this is now this
“Your Hair’s On Fire, You Must Have Lost Your Wits”
I’m not dead. I promise. And yes, I realize that a month-plus absence after a post that was a study in angst probably wasn’t the best idea. But never fear. Elizabeth is alive and well and living in her university-owned apartment.
So where to begin after such a long time off? Not a whole lot has happened actually. Arctic Monkeys played an amazing set at some random venue built by American Eagle, mid-semester’s been and gone, and I finally got a job. It’s a part-time receptionist gig at a small salon but it’s easy work and the people are nice and it’s helping pay the bills. My only complaint so far is that the top 40 station that the salon radio is occasionally tuned to is an absolute torture device. There’s gotta be only like four songs ever on rotation—I swear I hear “Last Friday Night” at least once every hour—and even songs that are vaguely good (I’m looking at you, Adele) are ultimately ruined with the incessant replaying. With one exception.
I have yet to get tired of “Pumped Up Kicks”. Hearing that jaunty little opening riff is always a sigh of relief as I sink down into my office chair and hope the phone doesn’t ring for a bit. It’s a song that I know my brain makes better. Besides being catchy as hell, I always associate it with last May, with cruising around Cornwall with Matt at the wheel on what is objectively the wrong side of the car. For some reason it was the song of the moment and when we weren’t playing Arcade Fire’s The Suburbs on a loop, the radio was playing the shit out of “Pumped Up Kicks”. And I was perfectly content with either option.
So here I am, as the forecast calls for snow and it’s already dark at 5:30, thinking about England and Cornwall and it being warm enough to wear just a leather jacket but not so warm that—gag—you have to wear shorts. How nice it would be to go back to that just for a minute, all winding roads and organizing the day over when we were going to head over to Costa to caffeine up. Simple. I’ve never been much of a summer person, but English summer isn’t quite New Jersey summer. But I think at the moment I’m missing both a bit.
Title, obviously, from “Pumped Up Kicks” by Foster the People.
“If This Is How They Planned It, Then I Can’t, No, I Can’t Stand It”
Time isn’t my friend at the moment. With something like eight months of college left, I’m more aware than ever that I’ve got to get my life together. With each twenty-something clad in their ill-fitting blazer that marches past me on their way to their interview with destiny, I’m reminded that the real world is breathing down my neck. And I’m going to need some answers soon.
These revelations begin Monday night. The Static Jacks played a show in Pittsburgh and spent the night on my apartment floor. While I’ve spent the last three years toiling away at nothing, they made the call (and, for my money, the right one) and forewent college, spending their time recording and touring and doing something they love. So as I watched them pack up their equipment and shuffle around in the van and talk about a show in Toronto they’d be playing in a handful of hours, I couldn’t help but be jealous. They had effectively stopped the upper middle class working world my hometown offers you and gotten off. I cringe with envy every time I think about it. That would be my dream: a creative life where you made your own hours and had some fun in the process, a paycheck without the tedium and going through all the motions you couldn’t care less about. But you’ve got to have balls to do that. Balls and talent and a whole lot of faith.
But here’s the screwed up thing: the flip-side doesn’t look any better. Stay on the conveyor (go to college, graduate, get a job) and, as anyone looking for a job right now will tell you, there’s nothing for you. There’s no jobs, there’s no benefits, there’s no opportunities. If you get lucky you’ll get hired after you graduate, but you probably won’t really love it. But you’ll stay there, maybe for awhile, maybe for ages, because it’s better than starving and you’ve grown accustomed to electricity. Things don’t look good for anyone, but especially not if you’re under thirty with no discernible skills.
So where does that leave someone like me? Do you fight to stay on or fight to get off? Do you spend your time trying to punch the nine to five job card you can’t remember ever asking to have issued? Or do you make a move, opt out, and try to chase down something you’re (or at least I’m) not even sure you can define anyway? Either way you’re kind of screwed. When the working world doesn’t offer any stability, the bohemian alternative doesn’t become such a pipe dream; it just becomes something you wish you could figure out quite how to do. So how simple. How simply and admirable and difficult but worth it it is to have a dream and to chase it down wholeheartedly. But that only works if you know what you want and you’re good at it. And not all of us can play guitar.
Title from “Mercy, Hallelujah” by The Static Jacks. Angst about my future from “senior year” by college.
“Watching The Telly And Thinking ‘Bout Your Holidays”
The Top Ten Things I Have Actively Missed About My Time In London Since Starting A New School Year
1. Pub Culture
An oft-romanticized element of British culture that I ended up loving just as much as I had suspected I would. “Going down the pub”—whether it was to watch the rugby, celebrate something, or just to waste a few hours—felt both painfully English and oddly comfortable, as if I had been doing it my while life. And the fact that I could see about three pubs from my front door didn’t hurt. From my experience, pubs, and the culture surrounding them, offer something different. It’s casual and cozy and there’s nothing quite like spending a rainy night having a few pints and chatting over the noise. Sure, there’s bars a-plenty here, but it’s just not the same.
2. Late-Night Walks
Matt and me at the London Eye around six a.m.
These are some of my favorite memories of my time in London. Every once and awhile, at five a.m., Matt and I would go out and wander around Central London in the dark. To put it as simply as I know how, the city is never more beautiful. The sidewalks are deserted except for the occasional sadistic jogger, and the city is just starting to open its eyes and stretch. This sort of thing just isn’t possible in Pittsburgh. Between the geography and the company this is the sort of things that only really works in London.
3. People Losing Their Shit When “Mr. Brightside” Gets Played
I have no idea why this happens, but, in my experience, people in clubs in England lose their shit when The Killer’s “Mr. Brightside” comes on. I know, I know—that song was a thing like five years ago. But very few songs will get a bigger cheer and a more passionate sing-along (Oasis tracks tend to give it a run for its money). I don’t know why I love this so much, but there’s just something about a room full of people shouting “’cause I’m Mr. Brightside!” that just warms my heart.
4. Nando’s
Oh god, Nando’s. Where do I begin? Actually, I know exactly where to begin: perinaise.
“I want you, I want you so baaaaaaaaaaaad, it’s driving me mad…”
There’s no good way to explain Nando’s other than amazing. Also, a “casual dining restaurant group originating from South Africa with a Portuguese/Mozambican theme”. My first Nando’s was actually in Durham (after a night at a cocktail bar. Which is ideal) but my last dinner in London was Nando’s and I’ve craved that delicious chicken ever since.
5. The Tube
Public transportation in Pittsburgh is terrible. Terrible. It’s a big enough place to warrant something of an effort, but instead they’ve got a bus system that’s sole objective is finding new ways to ruin your life. Is the Tube perfect? Of course not. But it’s big and vaguely convenient and often decently punctual—it’ll tell you when it’s not—and at the very least sometimes gives you some pretty quality buskers. Also, does the Pittsburgh bus system have a t-shirt-quality catchphrase? No. I rest my case.
6. Going Round For Tea
I’ll never forget the moment early in my study abroad year when Reb called my room inquiring as to whether I wanted to “come round for tea?” Looks like we’re not in Kansas anymore. Besides being so painfully English, there’s something sort of homey about this that I miss. A few cups of tea, a tin of biscuits, sitting around in a circle in someone’s (generally Farah’s) room for a bit and just talking. It’s important for me to note that I was never made to actually help make the tea (being American and all). I was, however, allowed to help transport mugs to the pantry and take everyone’s tea order. Presumably, these were jobs I couldn’t possibly screw up.
7. Not Having To Explain Many of My Cultural References
To inhabit a world where I no longer had to preface a reference to Russell Brand with “there’s this English comedian who…” was something of a dream come true. Pete Doherty, Never Mind The Buzzcocks, Stephen Fry, Top Gear… All of these references suddenly had weight and currency and didn’t require fifteen minutes of back story. The fact that—with my long hair slightly back-combed—I made a show-stopping Russell Brand that year for Halloween was just a bonus.
Me with a fake beard and clothes I would wear normally: a hit with all the Londoners
8. Banter
There’s something about English humor: it’s dry and cerebral and whip-sharp. Whether it’s a witty exchange across a pub table or a well-told anecdote, it’s got a quality that, while I can’t really describe, I know it when I see it. At one point in the year, my friend Pav announced that, for an American, I was incredibly good at banter. I knew my English culture well enough to know that this was a compliment of the highest order.
9. The Architecture
Perhaps this one isn’t quite fair. Of course, London is going to be better looking than Pittsburgh. It’s older and has more history and didn’t spend a long portion of its history being an industrial wasteland. (Actually, this being said, for my money Manchester’s pretty gorgeous. So maybe there’s no excuse for Pittsburgh after all). But I miss the buildings and the landscape and even just how the city feels as you wander around it.
10. Little English Quirks
Talking about the weather, “cheers” instead of “thanks”, queuing and the people that love it, watching “the” rugby but going “to hospital” rather than “the hospital”. It’s the little things that make a place a place and a culture a culture. All the little quirks and oddities. And I miss those like hell.
Title from “That’s Entertainment” by The Jam. All pictures are mine, except for the delicious perinaise, which was stolen from here.
“My Hair Is Shagging In My Eyes”
This is a formal apology to anyone who has seen me out in the world recently: I am in dire need of a haircut.
No, really. I'm sorry.
When my hair was long I did a lot of my own haircuts. My hair was curly enough that layers didn’t have to be dead-on straight and any mistakes would be masked by volume. But now, with a little boy haircut, I’m finding myself way more protective of my hair than I ever was before. Not only am I terrified of cutting it in any real way, I’m terrified of almost anyone cutting it in any real way. For someone who loves getting their hair cut as much as I do, this presents something of a problem. This is something of an overreaction, but in my mind, at the moment, there’s exactly one place that I would happily set back and entrust the future of my hair to (and that place is currently on the other side of the ocean).
Consider this post a love letter to Pimps & Pinups.
With a homepage image like that, you know you're in good hands.
You might remember Pimps & Pinups from this post. This is the place that took my hair from big curly mess to short less-of-a-mess, and if I had my way I’d go get my haircut here with a sense of commitment and ritual generally reserved for religious observances or drug-taking.
So what’s so great about it? That’s a good question and one I might be too enamored to really answer well. I guess it can be summed be pretty simply (and poorly) with a single sentence: it’s cool. Whenever I am going to pay money to go to a place and have a service rendered for me, I first ask myself a highly important question about said place: how bone-crushingly cool does it look?
This bone-crushingly cool.
Obviously this is a test Pimps & Pinups passes. The whole concept is a sort of retro Hollywood glamour, something stylized and appealing without being gaudy or over-the-top. It’s slick and hip and East London without falling into parody or overdone kitsch. It’s a place you feel good about walking into and spending an hour or two in.
Let me be clear: I know literally nothing about haircutting. I don’t know about techniques or what makes a good, precise haircut or anything like that. So it’s the extras I’m won over by: the free drinks (beer, wine, tea, coffee), the scalp massage with your shampooing, the smiles from the receptionist and the other stylists around the salon. (Not to mention my one stylist telling me I looked like I could be in a band. Flattery will get you everywhere.) It sounds cliché, but you’re going there for more than a haircut; it really is all about the experience. Want a quick in-and-out haircut without the frills? Go hit up a Supercuts.
I’m a firm believer in the fact that a haircut should make you feel good. It shouldn’t just be a utilitarian function that you seek out every few months to ensure you can still see past your bangs. This is why, for my time in London despite my tight budget, I went to Pimps & Pinups. It’s a cool environment full of cool people who aren’t completely consumed by how cool they are. (Did I mention that their employee pictures online are done as mug shots. Is anything would make me absolutely insufferable about how cool I was it would be knowing that a picture like that existed of me.) I’ve had two stylists at Pimps & Pinups—Jennie, who is responsible for my now short hair, and Mike—and they were both personable and fun and, for my money, good at their jobs. For someone who is generally pretty terrified of small talk, I had no problem holding friendly conversations with them as they snipped away what was generally an overgrown mess of hair.
So do I recommend Pimps & Pinups? Absolutely. (Shocking, right?) I’ve never had anything but a great experience, even when I’ve gone in with only the vaguest idea of what I actually wanted. It’s cool, it’s hip, and, most importantly, (although you probably wouldn’t have guessed from this post) you’ll get a great haircut. So go, spend a little money, and feel like a movie star for a little bit. It can’t hurt, can it?
Title quote from “Burnout” by Green Day. First picture taken by Kacey, the rest from Pimps & Pinups.
“It’s Not Rock And Roll If Your Pants Don’t Hurt”
I returned home from a week at the beach to some startling news:
Flares appear to be a thing again.
This news came to me in the form of a particularly irritating Old Navy commercial. People are joyously bowling (As if there’s any other way to bowl! Am I right?) while proclaiming that their legs look long and lean because they are in their jeans. Apparently, in this case, jeans means flares.
No, but really. What is happening here?
Oh I had heard the calls to arms before. How flares were creeping their way onto runways, how the wide leg trousers I have no problem with were slowly tucking themselves in that the thighs. But I had hope. Maybe it would be like when every other season someone tries to make ponchos happen. Maybe this too shall pass. But apparently not. Now that Old Navy is on the bandwagon, all hope is lost.
I will not be buying flares. Not now. Not ever again. I paid my dues. Pre-sophomore year of high school was a world full of flares, and it wasn’t until well into my freshman year of college that they disappeared from my wardrobe entirely. Good riddance, I say! Those flares were holding me back!
I don’t want to talk about it.
Flares were replaced with an uncompromising desire for tightness around my ankles. Skinny jeans were a big thing at the time but my choices always went beyond what normal society would describe as skinny jeans. If jeans were vaguely difficult to pull on/off, they were coming home with me. This is an ethos I still operate under.
To illustrate my point, welcome to the widest cut pants I own (with the exception of black linen trousers meant for business casual attire which don’t count):
The dream of the 90s is alive in those jeans.
Maybe this is more of a personality issue and not related to the fact that flares are so foreign to my eyes that my brain can’t quite process them. I own some tight, tight jeans and some weird, weird pants. Maybe, once I grew up a little and did some soul-searching, I was just the type of person for whom flares were just never meant to be a part of my life again. After all, these things hang out in my dresser drawers:
If you can’t tell from the crappy dirty mirror pictures, that shit is pleather. Full-on pleather.
That’s right. Soak it in.
(And no, they’re not fun to get on or off in any sort of heat.)
And then there’s these bad boys:
I still marvel at the fact that these are a thing I actually had the confidence to buy.
I am a better person without flares. I’m certainly a cooler person (that goes without saying) and I am definitely a better dressed person. (That may also have a lot to do with the fact that I am no longer sixteen.) That grungy mess that would accumulate on the back edge of your jeans from where they dragged along the ground unless your jeans were the perfect length for you? Gone. Having to worry about what sort of shape you were supposed to wear on top when you’re essentially wearing triangles on your ankles? Non-issue. And then, an issue that was particularly important for my personal style: you can’t wear stupidly oversized tops in a pair of flares without looking like the ends of your body are drowning. But—and this was a real revelation—you sure as hell can in a pair of skin-tight jeans.
Bam. Style.
So, no thanks, Old Navy. Or anyone else for that matter. You and the wardrobe archives of That 70s Show can keep your flares, whether they’re back or not. I’m only interested in one type of jean from here to the foreseeable future and they all fall into the “stupidly tight” category.
Title quote from Jimmy Webb, who you might have had the pleasure of running into at Trash and Vaudeville in New York. Pictures are all mine with the exception of the Old Navy one, which was screencapped from Youtube.
“What A Life It Would Be If You Could Come To Mine For Tea”
“If you could have dinner with any five people, living or dead, who would they be?”
It’s meant to be an ice-breaker, I guess. Not a particularly clever or original one, but it’s at least some sort of attempt to get to know you. Or, even less than that, it’s just meant to be a frivolous, fun party question. Just something to give everyone a chance to ponder and share some fun facts about themselves and their interests.
But I have an inherent problem with this question: I massively over-think it.
All right, so it’s a dinner party, yeah? That means I’m the host, and I’m responsible for everyone having a good time. So I have to invite people who will get along or at least be able to tolerate each other. What will they all talk about? What if some of them like each other better than they like me? Some of my heroes had drinking problems so that’s gonna factor in. If these people are all from different eras am I going to have to spend a lot of time explaining things to some of them? That’s gonna waste a lot of time.
In short, it’s a mess.
So I’m re-thinking the question. Instead of having all five people at the dinner party together, I’m having dinner with each of them separately. And I’m just sticking with the living. We don’t have that sort of time.
That, my friends, is Billie Joe Armstrong and he is hero numero uno. The frontman of my favorite band, a writer who captures meaning without capturing pretension, the instigator of the creation of my political consciousness, and the hardest working man in rock and roll. If I could do anything in life half as well as he does his job, I’d be ecstatic. I’ll save the love letters for later, but it boils down to this: when you get to me at thirteen, you’ve got me for life. And if there’s anybody I’d want to say thank you to and buy a drink, it’s this man.
(Side note: I couldn’t handle having the whole band there. I just couldn’t.)
Can I just be Tina Fey already? Please? A strong, powerful, brilliant, hysterical woman who I admire immensely. What more could I ask for in a dinner companion? And the best thing about Tina is that I don’t even think she’d let me fawn over her. We’d probably just be awkward to each other and then bond over our mutual love of terrible food.
Remember when I talked to Jon Stewart and he laughed at my joke and we bonded over both being from New Jersey? I would like that to happen again and for longer. Short and sweet.
What can I say about Stephen Fry? If he’s not the cleverest man alive, I don’t know who is. And if there is a man cleverer than Stephen Fry, he’s definitely not as humble and as lovely. I don’t even care if he talked to me at our dinner. Just having him talking at me would be worth my time. If I could make him laugh, or tell him something he found immensely interesting (see how I side-stepped that pun?) I would probably die of happiness.
Fine. This is a cope-out because it’s three people and not one. But get over it. This is Russell Brand, Matt Morgan, and Noel Gallagher, and it’s my list so I’m having all three. If you haven’t heard the three of them together on the late, great Russell Brand Show then just trust me, this dinner would be non-stop banter. And a post-dinner night on the town with a (ex) member of Oasis and one of the favorite sons of one of my favorite cities? I’m not complaining.
Title’s from “Digsy’s Dinner” by Oasis. Pictures stolen all over the place from Google.
“I Told You I Was Trouble”
So the 27 Club claims another member.
Amy Winehouse, dead in her Camden home, and I can’t say I’m really even surprised. It was coming, wasn’t it? It always is.
But my lack of surprise doesn’t translate into a lack of feeling. I wasn’t some intense superfreak Winehouse fan, but I feel safe in saying that I’ll miss her. And I guess, in a lot of ways, there’s a simple reason for that. Because fundamentally she was good at her job. She had an incredible voice, an incredible talent. At times it was almost hard to believe that that sort of voice was coming out of a skinny little white girl from London. She took that old Motown and blues and soul and brought it back to the mainstream, back to Camden clubs and the Lower East Side. Without her, there’s no Duffy, no John Legend, and certainly no Adele. And, let’s face it, she made you kind of want a beehive. (No? Just me? Okay.) Whether you liked her or loved her or hated her or were completely ambivalent towards her, you can’t deny her influence and her presence in the music world. Truth be told, the only time I started to take issue was when she’d show up too wrecked to perform properly. That’s not fair to anybody.
And that’s how I feel about all artists. Clean, drug-addled, or otherwise. Just do your job. Create something worth creating. Give me something to latch onto, something to affect me in some way, and I’m not bothered by what you do in the off-season. I don’t ask for perfection. I’m not interested in your morality or whether you’re a good role model or how well your lifestyle choices match my own. In short, I’m not into throwing stones.
(There’s a line here, obviously. Let’s not be ridiculous. Try not to kill or rape or maim or do anything objectively awful to another living thing. I have a hard time ignoring those things. But some booze? Some drugs? Promiscuous sex? Have at it. But (important caveat) if you’re going to have at it, don’t lie about it. If that’s who you are, that’s who you are. Amy pulled no punches about her problems, and for that I always had a twisted sort of respect for her. I’m much more acceptable of a perpetual self-proclaimed smackhead then someone whose excuse for a sudden dramatic drug-fueled weight loss is a lot of lentils and pilates. Just own it.)
My dead icons were all wrecks. A lot of my living ones too. F Scot Fitzgerald, Jack Kerouac, Jim Morrison, Lou Reed, Pete Doherty, young (and not-so-young) Robert Downey Jr, Russell Brand in the “bad old days”, Billie Joe Armstrong before he sorted out his fame, and Jon Stewart certainly didn’t just say no. There’s obviously more, non-exclusive to my particular teenage obsessions, but I don’t have to tell you that. All I mean to say is to be careful. If you’re gonna crucify Winehouse for wrestling with some demons that ultimately got the best of her, you’re gonna take a lot of other indisputable greats down with her.
So it’s fine not to care. It’s fine to not pay attention and to just carry on with your day. But if you’re going to pay attention, don’t pay attention to judge or condemn. Drugs are still bad. Everyone knew it before, and they still know it now. Lectures about how disgusting Amy was or how it’s wrong for people to give a shit when a drug addict dies are pointless. And honestly, the only thing you look to gain from getting up on your soap-box is seeming like an asshole.
Title, of course, is from “You Know I’m No Good” by Amy Winehouse.
“Go Tell Your Friends I’m Still A Feminist”
As much as I fancy myself vaguely intellectual at time, if I’m honest, my introduction to feminism (in any form) wasn’t Betty Freidan or Gloria Steinem. It was Gwen Stefani.
For as long as I can remember, No Doubt’s “Just a Girl” was somewhere on my radar. I don’t know when I first heard it; it’s just one of those songs for me. And besides it being a classic piece of 90s rock, it was my first taste of feminism. For the first time I was hearing a women indicate that—to the rest of the world—there was something inherently wrong or inferior about being a woman. Regardless of the fact that she is strong and capable and powerful (ever seen Gwen’s abs? Enough said) she inhabits a world where she is forced to be looked after (“this world is forcing me to hold your hand”) and coddled (“they won’t let me drive late at night”). Even as a kid, I understood. After all, I had been instructed to not throw like a girl.
I can rage for days about feminism. If nothing else I feel like at this point that word is a first class lesson in how language gets high-jacked and turned against itself. As long as anyone will look you in the eye and tell you—in all sincerity—that they don’t consider themselves feminists because they don’t hate men or because feminists are too intense, there’s still work to be done. Feminism isn’t about hating men or thinking you’re superior to men. Are some “feminists” about that? Sure. There’s shades and levels to every movement, every group of people. But at the end of the day, feminism—feminism. Not radical feminism. Not sexism (and that’s a two-way street)—is about equality. End of.
If you can honestly look me in the eye and tell me you’re not a feminist (and this includes men. I have routinely compared men not caring about feminism to white people not caring whether black people are equal. It doesn’t have to directly affect you—right is right) then I, without apology—think either one of two (or both) things about you:
1. You’re ignorant.
2. You’re an idiot.
Is that harsh? Sure. But I tend to get harsh when people are being frivolous about things that affect my life and wellbeing.
So let’s make it concise, shall we? If you fall into that first category—and if you fall into the second I applaud your ability to stay with me for this long—here’s just a few why, for the foreseeable future—and probably until the end of time—feminism will always be important, relevant, and worthy of your allegiance:
- because I’ll still get cat-called at even when I’m wearing jeans and a pea coat
- because if I’m ever assaulted I will undoubtedly be asked questions that seek to determine what I did wrong to cause the assault
- because employers still think it’s acceptable to pay me less because there’s a possibility I could maybe have a child
- because as of 2009, women make 78.7 cents on the dollar
- because when a comedy came out with a predominantly female cast we all had to sit around and talk about whether it would work or not
- because a man who makes the decision to stay home with his children is still ridiculed
- because, similarly, I will always be expected to be the primary caretaker of my children
- because girls still say—with pride—that they are like guys because they aren’t “catty” like other girls
- because there will never be a point in my life where an old white man doesn’t have a say over my healthcare and my body
- because on a season of America’s Next Top Model, at 5’7” and 130 pounds, I would be the short, chubby one that cycle
- because people will still try to make you feel bad if you’re a woman who dares to enjoy and be proud of her sexuality
- because Katy Perry and Taylor Swift are still things
- because I am still asked if I am PMS-ing when I have the audacity to be annoyed by something
- because I still feel compelled to write posts like this
Title from “Much Finer” by Le Tigre.
Ain't Got No Culture 
