Old Skool

Sometimes I reminisce about childhood and breathe a sigh of relief that I was lucky enough to catch the tail end of Old Skool Skoolin' when I was at my most impressionable. Yes, back in the day when teachers had decades of experience and understood that young minds needed them to be more than just "cool" tutors.

Alas, the slow corrosion of teacher credibility began somewhere around middle school. Suddenly newly indoctrinated educators were over-sharing and under role modeling (broke up with your bf and crying in class? GREAT! Having secret affair with fellow faculty member? AWESOME!). Although the preteen me was predisposed to respect authority, it was middle school that finally got me thinking that sometimes, teachers don't know what the fuck they're talking about. Although there were still a few old skool gems here and there, most of the lot were freeloading off of our indoctrinated AzN Academic Anal-ness and calling it "effective methodology evinced by scholastic aptitude."

Nowadays I wonder how I could ever have thought otherwise. With no real filtering mechanism in place, it's safe to say that even I could probably become a teacher. Can you imagine that? This fireball of hateration having disproportionate influence over kids at their most vulnerable time? Yeah. It's a wonder we all grew up to be somewhat functional. Though it's uplifting to see that those of us who didn't are actually now teachers. Payback?

Alas...

It’s hard to blog when you find yourself inexorably ensconced in the deadly quicksand of time-wasting vices. Perhaps that previous sentence was a bit overreaching, but here’s a taste of how my days have been magically filling themselves up with no substantial content what-so-ever:

1) wii hunting: Okay, I feel like I am Juan Ponce de Leon hunting for the Fountain of Youth in the wilds of an uncharted Western Hemisphere. But instead of being able to settle for the secondary achievement of discovering Florida, I am just left with the empty vacuum of an out-of-stock notification in Firefox.

2) crunchyroll.com: It’s hard to fight my guilty pleasure addiction to wuxia soap operas of the uber-cliché variety. Flying? Obscure martial arts manuals and questionable wardrobe choices? Irresponsible boozing from gourds? Yeah, I’m there.

3) television: The last time I watched television with such devoted regularity was in the Dark Ages of awkward teenagedom where my show of choice was Buffy the Vampire Slayer and my wardrobe was marked by a suspicious favoritism towards Old Navy performance fleece (Did I really need so many sweaters? Or vests? In periwinkle blue??).

Factor in my chronic short attention span and we can see exactly how I managed to waste several weeks in the pursuit of absolute nothing. Oh good times. But among the muddle of quotidian mundanity lie gems like the following, which still manage to invigorate my wasting capacity for self-expression into vomiting out a few syllables of disdain:



Are you chuckling? Because I am.

There are just so many reasons why this picture deserves to be immortalized on a commemorative plate of some sort. Because I mean, nothing says, “In honor of Princess Diana” like a man whose lyrical prowess has produced gems like, “It’s a celebration, bitches! / Grab a drink, grab a glass / After that I grab yo ass.”

Plus I do like Kanye’s subtle fuck-you-very-much to Diddy by testing the limits of “indoor sunglasses” trend, very popular with douchebags the world over. Ahh and Harry, my how you’ve stealthily surpassed the receding hairline plagued shadow of your elder brother to capture our hearts as the Better Looking Prince.

HUH?!

If you know me, you know that I harbor deep-seated feelings of disdain for John Mayer. His whole “I’m so genuine and so down-to-earth and such a soulful musician unpolluted by the excesses of fame” shtick reeks to me of an underhanded, smug sense of self-importance. He’s like music’s answer to Zach Braff: another pasty, faux intellectual whose demeanor is marked by a vibe of too-cool-for-school.

Except that he’s not too cool to canoodle about with certain busty women whose entire claim to fame involved playing it stupid and mistaking fish for poultry. To be honest, Jessica Simpson seems more likely to be the target for one of Mayer’s quip-y blog pieces than a potential romantic match. Theirs was the union that truly baffled me since the only thing they have in common was a penchant for big hair (see picture).

But perhaps I was too quick to judge. I mean, Jessica could bring the beauty and John could bring the brains to this dating potluck, together forming some hermaphroditic embodiment of celebrity evolution gold. Here’s a “before they dated” comparison to show you what I mean:



Then as I was jovially trolling the recent flood of pictures from the Met’s Costume Institute Gala, chortling heartily at the various embodiments of fashion forward atrocities, I chanced upon THIS startling gem:



Huh?? Who was this charmingly boyish young fellow in desperate need of a tan? The albino love child of Johnny Depp and Jake Gyllenhaal? Suddenly I felt powerless as the structural tenets of my reality collapsed without warning. Could it be? Did I find John Mayer to be not entirely loathsome? Was I in fact feeling a slight twinge of fangurl-y gushiness?

It seemed this picture was not a fluke for here he is again a few nights later at some Time Magazine party:



HUH? Looking quite good? Smiling naturally without his usual unsettling suspiciousness? Was this even the same guy?? And what about his counterpart, you might ask. Was she also transformed and better off as a result of their haphazard love affair?



Well I guess not so much. It seems that Jess has become more bachelor party blow-up doll than human. I think this picture (especially that look of pure shock and awe from the elderly gentleman in the foreground) pretty much sums up the Mayer-Simpson dynamic in its current state.

It happens to the best of us...

I was so distracted by the social awkwardness surrounding this picture that it took me a few moments to realize Diaz was sporting some signs of awkwardness herself. I do love that everyone is trying to play it nonchalant and ignore the high school-style reunion of scorned lovers in their midst. I also like that Justin is desperately searching for that fine line between prudishness and general aversion with his long distance shoulder pat of asexual camaraderie.

The whole thing reminds me of that episode of Friends where Monica calls Richard and wants to leave a "breezy" message and subsequently invalidates her entire claim by saying she is breezy. It's not a breezy reunion when it's ensconced in pursed lips, averted eyes, and general sweatiness.

And in case you thought I was over-analyzing the mysterious darkened patch of fabric (perhaps it was a pattern? perhaps a trick of the light?), here is what her dress looked like in full:

The Worst Trend of All Time

Why so upbeat Jenny? Are you jiving to the melodious clinking born of your odd piano keyboard vest and the metallic slinky where your forearm used to be? Or are you simply trying to distract from the creeping progress of your flesh-eating jeans? And this brings us to... the worst trend of all time:

ULTRA high-waisted jeans. Jeans with waistlines so high that they had to be deliberately altered to accommodate such irrational tastes. And who do we have to blame? Of course, the usual cabal of so-called "fashion forward" trendsetters:



My eyes are bleeding.

Quickie: What's wrong with this picture?

a) Ashlee is looking more Meg Ryan-ish than usual.
b) Pete seems to be exuding a saran wrap vibe through his fashion choices.
c) I love Coffee Bean. Hee! (Fine, this wasn't really topical...)

What about the fact that they are both actually wearing the SAME OUTFIT: skinny jeans, canvas-y shoes, zipped hoodies, beanies, and hipster nonchalance. I mean, would you really notice if they did some impromptu outfit switcheroo right there in the street?

A Puzzler FERSHER

While driving home from the local library following a mildly debilitating mid-afternoon attack of self-doubt (Am I losing brain cells? Maybe I need to read something that doesn't include pictures. Maybe I need to read this book about pre-Renaissance English society. It will surely rejuvenate my withering mental faculties. Oh god I just read the first sentence and am already bored. What's wrong with me??? JUST GIMME GUITAR HERO), I noticed this vehicle waiting ahead of me at the traffic light:



The next few moments passed somewhat like this:

1) hahaha no jesus no heaven. cute.
2) I wonder what the license plate says...
3) I love hugs?
4) no that's not right
5) LV... something about Louis Vuitton???
6) Oh god why does Scarlett look like some sleepy-eyed consumption victim LITERALLY at "the end of her rope" in those new LV ads? How can one mess up ScarJo? I guess anything is possible:



7) Man I don't know what she needs, but it definitely wasn't that weird fuschia lipstick.
8) ok MAYBE the license doesn't mean anything. It's probably just random letters with a personal significance ...
9) ...
10) oh wait...
11) WOW I see that I had to sound it out.


I've also been baking alot. Seeeee?



(banana bread)