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Let’s Not Tell the Truth Anymore

March 1, 2011

One of my old life goals, asides from learning how to hotwire a car and becoming the Supreme President of the Universe, is to be as truthful as possible. There’s something appealing about the idea of being an antisocial stickler for Truth. It must be nice to be someone who believes so strongly in the idea of Truth and Science and Rightness that they’re absolutely fine with telling their peers “Yes, you look like shit in that new shirt – but that’s because it’s how you always look.” and “No, I can’t come to your birthday bash because you are a tedious greasy smear on the pavement of life”. We celebrate these characters because they are a harmless outlet for the evil bitchtastic side of us social conventions forbid and also because let’s face it: they’re hilarious. Still, these characters are nearly always redeemed by the fact that they’re either a) uncommonly intelligent, or b) actually hiding their hearts of gold underneath their top piecrust of arrogant standoffishness.

I personally decided awhile back that I would be like Gregory House from House and Sherlock Holmes from Sherlock Holmes and Wallace Wallace from No More Dead Dogs.(Look! Two out of three are the eponymous characters. You can’t say they’re not successful.). I would always speak my mind as honestly and bluntly as possible when people ask for my opinion. It’s a personality trait that I tried to cultivate. Delicately lowered into the muddy soil of my mind, I hoped one day the personality trait would blossom and harvest, and speaking my mind would take root in my character that it’ll become a reflex.  Not only might this make me somewhat cool and interesting (something every teenager secretly pines for), it would also be a rebellious middle finger to those insipid motivational messages like “Just be yourself” or “Don’t bow down to Peer Pressure”.  Ha – can’t you see that by being intentionally true to myself I’m really being absolutely fake to myself?  seeing as I’m exactly the sort of non-aggressive coward who would never say anything like that ever out of the fear of being confronted?

This is another point that I considered:  I’m not a genius. Nor do I have a heart of sufficiently precious metal. Forget gold – my heart would probably rank somewhere between mercury and bismuth in terms of world market price. And even if I did have a gold-ish one, suppose the people who surround me failed to perceive it? I’d have to deliberately provoke opportunities where I can let my brilliant sneering mask slip to leave a glimpse of my softer cuddly side.  I’d also have to start creating a softer cuddly side to show.  But given the number of people I meet each day, multiplied by the patchwork irregular mind of an average teenager, I’d have to spend about half my waking moments engineering such moments.  Can’t be worth it.

Image credits:
Sidney Paget’s Holmes Illustrations, House MD, No More Dead Dogs, I love Honesty pin, polygraph tests



Hey This May Be Childhood Nostalgia

February 28, 2011

I think that this is a better representation of childhood than most. I don’t know about you, but I throw up at the sight of giggly children in sailor suits, running through meadows like they’re being pursued by cuddly stuffed toys while on nitrous oxide. How dare those people be happier than me.

I think that children’s horror fiction is actually a lot scarier than adults. Less gruesome, yes. But since they shy away from the kind of overdirect hyper-sexualized blood gore-orgies that slasher films love so much. They actually have to rely on the reader’s imagination, which is kind of nice because it makes me feel slightly more involved in the book. I read a lot of Roald Dahl recently, and it’s almost shamefully pleasurable to watch the greedy pig-faced villains get their hilarious and just ends. Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, for instance. Today people would shake their heads and talk about child neglect and Freudian excuses and poor parenting, but admit it: you feel justly vindicated when Augustus Gloop fell into the chocolate river, Fatheaded excuse for a human being he is – what a little bastard. The children invited to the chocolate factory are little more than two-dimensional hate magnets anyway, as deviously manufactured by Dahl like how the tooth rotting sweets are deviously manufactured by Willy Wonka. That doens’t really lessen the feeling of betrayal though, when you catch yourself cheering on the juicing process for a young girl who has just turned into a half-human and half-blueberry creature. Which now to think of it, sounds like the most perfect candidate ever for a haircut with Sweeney Todd. Dessert and entrée at once, mmm.

The Agony of Chuck Taylors

February 28, 2011

I have just acquired a pair of Converse. One of my friends, in an odd moment of sartorial imprudence, bought a pair that was clearly labeled a size too large for her. They then fell upon me and my ridiculously grabby hands for the grand price of ten dollars and a chocolate bar, which somehow sounds less impressive in writing then it did in my head. Bad news though: these shoes are an absolutely ridiculous shade of light lavender. Think feminine hygiene boxes. Think bland soulless flower prints that bitterly optimistic grade school teachers hang behind their desks. Think girlishness filtered through a haze of anesthetic, its brightness neatly washed out by rubbing alcohol.

That’s not fair.

But the same way that hemp bags covered in witty buttons and 1970s punk rock patches are meant for the kind of girl who watches Brazil and Monty Python and who more likely than not have a ridiculously cool pair of Doc Martens, light lavender sneakers are destined for happy girls with slightly quirky personalities who listen to Regina Spektor and have rhinestone-studded cellphones and a long list of cellphone contacts with silly whimsical nicknames like Brixy or Chocokate.

Too lazy to actually buy fabric dye, I decided to just paint them with a can of india ink.

But wait, every article of clothing carries with it subtle connotations. And black converse, as we all know, is the iconic emblem of the hipster.

What that means is that I now have a bizarre fear of random passersby on the streets spitting in my face and mocking me for my choice of footwear. The worst part of it all is that I’m pretty sure I fit under the “hipster” definition. I like old stuff, I listen to indie music, I frequent secondhand bookstores, and now I’m the frantic possessor of a pair of Converse. I am fine with most of that. It is what I like to do, and if that’s who I am then that’s that. What’s really worrying is that if I admit I am a hipster, am I now ironically hipster? Isn’t that just a timey-wimey topsy-turvey logicbomb mindfuck implosion of irony? I hate myself suddenly, because suddenly I’m not just something – which was supposed to be fine – I’m now ironically something. If I admit to that, as I am doing by rambling about this now, is that ironically ironical irony? But if I try to escape that by going back to square one and restarting my personality constructions, and thus resorting to the first generation hipsterdom from which I just originated, is that not a sign of hipster-ness as well? The very idea of hipster is set up to collapse under anxiously paranoid self-scrutiny. What is irony? Where does it end? Is this a pipe? Do pop stars really think that no one will notice their nosejobs? Where does the sun go at night? What is authenticity? Who am I? What is reality?

Good questions all. But if we(well, me) really are getting to this point, then we might as well fuck it all and torch civilization to the ground and start over.

I’ll start with my shoes.

Great Action Films and Their Parodies

February 12, 2011

James Bond

James Bond:
[after throwing a bad guy into a printing press] They’ll print anything these days.
(Tomorrow Never Dies)

[after knocking a lamp into a bathtub to electrocute a bad guy]
James Bond: Shocking! Positively shocking!

[after sleeping with someone names Christmas Jones]

James Bond: “I thought Christmas only comes once a year.”
(The World is Not Enough)

Bond: “Tell her Slate was a dead end.”
Agent: “Slate was a dead end.”
M: “Damn it, he killed him!”
(Quantum Of Solace )

spoofed by: Mitchell and Webb

They Live (and countless other action movies

Duke Nukem: “I have come here to chew bubblegum and kick ass. And I’m all out of bubblegum.”

spoofed by: Britanick

Dirty Harry

Harry: I know what you’re thinking, punk. “Did he fire six shots or only five?” Well, to tell you the truth, I’ve forgotten myself in all this excitement. But being as this is a .44 Magnum, the most powerful handgun in the world, and would blow your head clean off, you’ve gotta ask yourself a question: “Do I feel lucky?” Well, do ya, punk?!

spoofed by: XKCD

And other notable subversions:

Evil Overlord List

The Top 100 Things I’d Do
If I Ever Became An Evil Overlord
7. When I’ve captured my adversary and he says, “Look, before you kill me, will you at least tell me what this is all about?” I’ll say, “No.” and shoot him. No, on second thought I’ll shoot him then say “No.”

Doctor Who

(starts at 6:30)

The Master: “Why don’t we stop and have a nice little chat while I tell you all my plans and you can work out a way to stop me, I don’t think!”
-Doctor Who, “Utopia”

Eva B. Friperie

February 11, 2011

Eva B.

(Also, sorry, I have to point this out or it’ll kill me – they spelt “immediately” wrong.)

It’s like a cross between the bedroom of a madcap heiress with a little too much artistic endowment and everywhere to put it, and a precocious five years old child who one day decided that they’ll amass the largest collection of clothes the world has ever seen. Eva B. actually has a pit of clothes in the back, each article a dollar. Remember those ball pits that you pretended to love when you were five but you secretly hated because they seemed like cruel and unusual ways to suffocate and drown at the same time? It’s absolutely nothing like that. Unless you really loved them as a child because you were less anxious and uptight than me, in that case they’re exacty like that. It’s a pit of clothes. I’ve spent afternoons conducting archaeological digs trying to find the bottom. Along the way, I unearthed ripped up beach pants, Abercrombie and Fitch sweaters from when they were an outdoor goods store, discarded prom dresses, stripper heels, faded t-shirts with advertisements on them, good quality childrens trousers, moth-eaten cardigans, countless white shirts, Harris Tweed jackets, hippie maxi dresses, trendy mini-dresses, and on one slightly bizarre occasion – an airport security uniform shirt.

1920s Australian Criminal is actually Rorschach

February 11, 2011

From: La Boite Verte

I love how if you erase the floaty white writing some of them look like street style shots. They probably committed terrible crimes, but since they committed them a century ago that means we can feel free to forget about it. Who cares if someone died ninety years ago? We’ll all be dead ninety years from now anyways.

Fresh from the Sartorialist (not really):

Young Australia – I bumped into Sherry and Majora at the Sydney police station today. Look at the proportions of her oversized cardigan and her headscarf. I’ve been looking for a fur coat lately. I think the secret is to find a square one that’s not too short, don’t you?”

Find more of these at: La Boite Verte

This one is my favourite, because he looks exactly like what I imagined Walter Kovacs (Rorschach) from Watchmen looks like.

I found that Jackie Earle Haley is a touch too defined for Rorschach’s smashed-by-a-cement block features – I think it must be the cheekbones.


The Main Problems with the Planned Parenthood Video

February 10, 2011

From Live Action

It’s like watching a candid clip on Youtube of a cat attacking a five year old toddler, and then suddenly declaring all cats are malicious shitbags freshly squeezed from Beelzebub litter box itself.
Besides, it seems depressing to consider the alternatives. Assuming that they received the message – what were the receptionist and the doctor supposed to do? Immediately become all up in arms about the suspected sex trafficking and kick them out of the clinic? Sex workers deserve decent health care too if they need it. Should the receptionist have alerted the authorities? But then how did we know they didn’t do so? Even more depressing – how often does this happen at this clinic? If there is a steady stream of prostitutes and their pimps coming in asking about abortions and contraceptives, then maybe they’ve discovered in the long run it helps more to offer immediate aid then to contact the police. Being a legal grey area , Prostitution is stigmatized and misunderstood. Most prostitutes hardly have the safest of jobs due to strict laws governing their working conditions. I admit that I don’t know very much about the clinic or the situation, so I can’t say anything definite. This is all speculation. But I just want to point out there are some very large logical gaps in the arguments surrounding the video.

Inappropriate response about underage sex workers

Planned Parenthood is MADE OF EVIL

It’s stupid to attack the entire Planned Parenthood organisation from this one incident. In any case, they doesn’t just provide abortions: they also offer sex education and emergency contraceptives and STD treatments. We can’t just declare the doctors evil, attack them for only the abortion part, and then conveniently forget the rest. That’ll be like declaring all cats evil

The most they can argue is that Planned Parenthood needs to have better procedures in place to deal with sex workers and exploited underage girls. The same way that we can’t suddenly shove Fluffy out into the cold for something his furry peers have done. One clip doesn’t prove anything, not when it comes to a collection of beings so vast and varied like the feline species or an international health organization.