I hate hipsters.
I know that sounds both weird and hateful. How could it sound other than hateful, what with the word "hate" right there and all? Allow me to clarify. Maybe some background could be helpful?
Okay. So I went to see The Last Kiss. I had a terrible reaction to it. No, there were no hives involved, no swollen glands, no odd or mysterious rashes of any kind. And, for that, I'm pretty thankful.
What was there was a near panic attack/depression as I flashed forward to the next few years of my life and saw an endless string of commitment-phobic, mousy, uninteresting men who all had better hair than me. I admit that I'm not perfect. But, just grant me a few minutes of panic attack, okay?
So, that was my fear. My shuddering, heart-palpitating fear (with added bonus of sweaty palms, gross). And, let's be honest, I'm not going to be attracting men of any ilk when I'm all sweaty and looking like I'm about to burst into tears and/or go hide under a table for the next few years, so what am I really worried about? I mean, even Mister "and-don't-you-love-my-Urban-Outfitters-ensemble?" isn't coming near the freaky-panic-attack-chick. No way!
But, eventually, I moved out of being freaky-panic-attack-chick and into being just normal me. Except that now I have an almost Pavlovian response when I see a very hipster-esque male, which results in my screaming, "I hate you hate you hate you!" anytime I spot one. Um, I did mention that I do that in my head, right? Right. I mean, I'm not really crazy. It's just in my head...Oh that didn't help clear up matters AT ALL. Perhaps the fact that I majored in English helps? We're a little weird (and a lot passive aggressive).
So, anyways, I'm trying to work through this, trying to think back on the good old days of men in movies. You know, when they were really good guys? When they were handsome and dashing, dashing and handsome. Hell, when they were Billy Crystal and just funny and charming. Whatever happened to funny and charming? I liked funny and charming. I could date funny and charming.
But personality-less hipster? No thanks. I hate you hate you hate you!
[Editor's Note: I really bear no ill feelings toward hipsters. In fact, some of my best friends are hipsters (scenesters, even). I think I just had a terrible reaction to Mr. Braff's character who had to have been the least likeable characters I've encountered in quite some time. Trust me, I still love the Urban Outfitters...and my uber-hip checkered Vans I bought there. :)]
Saturday, September 30, 2006
Thursday, September 28, 2006
My Endless Love!
As of late, I have fallen in love. A deep, abiding love that will last a lifetime.
Yes, folks, I have become addicted to Last.fm. If you don’t yet know about Last.fm, it is…heavens, I don’t want to oversell here, but…it is the greatest invention of all time. No joke.
I really hope I didn’t falsely raise your hopes. How could I have? Because, until they create chocolate-flavored air, fat-free foods that taste just like the real thing, or a button that can be pushed to bring peace, happiness, and an abundance of glitter to the world, Last.fm will remain my pick for number one invention.
By now you might be wondering, “What is this Last.fm of which she speaks?”
Fair enough, as asserted by the geniuses at Last.fm, it is, “the social music revolution.” To be honest, I am pretty much technologically un-savvy, so I know that there are many layers of Last.fm of which I am ignorant.
However, I do know that Last.fm allows me to input the names of singers/bands that I like, and it will create my own little radio station for me, all on my little Gateway laptop. And, in addition to playing those music selections of mine, it will play music from related artists. If I don’t like a song, I can skip it. No problem.
Unfortunately, it was this need to skip a song that forced me to see that there may be a chink in the armor of my new love, the moment every woman dreads.
It just happened yesterday, as I was listening to my Last.fm. Now, I’ve been in a weird country mood since the other day. Not sure why, but I sure want to hear me some good old country music. So, I input the following list into Last.fm:
“george jones, lucinda williams, george strait, brooks and dunn, lyle lovett, robert earl keen, david allan coe, darryl lee rush, dolly parton, tammy wynette, crystal gayle, Alabama”
Hey, I said it’s a weird mood! And Last.fm was there for me, playing some favorites from Jones, maybe even a little Pride. But, all of a sudden, I heard a strange voice. A woman’s voice. But not my beloved Crystal Gayle or my dear Tammy Wynette. It wasn’t an unfamiliar voice, but it was out of place. I looked at the computer screen.
CHER!
Cher?
Cher.
Sure enough, the greatest invention of all time was playing Cher in the middle of my country mix. I’m not sure how it happened, and I don’t feel completely let down. But I do feel confused and a little hurt.
Nevertheless, I still believe in the ultimate goodness of Last.fm. And, with a lot of TLC and a little counseling, I think we can get through this.
Now, back to listening!
Yes, folks, I have become addicted to Last.fm. If you don’t yet know about Last.fm, it is…heavens, I don’t want to oversell here, but…it is the greatest invention of all time. No joke.
I really hope I didn’t falsely raise your hopes. How could I have? Because, until they create chocolate-flavored air, fat-free foods that taste just like the real thing, or a button that can be pushed to bring peace, happiness, and an abundance of glitter to the world, Last.fm will remain my pick for number one invention.
By now you might be wondering, “What is this Last.fm of which she speaks?”
Fair enough, as asserted by the geniuses at Last.fm, it is, “the social music revolution.” To be honest, I am pretty much technologically un-savvy, so I know that there are many layers of Last.fm of which I am ignorant.
However, I do know that Last.fm allows me to input the names of singers/bands that I like, and it will create my own little radio station for me, all on my little Gateway laptop. And, in addition to playing those music selections of mine, it will play music from related artists. If I don’t like a song, I can skip it. No problem.
Unfortunately, it was this need to skip a song that forced me to see that there may be a chink in the armor of my new love, the moment every woman dreads.
It just happened yesterday, as I was listening to my Last.fm. Now, I’ve been in a weird country mood since the other day. Not sure why, but I sure want to hear me some good old country music. So, I input the following list into Last.fm:
“george jones, lucinda williams, george strait, brooks and dunn, lyle lovett, robert earl keen, david allan coe, darryl lee rush, dolly parton, tammy wynette, crystal gayle, Alabama”
Hey, I said it’s a weird mood! And Last.fm was there for me, playing some favorites from Jones, maybe even a little Pride. But, all of a sudden, I heard a strange voice. A woman’s voice. But not my beloved Crystal Gayle or my dear Tammy Wynette. It wasn’t an unfamiliar voice, but it was out of place. I looked at the computer screen.
CHER!
Cher?
Cher.
Sure enough, the greatest invention of all time was playing Cher in the middle of my country mix. I’m not sure how it happened, and I don’t feel completely let down. But I do feel confused and a little hurt.
Nevertheless, I still believe in the ultimate goodness of Last.fm. And, with a lot of TLC and a little counseling, I think we can get through this.
Now, back to listening!
Monday, September 25, 2006
Andy Griffith: My Kind of Man
Now, if you've gotten over the initial shock of the title, I hope you'll read on and give me a little chance to explain.
I'm not talking Matlock here, folks. However, I think the man deserves a shout out for fine perfomances there. No, I'm talking The Andy Griffith Show, a show which I am much too young to remember from its original broadcast but which I do recall catching in re-runs when I'd come home from school.
Until a few nights ago, I hadn't watched the show in years. I'm not sure why, but I never really felt like watching when I did my usual late-night scroll through the channels. But, for whatever reason, that catchy, whistly intro got me the other night. Sucked me right in and trapped me for a few hours of Opie trying to feed Dolly the horse and Howard Sprague becoming the town villain after an unfortunate choice of jokes on a television variety show.
Sure, the shows are simple. But they're nice. They're funny in a somewhat goofy kind of way, and the characters are really likeable--even Clara Edwards. And, sure, it may be difficult to judge who delivers a more nuanced portrayal of a small town mechanic (Gomer or Goober), but those two are equally delightful to watch.
Okay, so I'm getting off topic here, and before long, I'll go on to talking about Gomer Pyle, USMC, and then you'll never know about my love of Andy Griffith. Did I just say that? Really? Yes, so it's out. I love Andy Griffith.
Or, more to the point, it's Sheriff Taylor who's won my heart. He's a good guy, a real catch.
I mean, just think of his qualities. He plays guitar. He's sensitive. He protects the public, keeps the peace. He's a man of few words, but he always brings people together. He's a tough guy without being a "tough guy." In short, this man is great.
But maybe, just maybe, I love him because he's in love with a writer. A good guy in love with a writer. How can you not love him for that? Because, as Andy Taylor said to Helen Crump, "I see no reason why a sheriff and a lady author shouldn't get along just fine."
Agreed, Andy Taylor. I see no reason either.
I'm not talking Matlock here, folks. However, I think the man deserves a shout out for fine perfomances there. No, I'm talking The Andy Griffith Show, a show which I am much too young to remember from its original broadcast but which I do recall catching in re-runs when I'd come home from school.
Until a few nights ago, I hadn't watched the show in years. I'm not sure why, but I never really felt like watching when I did my usual late-night scroll through the channels. But, for whatever reason, that catchy, whistly intro got me the other night. Sucked me right in and trapped me for a few hours of Opie trying to feed Dolly the horse and Howard Sprague becoming the town villain after an unfortunate choice of jokes on a television variety show.
Sure, the shows are simple. But they're nice. They're funny in a somewhat goofy kind of way, and the characters are really likeable--even Clara Edwards. And, sure, it may be difficult to judge who delivers a more nuanced portrayal of a small town mechanic (Gomer or Goober), but those two are equally delightful to watch.
Okay, so I'm getting off topic here, and before long, I'll go on to talking about Gomer Pyle, USMC, and then you'll never know about my love of Andy Griffith. Did I just say that? Really? Yes, so it's out. I love Andy Griffith.
Or, more to the point, it's Sheriff Taylor who's won my heart. He's a good guy, a real catch.
I mean, just think of his qualities. He plays guitar. He's sensitive. He protects the public, keeps the peace. He's a man of few words, but he always brings people together. He's a tough guy without being a "tough guy." In short, this man is great.
But maybe, just maybe, I love him because he's in love with a writer. A good guy in love with a writer. How can you not love him for that? Because, as Andy Taylor said to Helen Crump, "I see no reason why a sheriff and a lady author shouldn't get along just fine."
Agreed, Andy Taylor. I see no reason either.
Sunday, September 24, 2006
English Major Girl Finds Love (or not...)
On the last day of my stay in NYC, Kate and I headed out to see the Zaha Hadid exhibit, partake in some retail therapy, and eat too much fabulous food. All in all, a great day.
Heading home on the subway (intent on grabbing a bottle of wine and settling in for a screening of Apres Vous), we spotted a handsome young man in our subway car—late twenties/early thirties, pensive, completely oblivious to anything in the car outside of his book. Kate leaned over to me and said, “That’s your boyfriend.”
“That’s Your Boyfriend,” for those not in the know, is a game for which Kate deserves all the credit, though her friends are owed some applause for its perpetuation. The purpose of the game is to call your girlfriend out, to pick the one guy out of the crowd who so obviously epitomizes her “type” that it’s funny. So, good call, Kate. Handsome young man—late twenties/early thirties, pensive, completely oblivious to anything in the car outside of his book—was an excellent “That’s Your Boyfriend” call.
However, the game is just that, a funny game. It never leads to anything else, and that’s because it’s played by a group of women who met in English class. We keep journals, listen to the Cure, empathize with Sylvia Plath. Occasionally, we dabble in poetry. So, we’re not the most forward or socially skilled girls, even if we are sometimes funny.
As evidence, witness how even the spotting of a handsome man turns into a truly sad spectacle in this, um, sort of transcript of what followed the “That’s your boyfriend” statement.
Kate: That’s your boyfriend.
Sara: Good call, Kate. Is that a Signet Classic?
Kate: What?
Sara: The book he’s reading. Doesn’t it look like a Signet Classic?
Kate: I think you’re right. I see the logo.
Sara: But, which book is it? I haven’t seen that cover before.
Kate: Could it be Shakespeare?
Sara: Yeah, maybe. Hey, do you think this could be a good marketing campaign for Signet Classic? You know, two girls on the subway see a handsome guy reading and wonder, “Is that a Signet Classic?”
This exchange took up the rest of our train ride, as we discussed the length of the book, the possibility of its being a play, additional materials included in Signet Classic publications. We may or may not have discussed favorable relations we've had with our own Signet Classics. I can't divulge all of the juicy details.
So, Kate was right. That was my boyfriend. He probably lit up a cigarette as soon as he got out of the station, grabbed a cup of coffee (black), and walked home to enjoy his Signet Classic. [Or to add a darkly Pollyanna-esque, “Glad Game” twist to this, there is the possibility that he did all of those things just before starting on a shooting spree throughout Queens and that there actually could be an upside to being an awkward English major girl…Just a thought!]
Note: Somewhat regrettably, the humor of this game rests on the objectification of men, something with which I am not usually comfortable, but the fun-making is all at the expense of your girlfriends. So, two wrongs make a right. Right? Right!
Heading home on the subway (intent on grabbing a bottle of wine and settling in for a screening of Apres Vous), we spotted a handsome young man in our subway car—late twenties/early thirties, pensive, completely oblivious to anything in the car outside of his book. Kate leaned over to me and said, “That’s your boyfriend.”
“That’s Your Boyfriend,” for those not in the know, is a game for which Kate deserves all the credit, though her friends are owed some applause for its perpetuation. The purpose of the game is to call your girlfriend out, to pick the one guy out of the crowd who so obviously epitomizes her “type” that it’s funny. So, good call, Kate. Handsome young man—late twenties/early thirties, pensive, completely oblivious to anything in the car outside of his book—was an excellent “That’s Your Boyfriend” call.
However, the game is just that, a funny game. It never leads to anything else, and that’s because it’s played by a group of women who met in English class. We keep journals, listen to the Cure, empathize with Sylvia Plath. Occasionally, we dabble in poetry. So, we’re not the most forward or socially skilled girls, even if we are sometimes funny.
As evidence, witness how even the spotting of a handsome man turns into a truly sad spectacle in this, um, sort of transcript of what followed the “That’s your boyfriend” statement.
Kate: That’s your boyfriend.
Sara: Good call, Kate. Is that a Signet Classic?
Kate: What?
Sara: The book he’s reading. Doesn’t it look like a Signet Classic?
Kate: I think you’re right. I see the logo.
Sara: But, which book is it? I haven’t seen that cover before.
Kate: Could it be Shakespeare?
Sara: Yeah, maybe. Hey, do you think this could be a good marketing campaign for Signet Classic? You know, two girls on the subway see a handsome guy reading and wonder, “Is that a Signet Classic?”
This exchange took up the rest of our train ride, as we discussed the length of the book, the possibility of its being a play, additional materials included in Signet Classic publications. We may or may not have discussed favorable relations we've had with our own Signet Classics. I can't divulge all of the juicy details.
So, Kate was right. That was my boyfriend. He probably lit up a cigarette as soon as he got out of the station, grabbed a cup of coffee (black), and walked home to enjoy his Signet Classic. [Or to add a darkly Pollyanna-esque, “Glad Game” twist to this, there is the possibility that he did all of those things just before starting on a shooting spree throughout Queens and that there actually could be an upside to being an awkward English major girl…Just a thought!]
Note: Somewhat regrettably, the humor of this game rests on the objectification of men, something with which I am not usually comfortable, but the fun-making is all at the expense of your girlfriends. So, two wrongs make a right. Right? Right!
Saturday, September 23, 2006
Welcome to my Blog
So, this is my wonderful new blog. How wonderful it is remains to be seen, of course.
Yes, it's crackersandsoda.blogspot.com. I suppose that's a pretty silly name. No. Change that. I know it's a silly name.
I tried other names. They were taken. Did someone else really want to be known as "sociallyinept?" How was that name already taken? Seriously! The option I was given was "sociallyinept-sara," and, though I know it's true, I just couldn't do it.
So, here I am. crackersandsoda.
Enjoy!
Yes, it's crackersandsoda.blogspot.com. I suppose that's a pretty silly name. No. Change that. I know it's a silly name.
I tried other names. They were taken. Did someone else really want to be known as "sociallyinept?" How was that name already taken? Seriously! The option I was given was "sociallyinept-sara," and, though I know it's true, I just couldn't do it.
So, here I am. crackersandsoda.
Enjoy!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)