Wikipedia, or more appropriate, the self-assured well-intentioned contributor who posted it, defines "guilty pleasure" as "something one considers pleasurable despite it being mainly received negatively or looked down on by a majority of society". You know something you do, or like, that you probably wouldn't confess except to your closest friends -those guys who already know you are a cool-less freak so no further harm is done to your character. Said contributor goes on to offer the example of a guy liking "Sex in the City". I'm going to infer that he meant "a straight" guy.
Our guilty pleasures make us giddy. They titillate the little school girls in us. They tickle the pooh bear buried in our bellies. They are what we watch and listen to when the doors are double-locked and no one has access to our hidden-in-plain-sight On-the-Go 4 iPod playlist.
Instinctively we should keep the gps on the qt. But, you see, I have a condition which requires me to share. It's a combination of attention-seeking and cries for acceptance. Work with me, here.
So in the spirit of full exposure, here are a few of mine. I'm curious if any of ya'll will pony up and admit your share them or add some of your own. Just, you know, porn doesn't count. Really.- These things should have little to no sense of cool (like you can't say "Princess Bride" or "Diff'nt Strokes" - they have that 80's retro cool thing going on). Guilty pleasures are things that probably don't add any prominence. No nice patina to your aging. They just highlight your geekiness. Your freak flag flying high.
My Top 5 Guilty Pleasures:
1) Train's "Drops of Jupiter" - Oh, c'mon and lie to me and tell me you don't crank that shit up when it comes on the radio and you're alone in the car. Try to convince me of that. When Pat hits his vocal-stride ( 3:00 on the vid below), how can you NOT pound the steering wheel and cry out with him, "Tell me, did the wind sweep you off your feet?!" This IS always on my 'Most Recently Played" and "Top 25 Played". No hiding there.
2) PerezHilton.com - I soooo want to be better than the commoner I am. But damn it, Janet, I can't resist the gossip. I can't!!! And though he can be cruel, he can also be, well, sweet. I actually think he cares for Britney. He is right-on most of the time, too. Like Simon on "American Idol". Just instead of articulated musical critique, Perez likes to draw dribbles and penises. Who doesn't?
3) "Constantine" the movie- I put this here because, well, after living with a fan-boy comic-freak for 11yrs, you learn a thing or two. Though we broke up, I took away a deep understanding of these guys. And they are harsh f'n critics. Oh they love hard. And they will take you down with their replica-sabers if you mess with them. I still can't get the voices out of my head about how "they" [Hollywood] are sooo going to mess-up "The Watchmen". So trust me on this, those that matter, are rather 'eh' about this movie. Me? I can't get enough of it. I don't know what it is. I can't turn away when it's on HBO. It's like I'm Iggy Pop and it's a big o'dish of multi-colored good-time capsules. And it isn't Keanu. I promise. There is something in this movie that makes me watch. Every. Time.
4) Dance-movies in general - i.e. "Step up and Bring It to the Server" or whatever - I'm waaay too old to want to see these movies. I stash them in my Netflix queue. I offer to take my fourteen-year-old niece and cousin to see them. I check IMDB to make sure Channing Tatum is over 18 (he is - 28 to be exact, I mean, if you needed to know). I have issues. I know. And again, I'm not going to believe your lie that you haven't dropped it to the floor after hearing "Low". I'm calling you out, punk. Show 'em what you got. Go hard!
5) Peanut butter from the jar - See? I'm giving ya'll the whole truth. This is a disgusting habit, but I swear I don't double-dip. Give me a spoonful of natural Skippy (no stirring!!!) and I'm a happy-happy-happy girl. :) Work that with some apple, and dang. It's the simple things ya'll :)
Enjoy these clips!!
Sunday, March 9, 2008
Thursday, March 6, 2008
Mmm... the honesty gush of the blogger: Tastes like tofu and preening
A friend told me the other night that I had balls in my writings. He was drunk. And it was IM. So I'm gonna think he was being honest. Instant messaging is confessional. Alcohol just makes the typing more cardiac.
I often refer to my blogs as random up-chucks of consciousness. If you've read more than two, you've probably got me figured out. Pegged. Though I control what I put down, what goes up is as much me as anything else. Snaps, Jason, Koka, and Matt can attest to that. There's a certain life-bond created when you hold someone's hair while they're puking. When you make them laugh through tears over a miserable little boy, generally referred to as Satan - you know the one who broke-up with you in your dorm parking lot because he was "bad for you", but not before giving you a case of Zima (I like my drinks bubbly, sue me!) and stating "You'll probably be needing this". When the dirt gets aired, it is those people who will get the big payday.
So, really, what do I have left to hide? I'm a plebeian with uptown tastes and a smackering of education. I'm an attention starlet who name drops philosophers so you don't think she's small-town. I want you to look while I cover my eyes. Seriously, this is basic psychology kids. Don't stress yourself.
In all my efforts to not be what I am, I suppressed. I beat down and bruised my inclinations and my instincts. I recited, hand over heart, that being the good little cube-dweller would bring me the peace that they sold on SUV commercials. I could make a mix-CD of Led Zepplin's "Black Dog" and the Stooge's "Search and Destroy" and be cool while living my American dream.
As you probably have figured out, that didn't work for me. Maybe I'm missing a gene. A little burp during mitosis. I'm impatient. I gotta think my DNA is as well. Like when I hear a bad sound in my car and I just turn the radio up louder, I developed on, ignoring the grinding and whining timing belt.
And, so, here I am. Throwing up on you, but, you know, in a good way. The way that doesn't charge-up a cleaning bill or leave a bad smell. Well, usually not.
I write here not because I think I'm better than you or that my opinions matter. They don't. I do it 'cause I'm selfish. I do it because I like doing it. Like I've said, I'm Veruca. I'm a kitten. I want it now and I want it to be pleasing to the touch. -Scratchy scratchy. Break the skin. Itchy Itchy. Let it in. - My same drunk friend told me that his gf found me "alien" and that she just doesn't get me. Awesome. I need that. I like the thought of being alien. Enigmatic and armed to the teeth with pop banter and fan-boy wit. It makes me feel cool. Crank the New York Dolls. Let's get our glam on.
Oh, and post-script here darlings, I sincerely thank you for reading. For commenting and msging me. I don't want to be your Messiah. Just your idol. I'm done with saving souls and turning water into wine. I'm just after your stroke and your thoughts. Trust me, I want you much more than you want me. I think you're beautiful.
Feel the lovin'. Feel the cool. - Black Dog - 5:35
I often refer to my blogs as random up-chucks of consciousness. If you've read more than two, you've probably got me figured out. Pegged. Though I control what I put down, what goes up is as much me as anything else. Snaps, Jason, Koka, and Matt can attest to that. There's a certain life-bond created when you hold someone's hair while they're puking. When you make them laugh through tears over a miserable little boy, generally referred to as Satan - you know the one who broke-up with you in your dorm parking lot because he was "bad for you", but not before giving you a case of Zima (I like my drinks bubbly, sue me!) and stating "You'll probably be needing this". When the dirt gets aired, it is those people who will get the big payday.
So, really, what do I have left to hide? I'm a plebeian with uptown tastes and a smackering of education. I'm an attention starlet who name drops philosophers so you don't think she's small-town. I want you to look while I cover my eyes. Seriously, this is basic psychology kids. Don't stress yourself.
In all my efforts to not be what I am, I suppressed. I beat down and bruised my inclinations and my instincts. I recited, hand over heart, that being the good little cube-dweller would bring me the peace that they sold on SUV commercials. I could make a mix-CD of Led Zepplin's "Black Dog" and the Stooge's "Search and Destroy" and be cool while living my American dream.
As you probably have figured out, that didn't work for me. Maybe I'm missing a gene. A little burp during mitosis. I'm impatient. I gotta think my DNA is as well. Like when I hear a bad sound in my car and I just turn the radio up louder, I developed on, ignoring the grinding and whining timing belt.
And, so, here I am. Throwing up on you, but, you know, in a good way. The way that doesn't charge-up a cleaning bill or leave a bad smell. Well, usually not.
I write here not because I think I'm better than you or that my opinions matter. They don't. I do it 'cause I'm selfish. I do it because I like doing it. Like I've said, I'm Veruca. I'm a kitten. I want it now and I want it to be pleasing to the touch. -Scratchy scratchy. Break the skin. Itchy Itchy. Let it in. - My same drunk friend told me that his gf found me "alien" and that she just doesn't get me. Awesome. I need that. I like the thought of being alien. Enigmatic and armed to the teeth with pop banter and fan-boy wit. It makes me feel cool. Crank the New York Dolls. Let's get our glam on.
Oh, and post-script here darlings, I sincerely thank you for reading. For commenting and msging me. I don't want to be your Messiah. Just your idol. I'm done with saving souls and turning water into wine. I'm just after your stroke and your thoughts. Trust me, I want you much more than you want me. I think you're beautiful.
Feel the lovin'. Feel the cool. - Black Dog - 5:35
Tuesday, March 4, 2008
Ah, so this is why I'm so f'ed up: Bronte broads and Russian bastards
I blame the Bronte sisters, especially Emily. Jane Austen should be charged as well. And Tolstoy and Dostoevsky are far from innocent here. F'n passion-filled geniuses. And while we are at it, toss in Thomas Hardy. He's fucked up enough.
While the PTA blasts videogames for their violence and movies are slapped with sexual-situations and adult-themes warnings, no one calls classic literature out for what it is. What it does. Where was Tipper Gore when I needed her? "As Nasty As They Wanna Be" was comedy. Did she listen to that whole album? "Dirty Nursery Rhymes" wasn't going to hurt anyone. But unrequited love for your stable-boy played out against fields of sweeping heather and forbidding class-structure? That does no damage? Bullshit. I say bullshit on thee.
I want my fucking Heathcliff. I want a love that transcends normalcy. I want a love that lasts. I want fucking-forever. And these people, these grand and great authors of lit class masturbation and holier-than-thou sentence structure (let's be honest, I've never met a run-on-sentence I haven't loved), they owe it to me.
How am I supposed to function in the real world when my first crush was Bronte's brooding, angry Heathcliff? I read "Wuthering Heights" when I was 11. I've been trying to save every boy I've met since. Do you know how messed up that is? - Aloysha Karamazov. Prince Andrei Bolkonsky. Count Vronsky. Jude Fawley. Yeah. I tapped all those asses. And they mind-fucked me back.
No one ever stepped in and told me they were just fantasies without the elves and the pixies. That they were unachievable examples of love and passion. That they have all the realism of porn just in much more acceptable Penguin Classics packaging. Catherine Earnshaw was just Jenna Jamison giving it up to her adopted brother and the rich-boy next door. - Heathcliff deserved better. He deserved me.
I'm trying to be better. Giving up the "leprechauns". The misunderstood 5'10", scrawny boys who can quote "Crime and Punishment" but can't hold down a job. - I know I can't blame my unrealistic views of love and relationships entirely on the books I read. They're called fiction for a reason I suppose. Still though. If such things weren't possible, if no one ever really had that sort of love, then we wouldn't be affected by them, would we? We wouldn't read them over and over and make them into movies. We wouldn't still believe the lie, would we?
I don't believe in the Easter Bunny or Santa Claus. But I believe in one-and-only and forever. I still want my Heathcliff. "He's more myself than I am. Whatever our souls are made of, we're the same"
Here's "Wuthering Heights" in 1:09 minutes:
While the PTA blasts videogames for their violence and movies are slapped with sexual-situations and adult-themes warnings, no one calls classic literature out for what it is. What it does. Where was Tipper Gore when I needed her? "As Nasty As They Wanna Be" was comedy. Did she listen to that whole album? "Dirty Nursery Rhymes" wasn't going to hurt anyone. But unrequited love for your stable-boy played out against fields of sweeping heather and forbidding class-structure? That does no damage? Bullshit. I say bullshit on thee.
I want my fucking Heathcliff. I want a love that transcends normalcy. I want a love that lasts. I want fucking-forever. And these people, these grand and great authors of lit class masturbation and holier-than-thou sentence structure (let's be honest, I've never met a run-on-sentence I haven't loved), they owe it to me.
How am I supposed to function in the real world when my first crush was Bronte's brooding, angry Heathcliff? I read "Wuthering Heights" when I was 11. I've been trying to save every boy I've met since. Do you know how messed up that is? - Aloysha Karamazov. Prince Andrei Bolkonsky. Count Vronsky. Jude Fawley. Yeah. I tapped all those asses. And they mind-fucked me back.
No one ever stepped in and told me they were just fantasies without the elves and the pixies. That they were unachievable examples of love and passion. That they have all the realism of porn just in much more acceptable Penguin Classics packaging. Catherine Earnshaw was just Jenna Jamison giving it up to her adopted brother and the rich-boy next door. - Heathcliff deserved better. He deserved me.
I'm trying to be better. Giving up the "leprechauns". The misunderstood 5'10", scrawny boys who can quote "Crime and Punishment" but can't hold down a job. - I know I can't blame my unrealistic views of love and relationships entirely on the books I read. They're called fiction for a reason I suppose. Still though. If such things weren't possible, if no one ever really had that sort of love, then we wouldn't be affected by them, would we? We wouldn't read them over and over and make them into movies. We wouldn't still believe the lie, would we?
I don't believe in the Easter Bunny or Santa Claus. But I believe in one-and-only and forever. I still want my Heathcliff. "He's more myself than I am. Whatever our souls are made of, we're the same"
Here's "Wuthering Heights" in 1:09 minutes:
Monday, March 3, 2008
Happy Harry Hardon ruined me & all the good themes have been used up
It started out like this:
"Did you ever get the feeling that everything in America is completely fucked up? You know that feeling that the whole country is like one inch away from saying 'That's it, forget it'. You think about it. Everything is polluted. The environment, the government, the schools, you name it. "
I didn't see "Pump Up the Volume" when it came out in 1990. I had to wait for it to hit video. Then watch it in secret. Southern Baptist are like that. We like our sinning done in the dark so there are no witnesses. Maybe that's why I like "talk hard" so much. "A dirty thought in a clean mind".
I did, at one time, care about politics. Oh, I was a little Campus Republican (they had the best parties). I was a volunteer on the campaign trail. I could whip out the Reagan and bring you to your fucking liberal knees with my jedi-mindtricks of voo-doo economics and SDI/MAD diplomacy. - Then I met Ralph Reed, who creeped-me-the-fuck-out when I shook his hand. A week later I met Nadine Strossen of the ACLU on campus and I burned my contract with America and went out and hugged some trees. I even started thinking Bill Clinton was kinda sexxy hott. And that summer that Monica was interning, well, uh, that was the summer I was supposed to be interning too. Though I ditched that to spend the summer with my idiot boyfriend at the time. F'n boys. - Still though, part of me thinks Bill would have liked me. We'd have gotten along. As anyone who has funneled with me knows, as all good Southern girls do, I know how to drink and I always swallow. It would have been good times.
Somewhere though, I've lost it. I just don't care. Maybe it was Clinton proving he was a real-boy after-all with the faults that go along with that. Then Bush did not help. Maybe it was the year or so spent agonizing over the daily casualty reports from Iraq. Relieved that it wasn't my baby brother or my friend Adj. Then realizing that it was someone else's someone. Maybe not mine today, but someone's heart was ripped out so I would cry anyway for being selfish and for their pain.
I know Barack is inspirational. I've seen theater. I've seen religion. I've even bought tickets to both. And I know Hillary has experience and contacts and knows how to get things done. I also know that John McCain is a good guy. Really. I can't imagine the shit he went through over there. - Still though, I can't help but think that what was true in Harry's 1990 is still true now. How sad is that?
Don't get me wrong, here. I WANT to care. Really I do. I've been letting this play out gladiator-style and we are coming down to the final contestants. President of the United States. Yeah, I should care. But really, I'm not feeling the warm and fuzzies for any of them. No one is making me want them. No one has licked me right and set me off. And I want that. I WANT to be in love with one of them. I want to believe that my teenaged view of isolation and melancholy hasn't come full-circle. That there is hope. Problem is. I'm old enough to know that hope is air. That's it's something you believe in when you don't have anything else. It's all that keeps you going when you're drowning in the shit and flotsam of life. Maybe I'm not drowning just yet. Or maybe I'm already under and I just don't know it.
As Harry says, "All the great themes have been used up and turned into theme parks." And right now, I don't feel like dealing with the crowds just to toss my cookies on the 3rd loopty-loop.
But then again, maybe my political soul can still be saved. Go ahead. Give it a try. Seduce me. Show me what you got, little mama. Show me what you got, big baller. - - - Until then, I'm breaking out the Leonard Cohen and mellowing to "Everybody Knows". Talk to me hard, babies.
Here are a few "Pump" clips for your enjoyment (1st two: 27 and 33 secs). Including the yummy Cohen song, which is a bit longer at but very enjoyable :)
"Did you ever get the feeling that everything in America is completely fucked up? You know that feeling that the whole country is like one inch away from saying 'That's it, forget it'. You think about it. Everything is polluted. The environment, the government, the schools, you name it. "
I didn't see "Pump Up the Volume" when it came out in 1990. I had to wait for it to hit video. Then watch it in secret. Southern Baptist are like that. We like our sinning done in the dark so there are no witnesses. Maybe that's why I like "talk hard" so much. "A dirty thought in a clean mind".
I did, at one time, care about politics. Oh, I was a little Campus Republican (they had the best parties). I was a volunteer on the campaign trail. I could whip out the Reagan and bring you to your fucking liberal knees with my jedi-mindtricks of voo-doo economics and SDI/MAD diplomacy. - Then I met Ralph Reed, who creeped-me-the-fuck-out when I shook his hand. A week later I met Nadine Strossen of the ACLU on campus and I burned my contract with America and went out and hugged some trees. I even started thinking Bill Clinton was kinda sexxy hott. And that summer that Monica was interning, well, uh, that was the summer I was supposed to be interning too. Though I ditched that to spend the summer with my idiot boyfriend at the time. F'n boys. - Still though, part of me thinks Bill would have liked me. We'd have gotten along. As anyone who has funneled with me knows, as all good Southern girls do, I know how to drink and I always swallow. It would have been good times.
Somewhere though, I've lost it. I just don't care. Maybe it was Clinton proving he was a real-boy after-all with the faults that go along with that. Then Bush did not help. Maybe it was the year or so spent agonizing over the daily casualty reports from Iraq. Relieved that it wasn't my baby brother or my friend Adj. Then realizing that it was someone else's someone. Maybe not mine today, but someone's heart was ripped out so I would cry anyway for being selfish and for their pain.
I know Barack is inspirational. I've seen theater. I've seen religion. I've even bought tickets to both. And I know Hillary has experience and contacts and knows how to get things done. I also know that John McCain is a good guy. Really. I can't imagine the shit he went through over there. - Still though, I can't help but think that what was true in Harry's 1990 is still true now. How sad is that?
Don't get me wrong, here. I WANT to care. Really I do. I've been letting this play out gladiator-style and we are coming down to the final contestants. President of the United States. Yeah, I should care. But really, I'm not feeling the warm and fuzzies for any of them. No one is making me want them. No one has licked me right and set me off. And I want that. I WANT to be in love with one of them. I want to believe that my teenaged view of isolation and melancholy hasn't come full-circle. That there is hope. Problem is. I'm old enough to know that hope is air. That's it's something you believe in when you don't have anything else. It's all that keeps you going when you're drowning in the shit and flotsam of life. Maybe I'm not drowning just yet. Or maybe I'm already under and I just don't know it.
As Harry says, "All the great themes have been used up and turned into theme parks." And right now, I don't feel like dealing with the crowds just to toss my cookies on the 3rd loopty-loop.
But then again, maybe my political soul can still be saved. Go ahead. Give it a try. Seduce me. Show me what you got, little mama. Show me what you got, big baller. - - - Until then, I'm breaking out the Leonard Cohen and mellowing to "Everybody Knows". Talk to me hard, babies.
Here are a few "Pump" clips for your enjoyment (1st two: 27 and 33 secs). Including the yummy Cohen song, which is a bit longer at but very enjoyable :)
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