Rockin' Grannies

I keep reading everywhere that 30 is the new 13. I think that's some kind of TV show. And Jay-Z says 30 is the new 21. And Shia LaBeouf, or someone posing as him (see: celebrity myspace profiles. Also see: Things I feel but are too ridiculous to admit about young famous dudes, even here on the internet) claims that 20 is the new 17. People are writing articles about this shit all over the place (most commonly reffering to 30 being the new 21). It's everywhere. Something older is the new something younger.

Ok, yes America, let's do this. I am ON-board. Let's keep making it cooler to be older, because then, eventually, when I'm 45, it will be completely socially acceptable for me to have a burgeoning hip-hop career, a crappy part time job, hang overs from partying until 4 am, and a closet full of costume peices I regularly try to pass off as actual outfits. This is awesome! Because, if we keep going on at this rate, by the time I'm 45 it will be considered the new 34, which used to be the new 23, which is how old I am now, and essentially I'll never have to grow up! Awesome! Yes! Or, at least, I won't be so upset about getting older, and eventually becoming boring and unsightly to the youth of generations to come.

I am so into this trend I hope it never stops. Something young can never become the new something old. We can never look back. We have to keep making old things younger and younger. We have to!

And it sounds like I'm joking, but anyone who knows me is reading this right now and laughing because I couldn't be more excited to find out that 23 can be the new 15. YESSSSSSSSSS!

An Ode to my Mother, Horses, and James Taylor

So, I have now come to the point in the night where I saw the academy awards and I drank maybe 8 glasses of wine, and I cried when James Taylor sang, and I didn't feel bad for it since I have heard him since I was minus 9 months old, in the womb, my mother holding her belly up to stereo speakers as she cried "yes I'm fine any time she's around me now", and ever since the doctors brought me to her in the hospital, and she looked at me, drugged up and beautiful, and said "I have found my soul mate", I can never quite divorce myself from that, and am always slightly thinking, "if you don't understand me, I have no need for you--I have found my soul mate" even though that soul mate may be my mother, and that makes me less than something, but I still can't help it, despite myself. I have jumped off cliffs, I have eaten from garbage cans, I have slept with strangers, but I have always loved my mother the most. My mother will always be that woman with the giant hair, constantly ridding a brown horse across the Indian reservation, always trading silver and late night conversations to do the best thing possible, somewhere in Montana or the most familiar northwest, asking for clever catch phrases and folk songs and pieces of turquoise. She will always be the thing that reminds me of my first swear word, and all my best smells, and giant chairs, and my cousin's first room before he died, and the edge of the sea before I understood what the shore really was, and staying in the car when it took you through other people's cities, and the beauty of a bottle of nail polish when you use it for your feet, and my great desire for pink and purple Popsicles & K-Mart toys, and my great distaste for raw fish--and she doesn't even have to do anything, she just has to exist. She is there every time I make a bad joke in public and no one laughs, she is there when I don't know what decision to make so I don't do anything at all, she is there when James Taylor plays at the Academy Awards and I am crying on Gekko's futon all by myself wondering how it is all happening to begin with. But, I know. My emotional unit (thanks, mom, I cry over every cartoon, I'm real popular with friends). She's the only one who never tells me I'm wrong. She's the only one who applauds every time I make a finger painting of an Italian man stringing spaghetti together. She's the only one who will wake up the next morning and tell me she still means everything she said. And, maybe I am being a little over-zealous. Maybe I am speaking too fairly of her. But if you ever knew her, you would know it all to be true. She is just that little wonder, constantly dancing, and riding horses, and turning around to you to tell you you'll hold on in the end even when you think your horse is getting away from you. The metaphor of my mother and horses can go on forever.

I love you, mommy.
"I've seen fire & I've seen rain, I've seen sunny days that I thought would never end, I've seen lonely times when I could not find a friend, but I always thought I would see you again".

Dog Time

I be-lieve last Friday night I was found sitting on the internet just like this. Oh, no, today is Saturday. No matter.

Here are some dogs I want.

Chachi. Can't you just imagine a tiny hat on top of his head and some salsa music playing as he hops around on his tiny, teeny legs? I can. Plus, this guy is moving into senior citizen territory and no one is adopting him, which makes me want him even more.

Chester. I'm not kidding. I know I call a lot of dogs (and babies) nuggets, but THIS GUY is the definition of a Nugget. This guy is the Nugget King. You KNOW I would never stop loving the crap out of this dog. Also, he's old. Double points.

Ok, well, technically this is a bunny, but his name is actually Floppy and he's just sitting in the Animal Control Center in Brooklyn with a bunch of loud dogs. Someone please adopt this bunny.

Lucky. Now, I know that's not the greatest name, but this guy clearly would be cool with somebody changing it because, as anyone can see, he is probably the most majestic dog on the planet. I dream about running through golden fields and jumping off rooftops with this dog.

Dear neo-femenism

I just want to say, I just want to ask, what happened to respect? What happened to rational thinking and respect? Have I been living in a tunnel my entire life? I think something is happening and then someone tries to you-know-what-me. And when I try and say something about it I am just called a feminist. But I'm called it like it is a dirty, inexcusable word. Most of the time I swallow the whole thing. But sometimes I have to ask: If you say you are my friend why do you run away so easily? Why do you invalidate the uncomfortable things? What does my body have to do with my gratitude?

If I have feminist roots, if I listen to feminist songs, if I only sometimes voice feminist opinions, if I cover up my sensitive feelings, does that totally invalidate me when something bad happens? Well, does it?

Let's Just Do This

I have stumbled upon something that is either too sad or too strange to be true. The bizarre existence of famous people's supposedly real myspace accounts. That's right. I looked. Just like I looked at Daniel Radcliffe's you-know-what. I figured, famous people can't entirely hide from the internet. They too must want to keep in contact with random people they knew in their formative years, and parade cell phone self portraits to the masses, and have something to do when they're drunk and bored.

As it turns out, if you can find one sort-of celebrity's profile, it pretty much locks you in to an unending ring of their other "famous" friends. The fun goes on for hours. And I'm not supposing that these are actually real myspace profiles (since crazies are always creating profiles for their "crushes" or idols), but I am supposing that if they're not, there is someone out there who is both overly obsessed and has way too much time on their hands. The web of celebrities is so intricate that I don't know who would be able to fabricate it.

Case for authenticity: pictures that no paparazzi or deranged fan could find on their own. Plus, linking to friends of theirs who are also famous (kind of) but you completely forgot about (The kid from Sandlot 2? Who would make that up?).

Case for obvious fraud: they all sound like bonheads. "Hey, what's up. My name is Jake (Gyllenhaal). Some of the movies I've been in are (.....). I like biking, acting, and hanging out with friends." and so on. Are you kidding me? is that really as interesting as you can be? Wow. (also, according to Jake Gyllenhaal's myspace, Brokeback Mountain is one of his favorite movies, and he is *explicitly* single. Picking up girls on myspace???).

So, if it is to be believed that some celebrities actually do have their own profiles on the internet, and that I have found them, then there are some sad, unfortunate conclusions to be drawn.
--Famous people have horrible taste in music. Not only is it horrible, it is also completely lazy. Offspring + Jack Johnson? Are you even trying???
--They have no mercy about presenting themselves as acting icons and not people.
--They talk like the dudes you knew in high school who high-fived their bros after someone farted really loud at the kegger after the big homecoming game.
--They have a really terrible fashion sense. Like, weird bad polo fleeces and giant white-gangsta baseball caps.
--They make it appear that hanging out with them in real life would be about as much fun as eating cardboard boxes and watching C-Span with the volume down while playing Old Maid with your next door neighbor's accountant. Not the worst thing in the world, but also not on the list of enjoyable things either.

On an ending note, Chad Michael Murray's profile headline is "When you realize you're alive, you can live life!"
He's so inspirational!

Dear Daniel Radcliffe

Ew, gross. I just saw Daniel Radcliffe's penis. Though I know by now I am probably the last person in the world to have seen this photo (it's everywhere--Anna Nicole's "murder", Britney Spears being a nut job, and Harry Potter's, well, nuts), I abstained from looking at it for as long as possible. Really I did. I saw the picture of his butt, and I thought, "good show, Radcliffe, well played". But I felt I would be doing something wrong to see his milk and cookies, as it were. Despite, of course, the fact that they are only exposed due to a piece of theater, and not because he went out clubbing like a hooch and some camera man got all up in his piece. Yes, despite that, and the fact that I don't really have emotions towards the Harry Potter movies in general, I still felt somewhat dirty about it. And then, as I was done with my work and sitting around on a Friday afternoon, home all alone, the constant taunting of tabloid websites eventually got the best of me. And I totally looked. Daniel Radcliffe, his wiener, and a majestic white horse. Well, there we are. The four of us all together.

I don't know what the point of talking about it is, really, except that sharing your experience of staring at an 18 year old's "duty frees" on the internet somehow makes it less pervy.

Housebroken

Well, I did it. Today marks my first "official" "semi-official" "will be seen by strangers, maybe, at some point in the future" day of shooting for a "feature length film" (see, there's not an un-douchy way to say it, so I thought putting it in quotes might help. Turns out, it doesn't. I still sound like a douche). Anyway, the entire thing is very confusing, and you do something a million times, and before you know it it's over, and the whole touchy-feely "process" you are taught and get to experience in college is totally skipped over. I was just there, and now it's done. Apparently, I don't look like an albino radish on camera after all. Well, so far. It is funny how most expectations I had to be really freaked out doing it were dissapointed by the actuality that somehow I showed up, and just did it (well, I also played with my arm fat, took a nap, sang 80's songs, and smoked cigarettes, but what can you do). I guess my flipping out about it will probably come a few weeks from now when I realize what I've actually done and that it's done permanently. At least I can count on myself to set my anxieties aside to do the damn thing I suppose.

Anyway, the point is, Justin Theroux, wherever he is, should be proud. Years ago he told me just to relax. Well buddy, apparently I can. Officially housebroken.

Slow Friday

The only thing more boring than a slow Friday night, is a slow Friday night where you get dressed up to do something, but that / those something(s) turn out to be so uneventful that you don't even leave the house. I feel like that waitress in "It Could Happen To You", except instead of having Nicholas Cage walk in and give me a winning lottery ticket to brighten my spirits, I am drinking Coors Light and trekking to Manhattan to drink more expensive beer and scowl the entire night. Maybe this is God telling me to just go to sleep for once. If it is, the rebellious, angst-ridden 17 year old in me is going to have fun just to spite him. Or at least try. Also, I hate it when people call Nicholas Cage "Nic" Cage. Are you his personal friend? Didn't think so. Also, Face-Off is an American classic.

Also, I was listening to the SILO 2006 album for a hot minute today, and, fellas, I have some news for you. Playing a cd backwards and looping it over a track of another cd being played backwards in slow motion is not music. It is sounds, but it is not music. Yes, I might get the feeling I am in a cardboard tube floating underwater in a stream somewhere with slinkys tightly wrapped around my neck, but. I didn't. And, even if I had, I still say, not music. I realize half the people I know from Bennington would argue with me, but I don't understand your fancy terms, and I don't want to talk about John Cage, or X dude who has a funny sounding name, for the 5,ooo time. But then, that's why I'm not a progressive, enlightened musician....

Also, what am I doing? It is Friday night. Why am I on the internet.

Mind is a Razorblade

First, I don't understand this "new blogger" business. They made me switch, and if I'm being honest, I have to admit, I didn't really understand the "original blogger" in the first place. The type seems very small, and I don't actually have a "google account". Needless to say, we're totally lost now. It's like my mom trying to order me plane tickets over the phone. ("password???? Car, WHAT DOES THIS MEAN????? WHERE IS OUR PASSWORD????!!!!!)

Second, some things:
There is a snow slope in our back alley. It is more fun than when you were actually 8 years old.
Sub second: I forgot the other things I was going to say. Water under the invisible bridge.

Funny that for no apparent reason, small amounts of beer have gone to my head, and it is late at night, and I was "tagged" to do this thing, which normally I would have thought more about, but under current circumstances I just felt kind of excited that someone would be interested enough in my 'blogging' to involve me in a non-myspace, ok-cupid, what-have-you questionaire, so I'm doing it right now. Right. Now. Questions. Topics. Addressed.


"The Rules : Each player of this game starts with the “6 weird things about you." People who get tagged need to write a blog of their own re: 6 weird things, as well as state this rule clearly. In the end, you need to choose 6 people to be tagged and list their names. Don’t forget to leave a comment that says “you are tagged” in their comments and tell them to read your blog."

Six Weird Things About Me

1. I am not afraid of many things, when you get down to it, but I have a giant, non-ironic fear of teeth. Too many teeth. I cannot sit still or fall asleep when I think of too many teeth. My friend Sammy used to taunt me by describing "fields of teeth" or "teeth growing out of arms". He didn't even have to try, really. Something about it makes me want to vomit and cry at the same time. Mostly it makes me want to cry. I can't handle it.

2. I like the smell of dog's breath. I find it comforting. There. I said it in public.

1. SUB ANSWER: I HATE honeycombs. Hate is an understatement. As Liam would describe: "Her reaction to the honeycomb honey in a box that i had bought brought about the idea of torture for the first time in my mind. Dangling the container that contained the honeycomb in it over Carlee's bed as she awoke was the most exciting thing in the world for me." I can't even get into how terrified that made me feel.

3. No one. And I mean NO ONE is allowed to wear socks in bed. Nope. No one. ESPECIALLY if there is sex involved. I won't do it. I will not climb into that bed with you.

4. When I was a little kid I used to have very strong feelings for inatimate objects. Like I used to save the wrappers for things because I thought they had feelings too. I would put them in secret places with my jewelry, and my most prized stuffed animals. I would take them out and pay attention to them like I would my real belongings. I would save them for years.

5. Sometimes I get drunk and, once I'm alone, I sexy dance. Uninhibitedly sexy dance. By myself. Though, come to think of it, that's more embarassing than weird.

6. Occasionally I pluck my leg hairs. For hours. It is unendlessly satisfying.

DVD Extra: I love porn. I love men who can sew. I hate anise flavored things (I think the jury is pretty 50/50 on this in general, but still). I have the entire Sarah McLaughan album "Surfacing" memorized. I tell jokes to myself out loud when I'm alone. Again, more embarassing than weird.

On that note, goodnight, America. I tag Julie-Lou. and Eric, whether or not this still exists., and kitten4evaeva a.k.a. KAT. because they are the only other blogs I know.

Dear Valentines Day

Dear February Fourteenth,



When I was a kid, I loved you. I got to make fun crafts for you, which I would bring home to my parents, who would praise me for being so talented at the art of putting-tissue-paper-on-the-top-of-a-pencil-and-then-gluing-it-to-a-heart
-shaped-piece-of-construction-paper. You made me feel good about myself. There were valentines, and candies. My mom used to buy me little love presents, and my dad used to buy me little stuffed hippos with hearts on them (I loved the shit out of that thing, dad, thank you so much). When I was 10, I got my dog as a present on your day. (R.I.P. Louie. I love you, brave soldier). Things were good. When I was young.


When I was a teenager I used to be angry at you. I used to say that you were a Hallmark holiday created so that people would spend money. I said that if people really loved each other they didn't need one specific day to talk about it. I used to listen to lesbian feminist music and say "fuck you, Valentine's day". I glared at the girls who got cheap roses from their boyfriends during lunch. (Whatever, most of those girls have already had babies by now, so I guess the joke's on them). When I was 16, my friends and I got drunk in the bathroom of the art building during school, cheers-ing in the handicapped stall to "this day blows". Good times, in retrospect.



I used to hate you. Then, when I got older, I realized that my hatred for you was more deeply rooted in the fact that I was a lonely teenager and had never had anyone to show their love for me on that, or really any other, day. Upon discovering that, things got much better. I had many days with you spent with various boyfriends over the years, and they were all nice. Some were more eventful than others. But they were all nice. Because you and I? We finally understood each other. One of my fonder times with you involved an ex-loved one, bowling, tequila, and getting my own membership to a pornographic video superstore. And I thank you for those memories.


But now, Valentines Day, it is 2007. And now, I just really don't care. In fact, when I woke up today, I didn't even know it was Valentines Day. I've seen a few dudes on the subway carrying flowers to their supposed or would-be sweethearts, but other than that, it is just like any other day. I feel completely unaffected by this holiday. Leaving my current love situation out of this (as I must), the most that will come of you this time is that I will spend some hours with Julie-lou downstairs, and we will remember getting drunk in the bathroom. I might have a couple of drinks with a friend, talk about my other friend's Dramatic love-situations, and do some work. But that's about it. Nothing I wouldn't do any other day.

So what happened? Where did we go wrong? DID we go wrong? Am I just getting older? I'd hate to say that my history of strong feelings towards you has come to an end. my apathy towards you currently, leaves me with no other choice. Or, perhaps we're just taking a break. We're on hiatus from one another. Maybe next year, Valentines Day. Maybe next year I will love you, or hate you, or have some new understanding of you. But for now, take care. I'll catch you next time around.

Sincerely,
The girl who lost her Valentine's dog (rip), remembers her ex-boyfriends, and wishes, just a little, she could still drink vodka in a handicapped stall in secret.

Dear Best Week Ever

Dear Weekday That bleeds Into the Next Weekday from the Last Weekday,

It blows my mind that it is this difficult to find a place to live in Brooklyn that has the following qualities:
A door
Walls
A ceiling
Enough room to stand
Enough room to hold your arms outstretched
People that actually like living with each other
People that are slightly awesome / of sound mind
My standards are not high, believe me. Be-lieve me.


Let it be said here, just this one time, to all 2 people in America that read this thing, that I am very skilled in the practice of hiding myself from other people and putting on a front that everything is perfectly alright, and I am the plucky, loud beast you know me to be. When, in fact, I am not at all. And when I choose to exercise this practice I am so good at it that even my closest friends, family, and, my highly trained therapist rarely-if ever-question me about it. I wish I was not so good at it. Though, it is a skill that gives me the grace of never having to talk about my problems. So. Let it be said that now may be a time to pick up this slightly retired practice, and I guess, by saying it on the internet, I have some kind of wish that someone would call me on my shit, because maybe, just maybe, they care. Otherwise, according to everyone else in the world, I'm just as fine as I was last week.
But let it also be said that I think I have come a long way with myself over the last seven months, and despite wherever I am emotionally, there are some things I cannot go back to doing. You will hopefully not see me starting arguments with strangers, drinking six days a week and getting so drunk I can't puke, hurting myself at parties and running around playing in the blood, crying in bodegas under flourescent lights at four in the morning, or, you know, other past choices I may have made. Because, although that version of me was fun as hell at parties, it wasn't all that pleasant. And, we all have to grow up someday. Plus, I'm still pretty fucking fun.

That said...

Back to the reliable playlist of songs that is always around whenever you "need" it.
No more using the "B" word.
Tuesday feels like Monday feels like Wednesday and even though I can sleep all the time I only have bad dreams and never really sleep.
Top Ramen is five for a dollar at C-Town and I am really hoping I don't get scurvy.
It is cold as balls outside. Cold. As. Balls. Just don't go outside. If you can avoid it, it's really not worth it.
Got the tooth extracted. Bizarre experience, but let me just say, there are some hot hot women training to be dentists at NYU. You go, ladies.
Finally spending adequate time with Foreign people. Well, maybe only one, but he accounts for at least a small village.
Trying to keep it fun. With the club.
Out of funny quips at the moment. And wishing I hadn't just used the word "quip".

This is what Julie did, which is amazing.