In my effort to bring you all (2 - I kinda want mom to start reading again so I have an audience) the latest in pop culture, I realized jack shit is going on these days. Apparently, everyone blew their load on the Oscars. Posh is blond, Anna Nicole's still dead, Diddy got in a fight, Britney has nothing left to shave, Perez Hilton got a new blog template or something. Blah blah blah boring. So, instead, I bring you some posts that have brought me a modicum of guarded joy in the past few days.
While I shouldn't, I do revel in the misfortune of others. Especially when I know them. [*The Life and Times]
We all have them. We all love them. I'm talking about grandparents and Hummel figurines, of course. [Rubber Buns and Liquor]
On the agenda Saturday night at The Mont with L-Ma and co.: marriage, medical school, fetuses, Calvin Klein, handshakes. Also, Idiocracy is better than Team America. [Cole Slaw Blog]
I was taking a bath tonight, drinking some wine in the tub, listening to NPR on my elementary school radio, etc. because that's how I roll, when this show started featuring a gaggle of celebrity do-gooders all praising Bono and shit for trying to save the world. Yeah, yeah, whatever. Bono's a saint. But then, Wyclef (Jean) pipes up talking about his organization, Yele Haiti. First, he claims to fly coach on American Airlines to Haiti when he visits, secondly, he says he drops $50-60k per visit, which he says is, you know, a lot for him since he's a multimillionaire as opposed to a billionaire, and thirdly, he said he is a lawyer. What? Really? Maybe people who are born in Haiti, but grow up in Brooklyn and become hip-hop artist/humanitarians are automatically lawyers, but I dunno. Maybe Shakira's a judge in Colombia. I suppose I could Google this, but eh, I don't really care. The most important thing is that I have half a bottle of wine left.
[So, I apologize for my brief, but what I imagine to be nearly devastating to your procrastination needs, absence. I've been a busy little bee. Yesterday was spent teaching the word "antisemitism" to rural Oklahoman eighth graders (I would not suggest it), judging high school debate for five hours (I would also not suggest it) and a fair amount of drinking (always a good suggestion) which leads me to the point of this post.]
I know that I say I hate all things fraternity, but this isn't entirely true, because I love drinking, and the two generally go hand in hand, unfortunately along with popped collars and douchebaggery, but oh well. The alma mater isn't particularly known for its drinking games, but fortunately, there was a handy alternative right up the highway where I spent many a weekend drinking first years under the pong table. I'm not going to lie, until this summer, I actually owned a pong table. Sure, it wasn't regulation, but I stained it with my own hands. Anyway, last night, I met up with some kids I haven't seen since, oh, 2001 or so. We proceeded to play flip cup at a bar. I loved it!
You see, I spend a lot of time pretending like I'm better than things like that. I read the New Yorker, sort of. I buy organic food, sometimes. I see independent films, when there's nothing else on. I play NY Mag's Approval Matrix thingy, when I'm bored. But deep down, I still love stupid shit like drinking games. Mainly because I kick ass at them. In my own mind.
So, put on your pastel Lacoste polo, turn up O.A.R., and bring over a 30 rack of Keystone. Who wants to be on my team tonight?
Last night I convinced Beau, fellow indie music fan trapped in OK, to attend the Of Montrealconcert at OU. If you have to are fortunate enough to live in the Sooner State, Norman is the place to be as there is a large public university. Otherwise, your entertainment would be limited to 24 hour Wal-Mart Super Centers and rodeos. Not that there's anything wrong with that.
We arrive at what appears to be a skinny jean convention (hipsters west of the Mississippi and south of the Mason-Dixon line?) and suffer through the opening band, which I have blocked out. [Oh, I almost forgot. The show sold out, so the guy in charge of the venue was asking those with empty seats next to them to identify themselves. Of course, no one was sitting next to me. I raise my hand. This scruffy kid sits down. He's wearing shorts, a trench coatish type thing and very shaggy hair. Then he says my name. It's none other than elementary/middle/high schoolmate, Josh Jones (of the Evangelicals). He's too high to talk, he says, but I'm to find him after the show. Ah, concerts.] Beau and I reminisce about the last time we saw each other, which we don't remember, as the crew sets up for OM. This takes forfreakingever. In the meantime, there's some scuffle with a kid and campus security which delays things even further. Finally, they give up and the show starts. Sort of.
OM plays 1.5 songs when there's a bit of a sound malfunction and Barnes turns all of their stuff (drum machine thingy, screens, amps, etc) - and he's clearly a bit pissed. Some crew guy comes out, makes some adjustments, then they try again. It's a no go. I think the try one more time, but the drummer throws a stick across the stage signaling defeat. Barnes asks the audience to be patient and wait a few more minutes while they figure something out. Ok, technology is imperfect, I understand.
Chairs are brought out, mics are lowered, acoustic guitars are unearthed. If you are familiar with OM at all, and I'm no expert, their music + acoustic guitar is like Britney winning mother of the year or knowing her children's names. But, you know what? These guys made some drinkable lemonade out of electronic lemons. The band took it all in stride, did their best and had, what I assume to be, a few improvised moments, including a lovely rendition of "Harvest Moon" and what turns out to be both mine and Kevin Barnes' favorite Beatles song, "I Will" (remember that, future boyfriend out there). The only truly shitty thing about the situation were the kids majoring in douchebag behind us. I really don't revel in using that word, but there isn't another to describe the retardedness of their conversations, which mainly consisted of the repetition of "awesome." One chick managed to lose her phone twice and then make out with the alpha douche. Really? At an Of Montreal concert? I'm all about making out, but still. These assholes would not shut the fuck up. Fortunately, Beau has some balls and told them so. Politely, of course. We're not animals.
OM rounded out their "performance" with a little audience participation. Those who knew the lyrics to "Tim I Wish You Were Born A Girl" were invited on stage for an a cappella version. Hippies danced. End of show. It's kind of like we paid $10 to watch them practice and hang out, but oh well. It was a concert going experience I won't soon forget. Mostly because I was sober.
After a grueling day of lunching on Mexican food (probably the best benefit of Big Move 07) with L-Ma and perusing the racks of Charlotte Russe as Norman, Oklahoma doesn't have a Forever 21 and I needed a slutty shirt for the weekend (in fact, there isn't one in the entire state! Gasp! Until this summer! Gasp! At my mall!), I convinced Mr. Shain to have dinner with me at the best little Greek restaurant this side of, well, Greece in exchange for me attending an OU gymnastics meet (don't ask, I didn't). It's literally little more than a hole in the wall. The same old Greek couple has run the restaurant since I can remember and I'm never able to eat there because they go back to the homeland for Christmas - when I'm usually in town. There are three choices: a gyro, a gyro plate thing (comes with a bit of salad) and french fries fried in lamb juice. Nothing was going sour the experience of sinking my teeth into a giant pile of steaming lamb covered in yogurt, except for two things. 1) I am still carless and had to have my roommate drop me off at the restaurant a la seventh grade. 2) Shain and I are enjoying our meal when suddenly, a look of horror, pain and confusion spreads across Shain's face. The food at Greek House doesn't not produce anything besides pure joy (and the stink of herbed lamb meat on your clothes, hair, pores for days and days), so something was seriously wrong. He miraculously managed to chip a molar on a gryo. A fucking gyro. Seriously, who does that? What is the proper etiquette in this situation? I mean, were this to happen if he were chewing on bricks, I could call him a dumbass or something, but he was eating the same food as myself. So I kind of just laughed and feigned concern - in fact, I kinda thought he was being a baby about it - teeth are totally overrated*. On to the gymnastics meet. What? Why would I go to a gymnastics meet? [I would like to take this opportunity to point out that the ex practiced gymnastics, which I'm sure he'd like to forget. Heh.] Turns out there was no meet since Shain can't read a calendar, he will deny that he was wrong, but clearly, there's no other option. We ended the night with L-Ma at the Library where I was made fun of for my love of Forever 21 and one night stands, you know, the usual.
*Shain will almost certainly provide a more humorous and accurate account of this situation. Whatevs. His should be better. I'm not the one getting a Ph.D.
Saturday:
My house is full of sick people. Everyone has this terrible flu/cold thing going around. I've actually been pretty sick for the past week, but not enough to keep me from bringing you the latest in my eternally fascinating life. Since Wednesday, I've had that super sexy croaky phlegm voice thing going on. Actually, today it's pretty hot. I've gone from sounding like Harvey Fierstein to, well, I like to think Scarlett Johansson. Call me. You'll see. The point is, I escaped the land of the dead (aka reclining in La-Z-Boys while watching basketball games) to see Music and Lyrics, the new Hugh Grant/Drew Berrymore disaster. It was kinda funny, but not really. I'd have rather bought a six pack with that $7.
Saturday Night:
What is more fun than spending Saturday night grading introduction to philosophy exams? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Shain lured me to his office with promises of a free dinner in exchange for helping him grade his exams. He read me a few samples of what the kids these days call "essays" which sealed the deal. Sweet Jeebus are these kids fucking morons. That's somewhat of an overstatement as I didn't completely understand what the question was either (Teleological? Cosmological? Just kidding. I remember that stuff. Psych!), but I would've at least BS'd my way out with proper grammar. Rather than deciphering what these students meant with their incoherent strings of "therefore because there could be there is a universe with things and maybe a God" Shain had me literally translate/transcribe a student's essay, which was almost completely illegible. It was amazing. It's like he wrote in a combination of Windings and Cuneiform. Anyway, it was a challenge. And I'm always up to a challenge. Until I got bored.
And went to meet Alex at a little bar called The Deli. No offense New York, specifically you, East Village, but this bar has you beat in the odd mixture of frat boys, professionals and regulars in a spectacularly trendy dive setting with fantastic underground music. It's got an unparalleled authenticity and I predict I will spend much time there. I was treated to a couple of Red Stripes, a smorgasbord of drunk people making out and the musical stylings of The Hosty Duo. I met the main guy over Christmas with my friend Mike who guaranteed I'd like him and he was right. Listen to Oklahoma Breakdown. When this was played, the whole bar started singing along. I wish I'd known the words. Pride in your home state is a good thing and these guys manage to praise every aspect of the sooner state (remember, they don't have much to work with). Most importantly, The Hosty Duo sings a song about Linda Cavanaugh, the illustrious anchor of KFOR TV Channel 4. I don't know why, but I have harbored a hate for this woman since I was a small child. Maybe it's her shellacked hair helmet, maybe it's her irrepressible Republicanism she brings to every newscast. I dunno, but my disgust runs deep.
And now it's Sunday:
Liquor stores are closed. I can't download porn on the family computer. What am I gonna do all day?
Song of the day:Feeling Good - Nina Simone Dumb Video of the day:
TMZ is reporting that Brit spent less than 24 hours in rehab, shaved her head, then got a tattoo of red lips on her wrist. I really just don't know what to do with this. Really.
Behold Ms. Not So Clean, in fact, probably filthy.
I have been spending a lot of time with boys lately, when I'm not kicking it with the roommates (i.e. I'm grounded from the car). These boys and I have a lot of things in common, mainly drinking and talking shit. However, sometimes they slip into this foreign language of poker, World of War Craft, Wii, or movie quotes and I have no idea what they're talking about which leads me to drinking way more than I ought. I already have a gambling habit (did I remember to take my pill?), I can't afford my own Wii and I refuse to watch Clerks 2 so that leaves me with entering the WOW. Luckily, my friend Alex was there to help me along. Not that it helped. I chose to be a Blood Elf Warlock with lovely, long golden hair named Blythevere (creative, I know).
After that, I pretty much have no idea what happened, since I'm a "newb." Something about a Paladin or a Mage and some pants? I totally cast a thing that killed some wyrms? Buff? Mana? All I know is that I have the hand-eye coordination of a Stevie Wonder in mittens. I can barely tell left from right, let alone use two hands at once (don't all come a runnin' at once boys).
Hopefully, soon I will be able to ponder philosophical questions such as, "Is the horde truly better than the alliance?" But right now, I have no idea what those words mean. I do know that relationships have ended over this game, lives have been ruined, hours, days, years wasted, so, I figure it's the perfect thing for me. Hell, South Park talks about it, so it must be ok, right? It's ok to escape the misery of daily life by pretending you're a spell wielding, surprisingly buxom elf, right? Lord knows I need another activity keeping me on the Internets. *I'm pretty sure this solidifies my standing as a total dork. I totally understand if you stop reading this immediately, Mom.
- Valentine's Day means V.D. therefore, I abstain.
- I would totally look like this if Nikolo whatever-his-name-is did my photoshoot. But since I have to strap the camera to my dog, what you see is as good as it gets. [Gawker]
[This will be my only post about V-day. I promise.]
This is the first Valentine's Day I will be without a boyfriend since I was 17. I'm pretty much ok with this. If you know me, you know my motto is "everything in moderation" except liquor. And shoes. And cheese fries. And reruns of Saved By The Bell. Anyway, at 25, I'm fairly certain I have a few more Valentine's Days up my sleeve before I kick it (I say a few due to the massive consumption of the aforementioned liquor and cheese fries), so I'm trying not to sweat it. I had a good (if by good it's ok to receive two shares of GE for a gift on year, or was that for my birthday?) run, now it's time to experience the other side.
The thing is, I don't need a boyfriend, fancy flowers, super expensive dinner, a nice little piece from Kay Jewelers (actually, if I do ever manage to pay convince someone to be my boyfriend and he ever buys me anything from Kay or Zales, it's off), chocolates, etc. What would be nice, though, would be to, you know, just watch a movie curled up with someone (i.e. not my dog), on a soft couch, just for a couple of hours. Is that so much to ask? Apparently so.
Treatment for my rapidly mending, but decidedly broken heart includes listening to the following on repeat until the depth of my despair becomes comical and my tear jar is full:
Rather uneventful. Ate some food with L-Ma, had a few drinks with another friend. In bed by 12. Eh.
And then there was Saturday:
Part I:
I am the last person to see The Departed. I know this. What I did not know was what I was missing! It's definitely the best movie I've seen this year hands down. Leo usually makes me want to puke a little and I've never understood the overrated underrated Marky Mark, but they both turned in stellar performances.
My father roommate and I ended up at a super ghetto mall in Oklahoma City to kill time before the movie started. We decided to head over to a candy store to load up my giant purse. While perusing the various varieties of Jelly Bellies, a man outfitted in a camo (the kind hunters wear) long sleeve t-shirt, Wranglers up to his armpits and a belt buckle the size of my head ran into the store and excitedly tapped who I assume to be his wife on the shoulder. "Honey," he says, "This mall's got more people than our entire town!" I stifled a laugh. I also discovered a store entirely dedicated to pageant wear. More on this some other time.
Part II:
Mr. Shain invites me to attend one of his old high school friend's birthday party. I agree to this thinking that there's no one that I will possibly see. I'm slowly enjoying an alcoholic beverage in the kitchen, deeply embroiled in a snarkfest with Shain about how much better we are than everyone when, bam! I'm a little bit drunk. Don't know how it happened. Suddenly, it's like Facebook came to life. People are coming out of the woodwork. You know how you graduate or leave town and just assume you're never going to see certain people ever again? I saw them all last night. First boy I ever got drunk with - he was there. Girl that was in yearbook with me, there. One of my dad's colleague's son who babysat my little brother - there and shitfaced. Eighth grade algebra crush - there - with his wife, who happens to be from the same town as my grandparents. My grandfather made her pancakes on her birthday. My grandpa doesn't even know when my birthday is. Long story short, well, Shain abandoned me and we'll just skip over the rest of the night. My plan of not shaving my legs all week to prevent me from embarking on any weekend shenanigans totally backfired.
Sunday! Sunday Sunday!
I saw Pan's Labyrinth today. Not bad, not bad. Soul crushing, but in that artsy, beautiful kinda way that makes you feel utterly uncreative. Thumbs up. Makes me want to read Borges.
In other news, my mother other roommate is watching the Grammys. She just asked me why Mary Kate Blige is winning so many. She also just let me know that Justin Timberlake came out of the closet earlier this year. Oh mom, I mean person I live with.
Song of the day:
Sufjan Stevens - The Henney Buggy Band. Reminds me of hanging out with my dad when he was directing marching bands. Good times. Hearing damage, but good times.
Food of the day:
Schlotzky's. It's a chain, I know. But it's a damn good one.
Promise of the day:
I'll write something more interesting after my brain has recovered.
with the fact that Oklahoma has Happy Hour! (Puritanical MA did not.)
After a long day of wrangling eighth graders, I am in dire DIRE need of a cocktail. For half price! Yes, I am aware that it is only 3.35 in the afternoon. Today, I have endured relentless questions i.e. why aren't you married? how old are you? 17? 32? do you not have a boyfriend because you're so short? why are you so short? how come you're wearing such ugly shoes? why are you teaching us? don't you have a real job? you don't have a razr? and the like. The only answer is some girly martini-ish thing and the sweet, sweet oblivion that will follow.
My heart says yes, but my head says no. I read an article about her in The New Yorker some time ago and decided that was evidence enough that she is, in fact, funny, unlike say Dane Cook. Also, the New York Times agrees she's quite hilarious. However, I hear a lot of shit talked about the foul mouthed little lady. She is kind of gimmicky in her delivery and surely uses her looks to offset her tendency toward the disgusting (but true). I think she also stole Jimmy Kimmel away from his wife or something mean. Hmm. Poop. Am I funny now?
2. Converse conversion.
I need footwear somewhere between ballet flat and running shoe that reflects my inherent nerdiness and looks good with jeans. To me, that says Converse. This brings up two questions: 1. white or black? 2. Am I ok with jumping on yet another trend bandwagon? O.K. 3. Am I too old for them? I'm kinda an old lady.
3. Music Video Corner:
I think this came out a while ago, but sometimes I can't stop myself from Googling Zach Galafianakis. I've been teaching eighth grade, so finding this little number with Zach and Fiona Apple stirred up all kinds of adolescent angst. Like I'm never going to have a boyfriend, car, when do I get to move out... oh wait. That's still true.
While you were atreading about Fashion Week (and, most likely, not caring because, like me, I'll bet you buy all of your clothes on sale at Old Navy - yeah, more like Fashion Weak):
- "I am not familiar." Again, Amy Poehler is the shit. [Jossip]
- You know, Oklahoma boasts the most astronauts of any state. We also have a lot of crazies. We do not, however, have crazy astronauts. Yet. [Defamer]
- LOST!! is back!! So excited. Fortunately, CNN has brought me up to speed. In fact, they've made reading so easy I don't have to anymore! [See story highlights box. This is really ridiculous. I thought semismartish people (me) read CNN and idiots read Fox. Who's the idiot now? (me)]
- Goulet Wednesday's namesake made a kickass(ish) SB commersh! La-da-di-da-da. GOULET! Nature!
- I am dreading Valentine's Day. Not because I am single, but because even when I do find love (most likely never) it can't possibly be like this. Fossilized? Together!? I thought a joint bank account was a big deal.
So, while I await the start of job 2.1, I am substitute teaching at the school where my mother is an assistant princip-a-l. I was fortunate enough to teach Language Arts all day Friday to four classes of 8th graders. This is what I learned: 1. They are all taller than me and have no problems making me aware of this. 2. The girls dress like tramps. They wear heavy eye makeup, sport baby cleavage and don't seem to know it's winter. Tank tops? 3. These kids are getting more action than me. There's PDA galore in the halls. When I was in 8th grade, I was too busy figuring out which Doc Martens to wear with my new flannel while listening to Nirvana to be aware that there were boys. 4. Speaking of boys, they all have shaggy hair. Some with highlights. 5. They have MySpace pages, and invite me to be their friend. 6. They also have Razrs, Blackberries, iPods and other gadgets that I cannot afford. 7. They are dumb. Some fantastic examples include "beeutifull," "Coareea," and "climax" instead of "climate." I am a nerd, yes, but I am nowhere near the sharpest knife in that proverbial drawer. However, I'm pretty certain I was literate by 8th grade. That No Child Left Behind biznass is workin' real good. 8. They are immature assholes. So am I. We got along famously.
Resolved: high school debate makes my brain hurt:
Friday night, I found myself hanging out with Mr. Shain judging a high school debate tournament. Wow. A few things: when I debated, I was horrible, but impeccably dressed, which I think is the most important aspect of the event. These girls seem to not have mirrors or something. The boys looked nice. Whatev. Also, they make up words. I heard "unmoral" and "communistic Russia" come out of the mouths of college bound seniors more than I should've. Also, if I ever have to think in depth about Kant's Categorical Imperative and how it applies to the (a)morality of a corporation, my head might explode. Such high level thinking is no longer possible for me unless it involves Lindsay, Britney or Paris. Finally, I am old. So old. But hey, I got a free baked potato. Score!
Speaking of high school:
My car is in the process of being shipped from MA to OK. It's relatively old and probably wouldn't make the trip. In the meantime, I've been using the parents (roommates) cars. I went out Saturday night and didn't make it back till Sunday morning (another story for another time). My mother (roommate #1) informed me prior to leaving Saturday night that the car had a curfew of midnight. I scoffed at such an idea. Now I am grounded from the car. Yup.
Obligatory Super Bowl Post:
I meant to watch the Superbowl (ok, really ads and Prince), but I got sucked into Puppy Bowl III. It was awesome! Watching a bunch of adorable puppies bump into each other almost made me forget I'm living with my parents. My face hurts from smiling for three hours straight. I'm such a fucking sucker. When on commercial, I flipped over to "My Boys" on TBS, which I found equally delightful. Cable in general makes me pretty happy these days. I'm a simple girl, really.
I wish I were in love with a real person, but I'm not*. [I'm in love with my dog (Claire - pictures forthcoming), not Zealand - who was stolen (see note), but I don't think that counts, although, I am living in Oklahoma now.] In the absence of a real life lover, I declare my Friday love for Jamie Lidell.
This guy is, simply put, the shit. Somehow, he's made an effortless transition from trouncing (what I imagine to be) an iBook (and some other gadgets used to produce the stuff he's known for) to slaying soul with an understated moxie not unlike Otis Redding.
I am so into guys who look like this. And sound like this. Also, check out "Game for Fools."**
*This is not entirely true, but you know how it is.
Note: Ok, I will finally stop talking about the dog. It's just hard, you know. I am a bitter, bitter woman and hold a grudge like nobody's business. Why am I single again?
**I really want to make out to this song, like soon. Please contact me if you're interested.
Molly Ivins, one of Smith's few notable alums* (ok, that's not true, I'm just pissed that my student loan payment doesn't decrease as a result of our continuing decline according to US News and World Report. Seriously, we were 11th when I arrived, 13th when I finished and now we're 1,486th. Not true, but it feels like it. Also, I don't really care about that sort of thing. Except when someone I know went to a better school than me. Which is almost everyone. Bah.) died yesterday at the age of 62 after a fight with cancer. I saw her speak while at Smith, and I must say, I really enjoyed her and not simply because I agree with everything she said. Mainly it was her accent. I josh. Somewhat. I guess the Anne Richards/Molly Ivins 4 prez ticket will never happen, but a girl can dream. And wake up to Hillary Clinton. Hmm.
*Imaginary alums include Dr. Cristina Yang of Grey's Anatomy, that lawyer lady on The West Wing, and Charlotte from Sex and the City.
*
