So Worth Watching

Because there is truly nothing that could make me happier than a youtube video combining two of my favorite subjects, (Avatar and photoshop) behold the magic of dying alone. I am but a novice in this beautiful and delicate craft, and this guy is the real deal. I would try to do this myself but I have much better things to do with my time. Like catch up on this weeks Cougartown and fix all my div tags while only crying on the inside.

This is what happens when I don't sleep.

Today, the literary truths revealed in the back issue of a New Yorker will forever bleaken my otherwise rosy existence, and life as I know it will never be the same. I am forevermore denied the G-d given right to trust, nay love.

The Gossip Girl series was based on a marketing formula.

Why the lies? Why the deception? What has left dozens, if not scads or handfuls of readers beseeching the heavens why they have devoted their young lives replicating a lie is of no consequence to the publishing whore Alloy Books. To Alloy, these fragile and superficial minds are just mere notches on their belt. A belt that not only cinches in the upper east side of Gossip Girl territory, but other bitchy-teen lit series such as The A-List, Private, The Clique, and The Luxe. They have even damned themselves so far as to own the rights to the Sweet Valley High series.

Alloy Entertainment is not only in the business of sodomizing American popular literature as we know it, but screwing over their employees as well. “Alloy authors generally own a fifty-per cent stake in their work. Alloy retains the intellectual-property rights to all the work, but writers share in the revenue generated from the rights.” Ultimately, the Alloy marketing team sits down in a board meeting and decides what they should name their newest train wreck of a protagonist and BAM, ex-coke head role models like Serena Van DerWoodson are born. Although Cecily von Ziegesar (an Alloy editor) did pen the entire Gossip Girl series, other less high profile books are written by ghost writers. More often than not these syntax slaves are fresh out of college, with no experience whatsoever completing an entire novel. However, like trained feces slinging monkeys, the novice authors are trusted to fill in the blanks. They are left with little creative license, as the majority of the plot and character descriptions have already been decided before a panel that is well versed in what will and won’t sell. These plot and character devices are created to best suit the current American audience, and what would best benefit from a supplementary television series.

Enter Gossip Girl (in it’s third season, mind you) and their own take on the sullen undead teen angst bandwagon, Vampire Diaries.

There is no denying that the company is successful, if not soulless. Cecily Von Ziegesar is rumored to have written a book in a weekend, basically the same amount of time it takes me to get over my recurring fear of Jose Cuervo before I get on its metaphorical bull ride of defeat again.

While I admit the necessity of controlling every aspect of a lucrative business in this troubled and bruised economy, a little piece of the magic has died. What of the shallow and evanescent friendship of Blair and Serena? The emo and somewhat obnoxious tendencies of Dan Humphrey? For G-d’s sake what about Chuck Bass? The one precious jewel out of this box of tawdry and STI infected baubles, are the life lessons this series has taught me. While I have no right to wield a head band of power like the wise and ruthless Blair Waldorf, I can aspire to someday owning her accessories collection. Which is, in the end, is all that truly matters.

Mead, Rebecca. "The Gossip Mill." The New Yorker 19 Oct. 2009: 62-66. Print.

G-d Bless America

The only thing I could possibly want more than to reclaim my dignity, a new liver, or the resurrection of Mr. Mittens (in non-zombie hamster form) are the new metallic Sperry's for J Crew. They're flashy enough to garner attention, yet subtle enough to go with a vast array of outfit choices without screaming what a complete tool you are. That's what your bedazzled back pack is for. In this bleak and tiresome month of January, these shoes symbolize the hope that spring is just (kind-of but not really) around the corner, and seem to usher in the warm breezes and outdoor day drinking that comes with it. I could see a freshman slutting these up with a jean short, or appropriating them with navy or white clam diggers. These shoes are like the American dream, except with an exchange policy and the capability of closing Guantanamo Bay on time. However, in this recession are $98 shoes really worth it? Probably not, but I feel like it is my Patriotic Duty to use my 15% student discount and work study funds to finally own a little piece of America the beautiful. Or wait two months for a sale.

What the W

The following are random things that were either brought up recently, or unfortunately just occurred.

Famous Last Words

I will preface this by saying that Saturday was incredibly cold. Frigid actually, and I am all for dressing warmly to overcome this cruel and bitter winter. My friends and I were walking back from happy hour, and other than realizing I had probably just consumed two days worth of calories in awesome fries and artichoke dip, I was going over appropriate outfit choices in my head for the coming night. As we walked back to campus, I wondered aloud, “Natalie, would you judge me if I wore flannel tonight,” and some total raving bitch walking the opposite way of me answered “yes.” The whore did not alter her journey in any way, no explanation or apology offered, and I was left in stunned silence and the indignity of the situation. It's a really cute shirt too. If we meet again, I will unfortunately have to kill her to regain my honor. The bitch has to die.

We are the future

If one were to look up porching in the dictionary, it would describe celebrating tolerable weather with heavy drinking on a fraternity porch, synonymous with restraint and decorum. There would also be a picture of some freshman who has fallen off of said porch and dry heaving into the bushes. Anyway, the porching story with the most relevance to this post happened last spring, when my friend and I were greeting someone who had just come from inside of the house. However, instead of sanely hugging him like I had just done, she began to physically tear his shirt off. He proceeded to grab the rest of the fabric on his body, while screaming like the Incredible Hulk. In seconds he was left with nothing but his beater and scraps of what hopefully was an unloved garment. Then he walked away. The thing that disturbs me about this is not the fact that it happened, but that neither my friend nor I thought of it as out of the ordinary and didn’t even talk about it until much later the next day.

How I love morning classes

Because my course load has all the relevance and academic consequence of a feces-slinging monkey, I was lucky enough to take “Sex in Society” as one of my social sciences requirements. Last Friday we were learning about the beautiful and delicate world of BDSM. Our teacher was going over the etiquette in dungeons and what would make for an awkward party situation. She also breached everyone's favorite topic, role playing. She went over the basic and well known dominant and submissive stereo-types. Teacher/student, pirate/wench, doctor/patient, etc etc. Then she threw in Nazi/prisoner. At this point I completely lost it, along with my roommate and Ross. What I want to know is what kind of person gets turned on by the Holocaust. (WTF, “Scream it again, six million more times?”) I’m sure there are people out there playing bomber/Hiroshima victim, soldier/Darfur refugee, and priest/choir boy and hopefully they’re staying in whatever dank basement or corporate cubicle they crawled out of.

Double digits?

With 2010 and ultimately a new decade unmercifully thrust upon us, a time of change and reflection is inevitable. With the vain hope of turning my New Years resolutions into a tangible thing, I have made this list in order to grow and flourish into a decent human being by the time 2011 rolls around. If such a thing is possible.

2010: "It Can Happen."

Stop lying to strangers in social situations about my age. I’m not sixteen, I’m not eighteen, I’m “twenty-two” and should behave as such.

Get a classy tattoo, much like the man above. Perhaps a Prada triangle, or Burberry check tramp stamp.

Become a better person, preferably by wearing aviators and incorporating Top Gun quotes into my every-day life as much as humanly possible.

Not necessarily accept, but begrudgingly acknowledge the fact that I am slowly turning into my Mother. I already have inherited her Tourettes and stolen most of her blazers, but I didn’t realize how scary the situation was until today. I completely flipped out at my Fresh Grocer cashier because she didn’t ring up my sale items correctly, and after several necessary price checks a $20 bill quickly turned into $9 and change. As I was muttering about her incompetence and the general indignity of it all, searing flash backs from my childhood regarding similar episodes in Stop and Shop and Shaws made everything a little too transparent. However, I refuse to worry about this until I find myself sitting next to her intently watching the weather channel on mute, in the dark.

Find Bill in order to keep Sookie occupied. Eric’s mine you gap toothed fairy.

Stop being such a raving bitch, and to take more time in the morning to think about proper accessories. Not only am I cheating myself by not thoroughly mulling over my headband drawers and jewelry boxes, but the general population as well.

Care more about the general well being of reality TV stars…because they’re people too.

With each passing year, the transient and ephemeral nature of life becomes more and more apparent. In 2010 I will make a TV watching Excel schedule so I don’t miss an episode or made for TV movie about the joys of life and the triumph of the human spirit.

Stop hating people based on first appearances. Loathing, strong dislike, and abhorrence is perfectly acceptable.

Find a signature perfume, because I’m a fucking lady now. Preferably one I already own.

Blog more in order to maintain that crucial thing called sanity. My parents and the .75 of a person who read this have a right to my blithering and stale remarks and general dislike of humanity.

Lose enough weight to feel comfortable in my slutty high school clothes. Because that really does totally encompass living the dream.

Become an excellent cook, so when people refer to me as that “pretentious, conceited bitch,” they can then add “but she makes an amazing brisket so I can find it in my heart to forgive her.”

Totally embrace my heritage and the Jewish faith. By 2011 I hope to have watched all of the Mel Brooks and Woody Allen movies.

Find a way to become an Avatar.

Why I love being a design student.

Now that I am a so-called upperclassmen, I am lucky enough to be finished with a good portion of my required gen-ed classes and can take the electives that I have been patiently waiting for. One of these electives would be sculpture class. Because of my "breakdown" last spring term, where I "gave up" and decided to make "whatever the fuck I want" because I will "see you in hell COMAD," I have thoroughly enjoyed my classes. One of my favorite projects from last term was my first sculpture assignment, where we were to make something out of a found object. Behold, the watercooler found in the fourth floor Crossings trash room.

Pride and Petulance

I just finished watching Pride and Prejudice (basically late 18th century porn) and although I’ve probably seen it around twenty-something times, the cinematography and scenery never cease to amaze. While I was expressing regret (bitching heavily) on missing out on the English countryside during my study abroad fiasco this summer, and the tragic fact that I do not own a riding coat like every other tramp in Netherfield Park, my father mentioned that I should be grateful for all that our time period affords us now. With my luck and the lack of modern medicine, I probably wouldn’t have survived infancy in the age of propriety and pandas. (I couldn't think of another P word, fuck off) I readily agreed, as I have a pretty serious allergy to lanolin (found in the sebaceous glands of wool bearing animals) and there was a shit-ton of sheep back then. After my parents stared at me for a good ten seconds, they kindly explained I probably would have kicked the bucket from something like pneumonia, which is no stranger to a household that thinks sending their precious daughter to shovel snow in a New England blizzard builds character. I’m like a frail, belligerent flower and should be treated as such. And to be fair, we discovered I had developed an allergy to lanolin when I was given a tube of evil called Triple Lanolin when I was around eight or so. Considering it was winter and I had dry skin, I thought it would be a grand idea to smear the entire tube all over my body. To this day I’m still afraid of moisturizers. And sheep.

It’s hard to believe that Jane Austen novels like Pride and Prejudice were equivalent in popularity to what the Twilight crap phenomenon is now. While most literary critics of her time praised Austen’s work (considering she was proficient enough to pen a best seller without airing a morbidly obese pre-teens daydreams of dry humping a twinkly vampire) some of her peers thought otherwise. Charlotte Bronte, the eldest (and sluttiest) of the famed Bronte sisters and author of Jane Eyre, found Pride and Prejudice "...a carefully fenced, highly cultivated garden, with neat borders and delicate flowers; but... no open country, no fresh air, no blue hill, no bonny beck.” Put bluntly, Bronte is saying that Heathcliff could kick Mr. Darcy’s ass. While I have much better things to do on my winter break than envisioning what would happen in a death match between fictional characters residing at Wuthering Heights and Pemberley, it’s hard to decide which arduous task takes precedence over the other. Like trying on all my old prom dresses before or after I catch up on Nip/Tuck. Like some great Chanukah miracle, which really has a lot more relevance than that retarded oil thing, I actually fit into all of them. Because I was truly grateful I could still fit into a size 2 BCBG cocktail dress (I don’t get it either) and during the holiday season we’re supposed to reflect on what we’re thankful for, I decided to make a list.

THINGS I AM THANKFUL FOR

Coffee
Grain Alcohol
Netflix/Hulu
J Crew
Raccoons
Coupons
Happy Hour
Melatonin
Robert Downey Jr.
Top Gun
H1N1 Vaccine
Disney Princesses
Bedazzling
My Co-op
Adult Swim


THINGS I AM NOT THANKFUL FOR

Rabid Raccoons
Dirty Pirate Hookers
Jew-guilt
Twilight
Facebook chat
Christmas Carolers
Nesbitt
Epson printers and paper
Interviews
Fake luxury goods
Petroleum
PC’s
All of the white trash that Sharon has seemed to accumulate
Slut magic