The invention of the phonograph enabled people around the world to enjoy recorded music. A wonderful invention that allowed the proliferation of music to cultures and peoples, the phonograph also allowed talented individuals a chance to shine. Today, with mp3s and CDs and iTunes, the dissemination of music is expected, even taken for granted in some countries. The phonograph led to the most influential, inspirational, talented, and amazing group of performers seen in this millennium. The ability to record sound gave us the likes of Frank Sinatra, Aretha Franklin, The Beatles, Bing Crosby, and the ever-touching musical soundtrack--especially the music composed by the great Gershwins as well as Rodgers and Hammerstein. The record, followed by the tape, followed by the CD, followed by the mp3 created an environment of audio brilliance. And as the technology developed, our ears developed along with it. Our tastes became more refined as technology demanded artists worth their weight in gold record sales… well, hopefully triple-platinum record sales. Artists must amaze the populace to achieve mainstream success. Their vocal talents need be incomparably amazing among their peers. Thus, the popular music of today is much more highbrow and classy than the aforementioned artists, as will be proven through a thorough examination of T-Pain, Ke$ha, and Justin Bieber.
Our era has yet to disappoint in its production and promotion of talent. In fact, one might say we are bursting at the seams with incomparable quality. T-Pain has a beautifully, incredible robotic voice. Some may blame auto-tune or laziness, but in order for that pitch to be perfected--that timbre to be tonal-ized--producers and T-Pain must exert a lot of effort. T-Pain is a landmark individual, pioneering an auditory experience that only a genius could deliver. The tone of his voice is such that makes the likes of nineteen-thirties crooners jealous. The sound studio available to harness T-Pain’s talent would make Sinatra shake with envy. T-Pain is today’s Jackson 5, with all the voices intertwined into one superhuman, super-fantastic utterance of unbelievable aptitude. What flair he brings to the table! As a matter of fact, I cannot name one single T-Pain song, solely because I believe all of them to be amassed into one conglomeration of unbridled, unmatched brilliance. It is also important to mention that T-Pain’s motivation for his robotics is clearly political: whilst he makes music that my peers dance to throughout the night, he is presenting an examination of the times. His voice is the sentiment of the working class. His robot is a testament to the banality that many Americans and immigrant workers face in low-paying menial jobs. T-Pain’s choice to present his gift is most likely a political statement supporting the rights of those stuck on the assembly lines. He is a part of the new era of music, a generation blessed with those who possess true talent. He and others like him live in juxtaposition to those classless, alcoholic fools like Nat “King” (a rather compensating nickname, to state the obvious) Cole who relied on the scratchiness of records and poor live-music technology to mask their terrible voices.
My generation has also perfected a style of singing that the crooners could never quite pull off. When attempted, Sinatra or Crosby or Cole sounded like they were chastising or ridiculing the masses by pretending to be so much better than the rest of the population. I am, of course, referring to talk-singing. My generation actually has people who are better than the rest of the population. Ke$ha, for example has perfected this difficult singing technique. “Tik-tok” is without a doubt the most inspirational song of the new millennium. It’s message is one of self-reliance: waking up feeling like P. Diddy (another one of this era’s greatest innovators), and brushing her teeth with a bottle of Jack. Both actions require finesse, independence, and the class that the lowbrow Etta James never in her wildest dreams achieved. Not only does “Tik-Tok” espouse strength for women, it also advocates finding a healthy, attractive sex partner who “looks like Mick Jagger.” It is no lie that Mick Jagger is by far the most handsome, classy, well-meaning, talented man around town. Perez Hilton dubbed Ke$ha the “Swamp Thing,” most definitely because of her ability to scare us with her raw talent. Her gift certainly crept up on us, and the nickname clearly has nothing to do with her polished appearance.
It is also important to dwell more on Ke$ha’s looks. People attack her for being trashy, but clearly they do not understand the meaning of the word. “Trashy” is defined as “in very poor taste or of very poor quality. ” By not showering and wearing the same make up and/or clothing, Ke$ha is doing her part to reduce global warming by recycling and conserving water. What a wonderful cause to promote! It’s a very worthwhile statement to keep presenting to the public, much more so than Lady Gaga’s meat dress, which was extremely tasteless (oh, look, a pun). What people do not understand about Ke$ha is that her inspirational songs like “Your Love is My Drug” and her outfit choices go together like peanut butter and jelly: she combines powerful lyrics with powerful attire, and is a message of strength and dignity that all women should aspire to. Her bathing habits and song choices are clear signs of a superior intellect, an almost alien understanding of how to guide the populace to a better, more prosperous future.
All that talent and I never even mentioned her voice: Ke$ha’s talk-singing is extremely elegant as well as effortless. She does not need the big band or strings like her predecessors. All Ke$ha needs is a beat, and her “swamp thing” sneaky, limitless talent does the rest. The slight nasality and Valley Girl-esque accent she has hints at her higher-class upbringing that indubitably did not involve trailers or mayonnaise sandwiches, like the majority of the “singers” known during the twenties through the fifties. Ke$ha manages to sound so uncaring and ambivalent, the kind of shoulder-shrugging vocals that keep America’s youth productive and makes us set our sights higher than those she sings about. Clearly Ke$ha is smart enough to know that her songs, outfits, and voice are motivating my generation to be the best we can be.
Lastly and most importantly, I must discuss the groundbreaking existence of one Justin Bieber. He is currently the most influential artist in the world. I must say, Canada has a way with priceless exports (clearly I’m referring also to Avril Levigne and not Celine Dion, who in comparison is a classless, old hag). Bieber represents all that is good in the world. He has inspired hundreds, if not thousands of closeted lesbians to embrace their sexuality. In fact, there is a whole forum dedicated to those lesbians: http://lesbianswholooklikejustinbieber.tumblr.com. Without the existence of Justin Bieber, all those teenage girls would still be stuck in the closet, miserable, with long hair and boyfriends. If Bieber’s parents had not procreated to produce such a profound prodigy, young people everywhere would not understand that celebrities are normal people. Bieber accomplishes this selfless act by purposely walking into glass doors (as seen here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3kJjeRpPtY0 and here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Q9eDFPs1UCU). Not to mention his ethereal androgynous voice and appearance. His voice is almost as if a clear bell rings when he sings, and somewhere an angel gets its wings. Bieber has also selflessly increased the vocabulary of the remaining straight pre-teen and teenage girls everywhere. I expect the next Webster’s Dictionary to include: Bebieber, as in “I’m a believer”; Bieber Fever, as in “oh no, that woman has been struck by Bieber Fever! Only Justin can save her by performing CPR, and no, it does not count as statutory rape or sexual assault by that woman if he is resuscitating her!”; Beberian, a term coined for those who have not learned patience through their experiences with this man-child and act instead like savages, and Bebian, as in a lesbian who looks like Justin Bieber. There are dozens upon dozens more Bieber terms that I am not familiar with because I am aligned with the women who have embraced their homosexuality because of the existence of Justin Bieber without conforming my appearance to his. Perhaps the greatest contribution of Bieber’s is that because of him, eunuch’s everywhere will finally have an accepted place in society as objects of young, straight girls' lust.
There are endless possibilities for acknowledging the brilliance that the three aforementioned artists possess. T-Pain’s individuality is a brilliant parody of the struggles of the Americans and immigrants most Americans ignore. He seamlessly blends mindless dry-humping music with a progressive political slant, a talent that Bing Crosby never dared attempt. Ke$ha also presents a political agenda: the empowerment of women and the preservation of the environment. Furthermore, Ke$ha seems to use her voice as a tool to motivate the masses, as a call to arms to my generation to avoid laziness and pursue excellence. Finally, there is Justin Bieber. His impact is like an earthquake: he has shaken us all, damaged a few, but mostly just awakened us to the possibilities of life. The world will certainly be a better place because of the existence of these endowed performers and those like them. I would like to personally thank the inventor of the phonograph for creating the opportunity for individuals like those listed above to achieve much-deserved fame and fortune.
Monday, October 4, 2010
Saturday, May 22, 2010
Blog of SHAAAAAMMMEEEE
Embarrassing things happen to everyone. Whether it's tucking your dress into your underwear accidentally after using the bathroom (Guys, you know what I'm talking about), walking into a sliding glass door in front of all of your friends, tripping in a public place, or the good-old-fashioned nip-slip; no one is excluded from the glory that is embarrassment.
I suffer from a special brand of embarrassing stories. Most people are embarrassed by things they do when they are inebriated, but, since I don't drink, I don't have that luxury. Rather, I tend to embarrass the crap out of myself stone-cold sober. It's a skill, really. I've spent my whole life so far perfecting it.
Exhibit A: My first loose tooth.
When you're six years old and you get your first loose tooth, it's pretty much the equivalent of losing your virginity to the number one person on your celebrity To Do List (Hi, Natalie Portman! Call me). It's the most fuckin' awesome thing since sliced bread. You get to wiggle it and shit, and gross people out, and if you're lucky (like I was with some of my loose teeth), turn it all the way around without it falling out. Loose teeth are the bomb. They're like developing boobies or driving a car for the first time. Six year-old you is growing up. It's the first sign that in fifteen years you're going to be a shit-show passed out in the bathroom of your local Denny's at four in the morning (I am feeling very optimistic today); otherwise known as adulthood.
There are fables associated with losing teeth. Like the tooth-fairy (On a completely unrelated note: the movie with Dwayne "The Rock" Johnson pissed me off not because he was playing a tooth-fairy, but because he is a black man supposedly in the NHL. For those of you who don't know, there are six of them. Total. Six. In the entire league. SO IT WAS NEARLY STATISTICALLY IMPOSSIBLE THAT THE ROCK WOULD BE BOTH A TOOTH FAIRY AND AN NHL PLAYER. YOU CAN'T BE BOTH. Sorry, rant over). Or that keeping them will do something magical. Or that having dreams about losing teeth really means that--if this isn't poetic justice, I don't know what is--you have a fear of being embarrassed or making a fool of yourself in some situation. (Don't worry, I'll explain how it's poetic and justified and freakin' weird in a second) And then there are the methods of losing teeth. For example, the good old-fashioned yank (That's what she said). Or having a friend do it for you (See previous parenthetical statement). Or letting it dangle until it falls out (Giggle).
The method I chose to use for the ceremonious Removal of the First Loose Tooth was a method that I don't even remember learning about, but everyone knows. When you get a loose tooth, a fun way to lose it would be to, oh, I don't know, tie a string around your tooth, then around a doorknob. Then, you have a trusted buddy (Or family member, or violent associate, or the hobo you met on the street, or the nice man who offered you candy to get in his van) slam the door, and--holy shit!--your tooth comes out!
Well, being an engineer's daughter, I thought I would give this method a try. However, being six and pretty fucking stupid, I didn't use string. Nope. Not string, not dental floss, not thread, not even a god-damn ribbon. No, being the genius I was, I decided to use...
Wait for it...
Waaaaaaiiit for it...
...
A rubber-band.
Stop laughing at me.
I thought it a brilliant idea, since no string could be found, to tie two rubber-bands together and attempt to follow that method. This is an ingenious example of my inability to follow even the simplest recipes or instructions to the letter. STRING. Rubber-bands, for those of you who don't know, aren't string. Anyway, I had cut and tied these two bands together to make a stretchy string to help rid me of my tooth. I looped one end of this now-humongous rubber-band around my loose tooth, and then I looped the other around the doorknob to my bedroom door. Then I took a few steps back, to help facilitate the stretching of the band. My badass older brother Justin was there as my assistant. Instead of warning me of my immediate peril, he was snickering and encouraging my debauchery. I asked him to shut the door. He did.
WHAM--the rubber-band sprang back from the door and smacked me right in the kisser. For those of you who have never been snapped by a rubber-band, it hurts like a bitch. Like a rabid bitch. And I got hit in the face. Of course, since I was six years old and had no other mechanisms for coping yet (Like alcoholic binges or eating my feelings), I started sobbing. My brother laughed hysterically in the hallway while I cried like a baby (Granted, I am the baby) and held my stinging face.
The worst part of it is, I didn't even lose the God-damned tooth.
Told you that the tooth-losing dream interpretation was poetic justice. At. Its. Finest.
Exhibit B: My patriotism.
Up until my parent's raging divorce, I was a staunch Republican. I watched Fox News on a nightly basis (No lie. I still kind of miss Shepherd Smith's caked-on make-up and Bill O'Reilly's weird-ass rants), read Ann Coulter books for fun (Not because they're hilarious and trashy, but because I wanted to learn. Now I know better), thought President Bush was the shit (Not just a shit. Don't get me wrong. I like him, he just should never have been President), and pretty much wanted to grow up and be Ronald Reagan (I even did a project on him in fourth grade).
Also, for those of you who don't know me, I don't sing very well. I can do character voices, but actual, legitimate singing is, well, not fucking happening.
Anyway. I was also extremely guilty of singing in the shower. I mean, come on. Everybody does it. Kind of like how everybody pees in the shower (Am I right? NOD, DAMNIT). So there I was, a twelve year-old budding Conservative Republican taking a shower. And, since I was SO incredibly in love with This Great Nation (Not understanding that there's a shit ton that needs to be done to make this a This Pretty-Decent Nation), that I decided to sing the National Anthem in the shower. Everyday.
On this particular day, I was taking a shower at night. I don't really know why. It wasn't even night, more like 4 p.m. But damnit, I needed a shower. So I was lathering my twelve year-old body (Pedobear says "Hi") and belting, or should I say, wailing the National Anthem. I hit the high note (No, I missed it entirely, but I WAS singing up there in the notes, I swear) for "the land of the free" [insert glass shattering] and felt proud of myself. I finished rinsing out my conditioner, got out of the shower, dried myself, got dressed, blah blah blah.
Then I headed downstairs.
My mother and brother Justin (who always seems to be present at my embarrassing adventures) were sitting on the couch. As I walked into the family room, they burst into enthusiastic applause. And Laughter.
Justin said, "Nice high note." More cruel laughter.
To this day, I can't hear the National Anthem without crying a little on the inside for my lost dreams of becoming an opera Soprano (Is it irrelevant to note that I am, in fact, an alto?)
Exhibit C: I'm clumsy as shit.
And this is where I wish I could say all of these happened while inebriated: I am guilty of being completely sober, watching where I am going, and walking smack-dab into a telephone pole or sign post. Not because I temporarily looked away, but because I figured it would move for me.
I'm a genius, don't deny it.
I suffer from a special brand of embarrassing stories. Most people are embarrassed by things they do when they are inebriated, but, since I don't drink, I don't have that luxury. Rather, I tend to embarrass the crap out of myself stone-cold sober. It's a skill, really. I've spent my whole life so far perfecting it.
Exhibit A: My first loose tooth.
When you're six years old and you get your first loose tooth, it's pretty much the equivalent of losing your virginity to the number one person on your celebrity To Do List (Hi, Natalie Portman! Call me). It's the most fuckin' awesome thing since sliced bread. You get to wiggle it and shit, and gross people out, and if you're lucky (like I was with some of my loose teeth), turn it all the way around without it falling out. Loose teeth are the bomb. They're like developing boobies or driving a car for the first time. Six year-old you is growing up. It's the first sign that in fifteen years you're going to be a shit-show passed out in the bathroom of your local Denny's at four in the morning (I am feeling very optimistic today); otherwise known as adulthood.
There are fables associated with losing teeth. Like the tooth-fairy (On a completely unrelated note: the movie with Dwayne "The Rock" Johnson pissed me off not because he was playing a tooth-fairy, but because he is a black man supposedly in the NHL. For those of you who don't know, there are six of them. Total. Six. In the entire league. SO IT WAS NEARLY STATISTICALLY IMPOSSIBLE THAT THE ROCK WOULD BE BOTH A TOOTH FAIRY AND AN NHL PLAYER. YOU CAN'T BE BOTH. Sorry, rant over). Or that keeping them will do something magical. Or that having dreams about losing teeth really means that--if this isn't poetic justice, I don't know what is--you have a fear of being embarrassed or making a fool of yourself in some situation. (Don't worry, I'll explain how it's poetic and justified and freakin' weird in a second) And then there are the methods of losing teeth. For example, the good old-fashioned yank (That's what she said). Or having a friend do it for you (See previous parenthetical statement). Or letting it dangle until it falls out (Giggle).
The method I chose to use for the ceremonious Removal of the First Loose Tooth was a method that I don't even remember learning about, but everyone knows. When you get a loose tooth, a fun way to lose it would be to, oh, I don't know, tie a string around your tooth, then around a doorknob. Then, you have a trusted buddy (Or family member, or violent associate, or the hobo you met on the street, or the nice man who offered you candy to get in his van) slam the door, and--holy shit!--your tooth comes out!
Well, being an engineer's daughter, I thought I would give this method a try. However, being six and pretty fucking stupid, I didn't use string. Nope. Not string, not dental floss, not thread, not even a god-damn ribbon. No, being the genius I was, I decided to use...
Wait for it...
Waaaaaaiiit for it...
...
A rubber-band.
Stop laughing at me.
I thought it a brilliant idea, since no string could be found, to tie two rubber-bands together and attempt to follow that method. This is an ingenious example of my inability to follow even the simplest recipes or instructions to the letter. STRING. Rubber-bands, for those of you who don't know, aren't string. Anyway, I had cut and tied these two bands together to make a stretchy string to help rid me of my tooth. I looped one end of this now-humongous rubber-band around my loose tooth, and then I looped the other around the doorknob to my bedroom door. Then I took a few steps back, to help facilitate the stretching of the band. My badass older brother Justin was there as my assistant. Instead of warning me of my immediate peril, he was snickering and encouraging my debauchery. I asked him to shut the door. He did.
WHAM--the rubber-band sprang back from the door and smacked me right in the kisser. For those of you who have never been snapped by a rubber-band, it hurts like a bitch. Like a rabid bitch. And I got hit in the face. Of course, since I was six years old and had no other mechanisms for coping yet (Like alcoholic binges or eating my feelings), I started sobbing. My brother laughed hysterically in the hallway while I cried like a baby (Granted, I am the baby) and held my stinging face.
The worst part of it is, I didn't even lose the God-damned tooth.
Told you that the tooth-losing dream interpretation was poetic justice. At. Its. Finest.
Exhibit B: My patriotism.
Up until my parent's raging divorce, I was a staunch Republican. I watched Fox News on a nightly basis (No lie. I still kind of miss Shepherd Smith's caked-on make-up and Bill O'Reilly's weird-ass rants), read Ann Coulter books for fun (Not because they're hilarious and trashy, but because I wanted to learn. Now I know better), thought President Bush was the shit (Not just a shit. Don't get me wrong. I like him, he just should never have been President), and pretty much wanted to grow up and be Ronald Reagan (I even did a project on him in fourth grade).
Also, for those of you who don't know me, I don't sing very well. I can do character voices, but actual, legitimate singing is, well, not fucking happening.
Anyway. I was also extremely guilty of singing in the shower. I mean, come on. Everybody does it. Kind of like how everybody pees in the shower (Am I right? NOD, DAMNIT). So there I was, a twelve year-old budding Conservative Republican taking a shower. And, since I was SO incredibly in love with This Great Nation (Not understanding that there's a shit ton that needs to be done to make this a This Pretty-Decent Nation), that I decided to sing the National Anthem in the shower. Everyday.
On this particular day, I was taking a shower at night. I don't really know why. It wasn't even night, more like 4 p.m. But damnit, I needed a shower. So I was lathering my twelve year-old body (Pedobear says "Hi") and belting, or should I say, wailing the National Anthem. I hit the high note (No, I missed it entirely, but I WAS singing up there in the notes, I swear) for "the land of the free" [insert glass shattering] and felt proud of myself. I finished rinsing out my conditioner, got out of the shower, dried myself, got dressed, blah blah blah.
Then I headed downstairs.
My mother and brother Justin (who always seems to be present at my embarrassing adventures) were sitting on the couch. As I walked into the family room, they burst into enthusiastic applause. And Laughter.
Justin said, "Nice high note." More cruel laughter.
To this day, I can't hear the National Anthem without crying a little on the inside for my lost dreams of becoming an opera Soprano (Is it irrelevant to note that I am, in fact, an alto?)
Exhibit C: I'm clumsy as shit.
And this is where I wish I could say all of these happened while inebriated: I am guilty of being completely sober, watching where I am going, and walking smack-dab into a telephone pole or sign post. Not because I temporarily looked away, but because I figured it would move for me.
I'm a genius, don't deny it.
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
Sibling Rivalry
I am the youngest of three. I have two older brothers: Justin and Andrew. Pretty much what that translates to is a childhood filled with bloody pranks, fist-fights, and action movies. Not that I'm complaining. In fact, I'm pretty sure my older brothers are responsible for how awesome I am. And for making it easier to tell that I like girls (Again. Bloody pranks, fist-fights, action movies... kind of queer).
Justin is the oldest, and I think, the most badass of us all. He has one fake leg and one real one. Read that sentence again, it's construction is hilarious. He was born with Fibular Hemimelia. I could go into detail on what that means, I even did a project on it in 7th grade and got a 102%, but that's a lot of information. Basically, he either needed his foot chopped off or limb-lengthening. Limb-lengthening sucks big time. Imagine breaking your leg. Then imagine breaking it further apart, centimeter by centimeter, every couple of hours, every day, for months. Yeah, limb-lengthening is a bitch.
I am extremely jealous of Justin and his fake-leg awesomeness. Some people see it as a handicap. To them I say, fuck you, my brother's part cyborg! I'm also kind of a Trekkie, which makes that reference all the more awesome. But I was always fascinated with his leg. When I was little and he was smaller (and little as well, obviously), he had a wooden leg. Not like "Yarr Arrrggh" wooden-peg (though his nickname is Pegleg) but just a leg made out of wood. When he wasn't wearing it, or he got a new one and left the old one somewhere, I'd shove my right foot into it and limp around the house. You might say that's really messed up, but, like I said, my brother is part cyborg and thus infinitely cooler than I will ever be.
Fun fact: my brother has all the legs he's ever had. How many people do you know who can say that? Another fun fact: One time my father sent me to my room because we were watching the Fugitive and during the part where Harrison chases the guy through the prosthetic factory I got grossed out. My dad said it was "rude, and hurtful to Justin." My response? "Um... Justin doesn't hang all of his limbs from the ceiling, you fucking asshole." Okay, that was false, I didn't call him a "fucking asshole." I was four. I didn't know those words yet.
Lots of cool shit happens to a person when they have one leg. Again, something that I'm jealous of. For instance, in two different occasions while playing soccer, Justin has kicked off part or all of his leg. One time the foot was spinning around and around. Another time he kicked his leg full off and it flew down the field. I wish I could do shit like that.
I mean, there are the pitfalls. Like asshole teachers who give a kid who plays on a club soccer team a B+ in SPORTS just because he has a fake leg and saying something like "he will never play varsity." But I'm pretty sure having a fake leg is much cooler than a jerk with bad teeth.
Justin's leg now has a titanium rotating ankle that lets him play golf. It weighs like ten pounds. I wish I had a titanium rotating ankle instead of this piece-of-shit real thing. Yes, I'm dead serious. I think my brother is the coolest person in the world. Pretty much the Million Dollar Man. Only real, and related to me.
My other brother, Andrew, is the middle child. That should explain a lot. It does. You know, the whole "middle-child" syndrome, where they aren't cool enough to be the oldest but not young enough to be the baby. Kind of like when you're a sophomore in high school. You're not important enough to be an upperclassmen but you're not new enough to be a freshman. No one cares about you when you're a sophomore. Except, obviously, our parents cared a lot about him. It's just he wasn't the baby and couldn't get away with shit like I could, and he wasn't the oldest so he couldn't boss around both of us. Andrew handled it awesomely, I think. And I'm pretty positive he's way smarter than I will ever be. He's also freakishly pale. I'm not jealous of that part, I just think it's funny since we're all a little black.
So of course I got teased, bullied, tickled, made fun of, threatened, and grossed out. But I love those stinkin' kids more than they know, and I'm jealous of them in ways you can't imagine. Well, I guess you can, since I just outlined them for you. Let me reiterate: I wish I had a fake leg and was part cyborg, and I wish I were smarter--but not paler. It's funny, because Justin's the darkest, Andrew is the lightest, and I don't tan. But I don't burn, either. I just get really warm in the sun. Andrew and I got the short end of the mixed-stick. And neither of us is part cyborg.
Justin's such a lucky bastard.
Justin is the oldest, and I think, the most badass of us all. He has one fake leg and one real one. Read that sentence again, it's construction is hilarious. He was born with Fibular Hemimelia. I could go into detail on what that means, I even did a project on it in 7th grade and got a 102%, but that's a lot of information. Basically, he either needed his foot chopped off or limb-lengthening. Limb-lengthening sucks big time. Imagine breaking your leg. Then imagine breaking it further apart, centimeter by centimeter, every couple of hours, every day, for months. Yeah, limb-lengthening is a bitch.
I am extremely jealous of Justin and his fake-leg awesomeness. Some people see it as a handicap. To them I say, fuck you, my brother's part cyborg! I'm also kind of a Trekkie, which makes that reference all the more awesome. But I was always fascinated with his leg. When I was little and he was smaller (and little as well, obviously), he had a wooden leg. Not like "Yarr Arrrggh" wooden-peg (though his nickname is Pegleg) but just a leg made out of wood. When he wasn't wearing it, or he got a new one and left the old one somewhere, I'd shove my right foot into it and limp around the house. You might say that's really messed up, but, like I said, my brother is part cyborg and thus infinitely cooler than I will ever be.
Fun fact: my brother has all the legs he's ever had. How many people do you know who can say that? Another fun fact: One time my father sent me to my room because we were watching the Fugitive and during the part where Harrison chases the guy through the prosthetic factory I got grossed out. My dad said it was "rude, and hurtful to Justin." My response? "Um... Justin doesn't hang all of his limbs from the ceiling, you fucking asshole." Okay, that was false, I didn't call him a "fucking asshole." I was four. I didn't know those words yet.
Lots of cool shit happens to a person when they have one leg. Again, something that I'm jealous of. For instance, in two different occasions while playing soccer, Justin has kicked off part or all of his leg. One time the foot was spinning around and around. Another time he kicked his leg full off and it flew down the field. I wish I could do shit like that.
I mean, there are the pitfalls. Like asshole teachers who give a kid who plays on a club soccer team a B+ in SPORTS just because he has a fake leg and saying something like "he will never play varsity." But I'm pretty sure having a fake leg is much cooler than a jerk with bad teeth.
Justin's leg now has a titanium rotating ankle that lets him play golf. It weighs like ten pounds. I wish I had a titanium rotating ankle instead of this piece-of-shit real thing. Yes, I'm dead serious. I think my brother is the coolest person in the world. Pretty much the Million Dollar Man. Only real, and related to me.
My other brother, Andrew, is the middle child. That should explain a lot. It does. You know, the whole "middle-child" syndrome, where they aren't cool enough to be the oldest but not young enough to be the baby. Kind of like when you're a sophomore in high school. You're not important enough to be an upperclassmen but you're not new enough to be a freshman. No one cares about you when you're a sophomore. Except, obviously, our parents cared a lot about him. It's just he wasn't the baby and couldn't get away with shit like I could, and he wasn't the oldest so he couldn't boss around both of us. Andrew handled it awesomely, I think. And I'm pretty positive he's way smarter than I will ever be. He's also freakishly pale. I'm not jealous of that part, I just think it's funny since we're all a little black.
So of course I got teased, bullied, tickled, made fun of, threatened, and grossed out. But I love those stinkin' kids more than they know, and I'm jealous of them in ways you can't imagine. Well, I guess you can, since I just outlined them for you. Let me reiterate: I wish I had a fake leg and was part cyborg, and I wish I were smarter--but not paler. It's funny, because Justin's the darkest, Andrew is the lightest, and I don't tan. But I don't burn, either. I just get really warm in the sun. Andrew and I got the short end of the mixed-stick. And neither of us is part cyborg.
Justin's such a lucky bastard.
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
Know How I Know You're Gay?
gay |gā|
adjective (gayer, gayest)
1 (of a person, esp. a man) homosexual
2 lighthearted and carefree:
• characterized by cheerfulness or pleasure
• brightly colored; showy; brilliant
I like girls. And I mean like I like girls like white-picket-fence-marriage like girls (count the "likes" in the sentence. As an english major, that's almost embarrassing, except that it was intentional). I "like like" girls. (Just for the record, I "like like" boys, too. Confusing? Try being me)
I've known since third grade, but it probably started in kindergarten. Back when "crushes" ran rampant and children didn't understand what butterflies really were, Kyle Cubie sauntered up to me and said,
"Want to go kiss in the girl's bathroom?"
"No." I replied.
"Want to go kiss in the boy's bathroom?"
"No." I insisted.
"want to go kiss in the handicapped bathroom?"
"NO!"
I tried avoiding him the rest of the day. He chased me around tables, around the playground, around the meeting area. By the early afternoon I was exhausted (and slower). I was drawing a face in a blank oval outlined on a piece of paper, when I turned around. Kyle, that dirty bastard, kissed me on the lips.
Know how I knew I liked girls?
I slapped him across the face. Hard. He cried.
I didn't really know that I had "feeeeeeelings" for girls until third grade, when I just wanted to stroke a certain girl's hair. Which isn't creepy at all. Nope. Not at all.
Know how I knew I liked girls?
I saw movies like Under Siege, Predator, and Die Hard, and all I wanted was to be a badass with a catch phrase ("Another cold day in Hell," "You're one ugly motherfucker," and "Yippee-kay-aye, motherfucker," respectively). I saw movies like Aliens and Resident Evil and I wanted to be Lieutenant Ellen Ripley or Mila Jovovich (or, you know, make out with them).
Know how I knew I liked girls?
I wanted to (and to some degree still am really upset that I can't) be a Navy Seal. Most straight girls dream of, I don't know, sleeping with a navy seal. Under Siege sparked that interest, and as I got older, the goal of being a female in the basically all-male elite unite of the armed forces trained by the IDF was the only thing on my mind (That, and puppies. Puppies are always on my mind). At Seventeen, I almost enlisted into the Navy, a former (female) fling had given the Navy my number. Not to mention the fact that women still aren't allowed to do combat. Whatever, I was going to show those bitches (all this coming from a girl who still can't do twenty "real" push-ups).
Know how I knew I liked girls?
While every other fourth grade girl (for the most part) dreamt of having a pretty or cute car, like a vw bug, I loathed those cars. I loathed any kind of "cute" car. My dream vehicle was a Ford F-350. I wanted something big and loud and fierce.
Ironically, I now drive a checkered Mini-Cooper S, which is not anything close to a Ford F-350. But, it's still gay. His name is Bumblebee Cooch. Mr. Cooch, to you. And he is fierce and faaaaaabulouuuusssss (and loud like a go-kart)! I have since turned more hipster-granola than butch-fighting gay, but I'm alright with that.
Know how I knew I liked girls?
While everyone else in my ninth grade class was making out with someone or looking up onine what sex really was (not what our schools taught us to avoid. A particular sex-ed teacher wanted us to have "firework sex" and not "squirt-gun sex" Umm...Kay?), I was completely uninterested in the male form and completely enraptured by the, uh, female form. I will not go into more detail. Use your imagination, and you're probably correct.
Know how I knew I liked girls?
Because I wanted to do 'em.
Faggot.
adjective (gayer, gayest)
1 (of a person, esp. a man) homosexual
2 lighthearted and carefree:
• characterized by cheerfulness or pleasure
• brightly colored; showy; brilliant
I like girls. And I mean like I like girls like white-picket-fence-marriage like girls (count the "likes" in the sentence. As an english major, that's almost embarrassing, except that it was intentional). I "like like" girls. (Just for the record, I "like like" boys, too. Confusing? Try being me)
I've known since third grade, but it probably started in kindergarten. Back when "crushes" ran rampant and children didn't understand what butterflies really were, Kyle Cubie sauntered up to me and said,
"Want to go kiss in the girl's bathroom?"
"No." I replied.
"Want to go kiss in the boy's bathroom?"
"No." I insisted.
"want to go kiss in the handicapped bathroom?"
"NO!"
I tried avoiding him the rest of the day. He chased me around tables, around the playground, around the meeting area. By the early afternoon I was exhausted (and slower). I was drawing a face in a blank oval outlined on a piece of paper, when I turned around. Kyle, that dirty bastard, kissed me on the lips.
Know how I knew I liked girls?
I slapped him across the face. Hard. He cried.
I didn't really know that I had "feeeeeeelings" for girls until third grade, when I just wanted to stroke a certain girl's hair. Which isn't creepy at all. Nope. Not at all.
Know how I knew I liked girls?
I saw movies like Under Siege, Predator, and Die Hard, and all I wanted was to be a badass with a catch phrase ("Another cold day in Hell," "You're one ugly motherfucker," and "Yippee-kay-aye, motherfucker," respectively). I saw movies like Aliens and Resident Evil and I wanted to be Lieutenant Ellen Ripley or Mila Jovovich (or, you know, make out with them).
Know how I knew I liked girls?
I wanted to (and to some degree still am really upset that I can't) be a Navy Seal. Most straight girls dream of, I don't know, sleeping with a navy seal. Under Siege sparked that interest, and as I got older, the goal of being a female in the basically all-male elite unite of the armed forces trained by the IDF was the only thing on my mind (That, and puppies. Puppies are always on my mind). At Seventeen, I almost enlisted into the Navy, a former (female) fling had given the Navy my number. Not to mention the fact that women still aren't allowed to do combat. Whatever, I was going to show those bitches (all this coming from a girl who still can't do twenty "real" push-ups).
Know how I knew I liked girls?
While every other fourth grade girl (for the most part) dreamt of having a pretty or cute car, like a vw bug, I loathed those cars. I loathed any kind of "cute" car. My dream vehicle was a Ford F-350. I wanted something big and loud and fierce.
Ironically, I now drive a checkered Mini-Cooper S, which is not anything close to a Ford F-350. But, it's still gay. His name is Bumblebee Cooch. Mr. Cooch, to you. And he is fierce and faaaaaabulouuuusssss (and loud like a go-kart)! I have since turned more hipster-granola than butch-fighting gay, but I'm alright with that.
Know how I knew I liked girls?
While everyone else in my ninth grade class was making out with someone or looking up onine what sex really was (not what our schools taught us to avoid. A particular sex-ed teacher wanted us to have "firework sex" and not "squirt-gun sex" Umm...Kay?), I was completely uninterested in the male form and completely enraptured by the, uh, female form. I will not go into more detail. Use your imagination, and you're probably correct.
Know how I knew I liked girls?
Because I wanted to do 'em.
Faggot.
Monday, March 29, 2010
Dreamscape
Dreams are really fucking weird.
There are those childhood nightmares that plague you forever, the dreams where you're naked, dreams of the future, dreams of lost loved ones, and just really random dreams.
I am lucky enough to be afflicted with all of the above, and to top it all off, I talk in my sleep like it's my job to share my dreams with the world. So that's what I'm doing right now.
The childhood nightmare that I can remember clear as day really makes no sense at all. I was sitting in a high chair being fed by my mother (I was 4 at the time of the dream, but I still don't know why I was in a high chair. Apparently my sub-conscious is a slow developer), and all of a sudden she stepped down a ladder into a basement-type-place. I followed her, and to my utter astonishment (or, since this was a nightmare, terror) the ladder led down into an ocean of sea-monsters. And guess WHAT! that mother of mine? A sea-monster. She looked like a decaying mermaid who had some fight in her left (the old lady's got life in her yet!), and I kept trying to get her to change to normal and come back up into the kitchen with me, but she wouldn't. Fun facts: she was slimy, she tried to drown me, and she was in serious need of some dental care. In the waking world, my mom is not in need of dental care. Nor is she slimy. And to the best of my knowledge, she hasn't ever tried to drown me. Just thought you should know.
Fucking sea-monster mothers. They never do what you ask of them. (Not that normal mothers do that, either)
My naked dreams are always really trippy. Usually they involve some sort of sexual act (I'm not really going to specify here, use your imaginations) that I don't normally participate in or want to participate in, but I find myself naked and lollygagging (hee hee hee, good on me for that word choice) in a forest or sand dunes (which would be unpleasant naked, since they are semi-unpleasant fully clothed) or some other completely random terrain. And afterwards, I always wake up really uncomfortable and freaked out. I think my brain doesn't know how to compose fantasies so it just randomly assigns places and people and acts to a dream, kind of like that childhood game, MASH.
I don't like having dreams of the future. Because they are always unsettling, and rarely are they humorous and worth sharing with other people. Wow, if that isn't a downer about my life, I don't know what is. Moving on. When I was a sophomore in high school, for an entire month I dreamt that my dad was leaving. We'd be on a boat, and he'd jump off and swim away (which is ironic since a) he doesn't like oceans and b) he can't swim very well) or he'd hide from us in a forest or he'd "go away on a business trip" and never come back. At the end of the month, guess what happened? My dad moved out. Prophetic dreams for the win? or for the lose? You decide.
RANDOM NOTE: I told my mom before she ever MET the guy she's engaged to that they were going to date. And the meeting wasn't a "date" meeting, it was an interview for non-romantic-related things. Psychic for the win on that one.
Anyway. Back to dreams.
My dreams of lost loved ones are never of family members that have died. Well, not true. Let me rephrase that. They are never of HUMAN family members that have died. My dog Buck was the exact same age as I was, and my parents adopted him from a park where he was a stray. He died the last week of sixth grade. My dog Jasmine died when I was in third grade. My dog Samson, when I was a junior. Grace when I was a freshman. And I don't know if Doozie is still alive or not. But every once and a while I will have a dream where I just get to spend time with the dogs. And I know they're gone in the dreams, but I get to hug them and play with them and love them and let them know what's going on in my life. These are my favorite dreams. I hate waking up after them, because it makes me want to cry (I know I'm pathetic, stfu), but it also lets me know that I'm loved and they're still with me. Yes, I know I'm talking about an afterlife and on top of that an afterlife with my pets, but still.
Last night I had a pet dream. I got to spend time with Buck and Doozie. I don't know if Doozie is still alive as we gave him away my senior year in high school, but I had a dream a while ago where he had "run away" back to my house and spent some time with me before leaving, so I figured that was his way of saying goodbye. But in my dream, I got to love on him and apologize for giving him away, and I sat down with him and Buck and snuggled and shared what was going on in the lives of my family members. It's really touching and metaphysical and weird, I get that, but it's also really comforting to have these dreams. Fuck you if you think I'm crazy, I think they're wonderful.
Anyway, I was talking in my dream. My roommate told me I was laughing (which I do a lot in my pet dreams, because I'm just so gosh-darn happy) and just talking non-stop. She told me she almost woke me up because I was pissing her off so much and it was freaky having a girl laugh in her sleep. My roommate doesn't dream. So obviously she can't appreciate how amazing it is to be visited by animals you loved with your entire heart (again, I know I'm not talking about people, but whatever, I love dogs).
I love pet dreams.
My random dreams are always, well, fucking random. The last one I remember, my father had joined facebook and his first name in his account was "man-boobies." It was hilarious and slightly disturbing. I think that came up in my subconscious because once I told him he had man-boobs and he got really offended and pouty for like a week or so. OOPSIES.
Off to dreamland.
There are those childhood nightmares that plague you forever, the dreams where you're naked, dreams of the future, dreams of lost loved ones, and just really random dreams.
I am lucky enough to be afflicted with all of the above, and to top it all off, I talk in my sleep like it's my job to share my dreams with the world. So that's what I'm doing right now.
The childhood nightmare that I can remember clear as day really makes no sense at all. I was sitting in a high chair being fed by my mother (I was 4 at the time of the dream, but I still don't know why I was in a high chair. Apparently my sub-conscious is a slow developer), and all of a sudden she stepped down a ladder into a basement-type-place. I followed her, and to my utter astonishment (or, since this was a nightmare, terror) the ladder led down into an ocean of sea-monsters. And guess WHAT! that mother of mine? A sea-monster. She looked like a decaying mermaid who had some fight in her left (the old lady's got life in her yet!), and I kept trying to get her to change to normal and come back up into the kitchen with me, but she wouldn't. Fun facts: she was slimy, she tried to drown me, and she was in serious need of some dental care. In the waking world, my mom is not in need of dental care. Nor is she slimy. And to the best of my knowledge, she hasn't ever tried to drown me. Just thought you should know.
Fucking sea-monster mothers. They never do what you ask of them. (Not that normal mothers do that, either)
My naked dreams are always really trippy. Usually they involve some sort of sexual act (I'm not really going to specify here, use your imaginations) that I don't normally participate in or want to participate in, but I find myself naked and lollygagging (hee hee hee, good on me for that word choice) in a forest or sand dunes (which would be unpleasant naked, since they are semi-unpleasant fully clothed) or some other completely random terrain. And afterwards, I always wake up really uncomfortable and freaked out. I think my brain doesn't know how to compose fantasies so it just randomly assigns places and people and acts to a dream, kind of like that childhood game, MASH.
I don't like having dreams of the future. Because they are always unsettling, and rarely are they humorous and worth sharing with other people. Wow, if that isn't a downer about my life, I don't know what is. Moving on. When I was a sophomore in high school, for an entire month I dreamt that my dad was leaving. We'd be on a boat, and he'd jump off and swim away (which is ironic since a) he doesn't like oceans and b) he can't swim very well) or he'd hide from us in a forest or he'd "go away on a business trip" and never come back. At the end of the month, guess what happened? My dad moved out. Prophetic dreams for the win? or for the lose? You decide.
RANDOM NOTE: I told my mom before she ever MET the guy she's engaged to that they were going to date. And the meeting wasn't a "date" meeting, it was an interview for non-romantic-related things. Psychic for the win on that one.
Anyway. Back to dreams.
My dreams of lost loved ones are never of family members that have died. Well, not true. Let me rephrase that. They are never of HUMAN family members that have died. My dog Buck was the exact same age as I was, and my parents adopted him from a park where he was a stray. He died the last week of sixth grade. My dog Jasmine died when I was in third grade. My dog Samson, when I was a junior. Grace when I was a freshman. And I don't know if Doozie is still alive or not. But every once and a while I will have a dream where I just get to spend time with the dogs. And I know they're gone in the dreams, but I get to hug them and play with them and love them and let them know what's going on in my life. These are my favorite dreams. I hate waking up after them, because it makes me want to cry (I know I'm pathetic, stfu), but it also lets me know that I'm loved and they're still with me. Yes, I know I'm talking about an afterlife and on top of that an afterlife with my pets, but still.
Last night I had a pet dream. I got to spend time with Buck and Doozie. I don't know if Doozie is still alive as we gave him away my senior year in high school, but I had a dream a while ago where he had "run away" back to my house and spent some time with me before leaving, so I figured that was his way of saying goodbye. But in my dream, I got to love on him and apologize for giving him away, and I sat down with him and Buck and snuggled and shared what was going on in the lives of my family members. It's really touching and metaphysical and weird, I get that, but it's also really comforting to have these dreams. Fuck you if you think I'm crazy, I think they're wonderful.
Anyway, I was talking in my dream. My roommate told me I was laughing (which I do a lot in my pet dreams, because I'm just so gosh-darn happy) and just talking non-stop. She told me she almost woke me up because I was pissing her off so much and it was freaky having a girl laugh in her sleep. My roommate doesn't dream. So obviously she can't appreciate how amazing it is to be visited by animals you loved with your entire heart (again, I know I'm not talking about people, but whatever, I love dogs).
I love pet dreams.
My random dreams are always, well, fucking random. The last one I remember, my father had joined facebook and his first name in his account was "man-boobies." It was hilarious and slightly disturbing. I think that came up in my subconscious because once I told him he had man-boobs and he got really offended and pouty for like a week or so. OOPSIES.
Off to dreamland.
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