Category Archives: Pop culture

I Like to Collect Things…I’m Good at it.

I haven’t posted anything recently because my guy friend who’s good at computers is helping me reformat my blog.

Just kidding, I’ve just been so busy learning about life. About me.

Actually I’ve just been lazy. But this is great.

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I Ain’t Seen the Sunshine Since I Don’t Know When

And now I like to think of myself as a Jewphile Johnny Cash. This is my new strategy for office dressing.

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And I’m pretty…pretty…pretty sure it’s working for me. WERK.

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Then a Hero Comes Along

Once upon a time, there was a girl. I don’t remember much about her, but she lived far away in a snowy northern land, bordered by a river of tears to the south, and a river of Troika to the east. Much love was gained, and much love was lost, and for the better part of two years, she locked herself in a princess tower, and read stories about heroes.

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She read about all kinds of heroes. Heroes who flew. Heroes who fought. Heroes who performed great feats of strength. But her favorite stories were about heroes who survived. Heroes who performed the great feat of bearing the weight of their own burdens, and the burdens of others. And her favorite,

mon cher golem

A letter between truth and death, he, like so many heroes in so many stories, was written into life and charged to protect, only to end up walking the precariously fine and all too human line between salvation and destruction. Still, she loved him.

Eventually, and reluctantly, the girl came down from her princess tower and joined the real world. She didn’t stop reading about heroes. She even started watching Heroes, confirming that which she had always suspected: Hayden Panettiere is a lovely girl with bizarrely small hands. Really, really tiny hands. Just so small.

Anyway, despite holding out til the end of the night, night after night

the real world failed to produce anyone strong, fast, fresh from the fight, sure, soon, larger than life, and/or adept with a black-light bull whip.

But one day, in crept the sneaking suspicion that she’s got this. That maybe the girl was alright. So she asked someone who loves her very much to help write the word on her, and bring her to life.

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So there you have it 2013. Give me truth and justice, or give me death.

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Behind the Moon, Beyond the Rain

Follow follow follow follow…

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A brain, a heart, a home, tha noyve.

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Boys Don’t Make Passes at Girls with Fat Asses

No, wait, it’s…whatever. The point is, I’m now out of luck on both accounts. I went to the eye doctor a couple weeks ago and received TRAGIC news: I have some sort of non-pink-eye (or as I have so eloquently been describing it, non-fart-on-your-pillow) conjunctivitis caused by the disgusting pieces of plastic that I’ve been allowing to float around my eyes up to sixteen hours a day for the past thirteen years. Seriously guys, think about contacts. They’re really gross.

Moral of the story, after showing me an appropriately horrifying chart with a picture of what the inside of my eyelids look like now and what could happen if I continue my extended contact wearing ways,

I was told I needed to cut back on my lens time, and I decided to listen. Because sentient, violent, intellectual eye infections are not my bag (looks like we just found rule four, amirite?).

So that’s it. My days of dead-eyeing you from across the room with my enormous icy stare are over, or will at least be more commonly mitigated by a growing collection of over-sized frames. But that’s also exactly what brings me comfort in this trying time. It’s like they always say: when life hands you lemons, arm yourself with an arsenal of glasses that will turn an unfortunate case of conjunctivitis into an opportunity to emulate awesome four-eyed icons. Do NOT squeeze the lemons into your eyes, because that will only make it worse. And most importantly, never, EVER feed them after midnight, because not doing so could have prevented this whole mess in the first place.

Anyway, let’s review. I’ve got my old faithfuls

For that classic, I’m going red light special all through the night writing my thesis/this is the face I make when I wear these glasses and think about that time I wrote that thesis but I might go back to school or something soon and I’m totally not traumatized by the last experience so it’s cool whatever whatever whatever look.

No but seriously, those are great. Still, I decided to move away from that look a bit for NO OTHER REASON than I wanted to look like Cyril Figgis from Archer

Ok maybe something more versatile. Let’s try THE four-eyed icon of all time

I didn’t get it quite right, but I think I did ok

And in no time it’ll be like

and then I’ll have my face back. Actually, the doctor said it might take a while. Until then I’ve got Cyril, Iris, and the ultimate glasses goddess and new We Look Awesome cover girl, Peggy Clare

Gremlins and glasses and grandmas, oh my.

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Mascara Tears: The Isle of Nathargabaw

Oh hey folks. I’ve missed you! I’ve been really busy with my professional writing career, specifically penning my aforementioned memoirs (SEE TITLE). To be released  in 2014, riding the coattails of the Tayisha Busay memoir: Judy. Donna. Ponytails, Higher Caliber. Everywhere., which I also happen to be ghostwriting.

So how does this circumstance look? Well, first of all, consists of me hunched over a 1956 Golden Touch Electric Underwood typewriter,

not because I’ve completely succumbed to the inherent hipsterdom that comes with a Bushwick address  (though I have), or because it’s the most appropriate machine on which to type with elbow-length “magic” golden gloves (though it is), but because at this point it’s actually more technologically advanced than my sad, Baghdad computer. The only thing my computer is good for anymore is shopping for Liza Minelli memorabilia on ebay. Which, bringing me to my second of all, is actually a total blessing, because finding this vintage t-shirt from Liza’s 198o tour, Liza in Concert, helped start (along with a multifaceted emotional awakening, SEE KATE CHOPIN) the beautifully inspiring river of mascara tears that’s been flowing from my eyeholes for the past two and a half months:

REAL mascara tears, breaking dams and shit. Because $40 and with only a few kool-aid stains (OR THE BLOOD OF LIZA FANS)??? Oh geez, I’m tearing up again…

So that’s it; me bent over my typewriter, clothed in nothing but an oversized Liza in Concert t-shirt and long golden gloves screaming “HOW’M I DOIN MAMA??”

Surrounded by six men in sailor suits for the occasional song and dance, naturally. Did you ever picture my life any other way?

But srsly, coming soon: that happy face. Back off Sandy, it’s always sunny on the Isle of Nathargabaw.

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Hair Today Gone Tomorrow Part II: As if a Good Thing Ever Could Make Up for All the Pain

It’s been about two months since Spider Cahoots burst into a pile of pixie dust and floated out of my life on a cloud of failure, propelled by a gentle breeze of best intentions. You know what that means, babies: time for break up hair.

I first practiced the ancient Himalayan art of break up hair after break up numero previouso, with a Rihanna-inspired ‘do that went all but terribly wrong:

But whatever whatever whatever, I made it work. And with Nathanael as an accessory, you really can’t go wrong. Besides, beauty isn’t exactly the objective with these kinds of haircuts. Independence and re-growth and such, you undehstand.

So here goes nothin’:

What’s next for me, girl with the whole wide world as my $1 happy hour oyster? What’s the ultimate objective?

Robynhood.

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Identity Crisis

You’d think it would be easier to remember

but still I’m just like

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We Need the Porridge

In which we elaborate on the discussion of what it’s like to be a young career girl from New York City.

Basically, it can be summed up in the first two minutes or so of the following:

But let’s get a fresh perspective.

I’m Right on Top of That, Rose!

by Ariel Sims

Not just anyone can do what I do. It takes a calculated combination of apathy and grace to endure scoldings for things you aren’t responsible for, a special kind of schizophrenia to deny your last shadow of an ego while smiling gratefully. And it takes a large amount of bravery to trade in your previous, stubborn idea of self for a new, seemingly much less grand version. In my case, entering the workforce as a young, jaded admin is a coming of age story about growing up and dressing the part.

My experience with clothes began as a fantasy of dress up. Trunks of endless thrift store garb and heirloom accessories my mother kept stocked to meet all of my tinker-bell dreams. Every outfit a character; each an opportunity to feel myself differently. I was quite the cliché of a self involved, pretty pretty princess. The way I dressed was intricately tied into my self-esteem- and let’s just say, I wore a lot of pink sequins.

Being the center of the universe, I was lucky enough to have my inner god complex prolonged through college where I was sent off to “live my dreams” which, at that point, happened to still involve wearing pink sequins. It seemed natural that I continued my real life role-playing through acting school- gallivanting around Manhattan in what may as well have been the same princess/mermaid dresses from the dress-up trunk, spending money I didn’t have, believing, intrinsically, I was special enough to never have to grow up (or wear a pair of jeans).

Eventually, College ended, and the loans ran out, along with the fantasy that I could “be whoever I wanted.” So I moved to Brooklyn and got to know much different kind of never never land. With the absence of funds, my post-graduate fellow artists and I lived a life of fashion rebellion where the uniform tended toward the understated and worn: a look that another “ex-princess” friend affectionately refers to as “dressing in your own feces.”


I joined a band, adopted the uniform, screwed the man, and felt like a fashionably disobedient artist with a heart full of punk. As much as this seemed like personal growth, I was most definitely still the center of my self-involved, hipster universe, and relied, to a certain degree, on my outer expression to justify my questionable life choices. Dressing tastefully felt like accepting responsibility I didn’t want. At that time, growing up equaled giving up.

Now, entering act three of my fashion saga, I got a job. Like a J.O.B. In an office. With a Blackberry. Mind you, this lifestyle change didn’t just come out of nowhere- it happened after the realization that I had borrowed money from my dad one too many times. It was time to take responsibility for my life and my future. I needed clothes that were comfortable, nice, and appropriate- and I had no experience in these departments what-so-ever. So I went to some stores and tried on what felt like other peoples clothes. I bought a bunch of random stuff and tried to wear it. But it was all wrong. More than ever before, I was in survival mode- I needed to have confidence, I needed to keep this job. So I had to learn which things gave me power and made me better. I began experimenting with blazers, slacks, loafers, and the ever-elusive line drawn at “business casual.” I no longer thought of my clothes as opportunities to express my inner “why-be-normal” personality; they were tools for getting people to respect and trust me.

For the better part of my life, you could only find me, dressed in my own feces, at the second star to the right and straight on ’til morning. But when the time came for growing up, I learned how good it feels to present myself as a hardworking, competent professional that can handle anything. Some may say that I gave in: that I sold my childhood dreams of being a magic fairy princess to an evil corporation for a pay check. And I probably did. But I’m freakin rich now. And, boy… do I look awesome.

Ariel dressed the part, and has been able to keep the job. She still lives in Brooklyn and can occasionally be found dressing in her own feces on the weekends, but she no longer screws the man in any way. Last weekend we went out to dinner and ordered TWO desserts.

Career girls. Würk.

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It’s Time To Break Free (Woah-oh-woa-oh)

Percussion, Strings, Winds:

Words:

AND here we are! Oh joyful, rapturous reunion!

What, you may ask, have I been up to in the past six months? Um, just like the most exciting things ever, mostly involving lavish NYC parties, during the majority of which I lie luxuriantly recumbent on a [bi]polar-bear rug, impeccably coiffed and awesomely self-styled to the highest standard, plucking individual grains of low-carb-high-fiber-whole-grain rice from my gifted gold-rimmed Waterford crystal bowl with my gibbon-breastbone chopsticks and bringing them seductively to my plump, red-glossed, restylane-aided lips. Why, just see for yourself!

Oh, man, I had you going didn’t I?! Come on, this is AMERICA and 99% of us are having an economic crisis, y’all. Even the Mittens those Kittens lost are down to a just couple Cadillacs apiece. GM? How plebe!

So, while I and nearly everyone around me continues to practice looking awesome, in preparing for the impending economic apocalypse I’ve sadly fallen behind on documentation. I could have instead sacrificed my OTHER hobby of wearing saddle shoes and being sad in front of Midtown street art

(Summer 2009)

(Spring 2012)

but, nah. So how goes my preparation, or as I like to call it, “Project Moving on Up”? Great, thanks for asking! Could I outline the steps of Project Moving on Up in a convenient list? Uh…yes, and I love making lists, so thanks again for asking you fine, fine human specimen.

1) Invest.

INVEST? IN TIMES LIKE THESE? Stop shouting, silly goose! Your portfolio should consist only of the most valuable stock: bottled water, canned food, guns, ammunition, gasoline, and all the tools necessary to build a Jurassic Park-like electric fence. And as much of it as possible.

2) Run away.

Yeah, they don’t call themselves the Real McCoy for nothing. Modern. Day. Prophets. After you break free from the slavish Orwellian existence the economic apocalypse has no doubt trapped you in, flee to the remote land your gentleman friend owns in rural Virginia. Build aforementioned Jurassic Park-like electric fence around the land. Use the problem-solving skills you’ve developed from this experience to steal cows and chickens/protect your new cows and chickens/hunt Dr. Hammond’s grandchildren in the kitchen. This will hopefully bring you one step closer to your life long goal of being known as “Clever Girl” (if you are me)

3) Don’t forget sensible shoes. Perks if they’re stylish, it’ll boost morale.

I am notorious for owning exclusively inappropriate footwear (or as notorious as one can be for such a thing). So in planning Project Moving on Up, I looked to Spider Cahoots, owner of remote Virginian farmland and endless pairs of awesome sneakers, for inspiration. We took collective stock, and I think we’re covered for most occasions.

“The Spiffy Tricksters”:

“The Peaceful Gardeners”:

“Deadly Stealth”:

Of course, he is seemingly more prepared with additional provisions

NOT like it’s a competition or anything…but if it was…

RINGER! Oh what’s that? White snakeskin Adidas?

Well never mind then. Still, catch me if you can, apocalypse.

You know,

But Justin Case, best be prepared.

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