Sun God 2009: The Pillowfight to End All Pillowfights

 

12: 55-1:30: Theory of Funkativity

Let’s get this party started! Upon procuring copious amounts of alcohol, from the general store, and feasting upon local fare in the form of sub-par fish tacos, Danielle and I returned to the batcave to commence the ritual of noon-day drinking. Beginning with badly made mojitos, nuts n’ berries, we had an impromptu fashion show, and waited for Kim to arrive.

 

1:45-2:45: The Cool Kids

Upon Kim’s arrival we continued the drinking ala mobile sprite bottle which we replaced with a concoction of vodka and seltzer water. Having disposed of unwanted rotten fruit (not a euphemism), we made our way to the bus stop near the apartment in an attempt to get to campus. The “party bus” arrived momentarily and we proceeded to finish our flask. We knew we were on the “party bus” if only because there was a sign that said “party bus”; a sign that was written with a Bic pen and then unceremoniously taped to the outside of the bus with cello tape. This was in direct contradiction to the signs equally unceremonious in their distribution that stipulated “no alcohol on the bus.” What’s a girl to think?

Inappropriate Love Notes, Vol. 1

Dramatic reenactment.

Sometimes, I have really dreamy teaching assistants for the classes I take at University of California school. (Let’s just say these people put the ass back in assistant… if you know what I mean. Because I can be super subtle sometimes. Like just now.) Sometimes, when writer’s block/boredom sets in, I write inappropriate love notes to said TAs in the body of my term papers, only to delete them last-minute before turning in said papers to said TAs. Sometimes I momentarily lose my shit because I can’t remember if I’ve actually deleted said love notes from said term papers for said TAs. Sometimes, I almost don’t give a damn.

I’ve collected those notes here, and have decided to start a periodical series called: ‘Inappropriate Love Notes‘

this isn’t completely terrible, vol. 1: red house furniture

I’ve realized recently that I rarely, if ever, talk about the things in life that I actually ENJOY. Unfortunately, I am generally so overtaken by my general hate for the human species that I overlook the small things that make life beautiful.

You see, it’s not that I don’t LOVE other humans – it’s just that I don’t LIKE you. Most importantly, I’m egalitarian about my hate. Don’t worry. I hate you just like I hate every one else. Which also means that I love you just as much as I love everyone else. See how well that works out? Everyone’s a winner/loser, in my eyes.

In this vein, I’m going to start a new series of posts entitled: This Isn’t Completely Terrible.

First up: This Video for Red House Furniture in High Point, North Carolina!

I know this is a cop out, because Sarah Silverman put it up on her Twitter way back in like … last week. But the fact of the matter is: I’m lazy, people. Get over it. Or don’t. I don’t give a rat’s ass. Threevue does this shit too. They call it “Weekend Entertainment”. So really, don’t blame me, blame them. At any rate, watch the video. It’ll make you proud to be a black American… or a white American.

And when it comes down to it, it isn’t completely terrible.

now that i’ve met you, would you object to never seeing each other again?

Okay. I don’t know if you guys know this, but Rebecca is not, in fact, my name. However, there have been MULTIPLE instances lately wherein I am newly christened Rebecca and expected to respond to my freshly acquired moniker. By different people. All over southern California. In fact, unlike other people on this site, Kim is my real name. Sort of. Mostly. At any rate, it’s what people ACTUALLY call me. I mean, I’ve got a lot of nicknames, but generally, they are not two syllables longer than my given one.

So I got to thinking. Maybe I just LOOK like a Rebecca. Exhibit A:

What I actually look like.

Note the dimple. Not because it’s important, but because it’s adorable. Go ahead. NOTE it.

Now, let’s compare to some other people who are ACTUALLY named Rebecca:

one night in paris, and then breakfast at tiffany’s

So I guess what I want to know is: when did we decide that we were going to settle for grossly inadequate pornography? Sure, in terms of achieving sexual gratification, Michaelangeo’s David need not be involved. Long before Deep Throat introduced us to the wild world of political and sexual intrigue (thus justifying the existence of nerdy analysts everywhere), sex and art had been inextricably entwined since time immemorial; classic art being but a topical contribution to the glorification of fertility- dating back to prehistoric idols flaunting grotesquely exaggerated hips and busts. It is no wonder at all that Freud found sexuality latent in pre-modern society, lounging beneath the surface of our newly acquired hypermorality. By the time we resigned Betamax and our Victorian sensibilities to the scrap heap, profligately abandoning ourselves to all VHS’ wanderlust of retrospandex had to offer, we had welcomed the ubiquity of media sexuality into our homes. By the end of the century, pornchic existed not only as an homage to the act of physical release, but as a movement celebrating the culturally normative integration of sexual emancipation and mainstream media. So what has changed?

Eternal Recurrence of the Shame

A friend of mine had a new roommate who was in the Japanese antique game. Somebody asked how he fell into that line of work. After some quiet deliberation and a couple strokes of his scraggly meth beard he replied ‘serendipity’. ‘Everything happens for a reason. ‘This could be a sign.’ I just wish Javier Bardem would swoop down and with that paradoxically hateful and indifferent voice say You have no Idea what you’re talking about.

Or at least that’s what I thought until I saw the following. Stick with me. There were two women driving in opposite directions and as they passed you could see that the two, in a stroke of pack culture atavism, chose one kind of fabric for two very different purposes. One chose it for her seat covers, the other for her blouse. Smashing. In passing there was a moment where they were one, a chimera of bad taste just aching to fuck up my walk to Stater Brothers. Not only were these ladies gorgeous, but they made me think. They made me think.

Yuk it up, dweebs

This is GANDHI. Learn the name. I feel as if someday, he will be viewed as an important historical figure.

Okay. If you’ve been following the intrigue around here, you’ll know that those ruffians over at Threevue unabashedly and unashamedly and underhandedly (but most assuredly not unintentionally) ripped off not only our site name, but our color scheme and bannner as well.

Now they’ve taken it a step further. In their latest podcast (here), they make it seem as if THEIRS was the original site, and we are doing this as some sort of comedic stunt. Listen, I am not above a well-executed, elaborate internet hoax (Do you remember the days when we all thought Britney Spears was a real human, rather than a self-destructing android? And now we think back and laugh… laugh… laugh…), but we were first – timestamps DO NOT LIE. Unfortunately, videogamers do. In their depraved culture of running all over the land rescuing helpless princessi (it’s called STALKING, friends), flattening your enemies by stomping on them (animal cruelty!!!), and shooting people point-blank in the face (do you have a permit for that piece?!?), it’s no small wonder that they would pull a stunt like this and expect it to simply blow over.

The greatest trick the devil ever pulled was convincing the world he didn’t exist.

-Keyser Söze

Possibly the greatest pisser-off-er in the entire joint was the fact that a certain Mr. Taylor did not know who Leonard Cohen is. You know, this guy:

Rusty put him straight, pointing out L-Co was recently featured in Watchmen, but seriously… Amateurs! I guess I shouldn’t let my blind rage… blind me. After all, sometimes I get L-Co confused with this dude:

Ronald and the Pink Elephant

Like most citizens of the state of southern California, I spend an inordinate amount of time coming up with ways to extricate myself from awkward silences. This reality I’ve come to terms with, is the result of being a semi-functional member of a society that relies too heavily not only on popular culture, but on your own personal experience with said culture. In a world where everyone is watching the same television shows, diluting an already concise situational comedy into twenty-two minutes, specific sound bites have become the new language of twenty-something communication. Our sometimes, or perhaps my sometimes, lack of eidetic memory of these sound bites has made me a conversational clod. Any dialogue that begins with: did you see the part where…? and I know that my own personal hell has manifest itself as a somewhat intoxicated form of The View regurgitating all of the previous nights’ news. Compound this information with the fact that I haven’t had reliable cable access since high school and it’s almost forgivable that all of my television references date back to the time when people still cared whether or not Rachel and Ross would ever get together, or what Cramer’s real name was.

I have spent enough time stuck in traffic to know there are far less constructive things to be contemplating than insurance against future social faux pas. I often find myself sitting at a stoplight, having spent the better half of a Mariah Carey chorus belting out the tart solipsism louder than my poor car can insulate, only to find myself amidst my own choreographed group of school children with doe-eyed looks that would put the Von-Trapps to shame. To avoid these upsetting displays, I have taken to making lists. Because no one wants to Touch my Body.