I hate the radio more than fraternities and hippie dancing: A post in two parts.

Occasionally, I accidentally hit the preset and lead myself away from the safe confines of Michelle Norris's lovely voice. Usually, I end up at 98.9, where they play the top 40 drivel of the day. Sometimes, I really slip up and hit the band and find myself listening to the Sports Animal. Always, I want to maneuver my car into oncoming traffic.

I. I Kissed a Girl - Katy Perry

If your ears work, chances are, you've been aurally assaulted by this song. It's caught fire faster than California. It's freaking everywhere and every time I witness someone rocking out to the popish bigotry, a little piece of my liberal Smith attending bleeding heart dies. On the surface, one might think that this song of purported sexual exploration is actually a validation that being a lesbian isn't so taboo these days and that the young kids don't really give a crap who you're screwing, just as long as you're on Facebook and at least one article of clothing comes from Abercrombie. However, under its semblance of innocent curiosity lies the same old shit. Katy sings (barely audible over Britney Spears worthy production noise) "It's not what good girls do / Not how they should behave." Really? It's fucking 2008. I would argue that while some might deem these lyrics as harmless without real impact to the perception of homosexuality in America, these dumbass lyrics and so many others that spread through the earbuds of so many are absolutely culturally lethal. Say what you will. I'll think what I want.

II. The Sports Manimals

I won't bore you with the spectacular disaster that is The Sports Animal. Basically, it's a local sports show featuring people I don't really know or care about. The Lost Ogle does an excellent job of distilling just why these turds are so ridic* so I won't say much. I was driving back from Texas last week, and TSA was the only station that would come in clearly. Also, my mom needs to know what's happening with the OU football team in the dead of summer at all times. So I listened for a bit before I drifted off due to extreme boredom. When I awoke, somewhere in the Arbuckles, I was plunged into a 20 minute long melee about what the score of some game was last season. There are like 1200 people in the studio or on the phone. It's not like they were trying to recall the score of the Paoli/Wayne 1A championship football game of October 1967, it was the score of OU/Missouri or some shit. Even Dean Blevins didn't know. WHAT THEY HELL IS THEIR JOB THEN I ask you? Do they not have computers that can access espn.com? WTF! They make more than I'll ever make for knowing less than my mom about football (she was furiously screaming the answer into the windshield). Seriously, I would rather hippie dance at a frat formal to the Bird on a Wire soundtrack than listen to that show in its entirety.



*Julie Gongism #13

In which I am a horrible person with a completely unfunny sense of humor.

The other day, I ventured onto Facebook, my official nemesis, for the first time in some time. It's absolutely terrifying to see your social world fit onto one screen. Everyone is literally connected to everyone and I don't like it. I need to befriend some oldies without computers besides my parents. I am apparently friends with the workstudies in my office. They are adorable. They're roommates and also work for one of our performing arts camps, which means they sing songs and wear funny costumes as they work. I thought it would be hi-larious to make a comment on S's wall that said simply, 'less facebook, more work.' HILARIOUS! I thought, by now, she had picked up on my inappropriate abuse of nuanced sarcasm bordering on cruelty. But alas, I guess she didn't. I should've noticed when I asked her if everything was ok and she tried to murder me with her stare. Today, she pops her head into my office and asks if we can talk. Then, almost teary eyed, she asks why I wrote that on her FB wall, and furthermore, clearly I was on FB myself during the day - she checked the time. I screamed at her, 'that's why it's funny!' She was not laughing. Finally, we hugged, a real one, not a FB application one. I think we're good now.

7-17 through 7-21

on lamecation. Will write more soon.

Love in Christ,
B.

Monsturd!*

I work in a basement. We call it the Garden Level. However, it's still a basement. The bathroom in this basement is cold, dank and has terrible lighting, I hope. God, I hope. It also has a scary drain in the middle of the floor, under which, I imagine lives a monster. A smelly monster. Not smelly in a poo way, per se, but in a moldy, generally icky way. I brought in some Glade products earlier in the year, but turns out they were stinkier than the drain monster. Point is, I don't go in there unless I absolutely have to, but that's a lot since I have a bladder the size of something very small [will insert comparison later]. Every few trips or so, I notice that there's an interloper in our mole midst. What are these women doing, wandering about the bowels of the building? Crapping. It's got to be. They totally go downstairs to the monster bathroom to poo out of shame. Well, I'm totally onto them. I could go on about how women are weird about pooing, but we're all familiar with that song and dance, so I will let it be and give them the evil eye.

*I actually watched this movie on purpose one time. For real.

Zack Harrison Memorial Monday: Wedding Edition

Hey y'all. I was in the TX this weekend. More specifically, the DFW. The BF's college BFF got hitched to a chick from TX A&M. Mostly, this meant lots of driving. Did you know that from any one point in the greater Dallas area, you are exactly and approximately 35 - 98 minutes from where you want to be? It's amazing, really. We made it into town Friday night just in time for the rehearsal dinner. It was lovely. I knew no one. When I know no one, I turn to the one thing that never stares at me awkwardly fumbling for the words to respond to my totally inappropriate comment, red wine. And lots of it. By the end of the night, the table knew more about me than I know.

Saturday was spent in various states of recovery and included a trip to Taco Delite prior to gussying up for the wedding. It was hot as balls outside and in the church, but overall a lovely ceremony in spite of the reverend repeating that marriage is only for a man and a woman and that if you are single you suck. Well, anyway, the bride looked beautiful.

We bailed on the reception (it's complicated) and went to the Angelika to see War, Inc. It's so nice to have a theater that isn't afraid of to show the potentially unpopular. Here in the OK, your choices usually range from five or six screens of the latest blockbuster. Yay. Right, so, the movie was meh. Until I was reviewing the credits and noticed that it was co-authored by Mark Leyner. If you've never read Mark Leyner, you probably should. Just a little. Start with the short stories like Tooth Imprints on a Corn Dog. It's hard to concisely describe the reading experience. Oddly enough, it was the namesake of this post that turned me on to this guy. RIP.

Speaking of which, songs not to play at a reception:

Song for the Dumped - Ben Folds Five
Fifty Ways to Leave Your Lover - Paul Simon
D-I-V-O-R-C-E - Tammy Wynette
Still Haven't Found What I'm Looking For - U2
Single Again - Fiery Furnaces
Love The One You're With - CSNY

Songs I would play that everyone would hate:

Two of Us - Beatles
Our Way to Fall - Yo la Tengo
Harvest Moon - Neil Young

What would/did you play? You know, just in case I plan someone's wedding.

Hate this! Thursday: They've got a devil's haircut on their heads.

Have you ever accidentally watched mtvU? I was recently flipping through the channels, probably toggling between Good Eats and Family Guy wishing that new episodes of It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia were airing, when I happened upon a music video featuring some prepubescent dudes whining to unimaginative music sporting the dumbest haircut yet. Now, I'm sure this 'do has been out there for some time, but remember, I spend most of my time in a basement working or watching Battlestar Galactica, so I'm not really in the know. Also, complaining about this means I am officially old. Like not haha I'm getting close to old old, but real old. OLD.

Exhibit A

Maybe there was a sale on tight-ass lady jeans? And perms.

Exhibit B

Maybe there's a whole generation of boys born with hair that has no part?


Exhibit C

Notice how there's always one dude who just can't grow it.

Exhibit D

There's a lot to not say about this picture. What I will say is that Chi is making a fortune off of these douches.

Exhibit E

Make it stop.

Ah haz no readerz/America's barfday/Songs I like/Fancy Feat, etc.

I haz no readerz

I see how it is. I actually have fewer readers now than I did when I initially started blogging. Amazing, isn't it? On the upside, I've decided this means I have free reign to post whaeverthefuck I want. Watch out!

America's barfday

Oh, Fourth of July, New Year's Eve of the summer. I never have the right plans. There were no hotdogs, no lake, no beer even this year. I did watch Norman's abysmal fireworks show from the roof of the stadium parking lot where some hipster tweens were blasting My Morning Jacket. Turns out, MMJ is a good soundtrack for loving America. Next, I found myself at a river lighting far too large fireworks in darkness. So maybe it wasn't so bad.

Songs I like

These two diddies have caught my ear as the ethereal, ephemeral, euphoric sounds of summer:

Happiness - Goldfrapp
Lights Out - Santogold

Fancy Feat

I have a roommate. He has a cat. Zatara and I get along ok, when he is not trying to put his sphincter in my face. What I have a problem with is the fact that the roommate refuses to stop feeding Fancy Feast to Zatara in spite of the rancid butt volcano it inspires. Last night, I made a delightful shrimp curry accompanied by a potato/garam masala/onion/garlic/pea concoction not unlike the innerds of a samosa because I had no basmati rice. Needless to say, the place stunk. Like a lot. But not as much as when roommate makes tuna helper. As I was sitting on the couch trying to figure out why I was actually laughing at moments of Drillbit Taylor, I had a rare stroke of brilliance. I'm not sure how I knew this, but I was suddenly aware that a small can of Sunkist is exactly the same size as a can of Fancy Feast. Moments later, the BF was removing with surgical precision, the labels from each can. He then adhered the Starkist label to the Fancy Feast can with perfection.

Observation #78

The other night, I made the comment to a coworker that my blog has died because all I can come up with are dumbass musings that no one cares about. I then realized that is pretty much the basis for any blog and that I should just go for it. Here's what I'd come up with: there are two kinds of people in this world. The kind who buy soda in liter bottles, and the kind who are sensible and don't. The advantages of the three liter have always been a mystery to me. If you want to drink brown, flat liquid, why not just drink what's left in your coffee pot or a Guinness. Seriously, unless you are chaperoning a seventh grade dance and need to fill a bucket with ginger ale and orange juice, there is simply no need for liter bottles. Later that night, I came home to a three liter of Diet Coke sitting on my kitchen table proferred by the BF. I'm not sure where to go from here.

Vacation

There are lots of kinds of vacations, I am learning. A staycation is where you stay home from work, but go nowhere interesting, instead preferring to catch up on laundry and Maury. A mancation is where dudebros go to Vegas and get lap dances and STDs. There are probably other kinds, but I'd rather talk about my upcoming lamecation. I am going to Galveston, TX with my mother next weekend. The "resorts" and "hotels" actually provide you with wipes for tar removal.

Confession

I am hopelessly addicted to Battlestar Galactica. Please don't judge.

Read it:

http://menwholooklikezachbraff.blogspot.com/


Extras

I am reading In Defense of Food: An Eater's Manifesto. Read it before you go to the grocery store.