An excellent podcast that I wish I had heard about, oh, almost a decade ago, and a very suitable preamble to my first real new blog entry in eons—to be posted Thursday.
Yeah. Like I’m gonna click on THAT.
Sometimes when I get that nice, puffed-up feeling, like my media diet is super elevated, I consult my Amazon “Recently Viewed Items” list.
Oh hey, didn’t see you there!
Probably because there was nothing to read.
Attempting to fix that. Soon.
How JoJo and The Hairpin Let Me Down
Let me preface this by saying I am the world’s most faithful Hairpin fan, in both site visits and overall story mimicry. Hands down. I have my Safari browsing history and…Life…as proof. I happen to have it on good authority that my brain’s pseudonym is Edith Zimmerman and it operates the site when it is busy letting me down at my other job.
I am not the world’s biggest JoJo fan, and God help me if I ever met him/her (Editor’s note: I feel like they would be similar in temperament and annoyance quotient to Miley Cyrus or the guy in all those god-awful P. Diddy videos). That being said, I do quite enjoy her and rejoice in her above-average talent in the embarrassing cauldron of WhatInTheJesus we call Modern Pop Culture.
The first time I listened to Leave (Get Out), I flipped over the glass end table supporting my laptop, shattering both into one million post-feministy shards, and pinched the nearest testosterone-based life form’s arm. With vigour.
Or… thought about it.
When I saw the video for Baby It’s You, I beelined it to the local Tilt-A-Whirl in my super-seXXXable satin, cropped American Eagle varsity jacket, located the nearest mid-pubescent dude with the precision of a heat-seeking missile and demanded he win me a gargantuan purple bunny.
Irrespective of your musical leanings, we can all admit Bitch (JoJo…Sorry. Got worked up there…) has a voice. This is partially the reason for my excitement in reading one of today’s Hairpin posts entitled “The Wisdom of JoJo” by Bianca Mendez. There is a link to Double J’s newest YouTubeable masterpiece, “Disaster” in which she, according to the writer, “laments the crumbling of a relationship and its heated conclusion”.
Maybe this is indicative of my longstanding relationship policy (*cough* The Scorched Earth Treaty of 2005) or the fact that I recently severed my Action Hymen in a long-overdue “Die Hard” marathon, but I feel like when you call it a “heated conclusion” someone should exit the union in dramatically-emotional fashion. And, on fire.
See how JoJo slyly leads us to believe – at 2:36 – that there is something contained in Archetypal Douchebag’s jean vest. A grenade? Poison ivy? A starved ferret, perhaps? But no. Nothing. TEASE!
I suppose you could call the universally-dreaded “You-Called-Me-Out-in-Front-of-your-Hell’s-Angels-Buddies-so-it’s-OVER-Assface!” Stuff EX-change (See: 0:53–1:05) “heated”. There’s really nothing quite as uncomfortable as returning a dumpy, over-sized, Old Spice-y sweater to your erstwhile pinky-swears-soulmate as they give back your Ace of Base discography – except for, maybe, admitting that you adored any of those three things in the first place.
I…I just expected more from the both of you.
JoJo.
The Hairpin.
Ever since Women Laughing Alone with Salad left Me Laughing Alone With A (very minor, discreet, warranted) Adult-Pee at my kitchen table early in the new year, my entertainment threshold has been understandably elevated. I just expected more.
I just expected…a bear trap.
1:13
Definitely stayed up too late acquiring new musics (Rich Aucoin, Phoenix, old Strokes, fuckin’ always Rihanna) and reading heart-wincing articles on the tightly-packed regret of youth in an older frame.
http://www.elle.com/Life-Love/Sex-Relationships/Failure-to-Launch-When-Beauty-Fades
I’m not supposed to understand these things. It’s past my bedtime and I feel much too old.
I need a coffee. And like 12 punches in the face. Currently thinking about telecommuting from under my desk.
Phone-it-in-Fridays! Yes.
Guy at 0:24 is so rude. He didn’t even say PLEASE.
(Do you think there is a modifier for Canadians?)
That time it was grey
THIS IS NOT FALL. There are no crunchy leaves; only dank, silt-laden sidewalks and TTC patrons covered in a pervy-moist film of urban grumpies. I really don’t know what I was expecting of October, being that I’m a “grown-up” who has a daily latte and minimal time for forts.
ANYWAY. What’s new with me, you ask? Oh, you didn’t? THEN STOP READING MY BLOG, INTERNET VAGRANT.
I am very busy editorializing, scraping the vestiges of summer skin off of my nasal bridge, sourcing alternate income, awaiting my iPhone 4S (a fitting tribute to Steve Jobs) and pretending I don’t need glasses. I’ve also developed a nasty habit of buying $100 worth of groceries and then finding solace in non-cupboarded food sources; I’m on this new diet where you eat one gyro every day and look on, gobsmacked, when your thighs no longer touch.
I could like Toronto.
Tonight I am headed to AAA Army Surplus on Baldwin to sniff out a heavy-duty khaki vest – the last piece of the sartorial puzzle for my Halloween debut as “Slutty Christiane Amanpour”. I ditched the whole Katie as Fried Egg concept when I realized that today was…today: Two days before a completed costume is required. There is something really awesome/disturbing about realizing you already own all of the good necessary to look exactly like someone else. Without shopping.
It makes perfect sense when you think about it: C.A. is an award-winning journalist and I have Booze-and-Joan-Didion Mondays. We’re indistinguishable, really.
