Calm down. Calm down. You didn't miss it. It's not here yet (thank goodness). However, as that foreboding "halfway point" (between my last birthday and the next one) came and went, I realized two things.
The first? There's definitely an inverse relationship between the accelerating speed of time between these menacing milestones and... your metabolism.
The second? This:
Well, I gave optimism a shot and was promptly cock-blocked by the reality fairy. Thus, instead, it's time to start seeking out all the fountain-of-youth treatments and best kept secrets out there. Please feel free to offer suggestions.
Otherwise, soon the only "silver linings" are going to be happening in my hair.
I've got to get this off my chest even though I'll be crucified for it.
Wait! No. Nope. I'm just going to go ahead and say it: If David Arquette had hit the gym more and been offered the Noah/Notebook role back in his prime (instead of typecasting himself into doofy roles as in "Scream"), the wetties would have totally been over him instead.
Seriously, if you cleaned up Arquette and rewind him about ten or fifteen years, they really do look alike. He's just more doughy and less James Dean-y than Gosling because that's his thing. Why upgrade when it's more work and the roles you play pay for you to be low maintenance anyway? But if he went all HAM at the gym, chiseled up, and did a few broody, silent, smirky passion-tense scenes that led to heated love-makery, you'd be all "Hey-girl"-ing up to Deputy Dewey instead.
If it weren't for a few lucky roles (and great acting, obviously), zero shits would be given about Gosling, Gyllenhaal, and a ton of other doods who are schmexy because of how they come off in the roles they've played. I mean, look at how hot Joseph Gordon-Levitt got.
He nailed "500 Days of Summer" and all the promo dancing stuff that went with it; "Hesher" was kick ass; his "My Own Private Idaho"-esque flick "Mysterious Skin" and the character he played was a totally underrated brave role to take and mind-blow performance; and (Bruce Willis prosthetics aside), he really worked it in "Looper" (despite how bad of a movie it was and the fact that I felt like he was channeling a young Deniro more than a 20something Willis). But, yeah. Long way since "3rd Rock". And as with anyone else, it's an image. A crafted image. Same with Gosling.
"But no," you say, "I've seen all his interviews and he's so genuine and so wonderful in real life, too."
Really? How about fuck you? You don't know any of those people in "real life". He's an actor. He acts on the screen and he acts in his interview, too. Why? Because he can and he's really good at it. Protip: He gets paid money to "seem genuine" the same way I get paid to seem genuine when I'm at work giving out fake smiles. The difference is he's good at it. In fact, that's how he makes a living and why he has a wall of awards in his mansion home.
He might be nice in real life. He might. But (let's actually pause, branch off, and reference all the Gosling-esque, on-a-pedestal, Greek Gods of the world - famous or not - who are more a potential "trophy" and less "boyfriend material") until he takes you in for a few months as his new resident girlfriend, gets pubes in your soap and hair products, pisses on the toilet seat and floor, dutch ovens you in bed, surprises you by being a terrible lover, and suddenly stops being the silent sexy type by piping up obnoxiously about political shit over which you disagree, I don't want to hear about it.
Someone's initial attraction to you is all about image and how you carry yourself in public. After that, though, whatever's behind that facade had better be strong enough to carry you when you let people peep behind the scenes.
Dear Mom & Dad
Between Mother's and Father's day, I wanted to celebrate you both as a couple.
Hallmark never made a day for that (likely so that they could capitalize on making money off two different days, spaced barely a season apart).
Anyway, my blog is usually quasi-comical or current trendy events, but I wanted to add this ode-poem for you both after our visit the other day. I love you both. Happy parent's day
While visiting my parents one afternoon in May,
I asked to see some albums from their early days,
So mom dug through a cabinet and out of a nook,
Found me their hard copy version of Facebook.
Though marriage is likely not something for me,
I so enjoyed seeing theirs - vicariously,
Each snapshot told a tale of young love and bliss,
And a story that goes perhaps something like this:
Once upon a time in foggy San Francisco
Dwelled a barbie doll nurse by the name of Margot
In addition to healing the unwell and sickly,
She was the quintessential style goddess of the 60's,
Then one eve to the New Year's, she met a man - Bo,
Who had moves like Elvis and lips like Brando,
And this song and dance man who hailed from Hilo,
Was on the path of a high ranking American hero.
He caught her eye as he sang, danced, and strummed,
It intrigued her how his charisma required no rum,
And he fell for her too; there was no woman greater,
All her quirks were adored - like her loquacious nature.
In fact, one day while driving, that was when he proposed,
As she rambled, he asked, she kept speaking - then froze,
But of course she said yes; for they'd fallen in love,
And they traveled for years in their dark green V-dub
They owned birds, cats, and dogs - a whole menagerie,
As true animal lovers like I one day would be,
But army life meant many moves and he'd travel far,
So they made up for lost time on Hawaii R&R.
Naturally, came children, and they lived in many places,
Made memories and great friends on military bases,
Then four years or so post unplanned pregnancy,
Moving days were done and they settled near D.C.
As with any family, there was both joy and adversity,
But he still did something special for her each anniversary,
And their redeeming qualities lifted them back up when down,
My mom: forgiving nurturer; My dad: good sport! Class clown!
And though decades have passed since their heyday time,
Even now, I still view them as they were back in their prime,
I've seen them weather thick and thin - and bonded stronger now,
For in their day, they understood: that a vow means a vow.
If you were linked to this, you probably have that same "Oh shit... How bad did I look?" feeling we all had a million years ago when we finally got back a pack of party pics from the weekend. This was when you'd have to wait at least an hour to see if a "retake" was needed, had to buy a whole new roll of film to do it, and taking "selfies" meant putting yourself at risk of looking like a pale alien. If you were smart, you'd make sure you played the role of photographer, so that any hideous blackmail of your double-chin-bad-angles weren't unaccounted for somewhere.
Oh - before proceeding - can we please talk about our blissful ignorance regarding the fact that, YES, that dirty old man paid to develop your snappies was definitely looking at our half naked memories of under-aged inebriated evenings? Marinate on this: you probably shared with countless random pedo-bears all of the indelible visually documented nights you ended up in skivvies (or less) at that party your friend threw when his parents were out of town, things got cray, and you learned important things about yourself - like whether you were gay (or just bi-curious) or which liquor you'd never be able to stomach again - even by the time you were nearly 30.
That being said, I have (some) couth - so none of those pictures are on here Just a PG-13 Halloween party from circa Freshman or Sophomore year. If you were tagged, you're in at least one - even if it's blurry. Excuse the glare. I don't have a scanner, so these are pictures-of-pictures. Enjoy!
This was a Halloween party. Not everyone dressed up; but as hostess, I felt obligated to initiate the girl ritual of quasi skanky Halloween costumes early.
Two ladies looking just as gorg. now as they did back then:
Berg and Bryan:
Tim, signing me the sign of my people. Shaka!
Adorable. I can't tell if Steph kept dodging these pics or photobombing...
I bet you really would like me to delete this one, Tim...
I guess this was after someone finally spiked the punch...
Despite the nuisance of non-immediate gratification society featured in our formative years, you have to admit that sometimes seeing those forgotten photos was a highlight to your day (and often the only redeeming quality to an otherwise miserable Monday morning).... especially when the bell rang for first period and you knew you had just as many hours of boredom ahead as you likely would once you hit the "real world" and had to work to afford (among much else) that iphone that would now take those countless photo snaps ASAP.
Alright. Before we get this party started, let's start with some laugh candy from forever ago (compliments of Mad TV) to show that this Abercrombie hoopla is nada new:
Although Abercrombie CEO Mike Jeffries is press-shy and your info on him might be limited to the few interviews he's deigned to deliver (or more likely just a few memes floating around with a quote about how he's ostracized the super-sized), let me give you a few fun facts:
1. His company jet employee dress code includes flip flops, A&F cologne, and boxers under low slung jeans. They also must reply to any and all requests with "no problem". Nothing else.
2. He says "Dude" a ridiculous amount and constantly reminds everyone he's "not an old guy" (he's almost 70).
3. Everyone close enough to know him (and willing to comment) says he's obsessive (yet the most driven and detail oriented man they know), always goes through revolving doors twice, and won't pass anyone on a staircase - regardless of its width.
4. His headquarters in Ohio is referred to as a "campus" - designed indeed to look like a college campus mixed with a hunting lodge while a nightclub soundtrack blares on repeat - but it operates more like a cultish compound of carefree beautiful young people.
Now, if you haven't seen the recent uproar about this guy, it's something like this:
However, as with all biased quotes, the last part is missing. He adds: "Are we exclusionary? Absolutely. The companies that are in trouble are trying to target everybody: young, old, fat, skinny. But then you become totally vanilla... You don't alienate anybody, but you don't excite anybody, either."
Here we go:
Does his face look like a cartoon? Yes. Is he trying to relive a past he never had and in denial that he's 70? Yes. Has he had lawsuits against him? Yes. Is what he has to say offensive to people who are overweight? Yes. But that plastic bigoted face of his is laughing all the way to the bank. Why? The reverse psychology of this kind is evil-genius marketing at its best.
I'm not saying what he has to say is "nice". But if you show the world something and say it's only meant for the few who workout and have a good attitude, suddenly two camps form: those who want in on it and those who will hate on it. Either way, you've got people talking about your company... and that makes you relevant.
Think about it. Bebe and a plethora of other skinny-bitch stores also don't carry XL sizes... but they don't spotlight their "exclusionary" characteristics or talk about it at all. You don't see a lot of their CEO's on the top-paid list, either.
Try to think of it this way:
A brand new nightclub goes up in L.A. and word spreads like wildfire that it's the "place" to be, endorsed and patronized by Hollywood's elite, but - obviously - very exclusive. Laden with the red carpet atmosphere and velvet ropes, you arrive to learn that the basic bitches are being barred from entry, while the sleek and chic glamazons are being ushered through.
You stop to look at one before she shimmies in, and realize something: with her salon hair color, the extensions, the makeup, and the glitzy gear she's donning, she might not be heading inside to play if you took all that away.
But don't you think for one second she doesn't know that about herself. In fact, she probably was making a checklist of everything she planned to change during her plane ride to L.A. when she decided she wanted to be rubbing elbows with the beautiful and rich. So she tweaked a few things and, voila - she was right where she wanted to be.
Metaphorically, that's also where Mike Jeffries wanted to be back in his formative years, while he was disappointing his father by being awful at basketball and not the typical jock. The big difference between Jeffries and my hypothetical rope-rat girl is that (while they both favor guys over girls), his "Hollywood elite" target is really the "popular kid clique" at AnySchool, USA and the "Night Club" was a dying company that he turned into his own club: Abercrombie & Fitch.
He didn't just tweak a few things and get into that club, though. He turned his negative adolescent hangups into a means to get into the club, own it, and morph it into something that was considered "cool" enough to earn him a take home of over $48 mill a year versus... I don't know... becoming a cynical internet troll who hates their life and their job. No one talks about the nameless jerk online who fat bashes people. Why? Because he's not making money off it. No one knows his name. He doesn't have a private jet.
That being said, I think his quote could have been relayed in a better manner and he may have taken a risk with it. There are numerous euphemisms to drive your "exclusivity" point about your target demographic home. The idea is to have just enough haters to envy you; not to have everyone hate you to the point where they boycott your clothing.
We'll see how this famous quote-made-meme-gone-viral affects A&F.
In the meantime, if you forget his name and want to reference it in the next conversation you have about what a douche he is, just use this device I made up: "Mike" sounds like "Mickey", and his total face transplant was about as successful as Mickey Rourke's was. As for "Jeffries"? Well, he has picture of a toned male torso hanging over the fireplace at home... just like "Jeffrey" Dahmer used to.
That - or this much easier one: Michael Jeffries also sounds like "Michael Jackson". Both have had excessive surgery, a Neverland ranch style compound, lived in perpetual denial that they'd ever aged past their prime, and thus surrounded themselves with young boys to perpetuate said delusion.
Jesus, my geography is awful.
No, really. This isn't a woe-is-me thing. Like, I seriously hated it in middle and high school (along with history) because my teachers taught both terribly- either reading from a book back into the book, at a projector screen in the dark facing away from the class, or from their notes with all the inflection and enthusiasm of Ben Stein on Qualudes. All were perfect atmospheres to doodle in my notes or daydream about the senior guy I should have never dated.
Because of that, I simply couldn't relate when anyone brought it up.
It was boring for me.
The irony is that my dad had spent so much time in Belgium and other random countries while I was a kid, that I didn't see much of him during my "window-of-opportunity-for-shit-to-become-interesting" years. He probably had a lot to relate about where he'd gone and what he saw; but since my mom wasn't that into geography either (busy raising and worrying about two brats on her own), and since my own experiences with all things in the subject made even hearing the word itself elicit boredom induced salivation, I wasn't really open to learning or talking about it if anyone brought it up.
My basics just weren't there to make discussion entertaining. Also, I think I knew that I myself probably wasn't ever going to go to any of those places. I mean, our only "vacations" when I was a kid were usually to where my sister's basketball tournaments took place (namely up and down the East coast). And even that was generally the equivalent of a weekend long layover in some awesome place you never really see: The whole thing took place in a hotel or dusty, smelly gym with screaming parents and coaches, minimal sightseeing, and loud arguing between my mom and then adolescent or teenage sister going through her own dark and twisted phase. I just tried to stay out of sight, much less argue about doing something fun.
So what did it matter? What'd it have to do with me? Psshh... I didn't care.
And I was right. I'm on the wrong side of 25 already and likely won't travel to any of these places anytime soon and still don't know much about any of them. The few places I have learned about (even in America, embarrassingly), I only did because of time spent briefly living there, or finally visiting once I reached high school. I guess it takes a personal interest or investment for me to want to learn anything. But as I started brushing up on my geography (euphemism for "re-learn from formative school") recently to try and understand some some regions relevant to a new job position I took, it made me realize that I wish there was someone (other than my dad) who would done more traveling when I was in that age range....
That's right. That bitch. All that time I spent hunting down her ass with the tiny map booklet that came with the CD ROM game, and she'd repeatedly hide in the same predictable places- seemingly always Norway, Australia, or Iceland. At the time, I didn't realize she was tricking me into learning at least some geography (the same way Oregon Trail tricked me into appreciating violent video games by shooting a bear made of four pixels); but now I appreciate her efforts.
I just wish she'd dirtied up her passport with a little more variety... because God knows I sure don't plan to anytime soon.
Oh well, thank goodness for Wikipedia.
And this guy:
I have an early ass business meeting, so I'mma make this quick before my nap.
As season whatever-it-is-now closes, I just have to ask my fellow Dead Walker Watchers:
1. Where are all of these blue, dusty looking zombies coming from? There are stages to death!
At least some post mortem skin slippage? Degloving?
The body doesn't just dry up right away after death. There are stages. I want to see at least one walker at the gate spontaneously have part of his skin rupture and explode from the building gases inside of him (not just when stabbed).
Ironically, one of the worse-off walkers was actually not a walker at all but a crawler: the one Rick encountered right after the apocalypse on the ground outside the hospital as he rode away on his huffy. How did she look so decayed so quickly, while everyone else looks like they aren't a day over dead... after a year?
I'll let the livor mortis pass (that's when the skin pools in one area after a while) because they're obviously moving around so it's just staying where it is.
2. Speaking of moving around, where do the walkers get their ATP from to move their muscles? I get that they're back from the dead because of a virus or something, but there's still gotta be a science to it since the CDC was involved. It's not supposed to be magic. This isn't True Blood. Zombies have to contract muscles to move and they have to have ATP to do that. The ones who haven't eaten in a long time should be a lot weaker than the ones who recently feasted. That should be a thing.
3. Why aren't there more flies and maggots on the walkers? It's free dead meat. They aren't going to flick them away! Dinner's served, betches! Where you at?
4. Why doesn't anybody's hair or facial hair grow? Are they using whatsername's samurai sword for that? Even if I let that pass, I can't let the fact pass that everyone's eyebrows stay perfectly plucked.
Wait, speaking of which... did Andrea have the means to do some downstairs grooming before bumpin' uglies with the Gov'nah? If not, that explains the season finale. I would have killed myself out of embarrassment.
5. Did anyone have contact lenses when it happened? How are they keeping them from drying up or storing them at night? What if they lose them?
6. Why hasn't ANYONE gotten sick and turned from getting zombie blood spatter into any of their facial orifices like eyes, nose, or mouth? It happens via blood transfer right? It's not just the teeth and bite that makes it special, is it? And you know that's a job hazard when you're a zombie slayer. Still, I've yet to see that happen.
7. What do they brush their hair with? Or teeth?
And finally number 8 is an answer:
Somebody asked a while ago why zombies look so dirty so quickly after the apocalypse starts.
Well, first, you'd shit your pants a little if you got bit, much less eaten to death. Second, the skin gets discolored on its own as the blood stops circulating and stuff dies, and then turns greenish as gases of dead cells and normal bacteria your body fights off when alive, take over, come to the surface, and rupture the skin. Also, whatever waste you didn't expel when you pooped yourself as you died, would also leave the body pretty soon after deadsies. So there you go. Lots of reasons to be get dirty really fast as a zombie.
Now YOUR turn to answer my questions.
"This is for the birds."
You know, I never got that saying... until 2:30 this morning. The birds are indeed cray with an invisible "Z" this year. The early wakeup songs used to be a good unofficial and natural "second alarm" indicator on weekdays for how I was doing on time as I prepped for work, because it always initiated at just about five A.M. or so.
Then Spring came (if you can call it that), and that all ended.
They'd start at 4:00, then 3:00, and now it's 2:30 on a Sunday morning and they're singing me the song of their people as if they're auditioning for Midspring's Night Dreams-are-something-I'll-never-experience-again. Try as I might, I couldn't find a good Google answer for why this was transpiring. There were just other similar queries like mine and quasi sci-replies about how "mostly males do it" and that it's to both "stake their territorial claim and attract mates." - but no direct responses for "why so much earlier than usual unlike other years?"
So, I'm going to: A. Ask you to pardon the imminent pun, and B. Go "out on a limb", and extrapolate:
Despite this never-ending winter we've had (during which my area got the majority of its snow during March), there've been a few sporadic Spring-like days. It warmed up to over sixty degrees, the sun shone, and some greenery even tried to pop up; but much of it was short lived when followed by a streak of grey days, icky cold, and subsequent death-cicle departures. My guess is that during that brief window of warmth, the birds 'n bees did what birds and bees (and today's teenagers in the bathroom stalls during lunchtime) do when they catch Spring Fever: Screw each other e'ry which way.
And like every other spring, some dudes didn't quite make the cut.
However, when the Father Freeze returned to sodomize Spring, Mother Nature kindly offered these poor losers another chance; and despite the obvious difference that our jobs are not (usually) about sex, we share a lot more in common than a 5 AM alarm. While some of us get pay freezes, they got a quite literal freeze. The difference is that theirs ironically afforded them a second chance.
The mockingbirds' "mock" interview is over.
After the epic fail of that first round, they're not about to to risk a repeat. But much like a guy who's been "let go" from a job or bombed an interview, they're not just back in the Cedar saddle, but they're back with renewed resolve: They're punctual, working overtime, and (to my chagrin) starting three hours ahead of schedule.
Before you get too jealous about having a job where you hit on chicks all day, from the sounds of their overzealous and endless singing, it seems like most of them are getting shot down - first by the ladybirds and subsequently right out of the Darwinian tree.
In fact, for those who don't settle down and start a fam, I think I read about how they get bitched around for their lack of dominance by every "more dominant" bird and how more dominant birds can peck and pick on any less dominant birds just for kicks (hence the term "pecking order"). Sigh. Yet another giant bird/job parallel emerges.
I'm sure I could think up some more if I wasn't so fcking tired for lack of sleep.
In the meantime, I guess the takeaway can be that at least your crappy job or pay cut just means lowering your standards in life; not your life itself depending on any random wench lowering her standards to be with you (as you preen and dance and sing your ass off to impress her). It's like those old couples who saved their V-cards for marriage, courted extensively first, and then never divorced: After all that bullshit and hard work, no wonder the feathered freaks mate for life...
And shit on your car.
Well, everybody on the Eastcoast saw it. But nobody got a good video of it, I guess.
I love even just sky watching on a clear evening. So it would have been cool to see for myself the asteroid/meteor-whatever-it-was that streamed across the sky in all its bright green and crazy colored glory tonight. Unfortunately I missed it. On the flip-side, fortunately it missed us all.
However, thanks to budget cuts for space studies, that might not be the case for long.
Physics professor Michio Kaku explains, "We are sitting ducks in 2029 if asteroid Apophis hits the earth. It'll miss... but it's 1000 feet across. It's a nation buster. It'll take out England. It'll take out Germany. That's how big it is."
The goal currently? Deflect it, obviously. But we also are trying to actually land on it to see what we're working with. "Why not just blow it up Bruce Willis style?" you might ask. Well, then we've got tons of other little rocks coming at us (aka rapid fire damage from tons of space rocks. It's a frying pan/fire situation).
Besides, these floating babies could be a gold mine!
Um, Ashley... Why does that matter when our lives are at stake? Well, I'm glad you asked! You see, people are selfish and greedy and space researchers might just be able to capitalize on that. If a few rich bastards can fund trips to these Russia-sized rock-rockets in hopes of having some priceless crap flown back to them, perhaps a "beautiful friendship" could form between them (private money) and space research (public money). Eventually, perhaps some of that money could even go toward unselfish projects like - I dunno - saving Earth from smaller asteroids too.
You see, when it comes to asteroids, the phrase "less is more" couldn't be more accurate. It's actually the smaller one that are a bigger issue.
The potential solution is stupid simple, too. All we really need is a machine called a "space based infrared telescope". Mouthful, I know; but basically, it's the best bet for spotting these little asteroids easier and earlier. Unlike current technology, it won't let the sun hide them from our view, so we can see them early enough to do something about it.
As it stands, however, if a smaller asteroid (like the the one that hit Russia) were to approach anytime soon, we'd barely have three weeks warning. NASA administrator's advice regarding that pickle?
"The threat is real," says Kaku, "In Russia if that asteroid had held intact for a few more seconds, it would have hit the Earth with the force of 20 Hiroshima bombs. Casualties would have been in the hundreds of thousands."
Currently, we can't afford this simple telescope because the government won't fund it - even though the figure it would cost (compared to what our country wastes on other tomfoolery) is minimal. It could also be easily be met too, however, if a group of Forbes' favorite cover models got together and doled out a few donations. That would be the real slow-motion, heroes-walking-and-holding-their-helmets moment for me.
In reality, however, I (and the rest of Earth) will have to settle for the less noble monetary means when millionaires mine meteors from the safety of their mansions.