While the folks at the New York Times Style section are usually busy making up fake trends that are really just about their own anecdotal experience, they went one farther yesterday with an article about absinthe. This time, instead of a regular fake trend, it's a fake trend that sucks! According to writer Eric Konigsberg, absinthe, which was so recently in vogue, is now as passé as En Vogue. How does he know? Well, because he thinks it's lame!
" ... to follow the arc of this craze, like others
that have come before (remember cigar bars?) is to see just how quickly
something that was once illicit -- and acquired notoriety because of
that very illicitness -- can lose its sheen of mystery and become, well,
rather uncool ... If absinthe were a band, it would be Interpol, third-hand piffle
masquerading as transgressive pop culture. If absinthe were sneakers,
it would be a pair of laceless Chuck Taylors designed by John Varvatos
for Converse. If it were facial hair, it would be the soul patch. If
absinthe were a finish on kitchen and bath fixtures, it would be
brushed nickel."
Thank god somebody finally broke the "after something is cool, it'll become uncool!" story. Nothing gets past this guy. Cool Eric goes on to liken absinthe lovers to people who dig Chuck Norris and RPG's. Cool Eric only likes cool things, which are not absinthe and RPG's, which are for nerds. Pour yourself a cold PBR, Eric, and sit yourself down. Commentary: I has it.
I'm taking it all a little harshly because I happen to absolutely love absinthe. And it has nothing to do with being naughty. Yes, absinthe is fun to drink, if you want to get all frou-frou with the sugar and the distilled water and pretending you're seeing a green fairy. But all of this business about sophistication and mystery, with which Eric Konigsberg's take on absinthe seems to be mainly concerned, seems a little silly to me. Absinthe, in its heyday, seems to have been a drug used similarly to the way folks smoke pot today. Makes you loopy, makes stupid things interesting, makes you feel like you're John Lennon even if you're a little closer to Nick Jonas. Chase it with some heroin, well, and you've got your night planned out. Konigsberg can't get past the uber-mystery PR push and evaluate the booze for what it is: fun.
Many folks who really dig absinthe aren't swilling it at bars, ordering it loud enough so that everyone in the room knows what a cool cat they are. Konigsberg's assertion that absinthe is now lame because lame people are drinking it has more to do with the crowd he visited than any real exploration of folks who love the drink. But then we wouldn't get to read a snarky NYT Style section article, would we? Those trends aren't going to identify themselves.
For most of us, drinking absinthe is not only about subversion--absinthe just doesn't taste good enough for that. It's about the glorious pot-like high (or so I've been told--I couldn't tell you what it's like to get high off pot, I'm a dork.) Three tequilas down your gullet, and you're looking at one hell of a sleepy drunk. Three absinthes down your gullet, and you're soaring and smiling.
Eric, you're welcome to come over for an absinthe cocktail any time. And I think that, instead of discovering that if you go to douchey places where douches drink absinthe you're simply more likely to find douches drinking absinthe, you'll discover a very tasty refreshment that doesn't care about cool.
I turned 25, and suddenly all my friends are getting married while I'm sitting around perfecting my Sidecar recipe and fighting the patriarchy. Ladies of a certain age and temperament, from fictional Bridget Joneses to real-life every last single gal I know, occasionally dread what the mailbox might bring: a wedding invitation for you and a "guest."
I mean, I'm flattered that they think I'm at least capable of attracting a "guest," but also kind of miffed, because "guest" means "date," doesn't it? I've thrown this question out there to the chattering world of Twitter and Facebook and gotten a variety of responses. I ask you, dear readers, If you "and guest" are invited to a wedding, does the "guest" necessarily have to be a person of potential romantic interest?
The assumption is, of course, yes. You bring dates to weddings, not friends. Even if I show up with a platonic guy friend, people are going to figure we're on a date. And if I show up with a girlfriend, advises a compadre of mine, "Just be ready to field questions about the nature of your relationship."
Methinks a revolution is in order: single folks, instead of searching out a warm body to accompany you for the evening, why not bring a good friend you're not interested in? That way, weddings can become fodder for new love connections, instead of couples parades. What think you, dear readers?
Facebook stalking is a delicate art. Anyone who's stared a little too long and a little too closely at a friend's profile has thought to themselves, "Is this weird?" Even if you've got no moral dilemma with reading every intricate detail of someone's online life -- and lots of time on your hands to do it -- there's the issue of not letting on to the person in question just how obsessed you are.
Whether you're following a crush, an ex, or even the new crush of an ex (that bitch!), here are some tips for recognizing you've officially crossed over into Facebook stalker territory -- and from preventing the person you're stalking from figuring that out.
10. You know more about what someone did last night than they do.
Checking out a friend's party photos is an entirely legitimate, non-stalkerly Facebook activity. Checking out those photos the second they're posted, watching the person in question get progressively drunker, and then glaring at the girl in the low-cut shirt falling all over your stalker-ee: that's questionable.
9. You notice when someone's profile pic changes, and you're not even their friend.
Stalking someone you can't friend for social reasons -- your boyfriend's ex, whom you've never met, for example -- can prove challenging even for the most intrepid Facebook user. If that person keeps their profile private, sometimes you have to content yourself and your unhealthy obsession with staring at the tiny profile pic that comes up when you search for their name. Desperate? Yes, but stalkers can't be choosers.
Over at Jezebel today you can find detailed instructions on how to tie knots in cherry stems as a New Year's Eve party trick. This is one of those classic coy ways to grab attention from slightly drunk boys who can only barely wrap their minds around what your tongue must have been doing to achieve such a result. What's interesting to me though is the author's description of how she learned the trick, and her family's reaction:
Unfortunately for my still-probably-embarrassed mother, when does a 12-year-old have access to enough practice maraschino cherry stems but at a family function with an open bar. At least a dozen cherry stems, a massive sugar high and a bunch of snickering male relatives later, I knew how to do it.
I should admit, I'm also one of those girls who can tie knots in cherry stems. Unlike this fine lady though, I don't do it often, and my family doesn't find it embarrassing. Much to the contrary, my mother actually uses it as her party trick. When we're at family functions or social gatherings and someone has a cherry in their drink, she can be heard to proclaim, "Oh, Bonnie knows a great trick with a cherry stem. Go on, Bonnie, show them!" Luckily, if the crowd is old enough, it doesn't seem to occur to them that what I've been guilted into doing is somehow wildly inappropriate.
How about you, dolls? Any interesting party tricks?
Worried that your man may endanger himself -- and his limbs -- this New Year's Eve by setting off illegal fireworks? Well, the women of Naples, Italy are, but luckily they've come up with a solution: withhold sex from their husbands and boyfriends unless they swear to refrain from amateur explosions. According to the BBC, hundreds of Italian ladies are pledging to make their partners sleep on the sofa if that's what it takes to get the word out about firework safety. From the article:
Local authorities are backing the women and have sent out text messages urging the men to "make love, not explosions"... ''If a sex strike is what it takes in order to get the attention of our men, husbands, partners and sons, then we're ready for it," Mrs Staiano, 44 [a founder of the campaign] told Italy's Ansa news agency.
Does anyone else see the problem with that quote? While I'm all for women using their sexy powers for good -- heck, I'd probably be all for women using their sexy powers for evil -- it's a little disturbing that Ms. Staiano says the sex strike could grab the attention of "sons." You mean if their girlfriends joined in, right? Right? At least the movement has lofty inspiration:
The move was inspired by the ancient Greek play Lysistrata, in which the women of Athens refuse to have sex unless their men folk forge a truce with their rivals from Sparta. Doctor and local councillor Vincenzo Sorrentino, who has long campaigned against the illegal fireworks, said a sex ban was "an issue that men are particularly sensitive to''.
Well, I would think so, oh brilliant one. My question is, how long does the sex strike go on? Like, if your man lights illegal fireworks despite your anti-lovin' threats, do you hold out on him just through the New Year? Does the ban go through January? Or is it indefinite? It's not like he'll be able to prove his newfound dislike for explosives again until the next December 31st, and that's a long time to sleep on the sofa.
The tears are running hard and fast in this edition of Sad Bastard of the Week, wherein I soak up all the advice column sad bastardry the Internet has to offer and repackage it to you, dear readers, in easily digestible form. But those tears--the ones that were running hard and fast--aren't doing so because they're sad. No, those tears are freaking terrified, and they can't get away fast enough.
In Dear Abby, an oft-abused wife has finally had enough of a husband who prides himself on being called "Mr. Rude":
My husband flirts openly with cashiers right in front of me, and
asks complete strangers walking by if they would "like to buy a wife
cheap." Yesterday we went out to lunch and the bill was $18.42.
He made a big fuss about it with the cashier, then loudly informed me
it was my "fat a--" meal that cost so much. Abby, my meal was $6. I
died a million deaths that day.
We all do silly things for love, but I'd like to think we can draw the line well before the stage of being called a fat-ass in public. Alas. You can't teach an old dog not to be an asshole. Speaking of old dogs, the world's creepiest grandfather wrote into Dear Margo this week, wondering why everyone had a problem with his behavior toward his 9-year-old granddaughter:
About a year ago, when she kissed me, I licked her lips. Apparently she
liked that enough to do the same with my son when he kissed her good
night that night. My son and his wife were quite upset with me, and his
wife ordered me out of the house. I have not seen any of them since. I
personally do not think I did anything wrong ...
Run, tears, run! And don't stop! It's like, we know there are crazy people in this world, but do they have to just lay it all out there? Meep. And for an excellent sad bastard round up, finish out your day (hopefully you've got off tomorrow, yes?) with the Dear Prudence 2008 advice retrospective on Slate.
If something terrible happens to you--say, your mother kills you or your husband murders you or you get kidnapped on vacation in the Caribbean--you better hope you're white and pretty. 'Cause then Nancy Grace can come to the rescue! CNN's heinous anchoress has taken it upon herself--and no telling how many underling reporters actually doing the work--to work "cold cases."
Grace's latest cause, a blond, blue-eyed mom from Illinois, was last seen in June during a messy divorce. Also on the Grace docket are college student Brittany Zimmerman (white, pretty), Brianna Maitland (white, pretty), Lisa Stebic (white, pretty), Margaret Haddican (white, pretty), Tara Grinstead (white, beauty queen bonus!), and JonBenet Ramsey, the "Christmas cold case," so I guess it came along with a Scrooge toy or something. By my count, there are at least five more pretty white girls that Nancy Grace is worried about.
Grace does appear to have somebody working on the disappearances of three African-Americans, a 40-year-old Atlanta hairstylist (also pretty) and two little girls (cute, naturally.) You'd think that female victims of crime here in our US and A are at least always pretty, and probably white. I'm sure I don't have to tell you how ridiculous that is--Broadsheet consistently does a good job on the subject. In the meantime, if you think someone's coming to knife you, maybe keep a skin bleaching kit and some mascara in your purse. 'Cause Nancy might be your only hope.
Pundits and politicians were eager to dub 2008 the "year of the woman," pointing to a surreal election season in which two major parties -- for the first time in our country's history -- almost foisted a woman into the White House. But an examination of the cultural, economic and political scene this year actually reveals an alarming pattern of backsliding.
Bring on 2009. Let's hope it really ends up being, as so many pundits and politicians are touting it to be, the "year of change." For everyone.
8. Meet Aiko, Stepford Wife du jour
When inventor Le Trung started building a robot, he set out to craft a companion that was more human than machine, and he planned to market it to the elderly. Unfortunately, Trung soon abandoned his idealism and let his perverse vision of "the perfect woman" run amok all over a project that could have benefited the elderly, their over-taxed caregivers and society at large. The result: a sophisticated, robot version of the classic blow-up doll.
Dubbed Aiko, it has a passive personality, porno-esque lips, doe eyes and impossibly petite measurements (32-23-33). She's a super housekeeper. She can navigate a map, read newspapers and books aloud, and enjoys being tickled. Bonus: Aiko never needs to rest or eat, so she can work 24 hours a day. Trung plans to tweak her plumbing so that she also will be able to serve her "husband" in other ways. Fake orgasm included.
7. Sex and the City: The Movie
I admit it: I went to see it in the theater and despite the under-the-breath gripes, sighs and eye rolls with which I generously peppered my viewing, I genuinely enjoyed it. And I can't stop hating myself. Because despite Carrie & Co.'s superficial sexual, economic, emotional and intellectual liberation -- feminism's glorious produce in one tidy, diverse bundle of ladies -- the fact is, they clearly need men (and their sexual, economic, emotional and intellectual support) like fish need ... uh, food and water.
And, perhaps more outrageously, as "the girls" attempt to pursue/retain their dream men and ideal life, it becomes increasingly obvious that all any of them really care about is money and/or vise-like control of their men. But Sex and the City continues to draw women in with its joie de vivre, deliriously fun packaging and faux you-go-girl spirit. Really though, those women are walking nightmares: money-grubbing, castrating bitches dressed up as balanced, smart, sane, waxed, botoxed and buffed ladies.
Okay, I'm a thousand years late on this, but I just saw the Shawn Johnson (gymnast, adorable, gold medal, etc.) Ortega taco commercial, and it's so ridonk. Since Chicks Aren't Funny is all about funniness and chicks, I figure this works since Johnson is so not funny in this Ortega taco commercial. I mean, somebody knew a "taco pop" joke was totally gross, right? Shame on the creep who came up with her line.
And muchas rocking to the creep who came up with the remix:
What makes your tacos pop, readers? My secret: chile con limon.
Us young gals can sit around all day long talking about our sexual escapades and our equal pay and our drinking habits, but for me, there's nothing more feminist than a woman doing whatever the hell she wants, everyone else be damned. Today's lady-power heroine in that vein is Editta Sherman, the "Duchess of Carnegie." She's refusing to be evicted from her rent-controlled apartment above Carnegie Hall in New York City, sayeth CNN:
"... the 96-year-old came home a few days ago to find an eviction notice on her door. "I thought, oh, what is this? Are you kidding me that they are really
going to send a woman like me down the street just like that? Have me
scurry away without a fight," she said, delivering a whooping cackle,
punctuated with a grandmother's tsk tsk. "Oh, no, that's not what I am going to do. They'll have to take me out of here with their bare hands." ...
There are other tenants in the same boat being kicked out due to renovations of the space apartments currently occupy. Something about classrooms and educating the children or some business. Can't the Duchess stay and be principal of Carnegie, too?
A brief wag of the finger to CNN for the horrible description of her "whooping cackle" (quick, central casting! We need an old crone!) and a massive tip o' the hat to the Duchess, who isn't moving despite the fact that the Carnegie folks have offered to pay all the expenses of moving and any rent on a "comparable" apartment in the neighborhood. A "comparable" apartment isn't home to a 96-year-old woman, is it? When you've spent your life partying with Salvador Dali and Cary Grant and Andy Warhol, getting a new place just isn't gonna have that sheen.
While the folks at the New York Times Style section are usually busy making up fake trends that are really just about their own anecdotal experience, they went one farther yesterday with an article about absinthe. This time, instead of a regular fake trend, it's a fake trend that sucks! According to writer Eric Konigsberg, absinthe, which was so recently in vogue, is now as passé as En Vogue. How does he know? Well, because he thinks it's lame! 
