14 posts tagged “my impeccable taste”
It seems whenever the discussion of disliked words comes up, the two most maligned words turn out to be "moist" and "panties." I feel that I stand alone in thinking these words are perfectly fine apart, and evidence of sexy fun times when together, and thus should not be so hated as they are. There are many words that ought to be avoided, but both moist and panties have delightful connotations, and the rancor against them baffles me greatly.
Those who hate panties as a word claim that it infantalizes those clothes of a lady's lower parts, but to them I ask, what should we refer to them as? Am I always to call them "underwear?" Or "underpants?" Or, heaven forfend, "drawers?" As a women who struggles with my self-image, nothing makes me feel more like a bipedal rhino than referring to my under-things as "drawers." I am not some ambulatory dresser, I am a woman! When preparing for a hot date, what do you prefer to wear? "Sexy drawers" sounds absurd, "sexy underpants" is hardly any better. "Sexy panties?" It trips off the tongue, a veritable pep-squad cheer for a delightful and sexy evening. (I also like to add that I am quite fond of the portmanteau of "fun underwear": "funderwear.")
And moist! What has this word done to so many people to make them squirm to hear it? Some claim it is the "oi" sound, but I call foul on that. Many harmless words have the "oi" sound (point, joint) and some even combine the "oi" and "st" (cloister) without offending. Also, I point to the word "oink" as evidence that "oi" is a darling dipthong enjoyed by cute little piggies all around the world. No, "moist" apparently suggests discomfort for people - humidity, smelly un-wrung sponges, sweat. But look at the good things moist provides -- moisturizing lotion, moisture gathering in clouds above for a refreshing rainshower, a moist cloth dampening and cooling a fevered brow. And dare I suggest that moisture makes it easier for us to come together in conjugal ways? It is moisture that reminds us that we are not unchanging, dry blocks of cement but teeming bits of humanity, subject to change. Perhaps that is why it is so hated?
If you go alphabetically through my songs on my iSchwartz (3.0), and just look at the titles, it's like some crazy arguing is going on, especially when you get to the letter I (note: this includes tracks by certain comedians):
"I'll be that girl."
"I'm a fag hag."
"I'm actual."
"I'm Henry VIII!"
"I can't come when you fuck me."
"I can, I will, I do!"
"I don't drink anymore."
"I don't feel like dancing."
"I don't want to get over you."
"I feel it all!"
"I have sex like a gay man!"
"I know."
"I live there."
"I live with it everyday."
"I love food!"
"I love heroine."
"I stand corrected."
"I think I need a new heart."
"If I had a million dollars!"
"If Straight men had periods!"
"If Work Permits."
"If you love me!"
"In the backseat."
"In the car."
"In the drink."
"In the Mausoleum."
It's true that I'm the commited DMB-phile I was, say, four years ago, but when I heard about LeRoi Moore's death yesterday, there was quite a tug at my heartstrings. The Dave Matthews Band still means something to me, still holds a special place in my heart. They were the first band I loved (New Kids On the Block nonwithstanding -- that was more of a craze) -- I bought Under the Table and Dreaming when I was 13. They were my favorite band through junior high, through high school, and with an especial mania through college. People made fun of me and made fun of the band to rile me up, but I stayed true. My mania has since calmed down into an ongoing love, a wistful enjoyment for the memories the music has for me. I may seem to love them less, but I don't -- the truth is, my canon of favorite artists and songs has grown exponentially in the past four years. Two years ago, I first encountered The New Pornographers and some of that fervent, joyful love went their way. The Decemberists, too, have a claim on me. But DMB was there first.
(context: talking about my paper about sex, sexuality education in US public schools.
Tigi: This seems to be the loudest rallying cry - that Christian students are left feeling uncomfortable in a school system that adopts what is deemed a more politically-correct approach. There is, of course, a common sense problem with this. Public schools cannot discriminate against students of any religions - this is why they cannot force a Muslim student to eat carnitas burritos at school lunch. But is hearing separate ideology from what they may hear at home always discrimination?
Pineapple: EXCELLENT. I feel like this is a new development in the history of discrimination rhetoric. because never before was it available to people to claim this was anti-discrimination for its own sake. You know, it's always been more like about the dignity of all people and hippie dippie crap like that. But now, they can say, "YOU'RE BEING DISCRIMINATED AGAINST?! TELL ME ABOUT IT!" It's like men who are uncomfortable with feminism.
Tigi: Yeah. They can suck my dick.
"I would have used the bathroom at Billy's*, but I didn't want to catch skank."
"Skank-yllis."
"Skank-orrhea."
"Skank-IV."
"Skank-PV. Wait, that's human papilloma virus, skanks aren't human."
"That's why it's Skank-papilloma virus, no vaccine for that."
"Actually, Skankorrhea sounds like the name of a trendy theme resteraunt. Skankeria."
"Like, the skank cafeteria?"
"If we ever open a restraunt, that's what we'll call it. Skankeria. And we'll have food like... fish tacos."
"For dessert, FUR PIE!"
"Nice! Solid work!"
"Thanks, I'm proud."
"You should be. You know, Chino Latino** serves a sushi called Pink Tacos."
"Nice work there. I've always hated that euphemism, though."
"Me too."
"It's like, anyone who SERIOUSLY calls it a pink taco doesn't eat a lot of pussy. Or tacos."
* Fratty bar on Grand in St. Paul, a few blocks from my house. It is to bars what Dane Cook is to comedy. A conversation about this bar went like this:
"You'll have a fun time, but it won't be dignified."
"Oh! Like when I lost my virginity."
**I guess some latin-asian fusion restaraunt in Minneapolis? It's apparently a big deal. I have not been.
One: Snazzy new glasses and a haircut! Note the presence of Bonnaroo in the picture. I have a tendancy not to sit on the couch when I do work, but to sit in front of it with my legs folded under our coffee table. I've been doing this for years and I don't know why. Sparky and the Dwarf Star were always puzzled by it, but I think Pineapple and LBCS have known me so long that they understand that I'm a creature of bizarre habit. Anyway, that's why our dog-sitting charge is on the couch and I'm on the floor. I don't want you to think that I was pushed off the couch by a Jack Russell Terrier. I can take and have taken Bonnie down in feats of strength. I have also taken down my nephew-dogs Bauer and Davy, and Maggie doesn't do fights. There is, in fact, only one dog I cannot over power.
Shiphrah. Pineapple and I dog-sat Shiphrah in June and we're dog-sitting her again. As K-Jo says, Shiff has junk in the trunk. She is the biggest effing dog you have ver seen -- almost cartoonishly huge. Friendly, oh yes, very friendly. But effing ginormous.
Two: Snazzy new prescription sunglasses. You may have noticed that the Bonster is out of this picture, perhaps scared away by my rendition of Corey Hart's "I Wear My Sunglasses at Night." Hey, if you're rad, be rad. I can't control how awesome I look in pink shades with rhinestones on the side. Apparently, Bon-Bon can't handle me when I'm being REAL.
Anyway. So there's that.
Incidentally, there is a player on the Milwaukee Brewers named Corey Hart. One of my gay cousins* and I, at the family Brewer game a few weeks ago, sang that song whenever he was up to bat. The Brewers Corey Hart chose country songs for his "songs," which I thought was a waste. If you have a name like Corey Hart, embrace the song "Sunglasses at Night." It's kinda like how I'd like Ryan Adams better if he did the occasional tongue-in-cheek cover of "Summer of '69." Maybe now that' he's sober, he'll see the humor in it. I mean. COME ON!
* I have two gay cousins... that I know of. This particular gay cousin is my age, and I had someone to talk to during the game who was as bored as I was by sports. Anyway, I also decided to do the "Explain the sport to him" talk while we watched it, but in my own way, so it went something like this
Him: So what is going on?
Me: Well, that is called a field. And all those tiny people on the field are trying to score things called points. That tiny guy throws a tiny ball to that guy and he tries to hit it away from him.
Him: Are the people really tiny? Are you sure it's not that we're high up?
Me: Yes. They are all that tiny.
Three variations of the same flu struck my apartment this week, and all three of us -- Pineapple, Little Bundle of Common Sense, and I -- have been sick. I'm better, thanks, but I also work a lot. In lieu of actually posting a thoughtful update on my life, I've decided to once again direct people to Achewood. If you aren't reading this comic, I don't know what to tell you . It's bad-ass, and you should.
Yesterday's, for example, had me in fits of hyperventilating giggles.
You should also weigh in on the discussion: A King Philippe Tattoo -- should I, or shouldn't I? LBCS has been insinuating for months that I should. Nay, that it is my duty.
Every now and then, there is an Achewood that is so funny that it makes me poop my pants.
Like today.
Sometime in early 2006, I was kind of blue all the time -- a bit malcontent, more than a bit brittle, perpetually indecisive, and just plain a mess. Then, on recommendation from two reliable sources (amazon.com and Lane Kim on the Gilmore Girls) I purchased my first New Pornographer's album (Mass Romantic) and my life improved instantly.
Behold, the power of rock.
Basically, I can't express how much I love this band. I love them so much that I seek out each band member's solo projects (and Carl Newman is a friggen' genius). I love this band so much that I consider my whole existence before an incorrect life that I no longer maintain. Well, no, not quite that drastic, but drastic enough that I can't help recognizing my sadness pre-TNP and my joy post-TNP and think that they were directly responsible for increasing the awesome quotient in my existence.
Of course, living out in the middle of nowhere as I was, I didn't get a chance to see them in concert... until last night. Once again, my world was made that much more kickass. And yes, Neko was with them. And Dan Bejar (that's the Destroyer guy) is some kind of drunk savant, because he would occasionally stumble onstage, whisper something to Carl (who would grin at him) and then fucking knock a song out of the park. And then he'd shamble offstage again and drink some more while Carl and Neko sang a few.
I went' with Pineapple and we ran into Skunkmunkie, who I hope enjoyed the show despite the fact that I punched him in the shoulder everytime they played a song I loved... which was every song. As we left the concert, Pineapple joked, "Gee, I wish they'd played a few more of their good songs!" Because they are all good songs! And the set list was brilliant! And... and... and...
Pineapple is my best friend and therefore nearly faultless, but she does have one annoying quirk -- she spaces out. Not in the ditzy blonde "tee-hee what were you saying?" way, but a "I forgot I was alive" way. It's as if her brain reboots -- she looks away for a minute, totally expressionless and seemingly deaf to whoever is frustratedly asking her to finish her goddamn story already (e.g. yours truly). Usually, she forgets altogether what she was saying. I think there are about five hundred unfinished stories in our years of friendship, and most of them are hers. She told me that she actually thinks nothing during these blanks, and I believe her. Pineapple is one of the smartest people I know, but I think part of that is because her brain takes these unscheduled breaks. It needs a rest.
I, on the other hand, usually am thinking something when I blank out. It's never anything important or interesting -- probably something banal like, "I wonder how paint is made" or "I like turtles" or "Oiii'm 'enery the EIGHTH, oi am!" but there's something small going on in my head. As opposed to the rest of the time, when I am thinking nothing but big, deep, heavy thoughts. Like, "Am I prettier today than I was yesterday?"
---
Pineapple and I were walking on Grand this afternoon when we saw a bus that had a sign which read, "Finance rates so low, you could buy this bus!"
"Why would I want to buy that bus?" I said aloud, and then Pineapple asked what I would do with a bus, anyway.
I told her that I'd become a renegade bus driver -- I'd take fares and keep them all for myself.
"I have this mental image of you waiting for people to pay and then kicking them off the bus."
I got this image, too. "Yeah, and the police and they're all like, 'What do you mean you got robbed by a bus covered in skulls and crossbones?'"
Anyway, that's how i decided to become a Pirate Bus Driver. I'll attack other buses, board them and say, "Arrrr! Give me yerr farrres!" I'll run people over and blast heavy metal music and the screen on the front of the bus that usually gives the bus number and route will only be displaying hands shooting the finger a'la Lyle from Achewood.
It will be the greatest thing in the world. For me.
