Teen Mom returns next week, let there be rejoicing throughout the land.
Since Jackass and Wildboyz became out of trend, MTV has since lost its magic for me but these video-taped high school drop-outs and degenerates are pretty much the only thing that got me through finals week. I vainly sought out alternatives and opportunities to feel better about myself while knee-deep in codes and pantone colors. Questioning my chosen major and coming to the sobering realization that my advertising final was a series of Vera Bradley advertisements geared towards bitter and alcoholic soccer moms was frightening. At the very least I was in my twenties and couldn't boast a C-section scar. Just that inter-sorority knife fight scar.
Granted these girls and their dead beat boyfriends and "fiancees" are the very epitome of white trash (with the exception of Ryan who is extremely attractive white trash) but you figure they should know better. There is no better way to ruin any potential for a career-driven successful life than going into the work force with a mullet and twins.
At the very least the hot mom whose name I can't recall ended up sleeping with the douschebag from Jersey Shore. I think his name was Mike, but imagining the process of googling this is emotionally draining. However I believe MTV deserves golf claps all around for bringing two such beautiful and thoughtful people together. If we're lucky they might perhaps spawn another joyous offspring, bringing this whole charade full circle. G-d bless America.
I sometimes forget that I have been actively living on my own for three years. By “on my own” I do mean living with three other girls who are quite aware of my incompetence and failings in little matters such as “eating normal meals,” “sleeping the recommended amount,” and pretty much “life in general.” My Philadelphia roommates are nothing but saints to put up with me, especially my actual roommate who not only understands my routines, but accepts them.
For example, if I don’t come home I am either:
a) Passed out on Natalie’s couch, clutching the TV clicker with a death grip. Adult swim can’t watch itself, people.
b) Passed out on the brotherhood room couch. Probably after cursing out the freshman pledges who hadn’t learned my name yet. “Why is she still here, and why is she blacked out and STILL correcting my grammar.”
c) Passed out on the fraternity porch. Because West Philadelphia is just full of people who LOVE to sleep outside.
d) Passed out in our hallway, because I couldn’t make it to the room.
In some sort of bastardized attempt to turn myself into a decent human being, I’ve decided to set myself goals.
Firstly, I will stop eating loaves of bread. This is an awkward and highly caloric habit, and faintly reminiscent of an Oliver Twist situation. However I doubt the little bastard was familiar with Iggy’s sourdough. I feel like he had bigger things to deal with, like dancing for change in order to buy penicillin. “Please sir, it’s not just a flesh wound.”
I will find cool sunglasses, because I have this weird paranoia that Manhattan-ites are secretly judging me because I don’t own Ray Ban’s. My douschebag aviators are missing, and with those go any sort of pretension I can muster.
I will attempt to cook…things. I was browsing in Anthropologie and came across some of the most darling measuring spoons imaginable. Brittany had to forcibly make me put them down, even though I was a mere $7.95 away from domestication.
I will stop downloading awkward apps for my phone. For a month and a half my phone would scream “THIS IS A TEXT MESSAGE” in a King Leonidis voice akin to the famous “THIS IS SPARTA” we heard in 300. I had to keep my phone on vibrate because although I deleted the app, it would still go off because my Droid is an evil and possessed being. I had to go to the Verizon store to make it go away, but they will have to pry my “highway to the danger zone” ringtone out of my cold, dead fingers.
I will drink less, before my life slowly spirals into one extended happy hour. Granted that sounds amazing in theory, but I think I’ll have to save it for middle age. “Mommy why are you throwing crudités at the TV?” “Because Daddy is a whore.”
At least the first step to change is accepting that you have a problem. No matter how well that problem goes with cheese and crackers.
Are you a struggling artist searching for a means to share your voice and tambourine with the world?
Has it been your life’s dream to showcase your traveling family band complete with angst ridden yet amply drugged children?
Well step off that open-night mic stage stained with failed hopes, dreams and opiates. The Alternative Apparel Unsigned Artists Competition is a legitimate chance to share your skills with the world. The talent showed on the website is incredible to say the least, and the winner gets to perform at a fancy venue in New York City in front of powerful representatives in the music and entertainment agency.
The judges are Charlie Walk, the former president of Epic records and the W in RJW Collective, Greg Alterman the creator of Alternative Apparel, and Kelly Cutrone, the founder of People’s Revolution. The winner(s) voted upon by the judges will not only get to perform in front of a VIP crowd, but featured in the Alternative Apparel fall fashion campaign. Winners will also get exclusive interviews with music editors, experts, and industry insiders on top of airplay on music sites and radio stations...plus $1500 in Alternative Apparel products! In order to enter, all you have to do is record yourself (or your band) performing the first verse and chorus to Aqualung’s “Brighter Than Sunshine” and upload the video to http://www.alternativeapparel.com/unsignedartist/.
If you can’t sing, then vote! Check out Rachel Berman’s video!
I’m going to openly admit that I’m not the most fashionable person in the world. There is some sick and twisted side of me that still thinks I can resurrect my high school wardrobe of Abercrombie polo’s and various tennis skirts, even though 63% of the people I know would stop speaking to me. The other 37% I wouldn’t trust.
However back in the day even I, the Jappy-ass hooker in training, had the fashion sense to not wear certain brands. These included but were not restricted to, Aeropostale, Bebe, Rue 21, Wet Seal, and of course Forever 21. I have problems with these stores cuts, sizes, and most of all, quality. If something is going to pill and then consequently burst into flames when you throw it in the dryer, it’s not worth purchasing. No matter how cheap it is, or how the nice gay sales-man complimented how it fit your muffin top in the dressing room. I’m more of a GAP or J Crew type of person, because lets face it I aspire to the alcoholic New Englander lifestyle. You can’t say I’m not driven.
But now I’m getting off topic. One of my bosses graciously sent out an open invite to the Forever 21 Times Square Launch Party, and not being one to turn down a guaranteed free open bar, ended up RSVP’ing with Brittany and forcibly dragging Carlo along for the ride.
Carlo and I showed somewhat on time, pushing aside all of the Canon-toting tourists in Times Square and going into what looked like a completely empty and huge Forever 21. Once inside, we were directed towards the escalator, where we were instructed to go to the very bottom where the event was being held. Sadly I don’t remember how many floors there were, little things like that and my brothers birthday tend to slip my mind. Once downstairs we immediately went to the bar where Carlo was immediately hit on by the waitstaff, whether it was directed towards him or his brand new iphone 4 is irrelevant. We both ordered champagne then and throughout the rest of the night, as I had carefully inspected the fancy drinks the bar was offering, and they had no alcohol in them. That’s about as worthless as decaffeinated coffee, or a stripper with morals.
After about an hour of drinking and people watching, the fashion show began and it was actually quite lovely. If I had seen those clothes I would not have assumed they were from Forever 21, however I’m sure I would have not seen them worn on models dressed as sprites and wood nymphs. Especially since I quit smoking.
Along with the champagne, Carlo and I were grabbing as many pieces of mini-steak and tomato-mozzarella skewers as humanly possible. He hadn’t eaten dinner, and I’m just a fat ass. At this point Brit had appeared by some form of midget-like magic. She had successfully returned from apartment hunting, and was pleased to say she wouldn’t have to be sleeping on my floor in the coming weeks.
We listened to a band play and milled about the event floor, as it was a truly beautiful and open space, especially for such coveted Times Square real estate. When the band called it quits, we decided to head above ground and return to Hells Kitchen because Brit wanted frozen yogurt and I wanted to heat up an insufferable packet of Indian food. On the way out we were given F21 totes containing gift cards, an umbrella, shirts, and nail polish. Considering my point of intoxication and undying love for free things, I was quite ecstatic.
All in all it was a lovely time, and although I don’t plan on shopping at Forever 21 frequently (or at all) I will not judge them as harshly as I previously have. Especially since I woke up the next morning clutching an entire mango, judging anything or anyone is out of the question.
Continuing my torrid lifelong affair with carbohydrates, I decided there was no better way to cure a hang over than with a baguette in Central Park. Going to Whole Foods at Columbus Circle with the intention of having some sort of quasi picnic is one of my favorite things to do, as it reminds me of last summer when I would go to Whole Foods Kensington and then Kensington Gardens. Granted, both the Kensington Whole Foods and gardens are much nicer than the ones in NYC, but I don’t think I’m entitled to complain.
In that vein, I actually don’t mind being completely and horribly broke, because it’s the little things I’ve been finding in my travels that really matter.
For example, forcing myself to talk with the foreign deli guys that work next to my office to get sandwich discounts.
Dollar slices of pizza by the Port Authority bus station, where old men sit in lay-z boys by the side of the road and the younger men do chin-ups off the street light.
The upscale McDonalds café by central park that still gives off its Americanized scent of French fries and shame.
Those pre-packaged Indian meals I get at the organic-mart, purely because they’re on sale and I have additional coupons.
Drunkenly going into convenience stores in the wee hours of the morning and bargaining for food. One nice man made me a Panini meal and then gave me a six pack of Bud Light pounders “for the road” in exchange for a dollar.
And finally the free open bars that beautiful NYC so graciously provides. For example, on Sunday I decided I couldn’t brave the afternoon one for various reasons. Mostly because there was no way in hell I was leaving the comfort of air conditioning and brunch eggs, so I told my friends to meet up with me afterwards. They showed up to my apartment complete wrecks, as they had somehow befriended the owner (and consequently the bartenders) and had forgone eating for the day. I dragged them to the Chinese food restaurant next door, made sure they ingested the proper amount of calories, and then went to lay out with them in Central Park.
Laying out turned into Peter passing out in the grass like some sort of fashionable vagrant in Ray-Bans and Sperry’s, and Marty and I sitting on the rock above him and judging all who walked past. Granted everyone who walked by was also judging Peter, but Marty and I are the arbiters of taste and bitchiness.
We decided that we should have a show together where we would sit on that very rock, and inform the women passing by that their husbands or boyfriends are actually in the closet. Someone needs to tell these poor women sauntering past, proudly hand in hand with their boo, that he’s skinnier and more fashionable and more attractive than you for a reason. Mainly because he’s fucking other men while you watch Real Housewives of New York and go over bridal magazines with your cat. As quoted by Cypher in the 1999 classic The Matrix…”ignorance is bliss.”
While I often speak of living the dream, I never actually come out and explain the meaning behind it. There are many levels and perceptions to living the dream. For example, I’m enjoying my Bud Light pounder while my roommate watches Bring It On and I try to keep awake at 10:30 on a Thursday night. Considering how mentally and physically exhausted I am, this feels pretty damn good and I would consider it a level 1. Level 2 would consist of actually being socially responsive and switching over to hard liquor on my roof deck. Level 3 would encompass actually leaving the apartment, and so on and so forth. Last night would probably be a level 7, and I might even go so far as to give it a level 7.25.
Last night I attended Elle’s women in music party with Brittany, and we got to see how the other half lived. One of our bosses graciously got us on the list, and we were excited to go to a VIP party. I was probably more excited that it was sponsored by Belvedere, but it’s truly the simpler and more alcoholic things in life that make me happy. Actually, it’s pretty much vodka and teacup piglets that make me happy. And I will not rest until I own the latter.
Being female, one of our biggest problems was what to wear. Unfortunately all of my cocktail dresses are in the cedar closet back in MA, but I had my formal dress on hand that I worn at Drexel not but two weeks ago. Another predicament was a specific pair of heels remained in Philly, along with any remaining shreds of sanity and dignity that I had before the four hour open bar that was AEPI formal. I would like to say that night was my glorified and classy response to not winning sweetheart, but we all know that just isn’t true.
Anywho, I ended up wearing my pink and white polka dotted heels because my roommate gave me the okay, and off I went to Brittany’s apartment to catch a cab. Mind you the entire week had been gorgeous, with warm weather and sunny bright skies. That day the sky decided to open up just because it wanted to see me with a jew fro the one night I had to look somewhat decent. My “new” umbrella that I had (accidentally) switched out with my faulty one at dollar drink night in Philly was also failing me. Seconds before Brit and I hopped in a cab, I smashed it in a dumpster without the decency of a mourners kaddish.
When we arrived outside the Highline Ballroom, it was already packed with paparazzi and we saw people posing in front of an Elle backdrop. We got in line, relieved to finally get out of the rain. The bouncer then kindly told us we had to go to the back of the line, which was actually pretty long and located far away from the flashing camera bulbs. Incensed, we questioned the indignity of it all. Who the hell did they think we were, interns?
It was nice inside, and there was a stage in the foreground and two bars located on either side of a large open space. I had been concerned about my attire for the evening, but I was happy to find that the dress ranged from very fancy to the schmucks in jeans.
Being the culturally refined scholar that I am, when Brittany and I approached the bar I asked her if I should order her a drink as well, or start the night off double fisting. She gave me a dead pan stare, and it dawned on me I probably shouldn’t double fist in a venue like this. However, when I asked what she wanted the insta-reply was “rum and coke,” so we both suck.
We didn’t know anyone there, and weren’t in the mood to start introducing ourselves to people, so we were quite content to hang with each other and drink as heavily as humanly possible. After a while the crowd in front of the stage became less manageable, and after the first act we decided to try our luck upstairs. It was much less crowded, and there was another bar and couches to sit on. After securing ourselves yet another drink, we decided to sit on an empty couch next to a truly obnoxious couple and watch the magnificent Patti Labelle.
Seeing “Lady Marmalade” performed live is right next to “finish an entire jar of nutella in one sitting” on my bucket list, and I’m truly proud to say that I have accomplished both. Now all I really need to do is tell Robert Downey Jr. I love him before getting dragged away by security, and I may rest in peace.
The only distraction from Ms. Labelle’s stellar performance other than copious amounts of liquor was the aforementioned obnoxious couple. The man was tall and skinny, and wearing a green tartan suit with loafers. I thought such a suit only existed in some otherwordly dimension restricted to the Ralph Lauren catalog and British gigolo’s, but there he was in all of his plaid printed glory. He kept on momentarily making out with the woman he was seated next to, who was stylishly dressed in a black sequin jacket and had blonde short hair that I would kill or at least violently maim for.
I assumed that the guy was gay, and was drunk enough to casually make out with his straight friend who happened to be a girl. However, I found it odd that there were camera men positioned behind them kept speaking to them. I assumed they were yelling at the couple, because they were seated in front of the best angle of the stage, especially when the extremely drunk man started to head butt the camera man and play with his face.
The guy then turned his focus onto Brittany and I, and tried to hold some sort of belligerent conversation with us. I wasn’t anywhere near his level considering I have the tolerance of a pre-op Tara Reid, but I could get the gist of what he was saying.
After a few minutes of his incessant blathering, I couldn’t take it anymore and turned to one of the cameramen to see what the hell this guys deal was. He then informed us that they filming the new season of “The City,” and that they were some of the new stars.
Because I apparently live under a rock, I'm not up on who's who on “The City,” but will never pass up a photo opportunity to piss off my peers back in West Philadelphia. Brittany and I immediately tapped him to get photos with us, which turned into some of the worst photography that I have ever seen. Regardless, they will be hitting the internet after fathers day when Brittany gets her camera cord from Jersey.
The next act was Kelis, and I wasn’t familiar with any of her work other than the milkshake song, which reminded me of every painfully awkward high school dance that I was forced to attend. Not even chugging waterbottles of raspberry Smirnoff in the parking lot could hide the shame that came with those tacky strobe lights, and the fact that I was taller than most of the people in there.
The bar shut down at the end of Kelis’ performance, and with that came our cue to go. We caught a cab back to Hell’s Kitchen, and during the ride we planned our post midnight snack. I came home to an empty cupboard because I fail in the grocery shopping department, and ended up eating my pre-packed lunch for work while yelling at my roommate not to judge me. I took her silence as disapproval, but still gave her my copy of Elle from the party because I am nothing if but a saint.
The Elle party was definitely an amazing experience, and one that I am truly grateful to have gone to. I honestly love New York and all it has to offer, and will do my best to return after my Senior year.
Whoever said that high school graduation was one of the most poignant and epic moments of their life either received their diploma very stoned, or is full of shit and not to be trusted.
I found mine to be especially painful, between the contrived speeches about our “future” and “happiness,” and the white polyester robe I was forced to wear. (What was that supposed to represent anyway, purity? Our virginal descent into the “real” world? We might as well have all worn black) We had mentally checked out of school the moment we had decided upon a university, division of the military, or resolution to live the dream. (Taking a few years off to peddle drugs to sixteen year olds, and live in our parents basement.)
The lucky ones who had gone shit faced to prom, or taken a misguided stance against authority and refused to return library books were spared the short walk across the stage. Amidst the bright lights and steadily rising temperature from both the polyester robe and body heat of 280 post-pubescent students, it was hard to think let alone grasp the severity of the situation.
I don’t remember much of the ceremony, just that it was very long and tedious, and I was sitting amongst some people I had never seen before in my entire life. I recall the valedictorian having an amazing speech pertaining to something along the lines of what horrible people we all were. Most of us were more too preoccupied with whether or not we had bought enough alcohol for the coming night to pay attention to anything of importance. There was the ceremonial senior sleep-over in the parking lot to look forward to, where we would protect our status parking spots from the Juniors and their slut-mobiles.
I remember graduation night being fun, and that we stuck it out through the pouring rain and multiple threats from administrative faculty. In the morning the police arrived with bullhorns to escort underclassmen into the high school. We were told that since we had already graduated, we were illegally on school grounds and were subject to arrest. Mere hours ago we were scholars that had the potential to do and become anything- nay the mortar that held the cornerstones of American education together. Now we were the very scum of suburbia.
I was just relieved to get out of the rain, and passed out in a friends car on the way to a get smiley faced pancakes. It was a relief to be done with the monotony of Senior year, the tedium that not even binge drinking and false hope could dare to conceal.
...
Today I had the honor of watching my little brother grace the Sharon high auditorium stage that I had walked across not but three years ago. Of course I was less than ecstatic to go back there, as I tend to be very bitter about the way our student body was treated. (Yes we were insipid and thoughtless JAPS, but you lie in the bed you make/ some useless aphorism that points out how hypocritical the faculty was)
Firstly I was enraged that the Lake Massapoag staff was still watching the water and tending the gates during a strong tornado warning. We had to park in the lake lot due to the massive amount of cars, and I wasted no time in finding the guards in charge to call the rec department and get the fuck home. Its only been two years since I was in charge, but since the dawn of time the Sharon rec department has found new and terrible ways to mismanage anything and everything they touch.
It wasn’t strange going into the high school, considering it looked exactly the fucking same. While proceeding into the auditorium, I thought I was being greeted by the sports director, as we had spent a lot of time together for event planning and fundraising efforts. Instead he was accosting me for a graduation ticket, with absolutely no recollection in his eyes. I stopped greeting him mid-sentence and simply walked in.
I can sum up the proceeding two hours of my life that I will never get back in two words: never again.
/until next year when I do the unthinkable and graduate Drexel.
/four years later when Ben peaces out of Columbia.
Congratulations Ben, you’re not as dumb as you look.
