Welcome To My Bed

Observe.

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+ That picture has nothing to do with anything.

+ The writing in Rolling Stone has gotten so shitty that I am convinced they've given run of the magazine to twelve-year-olds. Or monkeys. Or sea horses. Or maybe glossy journalism is just on its way to dead.

Honestly. The interview with Lady Gaga was booooooooorrrrringgggg. Do we really care that she eats chicken fingers on her our bus post-concert?? Somebody seemed to think so. But the compelling information was all buried under "I don't want to talk about it"s, which the writer seemed perfectly okay accepting. Sweet tenacity, RS. I would have like to see the writer ask her some hard hitting questions, but s/he seemed content to let Gaga decide what was getting talked about, so much so that some of the questions weren't so much questions as they were--and I'm being quite literal here--a simple, encouraging "I understand". HELLO???!! I mean, I know that print media is losing readership, but maybe that's because print media is letting itself go worse than a housewife four kids deep with a lapsed gym membership and a husband who's stepping out on her with the dry cleaner's daughter. The music reviews were somehow better written than the featured articles.

Do people really get journalism degrees so that they can fuck around, make parallelism mistakes, overuse m-dashes, and get paid? If so, sign me up. I'd love to forget that proofreading exists.

NOT.

+ I haven't seen my roommate in nearly two days. I know where she is, but I find it difficult not to be concerned.

+ The reason that jobs make you give two weeks notice, the REAL reason, is so that you have to endure the gauntlet of co-workers giving you shit for leaving. In my current situation, every shift I work is drowned in pleas for me to stay. I know I work hard (I don't know how to do things any other way). What I did not know was that I was so deeply loved by everyone at my restaurant. It's making things really tough. I get choked up about it at least once a day, usually when someone new finds out when my last day is. I invariably have to go through the explanation of why I had to switch jobs, which puts all my anxiety to the front of my mind. And then they get sad. And then I get sad. And then I run away into the kitchen to sneak a handful of croutons so that I have something to do (eat) besides all of this sad stuff. I hate goodbyes. They always feel wrong. No one is dying here, at least not anyone directly involved with work. I try to remedy the whole affair with deep breaths. Some days it works. Other days, not so much.

+ Have spent the better part of this week talking myself out of spending my rent money on another tattoo. Don't worry though, no appointment has been made. And I am writing a check to my landlord as we speak so the temptation isn't there. Even though it is. I hate being so broke. June is the worst restaurant month ever. Good thing I'm done with restaurants for awhile.

Ticking off some check-boxes.

As my summer lover affair with Providence is winding down, I'm trying to get in all the little bits and pieces I've been dying to include since I arrived her back in May. Over the past few days, I've crossed a few things off my to-do list.

Wednesday night I let myself do a little exploring before Writers in the Round at Tazza. Walking around downtown aimlessly with no real destination was something I haven't let myself do nearly enough in my months here. And I got to see this -

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Now, Federal Hill is always incredibly striking, but the pink sky made me smile so much, like raspberry lemonade on a dusky porch or something equally as wonderful and worthy of swizzle sticks.

I've also been reading a ton more than I was even a few weeks ago, probably because I've gotten into the groove of things. Just before I have to leave of course, but I guess I'm glad it happened at all. Current reading list:

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Lit Riffs edited by Matthew Miele; The Will to Change: Men, Masculinity, and Love by bell hooks; Black Book Magazine's rebel issue (starring Evam Rachel Wood and Juliette Lewis); Infinity Blues by Ryan Adams; and Metro Pop Magazine. Not pictured (but almost always in my purse) are the latest issue of Nylon, Dave Eggers' How We Are Hungry, and Hampshire Slam Collective Fishes For Satellites. Black Book has one of the best fashion editorials I've seen in forever. It made me regret all of my high school prom dresses instantly and wish I had been just slightly more obsessed with Grease as an adolescent.

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Metro Pop also had a great greaser-inspired spread that made me proud to have short hair. It also made me want to go out and buy a motorcycle, but the feeling has since passed.

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But the one rebel impulse that I am powerless against is the compulsion to get tattooed. I've been itching for one all summer and kept making excuses, but today was completely free and Providence Tattoo on College Hill apparently takes walk-ins (and has the best collection of traditional-inspired flash I've seen yet). So I am now freshly inked and very happy.

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82 is my house number in New Jersey, and since moving away, I've learned it's possible for me to feel at home wherever I am. Providence is home now, but I've had glimpses of home at Hampshire and on my visits to Allston (I figure those can be attributed to the poets, but who knows). The tattoo is a symbol of that new level of comfort. And it was test drive for the parlor, because I'm in the market for an artist for when I move here next spring. Judging by the bedside manner and the impressive portfolios at Providence Tattoo, I'm fairly certain I've found the place I'll be getting my graduation present to myself come next May.

And now it's time to go pick up some tortilla chips for the leftover bean dip I brewed up as part of a culinary adventure I had yesterday afternoon.

Points of interest.

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This Rock Man knows what's up. Check out his life philosophy in The Point.


In my travels through the land of bite-sized reading (and a seemingly endless laundry day), here are a few I couldn't help but share.

* Latent sexism at the box office, especially in movies supposedly targeted at women? You're not the only one who's noticed.

* Shabby chic, the flannel craze, starving artist as fashion icon: welcome to the life of the new economic top dog social group, the poorgeoisie.

* Planning your end of summer North American tour (a la White Lightning)? Nylon rounded up pit-stop suggestions from A Camp.

* PSI's National Poetry Slam 2009 kicks off in mere days, and though I'm not sure Florida August is my cup of tea, I am endlessly jealous of the fun to be had at this block party of lovers and lunatics.

* A habit I have been training myself not to succumb to: falling for the "bad boy". A few answers about why that jerk is somehow still magnetic, even when he blows you off for the thousandth time.

Enjoy the spoonfuls of wisdom, and let me know if you find anything interesting yourself.

I thought this was over when she said, "Vote or Die."

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Work in the library again tonight, and as per usual, nobody has any reference questions. Knowing that it would be a long slow night (things have just been dragging me down in general lately), I went to the school store and bought a magazine to keep me company. On the cover of my old stand-by (Nylon), is none other than Paris Hilton. Yes, they have sunk to a new low, but I don't mean that as a jibe at Hilton. Let me qualify that statement.

Nylon has had cover girls in the past that I have been a little miffed about. For example: Chloe Sevigny. I don't get it. She's a decent actress, but the strange obsession with her that exists in the world of hipsters and alternative fashion magazines irritates me to no end. She's not outrageously attractive, juts average. Her sense of style isn't all that astonishing, just slighty less mainstream than the rest of Hollywood. On and on and on. And then there was also Rachel Bilson. Ugh. Another person I do not understand, especially because she doesn't even have anything near Chloe's acting chops. I mean, let's be serious. The OC? Jumper? Those are great achievements in entertainment? I think not. And all she does concerning clothing is throw on a bunch of Marc Jacobs and date Adam Brody for the cameras. Honestly. That low, I am more than used to. I can handle minor head-scratching. But Paris is a completely different story.

The article takes the angle that she is misunderstood, that her dumb blonde persona is a routine she plays into because that's what the media makes her out to be, that she is really a business genius who has feelings too. That may be all well and good, and I don't know her, so I am not going to comment on her level of intelligence or what I think of her strange relationship with the media. What I will ask is, why, when doing a story on how the media pays so much negative attention to her, does the article not really care about her at all? I mean, if you're going to attempt to change the common perception on a public figure, you don't do it by talking about the public perception of them for 90% of the article. She has a movie coming out that they mention in passing, one that she has apparently gotten good critical buzz for. The writer spends less than a paragraph on that. Anything positive they could have said about her is lost in riffs on how sad it is that the world doesn't know the real Paris. You aren't helping with that Nylon. I wag my finger at your hypocrisy.

Read me!

A little something that James brought to my attention:

There are so many people on campus up in arms about the call for the death of hipster culture. But I have to say I am totally down. I really wish people would be sincere again. Irony is so frustrating. I miss when I could say that I enjoy Phil Collins without someone smirking in agreement because they think I'm saying it in a mocking way. Cos I really do like Phil Collins. I have ever since I can remember. There is no irony in it.

Down with Williamsburg!

Also, fuck PBR. What an awful beer.

Going green.

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So last night I finally got myself to the movie theater for the second installment of Marvel's version of summer wonderful. And as I was watching the movie and re-experiencing all that it means to be green when you're angry I couldn't help recalling an article I read recently in the current issue of Elle. One of their editors did a piece of her battle with anxiety and the medications that she's tried, eventually coming to the conclusion that pot was the best way to treat her condition. I have long been a believer in the many medical applications of marijuana, and this article only reaffirmed my stance on the way that I use it.

For my entire life, I have been the most anxious person I know. If a friend doesn't call me for two days, I automatically become wrought with all of these horrible images of them in a car crash or some other awful accident. And if it's not that, then I go over and over our last conversation, picking over details looking for something I did wrong, something I did to suddenly make me unworthy of their attentions. For lack of any other way to take out my anxieties I bite at my cuticles, only distracted from my worries when I have something small and consuming to do. Why I took up smoking cigarettes. Why I took up knitting. Why I took up journaling. My journals are horrific in the mood swings mapped out on their pages, and the people I trust enough to show them to are always surprised at the intense highs and lows I experience daily. So this Elle article was something that both amazed me and satisfied me; ever since the first time I smoked pot three or so years ago, I have known how powerful it could be as a regulated pharmaceutical. Not just for people with glaucoma and whatnot, but for people like me who are crippled by anxiety. Whenever I smoke, I am instantly calmed and evened out. Normally manic and fast-talking to keep my mind from jumping to awful conclusions about the things I cannot control, even James has said to me that when I smoke, I just seem okay with things.

Cut to Edward Norton's heart rate dilemma in the summer blockbuster mentioned about. Is it really possible that the Hulk, or rather, Bruce Banner, never thought of medical marijuana for his troubles? We all know that any extreme anger or anxiety causes him to "go Hulk". In the film, he uses breathing techniques to try to control this. But I think that as a scientist, he is overlooking a little green friend that could help keep him from turning into that famous green monstrosity. I guess Stan Lee was too busy drawing to toke up. Or maybe this just wouldn't fit into gamma mutation mythology. I have no idea. But it's just a thought.