A few gems from the Saturday Toronto Star that appeared on the front porch of my parents' house this morning. Additionally, Cultural Wha? dips her prolific beak into a previously untouched medium: comic strips!
AMY
Saturday, December 24, 2011
This Year, Give the Gift of Political Discomfort
Have you ever noticed that the harder the media tries to make Christmas--whoops, I mean, the winter season, non-denominational and all-inclusive, the Christmasier the actual Christmas Eve and Day get? Our global media has a bad case of Christmas frustration. So step in line and until Santa pops by, tell the kids repression is what the global village is getting for Christmas! That way, on the morning of December 25th, they'll be even more surprised when they receive that much-yearned-for DVD that came out in 2009, HMV (do people still shop for presents there?) gift certificate, and fanciful notebook/book/daytimer/wallet thing.
A few gems from the Saturday Toronto Star that appeared on the front porch of my parents' house this morning. Additionally, Cultural Wha? dips her prolific beak into a previously untouched medium: comic strips!
AMY
A few gems from the Saturday Toronto Star that appeared on the front porch of my parents' house this morning. Additionally, Cultural Wha? dips her prolific beak into a previously untouched medium: comic strips!
AMY
Wednesday, December 21, 2011
Who's a Diva Now, Bitch
It honestly doesn't bother me when, say, a roommate leaves her Diva Cup out on the bathroom counter. Because my beef with the Diva Cup isn't that it's been inside a girl for 24 hours and now it's on my counter. I mean, hey, who am I to judge. I'm all for the "convenience" and "sustainability" principles behind the Diva Cup, as well as the explicit but informative claim that it will "last you years." No, the issue does not lie in the function or occasionally disturbing accompanying images of the new women's menstrual product.
I'm talking about the name. Diva...Cup? Okay, so it's a cup. I get that part. But Diva? What the fuck? So I'm a diva for putting a cup up my vag now? I thought I was just a smart consumer. And c'mon, let's just save the pink flowers for my first sex-ed class. I'm a woman with a body that means business, and I need a feminine hygiene company that gets it.
TAMPON. It's serious. It's not fucking around. And I like the corporate flavour of brand names like Tampax and Kotex. That "x" means business goddamnit, like it could do your taxes and sell your stocks too. Even "pad" is straight and to the point. No funny stuff. Plus it has a cool sort of upside-down symmetry with the first and last letter.
No funny stuff, Diva Cup!
JULIA
I'm talking about the name. Diva...Cup? Okay, so it's a cup. I get that part. But Diva? What the fuck? So I'm a diva for putting a cup up my vag now? I thought I was just a smart consumer. And c'mon, let's just save the pink flowers for my first sex-ed class. I'm a woman with a body that means business, and I need a feminine hygiene company that gets it.
TAMPON. It's serious. It's not fucking around. And I like the corporate flavour of brand names like Tampax and Kotex. That "x" means business goddamnit, like it could do your taxes and sell your stocks too. Even "pad" is straight and to the point. No funny stuff. Plus it has a cool sort of upside-down symmetry with the first and last letter.
No funny stuff, Diva Cup!
JULIA
Sunday, December 4, 2011
Top 5 Cultural Wha Trends of November
1. MONKEYS. Spearheaded by the newest installment of the ever-relevant Planet of the Apes series, monkeys are a top trend of November. Haven’t you been experiencing the insurmountable problem of itchy armpits (that demand scratching) an awful lot this past year? While monkey impressions have been popular since grade seven, never before has the phrase “I want a monkey” or even “I wish I was a monkey” been uttered so frequently, and with so much conviction. Special mention goes to the popular trend of revisiting past Simpsons’ episodes that feature monkeys:
2. ELVIS. Will and Kate could take a couple pointers from the late King (God rest his soul), cause this royal knew how to part-ay. As quoted from his Wikipedia page:
"Keyboardist Tony Brown remembers the singer's arrival at a University of Maryland concert: "He fell out of the limousine, to his knees. People jumped to help, and he pushed them away like, 'Don't help me.' He walked on stage and held onto the mike for the first thirty minutes like it was a post. Everybody's looking at each other like, Is the tour gonna happen?" Guitarist John Wilkinson recalled, "He was all gut. He was slurring. He was so fucked up. ... It was obvious he was drugged. It was obvious there was something terribly wrong with his body. It was so bad the words to the songs were barely intelligible. ... I remember crying. He could barely get through the introductions". Wilkinson recounted that a few nights later in Detroit, "I watched him in his dressing room, just draped over a chair, unable to move. So often I thought, 'Boss, why don't you just cancel this tour and take a year off...?' I mentioned something once in a guarded moment. He patted me on the back and said, 'It'll be all right. Don't you worry about it.'"
But he just carried it off so well. You can't learn that kind of class.
3. BLACK COFFEE. We’re so over milk and sugar. They just waste precious room in our coffee mugs. Whiskey optional.
4. OMNISCIENT HOUSEHOLD OBJECTS/PETS. Lenny the fish and Professor X the x-mas plant are clearly leaders of this category, however, Virginia the bong, as well as recent rumours of the electric kettle that has been “turning itself on” also deserve recognition.
5. GUY MADDIN. He’s the new David Lynch. (And David Lynch is the new Donald Trump.) But seriously, wait til you see Keyhole. Wowza. Like Inland Empire kinda wowza. Also notable that my class’s Guy Maddin installation is at the end of a five-day long “Focusin” fun time with Mr. Essay, effectively replacing Mulholland Drive in the drug-induced/sleep-deprived/David Lynch/nightmare category. This category is characterized by a difficulty in distinguishing dreams from reality; Alanna Thain is everywhere. Did I really boycott the film studies barbeque with her in a station wagon? It’s impossible to say.
2. ELVIS. Will and Kate could take a couple pointers from the late King (God rest his soul), cause this royal knew how to part-ay. As quoted from his Wikipedia page:
"Keyboardist Tony Brown remembers the singer's arrival at a University of Maryland concert: "He fell out of the limousine, to his knees. People jumped to help, and he pushed them away like, 'Don't help me.' He walked on stage and held onto the mike for the first thirty minutes like it was a post. Everybody's looking at each other like, Is the tour gonna happen?" Guitarist John Wilkinson recalled, "He was all gut. He was slurring. He was so fucked up. ... It was obvious he was drugged. It was obvious there was something terribly wrong with his body. It was so bad the words to the songs were barely intelligible. ... I remember crying. He could barely get through the introductions". Wilkinson recounted that a few nights later in Detroit, "I watched him in his dressing room, just draped over a chair, unable to move. So often I thought, 'Boss, why don't you just cancel this tour and take a year off...?' I mentioned something once in a guarded moment. He patted me on the back and said, 'It'll be all right. Don't you worry about it.'"
But he just carried it off so well. You can't learn that kind of class.
3. BLACK COFFEE. We’re so over milk and sugar. They just waste precious room in our coffee mugs. Whiskey optional.
4. OMNISCIENT HOUSEHOLD OBJECTS/PETS. Lenny the fish and Professor X the x-mas plant are clearly leaders of this category, however, Virginia the bong, as well as recent rumours of the electric kettle that has been “turning itself on” also deserve recognition.
5. GUY MADDIN. He’s the new David Lynch. (And David Lynch is the new Donald Trump.) But seriously, wait til you see Keyhole. Wowza. Like Inland Empire kinda wowza. Also notable that my class’s Guy Maddin installation is at the end of a five-day long “Focusin” fun time with Mr. Essay, effectively replacing Mulholland Drive in the drug-induced/sleep-deprived/David Lynch/nightmare category. This category is characterized by a difficulty in distinguishing dreams from reality; Alanna Thain is everywhere. Did I really boycott the film studies barbeque with her in a station wagon? It’s impossible to say.
Wednesday, November 23, 2011
Oh, But We Must
"I think this is part of the class, perhaps even the most fundamental lesson. We have to make a kind of Kirkegaardean leap of faith and just believe, fervently, that the TA's are receiving our questions and take their silence as an answer - the model of a fideist system of faith-based 'reciprocity'. To assume that a TA has the time or means to address you individually is to mistake the way a TA operates within the metaphysical cyber world - the very notion of trying to utilize reason to understand this is absurd. However, in an interesting reversal of the religious transcorporeal telos, we are moving from a more speculative cybernetic, properly metaphysical existence, to an organic in-person exam. We don't know the nature of the exam, only that it awaits all of us, alike, with an almost sublime and benign indifference."
- posted this evening in an online philosophy of religion course by one Michael Saunders
- posted this evening in an online philosophy of religion course by one Michael Saunders
We Must Not Be Afraid of Them
These past couple of weeks have seen a flurry of "likes" directed towards the question we pose every morning at 10:05 am in our seminars (the ones we constantly regret signing up for "for fun" because it's not fun it's fucking torture...). It is the same question that comes back to haunt us in those last few moments before sleep, when we know we should go turn off the record player because it's skipping over a certain roommate's precious Tim Hecker LP. While some of you may believe I am obnoxiously flaunting my pitchfork-approved ambient music tastes, I refer to Mr. Hecker (Ph.D. candidate and teacher at McGill University) because he is a prime example of why this question - the following question - is pertinent.
Professor or Hobo?
Indeed, the recently popular online quiz has hit the nail on the head. Professor or Hobo? Sometimes it's hard to tell. So often do I ponder the aesthetics of the frazzled, grey beard-nest.
Such existential pondering, however, is only supplementary to the real question we must ask ourselves. This is the question that presents itself perhaps less often than the "Probo" question. Yet when it does manifest, this question burrows into your brain and sets up camp deep into the goo of your consciousness. Indeed, we should all be asking ourselves the following, for it concerns all of us.
T.A. or Crackhead?
While the Professor/Hobo complex proves to be intriguing, the T.A./Crackhead debate wages war upon the undergraduate student population with no remorse. It is terrifying in its unknowability. As investigators of culture, however, we must be strong in our persistence until the bitter end. We must understand the politics of the issue. To this end, there are a number of areas which demand inquiry and thorough analysis:
1. Of course, The most obvious similarity between teaching assistants and crack cocaine addicts, and a primary contributing factor to their indistinguishability, is their cognitive logic. In both cases, the individual shows unnatural and often disturbing logical processes which stray far from those of the average person. Such is typically evidenced by teaching assistants' erratic marking schemes, and their evident lack of logic - much like the lack of logic corresponding to a crack cocaine addict's violent ranting (in certain cases, the teaching assistant may also be prone to displaying such aggressive and illogical behaviour). Indeed, a common manifestation of this logical deficit in teaching assistants is a vastly unpredictable yet very stubborn grading system, which may result in a student receiving a broad and unexplainable range of grades. For example, a student may consecutively receive a grade of "D", an "A", and a "B-" on three different essays of the same quality. As a result, undergraduate students continually feel confusion or anxiety upon confronting their teaching assistants, similar to the affective response one might have upon experience interacting with other unstable individuals, such as crack cocaine addicts.
2. Appearance and mannerisms are another important point of similarity between the two groups. Most teaching assistants and crack cocaine addicts can be characterized by having dark circles around the eyes, poor oral hygiene, and sunken cheeks. Both groups also may be prone to twitching and flinching involuntarily.
3. The geographic habits of teaching assistants and crack cocaine addicts are a mostly unchartered area, however, we can make some preliminary remarks on their overlap. Crack cocaine addicts' renowned association with the infamous "crack den" may shine some light on the relationship between teaching assistants and basement offices, as the two spaces bear similar qualities. Crack dens and T.A. offices are dark, claustrophobic spaces which may be structurally unsound, or in need of weatherproofing. The two spaces are often shared with other teaching assistants or crackheads. Furthermore, the general secrecy and suspicious nature of T.A. offices may correlate to the hidden and obscure space of the crack den. T.A. offices sometimes have a "PLEASE KNOCK" (triple underlined) sign posted on the locked door. On one occasion, my teaching assistant actually answered the door then closed it swiftly behind him, insisting that we discuss my essay in the hallway outside his office. Such occurrences further imbue the space with a forbidden and suspect ambiance.
4. Lastly, there seems to be a common trajectory with regards to the development of the teaching assistant/crack cocaine addict. Understanding this trajectory may prove to be important in controlling, and eventually preventing, the descent to teaching assistant/crack cocaine addict. Research has conclusively shown that marijuana is a "gateway" drug, introducing the marijuana smoker into a large network of amphetamines, hallucinogens, opiates, etc. Likewise, experts have found that the undergraduate degree (particularly the ever popular Bachelor of Arts) is a "gateway" degree, with more undergraduate students than ever before applying to master programs months before their own graduation. Most important to our pursuit, however, is the intersection of these two sets. The undergraduate degree has been proven as the most popular degree among marijuana smokers and, to many, is indeed the "stoner degree." With marijuana and undergraduate studies acting as "gateways" to hard drugs and graduate studies respectively, it is not difficult to see the downward trajectory from undergraduate student/marijuana smoker to teaching assistant/crack cocaine addict.
JULIA
Professor or Hobo?
Indeed, the recently popular online quiz has hit the nail on the head. Professor or Hobo? Sometimes it's hard to tell. So often do I ponder the aesthetics of the frazzled, grey beard-nest.
Such existential pondering, however, is only supplementary to the real question we must ask ourselves. This is the question that presents itself perhaps less often than the "Probo" question. Yet when it does manifest, this question burrows into your brain and sets up camp deep into the goo of your consciousness. Indeed, we should all be asking ourselves the following, for it concerns all of us.
T.A. or Crackhead?
While the Professor/Hobo complex proves to be intriguing, the T.A./Crackhead debate wages war upon the undergraduate student population with no remorse. It is terrifying in its unknowability. As investigators of culture, however, we must be strong in our persistence until the bitter end. We must understand the politics of the issue. To this end, there are a number of areas which demand inquiry and thorough analysis:
1. Of course, The most obvious similarity between teaching assistants and crack cocaine addicts, and a primary contributing factor to their indistinguishability, is their cognitive logic. In both cases, the individual shows unnatural and often disturbing logical processes which stray far from those of the average person. Such is typically evidenced by teaching assistants' erratic marking schemes, and their evident lack of logic - much like the lack of logic corresponding to a crack cocaine addict's violent ranting (in certain cases, the teaching assistant may also be prone to displaying such aggressive and illogical behaviour). Indeed, a common manifestation of this logical deficit in teaching assistants is a vastly unpredictable yet very stubborn grading system, which may result in a student receiving a broad and unexplainable range of grades. For example, a student may consecutively receive a grade of "D", an "A", and a "B-" on three different essays of the same quality. As a result, undergraduate students continually feel confusion or anxiety upon confronting their teaching assistants, similar to the affective response one might have upon experience interacting with other unstable individuals, such as crack cocaine addicts.
2. Appearance and mannerisms are another important point of similarity between the two groups. Most teaching assistants and crack cocaine addicts can be characterized by having dark circles around the eyes, poor oral hygiene, and sunken cheeks. Both groups also may be prone to twitching and flinching involuntarily.
3. The geographic habits of teaching assistants and crack cocaine addicts are a mostly unchartered area, however, we can make some preliminary remarks on their overlap. Crack cocaine addicts' renowned association with the infamous "crack den" may shine some light on the relationship between teaching assistants and basement offices, as the two spaces bear similar qualities. Crack dens and T.A. offices are dark, claustrophobic spaces which may be structurally unsound, or in need of weatherproofing. The two spaces are often shared with other teaching assistants or crackheads. Furthermore, the general secrecy and suspicious nature of T.A. offices may correlate to the hidden and obscure space of the crack den. T.A. offices sometimes have a "PLEASE KNOCK" (triple underlined) sign posted on the locked door. On one occasion, my teaching assistant actually answered the door then closed it swiftly behind him, insisting that we discuss my essay in the hallway outside his office. Such occurrences further imbue the space with a forbidden and suspect ambiance.
4. Lastly, there seems to be a common trajectory with regards to the development of the teaching assistant/crack cocaine addict. Understanding this trajectory may prove to be important in controlling, and eventually preventing, the descent to teaching assistant/crack cocaine addict. Research has conclusively shown that marijuana is a "gateway" drug, introducing the marijuana smoker into a large network of amphetamines, hallucinogens, opiates, etc. Likewise, experts have found that the undergraduate degree (particularly the ever popular Bachelor of Arts) is a "gateway" degree, with more undergraduate students than ever before applying to master programs months before their own graduation. Most important to our pursuit, however, is the intersection of these two sets. The undergraduate degree has been proven as the most popular degree among marijuana smokers and, to many, is indeed the "stoner degree." With marijuana and undergraduate studies acting as "gateways" to hard drugs and graduate studies respectively, it is not difficult to see the downward trajectory from undergraduate student/marijuana smoker to teaching assistant/crack cocaine addict.
JULIA
Sunday, October 23, 2011
Taste the Wha?
Ok, so this post idea dates back to drunken summer nights on Holt's couch watching the television magnificently mounted in the corner of the ceiling, but I find it still holds relevance.
Everyone knows when it comes to the hip shoe consumers that make up so much of the world's candy-buying demographic, weird is the that's hot of the late thousand-ands. This must be why Skittles decided to make it the defining characteristic of their latest ad game. In researching their little "world wide web site" which in fact takes the form of a "blog," I have discovered that their new fucked-up and totally weird campaign has its crazy ass balls out and swinging. The spawn of my beloved Holt's-couch ad is proudly displayed. It encourages watchers to "race the rainbow" after engaging in a weird skit where two people dressed as rats torture each other with treadmills and bags of candy on the ends of fishing lines. I can only assume this is meant to capitalize on the hipster's lonely and twisted sexuality.
But let's reach back, back, back into the past:
This is the ad I originally saw. Believe it or not, the team over at Skittles selected this little gem for their Superbowl spot. That's right, at one of the last remaining events designed to inspire a sincere sense of ambition in underprivileged youth, these corporate sugar-pushers have used the delicacy of those private long-shot hopes to sell their precious rainbow. "Harvest the rainbow." If I may be so blunt, wha? This sad old grandma with her watery eyeliner and bad dye job is using the last remaining ounce of strength in her velour-encrusted shaky little arms to lug a wheelbarrow full of what I can only assume is symbolically her challenged son's Ritalin which she rakes up while distracting the poor kid with tickling? No, Skittles! This is not the message you want to send! Do not encourage the old fogies gnawing on hard candy as a substitute for Prozac--or perhaps as a tactic in order to appear harmless and endearing, not to mention fun-loving...old man Jenkins always has a few extra caramels for the kids.
That's it, I've got it! Oh Skittles, I've sorely misinterpreted you. I mistook your attempt to corner the burgeoning pedophile demographic as an attempt to wrangle the hipster market! Silly, ever-narcissistic me! Oh well, potato, po-tah-to.
AMY
P.S. I also may have entered this blog in some sort of contest while I was on that Skittles website? Ah, internet, you truly are the Road Runner of our generation. And I will always, always be your Wile E. Coyote.
Everyone knows when it comes to the hip shoe consumers that make up so much of the world's candy-buying demographic, weird is the that's hot of the late thousand-ands. This must be why Skittles decided to make it the defining characteristic of their latest ad game. In researching their little "world wide web site" which in fact takes the form of a "blog," I have discovered that their new fucked-up and totally weird campaign has its crazy ass balls out and swinging. The spawn of my beloved Holt's-couch ad is proudly displayed. It encourages watchers to "race the rainbow" after engaging in a weird skit where two people dressed as rats torture each other with treadmills and bags of candy on the ends of fishing lines. I can only assume this is meant to capitalize on the hipster's lonely and twisted sexuality.
But let's reach back, back, back into the past:
This is the ad I originally saw. Believe it or not, the team over at Skittles selected this little gem for their Superbowl spot. That's right, at one of the last remaining events designed to inspire a sincere sense of ambition in underprivileged youth, these corporate sugar-pushers have used the delicacy of those private long-shot hopes to sell their precious rainbow. "Harvest the rainbow." If I may be so blunt, wha? This sad old grandma with her watery eyeliner and bad dye job is using the last remaining ounce of strength in her velour-encrusted shaky little arms to lug a wheelbarrow full of what I can only assume is symbolically her challenged son's Ritalin which she rakes up while distracting the poor kid with tickling? No, Skittles! This is not the message you want to send! Do not encourage the old fogies gnawing on hard candy as a substitute for Prozac--or perhaps as a tactic in order to appear harmless and endearing, not to mention fun-loving...old man Jenkins always has a few extra caramels for the kids.
That's it, I've got it! Oh Skittles, I've sorely misinterpreted you. I mistook your attempt to corner the burgeoning pedophile demographic as an attempt to wrangle the hipster market! Silly, ever-narcissistic me! Oh well, potato, po-tah-to.
AMY
P.S. I also may have entered this blog in some sort of contest while I was on that Skittles website? Ah, internet, you truly are the Road Runner of our generation. And I will always, always be your Wile E. Coyote.
Friday, October 21, 2011
omigod... SHOES!
Okay, so this post isn't actually about that hilariously annoying in a ha-ha-ha-please-let-this-stop kind of way youtube classic.
Although I have suspicions that when the "OMG, Shoes" video went viral it may have spawned more than we had foreseen in the realm of shoe pastiche. New Media classes everywhere have been completely underestimating how absolutely sick a viral video can make culture. Sick, people.
Because kids these days have been bit by the ugly shoe bug. I duly noted a couple of autumns back how "ugly" was the new "sexy" in footwear. Old Doc Martens, weird brown lace ups, or as my sister had, shoes that you might find on a medieval movie set. If you didn't own any, then fuck you. I raided many a thrift shop, ready to claw my way to the ugliest, brownest, cheapest pair.
For a group that's rah-rah-rahing all over the place about "sustainability", the hipster lifestyle is so freaking unsustainable that I may as well be eating a Meat Lovers' Pizza every day. You don't know that I haven't been.
Let's face it. The shoes were already fucked when I bought them. I think I made the holes work pretty well with my holey jacket (bought under similar circumstances) and skinny jeans. At least that's how my roommate assured me. But there's only so many rainy October nights when you can laugh off your freezing, soaking feet before the heel is entirely worn down and you accidentally step on a shard of glass. Nobody's laughing then.
So I'm proud to say that I, being two steps ahead of even the most fashionable fool at all times, have reached the next level in shoe irony. My shoes are so old and ugly they don't even have soles anymore. Yes, the sustainable lifestyle has reduced me to wearing (a) the neon sneakers I wore in grade 10 and (b) other bizarre boots I have purchased in various foreign countries but never been able to find an occasion for.
Fuck you, hipsters. Eat my neon dust.
Although I have suspicions that when the "OMG, Shoes" video went viral it may have spawned more than we had foreseen in the realm of shoe pastiche. New Media classes everywhere have been completely underestimating how absolutely sick a viral video can make culture. Sick, people.
Because kids these days have been bit by the ugly shoe bug. I duly noted a couple of autumns back how "ugly" was the new "sexy" in footwear. Old Doc Martens, weird brown lace ups, or as my sister had, shoes that you might find on a medieval movie set. If you didn't own any, then fuck you. I raided many a thrift shop, ready to claw my way to the ugliest, brownest, cheapest pair.
For a group that's rah-rah-rahing all over the place about "sustainability", the hipster lifestyle is so freaking unsustainable that I may as well be eating a Meat Lovers' Pizza every day. You don't know that I haven't been.
Let's face it. The shoes were already fucked when I bought them. I think I made the holes work pretty well with my holey jacket (bought under similar circumstances) and skinny jeans. At least that's how my roommate assured me. But there's only so many rainy October nights when you can laugh off your freezing, soaking feet before the heel is entirely worn down and you accidentally step on a shard of glass. Nobody's laughing then.
So I'm proud to say that I, being two steps ahead of even the most fashionable fool at all times, have reached the next level in shoe irony. My shoes are so old and ugly they don't even have soles anymore. Yes, the sustainable lifestyle has reduced me to wearing (a) the neon sneakers I wore in grade 10 and (b) other bizarre boots I have purchased in various foreign countries but never been able to find an occasion for.
Fuck you, hipsters. Eat my neon dust.
Tuesday, August 23, 2011
Wednesday, August 10, 2011
Enjoying August?
From "The Onion":
According to Kivens, the discovery has prompted researchers to explore the possibility that a variety of phenomena accompanying the heat wave could also be linked to the star, including taller grass, hot car seats, red skin burns, and sweating "even when one has just been standing there and hasn't been running around or anything."
Click for full article.
According to Kivens, the discovery has prompted researchers to explore the possibility that a variety of phenomena accompanying the heat wave could also be linked to the star, including taller grass, hot car seats, red skin burns, and sweating "even when one has just been standing there and hasn't been running around or anything."
Click for full article.
Friday, August 5, 2011
Optometry (?) - The Most Fucked-Up of All Businesses
I hate going to the doctor.
And I hate going shopping (mostly the choice-making part).
Obtaining a new pair of glasses for a woefully bookwormy young woman with fashion tastes that tend toward the bag-lady-esque combines a multitude of anxieties.
Sure, the little tests are pretty fun. I like naming letters!
Then it happens. They give you a prescription: to go shopping. For an accessory you must incorporate into everyday wear. That you can't lose. Or fling on the bed/couch/floor/stove. Because you can't break it. Because without it, you can't freakin' see.
Thank you optometry (?), for combining the discomfort of your average visit to the neighbourhood clinic with the time commitment and hassle of facial accessorizing.
AMY
And I hate going shopping (mostly the choice-making part).
Obtaining a new pair of glasses for a woefully bookwormy young woman with fashion tastes that tend toward the bag-lady-esque combines a multitude of anxieties.
Sure, the little tests are pretty fun. I like naming letters!
Then it happens. They give you a prescription: to go shopping. For an accessory you must incorporate into everyday wear. That you can't lose. Or fling on the bed/couch/floor/stove. Because you can't break it. Because without it, you can't freakin' see.
Thank you optometry (?), for combining the discomfort of your average visit to the neighbourhood clinic with the time commitment and hassle of facial accessorizing.
AMY
Wednesday, August 3, 2011
The Maxi Dress
In recent months there has been an exciting new development in the fashion world: the revival of the maxi dress. Though the name of the garment may conjure up some unfortunate associations, the real downfall of the maxi dress is that it has brought on a slew of idiotic magazine articles about how "classic" you'll look in this dress.
C'mon people. If you put your pea-size brains to use, you would see why the maxi dress is the nouveau utility belt. Seriously, they should have these things next to the life jackets in airplanes.
So without further ado, here are eight reasons why I love the maxi dress:
1. The wearer does not have to worry about closing her* legs at social gatherings, and will have the peace of mind to tend to more important matters.
2. The maxi dress provides the wearer with a built-in carryall, should she wish to bring an extra liquor bottle with her for emergencies.
3. As maxi dresses are often either black or patterned, the wearer may spill her drink at will and go unnoticed by other guests.
4. At the inevitable point in the late hours of the evening when the wearer decides that she is capable of jumping extreme distances – say, from the balcony to the pavement below – the maxi dress will act as a parachute and guide the wearer gently to safety.
5. The maxi dress will make such a splash at social gatherings that the wearer will often be confronted by guests who wish to borrow said maxi dress. Should this situation arise, the maxi dress will invest the wearer with the confidence to rightfully defend her ownership. For example, she will now have the strength to utter, “BITCH THE PARACHUTE IS MINE!”
6. Similar to reason number two, when the wearer passes out on the couch (due to being in an unfit state to descend the stairs to her bedroom), she need not worry about the view she may be exposing unbeknownst to passersby of the living room.
7. The next morning, the wearer may continue to wear her maxi dress to the diner, the park, the drugstore, and anywhere else on her hangover pilgrimage, and continue to receive compliments from strangers on the street. The maxi dress is the ultimate day-to-night dress.
8. In the event that the wearer committed a so-called “party fowl” the previous night and is now being subjected to disdainful silence from her roommates, the wearer will no longer need the non-believers – only her precious, precious maxi dress.
*Obviously I realize that a guy can wear a maxi dress too, and in fact, I encourage it. I bet the billowing fabric feels awesome.
JULIA
C'mon people. If you put your pea-size brains to use, you would see why the maxi dress is the nouveau utility belt. Seriously, they should have these things next to the life jackets in airplanes.
So without further ado, here are eight reasons why I love the maxi dress:
1. The wearer does not have to worry about closing her* legs at social gatherings, and will have the peace of mind to tend to more important matters.
2. The maxi dress provides the wearer with a built-in carryall, should she wish to bring an extra liquor bottle with her for emergencies.
3. As maxi dresses are often either black or patterned, the wearer may spill her drink at will and go unnoticed by other guests.
4. At the inevitable point in the late hours of the evening when the wearer decides that she is capable of jumping extreme distances – say, from the balcony to the pavement below – the maxi dress will act as a parachute and guide the wearer gently to safety.
5. The maxi dress will make such a splash at social gatherings that the wearer will often be confronted by guests who wish to borrow said maxi dress. Should this situation arise, the maxi dress will invest the wearer with the confidence to rightfully defend her ownership. For example, she will now have the strength to utter, “BITCH THE PARACHUTE IS MINE!”
6. Similar to reason number two, when the wearer passes out on the couch (due to being in an unfit state to descend the stairs to her bedroom), she need not worry about the view she may be exposing unbeknownst to passersby of the living room.
7. The next morning, the wearer may continue to wear her maxi dress to the diner, the park, the drugstore, and anywhere else on her hangover pilgrimage, and continue to receive compliments from strangers on the street. The maxi dress is the ultimate day-to-night dress.
8. In the event that the wearer committed a so-called “party fowl” the previous night and is now being subjected to disdainful silence from her roommates, the wearer will no longer need the non-believers – only her precious, precious maxi dress.
*Obviously I realize that a guy can wear a maxi dress too, and in fact, I encourage it. I bet the billowing fabric feels awesome.
JULIA
Tuesday, July 26, 2011
Want To Hear an Uplifting Story? Actually, No. Now Shut Up.
So as I zoom through the rat race, clutching my plastic bag of day-old pre-made sushi and a travel mug and trying desperately not to bash people with my purse while I crane my neck to check out my 9 AM reflection in the subway window, the pressures that convene on me, flickering overhead, are best left ignored.
But these are a little difficult. They're brightly coloured and usually begin with white text and then transition to smaller black text, which is frankly infuriating. The only thing worse than an ad that instantly annoys you is one which exploits human curiosity allowing the annoyance to drag out. I mean I "WANT TO HEAR AN UPLIFTING STORY." But I don't want it to go "A GUY LETS EVERYONE ON THE BUS BEFORE HIM. THE END." What?? You mean that old lady I discreetly shoved past in order to get to this crucial intersection probably didn't appreciate that?? You mean she didn't feel uplifted? Shit!
It's an admirable position, I'll admit, but we all know how much we hate do-gooders, especially when they rub it in. Nothing makes you feel worse about that whole block of cheese you ate while watching four solid hours of TV in a row than the person who tells you all about her overnight charity run while nibbling carrot sticks. And once we know that story, it makes us all the more eager to find out about the forty-five minutes she's about to spend in her cubicle texting and watching funny dog videos.
The idea behind all this is that by being "good" we're somehow going to make everyone feel "good," or at least ourselves. There is a delightfully selfish bent to that latter cause which I feel is the wondrous root of all human compassion. Unfortunately after taking one look at the "Good Ideas" section of the website, I have to say their plan is doomed to fail:
1. Mow your neighbour's lawn
2. Instead of an email, send a handwritten note.
3. Call your mother
4. Bring home flowers.
5. Make cookies for your neighbours
6. Do a chore, even if it's not your turn.
7. Give up the remote
8. Make breakfast for the household
9. Go say hello to your neighbour.
10. Shovel an elderly person's driveway.
Pretty much all of these things are going to make me feel worse, not to mention nothing but nothing gets me started like inconsistent punctuation, so they're already halfway to hell in my books. Good luck, people.
Not.
AMY
Wednesday, June 29, 2011
You know you're not cool when...
On the breezy evening walk to Jamez's house, you see a bunch of white movie trucks parked along the street. Awesome, you think. I like movies.
There are a gaggle of young girls clutching their cameras, whispering excitedly. You mosey over to see what all the commotion is about.
Suddenly the girls erupt in an explosion of flashes and gasps. The security guards huddle closer.
Around one figure. The centre of attention.
What's going on? You eventually ask.
The middle-aged mother of one flashing, gasping girl offers sympathetically, It's Robert Pattinson.
Oh! You say. Followed by, Which one is he?
She does a double take that's motivated either by pity or awe. It's impossible to tell which.
In the white shirt, she responds curtly.
There's too many people in white shirts. You momentarily catch sight of a highlighted yet manly head of hair. That must be him.
Oh right...with the hair, you manage to remark to the unimpressed mother. Maybe you need glasses.
So I can't walk this way then?
NO.
Jamez is waiting on his front steps with a cigarette.
Dude! You say. Robert Pattinson is shooting a movie just down the block!
Woah! He exclaims, and appears genuinely in the know. A slight pause. He flicks the butt of his cigarette.
I've been meaning to get into True Blood, you say.
Another double take. You're stirring shit up tonight.
Ummm, ha ha, no no. He's in Twilight, Jules. Jamez at least pats you on the shoulder.
Right. I knew that. That's what I meant. I just mean I've been meaning to get into vampires in general lately. You know.
A couple hours pass, and you're reporting the incident on your blog. Aptly titled Cultural Wha?
JULIA
There are a gaggle of young girls clutching their cameras, whispering excitedly. You mosey over to see what all the commotion is about.
Suddenly the girls erupt in an explosion of flashes and gasps. The security guards huddle closer.
Around one figure. The centre of attention.
What's going on? You eventually ask.
The middle-aged mother of one flashing, gasping girl offers sympathetically, It's Robert Pattinson.
Oh! You say. Followed by, Which one is he?
She does a double take that's motivated either by pity or awe. It's impossible to tell which.
In the white shirt, she responds curtly.
There's too many people in white shirts. You momentarily catch sight of a highlighted yet manly head of hair. That must be him.
Oh right...with the hair, you manage to remark to the unimpressed mother. Maybe you need glasses.
So I can't walk this way then?
NO.
Jamez is waiting on his front steps with a cigarette.
Dude! You say. Robert Pattinson is shooting a movie just down the block!
Woah! He exclaims, and appears genuinely in the know. A slight pause. He flicks the butt of his cigarette.
I've been meaning to get into True Blood, you say.
Another double take. You're stirring shit up tonight.
Ummm, ha ha, no no. He's in Twilight, Jules. Jamez at least pats you on the shoulder.
Right. I knew that. That's what I meant. I just mean I've been meaning to get into vampires in general lately. You know.
A couple hours pass, and you're reporting the incident on your blog. Aptly titled Cultural Wha?
JULIA
Thursday, June 23, 2011
Ideologies of Green Lantern
10,000 BC? I'll top that.
I recently spent a similar smoke-filled several hours with a wise male friend, though the protagonist of the film we watched was not a posh club-wielder but rather Ryan Reynolds in a computer-generated unitard.
The formulaic movie scoots along at a predictable pace, so to make things more exciting, we sought outlandish ideologies within its mechanics. These are our findings.
I. Military Propaganda
First off the bat, the Green Lanterns are members of an elite intergalactic police force called the Green Lantern Corps. You can read them as sort of super-cops, but more obviously as soldiers. When our pal Ryan, AKA Hal Jordan, is first assigned his post as a Green Lantern by a "dying purple alien," he is told that this is a great honour and a noble pursuit in life. In the earlier parts of the movie we see screw-up Jordan bumbling around with slutty girls and fighter jets, lacking a direction in life but with chutzpah to spare. Along come the Green Lanterns and though he may not be cut from the cloth they desire, his new position in the Corps gives his life meaning and determination. Of course, you never see him huddled in a ball suffering from PTSD after battling Parallax (the amorphous, tentacled villian), much less suffering from survivor's guilt after all those people get their souls sucked from their bodies when Parallax hits the downtown core in the climax. But he does use his Green Lantern powers--using the power of will to create forms from energy--to imagine into being cool machine guns, roadsters, more fighter jets and at the very height of tension, a giant green fist!
Now that's willpower. The object of the game in Green Lantern is to conquer fear--it is said that only truly fearless individuals are chosen to be Green Lanterns. Parallax was created when a wise elder tried to harness the power of fear, and it overtook him. The connections to the culture of fear present in America with its simultaneous WARS on drugs and terrorism are glaring to me personally. Parallax gets ya if you let even the tiniest iota of fear take precedence over your will, and then the soul-slurping begins and he gets bigger and more powerful. It's earnest that Jordan's epiphany turns out to be the whole courage-means-admitting-you're-afraid-and-doing-it-anyway-we-all-get-scared-sometimes-but-don't-let-it-beat-you! He literally punches fear in the face, which is kind of awesome. Sub in terror for fear in these instances, and you get a really good feeling about the direction of all this Arab War stuff.
II. Anti-Intellectualism
Ok, so Parallax = bad guy. But the mortal villain in this tale is Hector Hammond, a dweeby scientist with a disappointed senator dad. He examines the purple alien and is infected by the residue of the blast from Parallax that killed him. We're aware that the senator dad is a dick, but his assertion that the world needs more doers, not thinkers, is likely close to home for nerdy types. Hector is only allowed to examine the alien because of his father's connections, implying perhaps that he is a second-rate scientist, but perhaps that good thoughts alone are not enough to secure a prestigious government position. You need to be proactive, and you gotta be hooked up. Evil is planted within Hector upon his first truly radical scientific achievement, and I can't help but notice that each time his transformation worsens, he is twiddling a microscope or swiveling amongst banks of computer screens, as if the more he studies himself, the worse his condition. One of the symptoms is that he is able to read thoughts, and gets some pretty lousy telepathic feedback. The sniveling academic can only resent his intuitiveness.
And as we have seen in many other blockbusters, giving ultimate power to a scientist, really any intellectual at all, can only mean bad news.
III. Conservative Sexuality
My favourite. The one I came up with all on my own. Sadly, I have yet to receive sincere support for this notion.
One of my first thoughts when Jordan donned that green energy imagination suit was, "Sweet! You could put on condoms with your MIND!" Not to mention ascribe to these telepathic prophylactics your precise preferred measurements and thinness. The suit does seem to act like a sort of protective agent, allowing him to penetrate the outer reaches of space, taking him to unknown worlds. Of course, to say it fits like a glove is an understatement. He is supposed to "protect" the universe.
Then there's that ring! Which is bound up in all sorts of oaths and promises involving duty, responsibility and virtue. I won't even spell that one out.
So in this framework Parallax is ascribed the characteristics of STDs: many-limbed, confusing, harmful, scary, contagious. He gets uglier and bigger the longer he goes untreated. He must be obliterated.
In the end, Jordan is able to beat Parallax using willpower and resistance. But that's not enough. At the climax of their power struggle, it is the vocalization of the promise that Jordan has made which secures his victory.
Of course, afterwards he's limp and beaten and a stylish dude yanks him in with ropes.
AMY
I recently spent a similar smoke-filled several hours with a wise male friend, though the protagonist of the film we watched was not a posh club-wielder but rather Ryan Reynolds in a computer-generated unitard.
The formulaic movie scoots along at a predictable pace, so to make things more exciting, we sought outlandish ideologies within its mechanics. These are our findings.
I. Military Propaganda
First off the bat, the Green Lanterns are members of an elite intergalactic police force called the Green Lantern Corps. You can read them as sort of super-cops, but more obviously as soldiers. When our pal Ryan, AKA Hal Jordan, is first assigned his post as a Green Lantern by a "dying purple alien," he is told that this is a great honour and a noble pursuit in life. In the earlier parts of the movie we see screw-up Jordan bumbling around with slutty girls and fighter jets, lacking a direction in life but with chutzpah to spare. Along come the Green Lanterns and though he may not be cut from the cloth they desire, his new position in the Corps gives his life meaning and determination. Of course, you never see him huddled in a ball suffering from PTSD after battling Parallax (the amorphous, tentacled villian), much less suffering from survivor's guilt after all those people get their souls sucked from their bodies when Parallax hits the downtown core in the climax. But he does use his Green Lantern powers--using the power of will to create forms from energy--to imagine into being cool machine guns, roadsters, more fighter jets and at the very height of tension, a giant green fist!
Now that's willpower. The object of the game in Green Lantern is to conquer fear--it is said that only truly fearless individuals are chosen to be Green Lanterns. Parallax was created when a wise elder tried to harness the power of fear, and it overtook him. The connections to the culture of fear present in America with its simultaneous WARS on drugs and terrorism are glaring to me personally. Parallax gets ya if you let even the tiniest iota of fear take precedence over your will, and then the soul-slurping begins and he gets bigger and more powerful. It's earnest that Jordan's epiphany turns out to be the whole courage-means-admitting-you're-afraid-and-doing-it-anyway-we-all-get-scared-sometimes-but-don't-let-it-beat-you! He literally punches fear in the face, which is kind of awesome. Sub in terror for fear in these instances, and you get a really good feeling about the direction of all this Arab War stuff.
II. Anti-Intellectualism
Ok, so Parallax = bad guy. But the mortal villain in this tale is Hector Hammond, a dweeby scientist with a disappointed senator dad. He examines the purple alien and is infected by the residue of the blast from Parallax that killed him. We're aware that the senator dad is a dick, but his assertion that the world needs more doers, not thinkers, is likely close to home for nerdy types. Hector is only allowed to examine the alien because of his father's connections, implying perhaps that he is a second-rate scientist, but perhaps that good thoughts alone are not enough to secure a prestigious government position. You need to be proactive, and you gotta be hooked up. Evil is planted within Hector upon his first truly radical scientific achievement, and I can't help but notice that each time his transformation worsens, he is twiddling a microscope or swiveling amongst banks of computer screens, as if the more he studies himself, the worse his condition. One of the symptoms is that he is able to read thoughts, and gets some pretty lousy telepathic feedback. The sniveling academic can only resent his intuitiveness.
And as we have seen in many other blockbusters, giving ultimate power to a scientist, really any intellectual at all, can only mean bad news.
III. Conservative Sexuality
My favourite. The one I came up with all on my own. Sadly, I have yet to receive sincere support for this notion.
One of my first thoughts when Jordan donned that green energy imagination suit was, "Sweet! You could put on condoms with your MIND!" Not to mention ascribe to these telepathic prophylactics your precise preferred measurements and thinness. The suit does seem to act like a sort of protective agent, allowing him to penetrate the outer reaches of space, taking him to unknown worlds. Of course, to say it fits like a glove is an understatement. He is supposed to "protect" the universe.
Then there's that ring! Which is bound up in all sorts of oaths and promises involving duty, responsibility and virtue. I won't even spell that one out.
So in this framework Parallax is ascribed the characteristics of STDs: many-limbed, confusing, harmful, scary, contagious. He gets uglier and bigger the longer he goes untreated. He must be obliterated.
In the end, Jordan is able to beat Parallax using willpower and resistance. But that's not enough. At the climax of their power struggle, it is the vocalization of the promise that Jordan has made which secures his victory.
Of course, afterwards he's limp and beaten and a stylish dude yanks him in with ropes.
AMY
This Isn't The Post I Promised
But I have a new idea for a summer job.
Watching the 2000 movie Life-Size starring Lindsay Lohan and my favourite, Tyra Banks, puts me in mind of the former's current house arrest. I hear she's planning to spend her quality time with herself painting before her "July 2 sober birthday bash".
One day that shock of natural red is emerging from an unlikely football helmet, the next it's bleached blond streaked with acrylic. It's gotta be tough being exposed to so much so soon. I know I suffered due to the high number of "novelty ID" outlets situated in the Yonge-Dundas area of Toronto. So this is what I propose:
Lindsay, let's hang. You've got tons of cash, and I've got hair-dying tips. Probably not as good as the frosted ones on your hairstylist of the constantly shifting sexuality, but trust me, I can make up for it with witty jokes, trashy movies (none of them starring you or Ms. Banks, if you prefer) and virgin caesars. Let's make a deal.
AMY
Watching the 2000 movie Life-Size starring Lindsay Lohan and my favourite, Tyra Banks, puts me in mind of the former's current house arrest. I hear she's planning to spend her quality time with herself painting before her "July 2 sober birthday bash".
One day that shock of natural red is emerging from an unlikely football helmet, the next it's bleached blond streaked with acrylic. It's gotta be tough being exposed to so much so soon. I know I suffered due to the high number of "novelty ID" outlets situated in the Yonge-Dundas area of Toronto. So this is what I propose:
Lindsay, let's hang. You've got tons of cash, and I've got hair-dying tips. Probably not as good as the frosted ones on your hairstylist of the constantly shifting sexuality, but trust me, I can make up for it with witty jokes, trashy movies (none of them starring you or Ms. Banks, if you prefer) and virgin caesars. Let's make a deal.
AMY
Wednesday, June 22, 2011
I believe in you, Jimmy.
What’s with punctuation being named after things in the body?
Like a period. I don’t know what it is about a tiny black dot that resembles a woman shedding her uterine lining. Maybe it’s symbolic of the ovum that will never be fertilized. Maybe I just shouldn’t go there.
Then there’s the colon: what’s the deal? A couple of specks versus… that thing? I guess most people don’t really know how to use either one, what with colon cancer rising and university education increasingly being wasted on idiots that can’t grasp proper punctuation.
Perhaps we have just found the common link. Are both punctuation and body parts meant to be grasped? That would make sense, if it weren’t for the contradictory evidence of little Jimmy getting a D on his Shakespeare exam after having dedicated the previous night entirely to grasping his own dick. The aspiring young academic tried his best to contest the grade, but to no avail.
“C’mon prof, I was gonna comma in my pants!”
“If you are suggesting what I think you are suggesting—“
“No, no, uh, I mean I had my period.”
“What?”
“(.)(.)”
“Put those away!”
“I’m just trying to punctuate my point!”
“JIMMY you’re…suffocating me…”
Shakespeare would have approved, especially with regard to the young man’s gender bending efforts. So why not the Shakespeare professor? Major Cultural Wha alert.
These people clearly get my drift:
Like a period. I don’t know what it is about a tiny black dot that resembles a woman shedding her uterine lining. Maybe it’s symbolic of the ovum that will never be fertilized. Maybe I just shouldn’t go there.
Then there’s the colon: what’s the deal? A couple of specks versus… that thing? I guess most people don’t really know how to use either one, what with colon cancer rising and university education increasingly being wasted on idiots that can’t grasp proper punctuation.
Perhaps we have just found the common link. Are both punctuation and body parts meant to be grasped? That would make sense, if it weren’t for the contradictory evidence of little Jimmy getting a D on his Shakespeare exam after having dedicated the previous night entirely to grasping his own dick. The aspiring young academic tried his best to contest the grade, but to no avail.
“C’mon prof, I was gonna comma in my pants!”
“If you are suggesting what I think you are suggesting—“
“No, no, uh, I mean I had my period.”
“What?”
“(.)(.)”
“Put those away!”
“I’m just trying to punctuate my point!”
“JIMMY you’re…suffocating me…”
Shakespeare would have approved, especially with regard to the young man’s gender bending efforts. So why not the Shakespeare professor? Major Cultural Wha alert.
These people clearly get my drift:
Tuesday, June 21, 2011
One Less Lonely Girl
So I started my morning, as most do, with a glass of chocolate soy milk and a look at the video for the aforementioned Bieb's (Biebs'? Biebs's?) "One Less Lonely Girl".
I'll spare you an easily look-upable link since it's the usual pre-teen pop video: nearly impossible to get through. Predictably replete with guitar-playing in that lovable "look ma! no hands!" style for easy editing, grand romantic gestures, and awkward shorter boy-taller girl slow dancing. Justin make such promises as, "I'll shower you with kisses" (i.e. cum when he gets too excited and doesn't know which goes where due to his Catholic school's faulty sex ed program).
It's all in the spirit of good-natured ribbing. What I was really looking for were the lyrics. I decided to re-post on Bieber because I recently asked the aforementioned Michael's mom (1957-) and two eighteenish-year-old girls what this whole "Lonely Girl" business was about, since they seemed quite enthused about it. They told me what I had assumed, that the song is basically about being rescued by your knight in shining armour. And it is, but in that weird way where the lyrics essentially tell little girls that they've already taped up too many photographs, let too many tears hit the floor, let too many men treat them wrongly, as if ten-year-olds had been involved in all the scandal of your average Sex and the City episode. The only problem I have with this is that it places all the value (for me as a little girl anyway) on being jaded, and none on being innocent. It doesn't have to be equated with virginity, but no one can say that both innocence and virginity don't possess a special beauty of their own. The silver lining to these lyrics is the promise that Biebs will "Show you what you're worth/I'm gonna put you first"--which would be kind of a sweet sentiment if I felt any men anywhere felt worthy of emulating the all-powerful Biebs.
But let's move on to what these three stunning women were able to illuminate about this particular pop tune. In addition to spinning heart-stage (and I told you Julia, Bieber would never stoop to using a headset mic!), during the live performance of "One Less Lonely Girl" one girl is always chosen to come up on stage, sit on a stool, and be sung to by Justin Bieber personally. The shocking use of girl as prop is enough, but the eighteenish girls also informed me that one must not only have exquisitely perfected the art of sitting, but also be wearing shorts, lest a twelve-year-old crotch shot occur in front of thousands of fans. In the video below, Selena Gomez wears a sparkly dress and tights, but is careful to always keep her legs elegantly crossed.
I know that it's every girl's dream to be sung to by their favourite pop star, but let's face it: if we look at what this video is depicting and leave all the pop culture stuff out, it's all sorta kinda wrong. I'd probably feel kinda empty after leaving that stage if I was chosen to sit on the Lonely Girl Stool (hey, maybe we can equate this stuff with early sexual experiences), since Justin is careful to somehow sing right to Selena, graze her arms with his fingertips, but somehow also direct his gaze outward to everyone else, giving his eyes a kind of scared, darty look. So we're left with darty Justin and resplendent Selena, already looking every inch the legal drinker. It's a scientific fact that girls mature faster than boys, so why are these sexy, cheekboned, high-heeled, smart, charismatic, energetic girls left snapping their fingers and bobbing their heads in total silence, waiting for their tap on the shoulder so they may rise and dance with short, baby-faced, awkward little boys?
The matriarch of the group gave me an answer. Every generation has had their teen pop idol, and all have faded. It's pretty clear she didn't end up with a Monkee for a husband. In my view, any girl who would like to be rescued by Justin Bieber need only look in the mirror for a more than adequate substitute. But maybe mom is always right, and the sands of time will only sift and re-sift the endless grains of boy pop stars, eventually blowing them all far away.
I'll spare you an easily look-upable link since it's the usual pre-teen pop video: nearly impossible to get through. Predictably replete with guitar-playing in that lovable "look ma! no hands!" style for easy editing, grand romantic gestures, and awkward shorter boy-taller girl slow dancing. Justin make such promises as, "I'll shower you with kisses" (i.e. cum when he gets too excited and doesn't know which goes where due to his Catholic school's faulty sex ed program).
It's all in the spirit of good-natured ribbing. What I was really looking for were the lyrics. I decided to re-post on Bieber because I recently asked the aforementioned Michael's mom (1957-) and two eighteenish-year-old girls what this whole "Lonely Girl" business was about, since they seemed quite enthused about it. They told me what I had assumed, that the song is basically about being rescued by your knight in shining armour. And it is, but in that weird way where the lyrics essentially tell little girls that they've already taped up too many photographs, let too many tears hit the floor, let too many men treat them wrongly, as if ten-year-olds had been involved in all the scandal of your average Sex and the City episode. The only problem I have with this is that it places all the value (for me as a little girl anyway) on being jaded, and none on being innocent. It doesn't have to be equated with virginity, but no one can say that both innocence and virginity don't possess a special beauty of their own. The silver lining to these lyrics is the promise that Biebs will "Show you what you're worth/I'm gonna put you first"--which would be kind of a sweet sentiment if I felt any men anywhere felt worthy of emulating the all-powerful Biebs.
But let's move on to what these three stunning women were able to illuminate about this particular pop tune. In addition to spinning heart-stage (and I told you Julia, Bieber would never stoop to using a headset mic!), during the live performance of "One Less Lonely Girl" one girl is always chosen to come up on stage, sit on a stool, and be sung to by Justin Bieber personally. The shocking use of girl as prop is enough, but the eighteenish girls also informed me that one must not only have exquisitely perfected the art of sitting, but also be wearing shorts, lest a twelve-year-old crotch shot occur in front of thousands of fans. In the video below, Selena Gomez wears a sparkly dress and tights, but is careful to always keep her legs elegantly crossed.
I know that it's every girl's dream to be sung to by their favourite pop star, but let's face it: if we look at what this video is depicting and leave all the pop culture stuff out, it's all sorta kinda wrong. I'd probably feel kinda empty after leaving that stage if I was chosen to sit on the Lonely Girl Stool (hey, maybe we can equate this stuff with early sexual experiences), since Justin is careful to somehow sing right to Selena, graze her arms with his fingertips, but somehow also direct his gaze outward to everyone else, giving his eyes a kind of scared, darty look. So we're left with darty Justin and resplendent Selena, already looking every inch the legal drinker. It's a scientific fact that girls mature faster than boys, so why are these sexy, cheekboned, high-heeled, smart, charismatic, energetic girls left snapping their fingers and bobbing their heads in total silence, waiting for their tap on the shoulder so they may rise and dance with short, baby-faced, awkward little boys?
The matriarch of the group gave me an answer. Every generation has had their teen pop idol, and all have faded. It's pretty clear she didn't end up with a Monkee for a husband. In my view, any girl who would like to be rescued by Justin Bieber need only look in the mirror for a more than adequate substitute. But maybe mom is always right, and the sands of time will only sift and re-sift the endless grains of boy pop stars, eventually blowing them all far away.
Thursday, June 16, 2011
Fuck A.D.
I'm talkin about B.C. motherfuckers. Or whatever, "B.C.E." if you insist on pretending we live in a politically correct modern era. It's like calling Christmas Break "Winter Break." Sure, buddy, whatever. While I'm on the rant about religious happenings, apparently Harold Camping was actually pretty close to predicting the end of the world! At least, as far as he's concerned. (The authors of that article suggest divine intervention as the cause for Camping's misfortune, however, I prefer Michael's theory on this whole business: the Rapture did indeed occur as predicted by Camping, but all of us hell-bound citizens just didn't notice the sudden absence of the good guys.)
Nah, B.C. is where it's at. 10,000 BC to be exact. Sure, being a cultural studies student (wha?), I could write pages and pages about my love of Cronenberg and Body Horror. But Cultural Wha? doesn't need any of that fancy bullshit. What it needs is a night in with Bo, a couple j's and CAVE MEN. Problematic racial implications aside, (why do they all have dreadlocks?) 10,000 BC is great because of its many mishaps - or as I prefer, adventures - in continuity! I particularly enjoyed that man has not yet invented the bow and arrow but the protagonists speak flawlessly in their pseudo-british accents. The low budget Lord of the Rings aesthetic was also a bonus.
5 stars.
JULIA
Nah, B.C. is where it's at. 10,000 BC to be exact. Sure, being a cultural studies student (wha?), I could write pages and pages about my love of Cronenberg and Body Horror. But Cultural Wha? doesn't need any of that fancy bullshit. What it needs is a night in with Bo, a couple j's and CAVE MEN. Problematic racial implications aside, (why do they all have dreadlocks?) 10,000 BC is great because of its many mishaps - or as I prefer, adventures - in continuity! I particularly enjoyed that man has not yet invented the bow and arrow but the protagonists speak flawlessly in their pseudo-british accents. The low budget Lord of the Rings aesthetic was also a bonus.
5 stars.
JULIA
Tuesday, June 14, 2011
Fanny Pack Attack
There were many titles in consideration for this second-ever post: "Fanny Pack Alert." "Revenge of the Fanny Pack." But this one won out for being better than "Attack of the Fanny Pack," and also reminding me of Art Attack. (In searching for an appropriate "Art Attack" link or at least one better than the flash-drenched official version, Google Chrome informed me that Angry Birds was now in the Google Chrome Store and encouraged me to Get Angry Birds Now. How is that good advertising to anyone? Do people click that? Do they Want Angry Birds Now? Also, apparently they replaced The Head! Cultural Wha? alert!)
Anyway, walking down the street today directly in front of me emerges a man in a purple t-shirt and an obviously more freshly adorned fanny pack from his front door, stepping in front of me. Honestly, those things look bad even from the back. And that's not even where the main business of the fanny pack lies. That's not even like, the main attraction. A fanny pack from the back is like, Mount Rushmore from the back.
I began to wonder what could possible be necessary about widespread fanny pack usage, aside from adding to our long list of fashion rapes and kills in the name of imitating nature. We pad our feet and slick our skin, not to mention of course stick our lipsticks inside theirs. But really, is the marsupial advantage really the one that should be so lustily imitated by those in need of a hands free fix for their personal items? Firstly, think about it. You're supposed to keep babies in there. If we were supposed to put coupons in our uterus, the universe would have also figured out a natural reason why coupons are necessary. It's creepy. Get a backpack. They're a lot sexier.
Of course, I must add that when worn by a member of the hipster generation, fanny packs are very cool, acceptable, and even good-looking or "original." Everything is cooler when young people think of it.
AMY
Anyway, walking down the street today directly in front of me emerges a man in a purple t-shirt and an obviously more freshly adorned fanny pack from his front door, stepping in front of me. Honestly, those things look bad even from the back. And that's not even where the main business of the fanny pack lies. That's not even like, the main attraction. A fanny pack from the back is like, Mount Rushmore from the back.
I began to wonder what could possible be necessary about widespread fanny pack usage, aside from adding to our long list of fashion rapes and kills in the name of imitating nature. We pad our feet and slick our skin, not to mention of course stick our lipsticks inside theirs. But really, is the marsupial advantage really the one that should be so lustily imitated by those in need of a hands free fix for their personal items? Firstly, think about it. You're supposed to keep babies in there. If we were supposed to put coupons in our uterus, the universe would have also figured out a natural reason why coupons are necessary. It's creepy. Get a backpack. They're a lot sexier.
Of course, I must add that when worn by a member of the hipster generation, fanny packs are very cool, acceptable, and even good-looking or "original." Everything is cooler when young people think of it.
AMY
Monday, June 13, 2011
Boo Biebs
If anyone's the kidnap victim of pop culture, it's Justin Bieber. Every couple of weeks we received bits of him in the mail, sleek locks of hair, dark eyelashes, sexy brown eyeballs. I don't really know who Justin is, the man, I mean. Inside. But I know his outer appearance, and that his ranking in society falls somewhere in the category of..."pop star".
I am amazed yet know not why. Well, for one thing, he has a following of lesbian look-alikes. I want that. He's also from Stratford, Ontario.
He's even made it into my university lectures. My Religious Ethics and the Environment class to be exact. My professor - a broad-shouldered, questionably gay 30-year-old whom I love dearly - told the class of 300 students about his night at the Justin Bieber concert. He had promised his sister that he would take his two nephews to the show. Unfortunately the night immediately took a down-turn for the two young boys when they realized that, indeed, only little girls were to worship the Biebs. As the young pop legend emerged prophetically on a large, heart-shaped stage that floated out into the audience, the thousands of screaming girls could not contain themselves any longer. Justin only provoked them further. He asked into his microphone, "Are you feeling...lonely tonight?" At this point my professor had had enough, and turned to the little girl who was screaming next to him. He scolded, "NO. You are NOT lonely." Who then began to cry. He proceeded to wave his finger and cover his ears for the rest of the night. "It was horrible." (In finding this illuminating photograph, we noted that there was PORNO on the side of the web page. We just as quickly noted that this is how the internet comes: with porn on the side.)
I stated that it seemed creepy that Justin Bieber had been displayed so overtly as nothing other than every little girl's most cherished fantasy. We could only imagine how the staff of Justin Bieber managed to extract the exact details of this fantasy from said every little girl's brain. Maybe it went something like this:
"Little girl, what is your most cherished fantasy?"
"I want Justin Bieber on a heart-shaped stage...spinning towards me."
"I see. And what would be the dimensions of this rotating heart stage?"
I now could not help but see all of Justin Bieber's various worker bees hovering around a giant conference room with the little girl seated in a huge wheely chair...surveyors are taking down notes and fiddling with weird measuring equipment, construction workers twiddling levels, CEOs chatting into cell phones and every one basically looks really nervous, while King Biebs himself sits atop a throne eating ice cream.
What kind of bees make milk?
Boobies.
So the next time you think of our homeboy Justin Bieber, just think, Boo Biebs.
AMY + JULIA
I am amazed yet know not why. Well, for one thing, he has a following of lesbian look-alikes. I want that. He's also from Stratford, Ontario.
He's even made it into my university lectures. My Religious Ethics and the Environment class to be exact. My professor - a broad-shouldered, questionably gay 30-year-old whom I love dearly - told the class of 300 students about his night at the Justin Bieber concert. He had promised his sister that he would take his two nephews to the show. Unfortunately the night immediately took a down-turn for the two young boys when they realized that, indeed, only little girls were to worship the Biebs. As the young pop legend emerged prophetically on a large, heart-shaped stage that floated out into the audience, the thousands of screaming girls could not contain themselves any longer. Justin only provoked them further. He asked into his microphone, "Are you feeling...lonely tonight?" At this point my professor had had enough, and turned to the little girl who was screaming next to him. He scolded, "NO. You are NOT lonely." Who then began to cry. He proceeded to wave his finger and cover his ears for the rest of the night. "It was horrible." (In finding this illuminating photograph, we noted that there was PORNO on the side of the web page. We just as quickly noted that this is how the internet comes: with porn on the side.)
I stated that it seemed creepy that Justin Bieber had been displayed so overtly as nothing other than every little girl's most cherished fantasy. We could only imagine how the staff of Justin Bieber managed to extract the exact details of this fantasy from said every little girl's brain. Maybe it went something like this:
"Little girl, what is your most cherished fantasy?"
"I want Justin Bieber on a heart-shaped stage...spinning towards me."
"I see. And what would be the dimensions of this rotating heart stage?"
I now could not help but see all of Justin Bieber's various worker bees hovering around a giant conference room with the little girl seated in a huge wheely chair...surveyors are taking down notes and fiddling with weird measuring equipment, construction workers twiddling levels, CEOs chatting into cell phones and every one basically looks really nervous, while King Biebs himself sits atop a throne eating ice cream.
What kind of bees make milk?
Boobies.
So the next time you think of our homeboy Justin Bieber, just think, Boo Biebs.
AMY + JULIA
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