I guess I qualify as a Millenial (albeit by the skin of my teeth). But Christ, there is no way I could pick Pete Wentz out of a line-up.
Paige wanted to call this one “Get Off My Lawn!” which is kind of great, but I had to regretfully say no. If we’re going to alienate our writers it’s going to be because of my shoddy editing and not for any other reason.
Matt offers great advice on creating a compelling backstory for a reality TV audition:
“I think the story has to do with the creation of the present as some sort of grand transitional moment between some past that was leading you in the wrong direction and some sort of recent redemptive moment. Which makes you both interesting and likely to have sex with a stranger on national tv”
I like this feature, though it is really out of my realm of expertise. (Click through my Ipod for a selection of songs that have been on Grey’s Anatomy and James Blunt’s lighter joints!)
“An art form should be judged by its best example, not its worst. Jackson Pollock fans wouldn’t abide his work being shellacked as pretentious horseshit simply because most abstract expressionism is pretentious horseshit. Fans of Entombed and Dismember should remain similarly unbending.”
I’m thinking this is not actually true. Or at least not a breach in facebook anonymity.
(Mostly because no one surprising shows up in my 5. Just friends I’ve probably searched for or looked at recently, and people I’ve tagged in recent photos. Kind of disappointing, actually. I was hoping to find out that little Paige Ferrari in Los Angeles was stalking me. )
Addendum: the degree to which people are freaking out about this convinces me that:
a. the whole world needs to take a deep breath and log off facebook
b. we’re all little children, snooping on one another, desperately afraid of being caught and having our unspoken interests exposed. It’s kind of sweet, actually.
I thought my bizarre fascination with all things Kim Kardashian was over. Then she learned how to say “Aung San Suu Kyi” while modeling a butt-hugging mini-dress.
(BTW - I think this phony, scripted “checking out my ass while making off-hand reference to distant suffering” thing is the most honest celebrity PSA I’ve ever seen.)
The highlight of my trip (besides seeing old friends, losing my shoes, and pushing the zoo’s don’t-irritate-the-koalas policy) was somehow, strangely, finding myself hanging out with the members of the Men’s Blue and White a cappella group. Mostly sophomore boys with shaggy hair and no shirts, carrying 40s. Naturally. It is SoCal after all. Late Saturday night they congregated on the Frary steps to give Lily and me an impromptu mini-concert.
At one point, I swear to God, they swarmed around us asking questions like “what’s it like the real world?” And it was just awesome, because—though I was only intermittently shaggy and shirtless in college—I totally related, and remembered a time when I thought ‘the real world’ was a real place, and that anyone who had ‘experienced’ it could actually dispense any sort of wisdom.
MAJOR CHEESINESS ALERT: Here’s what I told them. The ‘real world,’ insofar as I am a member of it (Which, for several reasons, I may not be) is really great. But some of the best times you’ll ever have will be up here with your friends singing stupid a cappella songs while all your other friends hoot and holler, and hearing your little voice reverberate in a space that is so much older, awesome, and—I’ll just admit I said this—special than you probably even realize.
Then one of them put down his 40 and ran up, thanked me, and bear-hugged me like I was a wise old oracle, and not just some rambling 25-year-old tipsy off free white wine.
And you know what? I am a major cheeseball. But I also suspect I am right.
BTW: These pics below only to indicate that I did not make up the 40s or the shirtless part. What do you think I am, some kind of pervert? Oh, and one of their girlfriends showed up. She may have been sketched out. Understandably.
Bleh. Optimum just isn’t what it used to be. This is crap. The racecar driving old woman isn’t even really typing.
For the record, my favorite commercial is a little known late-night joint on one of the Spanish channels. It features a brawny gringo exhorting viewers (in labored phoenetic Spanish) to buy his cleaning product.
Buy it for when this happens! (Cue picture of a car hood on fire. As if this is an evitable part of life, and one should always have some product on hand for the clean-up.) Love it. Makes me wish I had a car, just a car hood, or even some spare lighter fluid to try it out.
Being back in California was glorious. Mostly because I earned the distinction of being the only San Diego Zoo patron to ever order the child’s meal (complete with pb&j, raisins, tiger-striped bucket and animal bendy straw!) with half a bottle of white wine.
I also lost my only pair of shoes. No one in Claremont seemed to mind.
Lawrence: Oh man. I love the photo they found. She just looks like a girl who would repeatedly artificially inseminate herself and induce abortions. she’s got that look; you know the one.
Me: I laughed. Then I felt bad about laughing. Then I wanted to barf a little. Then I decided to rush over to Jezebel to read pages of freakouts. Then I decided this whole thing has to be bogus.
But at least I’m not tearing my hair out over the drilling anymore….
Updated: My nominee for “Best unintentionally comic Jezebel comment related to Aliza Shvarts’ probably fake abortion senior project:”
“Look, if you are going to write a critique of the girl’s project, then please try to educate yourself with the historical art context and legacy of performance art and issues of modern femenism [sic] in art…”
And: the nominee for “Most noteworthy adoption of twisted logic while simultaneously oversharing towards the end of a 400+ comment Jezebel thread:”
“I confess to sometimes wishing I could get pregnant, just so I could get an abortion. I want to know what it feels like. I almost want a t-shirt that says “I had an abortion” to wear just as proudly as I wear my sticker that says “I voted today.”
I think I need to go home now.
This is so nerdy. And I love it. Thanks, front page of Tumblr!
(via)
Loved this post from Moe. When I studied abroad in Japan, I had a reputation as a shameless kilt-roller. We’re taking 4 or 5 rolls. (Though we didn’t wear Catholic-school style kilts as much as starchy, blue, mid-calf-length pleated monstrosities. The garment’s total blandness paired well with the “no makeup or jewelry” edict and the white slip-on Keds we had to wear inside the school building. Actually, the Keds were more decorative because at least our names were writen on the toe. Creative types could add a smiley face or peace sign if they were daring.)
I remember my Japanese host-mother used to laugh and announce every morning at family breakfast: “Look! Paige’s skirt is even shorter today!”
Luckily, I was/am a big-haired corn-fed blonde westerner and, as such, essentially the Anna Nicole Smith of Yokohoma. So everyone found it charming and—frankly—sort of expected.