Get Off My Back, Gaaaaad.

I started re-reading 'The Perks of Being a Wallflower' for the third time. Even reading it in present day, I'm still amazed at how well it hit the nail on the head about how weird it was to be a sixteen year old in high school.

I was never a somber child. In fact, I had a pretty fun time in high school. I was not popular, not in the slightest. Well, I was totally well-known in smaller circles.... like the Marching Band, Choir, Tech Theater and Theater.... Like, so totally popular.

My Jinko jeans were the jam. My super short pixie cut hair?...Desirable. I was voted "Most Likely to be on Comedy Central" by my Marching Band and was voted best Junior and best Senior...in the Marching Band. I thought I was extremely well-read because I read 'On the Road' once. I carried around a notebook in my back pocket for those moments of extreme clarity. I journaled, I made scarves, heck...I wrote terrible poetry about the moon, and often. And, let's just say it, I made the best mix tapes by far. I was a catch by any standard.

I never had a boyfriend in high school. Unless you count the countless male friends that I was obsessed with and would later, and still to this day, call my best friends. I knew how to joke with boys, but never actually knew how to talk to them like the females of my age group knew. Like any sixteen year old girl, I hated the way I looked, was scared of my body but was angry at others for not categorizing me as one of the pretty girls. I was thirty pounds heavier...a fault of Ben & Jerry, my employer. It would take me years for me to take pride in the way I looked. This would spawn trouble of course later when I went on a make-out rampage my Freshmen year of college.

My favorite thing to do was drive. I drove everywhere. I took the long way home so I could complete Side A of "Moody Sunday"...a mix. Growing up in the South, there were always quiet and dark places outside to go sit and be pretentious in. My favorite place was by a lake. My friends and I would find ourselves there, chain smoking and talking about how hard it was to be sixteen...while laying under the stars. It sounds all so Dawson's Creek. I'd actually love to go back to that lake now.

Looking back, I'm pretty convinced that that was the easiest period of my life thus far. Things seemed so hard and unchangeable. Parents just didn't understand you. No one was able to see how amazing you were. Feelings were easily hurt. College seemed so far away. Funny how we realize later how well we had it. While I would never choose to go back and do it all over again, and I don't regret any of the mistakes I've made, it would've been nice to turn up the fun a little more. Who knows, maybe I'll look back on 27 and think the same thing.

Anyway, this book is amazing and so well written. The language seems so simple and clear, but it really just lays it all out there. I recommend this book to anyone looking to get a little nostalgic.

Yay? Nay?

Are these too....2007?

Because I'm kind of into them.

Fried Awesome

The other day, my new friend-crush Josh and I ventured up the street and had lunch at an amazing diner called Bourbon St. This place serves authentic southern food like Chicken and Waffles, Pulled Pork Sandwiches, Mac N' Cheese, Cheese Grits, Fried Okra, Fried Green Tomatoes... It's the only place I've found in New York that serves sweet tea. And I'm talking sweet tea made the correct way. With real sugar.

I ordered Chicken and Waffles. They literally batter and fry a half rack of chicken and smack it down on top of a beligum waffle and cover it with maple syrup. I almost had a heart attack out of sheer joy.

The best part was overhearing the next table discovering Fried Green Tomatoes for the first time.

Dude #1: "What does this taste like?"

Dude #2: "Fried Awesome."

I think he said it best. Holla back, South.

Mo' Money Mo' Problems

I had a dream the other night that I was up for a promotion at work. The head of HR was interviewing me for this new amazing position, but insisted on conducting the interview in my living room. Only my living room was in this amazing apartment with floor to ceiling windows and classy working class adult furniture. Even in my dream world, I was amazed that I could afford such a lifestyle on the salary I currently maintain.

The interview was botched however because my brother was staying with me. And my brother was a notorious pot dealer. I said, "Jason, you just have to stay in your room. Just keep your pot dealing down, okay?" Well, he didn't. The smell of marijuana just kept wafting into the living room and I kept saying, "It's okay. Just ignore it. I have no idea what that smell might be."

The head of HR, while trying to find the bathroom, mistakenly opened the door to my pot dealing brother's room to find garbage bags of marijuana stacked to the 10 foot ceiling. It was like the scene in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory when they open the door to the candy room. It was everywhere. In my embarrassment, I apologized for my pot dealing brother and wondered if this would affect my chances at getting this new job.

My brother does not do drugs, he does not drink, which makes this dream all the more hilarious. I told him about this dream the next day and he apologized for ruining my chances. While I do not wish that my brother was drug dealer, I do wish I could go back into the dream world and at least snag a fancy side table, perhaps a gold andiron.

Then I had a dream that I was caught between two sharks who both wished to eat me. But you know, I can't analyze every little thing.

Why My Head Will Explode

I'm not a hypochondriac, but for about a year now I've been getting dizzy for no apparent reason. I'll be sitting, standing, laying, walking, whatever...and my vision will go black, my ears will ring and I'll be sent to the floor to recover from a near black out experience. I've been to the doctor four times now, been checked out by a cardiologist and I'm now being sent to a neurologist. I've had blood work done three times with a normal outcome. I've actually been surprised to learn about how healthy I am.

The real kicker was heading into the city Friday night to get some food with Greg and Cat. I felt another dizzy episode coming on and Greg and Cat both took me by my arms on either side and led me off of the train. At this point, I actually did black out. More like collapsing onto the disgusting platform of Canal St. Apparently my face went green, my eyes rolled back and fluttered and I was shaking. Cat was apparently waving her hand in my face trying to wake me up, but my eyes were open. I guess I was out for ten seconds and when I came to, they walked me over to the steps to wake up.

To my surprise a doctor, yes an actual doctor was in front of me. Apparently he was on our train. This only happens in movies, but it happened to me. He took my pulse, asked me questions and talked to me while I started feeling more normal. My vision came back though my ears were ringing for another few minutes. He told Greg that he could barely feel my pulse, that I needed to be wearing a heart monitor and get more blood work done. Unfortunately, I've worn three heart monitors now, though it's been awhile. When I came to, Cat was sobbing and kept hugging me and Greg was pacing.

After I stood up, I refused to talk about it for awhile and we went to dinner. Afterwards I went home for rest and began the downward spiral of denial, extreme panic and worrying myself into the invention of new symptoms. I saw my doctor that weekend, who thinks I may have had a seizure. Now, after a straight year of telling someone that something was wrong, they're actually taking me seriously. I took Monday off and called every neurologist in the greater New York area. Apparently every neurologist in the greater New York area are either vacationing in the Hampton's or they are assisting other bizarre head cases for the next week. I hope to know more by next Tuesday when I finally get to see someone.

And in an effort to calm myself and stop my mind from inventing the worst, aside from what the stupid Internet tells me... I'm going to make a list of possible things that are wrong. This is loosely based on what webmd.com has already informed me of.

1) I am already dead.
2) I'm going to have a stroke.
3) My low blood pressure is going to send me into another seizure which will eventually lead to death.
4) I have an aneurysm which will of course rupture the next time I'm alone on the train without my beloved boyfriend or friends around to help me. Then I will be eaten by feral rats and my purse will be stolen by the tunnel dwellers of Brooklyn.
5) I have full body cancer.
6) I'm actually not composed of normal cells and chemistry. I'm a mutant life form which the doctors are too embarrassed to tell me about.
7) No one will figure it out until I wake up one day with super human strength that I've kept dormant for years because I couldn't deal with the sheer destructible force I was composed of.
8) I'm allergic to air.
9) My brain is too large for my skull.
10) I'm actually a sub creature. A dark lord of the sixteenth century. And I've come here to destroy you.

There. Now I feel better and can rest easy that I at least got my concerns out into the vast void that is the Internet. If I do not blog again soon, please check for tunnel rats who are wearing Burt's Bees chapstick. They stole it from me after that ravaged my cancer ridden, subhuman body.

You've Been Eating Falafel's Without Me?

Funny story that I was reminded of today whilst enjoying a tasty falafel.

A few months ago, Greg and I were in the city wondering what to have for dinner. The conversation went something like this:

Greg: Sushi...Indian...Middle Eastern... oh wait, you don't like falafel's.
Katie: Me? I like falafel's.
Greg: You do? I never thought you did, so I never suggested it.
Katie: Have you been suppressing your falafel desires around me?
Greg: I...well, I eat them a lot.
Katie: What's a lot?
Greg: Like...2 or 3 times a week.
Katie: You eat 2 or 3 falafel's a week?! How have I never known this?
Greg: Well, I never thought you liked them.
Katie: I thought I knew you.

Greg also thought that Starburst's Disco Berry flavor was a limited time creation and thought he'd surprise me with a found sleeve of them. I had to admit to him that they were in the vending machine at work and I'd been eating them all the time. That was the day that Disco Berry lost that ring to it...sucking the magic right out of his heart.

It's a sad, sad day when you have to reveal your secret food habits to your special someone. It's best to get everything out on the table...'cause....get it?....Table...with the....and the....

Pizza Always Brings Something to the Party

I found an incredibly disturbing news article today, surrounding the Denver International Airport. A Papa John's Pizza Crop Circle.

Six football fields in length, this pizza logo is comprised of cedar mulch, cornstalks and flattened wheat stalks. The logo lies below two flight patterns and forces travelers to gaze upon its red and golden hues.

Trying to grab a slice of the Democratic National Convention's pie, Papa John's created this logo in one of the most unlikely of places: NATURE. "It's always a crowded market, and every brand will be chasing their space to promote their product," said Papa John's Public Relations rep. "This was a way to have fun with it. Pizza always brings something to the party."

Really, Papa John? Really? You couldn't find any other creative way to advertise your product, you decided to plough under six football fields of crop to display your advertisement that the entire world has already been made aware of? You've got some delicious pizza, Pop...but this mess is ridiculous.

Advertisements in general disturb me in that it forces you to look at it and absorb it. Even if you're trying to ignore it, you've seen it. It's not enough that we have trees torn down alongside roads to build up billboards for ad space. Or that we can't even watch a sporting event, go see a concert or donate to a charity without seeing, "Brought to you by...." We pay $12 now to go see a movie and we have to sit through twenty minutes of commercials before the previews even come on. I understand that they are a part of our culture and it's inevitable. But bringing this into something like nature is just beyond anything I could have ever imagined.

The Bald Eagle is no longer on the endangered species list...Brought to you by Orbitz Gum.

Sleepy's Mattress Pads... Brought to you by the burning rainforests of South America.

Katie's Heart Exploding...Brought to you by The Axis of Evil.

Israel: Who Knew?

While lunching outside today, I overheard two girls chatting about their vacation. One of the girls answered her cell phone and this is what I heard:

"Yeah, I just got back from Israel... it was amazing. We partied in Tel Aviv and Jerusalem...Yeah, I wandered a fucking desert, how bout that?!.....No, there wasn't really any good Hash there."

Israel: Who Knew?

C-Town Town Town and the Lazy Girlz

If I were to promote a new all girls rap group, it would be called "C-Town Town Town and the Lazy Girlz." They would be slouchy, angry girls with gold name plates and pink sparkly cell phones with hit songs like, "I'm on Break."

I found myself involved in a rather angry rant with my refrigerator last night when I realized that there was no meat to be found. C-Town Town Town and the Lazy Girlz strike again!

I hate C-Town. I mean, with a burning passion. The one in my neighborhood is just awful. I'm constantly angry when I leave this institution and wishing that the crew of female miscreants would put down their cell phones for a hot sec and help me bag up my things.

First all, you can't find anything you need. Perhaps this is just across the board in all New York grocery stores, but it's dumb. Dumb, I say. You want some Maraschino cherries? (Okay, not a popular item...but let's say you do.) After looking in every aisle and asking every single employee who all don't seem to know, you'll find them on the bottom shelf near the salad dressing. Hmm. Interesting. A bottle of Vanilla extract? Oh, it's right next to the sprinkles behind the check out. Duh. Toilet paper? Why, it's above your head over the frozen peas! Of course!

Your shopping is done all while dodging the Lazy Girlz of C-Town, who are barreling down the aisles trying to get in as many argumentative cell phone calls as they can during their break. They do not say excuse me. Why would they?!

Finally you make it to the check out. You manage to set things up on the conveyor belt quickly so that you have time to pull out your reusable grocery bags. All the while, you're saying "I don't need a bag." They're texting or looking over your shoulder to watch the next cashier quibble with an older gentlemen over change. They start to bag up your groceries in plastic bags. Pause: Why do people double bag? Honestly. Again you say, "I don't need a bag." They say, "Oh." And completely stop bagging things up and just watch you struggle to make room for your box of cereal and frozen items.

You get home, like I did last night, and realize right around the time that you're ready to make dinner that they've simply forgotten to bag up your meat. (That sentence sounded hilarious.) They've set it aside and just not put it in your bag. If anyone wants six dollars of chicken breast and london broil, be my guest. The Lazy Girlz on C-Town probably still have it sitting on their line.

I know I've been spoiled by living in...let's just say it, a normal part of the country. The kind with wide aisles and actual shopping carts. People who are helpful and know where their products are. Cashiers who would enjoy having you leave with all the products you've purchased sitting happily in your shopping bags. Perhaps we just have to give up certain luxuries to live in this town. I think it's worth it....sometimes.

Look for C-Town Town Town and the Lazy Girlz new video: "Canned Corn? Go fuck yourself."

Why 80's Movies Are Scary as Fuck

Ever notice a clear difference in the way we enjoy film from the 80's and the way we enjoy it now? I mean, they just went for it back then. Drugs, sex, cursing, violence... All sense of PC-ness just went out the window.

I can remember watching Arachnophobia in Day Care. (1990, but you can see where I'm going with this.) I watched Weird Science at a Lock-In and even at that young age, I felt like I was doing something naughty. While watching the Last Dragon with my friend Dave last week, it put some things into perspective about the differences between cinema of the 80's and cinema of today.

1) The Last Dragon: New York City was quite a different place back then. There is a clear lack of kidnapping and wandering into abandoned factories to have Ninja fights that is absent from the New York City we find ourselves in today.

2) Weird Science: High School students create a human from a computer.

3) Dirty Dancing: Even talented dancers like Penny wind up getting pregnant from doucebags like Robby and having illegal abortions in their cabins.

4) Just One of the Guys: Picnicking in abandoned caves at night. Students who bring in snakes to school. Gym teachers who do surprise jock strap checks.

5) The Explorers: Middle School students build a rocket ship to another planet and find Aliens who enjoy watching television from the 40's.

6) The Peanut Butter Solution: Horrifying.

7) Goonies: A group of boys are chased underground until they find an abandoned pirate ship full of skeletons. A deformed man who likes candy bars saves the day.

8) Heathers: Hello...Teen Suicide?

9)Labyrinth: Goblins steal a girl's baby brother and she's forced to befriend trolls and brave the Bog of Eternal Stench while the Goblin King threatens her life. What?

10) Little Monsters: Don't crawl under your bed, or you'll find yourself in an underground world run by monsters. Seriously?

I don't know how we're all reasonably okay these days.

"Where Do You Get Off Having Tits?!"

I couldn't sleep last night and sat up watching Just One of the Guys. I remembered this movie as being one that I had seen a few times with friends from down the street. A wee lass of seven viewing this movie while playing with Barbies and contemplating the complexities of gender roles and the coming of age. Suffice to say my seven year old brain couldn't wrap itself around these concepts. Not to mention the fact that there were a pair of breasts involved. "Did she just show her boobies?" Yes, she really did just show her boobies.



Somewhere around two in the morning last night it dawned on me how incredibly backwards this movie really was. Just One of the Guys bit off more than it could chew when the main character finds herself as the subject of sexism from her high school journalism teacher. Sexism in the 80's? The only way to solve this problem is to dress in drag. Am I right, ladies?



Terry Griffith, (first of all, Terry?) decides to write a winning article by using herself as the subject matter, testing her theory on the treatment of boys and girls. I'd like to pause here a moment and point out Terry's transformation into a boy. They made her into the most stylish, homosexual dude that ever drove a white convertible. The only tip she received from her sex-on-the-brain little brother was this: "Itch your balls a lot." With only that knowledge and a bad haircut, Terry decides she's ready to test her skills as a boy in another high school. Here is where the ridiculousness truly begins.


I think the writers, (yes, two men) took everything they knew about women, especially younger women, and shoved them into a 90 minute screenplay. No matter what Terry did, her feminine side just kept showing itself. Overhearing the high school's popular girl Deborah loudly complaining about the missing back to her earring, Terry couldn't help but bless her with her crafty tip. This happens several times and Terry keeps catching herself commenting on girls' shoes, bringing Rick Morehouse lunch and helping him jazz up his wardrobe to score a date for the Prom. It's true...girls are great at cooking, dressing and helping their secret gay crush find a new style.


Now onto Rick Morehouse. I honestly wish this guy had gone on to make things someone on the planet has actually seen. He was a fox. He was the 80's version of the 90's Ethan Embry...the quiet nerd who has a random and amazing interest. Rick's love for James Brown matched Ethan Embry's love for Kurt Vonnegut. When are we going to realize that the guys who are into James Brown and Kurt Vonnegut do not get the hot girl of the school? What in the world were they thinking when they made Can't Hardly Wait and had breathy Jennifer Love Hewitt and her stupid angel t-shirt and platforms chase down Ethan Embry to profess her mutual crush? Ridiculous. I digress. Rick Morehouse... foxy nerd who loves James Brown. How Rick never caught on to the fact that Terry was either a flaming homosexual or that Terry was in fact a stylish girl dressed up as a stylish and petite guy...well, I just don't know. Maybe he's a really stupid foxy nerd.


The movie throws stereotype after stereotype of gender roles in your face. Greg Tolan played by William Zabka for example. (That's right, the jerk from Karate Kid.) He plays another jerk in Just One of the Guys by beating up on high school freshmen and dumping cafeteria tables onto the floor for fun. He also has an entourage of equally ridiculous homoerotic jocks who follow him around the whole movie taking work-out tips from Greg. Keep in mind that Terry is going around handing out fashion advice. Men and women...they just can't help themselves.


They also had Terry offer up the only stereotypes she knew about males. When Rick invites Terry in, Terry exclaims, "Well I was going to go tune up my car and play some football, but uh...I've got time." Once inside, Rick offers Terry a beer to which Terry answers, "Sure, I'll take a brewski." The writers not only generalized their characters, but they made their characters generalize themselves. Even up until the point where Buddy the younger brother, sad from another female rejection, sits and eats chocolates to console himself.


Terry is revealed, of course, as being a girl. This happens in possibly one of the most memorable scenes of the movie. Well, thought the directors, we've got to have her show off her boobs. And show off her boobs she did. It was that pivotal scene at the Prom, when the moment was finally right for Terry to reveal her womanhood secret to Rick. She does this by whipping open her tux to reveal her perfect un-brassiered breasts. "Where do you get off having tits?!" was Rick's reaction. Well, thought the world, she gets off having tits just fine. Ridiculous!

Rick comes to his senses and goes back to tell Terry that being a girl is just fine. Not only that, but that he misses him, err her, oh whatever. They start to leave and Rick hits the final nail on the coffin with, "As long as I can drive." Whatever Terry's article worked to prove failed miserably as she drove off into the sunset with Rick Morehouse behind the wheel, her dumb doily-like dress blowing in the wind. If only she had taken the reigns of this situation, it would've been a completely different film.

The Peanut Butter Solution

Anyone remember seeing "The Peanut Butter Solution" when you were a kid? Let me tell you...you'd remember.

First of all, it's incredibly effed up. The kid wanders into an abandoned house and sees something that scares him so badly that all of his hair falls out. Facing scrutiny from his classmates, he's embarrassed to say the least.

One night, a ghost couple appears in his kitchen and tell him of a hair care recipe that's sure to have his locks back in no time. Well, wouldn't you know it, the boy accidentally adds double the amount of peanut butter that the ghosts had suggested.

His hair just keeps growing at an insane rate to the point where he's not welcome back in school. His friend, (the perverted little Asian kid) sits behind him in class, cutting his hair. Did I mention his friend put some of the peanut butter concoction on his junk? Yeah....he does. It's not cool.

Anywho, this hair freak is then kidnapped by a crazy man who shackles him to a machine inside a veritable sweat shop factory. In the machine, his hair is able to grow and be cut by other unfortunate kidnapped children who then fashion his hair into magic paintbrushes.

With these paintbrushes, you're able to paint a magical scene on a wall that opens a portal into another world that you're then able to hop into. Like I said, it's completely effed up. I don't recall how they were able to combat the evil forces of the paintbrush man, but they do.

Unfortunately, you can't Netflix this bad boy as it only exists somewhere on VHS. I've yet to find it, but when I do.... watch out.

No, You Are. Uh Uh!

Okay, what's the deal with people protesting this movie?

I get it, you know... I don't think using words to label mentally or physically handicap people are appropriate or for that matter even funny. But I'm finding it odd that people are just becoming aware of large minority groups who are being picked on.

Do you know how many years people have been making fun of other people? For forever. Do I think that's right? No. Will I go see this movie? No. But on the same token, Ben Stiller movies make me insane. I find myself so tense the entire time that I can't bring myself to laugh at the humor of it all. While these plot lines would never happen in real life, I find myself at the end of the movie, clenching my fists just waiting for a resolution.

But going back to my point. There are a million reasons why I could state that protesting this movie is ridiculous. For one, it's free speech. That's what our country is founded on. Two, it's just a movie. You don't want to go see it, don't. You don't want to hear the radio, then fucking turn it off. Three, do you know how many movies, books and songs have set themselves out to demonize an entire nation and make people feel uncomfortable with their in-your-face opinions? A lot. A whole heck of a lot.

Should people get offended at other people's opinions? Yes. Get mad, you're absolutely entitled to it. Do I get angry when I see things in our world that I don't agree with? I'm irate. Yeah, some things really do need protesting. Like, say...the war we're currently in. Or....people living in boxes on our streets. Or world hunger. Or Polar Bears drowning. Or our President trying to take away women's rights to particular health care. All of these things, I'd be willing to march out in the street over.

But a comedy about three idiots meandering through the jungle, making fun of themselves and each other...c'mon. Yeah, they say some inappropriate things. The world is a weird place and people are a part of it. Maybe they shouldn't use those terms in the movie, but I'm not sure people should take it so seriously. After all, it's a comedy. And is everyone so blithely unaware that Robert Downey Jr. is playing this role in Blackface? Honestly! People are upset because they use a terrible slang word, but no..."That dude that played Iron Man is now playing a Black Man. Can you believe that's him? Fuckin' sick, bra."

People are ridiculous. You're better off watching cartoons.

Just Admit It. People Falling Down is Hilarious.

People falling down. It's just funny.

The greatest part about watching people fall down, is watching true humility in action. I was walking to work this morning and witnessed a girl in front of me trip over a crack in the sidewalk. She stumbled and lurched forward, catching herself and continued on her way. Only she started swinging her arms like she meant to do that. It's just great.

Okay, sure...falling down isn't funny when you get hurt. When I was in high school, we'd sit outside in the quad to eat our lunch even when it was freezing. We'd watch kid after kid walk out of the doors and step on the same patch of ice, their cafeteria tray would go flying. And we'd laugh and laugh. Some may call this mean...okay, it was a little mean. But it was downright hilarious.

In college, I lived in an old house with two other girls. We called it the Eurohouse because it looked like a Flat that kept going up three stories. At the top of the stairs, the steps got more and more narrow, to the point that you couldn't put your whole foot on one step. My favorite past time was sitting on the couch at the bottom of the stairs and watching my roommate Gina run up the stairs with her socks on and fall. I laughed every time, I couldn't help myself. I laughed so hard that it would spawn the silent treatment. And I got my own one day when I was laying on the living room floor and the television fell on me. That's right, just toppled over, crushing my legs. I laughed at the absurdity of the situation until I was crying. Gina, sitting in the next room refused to come and help me or feel sorry for me. I asked for it.

Other people must find falling down hilarious because they put it in movies all the time. Have you noticed how many romantic comedies include actresses falling over? Surely this categorizes them as the kooky, absent adorable character who has no time or patience to pay attention to where she's going. Need an example? Any Amanda Bynes movie or television show.

How bout any 90's romantic comedy that takes place in a high school setting? Bitches be falling all over the place. Is it an epidemic? Do people honestly have that much trouble walking? Keeping their cool? I find it hard to believe that Directors can't think of any line of dialogue that would keep the notion of this character afloat other than having her plummet down the stairs.

My point is, as odd as this phenomenon of falling down is, it still works. And as dumb as it is to show the hot-dorky girl falling down at her Senior Prom and still managing to win the heart of the popular jock and being crowned Prom Queen...no matter how many times you make her fall, I will be the first one to slap my knee.

Get in Position, Mr. President.

Ew.

Double Ew.

Triple Ew.

Ew.

This has Ew all over it. I Ewed myself.

"Hey Katie, what'd you have for dinner?"

"Ew."

The Annie Halls of Brooklyn

I watched Annie Hall last night. Whenever you begin to question the value of cinema, you should probably go watch this movie.

Throughout the movie, I was thinking, "Man, I love Diane Keaton's outfits." And the more I was watching, the more I was noticing how much she looks like every single girl in Brooklyn.

Tangled hair, big sunglasses, vests, scarves, belted dresses.... Annie Hall is alive and well in this Borough. Not just her, but Woody Allen. Check out those duds. There isn't a male roaming Bedford Ave. that does not have a pair of khaki slacks and a plaid shirt. Perhaps a nice tweed jacket and coke bottle glasses?

Perhaps I'm generalizing. After all, I haven't owned a vest since the 3rd grade. As stated in another entry, I'm no fashionista. In fact, most of my wardrobe consists of t-shirts I can't seem to relinquish. It takes effort to have a style, thus making me a lazy dresser.

Well la de da, thanks for making it look so easy.

Environmentalism as Fashion

Look at this ridiculous ad.

A beautiful woman strewn across hot peppers in an act to convince others to not abuse animals by eating them.

I think this is the most blatantly ridiculous and genius example of the only form of communication that our culture deems necessary and valuable.

I'll tell you why I think this ad works. Because the common man, woman and child will not digest information about the world around them unless it's something that they want to be a part of. Much of the time, I think it has to be something that they don't have and want to achieve. This ad uses sex, beauty and power to lure their consumer into listening, if only for a brief moment, to their views on the state of the world.

We're starting to see spokes models for cleaner air, hybrid cars, organic products. We hear actresses who state the proven benefits of cutting back your water usage, singers endorsing the next president. American Idol contestants urging us to help the starving children around the world. And you know what? This has to happen.

We have to have our culture's current leaders pave our way. We need them to. We've given so much power to those that we idolize that we will listen and believe anything. A new President passing Environmental Laws? Yes. Brad Pitt endorsing the next new whatever? Golden.

It's the Media's job. It's their duty. Who cares that we've learned this in science books our whole lives, who cares if there are more floods, famine, fire and tropical storms than we've seen in any one given generation. That air quality is failing, ice burghs are melting, towns are going under water. What is it going to take to convince us that we're doing this to ourselves? That we're putting ourselves into extinction.

I was thinking about all of this when watching The 11th Hour the other night, narrated by Leonardo DiCaprio. He is a genuine humanitarian who has done many great things for this world and did a great job hosting this jaunt through Depressingville. This was an amazing documentary and spun many threads in my head. Watching The 11th Hour was like flipping past one of those fundraisers for Starving Kids in Africa on the Public Access Channel. You try to turn the channel quickly, feeling momentarily rotten for doing so. Well, The 11th Hour is like two hours of kids with bugs in their eyes. Only it's the Earth and it's dying and you can't turn the channel.

They laid out a staggering concept. That by the age of twelve, we can identify thousands of commercial logos but we can't identify ten plant species native to our area. Our society looks at the Earth as marketable, we view nature as property. Our planet has given us everything we need to survive and we are milking it dry, constantly looking for a replacement for beauty. To quote from the movie, "People are doing the best they can given their level of awareness." Enter spokes model.

The next time I turn on the TV, I want to see Amanda Peet straddling the new Sheik Grass-Powdered Hybrid Lawnmower. And I will be happy.

Sardines Don't Travel

The expression "Packed Like Sardines" always made me a bit queasy. First of all, Sardines are gross. I myself have never enjoyed this delicacy, but my image of how they must taste based on what they look like is enough.

This morning on the train, this image came back to me. Anyone who lives east of Manhattan, knows that the L Train is the worst train ever created.

Whenever it rains, the train just seems to stop. I'm not sure if Brooklyn is notorious for rampant tunnel floods from an inch of rainfall, but the L Train must be the wussiest train ever created. Don't be fooled by its sleek design and sassy robot announcements. This train most certainly does not mean business.

I waited for thirty minutes on a humid platform for the third train to roll by that wasn't crowded enough to force myself onto. When I finally did, I found myself riding the width of Manhattan convincing myself that a panic attack was not a cool thing to have on a morning commute. I'm not quite sure why New Yorkers get the rap of being a cold and cruel people...we share everything.

Months ago after a failed yoga attempt following a stupid day on the job, I found myself absurdly crying on the train back home. No headphone melody could soothe away the bitter disappointment I felt after my awful day. Every single person who glanced in my direction felt my pain and sincerely consoled me with a knowing nod.

Cut to this morning. I wanted to slice apart every single stinky unwashed, unkempt, breakfast snacking, newspaper reading Brooklynite that ever shoved themselves onto an L train. I wanted to throw elbows, smash my bottle of unrefrigerated salad dressing onto their pierced faces and run into the tunnels screaming, "You stinky yuk mouths! I'm just trying to get to work!"

Now would be the time to figure out how to be a millionaire so that one may afford a cab ride to work. No such luck. Perhaps I need to push for free showers in the ladies room instead.

Why Felicity Never Should've Cut Her Hair

It's not that I disagree with edgy fashion moves. I think Felicity Porter's character was right in using her haircut as a metaphor in her break-up with Ben Covington. You go, girl.

But I do have a problem with the way Felicity and the gang's world perspective shifted after this catastrophic choice in personal hygiene. Felicity became enlightened, confident, without flaws. The girl we saw innocent and doe-eyed stumbling into her new Freshman dorm has been dismantled, deprogrammed, unresponsive to the world. She no longer questioned her life choices, the people around her. She smiled too much.

I feel like I'm convincing my reader that I wish Felicity was mopey and dark and still can't accept that the world is a good place. But why do we get invested in a dramatic story if not to see a resolution?

After the haircut, the show made an obvious switch from the melancholy of one's own self-discovery to the aftermath of Boring Town. What happened to Felicity including us? We used to experience Felicity's bitter disappointment and accept it at face value. She mirrored at least a fraction of our own lives.

Even Sally, the tape recorded voice of reason managed to disappear after the tragic haircut. Do we not need her bookends of reasoning to map out our digestion? How I wish I had a "Sally" character to be the healing voice that follows my every mistake. She would sweep in and say something vague and reassuring like, "I'd marry your homosexual manager so he could get a Green Card too. Because the truth is, when you see people in love, you want to do everything you can to help them. Because the truth is, you want to be them." Sally, you peer inside our souls with your crushing realism!

I can't get past Season 3 and I feel that I need to press on. Surely Felicity will find things messy again and in need of fixing. I've seen previews, and yes, her hair does in fact grow out. Only this time it's a flattened less bouyant form of curls than we've seen previously. Is this a metaphor for something else too? Felicity, you taunt us.

I'll take your enlightened Sophmore state and raise you a Junior year eating disorder.

It's Enough to Make You Want to Put a Condom On.

I understand the whole men-think-women-are-attractive thing and their need to verbally express these thoughts and feelings to their attractive recipient. But their need for detail and over abundant descriptions, I just can't grasp.

Case in point. A few weeks ago I was walking back from lunch and passed by a pair of jovial men enjoying a cigarette on the corner. I hear: "Oh man...look at this one. Look at HER. Yes, YOU. YOU in the BLUE SHIRT and SUNGLASSES with the JEANS." I emphasize these words with capital letters because of their sheer emphasis that they placed on these words. Had I bothered to look over, I'm convinced I would find them pointing their fingers at me to emphasize this even more so.

Then I hear what any girl who's casually walking down the street, innocently enjoying the fine New York weather longs to hear passers-by exclaim. "It's enough to make you want to put a condom on!"

Now at this point, my "Oops, I've just been offended" guard went up. Did they mean to imply that they wish to have sexual intercourse with me? Or was it that I looked skanky enough that they needed to place a condom on their penis before engaging in such a private and emotional experience with me?

I'm downright concerned about the stereotyping that goes on in our fare metropolis. Were my jeans too tight? Was my hair too messy? Did I perhaps have a smudge of hot sauce from lunch somewhere on my attire? You'd tell me if I looked too skanky to accept unwanted and unprotected sex, right?!

I understand that this city gets the best of men sometimes. I mean, heck! There are a lot of gorgeous women who roam these streets. But at the same time, there are a lot of gorgeous men. You won't see women hanging out the sides of their cars, waving their arms and screaming, "Your junk makes my junk tingly!" I mean, this just doesn't happen.

I've done double takes. I've even done triple takes. That's just what humans do. But if given a choice between filing the sight of an attractive man away in the The-World-is-Nice file or offending street goers, I'd prefer to keep being a nice person.

By the way. Your junk totally makes me junk tingly.