Am I comfortable with the idea of Sarah Palin as my vice president? Another question for another day. But, after watching this, do I want her to show me how to raise the roof? Duh.
Sunday, October 19, 2008
Saturday, October 18, 2008
Never have I ever
It was maybe about a dozen of us last night, ages ranging from early 20s to late 30s, digging into vegetarian burritos and salads and such and nursing Coke Zeros and ginger tea in the Village. We were a happy, raucous group with all the energy of people who really enjoy each other's company. Usually in group settings, I feel the need to facilitate interactions and make sure conversation goes smoothly -- especially with people who don't know each other well. But not last night. Last night I just got to sit back and revel in all the lovely buzzing chatter.
I was the one who brought it up, but when I said it, I was met with so many wry smiles of recognition I feel like any number of the girls must have mulled it over at some point.
"You know that drinking game, "Never have I ever", where someone says something they've never done and everyone who's done it drinks?"
Everyone nodded.
"I hated playing that game because I was always out first and felt like a slutty weirdo."
"Let's play it now," someone said.
"Here?"
"Yeah, let's just do it."
So we went through the ones that had always nailed me in the past: kissed a girl, sex with two different guys in the same night, pregnancy scares, public sex, nights in jail.
When I'd played this game in the past, I'd often been the only one copping to the serious stuff while everyone else looked on wide-eyed, but this time every inquiry was greeted with a number of knowing groans and calls of "Ohhhhh yeah!" Two of the girls at the table had literally slipped off the federal radar and had gone off the grid. No social security numbers, no addresses, nothing to link them to society at all.
When one of my favorite friends admitted to having knowingly taken GHB, I had to fess up. I'd done it too. It's one of those things I never tell anyone because I'd always been certain that saying aloud that you'd willingly consumed the date rape drug meant that you'd be fitted with a straight jacket and hauled away upon opening your mouth. Maybe it's a little overdramatic, but it's something that I'd been ashamed of to the core. But once it was out in the open in such a light-hearted atmosphere, I knew I'd never be sick about that particular secret again.
I played Never have I ever about a million times in college, and the two-fold goal was always to (1) get drunk (2) embarrass people. People would start saying really specific shit like "Never have I ever propositioned the campus policeman and been rejected" and stare at me pointedly. And I'll have to admit, it was sort of fun.
But this was better.
I was the one who brought it up, but when I said it, I was met with so many wry smiles of recognition I feel like any number of the girls must have mulled it over at some point.
"You know that drinking game, "Never have I ever", where someone says something they've never done and everyone who's done it drinks?"
Everyone nodded.
"I hated playing that game because I was always out first and felt like a slutty weirdo."
"Let's play it now," someone said.
"Here?"
"Yeah, let's just do it."
So we went through the ones that had always nailed me in the past: kissed a girl, sex with two different guys in the same night, pregnancy scares, public sex, nights in jail.
When I'd played this game in the past, I'd often been the only one copping to the serious stuff while everyone else looked on wide-eyed, but this time every inquiry was greeted with a number of knowing groans and calls of "Ohhhhh yeah!" Two of the girls at the table had literally slipped off the federal radar and had gone off the grid. No social security numbers, no addresses, nothing to link them to society at all.
When one of my favorite friends admitted to having knowingly taken GHB, I had to fess up. I'd done it too. It's one of those things I never tell anyone because I'd always been certain that saying aloud that you'd willingly consumed the date rape drug meant that you'd be fitted with a straight jacket and hauled away upon opening your mouth. Maybe it's a little overdramatic, but it's something that I'd been ashamed of to the core. But once it was out in the open in such a light-hearted atmosphere, I knew I'd never be sick about that particular secret again.
I played Never have I ever about a million times in college, and the two-fold goal was always to (1) get drunk (2) embarrass people. People would start saying really specific shit like "Never have I ever propositioned the campus policeman and been rejected" and stare at me pointedly. And I'll have to admit, it was sort of fun.
But this was better.
Thursday, October 16, 2008
Stranger in a strange land
Usually, when I get on a plane, I have all kinds of thoughts and feelings. I think that I'm going to throw up and I feel that if I get too involved in listening to my iPod that the plane will not stay in the air, and I will somehow end up on the island from "Lost"*. I usually wear a hoodie so that I can hide the fact that I am, in fact, listening to the aforementioned iPod even at times when you're not supposed to. But, on the plane ride back to New York after my recent trip home, I just felt one thing -- relief.
*unlike the hale and hearty individuals in that crash, I would die of an anxiety attack roughly two hours after plummeting into the forest.
I average at least one soul-crushing fight with some member of my family per visit home, but I avoided that this time around. In fact, nothing bad happened at all. I had fun paling around with my older brother and sipping freshly brewed sweet tea with my mom and swapping books with my dad. But the longer I was there, the more lucid the feelings of displacement became. Before going away to college, I'd lived in the same town since I was six and the same house since I was ten. One whole wall of my room is plastered with notes and cards people wrote me in high school with clever declarations like "You kick ass" and "Please, no more drunken shenanigans in my boat!" staring back at me when I wake up.
This past visit in particular, I was struck with the reality that my room is a veritable time capsule of August 2007. Brightly colored ruffle skirts are strewn on the floor and a wayward bottles of pills still lurk in seldom-used drawers. Being there was like going on an archaeological dig through the life of a forgotten friend. I was transfixed by the girl I saw in the pictures posted about -- tanned and grinning at 16 hugging my best friend from high school, dripping wet in a long-buried mesh hat and Polo bikini, wasted with too much eyeliner on my 20th birthday, smirking in a red dress standing back-to-back with a long-time confidant in Oxford. That girl looks happy, or happily occupied at least.
I realized I have almost no pictures from the past year, and I'd be lying if I said that didn't make me sad. But I refuse to be memorized the myth of who I used to be.
I love the girl in the pictures like one would a delinquent little sister, but she's not me. I still talk about her, and in a way, I still admire her, but her memory is starting to wear on me. Which is exactly why I belong in New York and why home isn't really home anymore.
*unlike the hale and hearty individuals in that crash, I would die of an anxiety attack roughly two hours after plummeting into the forest.
I average at least one soul-crushing fight with some member of my family per visit home, but I avoided that this time around. In fact, nothing bad happened at all. I had fun paling around with my older brother and sipping freshly brewed sweet tea with my mom and swapping books with my dad. But the longer I was there, the more lucid the feelings of displacement became. Before going away to college, I'd lived in the same town since I was six and the same house since I was ten. One whole wall of my room is plastered with notes and cards people wrote me in high school with clever declarations like "You kick ass" and "Please, no more drunken shenanigans in my boat!" staring back at me when I wake up.
This past visit in particular, I was struck with the reality that my room is a veritable time capsule of August 2007. Brightly colored ruffle skirts are strewn on the floor and a wayward bottles of pills still lurk in seldom-used drawers. Being there was like going on an archaeological dig through the life of a forgotten friend. I was transfixed by the girl I saw in the pictures posted about -- tanned and grinning at 16 hugging my best friend from high school, dripping wet in a long-buried mesh hat and Polo bikini, wasted with too much eyeliner on my 20th birthday, smirking in a red dress standing back-to-back with a long-time confidant in Oxford. That girl looks happy, or happily occupied at least.
I realized I have almost no pictures from the past year, and I'd be lying if I said that didn't make me sad. But I refuse to be memorized the myth of who I used to be.
I love the girl in the pictures like one would a delinquent little sister, but she's not me. I still talk about her, and in a way, I still admire her, but her memory is starting to wear on me. Which is exactly why I belong in New York and why home isn't really home anymore.
Friday, October 3, 2008
Decision 2008: Choose or Snooze
My dad isn't really a sports fan. He doesn't really get fired up when my mom watches college football, nor does he engage in the mastabatory practice of having any sort of fantasy sports team. He will watch big things -- the Super Bowl, the baseball playoffs, any Florida football game his wife drags him to, baseball games that are really fundraisers -- but for the most part, he doesn't really care all that much.
That's sort of the way I feel about politics. It may be a silly analogy, but I, like my dad, don't really have a team to root for in the political sphere, so all the analysis of policies and voting records is, to me, about as interesting as the Sunday morning stats sheet is to my dad.
I'm a registered Republican, and I make no apologies for that. I have pragmatic reasons for having that as my party affiliation, the most important of which is that my county in Florida has closed primaries, and if I wasn't a Republican, I wouldn't be able to vote for my dad in what is always his most important race. Generally, I also support Republican fiscal policy as it concerns taxation and am more aligned with the GOP's foreign policy than with the Democrat's.
But I'm also an atheist and strongly pro-choice and for gay marriage, so really, aside from voting for my dad, I evaluate candidates on an individual basis which, call me crazy, is what I think everyone should do. The party system gives people a default candidate before the candidates are even named. I'm criticized by everyone from my mom to my friends for saying this, but I think your default choice, until you've been convinced that a particular candidate, not party, is right for the job, should be to abstain. Just don't vote. Isn't that better than making an uninformed decision?
I can feel the collective head shake as I write this.
"There are ways to get informed!" you say. "There are...the DEBATES!"
Ah yes. The debates. Let's clear something up, shall we? Presidential and vice-presidential debates aren't for the undecideds. They're an excuse for people like Joe Scarborough and my dad to use boxing metaphors while analyzing people standing behind podiums. No one could glean anything from a debate as an uninformed potential besides, "She sounds assertive!" or "He looks funny doing that with his hands", which are the exact kinds of things you don't want people basing their decisions on.
So, in 2008, I'm begging you. If you can't come up with a concrete reason to vote for a candidate -- in any race, of any party -- just...don't.
That's sort of the way I feel about politics. It may be a silly analogy, but I, like my dad, don't really have a team to root for in the political sphere, so all the analysis of policies and voting records is, to me, about as interesting as the Sunday morning stats sheet is to my dad.
I'm a registered Republican, and I make no apologies for that. I have pragmatic reasons for having that as my party affiliation, the most important of which is that my county in Florida has closed primaries, and if I wasn't a Republican, I wouldn't be able to vote for my dad in what is always his most important race. Generally, I also support Republican fiscal policy as it concerns taxation and am more aligned with the GOP's foreign policy than with the Democrat's.
But I'm also an atheist and strongly pro-choice and for gay marriage, so really, aside from voting for my dad, I evaluate candidates on an individual basis which, call me crazy, is what I think everyone should do. The party system gives people a default candidate before the candidates are even named. I'm criticized by everyone from my mom to my friends for saying this, but I think your default choice, until you've been convinced that a particular candidate, not party, is right for the job, should be to abstain. Just don't vote. Isn't that better than making an uninformed decision?
I can feel the collective head shake as I write this.
"There are ways to get informed!" you say. "There are...the DEBATES!"
Ah yes. The debates. Let's clear something up, shall we? Presidential and vice-presidential debates aren't for the undecideds. They're an excuse for people like Joe Scarborough and my dad to use boxing metaphors while analyzing people standing behind podiums. No one could glean anything from a debate as an uninformed potential besides, "She sounds assertive!" or "He looks funny doing that with his hands", which are the exact kinds of things you don't want people basing their decisions on.
So, in 2008, I'm begging you. If you can't come up with a concrete reason to vote for a candidate -- in any race, of any party -- just...don't.
Thursday, September 25, 2008
The greatest music video of our time
Or maybe not, but the coolest one I've focused in on in a while. It sort of makes me pine for the days where I could see cool music videos -- a lost art form! -- some place other than Nocturnal State on VH1 starting at 3 a.m. And to be honest, those aren't even that cool.
Enjoy "Girls Who Play Guitars" by Maximo Park.
Enjoy "Girls Who Play Guitars" by Maximo Park.
Monday, September 22, 2008
The rock, the hard place and how unsatisfying friendships put you squarely between them
"The three of us had formed a group based on something erroneous, some basic misunderstanding that hadn't yet come to light, and so we kept on in each other's company, going to bars and having conversations. Generally one of these false coalitions died after a day or a day and a half, but this one had lasted more than a year." -- Denis Johnson, Jesus' Son
If breakups have one uniquely appealing feature (and believe me, having just recently been broken up with, this was a tough track to take), it is that they can be completely unilateral. Sure, there's the conversation that actually cements the dissolution of the relationship in which the breaker has to be somewhat accountable to the breakee, but even then, the rationale can be something as simple as "It's not working" or "I'm not happy". And the other person, for all his or her arguments to the contrary, is basically left powerless because, at the end of the day, it only takes one person to enact a breakup.
I can't speak to friendships between men, but such is not the case concerning friendships of the female persuasion. One person cannot decide to end the friendship, no matter how unhappy she is, without a particular instance to point to. For example, it is acceptable to say, "We can't be friends anymore because you fucked my boyfriend", but just saying, "I really think we don't have a lot in common anymore" isn't considered valid. And sometimes, unless you are Lauren Conrad and Heidi Montag, even being able to point out the specific moment that the friendship went bad isn't enough.
I have never successfully ended a friendship without the aid of distance or a fight over a guy in my entire life. I've heard the argument made that women constantly talk shit about their "friends" while men don't because women are naturally catty or lack assertiveness or something, but in reality, it's the assertiveness of some women, to a degree, that locks women into these friendships. That is to say, when I've tried to break off friendships in the past, I've been prodded, hassled and confronted by the other chick to the point that it's actually easier for me to remain in some sort of "friendship". And as a result, I'm stuck. Literally, when I talk to some of the girls I'm in these forceships (ha! see how I did that! I combined "force" and "friendship") with, I repeat the word "jab" -- as in the punch that boxers use to keep their opponents away from them and off balance -- in my head throughout the conversation.
That sounds fucked up, and believe me, I would rather just be out of it altogether, but with female friendships, you don't get that chance. You just have to gut it out, I guess, until someone moves or fucks your boyfriend.
If breakups have one uniquely appealing feature (and believe me, having just recently been broken up with, this was a tough track to take), it is that they can be completely unilateral. Sure, there's the conversation that actually cements the dissolution of the relationship in which the breaker has to be somewhat accountable to the breakee, but even then, the rationale can be something as simple as "It's not working" or "I'm not happy". And the other person, for all his or her arguments to the contrary, is basically left powerless because, at the end of the day, it only takes one person to enact a breakup.
I can't speak to friendships between men, but such is not the case concerning friendships of the female persuasion. One person cannot decide to end the friendship, no matter how unhappy she is, without a particular instance to point to. For example, it is acceptable to say, "We can't be friends anymore because you fucked my boyfriend", but just saying, "I really think we don't have a lot in common anymore" isn't considered valid. And sometimes, unless you are Lauren Conrad and Heidi Montag, even being able to point out the specific moment that the friendship went bad isn't enough.
I have never successfully ended a friendship without the aid of distance or a fight over a guy in my entire life. I've heard the argument made that women constantly talk shit about their "friends" while men don't because women are naturally catty or lack assertiveness or something, but in reality, it's the assertiveness of some women, to a degree, that locks women into these friendships. That is to say, when I've tried to break off friendships in the past, I've been prodded, hassled and confronted by the other chick to the point that it's actually easier for me to remain in some sort of "friendship". And as a result, I'm stuck. Literally, when I talk to some of the girls I'm in these forceships (ha! see how I did that! I combined "force" and "friendship") with, I repeat the word "jab" -- as in the punch that boxers use to keep their opponents away from them and off balance -- in my head throughout the conversation.
That sounds fucked up, and believe me, I would rather just be out of it altogether, but with female friendships, you don't get that chance. You just have to gut it out, I guess, until someone moves or fucks your boyfriend.
Thursday, September 18, 2008
It's Always Sunny In Philadelphia
Seriously, I watch like two TV shows on a regular basis, so please just trust me when I tell you this one is amazing. Oddly, the only thing people ever seem to know about it is that Danny DeVito is in it, which, if you're anything like me, sort of makes you nervous. It premieres tonight, and you would be remiss not to see it. See the trailer below, and after watching, I dare you to disagree with me.
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