Things I Would Rather Do Than See Another Buddies Movie #SuperBuddies #SuperBuddiesParty #KillMeNow

Last night I was just sitting on the couch, minding my own goddamned business. I seriously wasn’t doing anything but sitting. I don’t often do this, but we just moved and we have a lot of stressful things going on in life right now; so I thought a moment to just sit and relax would do me well.

Just to breath.

Then my husband came home and was all hyper and crazy, like he usually is. He can’t sit still without acting mopey – he always wants to “get stuff done,” which I have come to the conclusion is a rouse to avoid me. So he came home and was all antsy, and he was on the verge of killing my relaxation buzz when suddenly a huge vortex opened in the middle of his face and spewed forth the beginning of the destruction of all mankind:

“Hey, did you hear there’s a new Buddies movie coming out? Super Buddies, or something like that.”

armageddon

Is that franchise ever going to stop? Did they not learn their lesson with the flop that was DocBrownTreasure Buddies? Have they not stretched the limits enough with the outlandish and completely unrealistic story lines? Did they not kill history in that space episode, when the dogs decide to take a fucking detour to the moon and then moonwalk and then make that comment about ‘a giant leap for dogkind’? HAVE THEY NOT PERVERTED SOCIETY ENOUGH BY FOREVER TARNISHING OUR IMAGE OF DOCTOR EMMETT BROWN?

You can all see I feel quite passionate about this issue. Well if you had seen all of the direct-to-video Buddies movies so many times that you have nightmares in which the script of each movie plays out word-for-word because it is so deeply imbedded in your subconscious – you would feel passionate about it too.

Buddies

#1

Have An Affair With A Vegan Hipster

There is nothing more unattractive than a vegan hipster. A vegan hipster male that is so unshaven that he has a full coat of hair on his shoulders and back. A vegan hipster that believes in using all natural soaps and deodorants, so much so that he smells like a cross between baking soda, patchouli, your grandmother’s crotch rot, and cut-renching body odor. A vegan hipster that does nothing but talk ad nauseum about his veganism and what that means for his bowel movements. A vegan hipster that works at the local Urban Outfitters, where he sells fashionable muscle shirts, spends his day grooming his foo manchu mustache, listening to Pitchfork, and pretending like living in his parent’s basement is a personal choice.

I would rather have an affair with that man than see another Buddies movie.

#2

Immerse Myself In Hillbilly Society

1175607_196414167198187_1631395930_nYou all know my feelings about hillbillies, but really there isn’t much wrong with them when they are kept at a distance. Being in their element is another thing.

I would rather immerse myself in hillbilly society than see another Buddies movie.

I would rather BBQ on a grill made out of an old toilet. I would rather marry my cousin and wear overalls and flannel shirts and have nineteen children. My children’s names would be Bobby Jo, Billy Jean, Tommy Steve, Jack, Randy, Ron, Phyllis, Baby Sue, Lura, Tracy, Tracy Mae (because we forgot we already had a kid named Tracy), Nancine, Tammy Rae, Sally Bo, Cletis, Kimmy Dean, Donald Dick, Baby, and Maximillian T Stone. Because we wanted to give our youngest a classy-like name.

#3

I Would Rather Lick My Husband’s Rotting Feet

Sorry if this offends anyone. Especially Poor Nick.

But I would rather lick my husband’s rotting feet than see another Buddies movie.

My husband’s feet are so gross. He always gets offended when I say that, which is crazy because I don’t mean it as an insult. I just mean to be honest. The problem is that he has an emotional attachment to literally everything that he owns, including his rotting, old socks and his rotten, stinking shoes. He has these flip flops that are over 10 years old and falling apart. He comes home from work and there are pieces of sweaty, black rubber all over this feet.

This all leads to foot fungus, which makes the smell. The smell that seems to permeate everywhere. Sometimes it smells like vinegar, other times it smells like a sweaty locker room. A sweaty locker room that hasn’t been cleaned in over a decade.

I would rather lick those.

#4

I Would Rather Go Hunting With Dick Cheney

Do you guys remember when our evil leader and overlord “accidentally” shot another human being while on a hunting trip? Yeah. I would rather go hunting with him and risk it than see another Buddies movie.

#5

I Would Rather Do A Video Blog Nude

I would rather that video blog go viral, unlike any of the other video blogs I have ever done.

#6

I Would Rather All Of My Remaining Meals On This Earth Consist Of Only The Following:

Filet O Fish. McFish. Fish sticks. And Long John Silver’s Cajun Classic.

By the way, I hate fish and am allergic to 75% of them.

At some point, I have to ask just what the fuck is the deal with the talking dog movies? I get it that kids learn and thrive from the maximum amount of imagination. I understand that they identify with these fantastical experiences and expectations, that movies with talking animals help facilitate. But in all seriousness: at some point it’s gone too far. When The Dog That Saved Christmas has very little to do with dogs, or Cinnamon is really just a Lifetime movie about a divorcee and widow falling in love, told through the eyes of a dog, I think we’re starting to maybe go too far. And the Buddies going into fucking outer space, or obtaining super powers and interacting with aliens. Well, that’s just absurd.

Now before we all activate our emergency cyanide tablets before being forced to view another one of the terribly boring, horrifically unrealistic Buddies franchise films, click on this fabulous photo of the Super Buddies-induced Armageddon to watch a hilarious synopsis of the film.

armageddon copy

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The Worst Part About California

Don’t believe anything the tourist ads, or the hipsters with their million dollar trust funds, tell you. California has a lot of downsides.

Sure, the weather is typically pretty nice; although, there are even some bad parts to that. For one, you no longer have much change to the seasons, which is sort of depressing. There is something very beautiful about the fall of leaves; about the first snowfall; and, about the beginning of spring and of summer. You don’t get that in California. But it also rains a lot here during the winter, and California is entirely ill-prepared for it. We don’t have proper drainage, no matter how many floods there are. Despite all the landslides of mud and water, which kill people every year, we do nothing to put up proper drainage walls. And don’t get me started on the lack of fire protection.

The bad things about California go well beyond that, though. There’s the cost of living, which is exponentially higher than most of the country. The $27 cake at Whole Foods down the street from our apartment is only $8 at the Whole Foods just outside Chicago. Our electric bills are higher. Our water bills are through the roof (despite the fact that we live right along a body of water). And our rents are almost double what they would be in other, equally as nice, areas of the country.

The hipsters are overruling California, making the environment a terribly narcissistic and pretentious place to live. Every weekend there are local, hippy fests wreaking havoc on traffic and the peace and quiet some of us enjoy – crappy music festivals, art walks where people sell paintings of local scenery, farmer’s markets with absolutely no health standards at all. The last time we went to the farmer’s market, I bought strawberries and the guy put down his macaroni salad and licked his fingers, then grabbed my bushel of strawberries and got macaroni and mayonnaise all over the bag.

Then there is the overwhelming hillbilly population, leftover from all the Okies that came over during the Great Depression to pick fruit. They have racetracks in almost every city it seems. Every county has a fair, and it isn’t a classy fair; it’s an “eat fried butter and wrestle with pigs” kind of event. The streets are lined with trucks covered in mud from their most recent four-bying excursion. Guns are big. Overalls are big. Beating you wife is huge.

Everyone is trying to break into the film industry, which is an awful industry (to say the least). It uses people for everything it can, and then spits them out quicker than you can say “this was a mistake.” The people that actually keep a job for a while are expected to sacrifice everything. My husband is one of them, who sacrifices lunch breaks, weekends with his family, and night after night after night of just a little bit of quality time to satisfy his bosses. He doesn’t even know how many personal days he gets every year, it’s been so long since he took them. And when confronted with the low wages and high demands, the only response is: “most people in the film industry don’t have families.”

The lifestyle in California – even if you are not in the film industry – is so ridiculously fast-paced and high stress, everyone is always rushing. Everyone is always on the go. No one has time to be nice, or to say “hello” to a stranger. That’s considered rude. People cut you off, flip you off, and feel entitled to take your place in line because they are in a hurry. At the grocery store the other day, a woman cut in line in front of us at the deli because she said her daughter was waiting for her. Really bitch? The grocery workers just let it happen, because in California it isn’t what is fair or what is common courtesy, it’s who has the biggest voice.

It isn’t just all this, though, that is the worst part about California. And there are other miscellaneous nuances that make the place miserable. The traffic. The cost of doing anything besides breathe. The horrible public transportation. The jobs. The education. The public schools. The corrupt politicians. The union stranglehold. The homeless. The way people treat the homeless. The beaches with warnings that hypodermic needles could be buried in the sand.

All this and more is not, and never will be, the worst part about California.

No, faihtful blog followers. No there is a much different thing that is the worst part about California. None of this will ever top it, either. “What in God’s name could be so awful, so heinous, to top all of that?” I’m sure you are asking yourself.

Simple answer: the ghetto trash.

Yesterday I went to pick up some soup, because we’re all sick and I wanted something spicy to clear out my sinuses. I parked my car, went in to get my soup, and came out to find that a car had been parked next to mine, and it was completely blocking me from getting into my car.

The drivers of said car were standing outside of it, two of them making out and one of them smoking a cigarette. Clearly a gang bang was about to happen.

For a brief second I thought about trying to squeeze in, but when I saw that their mirror had been smashed down by my driver’s side door, I decided to just politely ask them to move the car.

I was very nice. They were kids – clearly teenagers, driving their parent’s car. I was very, very nice.

“Is this your car?”

The girl making out put her gum back into her mouth, looked me up and down and said “yeah, what’s it to you?”

Really?

“Ok, well I can’t get into my car without scratching up yours … do you think you could move your car just a little?”

The guy smoking said “sure, sorry about that ma’am.” Then the girl piped up again, “you don’t have to be such a bitch about it.”

The guy had already moved his car by then. I got in my car and drove off.

This is the worst part of California. It’s the medical assistant who acts like you’ve morally offended her because you called to schedule an appointment with your doctor. It’s the cashier at Starbucks who gives you attitude because you point out that she gave you the wrong change. It’s the waitress that acts like she’s doing you a favor to let you pay to eat in her establishment. It’s the girls in the bathroom at Target that tell you you’d better “watch your back” wearing clothing that people don’t like. It’s the trashy kids sitting on cars in the parking lot, making out and dressing like total skanks. It’s the people that are constantly on guard, totally abrassive, and ready to call people out for something they have not even done.

California is filled with it. It’s in even the nicest of communities – which ours is fabled to be. This ghetto trash, these bottom-feeders, are what make California intolerable. Because while the weather issues are annoying, the cost of living sucks, and the hipsters and film industry get under your skin, they don’t get in your face like ghetto trash does.

STFU Fridays, with our special guest: STFU Socrates

This morning I woke up and looked on Facebook, wasting time while trying to figure out (like usual) how exactly to get through the day. Much to my happiness, the “I fucking love science” page shared a quote that could not be anymore relevant and important, both to my day and us as a society:

This was Socrates’ mantra, and why he was called the wisest man on the Earth. He wasn’t wise because he was a great philosopher. Nor because he knew how to get into the pants of just about everyone in Ancient Athens, despite his garish appearance. He was the wisest man on Earth because when he was told this, he couldn’t believe it. Quite frankly, he told the Oracle at Delphi to shut the fuck up. (I always like to imagine Socrates saying “shut the fuck up, bitch – I ain’t no wise man!” with one of those ghetto, Jerry Springer snaps of the hand.) After that, he went out on a search to prove that he wasn’t the wisest by questioning everything he and others thought they knew (and in doing so, proved the Oracle’s statement absolutely correct).

What happened to Socrates you ask? He was put to death by those dumb motherfuckers who thought they knew everything for trying to prove that he, himself, did not know shit. Talk about ironic. This is the theme for our STFU Fridays, and I have three groups of people that deserve a resounding “shut the fuck up.”

STFU Socrates is joining us.

Hipsters

This weekend in Los Angeles, we’re having the second edition of Carmageddon. If you were around the news or LA last year, you know what this meant. A section of the 405 freeway was shut down, and despite the fact that there are a bagillion other routes people normally take anyway, as well as the fact that it was a goddamned weekend and wasn’t going to be a big deal, the city acted like it was the end of the fucking world. End. Of. The Fucking. World.

Hipsters everywhere came out of the woodwork, celebrating local and bike riding tandem. Yuppies organized a 405 shutdown tandem bike ride. I shit you not, everyone talked on the news about how great this was to re-embrace LA. It was a foodie’s wildest fantasy: what a great opportunity to stay put and eat locally grown organic produce!

Yay local! Yay tofu! Yay Pitchfork!

I’m not sure how shutting down a stretch of the freeway turned into the biggest convention of ugly pants-wearing hipsters ever, but it did. Coachella didn’t even compare. So earlier this month when I saw on the freeway the dreaded sign that Carmageddon 2 was upon us, I immediately prepared myself for more self-aggrandizing, pompous assholes to make their way into the limelight in their lime-colored sunglasses and wearing stretched out, oversized tank tops.

With their cool sense of irony and $99 “vintage” American Apparel hoodies, hipsters annoy me in such a way that I can’t even really describe accurately. It isn’t their ugly taste in clothing. It isn’t their lack of understanding of the term irony. It isn’t even their shitty taste in bubble-gum pop, pseudo-dance music played by morons with 12 inch ear gauges and barely more than a junior high education.

It’s their fucking arrogance.

Hipsters think they know everything. About everything. They have an understanding of music that you just don’t get. They have a taste in fashion that you would never understand. Your deep thoughts are mere blips on the stream of consciousness that is their deep, emotional, and ironic thinking.

I think if Socrates were alive today, he wouldn’t waste his time questioning hipsters. He’d just beat the shit out of  their neon orange skinny pants, bike riding through Carmageddon asses.

What do you have to say to the hipsters, Socrates?

Hypocrites

Hipsters are kind of hypocrites because they embrace cheap and vintage and local, and yet pay a big price in places that manufacture goods in Guadalajara for 5 cents an hour wages. But not all hypocrites are hipsters, so this is a different group. A different STFU.

A hypocrite is someone that quite literally says one thing and does another. A great example of hypocrites are people that go to church and preach fire and brimstone, then go home and drink a case of beer while beating their wives. Another great example of hypocrites are people that say they want a relationship with an honest person, but when the person is honest they call the person an asshole.

A hypocrite is someone that wants women to have equal rights and be treated with respect; yet, at the same time tells her she has to clear things with him first, or have no control over her own things.

I feel like I am surrounded by hypocrites in my daily life. From my misogynistic husband that, indeed, got just as upset about my mentioning how much of a pig he is in my grocery blog as I thought he would; to my trailer trash mom, who complains when I don’t go to family parties but then dumps on every time I offer to host them at our home.

What infuriates me so much about hypocrites, though, isn’t just their hypocrisy; but really their arrogance paralleled to the arrogance of the hipster. The hypocrite knows better than you – that’s why he can be a hypocrite. The hypocrite just has a much better understanding of life and whatever he’s doing that makes him so hypocritical; and you are just too stupid to realize that it isn’t hypocrisy, but the right thing.

What do you have to say to hypocrites, Socrates?

Foodies

I’m really starting to dislike foodies. I don’t mean people that like to eat. I also don’t mean people that like to eat new things.

I mean these motherliving assholes that know more than everyone about food. EpicureansFood connoisseurs. Foodie fucks.

I talked a little bit about this in my Food Nazis STFU, but now I want to touch on these foodie assholes that think their feta don’t stink just as much as the next guy.

I’m talking about the foodie that won’t shut the hell up about the tannins in the wine. The foodie that sticks her large, fucking schnoz into the wine glass to smell the flavor and aroma, as if she really knows what the fuck she’s sniffing for. I’m talking about the foodie that sits there and comments on all the distinct spices that he can taste in a dish. I’m talking about the person that says “ha ha ha … oh, that’s precious and homey!” when you bring over a regular square cake with normal fucking frosting, instead of some berry-infused, fondant-covered plate of shit.

Again, just like hipsters; just like hypocrites – foodies think they fucking know everything. I was on a date once where I brought wine because the guy was cooking pasta. I brought white; a white that World Market said would go well with any pasta or other Italian dishes. I walked in and that motherfucker told me that it “technically” wasn’t the appropriate wine for pasta. I told that arrogant prick he should “technically” call World Market and tell them to change their pairing cards.

The Ancient Greeks were all about eating and drinking. Have any of you ever read Symposium? Those motherfuckers drank wine out of jugs. Jugs! They lived well into old age (for the most part) too, and they weren’t all as fucking arrogant as people are now. I cannot for the life of me imagine a bunch of guys standing around in the Agora sticking their noses into their dirty wine jugs and talking about tannins and shit.

So with that, I think STFU Socrates is the best person for the job on this week’s final STFU. What do you have to say to foodies, just like you did to the hipsters and the hypocrites, Socrates?

Get a Little Cray Cray

Do you see the crazy in my eyes, there, faithful blog followers?  While it’s definitely there, it’s not the kind of crazy that I am looking for right now.  The other day I saw someone post on Facebook “What’s going down tonight – I feel like getting cray cray!”  And I realized that I don’t get cray cray, faithful blog followers.  I just don’t.  I think this picture is the most cray cray I have ever gotten, actually:  a trip to the family pumpkin farm.  There were animals (gross!), hay stacks everywhere (grosser!), and my feet got dirty.  The wildness hit a fever pitch when I ate not one, but two all natural frozen lime fruit bars and the event was so off the hook that I had to take a nap, cozied up in the passenger seat of my father’s car, the entire way home.  This is my idea of a wild time.  No jokes, no joshing – I really don’t get cray cray.

But after seeing that Facebook post, as well as getting a taste of the wild side when I did my Dress Like a Hipster post a few weeks ago, I developed a longing deep within to get a little cray cray myself.  I’m not talking barn animals and frozen fruit bars cray cray, faithful blog followers.  I’m talking acting borderline insane, just for the fun of it.

The caveat is that I have no true idea what it is to get cray cray.  I really think a trip to the family pumpkin farm is letting loose.  So let’s do another B(itch) poll to see what you, faithful blog followers, would like to see this lady do to Get a Little Cray Cray.

You will note, all of the polls harken back to a prior blog post of mine – from the one about Tom Skilling to the hillbillies, even all the way back to duckface.  Nothing wrong with a little shameless self-promotion, right?  And anyway, I do have my issues that make that crazy look in my eyes all the crazier…

You can vote for more than one thing, you can also add your own!  So let’s Get a Little Cray Cray..

If I Dress Like A Hipster, Will I Like PBR?

I don’t know what’s more disturbing:  the fact that I accidentally got drunk on beer before the afternoon was even over (ewww gross – beer!); or, the fact that it was so easy for me to find clothing and accessories in my house that fit the hipster milieu.

 In any event, for some reason I got this crazy idea that if I surrounded myself with hipster accessories, and even went as far as to dress like one, that I would somehow magically begin to like PBR as well.  I thought this would be the best way to test my hypothesis that it is being a hipster that makes you actually enjoy Pabst Blue Ribbon.  The only other possibility is that being a hillbilly will influence your actual enjoyment of PBR, and since we have already established that hipsters are just hillbillies in vintage, it seems pointless to test both.  (Not to mention, I would have to dress in overalls and take serial photographs of myself sitting on the toilet:  the former I am unable to do for I own no overalls; the latter I am sure you all do not really want to see…)

Here are the results (you will note I have added the typical, hipster photo effects to get the true feeling that – for this day only – I really became a hipster):

I decided to only sample four beers, because really I hate beer.  PBR was to be included as one of the four; my photographer and beer sampling administer (thanks dad!) chose these:  Tecate, Corona Extra, Coors Light, and PBR

As I said, I surrounded myself with everything-hipster.  That was to test my hypothesis that it is being a hipster that makes you actually enjoy Pabst Blue Ribbon.  Included in my surroundings, I had:  an unreasonable amount of Apple products, a pile of scarves (ready for wear if needed, despite the fact that it was 90 degrees out), colored sunglasses, a ridiculous hat (the only thing that would have been worse would be a vintage fedora … but the hipsters do love their retarded beanies), and an oversized and unmatched outfit … disturbingly put together from my very own closet.  The drinks were hidden behind a black box and a wall of the extra cans of PBR.

It was rough for me to choke down that beer, but I’ve had enough in my hey day to guess at 75% correctness.  This blogger hasn’t had beer in a long time, though, so obviously I felt a little rusty drinking it.

I got Tecate right!  I’ve had Tecate a lot in my life – and I still do enjoy the taste.

Coors Light was wrong.  I didn’t like it and never have, so it is no wonder I guessed it was Rolling Rock.  I’m not the biggest fan of American beers on the rare occasions that I do drink them, so it is no surprise that I had no clue (really) what I was drinking on the second round.

Obviously a little tipsy at this point, I got Corona Extra correct!  And I’m still a fan …

I was given a few different samples of the Tecate and the Coors Light before we moved on to the PBR, just for the sake of making sure I didn’t figure out what I was drinking.  Obviously the level of hatred I have towards hipsters would have skewed the results; nonetheless, when PBR came up I did guess it correctly and I still hated it.

This leaves us to a few possibilities:

  1. My hypothesis that it is being a hipster that makes you actually enjoy Pabst Blue Ribbon was just proved wrong.  This is quite obvious.
  2. You could further hypothesize that just surrounding yourself with hipster-esque things does not actually make you be a hipster.  This is a pretty big possibility and is an entire blog altogether, for that would mean that being a hipster is not about the material manifestations of it, but rather an inner state of being.  (I shudder to think that is the case.)
  3. What I really believe this proves is the idea that hipsters will do whatever to conform to the social standards of being a hipster.  It has been cited before on a number of different blogs, websites, and even news articles on Time and various weekly papers.  Hipsters want so badly to be against the grain of social norms that they conform to their own … social norm of (ironic) nonconformity.  
Back to my normal self …
… I am reminded that my real obsession with the hipsters is not that they like certain things or act in a certain way, but that they are complete hypocrites.  They will spend hundreds of dollars on things that look vintage.  They claim a nonconformist attitude by going at great lengths to conform.  They argue for individual rights and respect, while letting their parents pay for everything well into middle age.  They will even go as far as to drink a drink that really does taste like it came from a toilet bowl, merely for the sake of saying “we like cheap.”  But the Pabst Blue Ribbon wasn’t even really that cheap – it was comparable in price to all of the other beers I sampled.  A friend from Chicago even told me yesterday that at bars out there a pint of it will cost you about $6.50 – more than I have ever seen a person pay for a pint of beer.  Hipsters are one of my biggest pet peeves merely because in hoards they are creating even more stupidity and hypocrisy in American society, something I really think we already have enough of.
Special thanks to my dad, Raymond Schmidt, for setting up the beer tasting and taking the photographs.  He’s a writer too … you can find him on Amazon by clicking here.

Magic Number 100, or things I want to do before I turn 30

Yippy!  This is my 100th blog post!  Excitement abound at the Schmidt Ranch, and of course by excitement I mean me (in pajamas) skipping around the house and sipping an extra large bottle of bubbly, Canada Dry ginger ale.

For me, faithful blog followers, this is an exciting day.  That I have had enough things to bitch and complain about to constitute one hundred entire blog postings is, in itself, something exciting.  But it also may not be surprising – I have a whole cadre of things filed away in my head, just waiting to get out.  The topics have been varied, although it is obvious what my pet peeves are:  stupid people, hipsters, hillbillies, poor use of the English language, things that put me either in danger or at an inconvenience, and … well, basically the rest of humanity.

So for my 100th post, though, I wanted to do something different.  While it is the B(itch)log, I thought it would be nice if I didn’t bitch for once.  Instead, I thought I would talk about something more positive:  My Revised List of Things I Want To Do Before I Turn 30.  I decided to do this for my 100th blog post, mainly because hitting 100 posts was one of those things I recently added to the list of things I want to do before I turn 30; also, because I am just a few, short days away from 6 months out from the big 3-0.  For years (actually over a decade), I had this extensive list that I wanted to achieve, all of which I have failed to do.  So recently, I started scaling back and accepting that I probably won’t publish that book or finish that Ph.D. in the next six months.  That doesn’t mean I can’t do some things, though.  So here we go, and I am counting on you, faithful blog followers, in keeping me on task:

My Revised List of Things I Want To Do Before I Turn 30

1.  Finish 40 books for the calendar year 2011 and get a good start on 40 for 2012.  At the beginning of this year, I decided I was going to keep track of the books I read and try to read as many quality books as I could before December 31st.  Now that we are nearing the end of the year, I am within site of 40 and think I can do it.  I have just finished numbers 30 and 31 … just a few more to go.  For my completed list, click here!

2.  Go on a date with Wolf Blitzer.  I know, sounds psychotic, right?  A week or so ago, I blogged about my hatred of Chicago news-weatherman Tom Skilling and in it mentioned that I have a secret love of Wolf Blitzer.  After that blog went out, people emailed me, Facebooked me, and even asked me in person what it was that gave me the hots for Wolf.  In truth, I can’t explain it.  But as I grasped for any reason to give people, I realized that I really do have an infatuation with most news anchors that are as hard-hitting as Blitzer is.  Since my chances of even coming in contact with Wolf Blitzer, let alone going on a date with him without finding myself in divorce court shortly thereafter, though, are slim and none … not to mention I would probably pee my pants if Wolf, Chris Matthews, or any of the other dream-teamers were actually in the same room as me … see photoshop below.  Mission accomplished?  I think so!

3.  Prove to myself once and for all that I am going to stop letting what other people say influence me so much.  A few weeks ago, I realized that I spend more time writing as an author based on what other people suggest and what other people are going to want, rather than what I want to write and what I know is good.  This is something that, unfortunately, is in almost every aspect of my life:  I let myself get pushed around by the wishes of others rather than either a compromise or what I know is right.  Before I turn 30, I want to prove it to myself that I am working to get over this (sometimes crippling) fault:  be it in my writing, my blog, or some other arbitrary aspect of my life.

4.  Buy a plane ticket to take a trip home sometime in 2012.  This is a big psychological problem for me, mainly because I know that flying home to sweet home Chicago will make it very difficult for me to get on the return plane home.  I am that homesick that often.  But I have missed so much in the last decade of my absence that to continue to forestall a trip back is just plain assholish of me to do.  It’s time for me to put on my big girl pants and buy myself a trip home.  While I know it won’t be the same as it was a decade ago (when I was last there), I also know that there is so much there I need to see and do before I turn the page to the next chapter (so to speak).

5.  On the note of trips … take a road trip to northern California to visit the John Steinbeck museum.  I really have few other interests in northern California besides that, but it is something I have wanted to do for years and yet never done.

6.  Eat sushi.  I have never eaten sushi – real sushi, that is – and yet every time we go out for Japanese food (which is frequently), I pine after it.  I have no idea what my fear of it is – probably the fact that I don’t really like fish all that much, as well as the fear that I would develop deadly tomaine poisoning – but I want to get over it and try it, just once.

That’s six things, as compared to my prior list of twenty-five (which you do not even want to read, it is that sad).  If you count my 100th blog post, which I am now about to hit “publish” on, that is seven; I think manageable given the time frame and my idiosyncrasies.  Let’s knock another one off that list … right ….. now …. this was on our way out for a nice, celebratory dinner in honor of my 100th blog post (in my head, that is) …………. the only thing needed is an audio file you faithful blog followers could play over and over of me going “Oh Wolf!”

Happy 100 Blog Followers!!  Thanks for reading!

Are Hipsters Really Just Hillbillies in Vintage?

Everyone’s talking about the hipsters.  Just this week, The Oatmeal released a web comic comparing Hammer Pants and Hipster Pants (and I have to say, Oats:  truer words were never spoken).  But the comparisons and the discussions are nothing new.  Cracked.com has a compilation page of charts and detailed analysis of the hipsters, which the site calls “people who prove that they do not care about social standards by adhering…” in unrealistic levels to, well … social standards.  Even Time magazine has weighed in.  In an article on the hipster’s propensity to parody, Time said that “…everything about them is exactingly constructed to give off the vibe that they just don’t care.”  So it would seem that we just cannot stop talking about those tight pant-wearing, Pabst beer-drinking, vintage-loving wannabes.  Why is that?

Wannabes is what they truly are.  Hipsters are the post-poser subculture of people that want so badly to be cool and misunderstood that they conform (in their “ironic” nonconformity) to a state of absolute self-importance so that their coolness is protected by a thick layer of smug.  Did you understand anything I just said?  Let me say it a little clearer:  hipsters are nothing but a bunch of smug, arrogant assholes.  And they are that way on purpose.

Today at the AAA office, I saw a fine looking young gentleman clad in tight, purple pants and a t-shirt that said “Hipster for Life.”  While I am certain that the travel agent/insurance carrier would have been happy to provide the gentleman with insurance for his hot pink, tandem bicycle, what he really seemed to be there for was to strike up conversations with every other person waiting for help about his superior knowledge of music.  As I listened to the man talk, though (as he scratched his faux-retro mustache and I resisted the urge to punch him in the gut), I realized that hipsters are really nothing more than hillbillies!  In this moment of clarity (at the dingy AAA office, waiting for my map of San Diego County), this truth became so evident to me that I wonder how we all did not see this before.

Let’s compare the two:

Both hipsters and hillbillies have unreasonably ugly facial hair.  The faux-70s thin ‘stache is among the most popular.

We have that God awful fad (that still seems to be lingering) of people drawing or putting fake mustaches on their faces; they even have mustache parties.  What the hell is the point? – is what I have to ask, but that is another blog altogether.  In a comparison between hipster facial hair and hillbilly facial hair, you see that the two are absolutely identical.  Each prides itself on being unkempt.  Each is mocking some former style that they believe deserves some weird sort of respect.  And, inevitably, each looks disgusting.

Both hipsters and hillbillies drink the shittiest beer known to mankind.  In particular, that PBR piss water.

With the number of options for cheap, and yet quality, beer out there, it is astonishing to me that people still drink Coors Light, Miller High Life, and PBR.  Pabst Blue Ribbon is the worst.  Why do they do it you ask?  Well here is another thing the hipsters and the hillbillies have in common:  they like to be cheap, even when they don’t have to.  I see no reason for it though, particularly when a case of Heineken is only about $2 more than a case of the piss water hipster hillbillies drink.

Both hipsters and hillbillies are smug ass mother fuckers.

Here is where I draw the real correlation between hipsters and hillbillies.  The true sign of a hipster is one who thinks he is better than everyone else around him because of his personal choices to not conform (in such a way that is completely conformist).  He thinks his music is the best (it’s not), his clothing is the most fashionable (it’s ugly as hell), and his ideas on life and the world are so much more transcendent than anyone around him (very likely he is a dumb shit).  Hillbillies are the same, exact way.  Where hipsters look down on others for eating meat, hillbillies look down on others who don’t eat meat.  (I can’t even remember how many times I have been to my redneck family gatherings and been scoffed at for saying I don’t eat red meat – a choice for personal health and not involving any meats other than red.)  Hipsters think their taste in music is far superior to everyone else – something Cracked.com and Time emphatically pointed out; just as hillbillies refuse to acknowledge the existence of anything but country (or if they do acknowledge, it is followed with disdain).  The absolute arrogance of hipsters and hillbillies is so paralleled that their every move in life is preemptively defended with a vague and somewhat narcissistic rant about how they are removed from the world in ways most people could never even understand.

So the only possible conclusion is that hipsters are nothing more than neo-hillbillies:  all the same attitudes with slightly different details.  This, I fear, is just more proof that The Hipster Apocalypse is upon us.