Category Archives: pop culture
For those of you who don’t know, I’m a huge fan of Yahoo! journalism (fan being the keyword, despite my deliberately confusing use of italics). See, I’m not a fan in the traditional sense in that my feelings about Yahoo! Journalism are comparable to those I have for kitten road kill; it sickens me, but forces me to question my own humanity when I can’t take my eyes off of it. And while I’d rather obtain my global headlines from more legitimate sources like The New York Times or TMZ, when the only cost associated with reading Yahoo! is my brain’s slow but steady decay caused by constant exposure to Kim Kardashian cellulite pictures and headline videos of misbehaving cats, I feel it’s a pretty good trade off.
Today while at work wasting my potential as always, I decided to scour Yahoo! for contemporary pop culture references I could use to make myself seem wittier than I am, when I saw
an article titled ““Model Pose Sparks Outcry”.” Now for me, anything involving models is undeniably fascinating since they are sort of like an Earth bound alien species, with their over-sized heads and skeletal body types, so needless to say I couldn’t resist this scintillating (not really) headline.
But as with every Yahoo article that assumes illiteracy among the masses, after clicking a link to actually read it, I was automatically redirected to a ridiculous video involving worthless human beings talking with authority about topics on which they are not actual authorities, while trying to be funny and younger than they are. I can’t tolerate those sorts of things, even when I do them, so I am admittedly reacting solely to the text.
Basically Vogue published a sensual/sexual/does anyone know the difference between those words anymore (?) cover, featuring model Stephanie Seymour being “choked” by some irrelevant male model no one cares about. Apparently this caused “feminist outcry” by four not-valid-enough-to-name women’s advocacy organizations who are claiming the cover promotes domestic violence. They are now pushing Vogue to pull the magazine.
So, I have considered myself a feminist since I was six years old and first declared to my mother that “I don’t need a man” and will never marry because it was stupid. Though I’m sure she took it more as an early sign of lesbianism than political advocacy, I can assure you that it was probably meant as the latter. But throughout my entire life I have had to defend that label (feminist, not lesbian) to men and women who called feminists crazy, man-hating boner-shrinkers. I don’t like it, but it comes with the territory.
However, I have to admit it gets increasingly difficult to defend feminists when they continue to pull legitimacy from the actual problems women face in the world, by making headlines over utter silliness. I can see being upset if the cover looked like this:
But it doesnt. This is a ridiculous thing to be upset about. The actual cover is hardly promoting violence, what with the vacant sex faces and sup-par grope fest. And honestly, who cares about the self-proclaimed edginess Vogue attempts to exude? The female demographic Vogue largely caters to is assustomed to having their self esteem beaten down month after month; this may be an emotional relief. But mostly, I can’t handle the fact that something as inconsequential as this can garner more attention than many of the legitimate problems women face in the world. Therefore I give you the following list:
Things More Offensive to Women Than This Ad
1. The lack of maternity leave in the United states.
2. The fact that women’s reproductive rights are still used as a wedge issues in politics.
3. The fact that there are still countries around the world that allow child brides, public stoning, and female circumcision.
4. The fact that according to the Institute for Women’s Policy Research, around the world 1 in 3 women have been beaten, coerced into sex, or otherwise abused.
5. The report by the Journal of American Medical Association saying 1 out of 5 high school girls is in a physically or sexually abusive relationship.
These are just some of the many issues that men and women should be concerned about, as well as countless others involving other demographics. Why advocacy organizations continue to waste their energy on petty campaigns that diminsh their reputation and the reputation of all feminists is beyond me.
Perhaps it’s a Romney/Ryan conspiracy. What do you think?
The girl who can’t just ask people why they are white
I recently fell asleep on the toilet.
I’m not going to say where I was or how it happened, but I will tell you I was getting paid at the time and it wasn’t an accident. While I admit I am slightly ashamed of my inappropriate slumber, overall I feel pretty okay about it. After all, some people shower with kids at their jobs. I just fell asleep. Lena – 1, Penn State Staff – 0.
Still this has me slightly concerned. Not just about my evident narcolepsy but the fact that I am so un-stimulated at my current employment that I can disappear to the bathroom for ten minutes and nap without anyone in my three-person office noticing. Really makes one feel a sense of value in the American workforce.
Nevertheless, I have decided that I can’t let this happen again. If I’m going to disappear for ten minutes, unnoticed, I’d rather it be to do something really important like read US Weekly in the bookstore or talk to Butch, the new janitor who likes to wink at me while stroking his mop. Just kidding. I stroke it for him.
Nothing in the last paragraph is true.
Anyway. Today while driving home from work I started to think, which was a strange adjustment after five hours of not thinking at all, about all of the other people in the world who are as un-stimulated by their work as I am, and wondering how they handle it. It didn’t take a great deal of brain power to determine the answer to all of life’s inevitably dull moments.
Now, everyone knows that I have a special place in my heart reserved for people who Google ridiculous things, because more often than not they end up at my blog. I’m not sure how it happens. I’m not sure how the search phrase “sometimes I feel sad and then I remember I have a nice big round ass” brings someone to my blog. But it does and it makes me happy.
So when I got home I decided to review all of the Google search terms that brought people to my blog in the past month, and much to my irrational level of happiness, I discovered that many a lost soul has reached my blog through deep, heart-wrenching, questions entered in the Google search box, only to be lost in the abyss of porn and pictures of cats that make up 96% of the content of the Internet.
Because of this, I have decided that I will take this time to respond to only the most imperative of questions my blog was formerly unable to answer. Here we go.
1. How tall is Kris Jenner?
Kris Jenner is 5 feet of unfortunate fertility and 6 inches of erectile dysfunction.
2. What are the worst things for a man to say to woman?
Woman: “Do these jeans make me look fat?”
Man: “Not as much as the ones you wore yesterday.”
Man: “It’s a lucky man that gets her pregnant.”
Woman: “That’s our daughter you’re talking about!”
3. Do Italians like skinny or curvy women?
Italians aren’t selective. They love women. All women. In fact, Italian men love women so much that by default, one gay Italian man will have more heterosexual sex in one month than four straight Jewish men will in their entire lives. I didn’t just make this up.
But realistically, every woman will have sex with at least one Italian man in her life. If she doesn’t she might be a lesbian, but is probably just a Mormon. In which case she will have lots of unsatisfying arranged sex with a much older man she is possibly related to, enough times that she will decide she hates all men, including Italians.
PS: Sorry, Mormons.
4. Why is it that that other woman has big legs?
An evolutionary defense against short Italians. And all Mormons.
5. Why is my urine very orange?
There are only three reasons urine is ever orange.
A. You have liver disease. Good luck with that
B. You eat too many carrots. F*** you.
C. You live in New Jersey. All of the above
6. Who is that tattooed man drinking coffee and wearing a pea coat?
It’s difficult to say without seeing the man in question, but nine times out of ten, it’s Taylor Lautner pretending to be straight.
7. How can I tell if a girl is wearing a butt pad?
Her butt cheeks are disproportionate to her desperation.
8. Are meth addicts proud of their addiction?
9. Why do I curse so much?
Because socially forbidden words are more satisfying to use than academically impressive ones.
And you know once you’re old it will be really funny.
10. What is it like to live alone with a pet dog?
Depressing. No one else you ever live with will love you so much they will hold their pee for 9 hours until they see you. It’s all downhill from there.
That’s all for now.
The girl with tan shoes and pink shoelaces
It’s no secret that I’m an overweight, pale, blonde girl. I wear double digit clothing sizes, makeup that is literally labeled “translucent” and have hair so light I would appear to have lesser eyebrows than Whoopi Goldberg. In other words I could moonlight as a beer wench at Oktoberfest any day of the week.
Yet my entire life people have treated me as if I were somehow unaware of my appearance. Phrases like “the South Beach Diet would work perfect for you!” and “OMG, like, what’s with your skin?” have been thrown at me since I was five and a girl on the playground told me I looked like an apple, a body type label that has stuck with me throughout adulthood.
In high school I spent many nights lying awake in my bed thinking about every part of my body that was flawed. My hair was too thick, my brow bone too strong, cheeks too chubby, arms too flabby, boobs too big, boobs too small, skin too broken out, stomach too big, thighs too thick, legs too short, skin too pale, hips too wide, butt too small, feet too arched, etc. Every part of my appearance was a disappointment to me and the constant reminder via CW dramas, flawless high school peers, and thoughtless family members and strangers, that there was a better alternative to me and all of my imperfections, that I could never and would never physically attain, made me ache inside to see a reflection that was no reflection of me. It was this kind of mindset which made me value being told I was “pretty” as a greater compliment than being told I was “smart, funny, kind, talented, creative,” etc.
It has been six years since high school graduation but I have only in the last two started to feel like I am not some kind of mangled rawhide, covered in slobber and dog hair, lying on the floor of an illegal puppy mill in Idaho. Vivid, I know. But perception evolves with the passage of time and what I couldn’t see when I was in high school is that I am actually pretty. Not to everyone of course, but to myself.
But my reason for writing this has nothing to do with how gorgeous I think my hair is now or how classy I think my pale skin is, and how even though I need to lose some weight for health purposes, I no longer want to be thin. I’m writing this because I think the biggest problem with the issue of beauty is that beauty doesn’t actually exist. Beauty is an intangible perception of something else that cannot be proven, but merely argued. Which leads me to my next point: the sickness of comparative beauty.
There’s a strange movement right now in our culture. On one hand, models look more emaciated than ever, and on the other women like Christina Hendricks are garnering mad attention for their naturally curvy bodies. Pictures like this are being passed around the internet:
While I can grasp that this is trying to send a positive message that thicker girls are just as sexy, if not sexier to some than skinny girls, I hate the fact that we need to tear one group down to lift up another. I also hate that the definition of female beauty is being dictated by the men who date them, designers who dress them, and people like Perez Hilton. I also hate that instead of rebelling against this system, we women allow it and promote it by being competitive with other women, diminishing each other for our differences. And lastly I hate that in a world of increased eating disorders, skin cancer rates, and deaths related to cosmetic surgery, we live in a culture that still promotes the constant alteration of our bodies. Viewing our faces and our bodies as blank slates for culture to imprint all over is a recipe for self-destruction.
Forget the fact that a few centuries ago artists would have had a throw down over who gets to paint me naked, in today’s society, I and so many other girls are not considered the “ideal” for one reason or another. But the fact is, that even despite the after-school special undertones of what I’m about to say, everyone is beautiful to someone, in their own way. Blonde or brunette, curvy or thin, fair, or tan or black, or whatever other generalized term we can create to label ourselves, everyone is beautiful because they are different. Because there are no two people EXACTLY alike. Because no person will ever be duplicated. Everyone is the master copy of themselves, which makes us each pretty undeniably special. And sometimes being special is actually better than being just like everything else.
So before you tan your skin to make it look more like someone else’s, or dye your hair to fit in with the trends, just think about the fact that you are the only person in the world with that skin color and that hair, and by choosing to make it some other color, you are choosing to say goodbye to one of the things that makes you unique. Let’s all learn to accept each other and ourselves for who we are so we can all live together in fat, skinny, ugly, pretty, peace.
And remember, real women have confidence, and sometimes that’s all we needs.
The girl still working on the confidence thing
Tonight I am going to a Dave Matthews Band concert. If you go on his website, look at his tour dates, find out where I live, and come murder me right there on the lawn, you can. But that wouldn’t be my preference.
Happy Memorial Day, ya’ll. Or something else more jam bandy.
The girl with a little bit of heaven and a little bit of “hell yeah!”
Tomorrow is my day off. My first day off since May 6th. It’s like, a totally big deal. Among other things, I am going to attempt to do the following:
- Sew pillows for my couch Learn how to sew
- Break my sewing machine
- Cut myself Shave my legs
- Write something good decent
- Clean my car Generate an excuse for why I can’t clean my car
As you can see, I have rad plans for a bitchin’ existence.
Diving headfirst into my day off with some mad productivity, I have captured screen shots from my favorite parts of the music video for Thomas Dolby’s “She Blinded Me With Science”; the best song and video ever created by man or highly-skilled therapy dogs. I imagine they are the only other mammal with video recording capabilities.
I can’t quite explain how this represents mad productivity. But I also can’t explain how Ron Jeremy was a sex symbol. The world is a mysterious place.
Thomas Dolby – She Blinded Me With Science (Screenshots)
You need to watch this video. I predict it will rank in the top 10 great experiences of your life, after seeing Shakira bellydance live, before winning a watermelon seed spitting contest.
I also predict Thomas Dolby to be the next L. Ron Hubbard with irrelevant celebrities like Bam Margera and Niki Hilton leading the way in development of a new
cult religion. One that will blind them with science.
The girl who hopes to enter a serious relationship in the next 3 hours so she can make legitimate plans with a significant other that do not leave her feeling empty inside.
So I’m thinking I might detonate my cell phone. Every time I wear clothing without pockets and realize I have nowhere to put my cell phone, I feel incredibly unsettled with my person hood. As if I grew a third arm between my tits that I suddenly have to find a way to manage. That’s how I feel when I have a cell phone and no pockets. Like I have an arm between my tits. Awkward, lumpy, displaced. I end up thinking to myself, “why don’t I just cut off this tit arm? It’s ugly and a liability while driving. No one needs this kind of tit arm upset in their life!” I think it. I acknowledge it. Yet each night, when I go to bed I have to be careful not to crush my tit arm.
But even on my most pocketed of days, I often find myself wondering how much happier I would be without a cell phone. A cell phone is a stress-inducing parasite. It is an obnoxious, embarrassing, unpredictable force residing deep within our pockets, like a Fran Drescher gnome, always waiting to explode into a fit of noise so unbearable we have no choice but to interrupt all other activities to make it stop. And after minimal conditioning where we accept the presence of “the nanny in our pants” we become obsessed with it. We hear phantom ringtones, feel phantom vibrations, checking our cell phones whenever we go more than 30 minutes without receiving a call or text. “Maybe it’s malfunctioning? Maybe I don’t have good service. Oh, wait it’s probably just on silent!”
Because what are cell phones aside from the constant reminder that yes, we are connected with the world and no, no one in the world cares? When you have a cell phone, you are available all day every day. So when you go a few hours without receiving a phone call or a text message you start to evaluate your worth as a human being and long-term relevance to the universe. It’s only natural. If you were sitting in a room with another person and that other person wasn’t talking to you, you’d be offended. Same goes with cell phones. If you know someone has the ability to talk to you but is choosing not to, it starts to diminish your feelings of self-importance. Because the (very) unfortunate truth is that cell phones are the umbilical cord between insecure people and the rest of the world, constantly feeding the need for love and attention by allowing meaningless interaction with others, while ironically, diminishing the actual connection between those very people.
Text messages are like the one night stands of communication. They are quick, easy, and allow two people to maintain some sort of “relationship” without ever having to actually speak to one another. They require such a minimal level of effort, that even someone you would not otherwise maintain any type of communication with, can suddenly become your soul mate. It increases the quantity of contact, but diminishes the quality. As the saying goes “picture messages of baby squirrels playing in a courtyard, does not a relationship make.”
But then you have the flipside where it is undeniable that texting is easy and convenient. Everyone knows this. Therefore when you are not receiving a text from someone, you can’t help but assume they don’t care to talk to you. Text messaging not only increases expectation, but it actually creates expectation where expectations otherwise wouldn’t exist.
This is one of many miniscule problems in my life along with maintaining a weekly budget and trying to decide which side of the Q-tip I should use first. It’s not a real problem. I don’t need advice on how to handle it. I know what I need to do.
If I ever want a legitimate relationship, with a real live voice on the other end of the phone, I need to stop high-fiving my tit arm and accept the fact that feeding into the trends of modern communication never helped anyone.
Not even Roosevelt.
The girl overwhelmed with desire to hibernate
I hate Twitter. Whenever I hear someone mention it, it takes physical effort for me to think of something other than voluptuous female rabbits pursuing interracial relations with their male counterparts.
But semantics aside, I still hate Twitter. It’s clumsy and irritating and encourages people to express every insignificant thought they can muster (not at ALL like this blog). For this reason, I begrudgingly use Twitter as a blog marketing tool and not much else. I also make a strong effort to follow less people on Twitter than I do in real life as to decrease the amount of inconsequential gobbledygook I expose myself to.
But unfortunately, there’s this “retweet” business that allows all of the degenerates I follow to share what their loser friends talk about while they sit at home collecting unemployment and playing Halo II in their mother’s basements.
I’m sorry, that was offensive…
Eh hem…point is, my tolerable relationship with Twitter is rapidly growing more intolerable than North Carolina and I don’t know how much longer I can take it. About a month or so ago, #RTComedyBot retweeted one of my blog entries, so naturally I decided to follow him/them/it/genderless rat.
Horrible mistake. Absolutely dreadful.
Now I realize with a name like RTComedyBot, I should have anticipated the nightmare of retweets that were to come. But since I am Twittilliterate I didn’t put it together. Here are just a few examples of some of the people out there who think they are funny enough to hash tag lmao.
Ok, well to be fair that last one might actually be funny.
But aside from that slight possibility, this is the quality of the tweets in my tweetfeed. This may sound radical, but I think it’s about time we revoke women’s right to tweet
The girl who wants you to follow her anywhere but on Twitter (though you can do that too)
Today I signed a lease for a new apartment.
This phrase may not seem important enough to stand alone as a paragraph, however in my limited world, signing a lease is much a kin to a successful surgical operation to separate conjoined twins. Accept of course, much more impressive.
Why? Well because I’m psychotic. Because I fear commitment the way most people fear cancer or American Idol result night. I live in constant fear that if I commit to something, anything, I will have to miss out on the opportunity for something better. Howie Mandel would make me his bitch.
But it’s different with this apartment. Sure there are cigarette holes in the carpet, and the bedroom is smaller than a French prison cell, but the second my landlord-to-be told me the apartment was most recently rented to a heroin addict crack dealer, I knew it was meant to be. How? Two words.
It’s not that Breaking Bad has changed my life, but rather, Breaking Bad has completed my life, and meth-addict turned heroin-addict Jesse Pinkman had a large part to do with that. It’s not just his ghetto speak and unnecessary attraction to Big and Tall clothing sizes that feed my will to live, but the sensitive interior beneath the surface of his crack-head stupor.
Sooo naturally when I heard my new digs is a former drug haven, my eyes glazed over and within hours I took the apartment. Needless to say I will need some sort of security plan. I’m thinking I’m going to pull a Home Alone, and whenever someone knocks on my door, simply play this:
The girl with the lease, bitch