Enough Is Too Much

Tell Your Children Not to Walk My Way

I went back home to Atlanta a few months ago because I love it there, and also to visit my friends and family. My first night back, I went out with my boyfriend Andy and my friends Millie and Sonji, and after enjoying a delicious Mexican meal that included the elusive white cheese dip that sadly cannot be found at Mexican restaurants anywhere outside of the Southeastern United States, Millie suggested we go do karaoke.

We headed to a bar that offered metal karaoke, during which you were backed by a live band — awesome. Upon our arrival, we walked straight to the sign-up area in the back of the room to secure our songs; there stood a chalkboard listing the tunes offered, and once one was chosen it was immediately crossed out in order to prevent repeats. Andy chose something from Iron Maiden, Millie chose Cheap Trick, and I chose my karaoke staple (both due to my unladylike Barry White-esque vocal range and my uncanny resemblance to the singer): Danzig’s “Mother.”

A few minutes later, with songs chosen and drinks in hand, I saw a guy who looked like Carlton from “The Fresh Prince of Bel Air” approaching me with pleading eyes.

“Hey, she said,” (pointing to the woman in charge of taking song requests) “that you chose ‘Mother’ as your song?”
“Yeah…?” I replied.
“Can I have it? Please?” he asked.
“Uh…”
“Please? My 65-year-old mother is coming down here to watch me sing it, and it’s the only song she wants to hear me sing.”
“Wait, what? Your mom wants to come see you sing Danzig? It’s not exactly a pro-mom song, you know…”
“Please? She’s 65 and she really wants to come see me sing this. She’s on her way here now. Please? I’ll give you money! How much do you want?” he begged.
“What? No! That’s crazy; you don’t need to give me money. Of course you can have the song, it’s fine.”
“THANK YOU! What do you want to go sing instead? I’ll go tell the woman your next choice,” he offered.
“No, that’s cool. I don’t really want to sing anything else.”
“Let me get you a drink then,” he countered.
“No, that’s okay. You can just have the song. It’s no problem,” I insisted.

He walked off and I turned to everyone to give them the minutes of the meeting, and we were all pretty baffled. At this point it was about 11:30pm on a weeknight, so we were all wondering what 65-year-old was trying to come out to a bar to watch their grown-ass adult son sing a song written by a guy who used to front a band known for ditties about raping moms and killing babies. It made no sense, but this guy seemed desperate, so what kind of jerk could have said no to that? Not I.

We sat back and enjoyed some of the other singers until it was time for our crew to take the stage; Andy killed “Run to the Hills,” and Millie tore up “Surrender.” Then, for what was to be my turn, the band started playing a different jam. “Weird, maybe I was supposed to be up later,” I thought. But then Carlton walked on stage, grabbed the mic, and started singing an entirely different fucking song than the one he begged me to give up.

All four of us turned to look at each other and all four of us had the same look on our faces. “WHAT THE HELL IS THIS?!” I yelled. “How is that guy going to BEG me for a song that he isn’t even going to sing?! What kind of a DICK MOVE is that?!” I was inordinately furious; I mean, it was a karaoke song we were dealing with, but still, why make a huge effort to talk somebody out of something you don’t even want?!

After he was finished with a song different than the one he’d stolen from me earlier (Rage Against the Machine’s “Killing in the Name,” if you’re curious) and walked off stage, I marched up to him and screamed in his face (I honestly couldn’t believe how enraged I was over a song — it was shocking), “WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT?!”
“What do you mean?” he asked, feigning innocence.
“WHAT?! WHY would you tell me some elaborate lie to get a song that you don’t even want to sing?!” I said, still shouting.
“Why did you lie to her? What a DICK MOVE,” my dutiful boyfriend yelled. Millie and Sonji backed me up as well, as the four of us stayed in this dude’s face, looking for an explanation for his shadiness.
“I didn’t lie! My mom IS coming! She’s on her way! I’m singing ‘Mother’ as my second song,” he explained.
“WHAT?! How selfish is that?!” I asked, still yelling. “Your SECOND turn?! You didn’t say that in your earlier plea, man. I gave up my song to you because I thought this was the ONE CHANCE your mom had to see you sing it. Why lie about that to get a damn karaoke song you were just too late to choose on your own?!”
“I’m not lying! My mom is on her way right now! I just talked to her!”
“NO FUCKING WAY is that happening. It’s 1 a.m. right now. You’re trying to tell me your 65-year-old mother is out driving to a bar to come see you sing a DANZIG song in the middle of the night?! There is no way that is true.”
“It is! I just talked to her! Do you want me to call her? I’ll call her right now so you can hear for yourself!”
“I DON’T WANT TO TALK TO YOUR FUCKING MOM!”


And with that, we left.

Telly Addicts, You Should See Them At It

I am obsessed with home shopping channels. Still. And I know home shopping channels and their “hosts” (salespeople) are such easy topics to clown on, but it’s more than that for me — I’m fascinated by them and the fact that home shopping TV channels can still exist in this day and age. I know I’m not solving the Da Vinci Code here, but let’s look at the facts:

• Everything is cheaper on the Internet. Period. The other day they were selling some no-name big-screen television for about $200 more than the first price I brought up after two seconds of Googling.
• They take advantage of the fact that grandmas the world over don’t know how to Google things.
• The cult of fandom that surrounds some of the hosts is something I want to study in a sociological context and receive a doctorate in so I can return to the university and teach it to generations to come. I have watched as people called in to various “shows” (see next bullet point) and not only gushed about the products they had previously purchased, but genuinely expressed fondness and emotion for the “hosts” (salespeople) and actually said words that we sometimes find difficult to say to people close to us in our everyday lives: “I love you.” WHOA. Whoa. Now, I’m a passionate fan of things/people, so this isn’t coming from someone who doesn’t know what it’s like to deeply appreciate something/someone; but these folks are salespeople. They sell you things. Do I think they are beneath me? Certainly not! Being a salesperson is a job, just like being a secretary or a bus driver or a bank teller or any other vocation, and good on ya for getting your bills paid. Is being a salesperson something worthy of adoration? The level of adoration that would inspire someone to gush “I LOVE YOU” to a total stranger? I say no. Some would argue that even rock stars and movie stars aren’t worthy of that level of adoration, but I can see the uniqueness of those positions inspiring that sort of reaction, because through those mediums people feel like the stars understand them and speak to them on a different level. You can be inspired by the lyrics or music a rock star wrote, or be inspired by the way an actor portrayed a character or wrote/directed a film; how are you so deeply inspired by the way the guy on TV is attempting to sell you a deluxe garden hose that you have to profess your love for him?! I see it as the equivalent of telling the guy at the Gap who helped you find khakis in your size that you love him.
• I love that half-hour (or more) blocks of simply selling similar products are framed as “shows.” “Tune in to Kitchen Madness this Thursday at 9! A whole hour of pots, pans, and the like! Don’t miss it! MUST SEE TV!”
• Again with the “host” thing — “Hello, I’m your host for this hour of Kitchen Madness!” = “Hi, I am a frying pan salesman.”
• My absolute favorite thing is that they have “shows” during which they attempt to sell perfume/shower gels/bath stuff/anything with a selling point of “This smells good.” NO ONE WATCHING CAN EXPERIENCE THE VERY REASON YOU ARE TRYING TO SELL THAT PRODUCT. It’s fun to watch the “hosts” try to come up with different ways to describe the scents of the perfumes and the textures of the lotions, but kind of a bummer to think of the people buying these things sight unseen (smell un-smelled?) only to receive them and realize they don’t like the fragrance at all.
• Almost none of these items are unique to the channel; they are almost always (99.99999999999% of the time) things that can be purchased at a number of stores local to you (I once saw colored pencils on sale. COLORED PENCILS!), and also everywhere on the Internet, so the incentive to pick up your phone and order them from TV (arguably the same amount of — or perhaps a little tiny bit more — effort it takes to open your laptop and purchase them via computer) instead of by other avenues is zero.
• These channels exist solely to grift grandmas (and it has worked on mine more than once).

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.

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.