Hi Friends

I'm guest blogging at XX this week!

Gah! You guys, it's been soooooo hot here the past few weeks, I sweat constantly and wake up stained like an abuse victim from cuddling packages of frozen berries. I wasn't really born for this kind of weather, I slid out on a cool 53 degree day in the Fresh Forest climate of 1980's Minnesota, and since then I've basically needed temperatures that sound like deodorant scents to really thrive in my environment. I've been rewarding daily survival with Uncle Louie's ices and the most twee of air-conditioned rom-coms. I mean, now is the time for emo pornography, my panties are already wet from the heat.




I thought Paper Heart was going to be like Juno lite, and maybe Michael Cera could be less of a non-committal jerk without the stress of a 16 & Pregnant love interest, but apparently not-- he dumped his love-inept Asian girlfriend two weeks before the movie's release date, purportedly to roam the interiors of hotter Hollywood starlets. Of course, I don't blame lil' Cera, Charlyne Yi looks like a 12 year old who's never masturbated, and she spends the entire movie whining about her unlovability until it essentially becomes true. Her major fear of falling in love is getting ousted from the "one of the dudes" club. Evidently you can't play Nintendo once you start using your female organs. She's clearly never seen this picture:



Yi spends some time interviewing random Americans about their conceptions of love, which is sweet reprieve from the rest of the movie: a painfully self-conscious fake documentary that consists of a scripted Michael Cera awkwaromance and an actor PLAYING the film's director sighing and moaning, "We need more footage. How is this documentary ever going to come together?" (The answer: Oh! We'll just write super terrible dialogue on the pains of our artistic process!) The documentary pieces aren't enough to carry the movie-- none of the real people, though often charming, say anything you can't learn from some Hallmark cards and an Anne Lamott book.

Also, are we supposed to have heard of Charlyne Yi before? The movie spends like 3 minutes in the beginning making the case for her importance by showing off her quasi-famous friends, who then never reappear in the film, with the exception of Michael Cera playing Michael Cera. I mean, there is maybe nothing more detrimental to the specific appeal that Michael Cera has going for him than to expose it as a self-conscious act. Will the real Michael Cera PLEASE STAND UP, PLEASE STAND UP, PLEASE STAND UP. Haahahaha, that was a 1999 Eminem joke. No standing up necessary, I really don't care. I'm off to District 9 to forget this movie ever happened!

Thirteen Was Bad

Here.

In Which This Is Not Love

Here.

On Media

So maybe I'm slightly floundering. When I told my Dad about my excellent HDL level(93 BETCHES!) his first response was, "Well if you're gonna live so long you should probably get a real career or a rich husband." I mean, c'mon Dad! I'm working on some shit and stuff, but there's a distracting mouse in the apartment, and I accidentally watched too much Sarah Connor Chronicles today. Also I have this idea for a tee shirt. It's going to read "I Have Socialist Leanings....toward Blow Jobs." Which is kinda funny, and even more funny to a certain crowd of folks who like what the Internet apparel industry calls "Attitude" tee shirts and hate the political concept of Socialism. Once I get rich from this, I'm going to ban the word floundering from my vocabulary and the vocabulary of those I surround myself with. But I will still eat cooked food and retain the same friends, save for a few, namely the ones who use the word floundering. I mean, god damn this industry, right guys? And god bless attitude tee shirts and the chokehold of hope they have on my heart.

I think Chicago and I got off to a bad start. I visited my sister there earlier this Spring-- my first time back in 10 years-- and asked her to take me "somewhere cool." We ended up at the cafe in Nordstrom's on Michigan Ave. They did have really good chili, but still.

This time I was further uptown, near Wicker Park, for Pitchfork. I had been told two things about Pitchfork before I went: 1.) That it's extremely smelly and 2.) That the Chicagoan attendees are cherubic hipsters. Neither turned out to be true. It was 60 degrees the entire time so there was no sweating, and everyone seemed hot and svelte. The boys had a certain bearded lumberjack look. A few crazypants teenagers had seizures and at least one aging hippie fainted during the Flaming Lips. I drank Sparks from 2 until 10, my teeth turned orange, one night I got my first lap dance from a stripper named Alicia who had just graduated culinary school, and I didn't poop for three days. It was pretty frakking fantastic.

I like this. I only wish there were more fireworks in trash cans.