Monthly Archives: February 2010

Non-Boring Clothing

The fashion world strikes me as pretentious and dull. This probably isn’t surprising coming from a self-declared tomboy, but I simply don’t care about fashion. I don’t know what’s fashionable and what isn’t. I don’t read street style blogs and I’ve never purchased a fashion magazine in my life (though I will buy the March issue of Vogue because my role model for life Tina Fey is on the cover). Sure, I love shopping, but I basically buy the same outfit over and over again with slight variations. I wear whatever doesn’t smell bad and sometimes, if I’m feeling especially lazy, I wear whatever I slept in (like right now).

However, a fashion blog just came into my life and I’m already nothing short of completely obsessed with it. Third and Delaware features fashion highlights from every single episode of Roseanne. Yes, Roseanne. Fuck, I love that show and all the outfits it featured.

To further contradict my usual anti-fashion stance, I will admit that I also have somewhat of a fashion icon, one that goes hand-in-hand with the Roseanne cast.

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The Radio Still Sucks

A few summers ago I was driving around with the windows down (my shit box car doesn’t have A/C), singing along rather obnoxiously loudly to whatever crappy song was being played on the radio, when Inner Circle’s “Sweat (A La La La La Long)” came on. At first I was like, “Yes! A song from my childhood – I know all the lyrics to this one”, but then, as I was singing, I was like “Wait a minute – is this song about rape?” And uh, yes, it totally is.

“Girl I want to make you sweat
Sweat ’til you can’t sweat no more
And if you cry
I’m gonna push it some more”

I’m sorry, Inner Circle, but that is no way to romance a lady. If I’m sweating and crying, you better get the hell off me. Push it some more and I will punch you.

This got me to thinking about other pop songs that get nonchalantly played on the radio despite their out-there sexual content. The airplay these songs get legitimizes the often-deviant behavior described in the lyrics. I’m no prude (in fact, some say I’m a sex fiend), but this is simply too much.

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Can Punk Rock Pay The Bills?

Sometimes I think about how the teenage version of me would hate me now. I mean,  I have a reasonably high-paying office job, I listen to more Cat Power and less Adicts, and I’m about to graduate from university – the same university I dropped out of a few years ago. I even bought a condo. It’s like I’m a grown up or something.

When I was 15 or 16, if someone asked me where I thought I’d be in ten years (or even less, really), I would have probably said something like, “Dumpster diving with one of my nine roommates, then heading back to our gross Ontario St. apartment.” That actually sounds pretty awesome, but it’s just not me. Not anymore, anyway.

I may dislike the idea of having responsibilities and a mortgage, but I am excited to have quiet time in which I can read or listen to records without being interrupted by anyone; I can’t wait to bike to work; and I’m really looking forward to decorating my own place.

Spending my spare cash on piercings and tattoos was fun (really fucking fun), and though I’m sure I’ll still do that once in a while, I’ve come to terms with the stability my life now has. The truth is that I’ve grown into an old lady – a really old lady. I’m basically a 90 year old trapped in a young, beautiful body. Don’t believe me? I go to bed at 9:30 p.m. I can’t make it through the night without getting up once or twice to take a piss. I have grey hair. I’m playing a crossword puzzle RIGHT NOW. I read Canadian Living. I don’t realize how loud I’m talking. I don’t know what an iPad is (seriously, what is it?). I have lower back problems. I put Metamucil in my water. METAMUCIL.

In fact, I was talking with Hiba and Bianca last week, and Hiba was trying to get us to go to Jordan with her. She was like, “Come, it’s amazing. There’s this two-day festival on the beach with Paul van Dyk and Armin van Buuren. It’s packed with people and everyone’s on drugs!” Bianca was all into it. I was like, “That sounds terrible.” Large masses of people, electronic music (I had to Google both those DJs, by the way) and drugs? Who likes that stuff? I think I’d rather die.

OK, OK, I’ll admit it: I do kind of miss the fun I used to have – so I’m really hoping there are amazing times ahead of me. There must be, right? I figure the worst that can happen is being doomed to a life of solitude and boredom, but it just so happens that I like both those things. So I think I’ll be just fine.



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Grow Up, Please

I’ve had an unusually dramatic weekend. It’s been brought to my attention that someone from my past has been going around calling me names. Apparently, I’m a sex fiend and a slut. She’s said other immature, hurtful things as well but none of them offended me as much as those comments. The girl’s omnipresent cattiness is one of the many reasons I’m happy to have cut her out of my life, but I feel I need to say something about the “slut” thing on behalf of women everywhere (that’s just how I roll).

People absolutely need to stop judging women based on the number of sexual partners they’ve had. Social constructions of sexuality and gender have deemed it ‘natural’ for a man to want and seek sex, whereas when a woman does the same, it’s labeled ‘wrong’, ‘disgusting’ and of course, ‘slutty’. A man who has lots of sex is a player; a woman who has lots of sex is a whore. This double standard has been around for a long time but because it’s never affected me personally, I’ve never bothered dissecting it.

Why has it never affected me personally? Well, I don’t know what constitutes a “slut” in this specific girl’s eyes but, at 24, I can count the number of men I’ve been with on one hand. I’ve only ever been with guys I liked and truly cared for. I’ve never had a one night stand or a fuck friend. In terms of numbers, I’m probably the least sexually experienced girl I know.

However, I firmly believe that even if I had an extremely large pool of partners and countless anonymous experiences, it would still be no one’s goddamned business but my own. Really, no one should be discussing or making up lies about my private, personal sex life. I may be nowhere near the kind of person she’s described me as being, but even if I were, accusing a woman of loving and having lots of sex shouldn’t be an insult. When you think about it, it pretty much sounds like a compliment. So, uh, thanks, I guess.



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Female Directors in Hollywood

I hope VD (har har) was kind to everyone. I had a good one. Then again, with Godiva and Lindt chocolates, the Bodies exhibit, all-you-can-eat sushi and a comfy bed, how could I go wrong? Actually, something must have gone wrong because I had explosive diarrhea like ten minutes ago. Story of my life.

Anyway, I just read a sort-of cool but mainly horrible article about female directors in Hollywood. I mean, I’m sure we can all agree that a great film is a great film regardless of the director’s gender. I’m not disputing that. However, it’s clear that there is a gigantic lack of female directors out there, successful or not. Three years ago, only seven per cent of the Directors Guild of America were listed as female directors. SEVEN. I’m not even that surprised. I don’t recall watching a single female-directed film during the entire two and a half years I spent studying cinema in college.

The piece I referred to is useful in that it reminds readers that some pretty entertaining movies were directed  by women. But, um, that’s about it.

The problem I have is with the patronizing tone and language used within the article. It basically presumes that everyone regards women as delicate flowers, incapable of hurting someone or being horny or pooping or doing any of that MANLY STUFF THAT MEN DO. The author writes that most people would have trouble believing that a female directed movies like The Hurt Locker (which is a fantastic film, by the way) because it depicts violence, Lords of Dogtown because it’s about skateboarding and recklessness and Wayne’s World because it centers on rock’n’roll and crude humor, for example.

…is that a fucking joke?

How stereotypical. If we’re going to go down that route – how come no one is surprised when a chick flick is directed by a man? No one flinched when Nick Cassavetes was praised for The Notebook. What about Sense and Sensibility, A Walk to Remember, Stepmom, The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants, and almost every single Sandra Bullock movie ever? They were directed by men, too.

If you don’t think any of that is particularly insulting, here’s a line about Wayne’s World pulled directly from the article:

“It’s no wonder this movie made the list—with its numerous sexual innuendos, rock-and-roll references and crude humor, it’s hard to believe that Penelope Spheeris was able to direct it.”

It’s hard to believe that she was ABLE to direct? What’s much, much harder to believe is that the article’s female author is questioning a female director’s ability to handle sexual innuendos. God, not a sexual innuendo! Anything but that!

Personally, I’m completely unfazed by the fact that women can direct a movie that includes a fart joke (did you know that Billy Madison was directed by a woman, too? GASP).

The conclusion one can reach based on this article is that men can do whatever they want without shocking anyone, but women can’t even reference rock’n’roll without someone’s jaw dropping. And by the way, no one is surprised that Amy Heckerling directed Fast Times at Ridgemont High. Everyone knows she directed that movie. The woman wrote and directed Clueless, for God’s sake!



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Pizza Face

I only get about four zits per year so I don’t know if I’m even allowed to complain, but I have this huge pimple of mass destruction going on right now and it’s really upsetting me. I only break out a) when I’m on my period and b) when I’m stressed and now I’m STRESSED AND ON MY PERIOD. I also have a mysterious illness that is making me quite nauseous. The result is a monster zit that’s taken over a third of my left cheek. In case you’re wondering, the stress is the result of my many midterms that I have neither the will nor the time to study for.

What is one supposed to do when they get pimples? I just play with them. I popped this one earlier but I’m so tempted to just keep pressing on it like a button. I’m sure that makes it worse but my fingers are clean, I swear. I also put this Benzac pimple cream on it (which I think is just creamy bleach) but it burned like fire. I think that’s how you know it’s working.

It’s times like these I wish I knew how to put makeup on so I could mask my deformity, but oh well. I’m procrastinating hard right now, so I should probably get to work. Goodbye.



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Shout At The Devil

This is just a note to say that I fucking love Motley Crue. I saw them for the third time last night (with my free private company box tickets!) and they were more awesome than ever. I heard some people complaining about the sound outside afterwards but those people are losers. The whole show caught me off guard – I was surprised that Vince Neil still has so much energy, that half the band is still hot as fuck (from afar, anyway), that I didn’t see any ladies flash their old boobs and that Mick Mars is still alive. You go, Mick Mars.

The band itself is only a few years older than I am, which is cool because most of the bands I like got their start decades earlier, until about 1977. I feel lucky to have seen them with their original lineup. They may not have played Too Fast For Love or Smokin’ In The Boys Room (such a great cover) this time around, but I don’t care. I heard both songs on the radio right after the concert, anyway.

I heard they’re filming a movie adaptation of their autobiography. I wonder how that’s gonna turn out. Probably bad. Read the book if you haven’t yet, it’s called The Dirt. It’s good.

Oh, and does modern-day Vince Neil remind anyone else of Mickey Rourke in the Wrestler? Here are two pictures, for comparison purposes.


Can you guess who’s who? IMPOSSIBLE, RIGHT?



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