SUMMER GIRLS COME SUMMER GIRLS GO SOME ARE WORTHWHILE AND SOME ARE SO SO
List of non sequitur rhymes contained within this pop culture gem:
You’re the best girl that I ever did see, The great Larry Bird Jersey 33
Stayed all summer then went back home, Macauly Culkin was in Home Alone
Fell deep in love, but now we ain’t speaking Michael J Fox was Alex P Keaton
New Kids On The block, had a bunch of hits Chinese food makes me sick.
Cherry Pez, cold crush, rock star boogie Used to hate school so I had to play hookie,
There was a good man named Paul Revere I feel much better baby when you’re near
Call you up but whats the use I like Kevin Bacon, but I hate Footloose*
This song reminds of that scene in Music & Lyrics where Hugh Grant is like, “I once tried to rhyme ‘you and me’ with ‘eulogy’”** and he was totally embarrassed by that fact, and then Drew Barrymore made it palatable but not wonderful because, hello, eulogy? And then, eh, I don’t really care about that movie except for the music video at the beginning, because it is pure magic.
Anyway, this song is like that except made of total FAIL.
They went on. The purple ahead turned into navy and then black. The lights on the side of the road became less and less frequent until they were gone. This was the middle of nowhere, the heart of America. The absence of anything at all created a darkness that can only be found in the most rural parts of the country. She checked the clock—just after 9 p.m. The snow had formed into piles on the side of the road from where other cars had driven through. A light appeared out of the darkness to her right. She squinted at the form attached to it: a large big rig fallen on its side. It reminded her of a dinosaur during the ice age, dead and rotting on the plains. Two blue-tinged LED headlights of a luxury car approached them on the other side of the road. The glow stung her eyes. She looked away.
I just finished a new story for my writing workshop today. I’ve only been working on it for a few days and it was extremely difficult to finish. It’s a story that’s very personal to me. I don’t typically write about my own life, at least, not directly. I like to write tangentially—mash-ups of people I have known or maybe even people I’ve only met once who piqued my interest. (For example, this morning at Au Bon Pain, one of the employees there had some of the saddest eyes I’ve ever seen. As he replenished the Splenda for my benefit, I decided that I wanted to write a story about him, but I didn’t think I could without seeming fake or, worse, condescending.) But this one is very much about me and my life and my silly 27-year-old existence. And that fact makes me afraid because it could very well be the best thing I’ve ever written or the worst. That excerpt above is taken from it and it’s probably the least personal part of the whole story, which means I’ve given myself permission to post it here.
Sometimes I don’t even know why I keep insisting on writing—it’s hard, and painful, and reeks of exhibitionism.
But then, if I stopped, I would feel like a part of me had died. So I have to keep on keeping on. You know?
“'I don't need food to impress, man,' boasts the cocky 'American Pie' C-lister. 'It's a flash of a smile and a nice conversation. And at the end of the day, she's cooking the food.' Chris, 26, a self-described 'alpha heterosexual' who only dates '8 to 10's,' also reveals how displeased he is if a woman he's seeing gains a few pounds.”—
Before we all all rile sympathy for Chris Klein re: that horrendous leaked audition video, can we please not forget that he is a massive douche? Like, massive. Like, the biggest tool ever. Like, really.
"When a woman isn’t feeling good about herself and you combine that with her period, eventually she’ll ask you if you like her body," he pontificates. "You have to say no."
She presses her head back against the seat of the small car and sighs and smiles. The air smells like the fresh bloom of spring. Her hands are cold. Her hands are always cold. She cups the paper coffee in her hand and attempts to gather the warmth. Sometimes she feels like a stone. She must get warmth from the outside to retain any semblance of life.
Cold hands, warm heart—that’s what they’ve always said. But the nature of the land, the constant cold, the damp, the dark. It takes a toll.
“Some people view themselves as editors though nobody has supplied them with that title. Worse, perhaps, is that they view editing as the elimination of anything that they don’t agree with or believe in, wanting to replace it with their own opinions. I think that the best editors are those who love to explore the psyches of other artists, who love the different timbres of the human voice and like to have their own views challenged by others. I love to read, I think most editors love to read; the bad kind of editor, IMHO, only loves to re-write. They don’t respect difference and they’re perhaps too insecure about their own writing to accept the validity of opposing points or styles.”—
I was just about to reblog this excerpt but then one of my favorite writers had to go and reblog the exact quote from one of my other favorite writers and then it was a favorite writing sandwich that I just wanted to snuggle up to as the pickle on the side. That’s a metaphor.
I should get a pedicure. The weather is going to warm up this weekend and I’m going to probably wear sandals. I am so bad at manicuring my nails. I am a big picture person, so I concentrate on clothes instead of accessories, on hair and makeup instead of nails. But people do notice nails, I know. I am so bad at that. It makes me feel like a bad woman, like I’m unfeminine or something. My mom is wonderful about doing her nails. She is wonderful with accessories. The only element of fringe beauty supplies we share in common is perfume. We both adore perfumes—the bottles, the scents, the way they can make you feel so luxurious just by spritzing a bottle. Sometimes when I’m sitting in bed, just reading or writing or watching something on my laptop, I spray myself with one of my favorites and let it settle on me, slowly breathing in the scent. It makes me feel like I am living in Victorian England. It makes me feel like I’m the Queen of Sheba. Here I am, just lying on my bed, smelling like soft roses and spicy amber. Those are the notes found in the Stella McCartney perfume, by the way. The other day I was getting a coffee at a local cafe and the chick behind the corner asked me what I was wearing because it smelled so nice and I said Stella McCartney and she said that she used to wear that in college. The way she said it was the way I talked about Clinique Happy or Ralph Lauren Romance before I got tired of them and all of my friends did too, and that made me feel like I was 78 years old and I was talking about how much I loved Charlie! by Revlon. Oh, Karen Duffy, I feel your pain.
what i talk about when i talk about tv: supernatural
You guys. You guys. You GUYS. YOU GUYS.
It’s the Supernatural season finale tonight, you guys. NONE OF YOU WATCH IT. PROBABLY. That’s okay, though, because I’m just going to talk about it and pretend like everybody here loves it and wants to have a bazillion Winchester babies, just like me. And, like me, you’d want to have like ten babies with Dean and like three with Sam and maybe one with Castiel and like half of one with Bobby. Let’s not talk about that.
The point is, I started watching this show last year and I fell into it like I fall into a lot of things. When I say that, I mean I fall into something so hard that I just feel like it has become this part of me. Like it’s part of a deeper meaning, you know? And I need to just learn everything I can about it and it’s just, I don’t know, this huge EPIC THING. Some may call it fangirliness, and I accept that. I have done this before, notably during the Australia season of Survivor, and during the whole Harry Potter craze my freshman year of college and also probably, it should be noted, during the third season of So You Think You Can Dance and the fifth season of American Idol. I’m not proud. In a highbrow way, I’ve also done this for James Joyce and I have also definitely done it for Hemingway and Fitzgerald and basically all of the Parisian ex-pats during the 1920s. I’m not trying to be all, like, legit and hardcore snob cred here, I’m just saying that this fangirliness extends to elements of diversion that are not of the current Entertainment Weekly milieu.
ANYWAY. SAM AND DEAN HAVE TO AVERT THE APOCALYPSE TONIGHT. I wish I could put blinky flash graphics on that sentence or something, because it is the type of sentence that deserves blinky flash graphics. I wish I could put it on a flag-tail on the end of a plane. I wish I could have spraypainted it on the wall of my apartment building. It’s that important, you guys. And for most of the season, I haven’t really cared all that much. But now I do. And I do feel disappointed that we’re most likely not going to get to see Michael in the body of Jensen Ackles and we are probably going to see Jared Padalecki as Lucifer (again), but, you know, whatever. Screw you, Kripke. I guess we’ll just have to see.
While everybody else has been watching Lost, I’ve been watching Supernatural. Not really as a conscious decision, that’s just how things have worked out. And I’m not even going to justify it by saying that you should watch it because I know that you’re not going to listen to me because you think it’s a stupid show on the CW starring a couple of pretty boys.
But whatever, I’m going to enjoy it tonight. Hell yeah I am! I’m going to eat cake batter ice cream and drool over a couple of Winchesters (not Adam, because, yuck) and imagine what all of our babies would look like. (Answer: EXTREMELY PRETTY, with the exception of the Bobby baby, which would just be merely cute. [This would be very funny to you if you watched Supernatural.])
When it’s late at night and I should be asleep, I tend to overdose on nostalgia. It’s kind of bad. You may have noticedaprettyobvioustrend. I don’t even know what happens. It’s it’s 1 a.m. and all of a sudden all I’m 13 again and I’m sitting on my living room floor eating an Otto Pop and drinking a Crystal Pepsi while my parents are arguing about Bill Clinton in the background so loud that I have to turn up the volume of the TV so I can watch another episode of Pop Up Video. I’m not arguing because this nostalgia coma is kind of nice and it tastes like a chalupa. I was really seriously considering posting an En Vogue video, but then I couldn’t decide between Never Gonna Get It/Free Your Mind/Giving Him Something He Can Feel/Don’t Let Go. My indecision spared you. You’re welcome.
I’m sitting in Panera Bread and I just ate a huge turkey sandwich. It was way too big and I ate it anyway. I should really eat breakfast more often. I ate the whole thing because I can’t write. For days, I’ve had coffee and…
I’m trying real hard not to reblog every BWDR piece during Charlie Kaufman Week, but this one, by Anais, is exceptionally fun to read. So go do that, or something.
When Being John Malkovich was fresh from the New York Film Festival, if you worked in advertising and promotions you were almost certain to have it presented to you by a client for inspiration, dubbed to VHS or 3/4” tape as a graveyard shift favor. You would…
Sarah kicks off Charlie Kaufman Week with an awesome essay on Being John Malkovich. Go read!
I cannot even begin to explain to you how evocative this song is to me. It makes me feel like I’m nine again. I’m wearing some oversize Looney Tunes t-shirt and I’m sitting in my room with my friends Katie and Jenny and we’re playing with our Barbies and our G.I. Joes. By the time I heard this song, it was actually already six years old, a discrepancy that was probably due to the fact that it was an artifact passed down from Katie and Jenny’s older brother who was in high school at that point.
Mötley Crüe was never really my favorite of the hair bands. I vaguely remember liking Warrant the best because they sang about one of my favorite desserts, but I also liked Def Leppard because they sang “Pour Some Sugar On Me,” which cottoned on to the whole sweets theme too. But those songs don’t bring me back nearly as quickly or with as much force as this one does.
“'Tall girls fetch more cattle because their daughters will quickly grow and can be married off to fetch even more cattle,' said the chief, shooing a stubborn fly. 'A tall girl can command 60 to 100 cattle from a suitor. A short girl may get 20 head, and, sometimes, short girls overstay their welcome in the father's home and end up fetching only five cattle. By then, a tall girl has already borne five children.'”—
I’m probably too old now to command any cattle in Sudan, but at 12 years of age I could have probably gotten about 75-80. Maybe 90! I’m very thankful that I don’t know that actual number.
“Of course, as always happens in Hollywood, she comes to the epiphany that she should really be with Steve and dashes over to his house in the middle of the night. ‘Look, I don’t want to be your girlfriend or anything… I just want to know you again,’ she says. ‘What took you so long?’ he asks. ‘I was stuck in traffic,’ she says. And then Julia Roberts and Hugh Grant, taking on the form of enormous man-eating pterodactyls with gigantic teeth, swoop in and eat the entire apartment complex.”—