the first 30 or so I read, I was actually kind of appalled.

"Fat Baseball Players?" Ummm, no. Half the fun of watching baseball is knowing that I'd probably bang everyone on the Yankees roster. Cecil Fielder, back in the day, was certainly an exception. I don't like exceptions.

"The Gas Arrow?" Seriously, dude? You can't remember what side of your car your gas tank is on? Are you high? The little light up arrow that indicates which side that you like so much is handy THE FIRST TIME YOU'RE PUTTING GAS IN A NEW CAR. And then, it is obsolete. I'm never driving with you, buddy. You seem to have demensia.

Other items from this a-hole's list include: "Really, Really Old Tupperware." Ick. "Eating Things Past the Expiry Date." Barf. "Yellow Teeth?" "Rain Hair?" What are you smoking, guy? These things are terrible.

I mean, props for including "Picking Your Nose," cuz I think we all know how I feel on that subject, but again, this is an exception. And I think we all know how I feel about that subject too.

Awful. Take a Lap.

Wednesday, June 16, 2010

Cougar Scare

Close call, ya'll. I just had a total college-graduates-who-are-into-Twilight-which-is-just-wrong-because-it-was-written-for-13-year-olds-so-just-read-a-real-book-already-here-I'll-lend-you-my-copy-of-Beloved moment. I realized while tearing up through the season finale of Glee at my desk during lunch break that I have a total hard-on for Finn Hudson. He's like a junior in high school. I then equated myself to the twenty-somethings who are into RPatz or "Patsy" as I think I'll call him from now on, and I threw up in my mouth a little. I was seriously about to turn myself in as a pedophile, when I decided to do a little investigative reporting (AKA celebrity stalking).

Guess what I learned? Cory Monteith, who plays the frankenteen is actually a couple years older than I am. I'm in the clear. I'm definitely gonna start sending him my underpants and some haikus about how we are totally soulmates.

While I was at it, I investigated further, and learned that Patsy was in fact born in '86. Huh. He can legally drink and stuff. Whatever. It's still icky cuz Twilight is lame-o.

And unlike that Brit Patsy, thankfully my new TV star boyfriend Cory Monteith is Canadian, so we wouldn't have to fly over an ocean when I go to meet his mother for the first time. That would totally give me more anxiety than the actual mother meeting, which I'm totes gonna need a Xanax for. Man. I hope she's cool. I hope she understands my type of humor and she doesn't mind that I can't belt out Journey songs like her son can. I wonder if she'll want to go out to dinner or stay in. I hope she's not upset that I'm not Catholic.

Holy crap. This is a lot of pressure. I could use that Xanax right about now.

Monday, June 14, 2010



So, in a fit of job politics induced rage, I registered myself for fall classes last week. I'll not delve into the details, but the circumstantial evidence that competency and ass-busting does not pay off, while who you blow actually does really peeved a heaping handful of coworkers of late. In response I decided to board the Cartman train and just say, "Screw you guys, I'm goin home." Or to class rather.

Apparently just the simple act of registering makes me more academically minded, as I've been completely drawn to thesis based essays filled with linked resources lately instead of my typical FUG Girls fashion slams. This is not to speak out against the FUG Girls at all; I love those bitches, but I think what it comes down to, is I sorta ready to write research papers again.

Two and a half years of straight slacking and watching reality TV seems to have percolated enough that it actually began to take on the opposite effects, and I just wanna analyze some books, you guys. I'm for real considering swiping the third Twilight from Awesome A's tween daughter just so I can prove through literary analysis that Emo Edward and his lame-ass excuse for a heroine are actually in an abusive relationship and should be a warning to young girls. I'll cite that shit, ya'll.

Thus, I linked the above article because it is totally bad-ass. And the proof that there are non-retarded female writers in the world is definitely a bonus. Seriously. Stephanie Myer should be monitored as a sex offender, and Candace Bushnell should be stripped of her laptop privileges. That shit's insulting. I'm gonna start a collection to send both women back to school for some women studies classes and hope that the feminism sinks in, because if either woman continues to produce the McDonald's-ized pop-lit that they've previously published, then the terrorists have won.

Monday, June 7, 2010

You Know You've Missed Us

Kate: I think my eyelids are sweating.

Charlemagne: Weird. Maybe you're crying?

Kate: I don't think so. It's on the tops. Unless my tears defy gravity.

Charlemagne: Helium tears. Seen it a million times.

Kate: They'd have to defy barriers to flesh too.

Charlemagne: I don't like that word.

Kate: Fleeeeeeeessssssssh.

Charlemagne: That's the one.

Kate: Muahaha.

Charlemagne: It's not that bad, I just don't like it. Like "moist."

Kate: No one likes "moist"

Charlemagne: Moist people don't like it.

Kate: Touche.