As an enthusiastic (if not particularly committed) fan of VH1’s Best Week Ever and I Love the [Insert Decade Here], I was very happy to stumble upon the 2003 edition of I Love the New Millennium that’s on this week. I was looking forward to seeing Hal Sparks, one of my favorite commentators, rocking his snarky adorable nerdiness of yesteryear. In my memory, he looked something like this:
Totally crushable, no?
Let’s look at another:
Cute, clean-cut, white teeth…nice.
So imagine my surprise when he shows up on the set of I Love the New Millennium looking like THIS:
Hal, NOOOO! What happened to you? The patchy beard plus molestache? The earring? That tie?? And Hal, if you’re going to allow your hair to grow out like that, at least brush it, for god’s sake. Some scholarly research tells me that he has a CD now (not very new, apparently), so maybe he’s misguidedly trying to channel some sort of rocker vibe? Hal, on I Love the 2010’s, I’ll be expecting more of you.
According to my friend Tim, that is me. Haha, fair enough. He also compared me and my friends to a bunch of meerkats. Perhaps he should have a social commentary blog?
I can’t help it, but I love blogging (about my ideals…just like the commerical!). It is life consuming. This morning I woke up to a facebook message from a college friend and fellow blogger (READ IT) with the subject line, “can we please talk about blogging?” I could not have been more excited. FINALLY SOMEBODY THAT UNDERSTANDS.
You see, it’s kind of exciting to know that people are reading what Mal and I write. Oh, and thanks for the ego boost!
I love Bob Dylan. I can’t say I love him that much more than the average person, because, you know, everyone loves Bob Dylan. I had the chance to see him in concert last summer at Red Rocks with my friend Walsh, and it was the experience of a lifetime. Sure, his singing was so unintelligible that we didn’t know which song he was singing until about halfway through each, but I’m still glad I got to see him perform while he can still form something approaching real words.
But as much as I love good ol’ Bobby D., I just might love his son more. I’ve always thought that the Wallflowers were a little underrated, or at least underappreciated. They won two Grammys for “One Headlight,” and they certainly had a good run, but they didn’t last as long as I would have liked. I’m thrilled to see that Jakob (yep, we’re on a first name basis) has come out with an impressive first solo album. I’m kind of obsessed with “Something Good This Way Comes.” That voice…I think I’m in love. And Wikipedia just told me that Jakob has been married to the same woman for over 15 years, and they have four children whose privacy he works really hard to protect (he works so hard at this that Wikipedia doesn’t even list the names of two of his children. And if Wikipedia doesn’t have it, I don’t think even the Census Bureau does).
I’d been trying to put off writing about Jakob until some sort of official video for “Something Good” was released, but I couldn’t take it anymore, so we’ll have to settle for a bootleg clip from Bonnaroo:
While we’re at it, let’s watch a little old school Wallflowers to complete our fix:
Is there anything better than a Dylan with an acoustic guitar? Anyone want to give me their ticket to Rothbury?
My eight best girlfriends from Richmond who receive my Sunday briefings about my weekend know that for this summer (more than any other summer, or any other time of my life, for that matter), I am in the business of having adventures. A couple of nights a week, accompanied by whoever is brave enough to join us, Kelsey and I go out into the world and wreak havoc in the best kind of way. Not that you couldn’t figure it out for yourself, but for us, having adventures means befriending the most interesting strangers, dancing in the most ridiculous ways, participating in the most absurd activities (for instance, going to see an improv show, befriending the troupe, and being invited to take classes…as a pregame), and generally ending the night with a story worthy of an epic email to our best friends. Now, for the sake of my future political career and my mother’s opinion of me, I will not be detailing each of our adventures on this blog. I will, however, be sharing those that I deem appropriate. This Sunday morning’s adventures are officially bloggable.
After a night out downtown with Kelsey (sensing a pattern here?) and her best friend from school, Sarah, Kelsey’s brother kindly offered to drive us back to our car, which was responsibly parked at a garage downtown and not driven that night. When Kelsey’s brother let us out onto the street where we were parked, we noticed that the entire block was taped off with the yellow crime scene tape and that there were a couple of cops standing guard. What does a true adventurer do in such a situation? Befriend the cops and talk to them for upwards of 30 minutes, of course.
We walk up to “Officer Adams” and “Tom” and jokingly ask, “Oooh, was there a murder??” With straight faces, they tell us that yes, yes there was a murder. Oh. We naturally ask for details, and they don’t tell us a lot, but we do learn that the incident occurred after the bars let out at 2 a.m., and the cops ultimately had to shoot and kill a gang member involved in the scuffle. This scares us a little, considering that the bar we had gone to the night before (and our favorite bar in downtown Denver) is only one block west of the scene. But enough about that…back to the adventure.
We do all the normal things that you do when you are befriending a police officer: share our gum with them; ask them about their wives and girlfriends; have them point out every item on their cops belts; have them pretend to handcuff us; get Tom to do Cry Face (see Hump Day Cry Face tomorrow for evidence); convince them to let us dance in the street as a way of directing traffic; and invite them to Kelsey’s graduation party later that day. (For the record, much to our disappointment, they didn’t come.)
After we’d exhausted all of the typical cop conversation topics, we noticed a reporter walking toward the scene of the crime. We said goodbye to Officer Adams and Tom and rushed over to this reporter, “Mary” (how does the whole privacy protecting of names work with blogs, anyway?). We muttered some nonsense about loving journalism and asked if we could shadow her while she walked around. She gave us the once-over, chuckled and said, “Out all night?” and allowed us to shadow her. Now, while we were incredibly interested in/freaked-out by the scene that lay before us, Mary actually seemed pretty bored. She was casually jotting down notes and pointing some things out to us while we ooh-ed and aah-ed and asked questions like a bunch of budding forensic scientists. She interviewed us for a dry article that was posted online and appears to have already been taken down. Then we found the photographer and followed him around, taking important pictures like zoom-ins of the little yellow evidence markers with our half broken digital cameras (pictures that we will no doubt put in our portfolios when we apply to the FBI).
By this time, we were bored, hungry, and had learned all there is to know about reporting on a murder, so we drove home, screaming “Happy Sunday!!!” to all of the gay couples headed to the gay pride parade taking place downtown. We had a breakfast appetizer of Smartfood, then shared some delicious French toast with Kelsey’s family. Just a normal little Sunday morning, eh?
Katy Perry kissed a girl, and she liked it! That song is as catchy as “Umbrella” and as tacky as, well, “Umbrella”. I was going to post about how it may be the song of the summer, but upon reading Gawker, I found out some interesting gossip on Katy Perry…or should I say Katy Hudson? GASP! Way more interesting than what I originally had in mind!
Katy Hudson, Katy Perry’s former self, was a Christian rock singer. That’s right, CHRISTIAN rock. Oh sweet irony, you publicity whore! Here is my favorite aspect about the whole thing- she was interviewed by Seventeen Magazine (the magazine for all those under the age of 17 and who wish they were 17. When you are 17, you read Cosmo, duh.) and said some amazing about everyone’s favorite topic–sex.
Katy has a steady boyfriend, but she doesn’t believe in sex before marriage. “I know what it does to people,” she says. “One night my boyfriend and I went a little too far and I felt like I’d fallen so far away from God. I doubted myself and my strength. I was so weak at the time in my relationship with Christ.”
Jesus, Mary and Joseph, that sounds almost as bad as my Catholic guilt! Katy’s steady boyfriend now, by the way, is the lead singer from Gym Class Heroes. I wonder if he feels the same way? He did just give her a promise ring. Please note that a promise ring is not the same as a purity ring, which the Jonas Brothers all wear. Ha, oh Katy! If you repent now, you still could be saved!
Being the good little journalist that I am, I decided to not rely solely on Gawker’s reporting, but do some internet stalking/research of my own. My adventures led me into the world of Christian chat forums (eeeeek!) and even took me to the Web site of the 700 Club (ugggh, I feel dirty and repulsed). Here is what I found though. The Christians are pissed. Sweet, innocent Katy Hudson is now a slootbag! They are disappointed and praying for her. This pastor’s daughter (just like Jessica Simpson! But I bet Katy’s dad doesn’t stare at her boobs) has lost her way. Now, she’s drinking, kissing girls and hanging out with the gays! AHHH!
I feel so torn. My rebellious side wants to applaud her for having a personality and breaking free of the ridiculousness, and the other self-righteous part wants to shun her for being so fake. Dammit, Katy, why do you have to leave us all in purgatory?
I love this blog. And when you really don’t have that much to do, it lends itself to be a perfect antidote to boredom. I try my best to stay informed by knowing everything I can about pop culture, politics, etc. (Not that I wouldn’t do that anyway…)
In fact, I am so dedicated to Six Words that I sacrificed two and a half hours of my life to watch Disney’s newest movie to jumpstart teenaged hormonal imbalance and lust in the preteen crowd: Camp Rock.
The Jonas Brothers are all this movie, but it’s Joe Jonas (the hottest, middle brother) that has an actual role. Poor Kevin Jonas has been Ike Hansoned-he only says dumb/sarcastic/funny lines and is completely aware of being the least bangable band member. Nick Jonas, I’d say how cute you are, but the fact that you were born in the 90s throws me off. Okay?
Jonas Brothers: FYI you all dress like a bunch of females, but it’s hot. It is, however, slightly disconcerting that my daily uniform of skinny jeans, flats, t-shirt, cardigan and a scarf is theirs as well. Except they look cooler. I get that. Whatev.
The plot, oddly enough, is strikingly similar to High School Musical-down to the quirky friend, bitchy blonde and Latina female protagonist. But HSM is way better. The music is better, the acting (can you even call it that?) is better, and dear god, even the plot is better. And hello, Zac Efron is in it.
My mother bravely accompanied me for about 15 minutes (as long as she could take) of this study of pop culture. During one scene where Joe Jonas is being an angsty boy with a guitar, my mother looked at me and said, “oh Kathleen, you would have LOVED him if you were 13.”
She’s right. I totally would have. And she would know, because she was right there with me during my teenyboppin’ years. For the record, I saw Britney (omg she totally lipsync’d the entire show), NSYNC (I like them so much more now than I did then, oddly enough) and the Backstreet Boys (Nick Carter, why didn’t you love me like I loved you?! You lost your chance with me. You are such a creeper now.) all within six months. I was a bubblegum nightmare.
But now, those are my bubblegum day dreams. (How poetic was that?) I am increasingly nostalgic for the days when glitter was okay to wear in public and I had Bath and Bodyworks’ entire collection. So my friends know that I often stray off the path of maturity (MUST…GET…JOB) and become unhealthily obsessed with what the youngins are in to. Like High School Musical. And I am not alone. Yeah, Walsh, I’m talking about you.
But I am not unhealthily obsessed with Camp Rock. It just doesn’t meet my pop gold standards. Joe Jonas is not worthy to even wash the feet of Zefron. I am looking forward to see how Disney markets this one. Perhaps JJonas and whatever that girl’s name is will start dating ala Zac and Vanessa? Can we expect naked pics and then a heartfelt apology and slap on the wrist from Disney? That would be complicated by the fact that the Jonas Brothers all wear purity rings. Ha! Scandalous!
But take my word for it, take those 2.5 glorious hours of your life and do something else. Like read this blog.
I always knew bras were good for something other than keeping the girls down. I personally have yet to discover what else, but Jessica Bruinsma’s bra saved her life. Bruinsma, who is from Colorado (hey, Mal!), had been stranded in the Bavarian Alps in southern Germany for three days before being rescued. According to the AP, “she attracted the attention of lumberjacks by attaching her sports bra to a cable used to move timber down the mountain”. Wowie.
She’s a smart lady. If you hang a bra from somewhere, men are going to find it. Sorry, I had to make some sort of joke. Just think of all the puns I could have made but didn’t.
But honestly, it’s good to hear she’s alright. Her story could have ended tragically, but she was resourceful. This just goes to show that bras really can change the world. Maybe somebody should pass this along to Jen Moss?
Oh girl, I’m so excited for iPhone 2.0. When the first iPhone came out, I considered duct taping my mac, iPod, camera and phone together so that I could have one too…alas, that did not work out. But now Apple is releasing 2.0 for only 200 bucks, and poor college students unemployed (well sort of) writers (read: bloggers) have a chance to look technologically fierce too! Think of all the amazing things I can do! Mapquest things, read about politics, donate online to charitable organizations–oh, and according to Time and most young males that think with the other brain, look at porn. It is, according to one source, “by far the porn-friendliest phone”. Oh hellllllllz yeah.
This is something I could not think of on my own. I needed Time.com to tell me. Apparently iPhone porn is up and coming. How do I feel about this? I’m not quite sure. But I know how some do. Here is the best quote from the article:
Blogger Jason Swifter has already imagined one such scenario. “I wish there was an application that allowed you to undress people by dragging your fingers across the screen and literally dragging it off,” he wrote on iPhonematters.com.
Jason, you sick, imaginative, creeper! Your mother must be so proud!
I wouldn’t use my iPhone for porn. Porn just isn’t my jam. James McAvoy is though–so I would stalk him as hardcore as a 13 year old stalks Zac Efron. Rawr! Alright, occasionally my friend and I have been known to stalk Zefron as well. But seriously, think of all the awkward situations that this new trend could bring. Would you risk it? I want answers.
My apologies for my lack of postings this weekend. I’d like to say that I was just pretending this was a real job and taking the weekend off, but really, for the entirety of this weekend I was too drunk or too hungover or too asleep or my fingers were too covered in Smartfood to write anything. And this morning, I went through my usual routine of setting my alarm for a reasonable time, like 8:00, picking up my phone and bringing it into bed with me when the alarm went off, reading my emails in bed (because I’m so important that I have a Blackberry solely for the purpose of reading my emails in bed), tucking my phone under me, and falling back asleep for three more hours. Looks like all that rest left me with the energy to write run-on sentences that would make my AP English teacher weep.
Anyway. On Friday Kelsey and I took our out-of-town visitor, Sarah, to Boulder and met up with my friend Anne. We had dinner at this great little tavern which served my new reason to believe in God, goat cheese macaroni. I’d like to shake the hand of the person who invented that. I could bathe in the stuff. Once we were energized by the goat cheese, we ventured out onto Pearl Street Mall. Pearl Street is one of my favorite areas in Boulder. It’s a pedestrian mall that stretches for four blocks and is lined with trees, used bookstores, stores like Banana Republic and Volcom, bars, and street performers. The street performers are the best part. While we were at dinner, Anne (a CU grad) was telling us about this “Zip Code Guy” who performs on Pearl Street every so often. Apparently, she has always wanted to see him and never got the chance.
As it turned out, God smiled down on us on this particular evening, and we ran into Zip Code Guy, who was just beginning his performance. A crowd had formed around him, and he was asking for people from out of town to tell him their zip codes. Once he knew the zip code, he told the crowd exactly where that person was from. It was absolutely amazing. He could even get zip codes from random countries like Moldova. As he spoke, he was making a map of the US on the ground with a yellow chain.
After this warmup, he began to place people on the map according to their zip codes. I was placed on in 23173 (Richmond, Virginia, where I went to school), Kelsey was placed nearby in Williamsburg, and Sarah was placed up in Basking Ridge, New Jersey. (Anne made the mistake of staying in Colorado her whole life, so she didn’t have any obscure zip codes to throw out.) Zip Code Guy placed about 30 people on this map, from Maine to Wayne, Indiana, to Arizona. Once everyone was placed in their respective towns, he went through and recited every single person’s zip code, pausing to juggle five balls at once when he needed a little extra time to think. It was honestly one of the most impressive random talents I have ever seen. When we ran into Zip Code Guy after the show, he told us that it took him a few years and some driving around the country to finally memorize everything. Nutso.
It seemed that Zip Code Guy would have talked to us forever had we not ended the conversation, which made us feel bad for him (as in, he probably has nowhere else to go), and we were depressed until we stumbled upon some drummers. The drummers were a group of five or six guys just jamming out on a variety of bongos and other drums whose names I obviously don’t know. They also had these random girls who would come into the center of the circle and dance like maniacs every so often. These dancers were eventually joined by some brave crowd members: children; some drunk 30-something couples; a girl wearing a hat, a scarf, and mittens even though it was 70 degrees; and a man who could be your father (or maybe your weird single uncle), dancing to the beat even though he had his own Walkman on. Here, take a look:
This all was great fun. We spent an hour or two just wandering around and watching people before realizing that it was almost midnight and maybe we should go, you know, drink. (We also got a bit disillusioned by the whole street performer thing when we found a five-year-old girl whose parents had very obviously trained her to sing and play the guitar for money. We agreed with some random boy who muttered “That’s great parenting,” and then Anne told us that that very boy had gotten arrested his freshman year for beating his girlfriend. Sweet.) We met up with some friends at a bar a little farther down Pearl, and when we stepped in, it actually felt like a different world. “Sexy Can I” and “Please Don’t Stop the Music” were playing in the background, girls were wearing “labia skimmers,” or dresses that should have been shirts (a crime which I was accidentally guilty of on Saturday), and everything was all dark and trendy. The contrast between these people and the strung-out hippies selling lanyards that appeared to be made of their own dreadlocks was striking.
Like I said, Boulder’s a weird place. If you’ve never been, go. Tell Zip Code Guy I said hello.
Stand up comedian George Carlin died yesterday, and to honor him, the New York Times (which I absolutely love, but I’m more of a WashPo reader) wrote an obituary with a word in the headline that nobody understood. SPLENETIC.
How do I know that nobody understood it? It was number 8 on the list of most googled searches this morning.
Now, we all love to sporadically throw out a surfeit of SAT words to show our intellectual prowess and evoke minatory feelings of inadequacy among our peers. HA! Look those up! (That sentence took me nearly ten minutes write. Worth it? I think so.)
But come on, NYT, this is George Carlin we’re talking about. George Carlin, who is known for his completely down to earth standup about drugs and bad words. His “Seven Words You Can Never Say on Television” was about anything but SAT words. One of the words, by the way, is cunt–John McCain knows that one!
Anyway, I think it was wrong of the NYT to use an elitist word in the headline. And so did they–they changed it to ‘irreverent’.
RIP George Carlin, you said some funny things and were awesome in Bill and Ted’s Excellent Adventure!
six words to change the world. 
