Enough Is Too Much

Success Is Obedience to a Structured Way of Life

I’m 30 years old today. This Tumblr is meant to be a place where I type flowery, long-winded things, because I don’t want to forget how to write, but I wanted to post today.

I am happy with 30. I’m kind of pumped about it, honestly. I still get carded sometimes when I go to R-rated movies (not a joke), so I guess I’m doing okay on the wrinkles front. (I’m actually not old enough for that to be flattering, to be honest — on the whole, teenagers today pretty much look like idiots, so I take someone carding me as, “I think you look/dress like an idiot.”) I’ve done a lot of cool stuff in my 30 years. I’ve met a lot of amazing people. I’ve seen a lot of great things and traveled to a lot of wonderful places. I have acheived many of my goals. Unlike a lot of other people my age, I don’t own a house and I don’t have children — but those aren’t my milestones. Those aren’t measurements of success for me.

I look at it this way: If you told 15-year-old me what I’d be up to at 30, she would be THRILLED. So, success!

All I Have Here With Me Are the Records and the Books That I Own

I have a lot of stuff. My room is filled to the brim with records, CDs, cassette tapes, books, magazines, zines, and DVDs — most of the books I own are about the records that I own, and most of the DVDs I own contain visual representations of the songs on the CDs I own. I like things, and I like knowing stuff about the things that I like.

However, while it may sound like it, I am NOT bragging — I feel like the older I get, the more of a hindrance this becomes.

Growing up, I had a lot of fun — I had friends, I was sociable — but there were many times I just preferred to stay in my room listening to mixtapes, searching old music magazines for articles on new bands I was discovering, writing zines… that sort of stuff. Because I read voraciously about subjects largely unimportant to the general population (Morrissey’s favorite movies, British comedy/film stars that have appeared in Blur videos, what exactly Michael Stipe is saying in “Sitting Still,” figuring out how to get original Sarah Records issues of the Field Mice albums), I started to value those traits in others — if I met someone, especially a dude, and they were familiar with my pop-culture touchstones, I deemed them worthy. I was judgmental in a weird way; I wasn’t cutthroat about it, and wouldn’t write uninitiated people off completely, but if someone knew some obscure fact about a band or comedian or movie or book or album that I loved, I instantly thought, “I can be friends with this person.” Looking back, I’m sure that’s not a unique way of thinking — I mean, everyone seeks out people with similar interests — but I probably took it a little more seriously than the average teenager. And, let’s be honest — it did make me feel kind of cool. In high school especially, being into obscure things is a double-edged sword: you’re bummed that you can’t really discuss your loves with anyone else, but you’re secretly jazzed because you know something they don’t know.

But now, it seems that I feel MORE awkward about this stuff than I did in high school! I can’t really have in-depth conversations with most people my age, because they’ve moved on and have learned about the economy and property taxes and politics and science and I’m still trying to critically analyze why Jarvis Cocker chose to have Steve Albini produce his latest album. I often meet people now and find it refreshing and very appealing if they know nothing about music or popular culture. (Often, not always. Heh. Also, it’s only appealing if it’s genuine — I got no time or patience for those douchelords who BRAG about not owning a television.) But, of course, the majority of my anecdotes are heavy on the pop-culture references, so the people that I find appealing are definitely not returning that feeling.

I’ve talked about this lately with my best friend, and she said something like, “I think this is how furries happen — they are people who are REALLY into something and have no normal people to share it with,” which sent us spiralling into panic. “Are we gonna wake up one day and be 50-year-old furry weirdos?!” I don’t think obsessively collecting and hoarding Smiths records is quite the same as wanting to have sex with anthropomorphic animals, but to some it might be close.

Last Friday night I was sitting on my bed, alone, listening to a new CD I had very eagerly anticipated the release of while reading a book about the artwork of Factory Records, and looked around my heavily postered and adolescent-esque room and honestly thought to myself, “It’s just you and me, stuff.” And sure, that sounds crazy, but look at the facts: My possessions have never disappointed me.

Is Evil Just Something You Are or Something You Do?

I kind of love it when people have a MILLION “my boss is such an asshole” or “my roommate is such an asshole” or “that guy at the store is such an asshole” or “all my ex-girlfriends/ex-boyfriends are such assholes” stories, because when they tell those stories (and they do, constantly), I think about the day when someone they are relaying these tales to finally yells, “YOU KNOW WHAT THE CONSTANT IS IN EVERY ONE OF THESE STORIES? YOU. Did you ever stop to think that if EVERYONE is SUCH AN ASSHOLE to you, that YOU just might BE THE ASSHOLE?” And I hope I’m there to watch that person’s mindsplosion.

The Teenagers Who Love You Will Wake Up, Yawn, and Kill You

I am probably the least fickle person you will (n)ever meet. When I like someone or something, I’m usually in it for the long haul. I still wear T-shirts I got in middle school. My devotion to R.E.M. has not wavered since I was 10 or 11, even after “Around the Sun.” Hell, I still have (and listen to!) mixtapes people made for me when I was, like, 12! I still very much enjoy many things that society thinks people my age should have “grown out of,” and I’m still a fan of quite a few bands that Pitchfork-readin’ music snobs would have a hearty laugh at (if they ever smiled).

BUT, having said all that, there have been a few instances of me being really into a band only to change my mind soon after. I honestly think it’s a lot more fun to like stuff than it is to hate stuff, but once in a while everyone’s gotta talk some shit, you know?

Bright Eyes — When “Fevers and Mirrors” came out, I was dating a guy who was BALLS OUT for Conor Oberst. He made me one of the worst mixtapes I have ever received (and I don’t even mean just the bad songs/shitty bands on it, but the order was wack and the flow was nonexistent — he’d put, like, two or three songs by the same band in a row, which is just lazy and inexcusable), but the two songs I did like on it were “The Calendar Hung Itself” and “The Center of the World.” I bought “Fevers and Mirrors” and enjoyed it (still do, for the most part), and went to see Bright Eyes play at the 40 Watt in Athens, Georgia. It was a good show, if memory serves, but to be honest the details of the performance are a bit hazy because I MET MICHAEL STIPE that night and cried tears of joy the whole ride home. (Unfortunately not a joke.) I do remember Conor being quite intense, and he seemed to nearly be in tears for much of the show and just, you know, FEELIN’ IT, MAAAN. I was like, “Okay, I guess this dude is for real.” He seemed legit.
While I never bought any other Bright Eyes albums, I didn’t hate the guy or anything… until Desaparecidos came to town a year or two later. A group of us went to see Conor’s new band perform, and all the sudden the sad little floppy-haired acoustic-guitar-strummin’ boy was this trashy rocker dude who gulped Pabst Blue Ribbon on stage. Uh, what?! No thanks, faker. I still listen to “Fevers” on occasion, though, but I kind of think the guy behind the curtain is a douche.

Hot Hot Heat — I first heard of these guys from my best guy friend who has great taste in music (by the way, please do not think I am one of those girls who needs dudes to SCHOOL HER on music, because it ain’t even like that), and I went with him to see them live even though I knew nothing about the band. Well, it turned out to be a pleasant surprise, as I really enjoyed their show and bought their “Knock Knock Knock” EP. I listened to the EP pretty often, and when their album “Make Up the Breakdown” came out, I quickly snatched it up only to equally as quickly dislike it. It’s not often that a band sounds better live than on record, but these guys bucked that trend. All I could think while listening to the album was, “This guy is trying to sing badly on purpose!” It truly sounds that way! Their frontman has a decent voice, but I really feel like he tries to sound weird and out of tune on purpose for some reason! I find his screeching intolerable and haven’t listened to these guys since 2002, even though the bassist has Smiths lyrics tattooed on him.

Oasis — I’m an Anglophile. I’m enamored of Manchester, especially, so, you know, I had to like Oasis. Objectively, “Definitely Maybe” is a classic. “(What’s the Story) Morning Glory?” is fantastic. “Be Here Now” even has its moments, but after the (actually really awesome) B-side compilation, “The Masterplan,” I checked out. I saw Oasis live and even met and hung out with Noel Gallagher — who was shockingly nice and polite and is also hilarious — but I haven’t really been an active fan for 10 years or more. We had the TV on at work the other day and I actually asked, “Who is this?” when the latest Oasis video came on — that’s how unfamiliar I am with them these days. I’ll still rock those first two albums, though.

Counting Crows — HEAR ME OUT: These guys are basically one-album wonders to me. I will defend “August and Everything After” until my dying day; that album came out when I was 14 and it was (and is) so perfect. But in regard to any of their output after that, I’m on YOUR side: It sucks. So leave me alone.

Death Cab for Cutie — Oh man, I can hear the gnashing of indie kids’ teeth as I type this, but I have to BRING THE REAL to you guys right now: I used to LOVE Death Cab. LOVE THEM. My old roommate/current best friend introduced me to “Something About Airplanes,” and when we went to see them at the 40 Watt in Athens there were four other people there. Four. We ended up hanging out with the guys and during the next three tours for “Airplanes” and “We Have the Facts and We’re Voting Yes,” they slept on our floor and we all stayed up watching “Behind the Music” and eating Hot Pockets and laughing and talking, slumber-party style. Now, objectively, I will say that “Airplanes,” “We Have the Facts,” and “The Photo Album” are truly awesome albums. I still love them, especially “Airplanes.” However, around the time of “Transatlanticism,” when Death Cab became the favorite band of TV’s Seth Cohen, those dudes became too famous for us. All of a sudden they didn’t know who we were during their tour stop in our city, which was pretty convenient considering they could now afford hotel rooms. Hmph. Whatever to that. Is it a coincidence that their music got more boring as they grew bigger than their britches? Maybe. I’m not saying those dudes are raging assholes or anything (especially not the bassist — he was always cool with us), I’m just saying forgetting the little people is uncool. And seven-minute-plus songs get tedious.

For the Girl With the Hourglass Figure Time Runs Out Very Fast

Hot chicks, for the most part, are assholes.

I live in Los Angeles and I work at what is considered to be a fairly “young and hip” place, so I encounter the stereotypical “hot chick” (young, thin, tan, and blonde) on a regular basis; rarely do I meet a nice one.

Now, I personally do not find these types of women very attractive — both aesthetically and, uh, personality-y? — but society does, and because they know this, they often feel they are entitled to do whatever they please and treat people however they like because they are “hot.” I find, even as a woman (and a woman who has no physical interest in them), that when I’m in a situation where I am speaking to one of these “hot chicks,” they act as if they are doing me a favor of sorts, as if it’s a privilege to talk to them. Like I should be honored that they are deigning to be seen socializing with someone far less beautiful, which is SO HORRIBLE AND WEIRD and leads me to the most fascinating thing about Hot Chick Rudeness:

HOW CAN YOU BE CONCEITED ABOUT SOMETHING YOU HAD NOTHING TO DO WITH?!

How can you be a jerk about something like how your parents’ genes were distributed?! You had NOTHING to do with that. It is NOT an acheivement. Sure, you can diet and exercise and do your part to maintain whatever it is that you’ve been given, but you personally had nothing to do with the formation of your cheekbones or the shape of your nose or the blue of your eyes or whatever. That attitude weirds me out in the same way that hardcore patriotism weirds me out — how am I going to be PROUD about the fact that my mom’s water just happened to break in a certain country? That’s just dumb, as is conceit over one’s looks. There’s really no excuse, ever, for an out-of-control ego, but at least if you’ve painted a masterpiece or written an incredible novel or composed a symphony you’ve DONE SOMETHING, so sure, brag about it a little. Be proud of yourself. But if your mom looks like Christie Brinkley and your dad looks like Brad Pitt, then, yeah, you’re gonna look good. Big whoop. You don’t have to be a dick about it.

To Have and to Have Not

I passed a billboard the other day on the way home from work that made me seethe with rage. It advertised designer menswear, jewelry, and perfume (?) with the single line: “The most expensive in the world!” If you’re the marketing director for this label, I want to punch you in your teeth with some solid-gold brass knuckles.

“The most expensive in the world!” THAT is your ONLY selling point?! Not “These are high-quality goods” or “Made in the USA!” or ANYTHING ELSE besides, “Our stuff will tell everyone exactly how rich you are!”?!

When I was younger, I used to get mad at my mom because she would always buy off-brand macaroni & cheese, and I would insist that she buy Kraft. Why? BECAUSE IT TASTES BETTER, not because I was worried that my friends would come over and see that we (gasp) didn’t buy name-brand mac & chee. There was a marked difference in the taste, so I used to beg her to buy the kind in the blue box — I insisted it was worth the slight difference in price. Did we stick with the off-brands for other things? You betcha. There was no reason to buy the more expensive versions of other things, because there wasn’t really a difference. But I was function over fashion with my after-school snack: I wanted Kraft because it tasted better, not because it looked better on the pantry shelf.

Now, with this brand, they offer no other reason to buy it other than for it to be an expression of your wealth. The ad isn’t even like, “Really well-made, which is why it’s the most expensive in the world!” See, I like clothes. I buy a lot of clothes. I don’t buy designer labels; I buy what looks best. If it’s from Target, awesome. If it’s from a slightly more expensive store, so be it. But I am buying the items based on what looks best and fits best, not what the tag says. (Sidebar: This is what bothers me about people who say, “I can’t afford to dress well,” because YES, YOU CAN! Kmart has some nice-looking stuff, people!) I am buying said clothing items so that I will look nice, and when people see me they will think, “Hey, she looks put together,” not, “Wow, she looks RICH!” Gross. (Here’s where I’m a hypocrite, though: I am brand loyal to Adidas, and do buy them because, well, they’re Adidas. But they just look better than any other brand of sneakers! If a pair of Adidas cost $5 tomorrow, I’d be elated! I would buy MORE, not LESS! It ain’t about status, it’s about LOOKING GOOD!)

I got off topic, sorry. My main point here is that I hate rich people.

Ill With the Thrill of the Chase

I am not a dude, so that right there is probably the simplest explanation for what I’m about to go into a bunch of paragraphs about, but I do not get the appeal of feigning disinterest.

If I like someone, I hang out with them; if I don’t, I don’t. In recent weeks I’ve heard two male friends talk about relationships and nearly complain about the other person being “too available.” This makes absolutely no sense to me.

I get how awesome butterflies in the stomach are, I get how great sexual tension can be, and I get the thrill of the “do they or don’t they like me?” thing. Sure. However, how long is that supposed to go on? I guess that’s what I don’t get — and I am not just talking about dating here. If someone — friend or romantic interest — declines my invite two (maybe three, if I genuinely think the first two instances really were cases of them being busy or something) times, I’m done. I get it. Message received, loud and clear: You do not want to hang out with me. It’s cool; I’ll be polite the next time I see you out, but I get what’s up. To me, that isn’t flirty or cutesy — if I ask you to kick it and you say “no,” I take that at face value.

I do not know how to play any of those games, and I’m not saying that in a pseudo-feminist, “I’m a tough broad who is in-your-face and ain’t got time for your SHIT!” way, but in an “I wear my heart on my sleeve” way. If I like you, I will probably tell you outright. If I want to go on a date with you, I will probably just ask you, straight-up. And if I like you and you ask me to hang out, I’m probably going to say “yes” immediately. I mean, I’m not going to drop everything in my life and make sure my schedule is as free as Nelson Mandela just for you, but I’m not going to say “no” just to appear coy and mysterious, because I think that’s a waste of everyone’s time. Isn’t it?

A friend called recently and said, “Haven’t heard from you in a while, why did you stop calling?” Well, I explained to him, “You said ‘no’ the last three or four times I asked you to hang out, so I figured I should be getting the hint.” He — somewhat surprised — said, “What? I didn’t wan’t you to stop calling!” I suspect the next time I ask him a question, he’s going to enthusiastically say “yes” while simultaneously shaking his head “no,” giving me a thumbs-down, and then making a fart noise.

What Are You, Some Kind of Expert?

I am fascinated by people who are experts on weird things, but more fascinated by the fact that they can somehow have the title “______ Expert” underneath their names when they are on TV — particularly the Food Network, which seems to feature quite a few of these types of folks.

Any show that Marc Summers hosts on the Food Network (usually something like “How Corn Dogs Are Made” or “The History of the Twinkie” or “Cheeseburgers: Methods of Construction” or whatever) is guaranteed to have one of these “experts” waxing poetic on root beer floats or pancakes or those nasty-ass Necco wafers. (Sidebar: I seriously think I’ve seen about four or five different shows on Food TV that focused on the Necco wafer. WHO THE HELL IS EATING THOSE THINGS? If you’re really into them, just dip some chalk in food coloring and make your own! Same great taste for less!) I have actually seen someone speaking in a serious tone of voice on television with “Cheeto Expert” as their title. CHEETO EXPERT.

In the United States of America, we live in a society where a piece of paper given to you from an institution of higher learning supposedly indicates that you know more on a given subject than a person without that diploma. I don’t necessarily agree with that setup entirely, especially when it comes to the undergrad level — I had a lot of pretty dumb people in my college classes who got decent grades because, let’s be real, anyone can do homework — but if you’ve got a Ph.D. in something, I’m going to go ahead and accept that you’re an expert. I’m going to give you that. You put in the extra time and read all those books, so fair enough; you are an expert on medieval literature or physics or economics, and I trust you to know more about those things than I do.

But CHEETOS? Or MoonPies? Or RC Cola? How do you get to expert status with those things? Is there a Cheeto University somewhere that I don’t know about? (In ninth grade I honestly thought the “CMU ALUMNI” sticker on my teacher’s desk meant that he went to Country Music University, so I might possibly believe you if you said “yes” to that question.) Is there a Ph.D. program out there focusing exclusively on Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups? If so, I feel like real life has already prepared me for that course of study, and I’d like to enroll.

What is the process of choosing who will speak knowledgably on television about Pez or Big Macs? When the Food Network is putting together one of these shows, do they hold “expert” auditions? Is there a written test you have to pass? I am genuinely curious about this! I drink a LOT of Dr. Pepper. I eat at Taco Bell three or four times a week. I’ve read about 20 books on The Smiths/Morrissey. I’ve watched the Magic Bullet infomercial at least 50 times. I have every single episode of “Saved by the Bell” memorized. I feel fully qualified to be an Official Expert and talk about any of those topics on your TV show. Let me know if you need me.

And I Quote:

“You should be blogging more. You’re really funny and people need to read your words. And that’s the last I’ll mention it.” — Erin Gibson, 2009.

So maybe I’ll start writing stuff here. Maybe.

It's Like That

Yeah, like I really need another place to post inane crap on the Haternet.