I Swear, I Read Them For the Articles

Yesterday, one of our board members was in the office, doing what-ever-the-hell-it-is-he-does-when-he's-in-the-office, and, on taking in my outfit, said: "I don't think it's fair I have to wear a suit through this heat, and you get to run around in your fairy clothes." And my boss replied: "You know what's unfair? That women have to wear high heels." And I thought: "You know what's insane*? THIS ENTIRE CONVERSATION."

Later, I was reading an article in GQ about a Spanish bullfighter who'd been gored through the eye and returned to bullfighting. Besides being pretty much the most fascinating shit ever, it was brilliantly written. By Karen Russell! Who I love. A few months ago, I read a profile - also in GQ - of James Deen, also fabulously, fabulously written - by Wells Tower, another of my literary super-crushes. Benjamin Percy writes for Esquire.  The list of incredible writers who've published short stories in Playboy - Marquez, Nabokov, Nadine Gordimer, Margaret Atwood - is daunting. And then I started to get a little upset.

It's been years since I opened a Cosmo, or any of its ilk, so I can't say for sure, but I do read their covers in the grocery store just like everyone else, and I would be straight-up shocked to find pieces by say, Zadie Smith or Dave Eggers, a new story from Junot Diaz sandwiched between articles about keratin treatments and '85 Terrible Sex Tips We've Published 300 Times, Slightly Reworded'.

There's nothing wrong with articles about fashion and make-up; listen, I personally could talk about eyeliner for a goddamn hour. Probably longer. I also love bracelets and dresses and tips on deep conditioning and looking at pictures of shoes because that shit is awesome. Being a girl is the fucking coolest. But that's why I'm upset. Because pretty stuff is super fun, but we also need content. Real, 'use your brain and dissect this weirdness of the world' content. Which I've found sorely lacking in 'women's magazines'.

And then there's the tone. The men's magazines - which I am literally 'reading for the articles' because sometimes there's like, a four-page spread on tweed jackets and scarf pairings - just don't seem to have the same pall of negativity. Women's magazines are mostly a list of shit you're not doing right because of stuff you don't have. Men's magazines certainly do that, too, but you can skip those parts and get to the...wait for it...content.

I don't know man, people much smarter than me are out there analyzing this shit right now, with results they didn't just completely make up, but I think it has a lot to do with the general culture of sickness and self-hatred that is like, frustratingly pervasive among women. You can't just tell people what's wrong with them and call it a day. You have to feed their brains so they have weird, fascinating things to think and talk about besides purses and mascara (which are FINE to talk about sometimes, I actually want to talk about my new mascara a lot). And skip the parts that tell you how you have to be. I don't know about that whole suit thing - that seems to be some cultural craziness that everyone's signed up for, but sweethearts, you don't have to wear heels. You don't have to do anything.

Demand more, ladies. I think it'll make us all feel better.

(Also, if you want sex tips, put down that inane Cosmo already and just consult a slightly older, slutty friend. Boom. You're good for life.)


*Also insane to me: that man spent more on lamps last month than I'll make in a year and a half. And can we PLEASE with the fairy bullshit. 

Hey! Your Pack Mentality Is Showing!

Gripe time!!! And I'm giving the ladies a break today, because - oh, boys. Men, guys, dudes, whatever you are - did no one ever tell you that when you're at that point in yor life where you find yourself wearing a suit and tie to work everyday, you're also at a point where A BACKPACK SHOULD NO LONGER BE A PART OF THAT OUTFIT.

And if, in fact, no one ever told you...you needed to be told? Just get a briefcase. If you need your backpack that much, get a job that encourages athletic footwear and alternative hours. You'll probably be happier in the long run. Or just like, go hiking or sightseeing on the weekends or something. You can scratch the itch. Just leave it at home until you figure it out, ok? Stop trying to justify all the zippers.

No, I'm serious. You look like a Boy's State delegate. So just...stop. Ok? You're making me a little sad.

A Call to Spines

I actually have something really, really important to bring up today. Ladies of the Metro Boston area, I beseech you: QUIT SLOUCHING.

On the real - didn't you people have mothers? I mean, I can almost excuse that your portable music is too loud, and that you refuse to let go of the skinny- jeans-with-heels-trend (it looks messy, seriously. Really, really messy. Say what you will about leggings, but those shits give a very clean line, ok?) and that you insist on chattering on your cellphones in totally inappropriate settings (in line at the coffee shop, really? That barista is just trying to make enough money to buy beer and he doesn't need to know about how bitchy Ambrianaelle was at Ned Devine's last night, or about the jacket you just found on sale at Zara... seriously get the fuck off the phone for like, 2 minutes). There's only so much your mother can do about your shitty manners and lemmingesque fashion sense once you're out of her house, and I'm sure your friends aren't helping matters. But your posture? Why didn't she take care of that? That shit should be like, deeply ingrained by now. But it isn't too late, I promise. Here, just pay attention:

On the T: did you score a seat? Nice for you. Now get all your scarves and shit out of my personal space - there you go, very nice - and SIT UP STRAIGHT. I swear to God, ladies, the next time I see one of you slumped over like the village schnapps fiend, someone is going to have to physically restrain me from reaching over and pushing your torso back until your shoulder blades touch the back of the seat. Whatever, I get it, you're used to squishing yourself down to hide your furious note-writing from the watchful eye of your Calculus teacher, but you're a fucking adult now, so please do us all a favor and lengthen your spine. It's depressing watching you try to get through life all crumpled over like that.

New scenario: You're standing outside, waiting in line at the ATM, smoking outside the bar, waiting for the bus, I don't care WHY ARE YOU HUNCHING OVER LIKE IT HURTS TO LIVE? Good God woman, you look a mess. Chin up, please. I realize all those white boys wearing eyeliner and sweater vests who are singing inside/on your Ipod/in your head are trying their hardest to crush your soul, but try to overcome, dear. Get out of Allston once in a while, try to get around the city without riding the Green Line, and I promise things will start looking up.

And no Uggs with mini skirts this year, ok? I understand that they're warm, I own some myself and I do indeed don them when venturing outdoors. But I also cover my legs. Because it is cold. And while we're at it, can we discuss why you own so many denim skirts? That isn't the same one over and over again, is it? Ok, we'll just pretend it isn't. But still - can you think of nothing else to wear? Challenge yourself girls, please. Really though, I will lay off if you just try to quit slouching. And once you're walking around all upright and whatnot, I'm willing to bet that you won't even feel like skulking around in denim and sheepskin. Ten bucks says that three days after you've adjusted to life at your new height, you're even going to be like "WHY do I keep wearing these extremely tight t-shirts with sexually suggestive text often referencing made-up sports team? Jesus, now that everyone can read it, I just feel like an asshole. Oh my God, why can I smell that Abercrombie store from ACROSS THE STREET???"

It might not happen all at once, but once we get that ball rolling...imagine.

Shoulders back, now. There you go. Almost there.

You're welcome.

Punch Your Chad

In the state of Massachusetts, yesterday was the last day to register to vote in the upcoming election. If you did not at least mail in a voter registration form:

a) You can't complain when they eliminate the state income tax because everyone is an IDIOT and afraid of being poor for nine minutes. Like, really? Don't you people understand where that money goes? It adds up. It's 40 percent of the state budget. We need it to like, PAY FOR EVERYTHING. Oh, your kids don't need textbooks? That's awesome. No, I guess you're right. The TV news is the same. Oh, what was that? The tv's in the classrooms don't work? No, there's no money to fix them. You took it home with you and spent it on like, Applebee's and trucker hats and a new weedwacker or whatever you retards will do with the extra $200 you get. Awesome. Also, enjoy explaining to the kids why Rocky the class hamster froze to death because they turn off the heat in the classroom at night. Those potholes are sweet, too. Sorry about your axle.

b) You can't complain when there are no police to protect you from the actual crime happening on your street, because they're all busy busting homeless people and Suffolk students buying weed from that weird guy in the Common with his pant leg rolled up.

c) You can't complain when there's one less random thing to do on Tuesday night because Wonderland has been closed. Now, I know not everyone spent a considerable portion of their childhood at the dog track and therefore don't have the same fuzzy nostalgia for them as I do, but seriously, before you climb all up on your soapbox and annoy the shit out of me with your diatribe on how dog racing is wrong, and cruel, and barbaric, let me save you the trouble: shut up. It's not. Yes, it can be, certainly, and has been, absolutely but you can make that exact same point about every industry: entertainment or otherwise. And have you ever been to the dog track? No? Then let me inform you: it's fun as hell. Aside from the gambling - which is why most people go, I realize, but is actually about my sixth favorite element of the experience - there's cheap beer, and weird food, and it's one of the few places in the state where smoking is still totally acceptable (no Mom, I don't go there to socially smoke, I'm just saying. It's an option.). Plus, it is some of the best people watching EVER. Rich white dudes just out of work, old men who have clearly been there all day, and will return tomorrow, little old ladies, drunk Revere townies, hippie kids, homeless-looking individuals of indeterminate age in sweatpants...I LOVE the dogtrack. Please don't take that from me.

d) You are an asshat. Seriously, just fucking vote. It's not hard.

Front and Side Dickbags

General Life Guideline: If a vanity license plate makes any sort of reference to the make and/or model of the car that it's affixed to...then the owner of that car is a total fucking dickbag.

I'm just saying.

A Short List of Human Bones Which Serve No Purpose, Yet, When Injured, Hurt More Than Would a Combination of Many Other Similarly Injured Parts

1. The Funny Bone

Yesterday, I whacked my funny bone on the bathroom door so hard I almost blacked out. This wasn't the 'owee it tingles' funny bone pain: I saw floating neon watercolors and got nauseous for a good 30 seconds. I think it was the closest I've ever come to understanding what guys describe when they talk about getting kicked in the balls. (I could listen to guys talk about getting kicked in the nuts all day. It fucking fascinates me - just knowing that I'll never get to experience it makes it terribly intriguing.)

And I recognize that the funny bone is like, part of your arm or whatever, but what the hell does it do? I've got at least three other bones in my elbow area that I can see, there are probably like, 8 more under the surface, so what element of my existence would be so dreadfully impaired if my funny bone would cease to function? Other than the four times a week I bang it into something and have to spend a minute holding it and rocking myself back to semi-consciousness? I'll take the funny-bonectomy, please.

2. The Tail Bone

Oh my God, I hate the human tailbone. First of all, the fact that we all have a vestigial tail between our ass cheeks is just totally gross. If we still had actual tails ... well, I think it goes without saying that would just be the most baller shit ever. But no. Instead we have this gnarly little cropping of bone that you can't see, and that does nothing...except hurt like a fucking demon when you injure it.

A few months ago I was exiting Good Time Emporium (fuck you, IKEA!!!) in the rain, and I happened to be wearing the same pair of flats I'd sported during the City Hall Plaza Tumble of 2007 that resulted in my broken right foot. Apparently, the stairs at Good Time and the stairs in the plaza have a similar texture/spacing/lack of traction/I'm an asshole, and I went down. Right down the stairs and into the parking lot, scoring a direct hit on my coccyx in the process. That shit hurt for WEEKS. No exaggeration, if I lean back on it too quickly, I still need to take a minute to recover. In the weeks following the injury I even had to buy myself the furniture-equivalent of a hemorrhoid donut (yes, shit, I know I bought that at Ikea, but it actually helped). And what part of my daily routine was seriously impacted by this irritating fester of an injury? Exactly nothing - except for the part where I had to explain to everyone that no, I couldn't accept a seat on that nice wooden stool they were offering, because I'm a moron and my fucking ass hurts too much to sit down on a regular surface like a normal human being. The tailbone is the worst. Get this bone outta my ass!

3. Eh, that's sort of it, really.

I told you it would be a short list. As I was making it, I realized there are lots of bones that hurt when slammed against a surface like concrete or wood, or when trapped between a door and the body of an automobile - but all of those bones serve various purposes, so they didn't quite fit the criteria for the list. And the appendix fits all the requirements except for the whole 'it's not a bone' thing. If some one's taking suggestions, though, I could probably work up a whole presentation on parts of the body that are utterly annoying and, in my opinion, supererogatory. I'd start by proposing we eliminate those really sensitive little hairs at the nape of your neck. My barrette just got stuck on some, and I almost started crying at my desk.