Tonight leaving work I ran into two women with a gigantic boombox playing an old R&B song from the early 80s. Rock steady, steady rockin all night long… It made me quite happy. Passing motorists seemed to agree.
I needed a passport-sized picture of myself in my responsible-adult disguise today, so I took one. It’s surprisingly hard. Every time my expression just seemed to cry out “I’m not wearing any pants!”
Dainty Time is an art series about the nature of femininity and childhood. Crocheted tampon-cosies, embroidered panties, tattooed babydolls, and more. Neat stuff.
Swingers, a 1996 movie in which foolish young men try to pick up annoyed young women, is often credited, along with that Gap ad, for bringing swing dancing and jump blues into the mainstream.
It’s also been a strange influence on my life recently, since I find myself… well… in my midtwenties and foolish and hanging out in bars trying to pick up rather annoyed young women. Am I in some sort of a Quarterlife Crisis? Probably not. Just young and foolish and wondering, given a phone number or email address, exactly how long I should wait to call? The goal, of course, being to indicate interest, but not so much interest as to be off-putting.
My friend Dana insists that you should call at most two days later, because otherwise they’ll think you’re not interested and go on about their merry way. But Swingers suggests that the answer is at least four days, and ideally six, if you’re really cool. You have to imply that you’re very busy. After all, if you’re not busy, you’re free, which is to say there’s no cost, which means you’re worthless, because only busy people who are avidly pursued by others have intrinsic worth. Or something.
People have been pointing out that Our Leader exhibits many of the characteristics of a sociopath, and so it’s not surprising to find a shirt branding him the American Psycho. The media is also beginning to point at the ungentlemanly tone of his persuasive methods.
Media Stupidity: A new study released today confirmed viewing of hardcore pornography was widespread among teenagers and regarded as normal behaviour, especially by boys. I am peeved by alarmism at the fact that lots of boys like to ogle naked ladies. Also, I get shirty whenever I see the word “normal” used to mean “healthy” or “acceptable.”
I am petulant this evening as I have discovered, yet again, that I am not actually a home-decor whiz. I tried to nail a shelf to the wall, but that didn’t work very well. So I reinforced the nails with glue. Result: lots of glue and nails on my wall. Not a lot of shelf.
Hey! Hey you! Quit playing that power game, that get-ahead game, that who-is-useful-to-me game. People can tell when you’re not on their team, you know. Not at first, not everybody, but it becomes apparent. They’ll tolerate you as long as they know your interests coincide with theirs. But they know that when there’s a sacrifice to be made, you can’t be trusted. I know that when the cards are down you’ll be exposed for the charlatan you are, and you’ll be dropped like a hot rock.
You don’t think I care about this as much as you do? I’m tired, you’re tired, it’s been a goddamn long day. And I do respect you, you know that? But I’ve been around this sort of thing longer than you have, and I will tell you this: the organization does not love you back. It can’t. It’s not a person. It will use you, because that’s its job. I know you’re angry because it’s letting you down now, because it can’t return your love. I’ve been there. It happened to me more than once. I gave everything to a team, to a job, to whatever, and when I’d given as much as I could, one of two things happened: either it was enough, and the org threw me away because I was used up; or it wasn’t enough, and the whole thing collapsed and everybody got fucked. I know how desperately you need to be loved and how much you hate yourself, and me, for it. Let me give you one serious, honest piece of advice: take care of yourself first.
You selfish fuck. You miserable, selfish, egomaniaical little shit. You’re a complete fucking sociopath, you know that?
Call me what you want. Self-preservation is your first directive. People help each other, and make sacrifices for each other, and that’s what makes a society, but you and I both know what happens when there’s two people left on the lifeboat and the society is long long gone. You can’t depend on that society to take care of you– use it, contribute to it, maintain it, but don’t depend on it because one day when you look for it, it won’t be there, and you’ll have to do without.
It’s one AM and I’m tooth-grindingly, stomach-achingly awake and angry and aggrieved.
Plus the usual post-modern anger at myself for being angry at others.
Woe is me! I have passed beyond the wake of venting, and mired myself on the shores of Poor-Me island. My charcoal jeans-cut stretch trousers from H&M, my anthracite DKNY sunglasses, even my soft graphite A|X buttonless polo cannot save me from the harsh words of rejection!
At least I’m not one of the poor bastards whose job is now on the line after the release of the most recent Viewsonic/Microsoft Tablet PC. Says one reviewer:
“Tablet is the wrong medicinal analogy: suppository more adequately describes the Smart Display experience.”
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Secretly Ironic 