Am I the only person who hates this commercial?
ESPN is running this thing on loop. It gives a whole new meaning to “March MADness.” GAH!
Am I the only person who hates this commercial?
ESPN is running this thing on loop. It gives a whole new meaning to “March MADness.” GAH!
Gay Marriage is Marriage Equality.
Equality is not asking for special privileges. Equality is asking to be treated the same as everyone else.
The Supreme Court is not a church and it doesn’t care what your holy book says. It does not allow slavery or prostitution (for the most part), which your holy book does. It allows mixed fabric blends and tattoos and eating lobster. Your god doesn’t belong in my laws. I’m sorry, but it doesn’t.
No one gets to vote on straight marriage or divorce. No one should have to vote on gay marriage.
Don’t be on the wrong side of history. History will side with equality.
I am bi-sexual. I want to marry a man or a woman someday. I expect that my country will allow me to make whichever mistake I choose. This is America. I can kill myself on junk food. I can fill my body with botox and silicone. I can sleep with any adult who consents. I would like to marry whomever I ought to like as well.
We can mix race, mix age, mix cultures… So what if we keep the sex the same?
Stand for equality.
Have we all been there? The almost-relationship with someone who claims to want a relationship and then never quite gets there. This is someone who you know through friends or school or some other connection that forces you to keep crossing paths. Occasionally, you have an almost-relationship with someone because things just don’t work out, or neither of you is ready for it. Perhaps, it just doesn’t happen. Sometimes, though, that person is a gosh darn jerk.
This is the kind of jerk who mutual friends will explain as someone you’ll need to get to know before you like. You know, they’ll be the person that their dear friends hate, but claim they just have a “hard shell.” Here’s a tip: that person is a dick.
This person will always claim to, “like you” or perhaps, “like you too much for x, y, or z.” This person, this almost-lover will tell you that they, “would date you… IF x, y, or z were only a little different.” It likely took you a while, but you figured it out. You had to eventually realize that being stood-up, or sort of lied to, or jerked around, or whatever it was… it wasn’t good enough for you.
Oh, and when you’re finally a dick right back at this person, he/she will be shocked and get all indignant
“I’ll call you.”
“I was just really busy this week.”
“Has it really been two weeks? Oh, I thought I saw you on Wednesday… No, I’m sure we talked.”
“I lost my phone.”
“I was drunk.”
“When I said, ‘I love you,’ I meant it … you know… like as a friend thing. You know.”
“I like you too much to date you. I’d be a jerk.”
“I’ll break your heart.”
“Maybe I’m just a jerk.”
If you come across someone who is too busy to date you, or thinks they like you too much, or whatever excuse it might be, that person will never date you. It’s the whole “He’s just not that into you” business. Don’t waste your time on an almost-lover.
The Mysterious Old Man
This is a man with experience. He believes that this experience will show him the way into your pants. He believes that he can convince you of his skills in the bedroom. He will tell you how good he is with women, but he will not show you that he is good. The Old Man believes he is smooth, but spends all his time talking about being smooth, rather than actually being smooth.
When you, inevitably, reject him, he will get angry and dismiss you as a bimbo or just as stupid. He will tell you that you’re missing out. And he’s right, you are missing out on getting to see how long it takes for Viagra to kick in.
Have you encountered such a creep?
His name was Matt, but I called him “Tom.” Why? T.O.M. = Tall, Old Matt. He was 36. I was 21. He was a Class A Creep. This is a dude that was out hunting for younger ladies and came upon me at a book stand. He claimed to know about the book I was holding, which was later revealed as a farce. He spent the next few weeks trying to sleep with me or marry me or move to NYC with me or something else altogether. He was weird. He slowly revealed that he was a recovering drug addict, working part-time as a line cook, who lived with his mom and step-dad. Oh, he was also sexist, afraid of strong women, wanted to dress me, and thought I looked like a lesbian when I wore shorts. Also, he was 36 and he was trying to date a 21-year-old. That’s borderline illegal. Speaking of borderline illegal, after I dumped his old and wrinkled ass, he sort of stalked me for a few weeks. The police were involved.
We never slept together. I got rid of him. No harm.
Snake-Tongue, The Over-Confident
I made the mistake of allowing this small-ish man to kiss me. It was shockingly bad. He then bragged about how good of a kisser he was, which I found alarming. He asked me to confirm, and I said… “Uh, I have to go.” He then tried to convince me to sleep with him by explaining that he was as good at sex as he was at kissing. So… I said, “No, thanks.”
It was awkward.
You see, I had allowed this small “gentleman” to walk me home, thinking that due to our common friends and his general demeanor, that he would not try a thing. Well, he tried some things. At first, he was just sort of oddly asking me to go out with him. I was trying to negotiate down and not really interested. Then, he just full-out went for a make-out session with my face. I mean, he dove into my face. He stuck his tiny, thin tongue down my throat and just kept jabbing it into my mouth. His tongue moved in short, terrifying spurts. It felt like he was trying tenderize my mouth. It was, hands down, the worst kissing experience of my life. Perhaps, the worst of all time.
He then began to tell me that he was “really, really good at stuff that girls like.” I was like… “No.” He kept trying to talk me into going to his place or letting him in mine so he could show me his skills. He tried convincing me because he promised that “We don’t go all the way.” He said, “We don’t go all the way” about 50 times. It was an actual negotiation to him. He thought that if he promised me orgasms and only foreplay, I’d be totally down. In actuality, I was just trying to get him away from me without totally destroying our mutual friendship situation and without him knowing which apartment was actually mine. He seemed very stalkery.
The reason he knew he was so good at pleasuring women?
He went to an all-boys school where the older boys “taught them all about that stuff.” Uh… Not to be judgmental, but wouldn’t older boys teaching younger boys about sex-stuff likely not involve women? I mean, wouldn’t that experience all be dude-on-dude? I just don’t think the ancient Greek system of old men making love to young men bodes well for that man’s skills with women. You know?
When I finally convinced him that I really, truly, actually, for real was NOT going to mes around with his snake-tongued face, he said something horrible.
“Are you on your menstruation?”
The only reason he could imagine I wouldn’t want to feel his tiny hands or creepy tongue all over me was that I was on my period. This yucky, creepy question was the last straw. I slapped him across the face and told him to get real far, real fast. He ran away. He was a gross asshole.
This is, by far, the worst thing I’ve heard in response to rejection. Never, never bring up a woman’s menstruation.
He showed up at my apartment building the next day, calling me repeatedly (with a number he got from my friends), and begging to go on a date. He also told me he lied about his age (he was younger) and he boasted his virginity. I did not pick up the phone or see him again.
Ever dated a creep, almost dated a creep, been approached by one, harassed by one, annoyed by one, or just plain creeped out by a creepy, creeping creep?
Here’s to a whole week of complaining and defaming the biggest creeps we’ve encountered.
We hope you enjoy.
When I was in college, I could drink like a fish. I put huge douchey dudes to shame with my incredible ability to chug, handle, and hold my cheap liquor and beer. I preferred nicer beer, even in those days, but I wasn’t about to turn down a few dozen free cans of Natty Light or PBR. You just don’t do that in college. You drink what you are given… You know, if it’s not from a very shady source. Hell, even if it is shady, you might consider it if it’s totally free. I mean, you’re supposed to be poor in college. Why not enjoy cheap-ass bear?
College students love beer.
Everyone loves beer.
However, not everyone can drink cheap beer like 20-year-olds.
Once graduation occurs, and you move on graduate school or perhaps a real-life, grown-up job with benefits and a salary and everything, your lifestyle inherently changes. It just does. Life is very different after college. Now, instead of just wanting to get drunk and maybe get a date or two out of some dude/lady, you are actually talking about relationships and even…. MARRIAGE. Well, maybe just long-term or like… living together or something. You’re still figuring that part out. Anyways…
Life after graduation is quite an adjustment. It takes some g.d. time, y’all. And that’s okay.
There are many lessons a post-graduate must learn, and one of the first I learned… Nah, actually the most obvious one I learned, was that I cannot drink the way and the crap I once could. I’m a grown-up now, and Natty Lite ain’t gonna cut it.
When you start to get old, your body can’t handle the vinegar/acid/gasoline contained in cheap beer. At least, the body can’t handle it at the same level. When a body is young and virile, it can fight off the poisons of cheap beer – the pee in Busch Light or the dirt in Natural Ice. When a body gets older, it starts to give up on dying and it wants to live. Cheap beer wants to kill you and your body. Old bodies know better. They demand good beer.
Older bodies also don’t want you to make them suffer with yucky beer. I learned this the hard way.
I have now learned, once and for all, that I am now too old to drink a whole bunch of crappy beer. My body hates it. My body wants to be a temple instead of a garbage can. I must obey.
Until very recently, I was entirely immune to hangovers. I had only once had a hangover, and it was after a week of no-sleep and then heavy, celebratory drinking. You can read about a lot that night in the post, “When Kate and Patty (Almost) Got in a Bar Fight.” With that one exception, I have been a total boss. This has annoyed many people. Understandably so… Hangovers suck. Now that I’m a little older, I’m starting to catch them.
After a night of drinking… we’ll say “some” beers, I have started to feel a little less-than-great the next morning. Therefore, I must accept that I’m now too old for drinking cheap beer like a college-kid.
I spent a good portion of Sunday afternoon in a deli, which was overrun with rambunctious children for a little over an hour. They were eating frozen yogurt and it was horrifying and funny. There was a lot of controversy over who got what toppings and if these toppings were “fair.” There were two adult women (known as Mommy) and about six kids. They were loud and proud. Oh, and weird. They were wonderfully weird. Here is a sampling of what I heard.
“You’re mommy has a STINK FLOWER!”
“Mom. Am I invisible now?”
“How ’bout now?”
“She called me a ‘PEANUT. Punish her.”
“He hit himself! It wasn’t me. It wasn’t!”
(Brother silently weeps.)
“Mommy, get me water. I’m thirsty. Mommy! Water! Water! Please get me water. I want water. Water! Can you get me water, pleeeaaassseee? Mommy? Are you dead? Can you hear me? Get me WATER! Where is the water? Mom! Mom! Mom! Can you PLEASE get me some water? I’m thirsty. I need water. I’m thirsty for water! MOOOOOOOMMMMMMMMMMMMYYYYYYYYY!”
“Let’s attack the water.”
“Because it must DIIIIIEEEEEEEEE!”
“This place has been attacked by zombies. The zombie gave me ice cream. This is zombie ice cream. These are zombie gummy worms! Everyone run!” (This did scare one of the smaller girls with them.)
“You sit. I talk. Those are the rules!”
“Why is the baby SO FAT?”
“Mommy. Am I pooping?”
“Is this my new room?”
“Nevermind. It’s too late.”
(Look of fear on mother’s face unlike anything I’ve ever seen.)
“I’m going to be a monkey. Watch!” (Climbs wall. Falls. Cries.)
“Mommy, can we have a screaming contest?”
“I want to open the door!”
“NO! It’s my turn.”
“I’m the fastest boy.” (Runs. Falls. Cries.)
“I can smell you from the night!”
“Well, you smell like a meanie!”
“They can smell you on the moon… because you smell so bad.”
“I hate you.”
(Moms comes around the corner and gives the two boys a look.)
Together: “Love you.” (They hug.)
Note: This is a poem from the Inauguration, which I know was a few weeks back. It just took me a long time to process this and I really didn’t want to read this whole poem again.
My brain is broken. James Franco has broken my heart and brain. I love poetry. Therefore, I now hate James Franco. He has called himself a poet, somehow joined many graduate programs in creative writing, and he is demeaning poetry consistently. This is what happens when you give a spoiled child the means and praise he’s received. He thinks he is a good poet. He is so, so wrong.
As a person who writes poetry, I find him offensive. There are real poets, full-time poets out there who write incredibly beautiful, meaningful poetry that is art and not simply narcissistic rambling. In some ways, he may help bring people to poetry, but if he uses his notoriety to write sub-par, high school-level prose-poems, he isn’t doing the field any favors. People already scoff at poetry; he’s giving them more reason to do so. This is the poetic equivalent to painting a circle on a canvas and charging $100,000 for high art.
If James Franco represents poetry, then poetry is dead.
Randomly, even if verbally, pointing to things in a room doesn’t make your poem illustrative. It just means you looked around a room. Poetry is more than a listing of thoughts, or the action of hitting “Enter” on your keyboard. Poetry is supposed to be art, and this does not qualify. This is a the live-journal of James Franco pushed onto thin, tall pages.
Art is not an annotated bibliography and vice versa. James Franco seems to think that he is smart, talented, and unique enough to justify his thoughts alone as art. Just because you write it and you think you are great doesn’t mean you’ve made something good. It barely means you’ve made anything at all.
From Kate: “This isn’t even pragmatic or pretty prose. This is what would happen if poetry had an abortion.”
We must pay special attention to the poem’s end; not just because he gives himself an Oscar for a black-face portrayal of Obama’s “core goodness,” but also because he tells us that “[He’d] let the writer put in all the political crap.” By saying this, it is as if Franco might actually be aware that he’s not a real writer. Sure, he’s discussing a fake future movie that someone would write about Obama and then actually cast a white stoner… But, he doesn’t seem to get that he is “writing” at the moment. He took the time to google Asheville, but he didn’t take the time to google the president. Here are some of the last lines about this movie: “I’d let the writer put in all the political crap, / And the specific things that he was up against, / All that stuff on CNN and the Huffington Post, / And I’d say the lines that were written, just like Obama / Reads his lines, but what would really put the role over / Would be the goodness at its core. / That’s what will be remembered. / Yes, his race, no one will forget. But the soul too. / I’d win the Academy Award if I just captured that.”
The vagueness of these lines enrages me. Poetry is not vague. He sounds like a person with no knowledge who has randomly decided to pontificate about President Obama. “All that stuff on CNN and the Huffington Post…” What stuff? Which issue? Are you speaking of his race, his policies, his debate performance, war, economics, anything? Also, he says that he would “… say the lines that were written, / just like Obama…” almost as an afterthought, as if we, the readers, are supposed to assume that Franco is such a gifted actor, he could easily say lines “just like” the president.
Key Features of Narcissism and Overall Badness:
Obama in Asheville
Asheville, North Carolina, is the birthplace of Thomas
Wolfe and the sometime residence of F. Scott Fitzgerald
When he visited Zelda at her institution;
He stayed at the Grove Park Inn, a grand stone edifice.
On the phone once, Cormac McCarthy lamented
The two added wings and the spa, and marveled
At the original structure, They pulled the stones
From the mountains and brought them down on mules.
Soon after his fortieth birthday, Fitzgerald attempted suicide
Here, but couldn’t shoot his own head, drunk, I guess.
Later, after he was actually dead, from alcohol,
Zelda perished in a fire at her institution, one of nine.
Asheville is the place where the Black Mountain College once stood
And helped birth Rauschenberg, Twombly and Johns,
Cage and Cunningham; now I think it’s a Young Men’s Christian Association.
On the wall of the Grove Park, they have pictures of the famous guests;
I’m not up there, but Obama is. I was asked to write something
For the inauguration of his second term, but what could I write?
I was in Asheville, studying writing, but not the political sort;
I write confessions and characters, and that sort of thing.
I wrote my friend Frank about what I could do, but he was unresponsive.
I went to class and then the little burrito place where they know me,
And finally at night I got Frank’s email on my phone and pulled over
On the side of Warren Wilson Road, past the school barn with the WWC —
That I couldn’t see in the dark — right before the school entrance;
A little spot where there’s a path that leads to a lake called Snake Lake.
First I called my class at UCLA, and told them to watch Apocalypse Now,
And that it used Heart of Darkness as a model, and that we’d watch
Eleanor Coppola’s Hearts of Darkness, the making-of, the following week.
Then I read Frank’s note. He said he was sleeping twenty hours a day,
With no symptoms except that he desired sleep
And just a little more sleep. He’s in his seventies.
Then he said that my poem was a difficult task.
How to write about a man written about endlessly;
A man whom everyone has some sort of experience of;
How to write so that it’s not just for the converted.
I met Obama once, in D.C., the Correspondents’ Dinner.
I was the guest of Vanity Fair, guided through D.C. by the wife
Of Christopher Hitchens, when he was alive. We went to Hitch’s place,
He had books from floor to ceiling, and said he had read
To Borges, when he was blind, Old Icelandic Eddas—
Then we waited in a private room with the likes of Tom Cruise,
And Katie Holmes, and Claire Danes. When Obama entered
The crowd converged. Finally, I got to shake his hand,
He knew me from Spider-Man. I asked him for advice,
I was scheduled to give the commencement speech at UCLA
And there were some undergraduate knockers against me;
He had been denied the usual honorary degree by Arizona State
Because he hadn’t accomplished enough, so I wondered
How he dealt with detractors. He smiled his smile and said,
“Humor.” Well he’s damn right, and I wonder how much
That stand-up comedian is laughing in the face
Of this big country. Because he is one man and we are many,
And a great servant of the people—he’s a president, not a king—
And doesn’t need to face what King Charles once faced.
(Frank suggested I examine Marvell’s semi-inauguration poem for Cromwell:)
That thence the Royal actor borne
The tragic scaffold might adorn:
While round the armèd bands
Did clap their bloody hands.
That most famous stanza, and then:
But bow’d his comely head
Down, as upon a bed.
And he was beheaded, good-bye Charles.
If I were to act in the film about Obama,
All I would need to get down, aside from the outer stuff—
And I know that’s important—is his essential kindness,
I’d let the writer put in all the political crap,
And the specific things that he was up against,
All that stuff on CNN and the Huffington Post,
And I’d say the lines that were written, just like Obama
Reads his lines, but what would really put the role over
Would be the goodness at its core.
That’s what will be remembered.
Yes, his race, no one will forget. But the soul too.
I’d win the Academy Award if I just captured that.
A while ago, I wrote a post about how amazing Beyonce’s thighs are, which remains indisputable.
However, what I also did in that post was talk about thin, skinny, little thighs as “unnatural” and less than ideal. That’s not fair either.
Thin thighs are not “unacceptable,” “horrible,” nor are they somehow inherently “bad.” It is not bad to be a thin person. No one is a villain simply having thin thighs.
What is bad and scary, then?
It is bad and scary to push a body to extremes. It is bad to glorify thinness above all else. It is bad to glorify unhealthy habits that push people into unhealthy weights. Just as a person can be too fat, a person can be too thin. Both are bad. The thing, not a lot of people are striving to be fat. A lot of people are spending their days and nights obsessing over being thin at any price. A lot of people have blogs and tumblrs devoted to “thinspo” with all kinds of ways to get skinny. There are too many little girls and women out there who hurt themselves to achieve a level of thin that is not healthy for them.
That said, making thin women the villain is wrong.
Thin women just so happen to be thin. Many people want to be thin, and that’s okay. But wanting to be thin, or wanting to have Beyonce’s thighs, at any cost… that’s scary.
Also, Beyonce is amazing.
Bodies should be allowed to be as they are. When society pressures us to go against our bodies, society is wrong. Love your thighs. Even if they chaff and wiggle. Even if they’ve never touched.