Archive for the ‘irritants’ Category

How Much Less Could You Not Care?

Friday, October 23rd, 2015


It just occurred to me that too many people online are mentioning Back To The Future. Maybe they’re making a sequel or prequel.

I actually love the term origin story, which I just learned this week. I love it because it’s stupid and pretentious and somehow millennial.  It’s the new way to say prequel as if that term wasn’t hard enough to get used to.

Anyway, Back To The Future was a great film at the time and my kid adored it. We saw it several times.

Now it is 2015 and I could not give a shit about Back To The Future on any level. I don’t care what the original cast is doing or what the remake or prequel or origin story is about. I’ve been done with it for years and years.

Likewise Star Wars. Could not care less. Literally. But too bad for me, because I am doomed to hear about it forever and ever. If I could not have to see the words Carrie Fisher even, I would consider it a small gift from the universe.

I’m through hearing about rape culture or anything remotely related to it. I get it, but I still don’t care. I’m through hearing about how Jennifer Lawrence didn’t get enough money. “Women in Hollywood,” I’m through hearing about your problems. I just don’t care.

Are you finding that your culture is obsessed with stuff you could not care less about? Even if it has gone viral (or especially if it has gone viral?)

Let me know what it is. Please share!

But just one more thing before I forget: How much do you not care about what happened on the Jimmy Fallon show last night? Why do we have to hear about it? Wouldn’t we have watched it when it was on, if we gave a shit about it? I don’t watch it expressly for the purpose of not knowing what was on it!


Okay, now you.

The Gucci Dead Animal Shoe, $15,000

Wednesday, October 14th, 2015

gucci shoe 15,000A sharp-eyed reader sent me to this shoe, which looks like it’s trying to run away.

Run, Gucci goat-hair slipper, run as fast as you can!

You know what, the poor thing is dead. Too late.

[These} slippers are one of the most talked-about designs from Alessandro Michele’s debut runway collection. They’re finished with the label’s signature gold horsebit, nestled in the floor-sweeping honey-colored strands that also line the shoe.

The floor-sweeping honey-colored strands of a dead goat is what I see here but let’s try another view.

gucci shoes ew

Now, with feet inside, you can see how these little critters will keep you company all day long, with floaty dresses as well as casual jeans, according to the editor’s styling tips. If they start to get smelly, just blame the goats. If your friends and associates don’t gasp in envy at your edgy taxidermy-driven style, you can show them your receipt for $15,000 and say. “Now what, bitch?”

Sadly, that figure is Hong Kong dollars, so in fact the price is a bargain at only around $1,900 USD.

In France or Russia, these shoes might have sparked a revolution. Here in the US, we just roll our eyes and go off to bed with murder in our hearts.

Is Your Pubic Hair Silky?

Monday, October 12th, 2015

fur oil

Three young women noticed a vacuum in the marketplace for pubic hair grooming products, and voila! They formed a company to right that wrong, called Fur.

Because money.

Wait, I’m so sorry, I meant to say, because why shouldn’t we take care of our pubic hair like we take care of the hair on our heads? That is their thinking, apparently.

If only they had asked me that question, I would’ve answered, “Because our public hair is not scorched by styling tools, dye, sun and wind!” And because public has it’s own texture: that’s why they call it pubic hair.

Anyway, who needs common sense where grooming products are concerned, right? If you can be made to feel insecure or inadequate about any area of your body, you will consider buying a product. Let’s say your heels aren’t baby-smooth. You’ll buy one of those egg-shaped things to scrape away at your heels until they’re ready to diaper.

So, the creators of Fur realized that women are moving away from waxing, although according to Fashionista, that doesn’t mean “going totally 70’s.”

I mean, god no. The 70’s were like the fucking National Geographic, with all that public hair! Ugh, the horror of looking natural. Forget that. We’re talking more about “some hair” in the “nether regions.” Not a whole jungle, okay?

And that hair needs to be silky. It needs to be softened with a special oil that costs $39.

Fur Oil’s unique blend of lightweight oils softens pubic hair and clears pores for fewer ingrowns and healthier skin. The 100% natural formula is gently antiseptic, antimicrobial, and reduces inflammation.  Fur Oil can be used as frequently as desired to enhance pubic hair and skin, and is also suitable for use on the face and body.

Directions: Apply Fur Oil liberally to clean pubic hair and skin.  For best results use as part of a daily regimen.

Are you in? For another $32, you can buy Fur’s other product, Stubble Cream,

a lightweight, natural emulsion [that] smoothes prickly regrowth, clears pores for fewer ingrowns and protects pubic skin.

Obviously, I find this annoying and even depressing. It’s also misogyny pretending to be empowering or something. If you have pubic hair, it’s nice for your partner if you bathe regularly. Then, you’re good to go.

Not only is my pubic hair silky enough, my belly button is fine without any belly button products and so are my knees without knee products. I already have enough body issues and shit to keep myself in line, cosmetically.

Finally there is Fur’s packaging and font. The creators wanted something elegant and “timeless, like Chanel” but with the “shock factor of the words pubic hair.” To me, it looks clinical but kind of scary, with the truncated letter f lending it a German quality that makes me uneasy.

Why not just call it Führer, or even Führer For The Pussy?

Take it away before I get madder.

Death Cafe: Stupid Or Awful?

Thursday, September 17th, 2015

death cafe website

Death Cafe is sort of a coffee klatch for would-be coroners. At present, it’s more of a movement than a physical space, with pop-up Death Cafe’s in 31 countries.

Here’s how Death Cafe defines itself:

At a Death Cafe people, often strangers, gather to eat cake, drink tea and discuss death.

Our objective is ‘to increase awareness of death with a view to helping people make the most of their (finite) lives’

How nice! Because, who doesn’t like death? You can never have enough death, evidently. But here’s what Death Cafe isn’t:

It is a discussion group rather than a grief support or counselling session.

It’s not a spelling class either, but that’s okay. What isn’t okay for me is the concept of death as something cool because, you know, it’s so dark and transgressive. It’s like one big memento mori festival, full of arty skull motifs and and Victorian post-mortem photos.

Death Cafe is a ‘social franchise’. This means that people who sign up to our guide and principles can use the name Death Cafe, post events to this website and talk to the press as an affiliate of Death Cafe.

Yay, we can all host a Death Cafe if we follow the guidelines. I like this one: The main qualities of a host are enthusiasm for talking about death and dying and high ethical standards. That rules me out, since I have ethics but no enthusiasm.

I’m aware that a fetishistic interest in morbid things has long been a feature of hipsterism.  Taxidermy, Day of the Dead artifacts, the Morbid Anatomy Museum, zombies, all those tumblr pictures of dead girls in bathtubs. I get that it seems cool to embrace the taboo.

But this Death Cafe thing, no. A big No.

What a bunch of fatuous fuckers.

Cat Cafes, fine. *Baby Cafes, even better (*as soon as I get the idea off the ground. Contact me if you want to fund my business plan!)

Death is a drag and there’s already so much of it. It isn’t really cute. Let’s not trivialize it.

2015 VMA Awards Exegesis

Tuesday, September 1st, 2015

The Horror VMAs 2015

The horror, right? It was mostly non-stop horror, with the exception of Kanye West‘s comic turn.

Poor Kanye! He could talk forever and never make sense. That is his genius. I tired to explain to my husband why I don’t aim my wrath at Kanye instead of Taylor Swift, by explaining:”Because there’s something wrong with him.” It would be like taunting a special ed kid; I can’t do it.

The show’s most egregious figure was Taylor Swift, because that’s how much she annoys me. She wore herself out trying to prove that she’s best friends with everybody, leaning down to embrace everyone of importance, who all looked like midgets compared to the giraffe-like chanteuse.

Something was wrong with Taylor’s face that made her look Chinese. She had trouble smiling, as though her mouth was full of bigger teeth than her lips could accommodate. Whatever it is, keep it up, girl.

Moving along, Justin Bieber tried to sing and then cried with relief. Pharrell hopped around like a little sailor, and an awful girl named Tory Something shrieked her head off and strutted around like Beyonce-times-ten.

Miley Cyrus was aggressively obnoxious but still relatively sexy. Her tiny butt was the perfect antidote to Kim Kardashian and Nicki Minaj. The latter two women need to manage their asses, somehow, before they become separate entities and use up the world’s oxygen. Remember “The Blob?” Take this as a warning, people of Earth.

What else? Oh, a guy called The Weekend did an impression of a poor man’s Michael Jackson, and wore his hair in a style reminiscent of Woody Woodpecker. (Millennials, that’s a cartoon character.)

John Legend was handsome and charming as usual. Call me, John. You too, Jared Leto, you freak.

Miley Cyrus ended the show with a musical number that involved a fleet of trannies or whatever the word is, bringing a Sixties vibe to the fiasco with her Free Love/Smoke Pot message.

The best moment for me personally was during the Kanye monologue, when my friend Margaret suddenly exclaimed, “He’s gay!” in the exact tone of Archimedes shouting “Eureka!”

Sunday Night TV

Monday, July 13th, 2015


Tonight we watched what my husband and I call ‘Our Sunday Shows.’

We’re like decrepit retiree’s, with nothing more exciting to do at night than watch TV. I can’t remember what young people do at night.

Anyway, Sunday night is packed with Cable series that are always ending or beginning a new season. One show will have its season finale, leaving me feeling anxious and abandoned, but another one will start up. Mostly they’re crap but we watch them faithfully.

Tonight we watched True Detective, Ray Donovan, and Ballers, all stupid and disappointing, but we’ll be back for more next Sunday. Despite the stupidity of these particular shows, we feel we have standards. I will never, and I mean never, watch Game of Thrones. I know in my heart that I don’t want to see dragons or women on horseback yelling at their armies.

Likewise, I didn’t watch Madmen because I can’t stand that guy’s face and I’m not interested in advertising or period irony.

True Detective was so magnificent last year! This year, it’s a big mess that’s hard to follow and doesn’t make sense anyway. No one can act, the dialogue is lame and stilted, and the Chinatown aspects are forced and idiotic. Plus, I miss every other line of dialogue because no one will fucking enunciate.

Ray Donovan is a truly terrible show but I’ve come to appreciate how bad it is. The best part is how Liev Scheiber refuses to make a facial expression. All the characters are repellent and all the accents are laughably inept.

Ballers is new but it seems promising in the stupid department. There’s a lot of male posturing and a lot of girls in bikinis, since it’s a Mark Wahlberg production. But it stars The Rock, who is always compellingly strange: Is he black or Mexican or Asian? Why is his head so small that he looks like a dinosaur? Is he gay or what? What is the source of his obscure charm?

During the week, we try to find things on Netflix that might actually be good but it’s hit and miss. If nothing is on, we are happy to play with our computers or read.

But Sunday night is special because Our Shows are on, and we hate to miss a single unintelligible moment.

What shows do you guys like to watch?


And For Our Jewish Friends…

Tuesday, December 23rd, 2014

hot-jewish ladies

In my 20s, a hundred years ago, I remember enjoying newspaper ads for grocery stores that said “And For Our Jewish Friends,” with photos of Hanukkah or Passover food. I enjoyed what I felt was the discreet racism of “Our Jewish Friends” and probably inferred a silent “You kikes!”

I thought this Jewish specificity was a thing of the past but nope, the clickbait above popped up yesterday.

So where are the Hottest Presbyterian Woman Under 40?  I couldn’t find them, but I did find fifty more Hot Jews, including many names I’ve never heard before plus Sarah Silverman, the poster girl for attractive Jewishness.

If you google the phrase “And for our Jewish Friends,” it crops up everywhere, usually a polite afterthought to an Easter or Christmas wish. “Hey Jews, look, we’re not excluding you!”

When will America single out Muslims and Buddhists in their holiday greetings or hot babe galleries? Until that happens, I resent the shout out to Jews.

Fuck you, Dominant American Culture! I’m not your friend. I don’t even believe in god. But here’s how I served some pastries at my housewarming party last week.


L’chaim and Merry Christmas, inshallah!

Window Blinds: A Fight To The Death

Wednesday, October 22nd, 2014

new sign unpacked

We are moving box by box, until Monday when the moving truck comes to take the big stuff.  The new house is nice, and a neighbor from across the street gave us a bottle of wine and some cookies to welcome us. We bought huge rattan porch chairs from a guy on Craig’s list, and sitting on the porch enjoying a gentle sea breeze is genuinely idyllic.

But then there’s the window blinds.

I have never had one single thought about window blinds. They played no role in my existence. But that’s over. We’ve entered into a tense conflict over what kind of blinds to get. I want real wood. He wants faux wood, I guess made of vinyl. Wood is expensive and bla bla bla. But vinyl blinds seem creepy and not homey. Why wants vinyl anything?

I kept on promoting wood, and my husband kept on noting that he couldn’t tell the difference, so fake wood was fine. We got increasingly frustrated. It became one of those ‘just admit I’m right’ argument. I suggested that the one who cares most should trump the one who doesn’t fee emotional invested.

I went into another room feeling angry, wronged, resentful, and wounded. Who gives a shit about fucking blinds, I thought. Why give a shit about anything.

I wondered whether the fight was really about control, fear, loss, insecurity. For me, yep, all those things, plus grief, going through old schoolwork and mother’s day cards, art projects, stuffed animals, used hypodermic needles.  I have to keep all these things in my heart while letting go of them physically. At least some of them.

Meanwhile, the motherfucking blinds. I wish we could just get curtains instead. And I need to buy a pink toilet to match the bathtub. I don’t care what it costs because life owes me a pink toilet.

2014 VMA Awards Exegesis

Monday, August 25th, 2014

DM_MTV_Video_Music_Awards_Pt_1 37.jpg

God, what an ordeal. I’m going directly to Beyonce to say: Why did everyone love this performance???

I really think I have never seen such an obnoxious display of self-importance in my whole life. “Welcome to my World?” Who gives a shit about her world! Why can’t she sing a song with a melody? It’s all like a long intro that never turns into an actual song. Since when does spreading your legs in a leotard and shaking your hair around signify feminism? Is everybody crazy? Beyonce is now like a parody of a self-important diva. She fucking LOVES herself. Why does she need us at this point? When she tells the audience ‘I love y’all!’ it is absurdly hollow.

And the fucking husband-and-baby gambit, Jesus Christ. Who else would do that? Just awful.

Okay. Moving on. The rest of the show was about asses, most of them huge. I was actually moved to consult my husband for a male judgement on whose ass was the night’s biggest. His answer was Iggy, which surprised me. Surely Niki Minaj had the evening’s hugest ass, or maybe she just twerked it in our faces more.

The look of dismay on Rita Ora‘s face during the Anaconda dance functions perfectly as a universal statement of repugnance for this tawdry shit. It just can’t get any lower. Racist, sexist, artificial, we now have Miley Cryus as the elder statesman and voice of reason. Please Adele, come back, we need you.

In order of awfulness there was:

Tayler Swift – Tragically delusional, she now thinks she is Britney Spears. Make her die.

Nicki Minaj – Depressingly shameless, she has some nerve to lecture other rappers about artistic integrity.

Sam Smith – Ugh! Stop singing that same fucking song. He’s like Antony Hegarty without the gender intrigue. Hate him. Bring back Boy George if we need a pudgy gay white soul singer!

Maroon 5 – Adam Levine is a disgrace to the Chosen People. He needs to shave and to stop imitating Sting.

Jesse J – Ew, what is the point of her? She’s just a big man with a screechy voice.

Now, here’s what was good:

Iggy Azalea – because I love her and that’s that.

Rita Ora – because she can actually sing.

Usher – because he can dance.

Homeless Jesse – because he is really cute, and I liked his relative composure.

Miley Cyrus – Because she managed to look ‘classy’ by keeping her tongue in her mouth, and stole everyone’s thunder with that homeless shit.

Maybe now people can stop throwing buckets of ice water on themselves and start throwing water at Tayler Swift if at all possible.


Taking A Stand

Thursday, July 24th, 2014


Everywhere I go online today, there is shit about Fifty Shades of Grey. I guess there’s a new trailer out, or maybe it’s the first trailer.

I can’t tell you how good it feels to not be interested in this trailer! Not only am I not interested in the trailer, I am not interested in reactions to the trailer!

I can’t wait to not see the actual movie., just as I couldn’t wait to not read the book or learn anything about its author. I admit to having a perverse fondness for really bad writing, and the few excerpts I saw were weapons-grade awful. So kudos to whatshername who wrote it.

Who would like to join me in taking a pledge to not watch this trailer? Maybe we can come up with a badge or membership card or something.

The state of pop culture is so abysmal that it may seem pointless to single out one offender as being too base or stupid to countenance. But I’m drawing my line anyway.

Big deal about bondage, S&M, doms and subs. Just don’t bother me with fifty shades of anything unless it’s red lipstick.