Wednesday, December 30, 2009
THE MAINSTREAM MEDIA ISN'T REPORTING ON THIS SO WE NEED TO GET IT OUT BY WORD OF MOUTH! YOU GUYS NEED TO TWEET THESE VIDEOS WITH THE HASHTAG #ANGRYIRAN! PUT IT ON YOUR BLOGS, PUT IT ON YOUR FACEBOOKS AND MYSPACES, SET IT AS YOUR AIM OR MSN STATUS, SEND THEM TO BLOGGERS, VLOGGERS AND LOCAL NEWS OUTLETS! LET PEOPLE KNOW!
I am part of the first generation that won't know what life is like without the internet. Knoweledge is obtained and spread like lightning. Are we going to use this for good? WE'D FUCKING BETTER!
Sunday, December 27, 2009
1. Everyone goes to the mall the day after Christmas.
Including me and my sister. Her to shop, me to tape flyers in changing rooms and bathrooms.
Why is that? You already got stuff, do you really need even more stuff? Or is it a social thing? Anyway, fucking everyone was there. And they were all carrying shopping bags.
2. Scene kids especially love going to the mall the day after Christmas. Dear god, I like you, Scene Kids, but is the mall your secret meetingplace or something? There must have been a hundred of you. I have never seen so many DC logo shirts, or little skull patterned hairbows in my life. I went to the mall again today (because really, when theres a foot of fucking snow outside, what the hell are you going to do for fun?) and counted the scene kids. There were 21 of them. Are you guys taking the mall over? Planning some sort of vigilante scheme using hairspray and eyeglitter as weapons? Count me in, fucking-a.
3. They still sell glass ponies in the exchange room at Dillard's. These goddamn ponies have been in Dillards as long as I can remember. I am pretty sure these are the same ponies that have always been there since I was eight. If I wasn't wary of the labor conditions, I would totally plunk down $20 for one.
I totally ogled this one.
Then I totally fondled this one.
4. Guidos will butt into your conversations, get offended when you call them guidos, and are still pretty cool, all in all.
Me: *points to painting of fetus on wall* Dude, its got its hands up at its face the way cats do.
My sister: I-
Guido 1: What looks like a cat?
Me: I dunno. Are you gonna impregnate a cat and make an abomination half-cat-half-person and feed it banana flavored soymilk?
Guido 2: You're crazy.
Guido 3 (to my sister): This one's cute.
My sister: Thanks...
Me: Shes the cute one. I'm the one less likely to get raped. *blushes when realizing how NOT politically correct that is*
Guido 2: Raped? WTF?
Me: Well, if the rapist had a choice....?
Guido 1: You're cute too. I like your boots.
Me: Thank you Guido.
Guido 1: Dude, everyone calls me that! A thousand times a day! All the fucking time! Why did you call me a guido?
Me: I dunno. You guys are buff, you're tan, and you're wearing Ed Hardy.
Guido 2: Is he a guido? *points to guido three*
Me: Wow. You guys are awesome.
And it sort of ended there.
5. The people who work in Hot Topic are really articulate and cool. Finally get to Hot Topic, tape and flyers in bag, totally prepared to fuck some shit up. My mom is a lawyer and she says its legal as far as she knows. And so I'm going to do it. I'm going to try to enlighten the populace. I walk into Hot Topic, bombarded by Alice in Wonderland merch and more scene kids then I can count. And a dude with a pin covered lanyard and spikey hair approaches me and tells me that I need to sign up for the new rewards program or something. And I tell him no, I never shop here, but he totally thrusts a clipboard at me. "Um, pshyeah, so lyke, I don't really shop here, cuz child labor is like, TOTALLY unpunk."
He matches my fake valleygirl accent. "Thats like, totes ironic. Why are we talking like valleygirls?"
"I dunno." I say. "Ohmigawd, you look totes cute today. Bradley is totally going to ask you out, then you're gonna get married and have like, ten thousand babies. Cuz you're so fucking cute."
He rolls his eyes.
"You know, you remind me of Daria." he said.
I am totally flattered. I finish writing out my fake email adress and rush back to the changing rooms to do the deed.
6. I suck ass at doing things even remotely wrong. I pick out three shirts to pretend to try on. I ask the other dude in the store for the changing room key. I walk in, look in the mirror and bite off six pieces of tape, then bite those in half, then tape the flyers (that say hipsterrunoff.com and adbusters.org on them over and over again in repetitive neon and helevetica), slanted, on the mirror. The girl who will come in after me will probably be hoping that the pink zebra miniskirt makes her butt look perky, only to be forced to examine herself, her culture, and her impact on the world. But probably not. I will probably just piss off the guy that compared me to Daria. I blush. I freak out a little. I debate whether or not to take pictures. On one hand, proof I actually did this stupid shit. On the other hand, evidence. Eventually, I take pictures.
I cheer up. I look okay. I feel okay. I am vain, kind of stupid, and probably not doing anything of merit, but I should feel good about myself. I am more of a punk then the kids buying Tripp Pants mere feet away.
I kind of hate myself for putting hipsterrunoff in the same category as Adbusters. When I was making these this morning, I wanted to include HR as a Christmas present to Carles. Now I realize thats retarded. Oh wow, am trying to enlighten these people? I am an arrogant cu-
"Dude? Are you almost done?" my sister calls. I put my jacket on and rush out, feeling like a dumbass. I grab her hand and run out of the store with all the grace and charm of a functionally retarded goat. My face is read and I'm breathing heavily.
"What is wrong with you?" she says, poised and elegant. "It looks like you stole something."
I stop freaking out. I don't feel so smart, but life is okay.
Monday, December 21, 2009
Occasionally, on this blog that at least 5 people read, I will review some of the travesties of literature that I have come across. This is one of them. It wasn't discovered originally by me, but my friend Kyle (WHATS UP, MYSPACE FAMOUS!) at a rendezvous at our local library. It looked fucking horrible, we had to check it out.
Can't judge a book by its cover or something, right? Whatever, lets read the summary on the back.
Jade Leigh is a nonconformist who values individuality above all else.
Right off the start, LAME. "Be yourself" isn't the same as "be different from everybody else".
She has a small group of like-minded Goth friends who wear black, dabble in the dark arts, and thrive outside the norm.
Awesome, so you and your buddies are all exactly the same and as lame as every other goth in the country (and I guess Canada too...) but you think you're fucking GENIUSES because you prefer Hot Topic to Hollister and vampirefreaks.com to myspace.
They're considered the "freaks" of their high school. But when Jade's smart mouth lands her in trouble -- again -- her principal decides to teach her a lesson she'll never forget.
Oh my! Maybe she'll make you wear pink! Maybe she'll send you to detention and make you read the latest copy of Teen Vogue! Horror of horrors, Fake Exotic Sounding Stripper Name! Hijinks surely ensue!
Taken to a remote location where she is strapped down and sedated, Jade wakes up in an alternate universe-
Oh wait, this plot just got semi-good. Is it a sort of Matrix-esque "The cake is a lie" sort of thing where Stripper Name learns that her mindset is completly wrong and the goths, the preppies, and the old people need to band together and fight the robot overlords that control the corporations she inadvertently supported by "dressing goth"?
-where she rules the school.
Nope, just teen stereotypes. Oh noes, I guess her principal is Stephanie Meyer. She wrote the most scenetasticly tweenybopperish novel ever, knowingly sprinkling in PURE MORMON PROPAGANDA so that the zionists fund her publishing, her booktour, and her merch ventures. Of course, it becomes a cultural hit (all the the dismay of Miss Jade Leigh) and now goth is lyke, totally mainstreeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeam-UH. The popular girls (who really probably wouldn't be so bad if Stripper name got to know them) stop tanning and begin pining over the strong, silent (ABUSIVE) type. Sale of body glitter and vampire fangs go through the roof.
But her best friends won't talk to her, and the people she used to hate are all Goth. Only Clarik, the mysterious new boy in town, operates outside all the cliques. And only Mercedes, the Barbie clone Jade loathes, believes that Jade's stuck in a virtual reality game -- because she's stuck there, too, now living the life of a "freak." Together, they realize they might never get back to reality...and that even if they do, things might never be the same.
Aw. Pooie. Nothing original here.
Jade identifies as a "punk goth". I photobucketed "punk goth" and this came up on the first page:
This is pretty much how she was described in the book: Wears mostly black, hot but has "Bella from Twilight" syndrome and thinks she's an uggo fuck, blue and black hair (BITCH, I WANNA SWITCH HIGH SCHOOLS WITH YOU! I'M NOT ALLOWED TO HAVE FUCKING BLUE HAIR!), that doe-eyed look of noncomplex thought patterns, and ultimately, ONE DIMENSIONAL, like this generic anime drawing would be if I printed it out and forced my puppy to poop on it.
Jade identifies as a "punk goth" which is pretty much an oxymoron. When I think of punks, I think of people with mowhawks in plaid, leather and fishnets, yelling at policemen, screaming about "anarchy", and listening to the Ramones, even though they're republicans.
When I think of goths, I think of sad people of all genders and sexual orientations, wearing the same drab, uninspired black clothing, swaying in pure and utter meloncholy to some generic Cure song, crying and painting their toenails black....
I'm not even going to BS you guys, back on the subject of the Ramones, I just really fucking want to post this:
Hahahaahha! Oh yeah, um, punk and goth, punk and goth. *strokes imaginary beard* I guess when you put them together, you get Jade, the ultimate poseur. Jade doesn't really know who she is and clings to the goth subculture. Its not uncommon but the fucked up author woman attributed this to Jade's dead mom. Jade's mom died in a car accident and shouted at Jade that she had to be herself no matter what right before she died. Or at least thats what the book says. Jade, like most desperate entry-level alt girls, is probably a victim of Münchausen syndrome. Her mom is clearly dead, so she can't lie about that, but I don't think it happened quite like that. I think her mom died of something totally boring and out of the ordinary and Jade just enjoys exploiting her mother's death and blaming all of her problems on it.
The entire book is sort of a blur of her bitching, and there is no way I'm reading it again, so I'll be skipping quite a bit. But theres a generic cheerleader character, and shes rich, blonde, mean, and perfect. But the one quirkalicious thing about her is that her name is Mercedes.
Fucked Up Author Lady Gena Showalter is either a super-clever humorist or the biggest dibshit around. You gave both your main character and your superevildemonincarnagegirlyhorribleprep a stripper name.
Mercedes like, talked shit about Jade's mom because Mrs. Gavebirthtomercedes and Mr. Spermenatedjade'smom are bumping uglies. "Jade's mom deserves to die." she said to her friend. Jade overhead and attacked her. Rivalry persists.
Then they're in the computer game and they could just sit around and deal with it or they could do the stupid thing and fight back. Mercedes was caught fucking this foozeball player in the library. Jade was all, "Bish PLZ!" to her math teacher. Principal makes their rents sign a waiver and traps them in Goth Purgatory.
Gena totally fails on goth subcultures. All it took was a quick browse of google images and urbandictionary to see that she fucked this up. Punk goths do not pocess an understanding of punk ethics and shop at the mall, preps shun Abercrombie and wear sundresses fucking everywhere, and cybergoths dress like rejected matrix characters rather then like the monstrosities they really are:
I lie, I envy her ridiculosity.
They both hate Goth Purgatory, and band together to get out. Jade gets the mystereiousnewguy to help her and eventually he cracks the code. They get out and everything is wonderful again. Bottom line, buy this book. It will be the most wonderfully terrible thing you ever read. There is not enough blog to describe how fan-fucking-tastic this is. Its like a manual on how to be a poseur.
Saturday, December 19, 2009
Its nine thirty on a Saturday morning and I hate everyone. Its the first day of my winter vacation from school. I should be sleeping or hanging out with friends. I should be exiting some sort of rave, possiply high, maybe covered in the Extasy vomit of an overzealous first timer. I should be climbing the side of an abandoned warehouse, ass naked except for pink bunny ears, rescuing America's favorite stonedbehindtheeyes bassist from a mad scientist. Fuck, I should be watching VH1 Divas with my dog. Anything. I know what I shouldn't be doing. I shouldn't be cleaning day old shit from the bathtub.
You probably think that I am a teenage mom. No, this is my brother's shit. His name is James and he has moderate to severe autism. You have no idea what that means, right? Um, so like....Have you ever babysat a two year old? James will act like he is two for pretty much the rest of his life. (He's ten.) He shows no signs of mellowing out. Screaming, jumping up and down, watching Seasame Street, smearing shit and food everywhere, doesn't eat anything but Burger King, ect.? Pretty much him, except he also takes the shoe laces out of my shoes to dunk in toilet water, he chews vigorously on whatever shirt he's wearing, and he chronically masterbates. (My mom named his dick Tim as in "Stop touching Tim, James!")
And these past few days, he's been freaking out, eating everything he comes into contact with, and smearing shit everywhere. Last night, he ran himself a bath and brought my copy of Dial L for Loser into the tub to jerk off to. Then he defecated (i.e. SHAT).
There is a ginormous shitstain I can't seem to get out. I've tried vinegar, Oxyclean Scrub-Free (psh, LIARS), toothpaste with bleach, a little bit of my favorite volumizing color shampoo, and half a bottle of Clean and Clear clenser (It broke me out). I need more traction. I get some steel wool. Its got some dried on pink shit. I have no idea what it is, it could be mashed up alien egg pods for all I fucking know. What I do know is the steel wool got the dried up shit off and that all these products are probably giving me lung cancer. I look in the mirror. My skin looks like crap and my blonde roots are coming in. I cry a little. I wash my hands six times. They feel scabby and dry but they do not feel clean. I cry a little bit more. I check on my stupid family. I go on the internet and skim through about a third of the KKK's Vision for the Future just for shits. It reminds me of the screenplay I've been meaning to write. I am anchored to the house all day and eventually write this.