Pretty Girls

Also see: Snooty little bitches. They think they can do anything (and they can, can't they?).

Savages

Not to be confused with dirty indigenous folk that unsuccessfully attempted to hinder imperialism throughout the latter 19th century, the Savages have struck a chord with the American people. For some uncanny reason, there's nothing an American audience loves more than watching two prepubescent, curly-haired, reform Jews engage in crazy shenanigans (while wearing over-sized shirts). As if The Wonder Years wasn't enough, Boy Meets World further enforced the notion that any problem could be solved by the wise, elderly teacher next door or an achingly loyal best friend that's somehow inferior to you.

Fred Savage is by far the better brother, actor and overall human being - as is often the case with older siblings. This is especially true for actors, whose foray into the world of media often leave their younger, more inadequate siblings desperate for attention (i.e. Alec Baldwin, River Phoenix, John Belushi and surprisingly Ben Affleck despite the fact that both of the Affleck brothers are godawful). NOTE: This is certainly not true for famous sisters, as Zooey Deschanel = AMAZING while Emily Deschanel = sidekick on mediocre crime drama on an equally mediocre network. Back to the Savage at hand; Fred spearheaded onto the silver screen as an impeccably adorable child star in late 80's gems such as The Princess Bride (as some little fucker who can't get to sleep) and Little Monsters (as Howie Mandell's reluctant sex slave or something of the sort). The fact that Fred was able to achieve movie fame is enough to distinguish him from his pasty, bitchier little brother but there's still so much more.

The Wonder Years was an entity in itself and is renowned as the quintessential coming-of-age series. In times as turbulent as the 1980's, there was nothing that comforted audiences more than a quirky lil' sitcom set in the mid-1960's about a boy, his nerdy and undeniably Jewish best friend and the little tart next door who provided years upon years of angst and sexual frustration. It was a recipe for greatness despite the fact that it was was chock-full of morals and featured an unnerving voice-over courtesy of a middle-aged jackass regaling his tales of glory. Kevin Arnold was likable, even lovable and it all made perfectly good sense that the nation was captivated by this series until Fred Savage went through puberty/the plot got stale/Winnie Cooper just would not put out (bitch). The network knew they'd struck gold with the simplistic meanderings of an awkward not-quite-teenage boy, and tried to recreate the formula nearly a decade later. They were so determined to recapture the greatness of The Wonder Years they demanded the younger, lesser Savage (Ben) to star as the titular boy, Cory Matthews. I suppose ABC figured that a younger, albeit, mediocre version of their beloved Fred Savage was better than thrusting an aging child star back into a pair of overalls (and it avoided the risk of their star developing a crippling drug addiction, as many aging child stars tend to do following their traipse in the limelight). Cory Matthews wasn't so lovable. He was downright irritating, had an equally irritating girlfriend and a despicably curly hair. The series ran a bit, relying solely on the strikingly good-looking Rider Strong (who graduated to B-movies about flesh eating viruses) and one of the Lawrence brothers. According to the rule of famous siblings, Matthew Lawrence wasn't nearly enough to sustain the show (maybe if they'd cast Joey things would've ended differently).

According to the long-standing Hollywood tradition of better older brothers, Fred Savage should've either overdosed on heroin or become morbidly obese at this point in time, but he remains a productive member of society - and that's a hell of a lot more than you can say for his little brother. Unlike Ben who subsided into anonymity after managing to briefly achieve fame as a neurotic little shit (with curly hair), Fred savage continues to delight the world with his many, many talents. Perhaps (and by perhaps, I mean definitely) his biggest accomplishment is occasionally directing and producing episodes of It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia - arguably (and by arguably, I mean definitely) the funniest program gracing the airwaves. It (almost) compensates for the fact that he's had his hand in producing the astoundingly asinine adventures of Hannah Montana, and some other bullshit I'm sure he just did for the money (after all, he does have a younger, less-handsome version of himself suckling at his teat). The fact that such a wholesome icon of America's fond yesteryear could produce such vile and obscene humor is merely one manifestation of Fred Savage's utter greatness; kudos to him. As for Ben, well, it's not so bad - they do have a little sister who's an even worse actress.

Gangsta Films

The 1990s inspired an onslaught of what "my people" like to call Black Pride (or some shit like that). This time is a crucial period, seeing as the 1960s and 1970s were far too serious/reminiscent of that angry sort of racism (as opposed to the funny, ironic kind) and because Michael Jackson had paved the way by causing a stir during the mid-1980s, FINALLY giving us something to be proud about. Society was finally acknowledging us, so, naturally, the next step was to instill the fear of God into them. From the 1990s emerged a striking media presence, unprecedentedly in films. It's a good thing too; jazz and minstrel shows were a bit trite and confusing to modern audiences.

Most notably, the "Gangsta" genre arrived on the scene. This is not to be confused with the "Gangster" genre, seeing as it demeans cinematic feats such as The Godfather and gives Ice Cube far too much credit. On the other hand, Gangsta films were a new phenomenon and assured audiences everywhere that all those horrible things that they thought about black people were, for the most part, relatively true. It's a shame; John Singleton single-handedly ushered our people into a age of reckoning, mass-producing a ridiculous amount of these Gangsta films and peddling them as modern "coming-of-age" dramas. Color me impressionable, but I sort of thought that "coming-of-age" implied some sort of acquired knowledge or over-coming some sort of obstacle? Singleton's films convey one message: it sucks being poor, but it sucks even more to be black.

Boyz N the Hood, Menace II Society, Poetic Justice, Friday and more recently Baby Boy all employ the same formulaic narrative centralizing on Black youth, and they're proud of it too. First, they usually start with an ominous quote commenting on the endangerment of Black youth/the importance of literacy/the fading jazz scene. Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. is a major supplier of said quotes, or Malcolm X if it's an especially poignant film.

The setting is always a lower-than-low-income slum, simply referred to as "the hood" or "da hood" if you're jiggy with it (this term is used rather loosely seeing as Will Smith has no clout as a Black person whatsoever). "Da hood" is personified as raging beast that consumes lives and threaten the livelihood of Black men aged 12-33. The predictable plot usually focuses on a group of perpetually unemployed Black men, or Janet Jackson if you're lucky. They're days consist of drinking malt liquor, engaging in petty conflicts, going to convenience stores for more malt liquor, swearing and impregnating sassy women. It wouldn't progress very far beyond these means, but there's always one character who aspires to escape the dreaded hood. First and foremost, there's going to be a barbecue, a house party or a scene where you're introduced to somebody who's just gotten out of jail. Someone will shoot something. Several people will be shot at. There will be one character who cherishes education/religion and strives to be a productive member of society...but fails miserably. There's usually several children between the ages of 2-7, usually shown exhibiting the same unsavory habits (swearing, prodding dead bodies with sticks) the protagonist is falling victim to. Someone will shirk their parenting responsibilities or be fondly referred to as a "baby mama." Police are nearly always present, but usually only make short appearances to harass people or say racist remarks towards Mexicans. The streets are always teeming with crackheads who are good for providing cheap laughs or offering to suck someone's penis. There must be at least four welfare references. Most importantly, someone always dies. The less the person deserves to die, the bigger lesson the protagonist makes (and alas, he's one step closer from getting off of his ass and actually leaving the hood).

The average cast is largely comprised of rap stars who are now dead or who don't really matter anymore (Tupac Shakur, Ice Cube, etc). The remaining roles are filled with the all-purpose, all-mighty cast of recyclable Black actors; namely Angela Bassett, Nia Long, Morris Chestnut, both of the Goodings (Cuba Jr. and the lesser known Omar) and so on. The thinly veiled message Singleton tries to convey is that although "da hood" is a scary fucking place where you'll either get shot or addicted to crack, there's nothing scarier than upper-middle class White people, police, pregnancy or Asian convenience store clerks. If you inspect these films too closely, you'll get the impression that they're all horrendously racist (seeing as all the characters are unproductive, unemployed, uneducated and show an unwavering passion for shiny car accessories, marijuana and drinking cheap liquor in the afternoon). But, never fear, because it's a Black filmmaker (who graduated from US-fucking-C nonetheless) it's alright. It's innovative. Besides, who doesn't want to see Laurence Fishburne play a trifling asshole's overbearing father figure?

Don't get me wrong. These films are amusing as hell-- who hasn't wondered what it'd be like to be spend countless hours on a porch drinking malt liquor and wielding a seemingly endless supply of firearms. And, unlike Spike Lee's righteous ass, John Singleton rarely tries to get all up his own ass with preachy morals and stinging social commentary (and when he does, he usually fails miserably).

Lip Tattoos

Don't ink your lip unless you're willing to admit that you're a fucking douche. Not to mention, the skin on the inside of your lip in considerably thin and probably prone to ink poisoning so there's no faster way to get Hepatitis C, you fucking douche.

No one even notices it if you're not spouting all sorts of bullshit/horseshit/other assorted shit. It's the sort of tattoo you have to flaunt, preferably at a drunken shindig where there's impressionable females clambering at you to get a taste of that oh-so impressive ink work. Did I mention how ridiculous they were? The real kicker is that because it's such a small, inaccessible space, you're limited to about 4-6 letters. And with meaningful tattoos being all the hype these days, you know the unoriginal jackass will get something preachy/irritating as shit such as "love" or "peace" or "hope." What sort of self-righteous asshole would do such a thing? I've never met a person with a lip tattoo that I haven't despise. In the case that a seemingly decent person acquires such a shitty-lil'-tattoo, it's clinically proven that they become 49% more annoying. If anything ever warranted a kick in the face, let it be this. Just...really?

Cocaine

Smells like 1979, tastes suspiciously like baby laxatives. I distinctly remember my 11th grade psychology teacher telling us how he and his equally impressionable friends would snort a line or two off a switchblade and strut around the mall back when he was a wild child of the 80's. Was I intrigued? Yes. Very intrigued? No. I didn't have the money or the time or the resources to try coke. I still don't have the money. I don't think I have the right mindset for cocaine (or the money needed to actually pursue a respectable addiction). I prefer psychedelics. I consider a day spent wallowing in my innermost thoughts and kookiest delusions a day well spent. It's also easier to notice if 'shrooms or marijuana's laced with something (questionable) found under the bathroom sink. I'm always willing to take that risk with ecstasy, but any depraved fifteen year old or self-indulged twit in a Jetta can tell you that ecstasy is the funnest drug around. It makes you notice your nipples.

So, about two minutes in, it begins. Snorting, fidgeting, sniffling and all that jazz. $25 and twelve minutes later, you're left with nothing. I honestly don't see the big fucking deal. Considering all the films glorifying it, all the shady dealings surrounding it, all the Central American countries that are ravaged for it and the entire decade of the 1970's it seems like a lot of fucking effort just so your mouth can be numb for a moment. All I can say is, "well, at least it's not crack."

Relationships

As maddening as they are, relationships prove to be slightly more gratifying than its non-committal counterpart, friendship. Much like friendships, relationships imply that people actually enjoy each other. Much unlike friendships, relationships also imply that there's raunchy, finger-lickin' coitus involved. Note: THIS IS TRUE FOR ALL RELATIONSHIPS THAT MEAN ANYTHING (otherwise, what's the fucking point?). More ships that come close, but simply can't compare to relationships: kinship, ownership, Titanic, fellowships, etc.

If I had a chart, it'd show that most people are forced, coerced, goaded, lured or fooled into entering a relationship at some point of their (otherwise miserably lonesome) lives. This chart would also reflect the others―the tiny sliver of the population who are able to avoid such compromising situations and instead wander aimlessly through life bitching and griping about how alone they are. This sort of thinking is problematic. The truth is that we're all alone; people in relationships are merely deluded enough to marvel at the prospect of being alone in someone else's company, preferably engaging in raunchy, finger-lickin' coitus.

Frankly, every relationship's success is rooted firmly in the couple's ability to tolerate each other. The prospect of desecrating someone else's genitalia provides the initial appeal. Entertaining as it is, the amount of bodily fluids produced from such an unholy union may induce panic, if not, utter terror. It's exciting, it's new, it's sticky. After a considerable amount of time spent prodding and penetrating one another, you'd think people would be able to retire to their own empty bed and be satisfied, but alas, people are difficult. Once the pair is laying entangled in a sweaty-fucking-heap, there's nothing to do but talk (or maybe play with each other's hair, rub noses, etc). At this point, the individuals are inclined to disclose every aspect of their life up until that point. Having someone to listen validates their very existence, and “it really, really means something.” The individuals cease being individuals and merge into the omnipotent, all-knowing, all-thrusting couple―truly a mother-fucking entity in itself. In its modern usage, the term “couple” is derived from “a couple of people who really, really like each other” or from “a couple of assholes groping each other in the park” which, in context, makes enough sense. Not any couple of people have the potential to be a couple couple. Essentially, there are three types of relationships.

Relationships That Work
Basically, any two mediocre people can realize they want to fuck each other (and possibly share a bowl of cereal). Rarely enough, this leads to greater, slightly more annoying things. When two people find joy in each other's petty meanderings (and then decide to have sex), this usually comprises a substantial relationship. In a healthy relationship, tolerance is intimacy is success. People involved in relationship see each other as a mere extension of themselves―gross. Who the fuck needs a walking/talking/shitting appendage? No one, but everybody wants one. One may be apathetic when encountering a relationship that works (if they're not involved). “Yes, he was looking at you. Yes, you should go talk to him. Really? He's a photographer? Oh, really? You both play guitar and enjoy doing shitty Feist covers? Shit, he's also into existentialism and bad films made in 1989? Oh, my. He told you that? Yes, you two do look good together. It's great that you two found each other. It's great, it's really fucking great.” It should be noted that even when a relationship works, it typically has a life-span of 3 months – 27 years before things get mind numbingly dull. Serves them right.

Relationships that Don't Work
If you like your friend, your relationship won't work. If your first romantic encounter was inspired by drunkenness, pity or sheer foolishness your relationship probably won't work. If the best thing you can say about your significant other is “they're...nice” then your relationship won't work. If all your thoughts are consumed by that person, your relationship won't work. If you're nice your relationship won't work. If you're mean your relationship won't work. If you want them to change themselves, your relationship won't work. If you're willing to change yourself, your relationship won't work. If you don't want to be alone your relationship won't work. If you love the other person enough to do anything to keep them, your relationship won't work. If you understand each other your relationship won't work. If you really, really think you're meant to be together your relationship simply won't work. I'm sorry.

Relationships that Should Work, but Simply Won't (& it's not fair)
See above.

Santa Cruz Metro (Route #19)

I'm (absolutely) sure I would've made it to class today if the #19 hadn't fucked me over. Maybe it's my crippling inability to read a bus schedule properly (thank you, LAUSD), maybe it's simply my fate to be a slightly-less-than-mediocre student. Either way, this is the 4th or 5th time the #19 has made a fool of me. Well played, bitch, well played.

I left before I could eat a decent breakfast, which normally wouldn't mean very much, but this morning there happened to be sourdough bread in the cabinet. Sourdough bread's fucking amazing and extremely tempting (as amazing things tend to be). I ended up arriving at the bus stop 9 minutes early (or 47 minutes late). I should've stuck to the route #20 bus; it's all I know. The fact that it only appears once an hour at arbitrary places & times makes it an adventure. The scenery's marvelous even if it is a horrendously long route. A small, Jewish girl once told me she refrained from riding or even looking at the #20 because it made her nauseous. In the tradition of horribly inconvenient bus routes, the route #20 bus also makes a habit of leaving you/having a confusing doppelganger that refuses to take you downtown/being really, really ridiculously full. Pain in the ass, yes, but it's the ONLY way to get to the west side (where all the cool kids/drug dealers/over-privileged neo-yuppies dwell).

After a minute or so, a #7 appeared and threatened to pull over. I tried averting my eyes, knowing that bus would abandon me in a grassy field, but to no avail. After several minutes or so, a #3 appeared and that should've been my first inclination that I wasn't catching a bus anytime soon. The way the Bay & Columbia bus stop is positioned, it looks as if you're staring into a residence if you look straight forward. There was a man looking back at me. I think it was a challenge? I never know what to do with my hands at bus stops, either, though that's somewhat irrelevant. I'm sure if I would've stayed there another 30 minutes or so, another #7 or #10 & 1/2 or something would've eventually appeared, but I know when to admit defeat. I crossed the street, just in time to narrowly miss being run over by a #19 speeding in the opposite direction.

Things worked out though. I realized that there was a relatively important assignment due in class today--an assignment I hadn't done or heard of until now, of course. Missing class gave me enough time to hastily piece together a coherent (?) essay and draw a silly lil' map to accompany it. I have no idea why so many assignments in that class (Intro. to Teaching) require a silly lil' [insert asinine illustration], but my peers sure do seem to love their construction paper.

Pickles

There's not much to pickles; they soak in brine and they cure hangovers - enough said. But, not really. They're important enough to be the namesake of beloved Rugrats character, Tommy Pickles, so that's got to mean something? It doesn't even matter that no 6-12 year old this day and age knows who the fuck Tommy Pickles is, it's kind of a big deal. It's a bit degrading to consider a pickle a condiment, though. What good are two measly slabs wedged between buns, mustard, onions and all-that-is-unholy-and-morbidly-obese?

I don't approve.

Fuck that.

No one ever shafts a cucumber; why should you lose respect for something just because it's been floating in a jar of suspiciously green fluid for a month? And relish? It's a fucking mockery. Why butcher a perfectly good pickle to the point where it takes on the exact consistency/texture/odor of alien semen? To smear it on a hot dog? Unforgivable. Take it whole or not at all. I appreciate pickles, so should you.