I will preface this by saying that I do not want children in the near future. Give me at least another decade of being a complete and utter asshole, because once that demon seed comes barreling out of your uterus, life as you know it is over. However, that doesn't mean I can't find their tiny midget like features adorable, or creepily wave at them on public transportation. One of the things I can picture myself looking forward to is buying the little bastard fun accessories. For example, while browsing for flasks on a home goods website, I stumbled across these sweet pacifiers. I am ashamed my parents did not purchase vampire fangs or grillz for myself or my brother. I also look forward to dressing the thing in Crewcuts, regardless it be a he, she, or he-she. Considering J Crew sends me an email every damn day (but it would be blasphemy to take myself off the mailing list) I have seen my fair share of Crewcuts and simply put it is fucking adorable. The brunette girl on the right looks like she's about to smack the blonde one and take her flower, and rightly so. Life is a cruel and never ending struggle, even in the bright and shiny world of J Crew.
Since looking for reasonable NYC sublets when you're due to move in a month is so much fun, I thought I'd update instead of curling into the fetal position and slowly crying myself to sleep. After eating vast amounts of cottage cheese. Because no one likes the fat chick.
I added the beginning of a paper that actually had no relevance to the assignment. It was one of those bat-shit crazy four-in-the morning deals when I thought I was making sense, only to wake up and realize it had all the coherency of a Bush speech on methamphetamines. Not to mention the sheer awkwardness of peer tutoring the final piece. A classroom full of pretentious writing students and weird shut ins who have not met the light of day, nor acne wash? I'll pass. I don't think they could understand my small and insignificant victories against the writing program when I get away with this bullshit.
The Hamster Genocide
The Syrian hamster is considered a pest in its native land. With their cheek pouches extending from their mouths to their shoulders, they are capable of storing nearly the equivalent of their own body own mass in their mouth. Unremitting hoarders, they have been known to gather up to sixty pounds of grain in preparation for the cruel winters and long months of potential starvation. Third world farmers have responded violently, and the cuddly creatures are rounded up and slaughtered by the dozens. This leaves the hamsters with no choice but to live on the run, skittering around as fast as their little hind legs can carry them. The hamster genocide has gone unnoticed for far too long, and once again international diplomacy has failed in its very indifference. Damning an entire group, nay an entire species, is at the very least unethical and another example of our sadistic bastardization of a legal system. Their wee metaphorical shackles and exercise wheels of humiliation have existed for nearly a century, with no end to the cruelty in sight. Without the monetary or intellectual resources (not to mention necessary dexterous capabilities) a hamster revolution is certainly out of the question, and their persecution will continue until met with human resistance.
The real question is why the international community has kept such a massacre under wraps, denying these creatures the very basic rights to life.The answer lies in the dark underbelly of medical testing, paired with incestuous corporate relationships with shareholders.
Hamsters were first introduced to the modern world in 1839 by zoologist George Waterhouse, who aptly dubbed them Cricetus auratus, which translates into “The Golden Hamster.” A family of hamsters was bred in captivity in 1930, and it is believed that all North American hamsters sold as pets are descendants of the original litter. Bearing in mind the females go into heat every four days, and can birth up to twenty furballs in one litter, population problems were originally out of the question. These rodents are the fourth most tested upon animals, securing their spot right after lab mice. However, they are solitary creatures are genetically engineered for wide spances of the Syrian desert, and close quarters cause the little ones to attack each another with razor sharp incisors. The only guarantee that two hamsters will not attack one another is when the female is in heat. However, the fairer sex has been known to immediately attack the male hamster after copulation, while he is still recovering from the physical exertion. Granted, the intercourse must have been truly horrible if she felt he deserved such a fate.
The first time Meghan showed me this video, we were both cracked out from a late night in the labs and our substantially stress free lives. Those lucky enough to be working in Nesbitt's great and terrible halls at that hour were subject to us doubling over and crying. Not a lot of things make me audibly laugh (lies) and anyone who can successfully make a Pokerface parody about Neutraface deserves a damn Grammy. Or at the very least acceptance that they may be insane, but are still harmless. And isn't that all we really strive for?
Although they dis helvetica in the video, I have to disagree and point out how fucking awesome helvetica neue is. Especially the light versions.
Just because some things aren't rational does not automatically deem them purposeless. Some examples include but are not restricted to nylon designer purses, pre-ripped jeans, and that shake weight they always advertise on TV. The first two are overpriced for no apparent reason, but seem to piss off hipsters, therefore making them worth their weight in gold. And lets face it, the shake weight just looks like an aerobic hand job. Considering the unexplainable rage I have towards the PBR wielding ones, and I would gladly look like a fool for considerably toned arms, I have no argument against those specific tools of consumerism. However, there are exceptions to this rule, most of which can be found on the kittyhell website. I have no personal vendetta against Hello Kitty, nor wish to have the spare time to do so. It's cute, it's cheery, and until some homeless man wearing a Hello Kitty mask robs the Drexel 7-11, will continue to have no qualms with it.
I understand the lucrative aspects of taking an image and totally bastardizing it or its original purpose. I usually applaud those soulless efforts, but the vast majority of the items on this website are bat shit crazy. The psychological impact of giving your kids play Hello Kitty sushi will only transform itself into thousands of wasted dollars on therapy a couple years down the road. I can't even bring myself to post some of the more vulgar things I found on that site. However, if I ever black out and feel the immediate necessity of a Jesus tattoo, I can only hope it has some elements of Hello Kitty within it. The same goes for the Hello Kitty chainsaw. If I ever completely lose my mind and decide to take down Nesbitt...I mean a few old trees, I can only pray it's a bedazzled Hello Kitty one. It would only be fitting.
I've given the subject too much thought and after several venn diagrams, excel spreadsheets and MASH games, I have decided that I want to be Lady Gaga when I grow up. It beat out designer, doctor, and coke whore. Barely. Since I already own a leotard (damn you Europe) I figure all that's left is to dye my hair blonde and stop eating. Due to my undying loyalty to breakfast sandwiches, there is no way I could prioritize being a pop star over bacon and will probably give up this dream within the next few hours. However, I am entirely serious when I say both her music and music videos are amazing. Pokerface and especially Bad Romance are some of the best pieces of mainstream contemporary art for my generation. Right up there with the photobooth application for Mac. (OMGZ, I'm totally sepia. Profile pic!) I don't doubt that a decade from now those videos will be featured on some shitty VH1 countdown about 2009, saying how ridiculous or contrived it was. My argument is that they tried to do that to the 90's and flannel. Well guess what, I still fucking love flannel.
Anyway, unless you live underneath some sort of rock/glacial formation you have seen the Bad Romance video and are undoubtedly in awe of her shoes. Well, it turns out Gaga's footwear is all part of Alexander McQueen's spring 2010 line. While I would usually be mad that something I like is actually just a thinly veiled attempt at viral advertising, I think I'll just appreciate both for what they are. Whether or not the shoes are wearable is another subject, but once again I'm not in a position to judge. I lost that right the first time I set foot on campus.
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.
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.
