For Nora (Who, I Am Sure, Shares my Concerns)

I know that the subject matter of this post has been stale since December 0f 2008, but when a bad fad refuses to die, must we just give in?  Or should we continue to passively-aggressively soldier on and fight it until it dies by writing blog posts that less than a handful of people will read?  I choose the latter.  At least when it comes to the trend of wearing leggings tights as pants, we should never give in, for the sake of humanity.  I resigned myself to the misfortune of Uggs long ago, upon not only realizing that it was a losing battle on undergraduate campuses everywhere, but also that tights-as-bottoms posed a much greater threat to the sighted with a sense of aesthetic.

And what rekindled my fervent hatred of tights-as-bottoms?  I had to take a trip to my alma mater on Wednesday, to yell at the Office of Student Affairs for not sending in a needed document to the New York Bar (a separate battle altogether), and while on campus, I noticed the abundance of unsatisfactorily clad bottoms dashing about.  Skinny girls, normal girls, chubby girls- was no one safe from the horror?  Because horror it is, no matter how tiny the girl in question may be.  It's unsettling to see women running about looking like underdeveloped Peter Pan styled wannabes.  I do not need to know what your ass looks like, and that's final.  I don't care how devoid of cellulite it might be; I don't want to know.  Also, the look reminds me of some cliched notion of Shakespeare productions: I always want to insert cod pieces, and that is unsettling as well.

My disgust finally came to a head as I was waiting for the 39 bus to have lunch in Jamaica Plain with a friend.  A girl walked by, dressed in nothing but black tights, a plaid jacket, and cigarette smoke.  My mind, weakened by months of unemployment, finally broke under the weight of this optic assualt.  I grimaced.  Openly.  And then shook my head disapprovingly.  I might have even clucked my tongue.  I was rewarded with a "What's your fuckin' problem, bitch?" which I ignored.  After all, I am 30 and too old to argue with undergrads.

But still, I wish I hadn't lost those printout cards that read "Leggings are not pants."  Maybe I'll print out some new ones; they would be powerful ammunition in this war of attrition.

Found the cards: http://mmemes.com/2009/06/01/pants-less-ladies-save-the-world-and-how-you-can-save-the-pants/

Music in 2009

2009 albums I really liked:

Animal Collective- Merryweather Post Pavilion



Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros-- Up from Below



Florence and the Machine- Lungs
 

Grizzly Bear- Veckatimest



Neko Case- Middle Cyclone

 

Camera Obscura- My Maudlin Career



M. Ward- Hold Time



Marissa Nadler- Little Hells



St. Vincent- Actor

I would like to discuss how much I love Corningware. I had forgotten just how much until this morning, when I got the yearning for baked eggs.* I don't own a pan that can go from stove-top to oven, and the only pan my mother has is too shallow to do anything but scorch my Pomodoro sauce to shit. What to do?

And then I remembered my mother's Corningware mini-saucepan. She's had it since at least the late seventies; the little brown and orange mushroom detail on it gives it away. I remember the pre-microwave days when she'd heat milk for hot cocoa in it.

Despite the pan being over 30 years old, it was a true trooper. It heated my Pomodoro up evenly, the basil and the spinach cooked quickly, the eggs were nestled safely in the heated sauce, gently cradled among a mound of fontinella. And it baked perfectly.

So I guees what I am saying is this: send me Corningware for Christmas and I will cook for you.

*You should know what baked eggs are, because they are so much better than their name suggests. Baked eggs are a wonderful, healthy, SO DELICIOUS dish involving a simple tomato sauce, fresh spinach, cheese and seasonings of choice. Add a toasted baguette and it is sate-central.

Je t'aime...moi non plus

So, this photo of Serge Gainsbourg makes me really hot:




It also makes me extremely envious of Jane Birkin; not only was she gorgeous, thin, and the inspiration for a retardly expensive Hermes status bag, but she got to procreate with Gainsbourg at the height of his attractiveness, before he morphed into this:


via videosift.com

Seriously, it's like watching a drunken old Gollum pawing at Whitney Houston like she's his precious.

Observe him in his younger, less eager days, when he was able to withstand Brigitte Bardot's allure long enough to film the video for Bonnie & Clyde:

Brigitte Bardot & Serge Gainsbourg - Bonnie & Clyde

At least he didn't become a bloated, racist travesty like Bardot; just a drunk one.

Into

Things I'm Into:


The Midgard Serpent:



These Tights:



Boots:



This tattoo:




Music:

A Wheeled Threat

Today, I rode my bike in Boston for the first time in five years.  Actually, today I rode my bike in Boston proper for the first time ever, given as most of my past experience with cycling in the city involved either the root-riddled trail of the Southwest Corridor (beloved by junkies and children alike, both of whom can jump in front of your wheels at any moment) or riding toward the western suburbs, battling over the road with minivans driven by angry, harassed Boston mothers.

Riding in Boston proper was just like being in a car.  In Boston.  At least, it involved the same amount of anger as driving through the city, only my quads hurt on top of it and most of the people I swore at could actually hear what I was screaming at them.  However, I lost the freedom of being able to whip out my over-developed middle finger and give someone the bird; it's rather difficult to maneuver oneself around a bright purple PT Cruiser making an illegal right turn with only one hand on the bars.

Still, I think I managed to make an impression.  A sample of things I yelled at people today:

"Move, Fucktard." This was deserved.  Like, if there was such a thing as The Fucktard Awards, this guy would win Fucktard of the year.  He would give a teary acceptance speech and put the statuette on his bookcase and bore his grandchildren with the details of how he came to be Fucktard of the year in 2009.  "It was a sunny day.  Fall was in the air, and I was in the mood to commit some grade A contributory negligence, so I went down to the Common and got some fries at McDonalds.  Then I decided to eat them while crossing the street.  So I crossed against the light on Tremont and I was adament (ADAMENT!) about not staying within the crosswalk and meandering all over the road in traffic while concentrating on my fries.  Then, I saw a sixteen year old girl I wanted to ogle, and so I showed her my committment to her ass by stopping in the middle of the street, while traffic had the right of way, without looking behind me to make sure I didn't stop in the direct path of an angry girl on a Fuji hybrid who wasn't that unamenable to running me down, and I stopped!  Imagine my delight when I heard the angry cycle girl yell "MOVE, FUCKTARD!" at me!'

"LET ME INTRODUCE YOU TO THE WALKING PATH! This is the fucking bike path." To a girl who was walking her dog/bear on the bike path and who wasn't paying attention to her dog, which tried to commit suicide in front of my bike.  I hate dogs.  I hate dogs who walk on the wrong path even more.

"Stupid asshole fucker."  Who knows.  I lose track.

Anyway, what's the use of totaling your car on the interstate if the next best means of transportation makes you just as angry?  Next time I'm leaving my bike in Andover and taking the T.  The $5 each ride costs is worth it just to make sure my ulcer doesn't come back.

Riding the Southwest Corridor tonight to meet my father in JP for dinner did, I suppose, bring up a nice bit of nostalgia.  It made me think of my long-lost friend, Eli, and riding, half-drunk, from The Parrish after work back to Forrest Hills at 2 a.m. in the pitch black.  We'd ride with our lights off; Eli was worried about getting slugged in the face with a baseball bat and getting mugged and was always jealous about how silent my Road Ace was.  It's the only thing I miss about that summer before I moved to NYC.