George Clooney is so dandy, and he cares!

I understand that George Clooney considers himself to be this great humanitarian liberal who isn't afraid to speak out against the injustices of Sudanese genocide and Bill O'Reilly. And usually I can take him a little bit seriously because, frankly, he's isn't Martin Sheen or Sean Penn. And I'm so glad that he doesn't wear purple goggles like Bono; those have never and will never be cool. Also, U2 sucks balls. My point is that George Clooney seems like a nice guy with a good head on his shoulders and I can respect him for that. And look at those eyes. Those eyes are the eyes of a man who is upset, goddammit, and he's not afraid to show his concern

So my question is this: Why is George Clooney wearing blush? Seriously, something is going on with those cheeks and I don't understand, just like I don't understand the atrocities in Darfur. But since celebrities seem to care, I better get my act together and look that shit up on Wikipedia.

I have dreams where I'm pregnant. Give me your goddamned seat, lady.

Anyone who reads the Missed Connections section on Craigslist knows that occasionally people write posts where they bitch and spew out pseudo-racist and -sexist comments, sparking more and more posts written in retaliation to the original posts, the later posts, and so on and so forth (I can't believe I just used "so on and so forth," but I'm leaving it in there anyway).

As a big fan of the Missed Connections and someone who aspires to have one written about them, I still read the website every day. And those stupid, poorly-written, weakly-argued posts about how women hate Mexicans who talk to them really piss me off. There's a section called Rants and Raves, and that's the forum for all of your debates on the Lincoln Park Chad and Trixies.

Last night, after getting home from drinking a fair share of PBR at the Empty Bottle, I came upstairs and checked Missed Connections in the hopes that I would find one that read, "You looked so dashingly handsome in your tan London Fog windbreaker. Your short read hair is adorable. I really wanted to pull you into the photo booth and make out with you." Obviously, I didn't find that post, but I did see one with the headline, "To all the men on the brown, red, and purples [sic] lines - w4m - 22." I thought, "I RIDE THE BROWN AND RED LINES THIS MUCH BE ABOUT MEEEEE," and opened up the post. Unfortunately, this is what it said:

I just have to say THANK YOU to all the gentlemen out there who wait for the ladies to board the train first and always offer up their seats to us. You have manners and I appreciate that!

To all you slumbags that have no manners and push in front of us and grab the seats on an overcrowded train, SHAME ON YOU! You'll never have to bear children, wear heels, deal with tampons and a cramping uterus, and get shorted on your pay check just because you are a woman.

It may be 2006, but unfortunately it is still a man's world and the ladies deserve a break - or a seat on the train at the very least.

Oh no she di'n't.

So, with my body full of liquid encouragement and my mind full of embittered rage, I wrote a reply.

So are you basically saying that, as a woman, you admit to being the weaker sex? (Wo)Man, you have to deal with tampons? Oh, that sucks. You definitely deserve to sit down more than me.

I love how, as a man, I'm automatically the bad guy. I mean, I may claim to be a feminist (because the term not only applies to women) who believes in equal rights for everyone, regardless of gender, but I shouldn't be able to sit down on the Brown Line? Look, HONEY, my knees quake just as much as yours, and just because I have a penis doesn't mean I'm any stronger than you and can take a thirty minute ride standing up.

(And seriously, I hate the rants/raves posts disguised as missed connections as much as the next guy/gal, but COME ON. If I want to sit down, I'm going to sit down, and the last time I checked, the CTA only wishes that we give up our seats to those with disabilities, and (also, the last time I checked) menstruation does not count as one. So DEAL WITH IT.)

Granted, I was playing Devil's Advocate quite a bit here because I consider myself to be one of those polite people who opens doors for everyone and, if someone else is standing in front of an open seat, I'm not going to knock them down to sit there. But seriously, I hate this Trixie brand of feminism that makes women think that men are shit because we don't ovulate. You think you have to deal with pregnancy? I've had three - three! - dreams where I'm pregnant in the last six months. If that doesn't give me the right to sit down wherever I want, I don't know what does.

I woke up this morning feeling like a dirty bomb had detonated inside my head, and then remembered about writing the post. Expecting there to be about eight other posts written by angry women about how I'm horrible, I was excited to find only one, indeed written by a woman, who seemed to agree with me.

To the OP: I'm a 22 year old female who commutes on the red/brown line trains a good portion of the day and whereas it's quite polite for ANYONE to give up their seat on the train... I think you need to get over it. You're 22 and you need to sit down for the duration of your train ride? I find this hard to believe. You, my dear, are lazy. Quit complaining and get on a less crowded section of the train if your bloated, tampon-laden body needs a seat

No one should ever be obligated to give up their seat on a train for you unless you are crippled, elderly, or carrying 85 pounds of something. If you want to be treated equally, quit screaming about your differences.

And quit complaining about your tiny paycheck. I don't know what your job is, but you obviously are bad at it, because I'm a full-time student and I make $30k+ a year at my part time job. Yes, PART TIME job.

I love how the author of the third post is a full-time student with a part-time job that pays over thirty-thousand. She's obviously a stripper. Hey, whatever pays the bills!

An open letter to Pete Doherty.

Dear Pete,

I'm not the type of guy who writes a lot of fan mail. In fact, the last fan letter I wrote was to Stephen King, and I was in sixth grade. (This probably means nothing to you since my guess is that you don't do a lot of reading in your spare time.) Basically, I'm writing to you because, honestly, there isn't a celebrity right now who blows my mind as much as you do. Because, seriously, when I see stuff like this, my brain just stops functioning.

Sometimes I think, "Man, it's weird that John Q. Celebrity is probably living their life right now. I wonder if he's doing something superstar-like or if he's doing something a normal person would do, like walking his dog or taking out the trash." Luckily for people like me, there's VH1, but, honestly, I rarely find myself wondering, "Hey, I wonder what Hulk Hogan's son is doing right now." This morning, after reading about how you injected heroin into the arm of a random, passed-out fan, I thought to myself, "What is Pete Doherty doing right now?" My guess is that you're probably also passed-out, or being arrested. Do you have a dog? Do you ever take out the trash? Or do you just go through your neighbors' trash? What's it like being you?

And seriously, what's it like to be a rich junkie? I've seen crackheads on the El train, and they look about as fucked up as you, but I don't think they do anything other than ride the CTA and scare the shit out of tourists. I mean, what do you do? Only about one hundred people listen to your music. You get arrested every other day. I mean, do you literally spend every day high as hell and fucking around on an electric guitar? Really? I mean, I know that you're not taking showers or brushing your teeth. Are you having sex with overrated supermodels? I. just. don't. understand.

The last part of this letter is a request, really, and it's not just a personal thing because I think a lot of people would also benefit from this. Will you please date Courtney Love? Please? I can't think of another amazing celebrity pairing. Seriously, a very public relationship between you and Courtney would keep me interested. Fuck TomKat. Bradgelina? No thanks, they're too busy raising eight kids. Vaughnifer? That just doesn't make any sense. You and Courtney (or, Courtherty)? Perfect. Think of the possibilities! No one else loves heroin more than Courtney. You could tour together and put on amazing shows stunts that will go down in rock and roll history. You could show up to award shows and try to converse with Pat O'Brien and Joan Rivers. And could you find anyone else who is willing to have horrible, drugged-out sexual intercourse with you? No! Courtney is USED to horrible, drugged-out intercourse!

Seriously, Pete, will you consider this? I'm sure Courtney would be up for it. And really, the coupling would make life much more exciting for the three of us.

Love,
Tyler.

Ashamed, but clever.

What people on the El will think I'm reading:



What I will actually be reading:

I could do without your Roberta Flack.

Last year there was this freshman at JMU whose LiveJournal I discovered. At first I couldn't tell if I thought he was funny or an asshole. After reading for a few weeks, I decided he was, indeed, an asshole. I HATED him and his blog, yet I couldn't stop reading. It's kind of like how my dad couldn't stop watching the woman with the giant purple hair on the Trinity Broadcasting Network. Or with me and Bill O'Reilly.

I'm admitting this because I understand (sort of) the mentality of the d-bags who leave anonymous comments on other people's blogs. I mean, I've done it. And I'm probably as big of an asshole as that JMU kid, who named names (full names) in his blog even though pretty much everyone in his department read it, as well as wrote stuff like, "I judge people by their handshakes like a Baptist minister outside of an abortion clinic." Well, maybe not as big of an asshole. And I'd like to think that I'm a better writer, too.

Okay, I'm still better than him. Whatever.

I admit that lately I have been too negative, and I wish I wasn't pissed off all the time and could deal with my peers' idiosyncracies. But I can't. I blame my mother (I told her this last night and she said, "Hey! I'm trying to be a nicer person, too! I've been doing really well lately!"), who would probaby just place blame on her mother. Aside from genetics, growing up with a bunch of kids who were unnecessarily mean to you for your entire elementary through high school education does leave one slightly bitter toward the majority of humanity. I'm trying to get over it, so please understand that I'm working hard here.

Now, having said that.

Yesterday afternoon, a co-worker tried to call me out on a mistake that I DIDN'T MAKE. Not only that, but he did it front of my boss, and it was completely unnecessary and inappropriate, and it took all the energy I had in my body not to say, "Well, what the fuck do you want me to do about it?!" After he walked away my boss looked confused, and I explained to her and she just kind of rolled her eyes. Luckily she likes me, and hasn't been joining in on the blame-the-temp game that the rest of the office has enjoyed playing so much this week.

I'm looking forward to the weekend.

Happy Administrative Professionals Day, or: Why I Hate My Job.

I don't really hate my job, it just bothers me sometimes. Like today, when I have reached the apex of how much I can handle without wanting to kill myself with paper clips.

Apparently it's Administrative Professionals Appreciation Day (I would have stopped at Hallmark to pick up a few cards had I known before eleven o'clock this morning), and my boss ordered a lot of pizza from Giordano's for everyone. I thought, "Great! I woke up late and didn't get time to fix a peanut butter (and no jelly) sandwich! Now I don't have to buy lunch, and since I only ate a bowl of Crispix for dinner last night, I can ease the feeling that my stomach hates me and wants me to die!"

For those of you who don't know, I'm a picky eater. That's the very short version of the story. When it comes to pizza, I'll eat it with pepperoni or just cheese. Nothing else. Of course I was an idiot to think that there would be an endless supply of either (or both!) kinds of pizza for me to feast upon while I create files because we keep losing applications. (This probably occurs because we just got a filing room. This morning.)

So when I notice that people are quickly heading to the ex-conference room / new filing room, I put down the files I'm working on and follow them in. Only to discover the remaining slice of cheese pizza making its way onto a coworker's plate. Then I scan the table and check out my options. Hmm. Spinach? No. Veggie? No. Sausage and mushrooms? Well, I guess I can pick them off!

So I grab two slices (and if you're familiar with Chicago pizza, you'll know that two slices of non-stuffed crust pizza is probably less filling than a peanut butter (and no jelly) sandwich) and head back to my cubicle. I realize for the first time that I am the only person in the office who does not have a personalized and laminated sign that reads, "On break!!!" I sit down and begin to literally lift up the cheese (which at this point is practically solid) and pull out the large chunks of sausage and the mushrooms (which I decided look like manta rays, which remind me of vaginas thanks to Dorothy Allison). I'm left with two tiny, pathetic slices of cheese pizza and a mound of sausage and mushrooms. I'm very happy we didn't all eat together as a group in the new filing room.

I guess that's all for today. I should go before my break ends. I don't want to be written up for using the internet!

You're the only friend I've got, Blog!!!

Dear Blog,

Let me tell you about my weekend!

On Friday night Lindsay and I went to a dinner-party hosted by a guy who I only sort-of knew over the internet, but since he seemed not-psychotic and went to William and Mary (so smart and not-psychotic), I thought it couldn't be too bad of a place to make new friends. I did meet some potential friends - I just hope my being unnecessarily drunk on cheap (but Chilean) Merlot didn't ruin my chances.

[Sidenote: I've been pretty good about not binge-drinking lately. Ever since the night I got drunk at Julia's cocktail party and passed out / threw up on the coat-bed, I took it considerably easy. But seriously, meeting a lot of strangers requires some wine. That's a fact. Look it up on Encarta. If you don't live in 1998, look it up on Wikipedia. I promise it's there.]

[Another sidenote: Why do I always get drunk and stranded on the far-west side of Chicago and sit on the side of the road for a long time waiting for a cab? I should put some taxi numbers in my phone. Notetoself.]

On Saturday Julia and her Northwestern audiology friend Renee invited me to see My Morning Jacket (!) and The New Pornographers (!!) perform on campus for fifteen bucks (!!!). We went, and it was hot hot hot (it was in a gym, for Christ's sake). Stephen Malkmus opened (I'd use a couple of exclamation points if I gave a shit about Stephen Malkmus) and, as always, I was standing next to the opening act's BIGGEST FANNNNNNNNNN!!!!!1111111ohmygodi'mgoingtopeemypantsbecauseiloveyousomuch. This kid (loudly) yelled, "I LOVE YOU STEVE!" Then he turned to his friend and (loudly) told her, "I WANT YOU TO CALL ME THIS WEEK SO WE CAN GET TOGETHER AND I CAN BURN YOU ALL OF PAVEMENTS ALBUMS AND IT'LL BE THE GREATEST DAY OF YOUR LIFE." THEN this kid started (loudly) saying, "MAN, WHY DOESN'T THIS CROWD SUCK SO MUCH?!" I wanted to (loudly) respond with, "BECAUSE WE'RE STANDING HERE IN A SWELTERING GYM WATCHING SOME DUDE PLAY SOLO ACOUSTIC GUITAR AND ONLY HALF OF US KNOW WHO HE IS." But I didn't. Because I'm too nice.

Anyway, after he finished his set, I patiently awaited for the New Pornographers to come onstage. And they did, and I thought, "Hey, I wonder of AC Newman's niece will be with them again this time." She was Neko Case's stand-in on their tour with Belle & Sebastian, and I assumed since Neko was fresh off her tour, the Newman niece would still be with the band. And then I saw a mass of red hair jump on stage, and I lost my shit. Neko. Fucking. Case. And man, when she belted out "Mass Romantic," I thought I was going to die. But then two assholes behind me decided to start a mosh pit. To the New Pornographers. Because that makes a whole lot of sense.

After the Pornos, Julia and Renee went to sit down, and I stood up front waiting (during the thirty-minute sound check, I'd like to add) for My Morning Jacket. And I came to the conclusion that I really hate people my age. Especially people my age at concerts. I was surrounded by a hundred of them and I had to listen to them converse about things such as naming off their dream My Morning Jacket set-lists and how Neko Case's solo work sucks because it's "too country". And the worst part was that I was alone and couldn't make fun of them with anyone else.

[Sidenote: I know that the people behind me who were naming off songs they'd like to hear shouldn't bother me, and I feel like an ass that I found them annoying. But to the girl in front of me who complained about Neko Case: well, you're just an idiot and you have no idea what you're talking about.]

The worst part was when the group of indie-tastic nerds to my right began singing Sufjan Stevens. I mean, SERIOUSLY. Why. WHY? WHY MUST I SUFFER THROUGH THINGS LIKE THIS?! I'm not a better person for it. I'm only more bitter.

My Morning Jacket finally came on, and they were amazing. They kicked ass. Unfortunately, Julia and Renee had to leave, and my stuff was in their car, but I wasn't very disappointed because I had a lot of fun up to that point, and I think if I had stood there for three more songs I would have gotten to that point where I just get bored with standing and want to hear something else. It always happens - at every show. So I ended the evening on a high note.

So there you go, Blog. That was my exciting weekend. I'm sorry you missed out! I'll invite you next time.

xoxo
TyTy.

My head is burnt, y'all.

So here's the thing about having bangs: sure, they cover up your enormous forehead (which you can see below), but they also make you look like an idiot when you've been in the sun all day (as you can also see below).



I spend the day in Hyde Park touring University of Chicago. It was a beautiful day, and it's a gorgeous campus. I met with the co-director of the MAPH program (who I was pleased to see had several Flannery O'Connor books in his office), as well as the program coordinator and one of the mentors.

I really, really want to go there.

When I got home, I checked the mail and found the transcript I ordered from JMU. The big fat 2.970 stared me in the face and said, "You aren't getting into grad school, jackass." Then it punched me in the balls.

It's all your fault.

I woke up this morning a little after eight, which is usually when I get on the train at the Southport stop. Luckily, panic-mode sets me into overdrive, and I jumped out of bed, threw on nice pants and a sweater, brushed my teeth, and slammed my bedroom door a couple of times (Janna sleeps through her alarm worse than I do - she'll let it buzz for over an hour and I discovered that if I shut my door loud enough she'll wake up and turn it off). I managed to get out the door at a reasonable time, make it to the train, AND STILL get to work ten minutes early.

Even though I managed to get to work, albeit looking a little frazzled, I've come up with a list of people who I blame for making me oversleep this morning:

1. Curtis Sittenfeld, for writing Prep, which I was reading after midnight last night.

2. My friend Lisa, for letting me borrow Prep and convincing me that it wasn't just trashy Chick-Lit.

3. The people in the MAPH department with whom I'm meeting tomorrow in Hyde Park for intimidating me so much that I am too embarrassed to be seen with a copy of Prep and forcing me to finish the book before tomorrow morning.

4. The people at Apple, for fixing my computer so damn fast. If I didn't spend five hours on my computer last night, I would have found more time to read Prep, and then I wouldn't have to stay up until after midnight reading it.

5. Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes, who gave me nightmares about their "baby".

6. Patrick Dempsey. Because I HATE HIM. HE'S THE WORST ACTOR ON THAT SHOW AND I HATE HIS STUPID FACE.

7. Chipotle, because I haven't mentioned Chipotle's tacos nearly enough in the last week.

8. My mother, who is the root of all my problems. She doesn't read this, but if she did, she'd be happy to know that I'm still a child and blaming her for everything.

Life lesson #342.

Don't buy black socks from H&M.



There's a reason they were so cheap. While everything else that you buy from H&M falls apart after one wash, these suckers keep leaving a disturbingly large amount of black fuzz on the bottom of your feet even after several washes. That's what happens when Indonesian children make your clothes. You should feel guilty, you bastard.