No, I’ve never heard of them, and no I don’t want you to burn me a CD of their “amazing new album.”
I spent this past weekend in Manhattan with some friendhats. Good times. We went shopping, ate some of the best sushi in NYC (Tomoe), and went bar hopping in the village. I can't really say all of the things I want to about our time there because a lot of it was spent doing some very illegal things, and my parents read this blog occasionally.
The weekend before that, Marc & I went out to the village and met an entire group of strangers temporary friends. The comraderie lasted 12 hours before we decided to move on and find people who were slightly less dysfunctional.
But I can't just downplay it like that. Within this 12 hour span of time, all of the following activities were completed with these strangers people:
-bar hopping in Huntington village
-excursion to robert moses beach
-eating a quality meal together
-facebook friending
Yes, this was the beginning of something official.
And, there was my brief fling with the 6. I refer to him as a 6 because, well, his looks are a mere 6 on a scale of 1-10 (1 being Amy Winehouse and 10 being Rachel Angelface McAdams). His personality ranked an 8 (as if that even matters).
Although he was only a 6, he paid for all of my drinks that night and was literally swooning over me. I, of course, kept my cold bitchy disposition, which for some reason attracts men. The conversation that night went something like this:
Him: OMG I love your watch. And your hair. And your eyes. You're soOoOo gorgeous.
Me: Really? I don't have anything nice to say about your appearance, though. You're a straight 6.
Him: Saggitarius and Libra are a match made in heaven.
Me: Are you gay? I don't believe in astrology.
Him: You're in advertising?! Me too! I love meeting people in my field. I bet you're SO creative and smart.
Me: I am, thanks, but I get the feeling you are neither of these things. Did your mom accidentally drop you on your head as a child?
Yes, this is my idea of flirting. To my defense, the compliments were endless. In the words of M. Lupo, I "eat that shit up."
The bad news? Sometimes men are intimidated by me. And by intimidated, I mean terrified. The good news? I weed out the losers in this phase of potential courtship. Or so I thought.By the 2,834th compliment, Marc had passed the point of laughing at the 6's attempt to gain my affection and was about to vomit. I was done drinking for the night, anyway (aka getting free stuff from him), so we said goodbye--but not before I gave him my number.
The 6 texted me all night/called me the next day and we went out for sushi dinner, some dranks, et all. He's from Oklahoma and he's a Christian, so he did all of those cute gentlemen-like things you never knew happened in real life growing up in New York. I guess he was charming. The night ended pretty well, until he told me he was moving back to the midwest in t-minus 2 weeks.
I'm kinda glad it never turned into anything, because he's a 6, so there's a limited amount of time I could have spent with him in public in fear of someone else seeing us together, but also, I googled his name after our date and found several youtube videos of him dancing. Or attempting to dance, I should say. At first I was shocked. I had him stereotyped as a really nice small-town guy, not as someone who videotapes himself having seizures in his living room with Usher playing in the background. I would post them here for you all to see, but it's just too mean for all parties involved. If you saw them, you would understand.
Other events from this week worth mentioning include:
PriMedia Bowling Tournament: Team Admin vs. Team Creative
PriMedia Sushi Luncheon
Movie Reviews:
What Happens in Vegas *. Wow, wow. Hollywood Jokerface Cameron Diaz and way-too-hott-to-be-in-a-movie-with-Cameron-Diaz Ashton Kutcher really blew this. What could be harder to screw up than a romantic comedy?! The entire thing was a disaster. It has recieved 1 star because part of it took place in Ali's backyard, aka Oheka Castle. Seriously. We could have been extras.
Righteous Kill *1/2. Al Pacino has dentures. This was thoroughly dissapointing.
Book Reviews:
I Was Told There'd Be Cake, Sloane Crosley ***. Almost as funny as Chelsea Handler! Instead of babbling on about what I think (even though that's whats most important in life), I've typed in some quotes from the book so you can get a feel for it and decide whether or not you'd want to read it.
On her first boss: "I have never known anyone who orders stamps before. Such foresight seemed reserved for Target-shopping Midwesterners and people who pressed their own flowers. It was not for women who said things like 'some people are despicable idiots' before nine AM, referring to the coffee cart man."
On her loud, obnoxious neighbor: "He's OCD. He's also trying to dig a hole to China through the floor. I was livid for all the obvious reasons and some of the not-so-obvious ones. Reasons that went something like: Some people have jobs and can't just stay home and tear up their bedroom floors because they feel like it. And when they're not at said jobs it's their God-given right to get drunk and sleep in on the weekends."
And...my favorite of them all, Sloan Crosley on being a vegan: "I tried being a vegan once. The surprising part was how easy veganism was to enter into. You read enough books that make The Jungle look like Goodnight Moon and you wake up one day to find yourself a recycled-paper-card-carrying member of the tofu mafia."
And now, as per the subject of this entry, I need to showcase a piece of fine literature I think you will all enjoy, brought to you via Michael Ian Black's hilarious blog, titled: "I Hate Whatever Music You Like." It reads:
People ask me all the time “what kind of music I’m into.” I hate this question because what they’re really asking is, “Are you as cool as me?” I can answer right now. No. No I’m not. No, I’m not into that twee British act you read about it in Gravesitter or Thunderfuck or Quiznuts or whatever obscure music magazine you read. No, I didn’t go to the Bohemian Shithead concert the other night in Williamsburg. No, I’ve never heard of them, and no I don’t want you to burn me a CD of their “amazing new album.”
What’s on my iPod? Your dick.
Asking somebody what kind of music they’re into is exactly the same as asking them what their sign is, an attempt to discern something meaningful from the meaningless. What possible difference does it make? What are you going to learn from me if I tell you I like U2? That I’m into debt relief?
And there’s just no good answer. Turning the situation around, if I ask somebody the same question, here’s what I’m thinking based on their answer:
Jazz - douchebag
Classical - douchebag
Metal - douchebag
Country - douchebag
Rap - douchebag
Pop - douchebag
Classic Rock - douchebag
Christian Rock - douchebag
Alternative Rock - JUST LIKE ME!!!
Not that people generally answer in genres. They don’t. People just tell you whatever band they’re mildly interested in who they think you will think is cool. So they’ll say, “I’m really into Feist right now,” when what they’re really listening to is that kickin’ new Jonas Brothers jam.
Or else they’ll say, “I’m really eclectic?” For some reason, this sentence always ends in a question mark. “Eclectic?” And then, without prompting, they’ll tell you all the “eclectic” music they listen to, “I like Frank Sinatra and the Clash,” in a tone that suggests “Can you believe how CRAZY I am???” Douchebag.
And yet, I like Frank Sinatra. I like The Clash. I like jazz. I like pretty much all of the music I just made fun of other people for liking. Liking music does not a douchebag make. Being “into” music does. If you’re much older than an adolescent and you’re still keeping up with what’s going on in the Bristol scene or wherever the fuck, then you’re a douchebag. If you even know that Bristol has a scene then you’re one, too. If you are older than twenty years old and any part of your disposable income is going towards concert t-shirts, then you are a douchebag. Or even if you find yourself referring to any rock band’s “early work,” you’re treading on some very thin, very douchy ice.
When people ask me that question, I just tell them I don’t listen to music. If they ask me why I tell them I hate it because music killed my dad. That usually ends the conversation. But if they persist in asking how music can kill somebody, I just say that my dad was Amadeus. Then they understand.
I can relate to this 100%. I hate music snobs. Which brings me to my next point of discussion: most music snobs are hipsters, or visa versa. Let's define and talk shit.
Hipster [hip-ster]. Noun, slang:
1) This is the English lit major who never should have left academia, a genius who has read all of V.S. Naipaul but can't photocopy title pages right side up. This person is very thin, possibly vegan, probably Ivy League. He or she feels as if answering the phone in a chipper voice is a form of legalized prostitution. He or she has a single quirky and defining fashion piece, usually red or black, and waxes poetic about typewriters and the British, having never truly known either. Regardless of sex, they all want to be David Foster Wallace when they grow up. (Yet another reson to love Sloane Crosley)
Fact: Hipsters live in/dream about living in Williamsburg, Brooklyn, NY.
Fact: Hipsters have hobbies such as art, music (as long as it hasn't aired on the radio), coffee, and thrift stores.
Fact: All hipsters have watched and enjoyed Garden State.
Fact: No one, besides other hipsters, likes hipsters.
You get my point. If you are pretentious about your music choices, grow the fuck up and get over yourself.
Media Clip of the week:
Although every single entry in Michael Ian Black's blog deserves to be recognized, I have to highlight these two in particular because--well, read them and you will understand:
1) http://michaelianblack.typepad.com/blog/2008/08/my-daughters-first-day-of-school.html
2) http://michaelianblack.typepad.com/blog/2008/07/nobody-can-see.html
And then there is this completly unrelated video... http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Mg3zesVdhSY
Upgrades:
Jess Bales, for being a supportive team captain. BFFLHAT.
Beano, for showing face on LI this weekend. Glad you could make it home betch!
Downgrades:
Liz Hill, for breaking the copy machine. You are an office fail waiting to happen.
The woman from Haiti in my tennis class who refuses to pick up the balls. She's a fatass, so she could really use the exercise, but beyond that, she is god awful so most of the balls that are rolling around miles from our court at the end of the lesson are hers. I would say something, but she scares me and I don't want her casting a voodoo spell on me. Updates to come.
The weekend before that, Marc & I went out to the village and met an entire group of strangers temporary friends. The comraderie lasted 12 hours before we decided to move on and find people who were slightly less dysfunctional.
But I can't just downplay it like that. Within this 12 hour span of time, all of the following activities were completed with these strangers people:
-bar hopping in Huntington village
-excursion to robert moses beach
-eating a quality meal together
-facebook friending
Yes, this was the beginning of something official.
And, there was my brief fling with the 6. I refer to him as a 6 because, well, his looks are a mere 6 on a scale of 1-10 (1 being Amy Winehouse and 10 being Rachel Angelface McAdams). His personality ranked an 8 (as if that even matters).
Although he was only a 6, he paid for all of my drinks that night and was literally swooning over me. I, of course, kept my cold bitchy disposition, which for some reason attracts men. The conversation that night went something like this:
Him: OMG I love your watch. And your hair. And your eyes. You're soOoOo gorgeous.
Me: Really? I don't have anything nice to say about your appearance, though. You're a straight 6.
Him: Saggitarius and Libra are a match made in heaven.
Me: Are you gay? I don't believe in astrology.
Him: You're in advertising?! Me too! I love meeting people in my field. I bet you're SO creative and smart.
Me: I am, thanks, but I get the feeling you are neither of these things. Did your mom accidentally drop you on your head as a child?
Yes, this is my idea of flirting. To my defense, the compliments were endless. In the words of M. Lupo, I "eat that shit up."
The bad news? Sometimes men are intimidated by me. And by intimidated, I mean terrified. The good news? I weed out the losers in this phase of potential courtship. Or so I thought.By the 2,834th compliment, Marc had passed the point of laughing at the 6's attempt to gain my affection and was about to vomit. I was done drinking for the night, anyway (aka getting free stuff from him), so we said goodbye--but not before I gave him my number.
The 6 texted me all night/called me the next day and we went out for sushi dinner, some dranks, et all. He's from Oklahoma and he's a Christian, so he did all of those cute gentlemen-like things you never knew happened in real life growing up in New York. I guess he was charming. The night ended pretty well, until he told me he was moving back to the midwest in t-minus 2 weeks.
I'm kinda glad it never turned into anything, because he's a 6, so there's a limited amount of time I could have spent with him in public in fear of someone else seeing us together, but also, I googled his name after our date and found several youtube videos of him dancing. Or attempting to dance, I should say. At first I was shocked. I had him stereotyped as a really nice small-town guy, not as someone who videotapes himself having seizures in his living room with Usher playing in the background. I would post them here for you all to see, but it's just too mean for all parties involved. If you saw them, you would understand.
Other events from this week worth mentioning include:
PriMedia Bowling Tournament: Team Admin vs. Team Creative
PriMedia Sushi Luncheon
Movie Reviews:
What Happens in Vegas *. Wow, wow. Hollywood Jokerface Cameron Diaz and way-too-hott-to-be-in-a-movie-with-Cameron-Diaz Ashton Kutcher really blew this. What could be harder to screw up than a romantic comedy?! The entire thing was a disaster. It has recieved 1 star because part of it took place in Ali's backyard, aka Oheka Castle. Seriously. We could have been extras.
Righteous Kill *1/2. Al Pacino has dentures. This was thoroughly dissapointing.
Book Reviews:
I Was Told There'd Be Cake, Sloane Crosley ***. Almost as funny as Chelsea Handler! Instead of babbling on about what I think (even though that's whats most important in life), I've typed in some quotes from the book so you can get a feel for it and decide whether or not you'd want to read it.
On her first boss: "I have never known anyone who orders stamps before. Such foresight seemed reserved for Target-shopping Midwesterners and people who pressed their own flowers. It was not for women who said things like 'some people are despicable idiots' before nine AM, referring to the coffee cart man."
On her loud, obnoxious neighbor: "He's OCD. He's also trying to dig a hole to China through the floor. I was livid for all the obvious reasons and some of the not-so-obvious ones. Reasons that went something like: Some people have jobs and can't just stay home and tear up their bedroom floors because they feel like it. And when they're not at said jobs it's their God-given right to get drunk and sleep in on the weekends."
And...my favorite of them all, Sloan Crosley on being a vegan: "I tried being a vegan once. The surprising part was how easy veganism was to enter into. You read enough books that make The Jungle look like Goodnight Moon and you wake up one day to find yourself a recycled-paper-card-carrying member of the tofu mafia."
And now, as per the subject of this entry, I need to showcase a piece of fine literature I think you will all enjoy, brought to you via Michael Ian Black's hilarious blog, titled: "I Hate Whatever Music You Like." It reads:
People ask me all the time “what kind of music I’m into.” I hate this question because what they’re really asking is, “Are you as cool as me?” I can answer right now. No. No I’m not. No, I’m not into that twee British act you read about it in Gravesitter or Thunderfuck or Quiznuts or whatever obscure music magazine you read. No, I didn’t go to the Bohemian Shithead concert the other night in Williamsburg. No, I’ve never heard of them, and no I don’t want you to burn me a CD of their “amazing new album.”
What’s on my iPod? Your dick.
Asking somebody what kind of music they’re into is exactly the same as asking them what their sign is, an attempt to discern something meaningful from the meaningless. What possible difference does it make? What are you going to learn from me if I tell you I like U2? That I’m into debt relief?
And there’s just no good answer. Turning the situation around, if I ask somebody the same question, here’s what I’m thinking based on their answer:
Jazz - douchebag
Classical - douchebag
Metal - douchebag
Country - douchebag
Rap - douchebag
Pop - douchebag
Classic Rock - douchebag
Christian Rock - douchebag
Alternative Rock - JUST LIKE ME!!!
Not that people generally answer in genres. They don’t. People just tell you whatever band they’re mildly interested in who they think you will think is cool. So they’ll say, “I’m really into Feist right now,” when what they’re really listening to is that kickin’ new Jonas Brothers jam.
Or else they’ll say, “I’m really eclectic?” For some reason, this sentence always ends in a question mark. “Eclectic?” And then, without prompting, they’ll tell you all the “eclectic” music they listen to, “I like Frank Sinatra and the Clash,” in a tone that suggests “Can you believe how CRAZY I am???” Douchebag.
And yet, I like Frank Sinatra. I like The Clash. I like jazz. I like pretty much all of the music I just made fun of other people for liking. Liking music does not a douchebag make. Being “into” music does. If you’re much older than an adolescent and you’re still keeping up with what’s going on in the Bristol scene or wherever the fuck, then you’re a douchebag. If you even know that Bristol has a scene then you’re one, too. If you are older than twenty years old and any part of your disposable income is going towards concert t-shirts, then you are a douchebag. Or even if you find yourself referring to any rock band’s “early work,” you’re treading on some very thin, very douchy ice.
When people ask me that question, I just tell them I don’t listen to music. If they ask me why I tell them I hate it because music killed my dad. That usually ends the conversation. But if they persist in asking how music can kill somebody, I just say that my dad was Amadeus. Then they understand.
I can relate to this 100%. I hate music snobs. Which brings me to my next point of discussion: most music snobs are hipsters, or visa versa. Let's define and talk shit.
Hipster [hip-ster]. Noun, slang:
1) This is the English lit major who never should have left academia, a genius who has read all of V.S. Naipaul but can't photocopy title pages right side up. This person is very thin, possibly vegan, probably Ivy League. He or she feels as if answering the phone in a chipper voice is a form of legalized prostitution. He or she has a single quirky and defining fashion piece, usually red or black, and waxes poetic about typewriters and the British, having never truly known either. Regardless of sex, they all want to be David Foster Wallace when they grow up. (Yet another reson to love Sloane Crosley)
Fact: Hipsters live in/dream about living in Williamsburg, Brooklyn, NY.
Fact: Hipsters have hobbies such as art, music (as long as it hasn't aired on the radio), coffee, and thrift stores.
Fact: All hipsters have watched and enjoyed Garden State.
Fact: No one, besides other hipsters, likes hipsters.
You get my point. If you are pretentious about your music choices, grow the fuck up and get over yourself.
Media Clip of the week:
Although every single entry in Michael Ian Black's blog deserves to be recognized, I have to highlight these two in particular because--well, read them and you will understand:
1) http://michaelianblack.typepad.com/blog/2008/08/my-daughters-first-day-of-school.html
2) http://michaelianblack.typepad.com/blog/2008/07/nobody-can-see.html
And then there is this completly unrelated video... http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Mg3zesVdhSY
Upgrades:
Jess Bales, for being a supportive team captain. BFFLHAT.
Beano, for showing face on LI this weekend. Glad you could make it home betch!
Downgrades:
Liz Hill, for breaking the copy machine. You are an office fail waiting to happen.
The woman from Haiti in my tennis class who refuses to pick up the balls. She's a fatass, so she could really use the exercise, but beyond that, she is god awful so most of the balls that are rolling around miles from our court at the end of the lesson are hers. I would say something, but she scares me and I don't want her casting a voodoo spell on me. Updates to come.