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So, if you’re delicate and gross-outable, then you should totally stop reading NOW.

Seriously, I’m warning you, I’m really gonna talk about boogers and snot in just a second.

/warning

Okay, so I’m going to sound like not only a disgusting 5-year-old, but also like a total stoner.

Did you ever wonder if snot has a smell? What is the scent of booger?

This is quite possibly the stupidest thing I have ever been curious about! I was riding home from work today, and my nose was running, as is its wont when the temperatures drop. I wiped my nose on the back of my glove, as most cyclists do (note to non-cyclists: never shake hands with a cyclist who still has his/her gloves on!!!) Sometimes, when I wipe my snoot, I catch a fleeting, slightly sharp scent, and I wondered today, “is that what snot smells like?”

Who thinks about shit like this? Besides me, that is?

Well, I’m going to ask Google what snot smells like and post the first three (non-porny) hits:

via Answerbag

Snot doesn’t smell, i know i’ve scooped enough of it up at work as samples for the lab.

via Tongna Bologna

If there’s one thing we are all desensitized to, it’s the smell of snot.

via ChaCha.comIf snot smelled, you would be able to smell it. ChaCha on!

I’m guessing that realistically, snot doesn’t particularly have a scent. If it did, it would interfere with one’s ability to smell other things. In fact, I am working on a theory that snot probably helps enhance the nose’s ability to smell stuff. Keeps the sniffulator all lubed up and such.

But it’s definitely one of those awful recursive stoner musings: if snot smells, what does snot smell like?

I think I broke my brainmeats trying to think about this one.

I’ve been enjoying the little short-sleeved, girly-girl jackets since they came in a few years ago. I even succumbed to the madness during one of my Junior League sprees and bought this little number two years ago:
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(please excuse the quality of both the photo and facial expression!)

I’d had this cute quasi-western, 1970s-esqe jacket pattern around for a couple of years, and lucked into a nice piece of Pendleton wool flannel that seemed like it would make a chic pair-up with that pattern. I thought I’d use some scraps of shirred velvet for the collar and mock-pocket trim for contrast. That shirred velvet has been carrying me along for a long while:

I’d originally bought it for the collar and cuff accents for my 1880s dress, which I made my senior year of college (’98/’99 school year). I accidentally over-bought by about half a yard. Since then, it has trimmed

This jacket (made with scrap from the 1880s dress) and now:
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this jacket!

As I got to laying out the pattern, though, I realized that what with matching up plaids and all, I was not going to be able to cut out the as-designed long, slim sleeves. Fortunately, I had another adorable Butterick pattern around, for short-sleeved jackets or a design for a sleeveless vest, and so I chose to use Sleeve B & cut the cuff out of the velvet (and omitted the mock pocket trim, as it would have resulted in too fussy and busy of a garment)

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I’m overall pretty pleased with this jacket, though I may ultimately eliminate the peplum. I’m not sure that I really like it with the plaid…it seems a little busy. Without the peplum, the slightly pointed waistline of the jacket would be more evident, and it really is a particularly chic feature. I’ve always liked pointed waistline dresses and jackets. I like the silhouette, though. In general I like peplums as they help create a more curvaceous silhouette for my figure. I may make this jacket again, in a plain fabric, with the long sleeves, and with the peplum.

artsy buttons
I did an artsy edit of a detail shot of the buttons. They’re pretty neat; they’re textured plastic with polished diamond-shaped facets. They were in some random buttons that my Grandma gave me once. They’re not especially old or anything, but they are just about perfect for this particular project.

Bike porn?

Because bicycling has become such a thing lately, bicycling magazines have been popping out like mushrooms after a rainstorm. One of the many new players on the field is a magazine called Cog. It plays to the hipster/fixed-gear/polo/freestyle crowds and features a lot of advertising for products which purport a certain amount of lifestyle cachet along with whatever intended functions they may have. It is actually pretty interesting for a bike mag: they’ve got some good writers and photographers and write in-depth articles, not just little blurbs to pimp a product. Actual stories and interviews! It is a little like old-school Dirt Rag, ‘cept not centered around mountain biking.

I’ll check out bike magz once in a while, but I don’t usually dig them. On the whole, they’re all about pushing the latest-and-maybe-greatest gear, and I’m not a fan of gear-gab. Each panders to a niche: road, mtb, fixie, ‘cross, etc. They tend to be laser focused on their genre, which can be monotonous to someone who doesn’t really fall into any of the categories. And saints preserve me from any publication that tries to cater to the “utility cyclist.” There is little more tedious than discussions about bicycle safety, advocacy, and how best to clean up once you get to work. Fenders, pannier, lights, wet-wipes, good boots and a balaclava in the winter. Ride with traffic, stop for lights, signal your intentions. We all know the drill, and if you don’t, it ain’t that hard to figure out. Bleh.

So, it’s established that I’m basically a grumpy bitch about bike shit. I don’t read the magazines, I don’t participate in the online discussions, hell, I don’t read them in order to preserve my tenuous grasp on sanity.

So, in an uncharacteristic swan dive into the madness that is bicycling media, I took it upon myself to look at a back issue of Cog over at a friend’s place the other day, and guess what I saw in a Knog ad?

A fucking penis is what I saw.

Twice. Some random dude’s cock and balls all sitting festooned merrily across the end of his saddle as he perches nakedly on his bike. In one shot he appeared to be mesmerized by his penis, as if he had fallen under its hypnotic one-eyed gaze.

For those who might have the misfortune to be reading my blog at work, I’m only adding a scan of this picture as a link, and you can click on the picture once you get there, if you want the large version *shudder*

Now here’s the thing about Knog. Knog is an Australian bicycle accessories company, and I think a lot of the stuff they make is actually pretty neat, but I boycott them because their advertising is so sexually objectifying and brain-thumpingly stupid. Half the time, a bike isn’t even readily apparent in the ad. If you looked at the penis ad linked above, would you guess it was an advertisement for bike stuff? No, you would probably think it was an advertisement for naked homoerotic camping adventures, wouldn’t you?

They had an ad campaign a couple of years ago for their Frog lights, which are little rubber blinky lights you can affix to your handlebars, seat-tube, or wherever else you feel is a good place for an LED “be-seen” light. They’ve become so ubiquitous with the hipster/fixie crowd that Bike Snob of NYC calls them hipster cysts.”

Anyway, the ad campaign that started me off hating Knog featured TaTu style fauxmoeroticism. Again, look at the ad. Would you believe that it was an advertisement for bicycle lights, or would you think it was a PSA advocating making out with cute girls in laundromats? It’s just pointless titillation. It says nothing about the product. It implies that you will be sexy if you use Knog products, but it doesn’t really say anything of value.

One of the reasons that I’ve loved Bitch magazine forever is that they have a history of deconstructing and disemboweling sexist advertising. I’d like to see what they’d make of Knog’s perennially oversexed ads. I have a feeling that they’d take a look at the penis ad and say, “well, shit, junior. Just because you’re objectifying a guy this time doesn’t really make it any better.”

I am aware that my prickly response to the Knog advertising is part generation gap, part culture/nationality gap. This article, written by a woman who looks at advertising and cultural sexism from a similar angle that I do sums up the generation gap regarding sexy vs. sexist. The gist of it is that a lot of GenY and younger see oversexed media as positive, fun, exciting, and empowering, while us old fogeys think that women being used as “catch your eye” sex objects to big up everything from chewing gum to computer parts is a bit degrading (not to mention gratuitous). And I recognize that my being a Yank may have more than a bit to do with my distaste for overtly sexual advertising. I was raised in a culture that permits only insinuation and innuendo in our ads. We can insinuate pretty fucking loudly, but we don’t actually show genitalia in our advertising, so seeing this guy’s pecker all “hey, there, hi, there, nice day to be a penis” was a bit of a shock.

But really, the core of my objection is that the sexy-sexalot advertising is stupid. It doesn’t really promote the product, it makes an oblique suggestion that you’ll be sexy if you use their product, and I think that on the whole, sex is oversold. If a product is good, it pretty much sells itself. Knog could do just as well with more pertinent ads which showed their products in use. If they showed hip, cool, exuberant cyclists having a good time (and incidentally using their lights, wearing their clothes, and using their accessories) it would be more relevant, would reach a wider audience, and would not make your co-workers think you’re looking at porn in the breakroom.

The Long, Long Trailer:

I just got a movie recommendation from my Dad: The Long Long Trailer,” which opened in 1954 featuring the beloved Lucille Ball/Desi Arnaz team, a 1954 Mercury convertible, and a really big travel trailer.

Dad has been laid up for the past month following rotator-cuff surgery; he’s currently banned from using his right arm, so he’s been reading a lot of books and magazines and watching movies. He mentioned that he and Mom had watched (and enjoyed) The Long Long Trailer, and that he’d seen it at matinee when he was a little kid (he was 6 in ’54). He was telling me about going to the movies with Grandma Chickadee (his grandmother, my great-grandmother), his big sister Glenda, and three of his cousins. Grandma would take the kids to Saturday matinees because it was an economical way to treat all of the grandkids (and give their parents a break!) and this was one of the movies they went and saw. He said that he was surprised at how much of the movie he remembered from the first time he saw it, considering that there’d been about a 55 year lapse between viewings. He said that he remembered holding his breath and shouting “don’t back up any further” during the a particularly tense scene on a twisty road in Yosemite.

Anyway, the movie starts here for those of us who don’t have Turner Classic Movies at our disposal:

I’ll be enjoying this I’m sure. I am a big Lucy fan, love roadtrip stories, and have some particularly good (if exhausting) memories of Yosemite from our tour. I’m expecting that the set, props, and general array of cultural artifacts from that exuberant period of populuxe post-war affluence will be total eye candy!

Also, I feel that it is not inappropriate to stick you all with a jaunty little earworm:

Thanks!

Okay, I’d be a total asshole if I didn’t write the obvious – I’m unable to articulate how truly grateful I am for my awesome family and friends, a few of whom I’ll be spending the evening with, and a few more with whom we’ll be throwin’ down a fiesta on Saturday. My tribe is my greatest treasure.

But my idea was to write up a semi-silly list of things I’m grateful, since I am an easily-amused person who really does get a big kick out of little things.

1. I’m thankful that Joel is so industrious and ingenious. Soon, I will be posting photos of the fabulous closet remodel he’s done in the bedroom. Thanks to his handiwork, we’re going to have a proper linen cupboard, and the layout of the closet-closet is going to be twice as usable as it originally was. Handy hands, smart brains, and a drive to “make it happen.” What a guy!

2. I’m thankful for Facebook, without which I couldn’t talk so much crap with so many people, so far away…and keep up with the neighborhood news from back home. Plus, I FINALLY get to see regular, new pictures from my sister of her adorable family.

3. I’m thankful that my hair is finally long enough to put in a real, non-angry-chicken-butt ponytail.

4. I’m thankful that Griswald didn’t turn out to be that terribly lost the other night when he escaped. I really do adore that horrible little varmint and would be pretty heartbroken if he got hit by a car, eviscerated by a neighbor dog, or just plain lost.

5. I’m thankful to have a job, even if I have to work on holidays. Like today. In a few hours.

6. I’m thankful for the vagaries of the weather, without which my daily commutes would probably be a lot less interesting

7. Pursuant to item 6., I’m also thankful for Thinsulate lined boots, ’cause sometimes the whim of the weather is to be fuckoff cold.

8. I’m going to get all earnest again and say that I’m thankful for my health. My job puts me in contact with a lot of people whose mobility is affected by their health, and they have to rely on a sometimes highly faulty network of people to do many of the things that I nearly take for granted; going to the store, the library, a friend’s house. I am so grateful for my good fortune that I am hale and spry and can just hop on a bike and go wherever I need to go, without waiting for a bus, a cab, a relative, a caregiver to tote me around, not finding myself stranded because I missed a ride, not having to continually negotiate such a basic necessity as transportation. I have gained a whole new sympathy and understanding for people who need assistance to do what they need and want to do, and I sometimes feel a bit guilty for my nearly obscene good fortune.

There are many other things for which I am thankful, I’m sure, but my brain isn’t working so well this morning. I try not to take things for granted, but since I am human, I do sometimes. I kind of hate the term “mindfulness,” but I guess the fact is that I do kind of try to live and behave deliberately, as twee as that sounds. To enjoy life, and all that schmackarooni.

I have a milk-crate of hazardous waste on the back porch right now.

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At least 90% of this hoard came to me through no fault of my own; it was just hanging around the basement of my old house when I bought it in 2003 and I’m still trying to get rid of it.

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There are two bottles of Carbona Spot Remover, which is do-it-at-home dry cleaning fluid. There’s a story in some Southern Gothic novel about a little girl who bursts into flames at a bar-b-que because her fastidious mother had over-enthusiastically treated her dress with this stuff.

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There’s about half a pound of “ACME” brand chlordane dust. I can’t imagine this is good stuff to keep around.

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Sinclair insecticide. I’m pretty sure this is a quart of DDT. There are three of them.
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Active Ingredients 100%

“P. D. has a pleasant odor. It does not stain.”

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Your money’s worth or your money back.”

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The crown jewel of the box-o-tox is this vintage bottle of mange treatment. It appears to be intended for human use, as there’s a note on the back of the bottle advising the purchaser to consult enclosed directions for animal use:
IMG_2501
One of the active ingredients in Glover’s Imperial Sarcoptic Mange medicine is tar oil, and that is the top note in this particular noxious bouquet.

The Byzantine and mutable schedules of the Household Hazardous Waste collection sites have been thwarting me and my desultory attempts to rid myself of this shit for actual years now. Granted, I will admit that I haven’t been strongly driven to get rid of this fine vintage collection of solvents, poisons, paints, and potions. In part because of the whole “out-of-sight, out-of-mind” factor, but mostly because it is a basic pain in the ass to get rid of the Hazardous Wastes via legal channels.

The drop site near my old house is open “Thu., Fri. and Sat., 9 a.m. to 4 p.m.
Appointment required.” Yeah. Right. I have tried to make appointments three times, and the first two times I couldn’t get through to a live person, a the third, I got through, but they didn’t have staff available for the day I had free to schlep poison to the East Bottoms. They didn’t used to require an appointment, but there was also nobody there when went out there. Believe me, I tried every time I went to drop off recycling for about two years. I’d load up the old Jetta with glass and plastic and phone books and my crate-of-volatile-liquids, drop off all of the recyclables, and to get rid of the poisons. No dice!

Now, you could theoretically arrange to meet somebody there to take possession of your poison, but in actuality and reality there’s still nobody there to accept your hazardous waste.

The drop site near where I live now is open “Third Saturday of the month (April-Oct.), 8:30 a.m -1 p.m.” so that ship has already sailed.

It becomes strikingly difficult to conduct yourself in the manner of a responsible, law-abiding citizen in this atmosphere and I am more than half tempted to take this box of chemical warfare up to the drop site near my old house and just leave it on their doorstep.

better than I expected

Today started out a little frustrating. I took off from home to head to work, and heard a weird noise coming from my back wheel. Turns out a staple had made itself at home in the tread of my tire. I tried to pull it out, but one of the ends broke off in the tire. Woe befell me because my multitool doesn’t have a pliers within its foldy embrace. Fortunately, I was only about halfway down the hill, so I turned around and hurried back to the house to grab another bike. By the time I hit the top of the hill, my back tire was entirely flat.

Good thing I turned back.

By this time, I was in a red-hot hurry, as I hadn’t left the house with much wiggle room in my travel time. I grabbed the Burley and took off again. I busted a move on my way to work and got in JUST ahead of the time clock. Whew!

Besides being the right tool for the job when the job is “get there ASAP,” the Burley is just hella fun to ride and I always wonder why I don’t ride it more.

I’ll be riding it again later this evening to meet up with Joel and some of his work friends to celebrate one of their birthdays. It will get me from the Hill down to the 39th Street restaurant district in fine style.

I guess I don’t ride the Burley that often because it is kind of overkill to ride it to work. It’s like commuting with a Porsche. I mean, yes, you can do it, but it’s kind of a mundane use for an exquisite machine.

Also, even though I bought that damn bicycle four years ago, I still sometimes feel like it is way too fancy of a bike for the likes of me. I feel a little bit self conscious about riding such a posh bike; like a total poseur Fred. Especially now that the bike has been entirely Michelleified, and has flat-bars, BMX pedals, and a bell!
damn diva
7-2-05
My Burley, as it has evolved
11-21-09
It has evolved a little bit! Got rid of those awful, stiff Easton wheels, got a different seat that doesn’t crack my cooter, dropped the drop bars, got some better pedals. People sometimes look at me a little cockeyed because my bike is so odd but it works so much better for me this way. I never was able to get the hang of riding with drop bars; also the integrated shifters (Shimano 105s) were too bulky and my shrimpy little paws were just too short to shift or brake properly with them.

Wow, the sofa has sure suffered in the intervening 4 years! Note to self: after Minnie & Griz, no more damn cats.

Anyway, I have a lot of fun riding this bike, and I should get over myself and my ridiculous and artificial hangups about it and ride it more frequently!

In general I have really been enjoying my commute lately. The weather has been so delicious. It is cool out, and dampish, but not cold nor wet enough to be uncomfortable. Instead it feels refreshing. It has not been cold enough to freeze the ground yet, so it still smells nice and earthy outside. Fallen leaves are decomposing, which adds a sweetness to the ambient scent of the great outdoors. It’s “Two-Sweater-Weather” right now. If you wear two stout sweaters, that works out perfectly. A jacket will only generate sweat, but it is too cold for only one sweater or just a regular shirt. Two sweaters, an earband, and a fairly stout pair of gloves have been my weather-beaters these days and it’s been exactly perfect. Well, my head gets too warm, ’cause I’m back to wearing the easter-egg helmet and headlight combo, and my beautiful Nutcase helmet doesn’t ventilate worth a crap. This little helmet is as cute as it could possibly be, but it sure steam-cooks my headmeats.
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I have to wear the earband or my ears would get cold and start to ache from the wind, but the upper part of my head gets WAY too warm. This will be a problem until it gets cold for real. Then, I will be glad to have such a marginally ventilated helmet.

Biz Cas Fri

Back when I was in high-school, I couldn’t imagine what the hell people wore who couldn’t wear jeans every day. What other clothes are there besides jeans and tee-shirts, or maybe jeans and a sweater if it is cold out? Dresses? Eeeurgh! I remember one of my aunts being happy her office had instituted a jeans-Friday rule (this was early 1990s) and I thought she was just so deprived because she had to “dress up” every day.

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thrift scores 104
Today I wore this top and that skirt, white “lace” tights, and black mary-jane flats, a pink rosette brooch, and a yellow Alice band and was utterly girly to the max. Back in high-school, I would never have believed that I would EVER wear something like this. Today, I felt quite chipper because I was wearing such a cute and colorful outfit. My, how the times have changed for me.

When I got my first office job when I got back from England, I had a hard time adjusting to midwestern office fashion. Basically, at the place where I worked, the culture was that of wearing khakis and polo shirts, and I don’t wear polo shirts. And I no longer wear khakis. Pants that are the same color as my legs are just a bad idea, is all I’m sayin’. My “personal style” was a lot too funky and occasionally a bit too revealing. I was still recovering from my Ginger Spice phase. I hadn’t yet figured out how to dress in a manner that is fit for work but is also still fun and personalized. I didn’t really start to hit my stride in office-friendly fashion until I sailed past my 26th birthday and realized that there might be a sell-by date for dressing like a slutty Pippi Longstocking on the regular.

As the years have passed, I have been wearing jeans less and less and less. For most of the jobs I have had post-college, jeans were unacceptable in the office, except (in some cases) on Friday. When you can’t wear jeans on the regular, there’s no incentive to have very nice ones, so any jeans I’ve had have mostly been scrubby old beaters for bumming around in on the weekend. I’ve got the pair I made ages ago (the ones that dyed my butt and cute underpants blue that one time), but they’re pretty faded and “broken in” now.
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So much so that there are now patches on the butt and left knee.

reasonably acceptible.
My other pair are a pair of GAP jeans (that I should have bought at least one more pair of before they changed styles). They don’t look that good, but they are really comfortable and they cover my butt entirely, and a fully-clad butt is pretty important to me.

So I have two pair of jeans, but I feel a little self-conscious about wearing the daisy-butt jeans out anywhere much, so functionally, I have one pair of jeans.

Why am I on about jeans?

Because the big-big buzz in the office right now is that this coming week, in an effort to raise money for a food pantry or to acquire canned goods for said food pantry, the employees at my workplace are allowed to wear jeans on any day they either donate $1 or a can or box or nonperishable food. My co-workers are all a-twitter and jubilant, being all stoked to be able to wear jeans. I’m much less moved, since I am having way more fun wearing pretty much anything-but-jeans. I did the jeans-and-a-tee-shirt thing for so many years, and I just don’t really feel put-together in jeans. In this office, we’re not allowed to wear jeans on Fridays, which is a matter of much grumbling contention among many of my co-workers, but again, I don’t feel like I have a dog in that race. I don’t feel like I’m being deprived by a denim ban. There are so many other more interesting options out there.

This coming week, I reckon I’ll donate some bucks to the charity campaign, but I’ll probably continue on wearing other things entirely. Just because I am technically allowed to wear jeans doesn’t mean that I have to.

Also, if anyone is wondering what the hell is going on with the title of this entry, Strongbad can explain.

I just about don’t know what to do with myself!

The Lincoln Park Trixie Society is apparently poised to make its triumphant return to the Internet.

About freakin’ time, ladies!

For those of you who are scratching your heads and wondering what foolishness I’m obsessing about now, I’ll give it to you straight-and-dirty. The Lincoln Park Trixie Society (Or LPTS, as it will henceforth be known) was a satirical website purporting to be the homepage of a social sorority for the up-and-coming young yuppie women of Chicago’s trendy Lincoln Park neighborhood. It was well enough written and close enough to the public perception of fashionable young strivers that many people actually took the website to be serious and were either outraged or wanted to join the club. The original LPTS site was active between late 2000 & early 2004, when it was still realistically possible to be both well-to-do and 20-something, and the high-living exploits of the fictitious clubwomen were what many midwestern college girls planned to indulge in ASAP. For the LPTS was presumed to be composed almost strictly of post-college midwestern girls who were bound and determined to live a life of fashionable excess in the midwest’s most magnetic city, Chicago.

Anyway, sometime in 2004, the LPTS closed its virtual doors, and for the past five years, if you went to the LPTS url, you got a picture of an angry girl in an orange sweatshirt striding along above the words, “Coming soon, a smashing new website for Chicago’s most elite social organization.” or something to that effect. Even though the site had been dead for ages, I still would check in on it every once in a while, just to see if either the URL would die completely, or (best case scenario) the “coming soon” would finally come to pass. Well, I checked back in just recently and watched the music video of vignettes of idyllic LPTS activities, and saw that they intend to re-open shop sometime in Fall of ’09, a season we are now well into. If, indeed, the LPTS is returning, I’m just as pleased as I don’t know what! I love this kind of satire.

The backlash-ish against the LPTS back in its day reminds me of the backlash that had been against Helen Fielding’s wildly famous and wildly popular Bridget Jones’s Diary. BJD, as I read it, is a lovely satire that basically illustrates what a woman would become if she took literally ALL of the love, diet, and fashion advice in the more mainstream type of women’s magazines (obvs. Bitch & Bust are totally not included in this survey). Bridget is the consummate Cosmo Girl.

But some people (regular readers and literary critics alike) took Bridget seriously and considered her the harbinger of the collapse of Western Society. Good lord, what would happen if impressionable girls considered her a role model? She has a lousy work ethic, considers herself incomplete without a man, drinks and smokes too much, follows disordered eating patterns, etc. I remember reading the outcry and thinking that people were placing an excessive amount of import on what was essentially a fluffy chick-lit book.

The first time I read BJD, I took it at face value – as a fictitious diary of a lovelorn airhead, and considered it a good light read. But I kept thinking back on Bridget’s behavior, habits, and thought processes, and thinking that somehow she seemed awfully familiar. Then it struck me: Bridget Jones is what would happen if somebody truly took all of the advice columns in magazines and cheap self-help books seriously. On a second reading, it all became clear!

An old friend of mine, Susannah, used to self-medicate with cheesy romance novels (Mills & Boone) and glossy fashion/lifestyle magazines when she was stressed or depressed, and soon many of us in the dorm came to understand the wisdom of this practice and would borrow back issues of Cosmo, Mademoiselle, Marie Claire, and Vogue and pore over photos of beautiful dresses, glamorous vacation locales, and stories of the exotic lives of the rich-and-famous. We’d flippantly fill out the quizzes (“What Kind Of Lover Are You?”) and howl over the sex advice tips, which basically all boiled down to “give blowjobs…guys really like that.” We never took any of it seriously at all, but from our glossy-mag indulgences, I got a feeling for what girly-girls were supposed to think and act like, if you were to take Conde Nast’s word for it.

I don’t know about you guys, but I know I’ll be checking back to the LPTS page occasionally and hoping to see something more substantial than just the music video, charming though it undoubtedly is.

And I’m not counting the fact that I can’t sing for shit.

The five reasons I can’t and won’t do Karaoke are that basically, the only songs I know well enough to sing are:

1. meant to be sung horribly
2. really annoying
3. socially inappropriate
4. too obscure to be on a Karaoke playlist
5. the best of all possible worlds: all of the above.

To illustrate:

1. Mother’s Lament – Cream

Meant to be sung badly, socially inappropriate, obscure 3/5

2. Woo-Hoo – The 5-6-7s

Annoying, obscure 2/5

3. Alienation’s For The Rich – They Might Be Giants
Alienation’s For The Rich
This one is so obscure apparently that there aren’t even any shitty FMVs on You Tube using this as the backing track. Obscure, semi-socially inappropriate 1.5/5

4. Lake Of Fire – The Meat Puppets

Meant to be sung badly, obscure, semi-socially-inapproprate 2.5/5

5. Boobs A Lot – The Fugs

annoying, socially inappropriate, meant to be sung badly, obscure…this song is the supreme winner and most important reason why I should never be allowed near a karaoke machine after a drink or two. Because I would think it was funny and a good idea to sing the boobs-a-lot song, and I’m pretty sure that it would all end in a serious breach of the peace.

Edited to add:

5.5 Dead Kennedys – Too Drunk To Fuck

Need I say more? This hits all of the qualifications. Rude lyrics, not popular enough to be on the Karaoke machine, made to be sung by someone who can’t sing, even slightly annoying. This song makes me happy beyond all belief.

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