THE ONE THING I LEARNED IN THE AUGHTS

Everything is derivative

Which one do you like better?



OR:



WHATEVER I STILL LIKE IT ALL ANYWAY. Maybe we'll be more original in '10s, maybe 2012 will fuck it all up. Let's hope for the best <3.

sick of this brave new world

it was a weird year

TOP 5 most played songs on my iTunes (via YouTube) 

5. 

4.

3.

2.

1.

Maybe next year I'll have better taste?

KEANU REEVES

I love that Alex Winter is a total nerd in real life while Keanu never "breaks character"

FLANNEL ON FLANNEL

A while back, Siobhan blogged about fashion on My So-Called Life, a show that's very dear to my angsty little heart. Because of it, I'm always living in my head and always falling for the Jordan Catalanos when I should be dating the Brian Krakows.  

THAT SAID, when I returned home from balmy San Francisco to 40 degree Philly weather, I had to get a little bit creative with keeping myself warm in a drafty Point Breeze/Newbold house from the 1930s. Refusing to turn the heat on (I'm holding out until December) and already wearing one flannel shirt, I decided to slip into another. With sweaters, coats, and hoodies, it can get a little constricting. Blankets are fine, but what happens if you want to move about the house? Snuggies may have solved that quandary, but maybe the cult leader look is not suiting you this evening. If you're having a day like I did, maybe you want to feel like a grunge princess and wallow around thinking about the difference between Liking Someone and LIKE Liking Someone while listening to the Cranberries or Buffalo Tom on repeat.  

I know what you're thinking. Haven't we had enough of plaid all ready? It's the only thing that Urban Outfitters sells. It's all about high fashion goth/tailored tweed ensembles inspired by Sherlock Holmes/EXTREME GENDERBENDING. That's all fine if you pretend you take the L train to and fro the boroughs when you're really biking the East Passyunk-Frankford Ave Expressway (via 5th street tunnel and the Piazza roundabout). On the other hand, I happily live on the wrong side of Broad and can wear whatever the fuck I want. It ain't no fashion show when I'm chain smoking Pfunk 100s while nursing my 8th Kenzinger on my front stoop--wondering when my Jordan Catalano is going to pick me up and take me to the boiler room (in this case the alley behind Geno's) for a hot make out sesh. 

In short, if you're going to do this fashion don't, do it with style. Always wear a thicker plaid (a real flannel shirt with padded lining) over a light weight (perhaps the one you got on sale at Urban). When mixing patterns, go for contrast. Look at the top for example: see how I put the darker purple one against the lighter white, yellow, and brown patterns. Never do Buffalo-on-Buffalo, research other tartans to experiment with. Are you feeling like a Macdonald-cum-Stewart today? With plaid on plaid, you can be anyone from Kurt Cobain to Mary Queen of Scots! 

CHANNELING SOME WHITE BOY ANGST

Hey man, today I got held up at frustration station over some minor legal issues (no joke), and my only place of respite was recalling some mediocre soft alt bands. 

This was the first song that came to my head: 

I know, I KNOW. It's real bad. Listening to this once again, I noticed that I'm only fond of the first few measures, but then once the chorus arrives (too soon in my opinion), the lyrics and flat, whiney vocals are frankly unlistenable. What I'll call the bridge (bc I'm no music expert) is atrocious, probably because the singer starts belting out like a Hanson brother. Totally soured my bummer trip. 

Then I noticed the featured videos on the side bar featured the Gin Blossoms' "Found About You" 

Gin Blossoms - Found Out About You

Just as cheesy and mopey, but at least it's more melodic. Plus, the vocals are a hundred times better. Unlike "All I Want," the bridge is cleaner, which makes it more palatable for nostaglic staying power on soft rock radio. 

As the 90s make its inevitable comeback, I'm sure there's people out that would like to talk shit on them. However, I bet if you play "Hey Jealously" at the end of party, 10 beers deep, they'll be crooning with the rest of us. 

Hey Jealousy @ Yahoo! Video

Oh, just for the record, I don't mind flat, whiney vocals. You just got crank the angst like Galaxie 500 does in "Blue Thunder." The "LAAAAAAAAAAAAAs" are absolutely tedious, but at least we can sing along when we're having a shitty day. 

Galaxie 500 - New Music - More Music Videos

 

I don't care if the Vivian Girls are overhyped and overplayed...

This picture alone makes me love them MORE

LIVE BLOGGING: 10 things I hate about you

Okay back from blogging hiatus and coming back at you with a vapid post about the new ABC family series "10 things I hate about you."

It's 8:12 and there's already commercial. So far there's a been a total homosocial moment when the nerdy guy peaks at a popular dude's underwear as a way to get his name for the pretty sophomore girl he's crushing on. Also big shrewy sis got a fake ID. Also the guy from the movie is still the father. Good job on career choices.

8:14: oops nerdy guy forgot his wallet and had to give his shoes to the cab. and the pretty girl was lucky enough to "leave the house with lip gloss"

8:15: WTF is a decoy house? "popularity is confusing, you'll pick it up"

8:15: big shrew sis is at the grunge club and her fake ID works.

8:16: omg awkward GLBT moment "you could be a butch lesbian or a transgender male. I celebrate you" semi-offensive and not even funny on a Bruno level.

8:17: okay the Heath Ledger replacement is only kind of hot and too clean cut.

8:18 "he's your chance, you want to kiss me" borrrring

Okay this is kind of exhausting to watch and blog. Bottom line: Even though the 90's are back, 10 things does not translate well this time around. I'm signing off.

I WISH I WAS HIM

PSA: OH SHIT LOOK WHO'S COMING BACK

The Former Yugoslav Republic of Awesome is making a comeback in the Philadelphia region from his tour of East Africa. Y'all better shower him with love and kisses. Also, be sure to congratulate him on his MBA from the University of Phoenix. He'll be managing a Verizon Superstore near you. 

Muscle Memories

Sometimes I forget high school biology. Sure, duh, I know that the brain interacts with the muscles via motor skills, but sometimes it takes fracturing your tib/fib to get the point. Maybe I would have scored an A in bio if I used my body as a study guide/exhibit for dissection. NOT. 

Relearning how to use your legs is more than just baby steps. A part of my new routine is standing on something that resembles a cross sectioned beach ball. I have to keep balance so that my stiff ankle can re-record the action the muscle performs as a muscle memories. That way I have greater dexterity when I'm walking off a curb or busting a move on the dance floor. 

The body never ceases to baffle me. The fact that the lack of leg activity has not only shrunk my calf, but also caused my muscles to forget its ingrained functions. WHOA. 

Dear 2009

I know we got off to a rough start, but can we be friends now for the rest of the year? You've been fast and furious, and I've been unyielding and cold as usual. Anyway, let's make up!  I'll buy you dinner, maybe take you to the beach. Or maybe I'll make you a mix tape of all my favorite songs. Let's get over our grudges and talk about our feelings. Let's cry on each other's shoulders. Just please don't be mean to me anymore. 

Love,

Yours Truly

I LIED

I caught Jacko mania.  Here are three unappreciated Michael Jackson clips you never really hear anymore.

I like the song, but something about this video makes me really uncomfortable. RIP LINDA TOO.



OMG I LOVE IT WHEN GROUPS FROM THE 60s and 70s HAVE AN EMBARRASSING 80s PHASE. Sorry, Michael basically created the 80s, and y'all were just trying to leverage some more fame. Though I am sucker for the falsetto chorus line ("It's TORTURE") and retro dystopic futures/orientalism.



DIRTY DI-AN-A, no! Not his best, but something about metal guitar riffs and women on the edge go so well together.


And this song (not the iMovie) tugs at my heart strings:

radio free Michael Jackson

The only thing I have to say about the death of Michael Jackson is how I found out. It was not someone's Facebook status nor TMZ, but I heard about it from something as antiquated as the radio. Yes, I still listen to the radio because I still like an element of surprise in my life. I scan the dial in search of the perfect soundtrack of the moment.

Funny that Michael Jackson didn't fit on the track list yesterday. I like him just as much as anyone but usually in the context of last call, last dance on the dance floor. So when I kept hitting scan, one by one each station started playing Michael Jackson songs back to back.

It's amusing to call it viral because anything viral in the media you usually think of the internet, i.e. Twitter. Though it was one of those creepy moments when you suddenly feel claustrophobic as you're forced to pay tribute to a man you didn't know. Yes, I agree, he is quite iconoclastic for changing pop music and inflating celebrity to a higher degree. Blah Blah Blah. But do we need to escalate this news to emergency broadcasting levels? Is it an emergency that I should feel obligated to pay respects because "Thriller" was playing when I sloppily made out with someone forgettable at a party? I'm not heartless, my thoughts are with his family. But when comes to entertainment, really I was in the mood to hear Madonna on the radio that day, not MJ.

Other thoughts:

1. If the radio is going to play back to back MJ songs, then MTV should definitely pay their respects by playing his videos on one of their 10+ channels. Each party brought the other much success; though it is curious to see how both brands devolved at the turn of this century.
2. My grandmother wants to me to write an expository essay on why Michael Jackson is such an pivitol figure in our society, which due is for discussion upon our Saturday evening PIZZA PARTY.

bike riding inspiration

Who wants to go with me tomorrow? I just read about it in today's Inquirer. I'm hoping the exhibit will get me amped enough for a quicker recovery time so that I can start biking again.

back in the saddle

So I got back on a bike today! Well a stationary one at physical therapy for about eight minutes. Funny that the therapist asked if it was "too soon" and I figure it's not soon enough. Don't get me wrong: I've been debating whether or not I'd be biking again, but it's probably the best to get over residual anxiety and hop back in the saddle.

I know I'm going to stop at every intersection and probably pedal at a turtle's pace. Cars are going to freak me out and I have to remember not to space out in the middle of traffic. I'm also going to sport a helmet and roll up to places with matted, sweaty hair. HAY.

It's going to be awhile before I start traversing town, and at all hours, but I know I will get tired of cab fares, SEPTA meltdowns, and exhausting my hot rod (the 1993 SUBARU LEGACY is on its last legs). Hands down, biking is still the fastest and easiest way to get around. PLUS, I score progressive points for keeping emissions low. But really, I just want to get those quads pumping to feel the wind in my face again.

I promise: No more fooling with monkey business, I'M PLAYING IT SAFE.

teeeveeee

I remember watching a forgettable movie/program where a character laments something about suburbanites isolating themselves with cable TV. Ever since the household upgraded to Verizon's FiOS, my face time with the boob tube has increased 200%. Which means my suburban visa has been extended.

I mean it's exciting to know that I can watch GOLDEN GIRLS on not only Hallmark Channel, but also WETV and the Family Network. Let's talk about how easy it is to eat your feelings on estrogen alley that spans from Lifetime Movie Network to Soap Opera Net.. The liberal in me wants to watch currentTV all day where 20something newscasters say shit like "yeah, man, things in Palestine are totally messed up" (direct quote) while the art fag wants to watch documentaries about Jeff Koons and Ray Johnson on Ovation TV (MAKE LIFE CREATIVE). The real fag snickers at Logo(and cringes at old US Queer as Folk episodes), but I pay my fairy dues by watching shows like Beautiful People which oddly resembles my sissy middle school years. And then there's the guilty pleasures of Degrassi marathons where I wish my high school years were that dramatic. Though NYC Prep on Bravo hits too close to home.

For other members of the household: My Dad, the WWII history buff, can escape to 5 History Channels, including THE MILITARY CHANNEL (???). My mom can redecorate our house again by following tips from not only HGTV, but also DIY, which sadly does not take place in a West Philly basement show, but in the collective cul-de-sac of boom years past.

The upside: I am so ready for water cooler conversations that I always avoided and can pick up any meeting with clients by referencing the Office. Downside: holy shit I stay up all night watching Twin Peaks marathons on the Crime and Investigation Network. I am currently terrified that Laura Palmer's murderer is going to dice me up and James (<3)/Agent Cooper are twenty years too old to save me.

a mother's day post for father's day

If you don't know my mother, she is a complete control freak. So it's no wonder that she planned her pregnancy exactly one year after she married my father. She married him sixth months after they met at a party. Prior to that she turned down three proposals because she felt her suitors lacked certain qualifications to raise a proper (Catholic) family. Suitor A had a bad temper, Suitor B had a moody orthodox family, or Suitor C worked as prison psychologist. All justifiable I suppose. Typically, nothing really surprises my mother and she is always prepared, but she was thrown off guard when my father mumbled a proposal over dinner. "I couldn't understand what he was babbling about and all I wanted to do was eat my fish." I like her word choice of babble, because she always implores me to quit babbling whenever I'm expressing my emotions on full blast. I'm sure my dad's nerves were high as well.  I wonder if he had been circulating scenarios is his head: You know, interrupting dinner to get on the Hollywood knee, woo her with the question she has been waiting to hear all her life.  Or not. 

But my mother had no patience for silver screen romanticism, and wanted him to get to the point, so that she could eat her fish. Though, my mother did find my father not only charming, but much more suitable than her previous flames.  However, if marriage was now on the table, the terms would have to be negotiated. No baby until a year has passed to ensure that all parties were committed. After a year, plans would be implemented as long as it would be baptized Catholic.  My parents passed the one year milestone and I assume they began to make preparations. 

As my parents continued to plot my debut, they also scheduled a trip to Quebec to celebrate their anniversary. It would be on the New York Thruway where my mother would realize that pregnancy would follow its own schedule and arrive unannounced in spite of vigorous planning. While thrilled that she and my father succeeded, she was disappointed to learn that she would have to forgo wine with dinner while frequenting Quebec City's finest restaurants. 

P.S. my parents both abhorred this song, and totally reveled their dislike for it by rocking out to it on full volume circa 1996.

time capsule

There are now nine minutes left of June 18, 2009, but I believe there are some places that still linger around April 17th, May 2nd, and June 14th. My room on  S. 15th street is a museum of time stamps in corners. Here lies, in the left corner, the pile of winter coats that I need to sort, store, and/or donate. Pictures I never bothered to hang up from the last move in December. My senior thesis lies beside my bed, ready for a face lift and a tummy tuck, but at the last minute got bumped. There are too many books I need to page through, space is limited in the luggage. Besides, something tells me I need to get reacquainted with ghosts before I can get reconnected with the living. Busy signals have been sprouting since November, but now the cord is cut.

At 12:09 A.M., June 19, 2009 I am closing my eyes and imagining the rest of this summer, the past summer, and the winter that bridged the two. I have the scripts ready, the blocking looks good, but the stage keeps changing. There's always a car barreling through the fourth wall, just at the moment when you're feeling ambitious to make it happen. And of course the actors failed to show up. If someone is behind this, they sure got a good laugh and a better production down the block. I'd believe the footage as long as they just press play. I hope they hurry because I've got revisions to make. 

5 minute post

HOLY SHIT I'm going to the mother of all MALLS: King of Prussia. Haven't been back there since '07, and with a high school friend back in town, it's going to be like '02 like whoa. My home gurl is turning 25 and I have to look real good. It's always interesting trying to find a way to accessorize with a black giant boot and crutches. I can't believe I still I have the crutches because I hoping they would be doneso by late June. I want my debut with a cane. God I want a cane really bad to hit cute boys like a creepy cranky old man that I've become. Whoa I'm nervous about finding the "right" outfit. I haven't showered in 3 days and I wear mesh shorts all day long. Whatever, they are super comfy and make me feel sporty when I look gimp.

I think I'll take an extra two minutes to find an appropriate youtube video to emphasize my glee. I bet you can guess what it will be. Oh and I'll take an extra 30 seconds to express my hope in running into someone from high school, now fashioning a beer gut.

live blogging from the dinner table

Mother: Oh I would get the white, how should I say this, "pottery style" dish set, but it chips easily. I think I'm going to go with Nantucket Basket. The same set I gave Wendy for her wedding gift. 
Uncle: Well, as long as you don't get them in black like our brother did. He said it made the food look better. HMMPH.  
Grandmother: His taste is simply too contemporary.
Father: I remember when he first got that set after he moved back to D.C. He lived in that dreadful basement apartment. The one where you had to trip over his parasail to get to the kitchen. HA!

Uncle: You're right. That was right off Connecticut Ave. 

Mother: And then he and John bought that much nicer colonial townhouse north of Georgetown. I wish they still had that place. The condo in Dupont is hardly impressive. 

Son: Mom, their old house was up on a steep hill and far from any public transportation. It was too residential. I like their new place. It's close to Whole Foods, restaurants, the metro, and other stuff. Plus, the windows provide a good amount of natural lighting [of course I would say this].

Uncle: You're right. It is closer to downtown. 

Mother: Spencer, they paid all that money for a view of the parking lot with a foul-looking dumpster. 

10 minute blog post

okay go. I feel like I need to update this blog since it's been a week and that's a no-no in web 2.0 world. I'm so livejournal, but really never had one and have been with blogspot since 2001. you are not going to look at my old blogspot. it is full of high school embarrassment. i totally took like a 5 minute stream of consciousness break to talk to an old friend in iceland. i've been fantasizing a lot about having residency somewhere like corsica, but NOT ibiza. can you imagine the poetry/creative writing exercises that would come out of that? it would probably be a lot of one-word abstraction coupled with participles like "sex thumping." actually that is it. I took a thirty second break to make sure participle is the right word. I have no retention which is why I failed the SATs and GREs. WAH WAH. Thank god I have a personality. Sometimes. One more minute and I have to go to physical therapy. I have a post in the works about how my work out routine is so European. I remember the last time I was there my film professor told me that Europe is Dead, but I keep writing about it. Never did take that obligatory backpacking trip that all boring liberal arts majors are supposed to take. Instead I opted for South Philly, thank you very much. Blogging is hard because it really takes me 2 hours to write a post, but look how much I wrote in 10 minutes with a 6 minute break.

Good Touch, Bad Touch

Typically I'm not a fan of people touching me. This changed when I went for a doctor's visit on Friday. When I was called to one of the patient rooms, I discovered that I would be joined by three male Penn med students. I don't think I've seen a male under the age of 35 in a month. Of course I was pretty tight lipped in the event I uttered my love for one of them. I almost died when the doctor encouraged each student to feel how tender my skin felt around the battle wounds. Was I in someone's doctor-patient fantasy? Brief as it was, it got me aroused enough to listen to the following on repeat.

SUMMER OF SENTIMENTALITY

I'm sorry but 2009 has been a total let down. So I'm declaring that this summer be a SUMMER OF SENTIMENTALITY. This means indulging romcom marathons, bad grammar, blogging Web 1.0 style, talking about feelings with hearts on the sleeve, crocheting said hearts on twitter feeds, and tuning into DELIAH ON THE RADIO.

I've come to this conclusion after listening to the following on repeat

Now, someone please give me a radio show.

no pain no gain

It's no surprise that I do everything in my power to avoid pain. In high school, I participated in the low impact sports of track and crew. If an opportunity for conflict erupted from an aggressive classmate, I negotiated a cease fire, made strategic alliances with older kids (and hot girls), and just played Switzerland. My idea of rough housing was climbing trees and seeing how long I could ignore my mother's pleas to come down for dinner. 

I knew one misstep could send me to the emergency room. That's where pain is celebrated for its most traumatizing achievements. Pain gets accolades when you receive a cast on your foot, crutches to bear your weight on, and unlimited hours of daytime television. The only perk is that you get your cast signed by the cute boy that you really wanted to become "friends" with, but of course he's absent that day or rather he's the one person that doesn't care about your accident. 

Anyway, I figured I take extra precautions in my ascent to the top of the tree. Double check each branch to see if it could handle your weight. Know that the limit comes before the sky so never reach too high. Should have taken my eight year old advice when I was barreling down Tasker Avenue on my bike in pursuit to make it home in record time from god-knows-where- at-4 am. Sadly, I didn't make it across Passyunk and ended up in that damn emergency room. Pain had finally conquered me. 

I was surprised to learn that pain was a lot smarter than I ever gave it credit. It's not the dog you yell "OW" at when it bites you in the leg. Severe pain doesn't strike upon impact, but it likes to assess the damages and test out a few bruises and fractures. Before it seeps into your consciousness, pain's more compassionate, yet distant cousin adrenaline barges in to provide initial support that prepares you for what's next.

Pain is spoken on a scale from 1-10 with doctors and nurses. If you can utter, " a sharp 8 with increasing potential for a 9," that will guarantee you a four day post-op hospital stay with morphine drip on the house. The metal rod now permanently lodging in your leg will activate a steady 7 for a good week. When you are speaking in 5s and 6s, you are sent home with a goodie bag of Percocet and Vicodin. You make up modifiers to get your point across for anything below a 3. This works well in physical therapy when the Jane Fonda leg lifting causes you to a have a slight but achy 2, which excuses you from completing the ridiculous exercise.  

However, when reach those levels, your time for easy sympathy is running low along with your stash of pain pills. Pretty soon everyone will want you to quit your whining, learn how to walk again, and get back to work. At least I can count on the isolated 2-and-3 level pain to check in through the metal rod to let me know a storm is a-brewing. 

  

PLEASE PLEASE LET ME GET WHAT I WANT

MENTAL THERAPY

I often let things stew or marinate for too long, which is to say I've been slow with coming to terms with the emotional toll from my bike accident. Probably it's because the incident itself happened too fast. I remember that my internal monologue went from something like, "fuck where did this car come from I hope I can wing it" to "holy shit am I paralyzed bleeding where are my glasses?" But it's the middle sequence that haunts me. The part where my thoughts are silenced, and I'm flying through the air, ending up on the other side of the car that hit me. The only footage I have resembles what would happen if someone flipped a camcorder in the air.

I suppose I'm also a visual thinker as well. I'm not exactly sure what that exactly means, but something familiar registers while I was watching Ghost tonight. Towards the end of the film, Sam's (Patrick Swayze's) killer runs into traffic and gets hit by a bus. He meets his death by flying unto the hood of another oncoming vehicle. 

I could finally capture my own flight path from the initial impact to air and then to the crash landing. My memory adds a few more seconds to the playback and cuts to a POV shot at a side angle.  This new sequence, however,  begs more questions than answers 

TEEN BEAT PART DUH

A few days ago, a friend posted this video on their Facebook wall and referenced their painfully embarrassing Tori phase. I had one, too, right after my three year Smashing Pumpkins binge that led me into trouble. I wonder if my life would had been any different had this been a hit song. Would I be more well-adjusted? Would Kurt Cobain still be alive and well, or even relevant? Would Y Kant Tori Read be our number one export to keep our economy strong?

If only "The Big Picture" made the top of the charts, we'd all be happy and have our problems solved.

(Favorite lyric: Mothers on my case/I told it's my life/WELL SHE JUST DIED. WHAT?)

TEEN BEAT PART 1

Out of a class of 25 boys, I definitely lingered at the bottom five on the popularity rankings at the small catholic boys school I attended. I had zero coordination in the outfield, talked real funny, and had a brief Tori Amos phase.

This is a year after I listened to Smashing Pumpkins and Nine Inch Nails on heavy rotation to get me through seventh grade. This self-diagnosed prescription for my angst problem led me to believe that I really was Billy Corgan. Such to the extent that I begin penning my own lyrics for the band's follow up to Mellon Collie and the Infinite Sadness. Fortunately, Adore would come out that summer before publication.



(Let's pause for second to think about how fabulously melodramatic that title is. If I ever compile a list for a Listener's Guide to Seventh Grade in the Mid to Late 90s, Mellon Collie would be firmly ranked as number one on its title alone.)

Anyway, I envisioned myself as Billy Corgan because, as an only child with strict parents that banned everything R rated and above, I had to entertain my penchant for all things grotesque and macabre somehow. Smuggling contraband (Parental Advisory CDs and other offensive materials from the local mall) and the petty theft from my mother's purse to fund the operation was not enough. My delinquency was too small scale, and I needed to escalate to something more permanent. Plus, I had a lot of time to kill on the hour long bus ride from Bryn Mawr to West Chester. So, under the influence of the Smashing Pumpkins' discography, I wrote my first poem.

I'm not sure how to describe my seventh grade sonnets. I'm sure I lifted lyrics like "I lie just to be real and I die just to feel," peppered with "fuck you," images of severed body limbs, and post-apocalyptic landscapes. Suddenly, the other kids noticed me scrawling away and I was a hit on the bus. I was even commissioned by a devoted few. I knew the humor was at my expense, but no longer was I the kid that hid under the bleaches during gym, or who kept the bench warm outside of the school psychologist's office. So what if I was still a loser. At least I secured a position as back seat poet with a mean publicity machine.



Soon enough my English teacher would get word of my nascent literary career. Some eighth grade snitch found a draft buried in my desk. My school was too small for lockers so personal property was easily subject for confiscation. I was too shocked and embarrassed to build a defense case at the time. Not that it would save me in a catholic school where you're guilty until proven innocent in the eyes of a nun. Besides, I'd always shutdown in the face of male aggression and think of a happy place. A place where the teacher would instead tell me to lighten up and rewrite the poem in the form of a dirty limerick.

WHEN I AM WELL AGAIN...

...I will wear all sorts of blazers, even if I'm sweating at the crest of a heat wave.

I have never been enthusiastic about blazers because they were a part of my dress code for so long. K-12 to be exact. And when I wasn't school, my mother had her own ideas of how I should look, which meant oxford shirts, pleated khakis, and penny loafers. Of course, when I could get my hands on the car keys and her credit card, I struggled to figure out my own sense of fashion at the King of Prussia mall. There weren't many opportunities for sartorial growth in Chester County 2002.

It wasn't until I moved to rural Ohio for college of all places where I parted with the blazer and its preppy iterations, and encountered its well-stocked thrift stores. Far from vintage store buyers, I could find 50 cent Members Only jackets (I think at one point I had 3 or 4), dollar Lacoste cardigans. and plaid upon plaid for pennies.

Now that I've graduated and now living in Philadelphia for two years, I feel like my undergrad look is a little staid. This summer I'm trading in the jean cutoffs for a more polished look. Though I think I'll leave the navy blue back in high school and go for something a bit more bold.



I thiiink I can pull the stripped blazer off, but it's going to be an adventure trying to find a similar styled jacket.


For the record, I've been wearing the same v-neck and girl's basketball mesh shorts combo for the entire weekend.

SAYING WHAT I AM THINKING WITHOUT REALLY SAYING MUCH

I am two more days away from sharing the same mentality.

LET ME TELL YOU SOMETHING ABOUT MY FAMILY

My guilty pleasures are getting guiltier by the day. I'm becoming too emotionally invested in the Real Housewives of New Jersey now, and I can't decide which team to bat for in the Dina vs. Danielle World Series of Hate.



A lot of people would side with Dina. She's very cool and collected. She doesn't really need to raise her voice, even in the throes of a battle. We certainly don't share the same tastes in interior design, but I could appreciate her merits and "artistic" sensibility. More importantly, I think I'd want Dina and her super size family on my side in the event I run into some trouble.

Though, Dina and I are both extremely sensitive, and it's most likely we would bicker. Plus, I'd get bored of saying the right thing and being her gay little pet. If I rebel, which is likely, I'd probably be excommunicated from the Manzo family. Which means sleeping with one eye open.

Which is why my heart often goes out to Danielle the underdog. She's trying to clean up her act and fall in love, but she's looking in all the wrong places. I could see us drinking Cosmos by the pool. We'd talk about our (boy) problems, start crying about it, and then go on a ski trip for good measure. I'd certainly feel less inhibited as she would convince me to engage in illicit phone conversations with a 50+ sugar daddy, but at least I'd get a Black American Express card out of it.

Yet I know Danielle will be calling/texting me every hour of the day, wanting to talk about her boy problems and not listening to my advice. I'd lose interest real fast and I'd probably run back to Dina and recite an Act of Contrition. I would earn her trust again by spilling the beans on Danielle's rough past and weird sex life. Then, Caroline would come out of nowhere with a large plate of lasagna to fatten me up and welcome me back to the Manzo family.

But, then you'd know by next week I'd be on another bender with Danielle. That's reality TV for you.

Top 5 Crushes of the Week

As if I've stated before, the life of mandatory leisure affords me little contact with the outside world, which means there are fewer opportunities to indulge in any new affections. Thus I must turn to the internet and TV in order to appeal to these fancies.


5. An italo disco gem: Kano's "Another Life" video.



He gets my attention with freeze frame poses and maniacal stares. And blaring Moogs are the only way to my heart these days. Plus, he's got babes in plastic cages.

4. London from Daisy of Love



Admitting this is kind of embarrassing. What's more embarrassing is the soundtrack and the "tribute" clip above to Daisy and London's budding relationship. Yeah, whatever. Anyway, I can't help but be heartsick for any doe-eyed bad boy with a sensitive side. Please come over so we can brood together.

3. Christine Baranski as Maryann Thrope



She is the mother I've always wanted. She would buy me the best designer clothes and instruct me never to drink domestic champagne.

2. BOYS ON BIKES



OMG TIS THE SEASON! And even though a bad biking decision brought me to the life of mandatory leisure, I am still going to fall in love with and stare down every boy that zips down 15th Street on a fixie or road bike. Duh, I'm a total stereotype. But nothing gets me aroused more than the sight of tatted calves pumping pedals as I oogle over the color scheme of his rims. I pray he stops so then maybe he can nurse me back to health while we make out to Repeater.

1. NICHOLAS CAGE FROM 1983-1990



I'd give it up to him while cruising on Sunset Boulevard



I'd bust him out of jail and have his babies



As long as loves like he does in the pictures.

hunger pangs

There's only one thing on my mind right now.

I don't understand. I ate a well-balanced, nutritious dinner that included grilled steak, baked potatoes, broccoli, and a side salad with mixed greens, tomatoes, and avocado (yes!). I even made room for dessert, which happened to be three pieces of organic fudge, courtesy of my good friend Han. That should have hit the spot, but now I'm licking my chomps for more. The sad thing is that this happens after every meal or in between every meal. Sure, everyone gets pangs, but this particular one has a specific flavor in mind. I'm not going to bother with savoring its taste. I just want an injection of something soft, chewy, and sweet. Something that's going to melt in my mouth, fill up my stomach to the brim, and threaten my figure.

I have to confess: I'm getting weak in the knees for Chewy Chips Ahoy.



The chips are really stacked against me, but for a different reason. The vintage Nabisco chime keeps ringing in my head. It sounds as early as 8 AM and continues until about midnight. If I resist, it will find its way into my dreams, torturing me with flying cookie saucers that can break the sound barrier and spoil my appetite. When I am startled awake, there's nothing left to do but strap in my boot cast and hobble to the kitchen to begin the hunt. You see I'm not the only one plagued by this ooey gooey delight. My father suffers from the same craving, which has expanded his waistline and caused tension in his marriage.

Although I am experiencing sleep deprivation and mild anxiety, I am fortunate to still be in the early stages of this condition. Since I recognize the consequences of eating an entire package in one sitting, I am not hasty in satisfying my hunger. Instead, I set limits, take a deep breath, and inhale the entire row. I wait a half an hour and inhale another. I pause, survey the damage, and then reseal the package as tightly as possible. I even make an effort to find a new hiding spot before I succumb to an all out cookie binge.

I can't bear to count how many cookies are in each row, or even begin to calculate about the amount of calories, fat, and sugar I consume. However, there are two things that help me keep Chips Ahoy at bay. First of all, I have agonizing visions of blimping out of my skinny jeans and into a pair of relaxed fit from JCPenny. Secondly, my mother never ceases to complain about how often she has to go to the store in order to buy overpriced junk food. Magically, her nagging becomes the blow horn that silences the Nabisco chime, which puts my guilt on call for the next Chips Ahoy pillage.

Ultimately, I think the hunger pangs reflect the restlessness that comes from leading a life of mandatory leisure. My social interactions are limited to the internet and telephone. I can't pour a glass of water without drafting a procedure that involves multiple parties. Did I mention I can't wiggle my toes on my left foot? So why not reward myself with popping an entire row of Chewy Chips Ahoy! Though after seeing this clip below, I might want to switch to Sprinkled Chips Ahoy. There's a party in every bite, and everyone knows I love a good party.

GUYS BE RUNNIN GAMES LIKE THE NEW YORK KNICKS

Let's file this under things I can't wait to do when I get back to the city. I have a lot of time on my hands so I'm making a list.

1. I'll let MC Lyte take the mic on this one:



Okay, the video quality is poor and the rhymes are weak at times. I mean at 2:04, we see Lyte get a little too vulnerable in front of Positive K. Face it: You don't need to get all touchy feely in front of the same guy who did "I Got a Man" 2 years later. What you do need to tell him is that "if you got some thoughts about taking me to bed/Kill that and get a five dollar crackhead."

Also, the only thing I'm crushing on right now is Lyte's terribly poor choice of gold earrings and light blue flannel tucked into what seems to be pleated khakis (?). How oppressively 1991. On that note, you will see me rocking this look on the streets of Philadelphia come June.

THE DAY AND LIFE OF A CRIP ON THE MEND

Every morning at 7:30, I am summoned downstairs for a breakfast of Kashi's Autumn Wheat cereal, a cup of Lipton hot tea with SweetNLow, and an orange from the farmer's market down the road. This is after I inject myself with Lovenox, which unfortunately does not make me more desirable as the name suggests, but surely prevents blood clots from forming in my atrophied leg.

Meanwhile my father, a dependable chap, follows me as he juggles a tote bag of miscellaneous items, a cushion to prop up my leg, and the commode that provides support when I perform bowel movements. Which is like waiting for Old Faithful to erupt on schedule. Regardless, such performances are very important to record for the visiting nurse, who comes 2-3 times per week.

In the kitchen, my mother is anxious to the pour the milk so I try my best to hobble down the two flights of stairs. Once I arrive, I plop in a large armchair, adjust my leg in an upright position, and turn on the TV. I think Cybill is on Lifetime. Welcome to my new office.




This is not a charmed life, but one of mandatory leisure. I am now subject to bad television, writing poems about pinball machines, and verbose blogging for the Twitter crowd. All under the influence of Vicodin. If I sound like Bea Arthur (RIP), it's because Golden Girls comes on 9am on the Hallmark Channel.