Think about this. I know it’s exciting, the idea of Ron and the gang coming back. It feels like getting back together with all your best friends from high school for a night out. It seems like a great idea! That is, until you get there and two of them have to be home early because they have kids, one’s a recovered alcoholic, and you forgot how annoying Joe actually was.
It’s just not the same, because it can’t be. We are all different people now.
There is no second chapter for these movies. Comedic characters like this never learn their lesson, they don’t develop like real people, there is nowhere for them to go. All the writers can do is put the same character in different, heightened situations (space, college, etc) and make different versions of the same jokes. Over… and over.
Take a look at this list of comedies that have sequels and ask yourself: when presented the option of watching any of these movies, have you ever said “No, let’s watch the second one instead”?
This movie’s sequels sucked so much, it’s hard to convince people the original was any good. It was.
Wayne and Garth are so much less exciting when they’re living in a fancy loft downtown than when they were playing street hockey in front of their parents’ house. Admit it.
Men in Black
Tommy Lee Jones is far and away the best thing about these movies and for most of the second film he’s suffering from amnesia. Enough said.
Yes, this movie DOES have a sequel. No, I don’t know anyone who’s seen it, either.
This franchise has single-handedly kept Tara Reid alive for 14 years longer than science originally thought possible. That’s the only good thing I can think to say about it.
(These films are the exception. Not the rule.)
The goodness of this movie proves my theory that Harold Ramis is actually some kind of space alien who was sent here to destroy us.
Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles II
I don’t know if this counts, but it should. This is a rare example of a sequel being better than the original. This movie is the only movie I know of that has its own Vanilla Ice song. Of course, it later went on to prove the rule with its third installment. But we can all just pretend that never happened.
Why I Love Facebook, or Why The Internet Shouldn't Be Anonymous
All websites, everywhere, should be only accessible through Facebook. In order to comment on a message board or website, you should have to offer up your photo, full name, and location. This is because, frankly, you shouldn’t say anything online you wouldn’t say loudly in a room full of people. Anonymity is dangerous, because it removes all accountability. Only in the past 20 years or so have we seen anonymity as some kind of right. It isn’t. It’s a priviledge given to us by technology and one that is too often abused. And I’d like to know exactly who all theseracists are so I never accidentally do them any favors.
“It’s a private club, and I don’t think they’re really concerned about how others perceive them,” he said. “Their ratings will not rise and fall based on how people view this particular topic. Their ratings will rise and fall if Tiger Woods is at the top of his game, if Tiger and Phil Mickelson andRory McIlroy or some combination of them happen to be in the mix on the final day of the tournament.”
Read this article, and realize that established sexism will never go away as long as all men are complicit in its existence.
Phil Mickelson, Rory McIlroy, and every other professional male golfer who agrees to play at Augusta is just as responsible for their sexist, bigoted policies as the club’s members. So, just so you know. Until they demonstrate otherwise, we can assume that all those guys are basically sexist bigots.
If I could go back and do prom again right now, I would:
Wear one of these dresses:
(with some comfortable, nude colored pumps because prom shoes are THE WORST SHOES.)
Curl my own hair and put it up in a bun (prom hair, WHO NEEDS IT?)
I would dance, a lot.
And I would go by myself. Or, at least, I definitely wouldn’t take Matt as my date, because he definitely has a crush on his friend’s date and is totally going to dump me for her like a week after prom (true story).
Oh, I would also insist they play Nicki Minaj’s “Superbass” every 15 minutes, even though it wouldn’t have existed yet.
I would like to take this opportunity to congratulate the completely deserving players who’ve been placed on Harold and Lloyd teams today. Go forth and be merry! As for the rest of you, who are possibly (likely) still licking your wounds from what seemed a harrowing and cut-throat audition process, I have one question: Why? Why is this so important?
I didn’t get to audition for Harold this year (though I did audition for Maude, so I can commiserate, somewhat!) But that is neither here nor there. For the past two months I’ve watched, somewhat in horror, as my fellow UCB students scrambled manically to prepare themselves for these legendarily competitive Harold auditions.
I watched as my friends began scheduling practices almost every waking hour, re-posting blog post after blog post of advice, forming secret practice groups to get an edge over their friends. It was, in a word, disturbing. Not because I don’t appreciate the competitive nature of our industry, but simply because, well, I don’t totally understand what all the fuss is about.
This is improv. We make things up. Silly things. We get up in front of a group of people who we most likely already know, and we make things up with a group of people we maybe know a little better than the people in the audience. We do this because we think it’s fun. It’s supposed to be fun. It’s fun even though it can go either way. Even straight-A students of improv who’ve tattooed “the rules” on the back of their eye-lids do terrible, god-awful sets sometimes. It’s improv, it’s made up on the spot, to believe we have any control over whether or not we are “good” at it is madness. But because we do this with our friends, and because we do this for fun, failing is ok.
Or at least, it’s supposed to be. I’m not really sure what magical change is supposed to happen in your life once you get on a house team. Having a regular, well-attended show is great, but I can’t imagine it would be very much fun if you didn’t like the other members of your team, or, if you found yourself floundering and fearing the axe every week. It seems, all things considered, like just another chance to do improv, but in a slightly more structured environment.
That said, can we all calm the fuck down? No one, to my knowledge, got an SNL audition just because they were on a Harold team. In fact, if they did, I would seriously question the legitimacy of SNL’s audition process. If you’re one of those people who listens to a lot of comedy podcasts and reads a lot of comedian biographies, the one thing that they always try to hammer into you is: have fun. Work hard at having fun. Do things you like with people you like, all the time. Make good things. There is not a house team on this planet that can do that for you, or even make that easier. That is all on you, but the beauty of it is you can do that anywhere.
So, let’s congratulate those who now have another opportunity to showcase their talents, and then let’s get back to work having fun with each other.
But the problem wasn’t that Limbaugh confused the issue. His real transgression was that he had given away the GOP game, crystallizing an issue that had been in full view for weeks. That’s why his behavior resonated with and angered so many Americans who otherwise might have tuned out his rant as just another sloppy helping of his aging shtick. It’s precisely because there is a Republican war on women that he hit a nerve.
If you don’t remember being a teenager, or aren’t lucky enough to know any teenagers, let me give you a little bit of insight into teenagers. I was not a “typical” teenager in that I considered myself “straight-edge” - meaning I didn’t drink, do drugs, or have sex. I did this mostly because for most of high school I was not invited to drink, do drugs, or have sex, and I wanted to seem cool about it. Here is a list of things I still did as a teenager, sans drugs, alcohol, or sex, for you to ponder:
1. I made a nun cry. By making fun of her.
2. Stole stuff from stores in the mall.
3. Stole from my parents (sorry).
4. Left a whole can of sardines behind a radiator at our school, opened.
5. Put my elderly male teacher’s photo on Hot or Not because I hated him.
6. Openly joked that my elderly male teacher got cancer because he was a jerk.
7. Wore combat boots and black lipstick, simultaneously.
8. Went to see Pearl Harbor and openly complained out loud the whole time about how much the movie sucked. When the girl next to me got pissed I called her fat.
9. TP’ed the houses of people I actually liked. Put tampons and maxi pads (unused) on the cars of boys I liked.
10. Drove past movie theaters with a bullhorn announcing how movies ended to the people walking in.
11. Carved graffitti into a church pew (possibly multiple times).
12. Cheated on math tests (that’s basically what graphing calculators are FOR).
13. Skipped school.
14. Totalled like, 5 cars at once.
Yeah, and I was one of the “good kids”. So, take it from me. Teenagers are jerks. Stupid, stupid jerks.
(Picture: Me, as a jerk. Note raver necklace and decorated jeans. I did nothing bad to the horse, though. I was not a jerk to horses.)
In response to this, here are a few things about New York you should understand before you pack up that one pair of Jimmy Choo’s you bought with a credit card and start looking for a pre-war 1-bedroom on the Upper East Side.
1. You have to have a job. This goes for wherever you live, but it is especially true in New York. Even Donald Trump’s kids have jobs, and not as sex columnists who spend their days brunching with their ladyfriends. Unless you are the daughter of a Russian plutocrat, you’ll have to work full-time for your shoe money, dear. Also you should note that paid entry-level positions in the field of your choice are rare-to-non-existent, so be prepared to do a lot of admin work for money and freelance work for your resume. Like, you should probably consider 60 hour work weeks a given. Attempting to go out every night of the week while working this schedule is a rookie mistake.
2. No one gives a shit about you. Oh, what’s that? You’re writing/just finished your novel? You loove fashion? You have a comically bad love life? Your family is crazy? Whoopdee fuckin’ do. This is true for literally everyone who’s moved here ever. No one cares. You aren’t cute.
3. There are no princesses here. “Carrying groceries up four flights of stairs, dealing with hellish landlords, watching a neighbor throw a mousetrap (dead mouse included) right out the window.” If you can not handle these things on a daily basis, you can not live here.
4. There aren’t any princes, either. “At 25, the 40-year-old investment banker is looking over your shoulder at the next 22-year-old.” 40-year-olds who wants to date college students are just as creepy in New York as they are in Kansas City. What, you think he was dating you because he liked you? And another thing: “And guess what — Mr. Big doesn’t leave his wife.” If you’re the type of woman who knowingly dates a married man, you deserve everything you get. This is true no matter where you are on a map.
5. New York doesn’t want you here. There are a lot of people here already, and most of them want the same thing. New York is tough because it is a self-correcting machine. Every year so many thousands of starry-eyed 20-somethings like you move here with the intention of “making it” in something. And then, shit happens. It might be that one night you can’t afford dinner. It could be that OkCupid date you go on with a complete psycho. It could be your landlord deciding to raise your rent in the middle of your lease despite the fact that you haven’t had running water for two weeks. Your boss decides not to give you Memorial Day off. A cockroach might crawl across your face. A homeless guy spits on you. Whatever it is, it will be enough to break about 90% of you, who will turn back and flee to the safety of newer, shinier, air-conditioned cities, making room for the whole new crop of starry-eyed naive youngsters who just arrived at Penn Station.
In conclusion, if you want to live in a nice apartment, wear designer clothes, go to clubs, and date douchbags just for their money, might I suggest moving to downtown Dallas, instead? Whatever you do, stay away from New York. And good riddance to Julia Price and Julia Allen, we will not miss them.
Twilight is stupid. It just is. I’m sorry. Yes, I saw the first two movies. The dialogue was so bad I laughed out loud in the theater. The Hunger Games is not Twilight.
Bella is no Katniss. Katniss would literally eat Bella for breakfast. From the beginning of the first installment of Twilight, Bella is a whiny, self-absorbed ass hat who for some reason thinks no one at her new school likes her or is cool even though everyone at her school is super nice to her and interested in her despite her being a total bitch to them. Katniss, on the other hand, is a hard-working, disciplined young woman who’s biggest concern in life is taking care of her little sister. This she does, successfully, in spite of the hellish child-sacrificing dystopian future in which she lives. Katniss is a self-sufficient caregiver who lives with the daily reality of starving to death or being ritualistically sacrificed. Bella’s biggest problem is that she doesn’t know anyone at her new school. Seriously, fuck Bella.
Twilight is mostly about sex. Seriously, if you can’t see that the first Twilight movie is just blatant pre-teen erotica, you’re stupid. Sorry. Go be stupid somewhere. Twilight is all about how close Bella and Edward can be to each other before he looses it and kills/sexes her. The Hunger Games is about, well, basic human survival. What little affection there is takes a back seat to the whole “I could literally be stabbed at any minute” thing. Katniss doesn’t even like Peeta at first, and as the film progresses, only starts pretending to like him to win the audience over. They engage in mushy love-talk because they know it’s mushy love talk and they do it because they want people to recognize them as human so they’ll be harder to kill. Edward and Bella are just horny teenagers who can’t bone because one of them is a monster. Ho hum.
There are no teams. Hunger Games has one team: Team Katniss. Or Team Survival. Whatever you want to call it. There is none of this ”Team Gale” or “Team Peeta” bullshit. What does that even mean? For one thing, again, the main thing in all of these books is that Katniss does not want anyone she cares about to die horribly. At no point is she really even given the option of picking a ”boyfriend”, since she spends most of the story trying to survive arenas and lead rebellions. All she really wants is to protect those she cares about from the constant death that surrounds them. Of course, as most of the characters are teenagers with hormones, she actually has a few guys who like her - remember her first meeting with Finnick? But, really, Katniss isn’t choosing who takes her to the prom, and she doesn’t need some guy stalking her to protect her from a biker gang. Katniss is ultimately having to decide who to trust, protect, and literally not shoot in the back.
So. Please. Stop comparing The Hunger Games to Twilight. It makes you suck a bunch.
This isn’t the latest chic political movement. It’s a stark reminder that no matter how high their GPAs are, how many degrees they get, how many plans they have, they still fit shooter George Zimmerman’s definition of the word “suspicious.”
Howard students are familiar with lynchings, too. Their history professors make them look at old photos of lynchings from some of darkest times in America’s history. They read beautifully written fiction about them in Afro-American literature courses.
They know that being lynched doesn’t always mean being hanged on a tree in the backwoods. It also means being dehumanized. It means being shot and killed and then having your killer go home for the night, with the gun that shot you still in his possession. It means your body lying in the coroner’s office for days on end while police ignore your parents’ frantic calls to your cellphone. It means being given a post-mortem drug test, even though your killer wasn’t.
Then remember that both his killer and the police insist that that’s a 28 year old man screaming. And that said killer is still walking the streets with a concealed weapon. Think how much those screams sound like your little brother because they belong to a 17 year old kid and not a 28 year old man. Cry. Lose all faith in your country and humanity. Never sleep again.
Let’s make one thing clear: America is neither post-racial nor post-sexist.
People are just tired of talking about those things.
They think that because they know what racism/sexism are, and that they are bad, that they are over. They want to talk about something new, what happens next. They are sick of this same old conversation, and unwilling to conduct the kind of self-examination those conversations require.
If the past couple months have taught us anything, it’s that people are still racist and sexist whenever it is convenient. Assuming something about someone based on their appearance is easier than valuing each person you meet as an individual.
For instance, there are people out there, not on the fringes of society even, who prefer to assume any black teenager walking in their neighborhood is a criminal. It is easier to assume the kid in the hoodie is just another faceless thug, than to think that maybe he’s someone’s son. Or your neighbor.
There are people out there (men and women), in political office even, who earnestly believe a woman’s place is secondary to a man’s. And any woman who doesn’t accept this is a shrewish harpee.
Most people know their actions and words need to reflect tolerance, but have we all each really altered our internal biases to match that? That’s something no movement can really do, it’s something only the individual can accomplish. Until we’re all willing to sit down and really ask ourselves some hard questions about the way we as individuals think and why, our silent prejudices will remain. They will lay in the back of our minds, skewing our rationality, subtely influencing our actions, insisting that they don’t exist.
Thought Catalog writer Jackie Berg has a theory: “It happens when your outstretched hand on the promenade can trace the entire skyline with memories. Underneath your pointer is that street where you felt your heart shatter, but only because thousands of hearts trudged onto shore from that street and into tenements to build the life you complain about. You connect the dots.”
No, it’s after ten years in New York. Everyone knows that. Jesus fuck.
When you get in a shoving & screaming match with the guy outside the pizza place because he grabbed your ass while you were looking at the menu.
When you and your boyfriend get randomly punched and spat on by some crazy dude on 6th ave and you know better than to call the cops about it and instead run to CVS to clean yourself off with baby wipes because not getting crazy man germs on you is more important.
When you have caught a mouse with your bare hands and just like, dealt with it, you know?
When you have showered in your kitchen, for at least a year.
When you’ve vomited on a subway platform on the way to work and still gone to work.
When you give in to the unavoidable inevitability of bedbugs.
When you know to be in the cab with the door shut before you tell the driver where you’re going.
When you are friends with an actual prostitute.
When your boss has called you an idiot, moron, or retard, to your face.
When you have painstakingly weighed the pros and cons of robbing someone who is standing near you.
Sandals are my white whale. No one can seem to figure out how to make a comfortable one that also looks nice, which to me is the very core of what a sandal ought to be. But, whoever thought for whatever reason it would be a cute idea to turn a flip flop into a high heel should be poisoned.
The last pair of sandals I owned were made by Aerosole. They were perfect. Cute. Comfy. Stylish. I wore them everywhere all summer and I hate myself for letting them fall apart and get thrown away.
I will now be auditioning for a new pair of summer sandals. I will start with Aerosole even though they VERY STUPIDLY no longer make the same sandal. These are the first, they are due in Thursday.
Here’s a few things kids under the age of 7 or 8 really just don’t care about:
Europe. Fancy food. Fine dining. The Bahamas. Funerals. Weddings. Anything not involving cartoons.
So yeah, if you’re taking kids that young anywhere you can’t drive to, or eating with them somewhere other than a place with a cartoon mascot of some kind, you’re pretty much just doing it for yourself. Basically it reads as “Yeah I chose to have kids, but I refuse to live my life any differently even for just a few years.” Which is fine, but understand we are allowed to hate you for that.
The borderline personality is not able to integrate the good and bad images of both self and others, so that people who suffer from borderline personality disorder have a bad representation which dominates the good representation. This makes them experience love and sexuality in perverse and violent qualities which they cannot integrate with the tender, intimate side of relationships.
These people can suffer from intense fusion anxieties in intimate relationships, because the boundaries between self and other are not firm. A tender moment between self and other could mean the disappearance of the self into the other. This triggers intense anxiety. To overcome the anxiety, the other is made into a very bad person; this can be done, because the other is made responsible for this anxiety. However, if the other is viewed as a bad person, the self must be bad as well. Viewing the self as all bad cannot be endured, so the switch is made to the other side: the self is good, which means the other must be good too. If the other is all good and the self is all good, the distinction at which the self begins and ends is not clear. Intense anxiety is the result and so the cycle repeats itself
When you give random bureaucrats the power to decide who deserves health care and who’s an unworthy slut, they’re bound to get it wrong sometimes. But who cares, as long as all the whores get what they so obviously deserve, right?
…Remember that as the contraception “debate” rages on (the abortion “debate,” too). It’s never religious liberty they’re talking about. It’s women. It’s you.
Um, what the hell? I now weigh 400 pounds. Why are you still making ice cream?!? What the fuck? I’ve been a customer of theirs for ten years, during which time I’ve made a pint of this otherwise delicious ice cream part of my nightly bedtime ritual. What kind of horrible company would continue to manufacture and sell delicious ice cream, when I can’t even fit through the door of my Saab? I’m done with this ridiculous company, and am already planning to switch to Haagen Daz.
Sometimes there are things we don’t want to do, but we do them anyway. Some of these things are just necessary evils: flossing, exercising, laundry, etc. You should definitely still do those things because otherwise all your teeth will fall out and you will be fat and smelly. But then there are things that we don’t want to do, but that also don’t offer us an obvious benefit. I don’t know what compels us to do these things, but I suspect it has something to do with the misinformed notion that misery = hard work. This isn’t true.
Certainly if you want to be successful at something, you are going to have to work hard. You are going to have to work when you’re tired, sick, or just don’t feel like it, and that’s a bummer. But if you’re doing something that’s truly worth your time, that you’re growing from and that’s helping you meet a goal, there should be an underlying sense of satisfaction that overrides the misery. Like when you finish a hard run, or you’ve folded and put away all your clean laundry. It’s accomplishment, and it feels good.
In more complex tasks there’s an added layer of satisfaction you can get from perfecting a process. There are only so many ways to fold a shirt, but there are a million ways to build a website, write a blog post, deliver a joke, and skin a cat. Figuring out how you like to do these things, and enjoying the company of the people you do them with, is where most of your enjoyment should come from, actually. Especially if that cat was a dick.
But, man, I know a lot of people who seem to think being miserable = “paying your dues”. It doesn’t. Sometimes you will be miserable while paying your dues, and sometimes you’re just miserable. I’ve known friends who’ve put in long nights at low-paying, hard, menial jobs, expecting to reap some mystical benefit at the end that would then outweigh all the crap they went through. Most of these friends ended up quitting and finding other jobs anyway. This is because if you’re doing a task from which you learn nothing, or doing something you genuinely just hate doing, you are doing just that.
And you’re also probably complaining. And you know what’s pointless? Complaining about something you volunteered to do. I won’t pretend I’m not guilty of it sometimes, but it really is just the stupidest and most annoying thing I see some of the best people do. You don’t want to be here? Go home. You don’t like that guy? Stop talking to him. It really is that easy, but not if all you’re willing to do about the problem is complain. But hey, complain enough and eventually the right people will hear you, and you’ll probably stop being invited anyway.
So, instead of subjecting yourself to pointless busy work that you hate, find ways to turn what you like doing into something productive, and do just that. Do it so much you can’t help but get awesome at it. My boyfriend once got paid to play video games, for Christ sake. I’m gonna be in next month’s Glamour because I stayed in one Friday night and made a bunch of stupid pictures of Kate Middleton for goofs.
I’ll let Jon Stewart summarize: “Love what you do. Get good at it. Competence is a rare commodity in this day and age. And let the chips fall where they may.”
Can you understand how this has been difficult for her to get caught up in that? As difficult as it probably was for her, it’s been difficult for me as well, especially to hear her hurl an accusation of racism at me, when my motivation is absolutely pure and is driven by a desire for this country to move beyond its horrid racist past. Do you agree that the edited video took things out of context? Well, yes. But I put up what I had. It granted a great portion of her redemptive tale, but not all of it. If I could do it all over again, I should have waited for the full video to get to me.
So why not apologize for that? I’d first like to speak to her in private and outside of the media circus.
Andrew Breitbart in an interview he did with Newsweek regarding his successful attempt to destroy the livelihood and reputation of Shirley Sherrod, a woman he had never met. Apparently this was all very hard on him.