An open letter to the grunge era:
As I was getting ready for work on this lovely Friday, the day before Halloween, I thought about scrapping the oh-so-chic, all black outfit and oh-so-comfy fake black Uggs (Fuggs, if you will) and putting on a costume. No, I am not some freak who just randomly has costumes lying around. At the 11th hour before I had to brave the chilly weather to head to work, I thought about digging into my closet to retrieve a band t-shirt, ripped jeans, a flannel, and my Doc Marten boots, loading my eyes with even more eyeliner than I already wear, throwing some Goody baby barettes in my hair and spritzing myself with CK One perfume and going as myself circa 1993. Yes, I do have all of these things on hand in my closet. Okay, I guess I am some kind of freak. SHUT UP!
Then I thought better of it. I mean, even though it is casual Friday and Halloween costume day at work, complete with a pumpkin judging contest on campus (oh boy oh boy oh boy!), I decided that I should not go to work looking like an angry teen lumberjack who happens to be a Black Flag fan. I mean, why don't I just pop some Ritalin and carve some self-loathing Nirvana lyric into my arm while I'm at it, eh? *Elbows you in the ribs for comedic emphasis*
Then I thought, "Heavens to Betsy! How bad must my fashion sense have been back then that I won't even wear that kind of outfit, the kind of outfit I WORE EVERY DAY, EXCEPT FOR THE TIMES I ALTERNATED WITH A HIDEOUS BABY DOLL DRESS OR SOMETHING CRIMINALLY BAGGY, for frickin' Halloween?!" Now that's a scary thought!
It was almost enough to make me want to pop some Ritalin and carve some self-loathing Nirvana lyrics onto my arm.
Okay Mom, you win. Sixteen years later, you win. I did look like an ass. But don't be alarmed when I show up at your doorstep tomorrow looking like I did in my teen years and demand candy in a barely-audible, apathetic, bored teenage voice. Oh, and I will probably scowl and pick all the Reese's out of the treat bucket because that's what teenagers do. It's all part of the costume. I'm a method trick-or-treater.
SHUT UP!
Friday, October 30, 2009
Saturday, October 17, 2009
Where the Wild Things Are
Dear hideous shrieking monster outside unit #209,
Can I just say how great it is to be awoken at 3:31 in the morning by the sound of some hideous animal making noises outside my window that can only be described as a grown man sobbing, screaming, and being disemboweled at the same time? And laying there thinking, "Hmmm, what a horrifying sound. Why, I got so scared I almost tinkled in my bed! I should not have had all that water* before I went to bed. Perhaps I should get up and use the bathroom. Nah, it's safer here in bed where frickin' La Llorona and possibly some banshees** can't get me"? And then miraculously falling back to sleep only to have nightmares about being hunted down in the woods by devilish critters who are trying to steal your mom's cat, whom you are just trying to cat-sit while Mum is in Colonial Williamsburg?
Well, DO YOU?
I guess that's what I get for reading "Weird Arizona," watching The Descent and The Blair Witch Project, and decorating my house with devilish critter-looking Halloween decorations.
Until next time...
WP
* Okay, Hobgoblin English Ale
**Not to be confused with Siouxsie and possibly some Banshees
Can I just say how great it is to be awoken at 3:31 in the morning by the sound of some hideous animal making noises outside my window that can only be described as a grown man sobbing, screaming, and being disemboweled at the same time? And laying there thinking, "Hmmm, what a horrifying sound. Why, I got so scared I almost tinkled in my bed! I should not have had all that water* before I went to bed. Perhaps I should get up and use the bathroom. Nah, it's safer here in bed where frickin' La Llorona and possibly some banshees** can't get me"? And then miraculously falling back to sleep only to have nightmares about being hunted down in the woods by devilish critters who are trying to steal your mom's cat, whom you are just trying to cat-sit while Mum is in Colonial Williamsburg?
Well, DO YOU?
I guess that's what I get for reading "Weird Arizona," watching The Descent and The Blair Witch Project, and decorating my house with devilish critter-looking Halloween decorations.
Until next time...
WP
* Okay, Hobgoblin English Ale
**Not to be confused with Siouxsie and possibly some Banshees
Saturday, July 18, 2009
Because He's Good Enough, He's Smart Enough, and Doggone It, People Elected Him!
So Al Franken, better known for his "Saturday Night Live" characters including Stuart Smalley, is a Senator now. Well, I guess it makes sense for a comedian to become a politician. I mean, both careers involve getting the public to believe a bunch of nonsense, right?
Oh well, I don't care if Al Franken is a Senator. I don't care that Kal Penn quit acting and went to work for The White House (apparently the idiot that hired him never saw the Harold and Kumar installments). Just so long as Jimmy "I-have-no-talent-and-can't-keep-a-straight-face-in-any-sketch-no-matter-how-stupid-it-may-be-and-it's-worse-when-my-fat-stoner-friend-Horatio-Sanz-is-in-the-sketch-with-me" Fallon never has anything to do with laws being passed, I'll keep my mouth shut.
That's it, that's my post. Go back to work.
Oh well, I don't care if Al Franken is a Senator. I don't care that Kal Penn quit acting and went to work for The White House (apparently the idiot that hired him never saw the Harold and Kumar installments). Just so long as Jimmy "I-have-no-talent-and-can't-keep-a-straight-face-in-any-sketch-no-matter-how-stupid-it-may-be-and-it's-worse-when-my-fat-stoner-friend-Horatio-Sanz-is-in-the-sketch-with-me" Fallon never has anything to do with laws being passed, I'll keep my mouth shut.
That's it, that's my post. Go back to work.
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
If They Mated...
Just watched a special on The Pogues. Good band, but I couldn't help but think that if K.D. Lang had a child with Smeagol from Lord of the Rings, it would look like Shane McGowan.
Thursday, June 25, 2009
The Three Horsemen of the Apocalypse
I have seen the three horsemen of the apocalypse, and they are the Jonas Brothers...on the cover of the new Rolling Stone magazine. (Or The Judas Brothers, as I like to call them, because they are a betrayal to what good rock should be.)
First Britney, then some useless tweens, now this. If Hunter S. Thompson had been buried instead of cremated and catapulted into the heavens by Johnny Depp at a memorial service, he'd be rolling over in his grave.
As a former rock journalist and a die-hard music fan, I find this disturbing. Even more disturbing is the fact that an article on Gregg Allman, a rock and roll great, was relegated to page 72 of said issue of Rolling Stone.
Not that this magazine hasn't been losing its integrity for a while. It used to be that you had to have something really great to say accompanied with some great instrumental ability to become a famous musician, and more than just a great PR person to grace the cover of RS. Now, I guess all it takes is a pulse and some skinny jeans.
I could somewhat deal with the days when Rolling Stone put musicians on the cover not because they were great, but because they were causing a stir. I get it--controversy sells. The media's blatant disinterest in anyone not doing something lurid or miraculous almost suggests that not existing in the media signifies a lack of existence in general.
I could somewhat deal with the advent of "American Idol" and the idea of manufactured fame. (Rumor has it that the grunge era was heavily manufactured as well, but that's another story, and at least the music kicked ass.)
I could even deal with last month's cover of RS featuring Lady Gaga who, even though she looks like Dee Snider in drag, at least has some originality.
But the Jonas Brothers? Please. Those dweebs are one degree of separation from Hanson, and if given the choice to see a half-naked Christina Aguilera on the cover of RS or the Jonas Brothers, I will gladly take hoes before these bros any day.
P.S. I just heard that Michael Jackson is dead. Dang.
First Britney, then some useless tweens, now this. If Hunter S. Thompson had been buried instead of cremated and catapulted into the heavens by Johnny Depp at a memorial service, he'd be rolling over in his grave.
As a former rock journalist and a die-hard music fan, I find this disturbing. Even more disturbing is the fact that an article on Gregg Allman, a rock and roll great, was relegated to page 72 of said issue of Rolling Stone.
Not that this magazine hasn't been losing its integrity for a while. It used to be that you had to have something really great to say accompanied with some great instrumental ability to become a famous musician, and more than just a great PR person to grace the cover of RS. Now, I guess all it takes is a pulse and some skinny jeans.
I could somewhat deal with the days when Rolling Stone put musicians on the cover not because they were great, but because they were causing a stir. I get it--controversy sells. The media's blatant disinterest in anyone not doing something lurid or miraculous almost suggests that not existing in the media signifies a lack of existence in general.
I could somewhat deal with the advent of "American Idol" and the idea of manufactured fame. (Rumor has it that the grunge era was heavily manufactured as well, but that's another story, and at least the music kicked ass.)
I could even deal with last month's cover of RS featuring Lady Gaga who, even though she looks like Dee Snider in drag, at least has some originality.
But the Jonas Brothers? Please. Those dweebs are one degree of separation from Hanson, and if given the choice to see a half-naked Christina Aguilera on the cover of RS or the Jonas Brothers, I will gladly take hoes before these bros any day.
P.S. I just heard that Michael Jackson is dead. Dang.
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
Et Tu, Bruno?
Let me first start this blog by saying…Hi. Worrier Poet here. Nice to see you again—I know it’s been a while. Come on over, I baked you a cake!
Since I last broadcasted to you from bloggy-land, summer officially hit. Granted, I live in Phoenix where we buy our first bottle of SPF 400 sunscreen as soon as the St. Patty’s Day hangover wears off, so if you’re reading this from somewhere like Chicago, you’re probably still enjoying the occasional dusting of snow or something. I don’t know what goes on in places like that. I’m a desert dweller, people. I have mastered the art of driving with my fingernails to avoid burning the hell out of my hands on the steering wheel. I think they taught us that in drivers’ ed.
Anyhoo, summer nights and weekends for me mean more than grilling, sand volleyball, a freezer full of Popsicles, and watching Jaws.
It means movies, people! Summer blockbusters! (Though Will Smith is not in anything Michael Bay-ish this summer, is he? Doesn’t seem like a summer without it.)
Oh, but that’s where Bruno comes in.
For those of us who have taken to eating lunch in our cubicles while watching Yahoo! News and then sending messages to coworkers through Microsoft Communicator about the latest entertainment-related “news” stories, the clip of Bruno, aka Sacha Baron Cohen, sailing down from the stage at the MTV Like-I-Give-A-Fuck Awards and planting his bare butt cheeks on Eminem’s face was priceless. Even better was Eminem’s reaction—anger, of course.
Almost as funny was Dennis Miller’s comment on the situation: “Some people like their Eminems plain, and some like them with nuts.”
So naturally, because of the reaction, everyone thought it was real. And naturally, given Eminem’s propensity for being homophobic, Bruno targeted him, right?
Well, apparently not. It was all rehearsed, and Eminem was in on it the whole time. Still funny, but that’s going an awfully long way for the sake of “reality.”
But then, since the advent of the reality television show, producers have wanted more. More drama. More action. More competition. More fights. More hair pulling. More steamy hookups. Why? Because they want more loyal viewers.
I admit that some movies used the whole “reality” thing to advantage, such as The Blair Witch Project. But then, people weren’t entertained as much when they found out it wasn’t real. As a result, we’ve all been conditioned to look for the proverbial wizard behind the curtain, the starving actor inside the Donald Duck costume, that our imaginations have gotten jaded our of existence.
Then came Sacha Baron Cohen with his outlandish characters such as Ali G and the slightly more infamous Borat and his eponymous 2007 film. Here was something new for the public—tricking everyday people into thinking this was all real…renegade filming…multiple arrests and ejections from buildings, interviews, hotels…and unsuspecting people finding themselves in starring roles.
As much as I love what Sacha Baron Cohen has created, I have begun to question how far entertainers will go for yuks—and how low our standards will go. Cohen essentially picked up where Jay Leno left off with his “Jay Walking” segment (making the public look stupid and broadcasting it for laughs and ratings at these poor fools' expense) and took it to a much higher level.
What next? I wouldn’t put it past the Fox network to create a show called “Surprise! You’ve Got a Deadly Disease!” and have unwitting patients in a doctor’s office be told they have a deadly disease on live television. Or have Simon Cowell vote people off “American Idol” by giving them a thumbs-down, Gladiator-style, and subsequently have the contestant fed to a pack of hungry tigers. (Though if that tactic kept people like Kelly Clarkson away from a recording studio forever, I might actually be in favor of it.)
Then again, as I thought back to “Da Ali G Show” and Borat, it occurred to me that some of the people who found themselves as unwitting stars/victims actually kind of deserved to be smeared, like those racist frat boys from South “Paddle Faster, I Hear Banjos” Carolina. There were plenty of others, mostly people he encountered in the South. (I am Jack’s complete lack of surprise on that one.)
I have not yet seen Bruno, so I can’t give you a full review or tell you whether this involves a-holes getting their comeuppance or just nice people getting harassed for no good reason, or both. Either way, there will be popcorn, and another ticket stub to add to my collection as I hibernate from the summer heat.
Oh, and I know that The Blair Witch Project wasn’t real. The fact that I no longer go hiking in the woods is a TOTAL coincidence, people.
Since I last broadcasted to you from bloggy-land, summer officially hit. Granted, I live in Phoenix where we buy our first bottle of SPF 400 sunscreen as soon as the St. Patty’s Day hangover wears off, so if you’re reading this from somewhere like Chicago, you’re probably still enjoying the occasional dusting of snow or something. I don’t know what goes on in places like that. I’m a desert dweller, people. I have mastered the art of driving with my fingernails to avoid burning the hell out of my hands on the steering wheel. I think they taught us that in drivers’ ed.
Anyhoo, summer nights and weekends for me mean more than grilling, sand volleyball, a freezer full of Popsicles, and watching Jaws.
It means movies, people! Summer blockbusters! (Though Will Smith is not in anything Michael Bay-ish this summer, is he? Doesn’t seem like a summer without it.)
Oh, but that’s where Bruno comes in.
For those of us who have taken to eating lunch in our cubicles while watching Yahoo! News and then sending messages to coworkers through Microsoft Communicator about the latest entertainment-related “news” stories, the clip of Bruno, aka Sacha Baron Cohen, sailing down from the stage at the MTV Like-I-Give-A-Fuck Awards and planting his bare butt cheeks on Eminem’s face was priceless. Even better was Eminem’s reaction—anger, of course.
Almost as funny was Dennis Miller’s comment on the situation: “Some people like their Eminems plain, and some like them with nuts.”
So naturally, because of the reaction, everyone thought it was real. And naturally, given Eminem’s propensity for being homophobic, Bruno targeted him, right?
Well, apparently not. It was all rehearsed, and Eminem was in on it the whole time. Still funny, but that’s going an awfully long way for the sake of “reality.”
But then, since the advent of the reality television show, producers have wanted more. More drama. More action. More competition. More fights. More hair pulling. More steamy hookups. Why? Because they want more loyal viewers.
I admit that some movies used the whole “reality” thing to advantage, such as The Blair Witch Project. But then, people weren’t entertained as much when they found out it wasn’t real. As a result, we’ve all been conditioned to look for the proverbial wizard behind the curtain, the starving actor inside the Donald Duck costume, that our imaginations have gotten jaded our of existence.
Then came Sacha Baron Cohen with his outlandish characters such as Ali G and the slightly more infamous Borat and his eponymous 2007 film. Here was something new for the public—tricking everyday people into thinking this was all real…renegade filming…multiple arrests and ejections from buildings, interviews, hotels…and unsuspecting people finding themselves in starring roles.
As much as I love what Sacha Baron Cohen has created, I have begun to question how far entertainers will go for yuks—and how low our standards will go. Cohen essentially picked up where Jay Leno left off with his “Jay Walking” segment (making the public look stupid and broadcasting it for laughs and ratings at these poor fools' expense) and took it to a much higher level.
What next? I wouldn’t put it past the Fox network to create a show called “Surprise! You’ve Got a Deadly Disease!” and have unwitting patients in a doctor’s office be told they have a deadly disease on live television. Or have Simon Cowell vote people off “American Idol” by giving them a thumbs-down, Gladiator-style, and subsequently have the contestant fed to a pack of hungry tigers. (Though if that tactic kept people like Kelly Clarkson away from a recording studio forever, I might actually be in favor of it.)
Then again, as I thought back to “Da Ali G Show” and Borat, it occurred to me that some of the people who found themselves as unwitting stars/victims actually kind of deserved to be smeared, like those racist frat boys from South “Paddle Faster, I Hear Banjos” Carolina. There were plenty of others, mostly people he encountered in the South. (I am Jack’s complete lack of surprise on that one.)
I have not yet seen Bruno, so I can’t give you a full review or tell you whether this involves a-holes getting their comeuppance or just nice people getting harassed for no good reason, or both. Either way, there will be popcorn, and another ticket stub to add to my collection as I hibernate from the summer heat.
Oh, and I know that The Blair Witch Project wasn’t real. The fact that I no longer go hiking in the woods is a TOTAL coincidence, people.
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
What's My Age Again?
Tomorrow I will turn 29. Believe it or not, this does not bother me. It’s the thought of 30 that scares me. Not because of the new age bracket, or the fact that the “classic rock” radio stations now play music from when I was in high school, or that I have actually started thinking about my cholesterol levels, or the fact that on St. Patrick’s Day this year I went to an organic market and bought butternut squash instead of booze.
No, what worries me is that I am apparently still 5 years old in terms of my taste in certain things. Let’s examine this statement further…
First off, my bathroom is stocked with my all-time favorite bath product, Mr. Bubble. I love to start my weekend on Friday nights with a bubble bath courtesy of Mr. Bubble. There’s something about that cute pink bottle and that indescribably sweet yet musky smell that just takes me back to my childhood. Make fun of me all you want, but even The Dude from The Big Lebowski agrees with my taste in bath products. Just watch for the scene in that movie when he is doing a J in the tub. You can see a bottle of Mr. Bubble in the background. And The Dude is never wrong. The Dude abides!
Then there’s the fact that I own jammies with unicorns on them. In fact, I am wearing them as I write this. Granted, no man will ever see me wearing these, but they make me happy. I also have jammies printed with Hello Kitty on a snowboard. And I use the word “jammies.” Troublesome…
Oh, and I still wear Goody barrettes to the gym. You know, the cute little plastic baby barrettes that haven’t changed in, oh, ages. I think they made a comeback during the grunge era when dressing like a mental patient’s Kewpie doll was all the rage. (But I draw the line at pigtails.)
The list goes on from there. I would rather go to the batting cages than to Scottsdale clubs, I watch It’s the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown every October, and I periodically draw on the walls with crayons. Ha ha, had to make sure you hadn’t dozed off while reading this. Don’t worry, I don’t draw on the walls with crayons. Your walls are safe. Invite me over, you’ll see. Have dinner ready.
Oh well, I guess we all have a little bit of our childhood that follows us around like Peter Pan’s shadow, but maybe that’s not a bad thing. Heck, I pay my taxes, I have a savings account and a career, and I even stopped shopping at teeny-bopper stores, save for the occasional outfit from Forever 21 (nothing says, “Hang on 30, here I come!” quite like walking into that store. Oh, but the fabulous prices...)
Sophomoric exploits may have sold records for Blink 182, made Adrianne Curry more famous than her modeling career ever did, and gotten Al Franken elected to the Senate, but I take some solace in the fact that I only accessorize with immaturity--for the most part.
But if I may, I would like to bid a fond farewell to 28 with a Festivus-like airing of grievances.
Grievance #1: My ex-father-in-law is a self-important douchebag who can talk for 30 minutes nonstop and say absolu-frickin’-lutely nothing of importance. Good riddance.
Grievance #2: Raleigh, North Carolina probably won’t be graced by my presence anytime in the future. I spent 6 long years there, and I can honestly say that Satan’s anus is probably more interesting, attractive, and educated than that place. (No offense to my friends that still live there. You guys are great. But trust me, I have my reasons for hating that place and damn near everyone else in it.)
Grievance #3: If you’ve ever picked a fight with me and/or broken up with me via text message and I die before you, I will haunt you. Boo!
Grievance #4: If you’ve ever picked a fight with me because you’re a Socialist and I am a Libertarian, don’t worry, I won’t haunt you. I’ll have the ghost of Milton Friedman to do it for me. Boo!
Grievance #5: To the Silversteins, my obnoxious neighbors back in Raleigh: I could write limericks about how obnoxious you two were. How many times did you call the HOA on me because my trashcan sat on the curb all day while I was at work and “upset the aesthetic appeal of the neighborhood”? Or made comments about my weight? Or called 9-1-1 when there was no emergency and stood in your driveway with a stopwatch to test how long it would take the police and rescue workers to arrive in the event of a real emergency? Granted, I will never turn down the opportunity to see some mouthwatering men in uniform, but seriously, drop dead, Silversteins! And I’ll bet when you do, the rescue workers won’t come. Nope. All that will be heard is the gentle sound of crickets, and maybe sounds of cheering at the local fire stations.
Thank you, I feel better now. And ready to turn 29.
No, what worries me is that I am apparently still 5 years old in terms of my taste in certain things. Let’s examine this statement further…
First off, my bathroom is stocked with my all-time favorite bath product, Mr. Bubble. I love to start my weekend on Friday nights with a bubble bath courtesy of Mr. Bubble. There’s something about that cute pink bottle and that indescribably sweet yet musky smell that just takes me back to my childhood. Make fun of me all you want, but even The Dude from The Big Lebowski agrees with my taste in bath products. Just watch for the scene in that movie when he is doing a J in the tub. You can see a bottle of Mr. Bubble in the background. And The Dude is never wrong. The Dude abides!
Then there’s the fact that I own jammies with unicorns on them. In fact, I am wearing them as I write this. Granted, no man will ever see me wearing these, but they make me happy. I also have jammies printed with Hello Kitty on a snowboard. And I use the word “jammies.” Troublesome…
Oh, and I still wear Goody barrettes to the gym. You know, the cute little plastic baby barrettes that haven’t changed in, oh, ages. I think they made a comeback during the grunge era when dressing like a mental patient’s Kewpie doll was all the rage. (But I draw the line at pigtails.)
The list goes on from there. I would rather go to the batting cages than to Scottsdale clubs, I watch It’s the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown every October, and I periodically draw on the walls with crayons. Ha ha, had to make sure you hadn’t dozed off while reading this. Don’t worry, I don’t draw on the walls with crayons. Your walls are safe. Invite me over, you’ll see. Have dinner ready.
Oh well, I guess we all have a little bit of our childhood that follows us around like Peter Pan’s shadow, but maybe that’s not a bad thing. Heck, I pay my taxes, I have a savings account and a career, and I even stopped shopping at teeny-bopper stores, save for the occasional outfit from Forever 21 (nothing says, “Hang on 30, here I come!” quite like walking into that store. Oh, but the fabulous prices...)
Sophomoric exploits may have sold records for Blink 182, made Adrianne Curry more famous than her modeling career ever did, and gotten Al Franken elected to the Senate, but I take some solace in the fact that I only accessorize with immaturity--for the most part.
But if I may, I would like to bid a fond farewell to 28 with a Festivus-like airing of grievances.
Grievance #1: My ex-father-in-law is a self-important douchebag who can talk for 30 minutes nonstop and say absolu-frickin’-lutely nothing of importance. Good riddance.
Grievance #2: Raleigh, North Carolina probably won’t be graced by my presence anytime in the future. I spent 6 long years there, and I can honestly say that Satan’s anus is probably more interesting, attractive, and educated than that place. (No offense to my friends that still live there. You guys are great. But trust me, I have my reasons for hating that place and damn near everyone else in it.)
Grievance #3: If you’ve ever picked a fight with me and/or broken up with me via text message and I die before you, I will haunt you. Boo!
Grievance #4: If you’ve ever picked a fight with me because you’re a Socialist and I am a Libertarian, don’t worry, I won’t haunt you. I’ll have the ghost of Milton Friedman to do it for me. Boo!
Grievance #5: To the Silversteins, my obnoxious neighbors back in Raleigh: I could write limericks about how obnoxious you two were. How many times did you call the HOA on me because my trashcan sat on the curb all day while I was at work and “upset the aesthetic appeal of the neighborhood”? Or made comments about my weight? Or called 9-1-1 when there was no emergency and stood in your driveway with a stopwatch to test how long it would take the police and rescue workers to arrive in the event of a real emergency? Granted, I will never turn down the opportunity to see some mouthwatering men in uniform, but seriously, drop dead, Silversteins! And I’ll bet when you do, the rescue workers won’t come. Nope. All that will be heard is the gentle sound of crickets, and maybe sounds of cheering at the local fire stations.
Thank you, I feel better now. And ready to turn 29.
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