Male Singers Are Another Matter

As a woman unable to sing, I am consequently very picky about the female singers I listen to, and as a result of that, I hate most of the ones I've heard. They have lollipop voices, they sound insincere, they are trying too hard, they can't actually sing, but they're marketable in other ways. Madonna can't sing, but she was and is still a marketable figure whom designers love to fling clothes on. If you really want a list of the women whose voices I admire as a woman who cannot sing, here you go:

LaVern Baker
Etta James
Aretha Franklin
Edith Piaf
Amy Winehouse
Courtney Love
Linda Perry
Victoria Legrand

In other words I appreciate female vocalists who put some real shit into their music. They sing fully, heart soul and diaphragm. If you ask me, these women can sing.


My Brand of Feminism

....And my last few posts have all been feminist rants. Yeah, I know.

I am indeed a feminist, in the sense that I believe in equality between men and women. Obviously we're not biologically equal (men can't have babies [which practically requires superpowers of pain resistance] and women can't pee standing up [which has numerous practical benefits]), but societally we could be, if there weren't all these social constructs built around keeping us in assigned gender roles. If you stray out of your designated gender role, the only explanation anyone can think of is that you're a big homo. Or just fucking weird.

It was bad enough cooking your meals and doing your laundry everyday

When will I not have to hear old men telling me I should smile? Probably not till I'm old too and they no longer give a crap because my tits will be too saggy. This bus driver the other day acted like I was all depressed, just because I got on the bus and started feeding my money into the machine. I'm not exactly animated on my way to class in the morning. Or any time I ride the bus alone, for that matter. I'm sorry, your bus isn't really that exciting, and your conversational tactic is severely lacking.

I also get this from older male customers at work sometimes. Obviously, as a counter girl, a certain amount of good cheer is expected of me, but if I get a bad vibe off an old guy, I'm definitely not going out of my way. I'll be polite, but that's it.

A significant part of the problem, it would seem, is that my neutral face tends to look like a hostile face to strangers. But that doesn't make it okay for older men to take this condescending attitude toward me, like I somehow owe them a smile. If I have to whore my smile out for a five cent tip, you can take your quarters and shove 'em.

Hell, I can't even tell whether or not I actually smile enough to most customers at all, nevermind creepy old men. I must do something right though, since plenty of people, especially young guys, seem to respond well.

The next feminist revolution should involve us taking back control of our smile.


"Will You Marry Me?" "Fuck No"

Whenever I hear stories or see videos of some guy choosing an extremely public way to propose to his lady, I always cringe. The fantastic confidence (and possibly arrogance) of a man to do that annoys all hell out of me. What if she says no? Then she has to say no in front of a shit ton of people who know nothing about the couple who are expecting her to say yes. And if it's being filmed to go on the internet? Even worse. The whole world can marvel at what a heartless bitch she is, refusing omg! such a romantic gesture. I'm largely opposed to PDAs in general, not because I'm a prude, but because, personally, I view affectionate gestures of love to be very private by nature. By displaying such gestures in public, you take away from that private aspect. At a certain point, it even looks like showing off. A proposal of marriage is a pretty big gesture (and it's only a gesture unless you prove you really do want to spend the rest of your life with someone), and making a huge, ostentatious show of it in public impersonalizes it, almost shames the girl into saying yes. It's no longer between man and woman, it's now just a big show for the public's entertainment.


Pride And Pestilence

Every night at closing time, I have to drag the big, heavy menu board and bench in from outside so nobody comes along and steals them in the nighttime. It's no picnic, and I can't exactly lift either over my head, but I get 'em in alright. The only hiccup is getting the feet of these items over the doorframe. Annoying, but, it's my job, and I'm perfectly capable of doing it. What always pisses me off though, is when some guy tries to insist on helping me out. They always do it with a smile, with a touch of condescension, a bit of smugness, even amusement. They insist, even after I tell them no, it's all right, I got it, I can do it, no really, I'm fine, they insist, they just can't possibly let a young lady like me do any physical labor. It's a huge pet peeve of mine that certain men won't take no for an answer. Offer once, maybe twice, and then let it be. I don't give a shit how strong you think you are, and it just pisses me off how weak you apparently think I must be. I guess, even though I'm clearly no swaying reed, being a woman automatically cancels out any significant physical strength I might possess.

The main thing that drives me nuts is that they just keep insisting. I don't think I would keep refusing help if I was really incapable of doing something, for fuck's sake.


Regrettable Yesteryear

As a person born too late to really remember the '90s, as in the '90s, my main recollections are of boy bands and Sugar Ray. Like, I remember actually sitting there with a cd player or a radio, listening to them. Other music was filtered into my subconcious such that as a result, I can recognize a large variety of music that I can't really recall listening to. This was the kind've stuff my mom would play when I was little, but the music I actually sought out for a short period of time was N'SYNC and Backstreet Boys. I missed the early nineties, the substance of it, the stuff that's still remembered, for better or for worse.

What this means now is that I have a deep, impassioned appreciation for the '90s as they were outside my tiny sphere. This means also that I am deeply wounded whenever someone old enough to really remember that decade, the feel of it, the sound and the smell of it, totally disses it. They recall this last decade of the twentieth century as sucking massively, but as someone who came of age in the beginning of this millenium, the '90s was the last great attempt at a real subculture. It was right before people became easily accessible and capable of spilling their sick, perverted guts all over the Internet. The intentions were already there, but as of yet they had not found their outlet. The music was an outlet of sorts, but now it's faded into the background of yesteryear.

The nineties pulled the curtains shut; it was the last chance to create anything even seemingly original, and now we're stuck in the future, full of cancerous pedophilia, and the most terrible, tasteless music.


Things I've Noticed Watching X-Men: Evolution

1. Professor X relies on Jean Gray, the young, attractive sweet-talking telepath, to recruit new teenaged X-Men before Mystique can. She keeps failing, though.

2. Scott (Cyclops) is a terrible whiner; he's meant to be the "attractive" one, since Wolverine's a little old for the show's demographic. And despite his laser beam-powered eyes, all he can do is knock people around. He can blow up walls, but other people just get the wind knocked out of them.

3. If Jean Gray also has telekinesis, and she happens to get caught by the bad guys and tied up, can't she use her powers to untie herself?

4. Storm drives Professor X around in his car like his personal black chauffeur. I mean, come on, hasn't the Professor heard of hand-powered brakes? I thought he was supposed to be a genius. He also still hasn't mastered stairs in his wheelchair (which is weirdly cumbersome, even being what it is).

5. Don't these kids ever just sit around and eat pizza?


I Satisfy My Own Requirements

I don't see that there's anything wrong with "good enough," as long as it really is good enough for you. It doesn't seem like people necessarily need everything to be perfect, we just all have a complex (at least Americans do) about never settling for less. Sure, people settle for things all the time, but isn't there always this nagging voice in the back of their heads, saying, "Why the fuck did you settle?? Why didn't you do more, try harder?" When we go through primary school, the message is usually to shoot for the moon, at least in the media and through endless subliminal wording. Not that you're actually capable, but that you really have to try, because we're Americans for chrissake, that's what our Constitution is all about.

The problem, really, is that people are fed an ever-evolving but always-unattainable American Dream, and so we're never allowed to be satisfied with anything that's just "good enough."


I Never Want To See This Again

I finally watched Aviator last night. Let me add that Leonardo DiCaprio looks a lot like my brother. His facial contortions every time his OCD started acting up really freaked me out. Both because I felt really sorry for Howard Hughes as a person, suffering so much as he did from this disorder, and also because I could feel my own stomach clench up in knots as though I suffered as well. I mean, guy broke out in a sweat, he was seriously wigging the fuck out. I can't explain it more than that, especially if you haven't seen the movie or didn't get the same feeling.

[Spoiler warning, stop reading now]

And, oh my god, the crash scene, that just about killed me! Seeing him buckled in but thrown back and forth, bloodied and on fire, I thought I was going to be sick. I can't imagine seeing that on the big screen, I think I would have had a goddamned heart attack.

[End of potential spoiler]

All that aside, I thought it was a good movie. It'd be funny if it was a ride at a theme park, like the kind where you're strapped into a movie theater seat and it jerks around with the action going on onscreen. Those so-called "rides" are awesome!


We're Talking 'Bout Equality

As in: Not Simply Passing The Torch

You can't go around thrusting your chest out, grabbing your balls, and otherwise asserting your manful manliness for hundreds of thousands of years and then all of a sudden decide it's much easier (and sexier, apparently) to let the woman make the first move. Not that I want a big, hairy Viking to throw me over his shoulder and run through a burning village waving a double-headed battleaxe, but seriously? Some of you just come off like total pussies. You guys spent most of written history telling us women to get back in the kitchen and to stop backseat driving and suddenly asking one of us out is just too difficult? Here's a deal: I'll man up when you do. If I'm not worth the effort, then you probably aren't, either.


Old Times

I kinda miss the days when the only cameras I had were a Polaroid and a Konica Autoreflex TC. I can't figure out how I managed to correctly expose so many of the shots I took on my Konica when I didn't even know the first thing about f-stops. Someone tried to explain depth of field and ISO to me, but that was about it (100=bright sun, 400=indoors, 800=low light). I must have also been quicker at shooting, because a lot of the people I shot were self conscious and likely to hide themselves with enough warning, but I still managed to capture their uncertainty. Plus I had more options for portraits, both with people and settings.

Looking over my old photos, I wish I still possessed the exuberance of a total n00b.


History is But a Constant Stream of Ideas.

I got through the little bios of the six men in the epic flag photo before I had to put Flags of Our Fathers down. Really, James Bradley? You're going for the silent, stoic Indian, the hardworking loyal-to-adopted-homeland immigrant angle? Bradley skims through the first four guys because, let's face it, they were just regular ole small town white boys. There wasn't a whole lot to say about them. If he were a better, less painfully biased writer, perhaps he could have found a way to make me see the significance of such ordinary American boys becoming part of a legendary piece of history. Shit though, it's not that significant, if you think about it. Ordinary people are thrust into legend all the time. That's just how it works. You don't need to shove it up my butt. Jeez.

Anyway, the first four boys are pretty ordinary. It's not till Bradley gets to the last two that he really gets into it. Ira Hayes, the Pima Indian, the guy furthest to the left in the photo. Bradley writes that Hayes' hands are outstretched, unable to grasp the flagpole, when the sequence of photos on the inside of the front cover shows very clearly the progression of the pole as it's raised. As in, by the time of the infamous photo, the flag was well enough grounded and well enough on its way to going up, that Hayes had most likely just let go of it. Bradley's attempting to make a dramatic correlation between Hayes' place and attitude in the photo to his position in society, as a good ole American Injun, different and apart, though Hayes is right up there against the other guys. Bradley also says that Ira Hayes is silent in the photo. I'm not sure what this means. It sounds like he's really stretching it. He has almost no information on the man's character, other than that he was a very quiet person. Bradley takes this to mean that he was silent and stoical in the typical manner of all Indians, even while he quotes several people as saying that Hayes was particularly quiet.

Here's Bradley's words on Mike Strank: "He was the enigma: the immigrant who became the ultimate fighting Yank..." Talk about glorifying. Strank was out fighting battles, got promoted and stuck in charge of scared men even younger than him, so he told them he'd do his best to keep them alive. Sounds like a good guy, but jesus christ, the ultimate fighting Yank?? What's so enigmatic about him? Strank was the oldest brother in a coal-mining family. He was pretty smart and took care of his own. Bradley romanticizes and glorifies to no end. If the guy is really awesome, the reader will be able to pick that up. All the author needs to do is tell the damn story.

I think the problem is Bradley arranged his book like a really biased essay, when it's obvious he wants to write a novel.

Here is what annoys me about historical books and movies: they spend so much time setting everything up and showing supposedly necessary and factual clips and snippets that the whole point, the message, the ideals, get lost. What is your point? Your thesis? Why should I bother reading Flags of Our Fathers? Does the iconic image on its cover represent the indomitable spirit of America, as carried out by six seemingly unremarkable men? Is the meaning so blatantly obvious that I should feel mentally challenged for even having to ask? All this extra fluff is not necessary. Most often it obscures the true idea. Just like harlequin romance novels put a lot of bells and whistles on sex, most historical books and films cloud the real significance of events, the ideas that push history forward.


Show, Don't Tell, Mo'fucker, Do You Speak It?

I've only just begun Flags of Our Fathers, by James Bradley, and I can already tell it's going to suck. Here's why:

A. The author's father was the only flagraiser to return home from Iwo Jima and live to a ripe old age.

B. The author's father never spoke of his role in raising the flag.

C. The author states in the beginning that the image of the six men raising the flag on Iwo Jima is iconic, but he doesn't say why; he either assumes it's unnecessary, or is going to explain it later.

Thus far, James Bradley has been shoving images of good ol' American boys in my face, trying to make me see what they sacrificed in the name of their country. He's trying to glorify war by telling me that it makes men out of boys. He even refers to himself now and then, giving his personal opinion from first-person perspective, as though this book is about him, too. Which in a way, it is, since he went to all the trouble to find out about these guys, but Bradley is detracting from their story. His stake in the story of the flagraising is too personal and he can't tell it objectively; Bradley feels this need to uncover the story because his father was always silent about it, even though Bradley Sr. was the one who lived the longest.

Yes, I know the flagraising picture represents the indomitable spirit of America or some shite, but the author gets so lost in his own emotional drivel that he fails to point this out. I should think that would be the thesis of the whole book, the whole point. As in, I'm reading this book to find out how six young men came to represent the indomitable spirit of America in one iconic image. But noooooooo, I'm treated to all this "American boys" this and that.

Basically, James Bradley is all tell and no show.


Sedimentary Evolution

As things stand nowadays, pretty much anyone and everyone can be a star. We all know this. The bar for talent has been considerably lowered. All it takes to become famous is an entertaining internet video. The majority of the people no longer need a glamorous idol who will be remembered for decades; all they need now is a few minutes of quotable absurdity. Andy Warhol's prophesied 15 minutes of fame is more applicable than ever, with our attentions spans no longer surpassing that of a goldfish.

We steadily retreat further and further from reality, allowing it to become fully subjective, until reality is only what we see on our computer screen, whether it be funny videos of cats or images of purported irony.

I wonder what comes next.


Why Goodwill Is Literally Good Will

Okay, here's why I love the Goodwill near my work:

Today, I found the EXACT pants I used to wear all the time for a couple years before biking made awkward holes near the crotch. They are the same color, same style, my god, they're even the same size! It's marvelously fucking nuts!


Donuts And Wine For The After-Party

OMG do I want to be in a band! I am serious. I've always wanted to, but I think I always knew it was never going to be a big-time thing. I'm nowhere near musically inclined enough to get far in that field. I just think it'd be ten kinds of hilarious/fun to get on stage and scream grrly music at a bunch of people. I used to think about being a guitar god, but that got old quick. Not that I wouldn't learn a couple chords if it was needed. Especially after going to some small shows, where the band people are all friends with each other and the crowd and collaborate together in like a neverending stream of other bands. F-U-N. Plus, we could make buttons and shirts for our fans, even though we wouldn't be nearly good enough to deserve them.

My white rat bit me on the eyebrow and made a mark. Bitch. Completely uncalled for.


Customer Service Is Tricky

Dear guys old enough to be my dad (or grandpa),

Don't take the fact that I'm being nice to you as evidence that I find you attractive. On the contrary, as soon as I know what you're thinking I become repulsed. BUT, and this is the important part, I continue to be nice, or at least polite, and it's because, get this, it's my JOOOOOB. As in, I can read your face and know you're thinking lecherous things, but I get paid to be polite and serve you food and drinks. Don't think my nice manners in any way indicate that I find you anything other than a total creep. Don't think I'm encouraging you in any way. Believe me, I wish it wasn't my job to be friendly and polite to absolutely everyone, and I'm just so terribly sorry if I seem like a tease. But really, get a life. If your wife and children don't give you enough attention, don't assume I'm going to be your special friend.


Seven Minutes In Dreamland

I actually fell asleep during an art critique today. This was definitely not a good day to be awake. Luckily the teacher didn't say anything, though she must have seen me. I was probably asleep for no more than seven minutes, but somehow that was enough to keep my head from hitting the desk for the rest of the day. I suppose it's just as well, since I didn't actually have many nice things to say about most of the work that was up. I'm such an asshole that way. I think I even dreamed a little while I slept.

Holy Mother of God, please let this semester end faster. I would like to put myself in deeper shit next semester by taking harder classes as soon as possible, please. kthxbi

On the PLUS side, I finished a couple paintings. Go I.



They think all they have to do is grow their hair and wear tight jeans and hump a guitar and they'll actually be someone. YOU SUCK, IDIOT. Get a job already! Can't live off mummy and daddy forever. Well, you can, but that would work against your plan to become a rock god and have women throw their underwear at you. I know the ones. They smirk rather than smile because they're so damned cocksure.

Boy, I just can't wait till I'm over this disgusted phase and able to look on such people with a fond and indulgent eye full of memories.


Sonnet by Elizabeth Barrett Browning

If thou must love me, let it be for naught
Except for love's sake only. Do not say,
'I love her for her smile -- her look -- her way
Of speaking gently, -- for a trick of thought
That falls in well with mine, and certes brought
A sense of pleasant ease on such a day' --
For these things in themselves, Beloved, may
Be changed, or change for thee -- and love, so wrought,
May be unwrought so. Neither love me for
Thine own dear pity's wiping my cheeks dry:
A creature might forget to weep, who bore
Thy comfort long, and lose thy love thereby!
But love me for love's sake, that evermore
Thou mayst love on, through love's eternity.


Mad Hungry

I suspect that a good many of the people I see walking around this sporting plastic Amoeba bags just want everyone to know where they get their music from. Like, "OMG, I totally just found the EP of my favorite most obscure band and guess WHERE??? Amoeba, duhhh! For like, three bucks and everything!" Duh, it's only three dollars because your favorite obscure band SUCKS and that was the only way they could get rid of its crappy EP and still make some money off it.

And holy bejeezus, I am seriously craving some spam sushi. But I don't know how to make sticky rice. It sounds complicated.


Verse by Lewis Carroll

I often wondered when I cursed,
Often feared where I would be --
Wondered where she'd yield her love,
When I yield, so will she.
I would her will be pitied!
Cursed be love! She pitied me...


Bus Behavior

Some things I've noticed while riding public transit. And not just in this city, either.

1. Some old people will insist on hobbling as far back as they can before they stumble into a seat when the bus starts moving, even though there are plenty of seats in the front emptied specially for them.

2. Some people will stand directly in front of an empty seat, effectively preventing anyone else from getting to it. This happens on really crowded buses or on near-empty ones in which there are plenty of other places to stand.

3. Black people always sit in the back. Always. I have seen this on schoolbuses and city buses and I still do not understand it.

4. There's usually someone standing directly in front of the rear exit for about ten stops, making it extremely difficult both to get by on the way to the back of the bus and to get off.

5. In this city at least, on certain bus routes at a particular time of the afternoon, there are always huge groups of Asian teenagers chattering loudly and obnoxiously, bumping into everyone and completely ignoring the presence of other human beings. If you see any of these kids anywhere else when they're alone, they're utterly silent and take up as little space as possible. It's bizarre.

6. On bus routes going up to the bridge or any other historic places, there are always tourists carrying maps who sit anxiously by the front, trying to hide their nervousness by getting chatty with the bus driver or making touristy comments to their comrades.

7. Men always sit with their legs wide apart. Always. I'm sorry, but I highly doubt your junk actually takes up that much space.

8. There is always the pretty girl checking herself out in the window.

9. Speaking of Asians and old people, there are always (in this city) little old Asian ladies who will push their way past you to get on the bus first and they will shamelessly take up as much space as possible with lots of plastic bags filled with god-knows-what.

10. Sometimes, during a traffic spat, or if someone on the bus is being particularly obnoxious (talking on the phone, or a child screaming), other people on the bus will look at each other, sigh, and laugh, as though for a moment they have bonded, and then they will spend the rest of the ride avoiding each other's eyes, even if they get off at the same stop.


Once Were Chimps

Why is it that the guy I'm always least interested in is the one who actively pursues me? Am I just attracted to the embarrassingly shy ones?

And really, I'm sorry feminists, but if you let a guy chicken out and make the first move yourself, you will always be making the next move as well. Yeah, I've heard guys think it's cute, sexy, whatever, when a girl asks the guy out. But how many of them actually stick around? I don't know why some dynamics exist the way they do, and it's weird to think that for a while we were just chimps. Then somehow shit started getting complicated, cavemen started being monogamous, others got polyamorous, gender roles were established, then partially torn down, then reconstructed then deconstructed in order to be reconstructed again. And really, from where I'm standing, although people can be easily lumped together, there's still a large degree of unpredictability among individuals. Not originality mind you, just unpredictability.


I Can't Make Up My Mind

Which one do I pick?? Maybe I'll have them fight over me, and just pick the winner. Yeah. That'll work.


English Mastication

If it isn't already, unicorn should be an official term for anything that is singularly difficult to find. I'm going to use it from now on and start a revolution that will actually accomplish something, namely, usage of the term "unicorn" being defined as anything that is singularly difficult to find.


Occupying Time And Space

Despite how long individual school days are, the semester's going by damn quick. Then the summer will come and I'll have a couple months to work and hopefully save up money and relax with my friends and go outside for once. I like the cold, but toward the end of January I start wishing the sun would come out. I think, "Please, please come out soon, I promise, this time I'll actually go outside!" I'm sorely craving that vitamin D. Plus it'd be nice to wear skirts and sandals again.

I've been fucking busy lately!


Hair, What The Fuck Is Wrong With You?

I'm so tempted to grow my hair out long again.

It's like getting another hamster.

You tell yourself, this time, I'll do better! I'm more experienced, I know how to take care of it right! I won't let it die this time!

Okay, it's more like life in general.

And like life, my hair doesn't like being tamed. Given any length, it likes getting out of hand. It likes being barbaric. It likes going here, taking you there, exploding in my face. It gets curly, wavy, and downright straight all at once. For a while it was dark, dark brown, and now suddenly it's light, almost chesnut, almost goldish.

But this time, I'll do better. I'll do right by you, hair.


My Little Kookenhaken!

I have a new hero and his name is Jonathan Richman and his band was the Modern Lovers.


And MY Gene Pool

While watching H&G channel..

Mom: Do you think that guy's gay?

Eve: Totally.

Mom: How come?

Eve: Well, the white v-neck, the way he squats..the scruffiness. I dunno, he just seems like a bear.

Mom: What? What's a bear?

Eve: (casual) ....You know, a top.

Mom: What??

I think her reaction had more to do with me admitting knowledge of sexual positioning than anything else. I almost mentioned power-bottoms too, but I thought better of it.


"Baby Won't You Treat Me Right?"

It seems like a lot of songs, at least from the '50s and before, use that phrase. As if by refusing his love, the girl is just being a tease. Especially because I don't think the lyrics really elaborate much how exactly she won't treat him right. My brain's a little whack from the paint fumes I've been inhaling all day and night, but what you folks think?


Jizz Tae Fuck

The Doom Generation is a film from 1995 and it's about three young people on the lam, fucking each other and killing people. By director Gregg Araki. It's pretty good.


What The Cuss

Since becoming acquainted with torrents, I've been downloading a shit ton of music left and right. It's much easier to get into new music when money is not an issue. As a result, I've assembled a playlist of old R&B, ranging from LaVern Baker to Etta James to Little Richard to Howlin Wolf to Muddy Waters to Frankie Lymon and the Teenagers. For some reason I threw some Trashmen in there, though they're white surfy garage pop. That playlist kind've mutated out of what I could find of the Pink Flamingos soundtrack.

I've also just finished up a playlist of the most shamelessly eighties synth and pop. It's almost three hours long and I can't wait to force people to listen to it at work.

As far as movies go, I recommend Fantastic Mr. Fox and Pecker. FMF is beyond me; I really can't explain why everyone should see it, just that it shouldn't go unseen. I mean, aside from the fact that it's fucking STOP MOTION animation (jizzzzzzzz!), characters, dialogue, plot, etc., tickled me so much. Not to mention I couldn't name a single voice actor, which meant the voices were done really well.

Pecker has Edward fucking Furlong in it. Yeah, he's kinda gross nowadays, but in the nineties, oooh gurl was he fine! The only other John Waters film I've seen is Pink Flamingos, and, despite the immense, unfathomable differences between these two films, I could see certain touches in the characters and the ways they related to each other that seemed distinctly John Waters-y.

And, of course, 8 Femmes, one of the most terrible French movies I've ever watched in the name of education. A murder mystery, in which the master of the house is dispatched, and the eight women living there are trapped by a snowstorm, locked gates, cut phone line, and a shit car. The master's sister ends up making out with his wife, who was cheating on him with his business partner who was fucking his sister, but that's okay, because he was fucking the hot maid while the black cook was falling for his sister and his mother-in-law was reminiscing about poisoning his wife's father, while his frumpy sister-in-law tried to jump his bones and his eldest daughter who's not actually his daughter was getting knocked up by him, and the whole time his younger daughter plotted the whole thing because she, the plain, boyish daughter, wants to be his best girl.

I would be happy to suffer through that last one again with Kate, because I know she can appreciate such a piece of work. Plus the clothes and the women are pretty hot.

I have just blinded you all with science.


Joaquin, long and lean, slicked-down man machine, shimmering with a golden sheen

Joaquin Phoenix was damn fine. I didn't think he looked so bad with all that hair last year, but he certainly didn't look like himself. I'm also not sure what was funny about his interview with David Letterman. It looked to me like Joaquin didn't really want to be there and just didn't feel like talking, and all these people in the audience can't stop laughing at him. It's one thing if the celebrity is coming back with some good witticisms, and really getting into it with the show's host, but it's kind've pathetic to laugh so hysterically at someone who's so disengaged.

It sucks being under the scrutiny of a bunch of strangers, especially when you're so lethargic you can't even defend yourself.

Then again, maybe he was on drugs. Naturally. All famous people are totally always bonkers offa dem drugs in interviews and whatnot.



I'm not yet twenty-four, and yet I live on my own and support myself almost entirely with my piddley food-service income (with occasional small monies and frozen food from the fam). AND YET, until I am twenty-four, I still need my parents' information to fill out a fafsa form. There should be an option for young people who aren't emancipated but do make their own living. I'm a legal adult, en't I? I support myself, don't I? AND YET, the government treats me as though I were tied to my mother's apron strings. They have to make this big fecking deal out of giving me money for my education, when, according to many reliable authorities, an education is the only thing keeping me out of the crackhouse. Thank you, America.


A Part Of

Martin Starr is a babe. Bearded hipster babe. Ya dig?

I love having long, meandering conversations with strangers. Not most strangers, of course, but the strangers who are so easy to talk to we may as well have been friends for years and years. Somehow it's nice to be able to talk fluently with human beings outside my limited social sphere, even if they never become a part of it.


I Am The King Of Carrot Flowers

Reading over my last post, I realized that my analogy is completely batshit. I have no idea where the shit I was going with that, and how it was supposed to relate to my original topic.

But whatever. I'm practicing for the real world.

I've suddenly been exploding paint all over canvas lately. It started with a few colors, and now somehow it's vomited out a theme and these faces and figures keep appearing under my brush. I'm pretty ecstatic; except for a bout with acrylic a year ago, I haven't been able to finish any serious paintings. Now suddenly I can't stop and I'm worrying about running out of canvases. At the moment I'm working on No. 3 and No. 4, which were other things, but shitastic messes. As in, not worth it. I love glopping a shit-ton of paint on top of a failed piece. Yeah, my original idea ended up sucking, but I can put something new and awesome on top of it instead. I also just love glopping paint and building up texture.


Have Some Class

One of my pet peeves is the millions of parasites on the internet. The kind of people who see a photo or a piece of "art" on the internet and basically jizz all over their computer screen, and then comment so everyone else knows they jizzed all over their computer screen, too. The kind of people who don't actually know what good work really looks like, so they assume any half-fancy pretentious pile of shit is a masterpiece. I don't care what people think, it's when they start assuming everyone wants to know what they think, and spew accordingly. Kinda like when you strut out your front door in some slightly questionable getup. Yeah, it's not all there, but you sure feel awesome in it! You tell yourself, I don't care what they think! But as soon as you notice the stares, the whispers, the covert pointing, the giggling, you're about ready to shit yourself. You were fine with yourself until everyone else made it clear you weren't fine.

I don't think art was meant for the internet.