I have a soft spot in my heart for Southern men. I mean, the confederate flags and weaponry are not exactly charming or anything, but they like their women feisty and that bodes well for me. My good friend—let’s call her “She” because it rhymes with what I actually call her—happens to be Southern and I get a kick out of scandalizing her. Many of our conversations go as such:
Me: Blah blah blah inappropriate.
She: !!!!!!!Me: Hehe. Blah blah blah inappropriate times 10.
She: ?!?!??!?!
Me: Hehehehehehehe. That was awesome.
She’s fellow Southerner friend is pictured above, to the right of Snooki and yes that is totally his body and his cigarette. But let’s get to the point here: HELLO THEY HIRED HER FOR A VALENTINE’S DAY PARTY IN VIRGINIA BEACH OF ALL PLACES! And that, my friends, is exactly why myself and South of the Mason Dixon line have a special bond, beyond the Jim Beam and the inbreeding of course.
I was not quite a teenager when the grunge trend first came around. I begged for Doc Martens (which retailed for a shocking $100 at the time and caused my parents to basically ground me for even asking) and settled on a pair of black Converse as a consolation prize. I wore them with Carhart jeans and a flannel shirt and pretty much looked like a maintenance man when I probably should have been courting my first kiss. Oh well. But now grunge is being reinvented. I was walking behind this model/DJ type the other day who was wearing an oversized t-shirt, black sheer tights as bottoms (!!!) and combat boots with some sort of retro wool swing coat. She looked awesome, but I realized right off the bat that her awesome is not necessarily my awesome. And actually, her awesome is my butch lesbian. So bummer on that one. But then my sister’s starlet friend came to visit and she had on boots similar to the above. Not exactly the same, mind you. I bet hers cost like the equivalent of four pairs of Doc Martens, but these are on sale for $44.50 on Delias.com and I totally bought them. A nice alternative to the thick-soled look of yesteryear and a tad more feminine. Just sayin.
Did you know that The Half King in Chelsea has free astrological readings on Sunday nights? Kendrick Greer (who, from what I can tell, is also the bartender) does them and he’s delightful. He told me and my friend that we had “great energy” and invited us back so he could do something called “our charts,” which means nothing to me but sounds interesting…and also free. A nice way to wrap up the weekend and don’t forget the Guinness.
I forgot to write about A Single Man, which I saw last weekend and all I can really remember at this point is: Matthew Goode. Because how GD beautiful is one human being allowed to be? The movie itself was gorgeous as well (no surprise there, Tom Ford) and full of ah-ha style moments like the cool blonde on the quad whose hair and liquid liner I would like to steal, thank you. Colin Firth, who looks like he’s been hitting the Greenwich Ave. Equinox to say the least, is going to give Jeff Bridges a run for his money in the subtle-yet-powerful performance category. But all in all it’s giving me runner up vibes. Excited for Ford’s next effort though, and pleasantly surprised.
When I come across a good thing, my initial impulse is to recognize the fact that good things, truly good things, do not last. This is not the most productive way to live, but it is what it is. And thus as I was (clearly) watching "Jersey Shore" last night, as mind-blowing sound bites flew through the air like JWoww’s bitch-slapping hand, I turned to my sister and said (rather poignantly): this can never be recreated. And she nodded, stone-faced, because we were witnessing some sort of Beatles-like moment, when there is the before and then there is the after, the change on the horizon but…not yet. And some day soon, we will tune into "Jersey Shore, Part Douche" and some kid from Connecticut who went to St. Paul’s and has styled his lax flow into a Pauly D blowout is going to be playing it up for the cameras and it will never be the same.
You know what it is about Jay Leno? He isn’t funny. And that’s OK because 99.8% of our population resides in a place called Middle America so they make the majority of the decisions and if they made ALL of the decisions Jeff Foxworthy would be hosting late night so I’m just gonna shut my mouth. But. You know what is funny? The fact that in the midst of all of this lack of taste or sense of humor, Conan is being courted by Fox, the alter at which Middle America worships. So if at the end of the day he gets a big fat raise because he deserves it for being a comic genius and Patty in Bentonville has to suffer through his monologue after her daily dose of Bill O’Reilly or whatever the hell those people watch I’m going to have to say GREAT.
I have a soft spot in my heart for Southern men. I mean, the confederate flags and weaponry are not exactly charming or anything, but they like their women feisty and that bodes well for me. My good friend—let’s call her “She” because it rhymes with what I actually call her—happens to be Southern and I get a kick out of scandalizing her. Many of our conversations go as such:
