Dear NPR, CSPAN, et al.—
Synonyms for the word “maverick”: dissenter, loner, nonconformist, stray, unbranded.
If there’s no way to avoid hearing about the RNC, please use them. I can’t take it anymore.
his nerd jig.
Things That Keep me From Writing, Baby Elephant-Sized Edition
This sort of takes backlash to an entirely different level.
Let’s forget the fact that the author is described as overweight and begs for a thesaurus. Are publishers still willing to churn out this shit for shock value? I thought maybe we were done with that phase.
”The fatter you get, the more you decrease your potential single-man pool. Let me give you an example. When you go to the grocery store to shop, do you pick out the nastiest-looking, most rotten, smelliest fruit or meat you can find? Oh, you don’t? Why not? … It’s the same with men when they see baby elephant-sized, out-of-shape women.”
I guess this guy subscribes to the same kind of education that some Texans do.
When I was researching Columbia Heights, Alison sent me this nugget:
Some areas near Florida Avenue were swampy as were places on the plateau. The roads up the hill were dusty in dry weather but muddy and difficult to traverse when wet. These features aided the separation of Columbia Heights from the Federal City.
Oooo, I said.
See? She said. I know what you like.
We’ve lived less than a city block away from each other for over a year. When I’m walking home at night and I see her light on through the balcony window, I’ll call her.
Don’t tell anyone, but I’m watching I’m watching a special on the myths and truth of Indiana Jones, she says.
And I don’t.
She doesn’t mind that I occasionally mispronounce a few French words, or that I would rather read at brunch than have a conversation. She’s one of the only people I know who practices what feminism she preaches. She once convinced a crowd of people at the Raven to sing me a Tom Petty song just to spite me.
After cutting my finger on a pane of broken glass, I tell her I may need a mantra. Instead she says, you’re thinking of Jeff Goldblum in Annie Hall right now.
You don’t know me, I tell her.
But she does.
Don’t tell anyone, but I just got accepted to Brooklyn Law, she tells me. We’re eating pasta in Mount Pleasant watching two guys try to saw off a U bike lock.
Who will make my Halloween costume next year? I ask her.
I hear Brooklyn has Halloween, she says. I bet people would actually get your Ramona Flowers costume there.
Yeah.
See? She says. I know what you like.
My editor friend Jess Gould asked me to write an essay for The Current about my favorite place in DC. So I did. It appears in today’s issue, along with a picture of me, the hill at 13th Street and Clifton (and my new Olivia).
The Current doesn’t do the internets, but if you live in DC you can pick one up here and here. And other places, I’m sure.
I’m tired of music snobbery. Jokes like this.
I guess I’ve hit full-stride on my Rick Moody Against Cool phase. I realize that it’s very 2004, but I don’t care. D.C. is full of scenester kiddies who play the six-degrees of separation from Ians Svenonius and MacKaye. It’s exhausting and banal. Everyone knows Ian. And Ian.
I think the most endearing quality in someone is the healthy way she/he admits to liking a terrible band. Not terrible in the ironic way you suppose, but outright horrible.
Last Saturday at the Mount Pleasant farmer’s market, Becca (of Whoa Becca) casually mentioned over some green tomatoes that she had seen Fountains of Wayne in order to tell a story about seeing Bon Iver. It was brave. And she didn’t wince. She wasn’t embarrassed. Also, the band she’s seen the most? Dave Matthews.
I used to tell people that the worst band I’d ever seen was Milli Vanilli. I used to say that it wasn’t my idea, but that it was my friend Holly’s birthday, and I was upset that we didn’t see Young MC instead who was playing downtown. But I’m really happy that Holly had a birthday and it happened to be the night that Milli Vanilli was playing at Star Lake, weeks before the tape skipped in Connecticut. It’s too much of a piece of history now to say it was the worst. And, too ironic.
A TV Analysis professor used to say that he soaked up culture—good, bad and worse—just to experience it, to understand that moment. He said it made him a better critic.
I’ve seen Rusted Root, but that really doesn’t count. When you grow up in Pittsburgh it’s hard to not accidentally walk into a Rusted Root show.
The worst band I’ve probably ever seen was Dashboard Confessional on a double bill with Pete Yorn. Or maybe Travis.
But, you know, I really like Travis.
The band that I’ve seen the most? Death Cab for Cutie.
And I kind of tear up when I hear the acoustic version of Creep because it reminds me of driving around Austin in Claudia’s Ford F-150 in the late spring, just right before it got too hot to have the windows down. Back when we wanted to make films but had no idea how to do it.
There’s some Heart on my iPod and that Matthew Sweet song from Can’t Hardly Wait.
And the Replacements songs I like the most are the pop-y ones with hooks.
Although, I still can’t go back and listen to the Get up Kids. There are some things that should be retired permanently.
Ms. Guilfoyle, over at Fashion Show at Lunch, introduced me to Polly Sue’s in Takoma Park. Polly Sue’s is not some vintage store with $5 bins, pit sweats, and seam hemorrhaging.
It is tasteful. Hand-picked. Lady-like. I always find something delicious that I will wear for years. My graduation dress came from Polly’s. And so did my graduate reading dress.
See above for the latest confection. I think it says September wedding in Massachusetts just perfectly.
I went to high school in a town outside of Pittsburgh that is 2.9 square miles, and has an inexplicable western wear department store. There is one empty Asian restaurant and a Tex-Mex restaurant that serves mild salsa and soggy ‘taco pizzas.’ It is also the birthplace of Perry Como.
I consider myself one of the lucky ones who got out. I learned that there really aren’t such things as taco pizzas.
And for some reason, despite all the memories of ratty hairstyles, abandoned storefronts, parties saturated with Tom Petty, and hanging out at Eat ‘N Park until my friends had smoked all their Marlboro Lights, I’m going back for my high school reunion. And I’m taking my boyfriend.
I asked Josh, one of the other lucky ones who got out, how exactly you might explain Trinity High School to someone.
Josh: wow. is that what people do? take their significant others?
Josh: i would be afraid emily would leave me.
Me: that’s a legitimate fear.
Josh: i mean, could you imagine a worse hell?
Josh: being in a really hot place, lots of people you don’t know wearing nut-huggers, and having people relive glory days that weren’t so glorious.
Me: in a place that’s a little too close to west virginia for comfort
Me: how do i explain trinity to him?
Josh: emily almost understands trinity because her family moved from toronto to tupelo, Mississippi her senior year of high school
Me: i mean, he went to school in nashville
Josh: i know some kids who went to school down there. it is nothing like Washington, Pa.
Me: no,
Josh: my brothers science test book in high school said, “one day, man will walk on the moon”
Josh: i think that is the best way to describe it
Me: what year was your brother again?
Josh: three years ahead of me. made my soul hurt.
