I wanted to write a quick post to take note of a couple important things that happened in the life of my blog yesterday.
1. I had 94 page loads, which is the most I've ever had in a single day. This is a big deal to me. It's almost 100. Come on y'all! We can break 100. Yes, we can. 2. I had my first anonymous, snarky commenter! I've been meaning to let everyone know that I enabled anonymous commenting, because why not? Don't be afraid. If you have something bitchy or snarky or even witty to say, you can do it from the comfort of your couch at one in the morning, whilst sitting in your underwear eating cheesy poofs and possibly mourning your very existence - and no one will even know it was you. Win-win, really. 3. I disovered via my counter that said anonymous commenter found me on TweetStalk.com, which is freaky. I didn't even know this site existed. Skeeved.
This button exists to drive me insane. At least once a day, every single day, I accidentally click it when I am trying to click on my e-mail tab. I am the world's worst clicker. No, I'm not drunk. I just have bad aim, OK?!
Lolz. These are the woes of a 20nothing living in Manhattan. Goddamnit, right index finger! Why can't you be more agile? It is, like, sooooo annoying to have to reopen my Gmail tab and move it back to the left side of my Firefox window.
Yeah, you know what I'm talkin' about. Oh, you do.
I like to think of myself as a forward-thinking girl, progressive in most respects and generally left-leaning. I call myself a feminist, and I am now well on my way to being a completely independent woman. (I'm not gonna lie, my dad still pays my cell phone bill, but he worked for AT&T so he gets a discount that I wouldn't get on my own, OK?!!1) I pay for most everything else in my life; I work a full-time job and never expect anyone else to spot me when I go out. I cover my own shit, nomesayin? Unless, that is, I'm going on a date.
Yes, dear readers, I am slowly making my way back into the dating world. Shudder. Thus far my experiences have tended to fall on either end of the "should I pay or should I go" spectrum: guys either willingly pay for everything, or they pay for nothing. Maybe it's because I'm from the South, or just because I have an inflated sense of self, but it's just my base expectation that the guy will pay for me on the first date. (Editor's note: Lolz.) When I'm in a relationship, I have absolutely no problem going Dutch in most situations; when you do a lot of activities with one other person, it makes practical sense to split the cost most of the time. Right? I mean, we're all struggling artsy types in our 20s, right?
Well, some more than others, apparently. I kid you not, because you cannot make this shit up: a guy took me out last night** - to a falafel place - and he didn't offer to pay. Glancing over the menu quickly, I gathered that the most expensive item was a splurge at $5. Initially, because it was so cheap, I assumed he would pay; but it quickly became clear that he had no intentions of doing so. He made some recommendations about what was good on the menu - "You've never had this run-of-the-mill late-night street food?!! You haven't liiiiiiived." - and stepped up to the counter to order his food. I waited, very curious as to whether or not he would turn around to ask me what I wanted. He did not. I bought my own $4 dinner, which turned out to be overcooked falafel doused in way too much hummus and wrapped in a dry pita.
I guess you get what you pay for, in food and in life. After a dinner worth a combined $8, we parted ways, and as I was exiting the train on my way home, I got a text from him - yes ladies, a text - that read, "What do you think? Want to go for round two?" Wait, I'm sorry. Are we boxing? I sent him a reply - polite as I could be - gently letting him know that there would be no round two. He never responded.
Here is my dilemma. Does this make me old school, and does this kid represent the new school? Does it make me a - GASP - non-feminist to expect a guy to pay for me on date one? And, most importantly, should I let go of the past and just accept that most guys in their 20s are either not willing or not able to splurge on my falafel? On some level, I feel like I just can't help myself - I like when guys pay. I like to feel like I'm doing them a favor by meeting with them at all - which, LBO - and that maybe they just owe me one. It's one thing if we're going out to an expensive restaurant, in which case I am more than happy to help fit the bill. But come on man. It's a fucking falafel.
Sigh. As Webbie once said, "You insane boy, you betta get some gotdamn change." And next time, I expect a freelafel.
**Said dinner took place after he showed up 30 minutes late because he was meditating. Yes, this is true. No, he did not apologize.
I am so fucking excited for Mariah Carey's new album, which was written and produced by my new favorite artist/muse/soulmate The-Dream, that every week or so I get on YouTube and search "Mariah Carey The Dream" to see if any new songs have been leaked. Today I discovered this, which isn't on the album obvs, but which is shmamazing nonetheless.
It's a good thing my computer doesn't have a cam in it. My chair dancing often includes undoubtedly embarrassing facial expressions and drag queen lip synching. The album, appropriately/cheesily titled Memoirs Of An Imperfect Angel, drops Sept. 29 - fewer than 20 days from now. Squeeeeaaaallll. But I mean, who's counting?
Tears Friends Jenny Zachary Effable New York Dance Art GaGa Love Youth Meggie Brittany Blur Laughs Football Fall John England Steps Hostel Kiss Kiss Life Kiss Life New York New York New York Love Life Life Youth Life
I've often wondered what inspires people to get tatted up. Like what is it about whatever it is you want tatted on yourself - a flower, a tree, an album name, whatnot - what is it about these things that makes people want to have them on their bodies for the rest of their lives? As a stupid 23-year-old, I have never really encountered anything I loved, revered or adored enough to affix it on me - in my skin - permanently. Until now.
When I first saw Lady GaGa perform last summer on So You Think You Can Dance?, I was like who (and what) the fuck is this? She looks ridiculous and she can't even sing that well, and her songs are kind of boring when compared to Britney, Bey, Christina, Madonna and the like. And she's wearing these stupid digital glasses that scroll "POP MUSIC WILL NEVER BE DUMBED DOWN" or something like that. Who does this bitch think she is? An artist?! Psssshaaaa.
That was my inner dialogue at the time. GaGa hadn't exploded yet - her album hadn't even been released - so I was highly skeptical and even turned off. But like any good relationship, my skepticism grew into curiosity, which transformed into a friendship when I downloaded The Fame, and then I fell in love for the first time when I saw her sing "Poker Face" acoustically, sitting at her piano with her hair (literally) tied into a bow, belting and singing and wailing from a place deep inside herself.
It was then I knew I loved Lady GaGa. But my love didn't become deep, it didn't take roots, it didn't explode into full-on obsession, until I saw this interview and started reading and watching as many interviews as I could get my hands on. I now know with certainty what it took me more than a year to realize: this woman is an artist. Not only that, but she is probably the only true pop artist - among the ranks of Andy Warhol, David Bowie and Madonna - people my age have seen in our lifetime.
Not only is she an artist, but she represents so many things that form the core of who I am. She is a physical embodiment of youth in New York City, where she grew up and (later) dominated the Lower East Side club scene. She is named after a Queen song, my lifelong favorite band. She loves the gays. She is openly attracted to women. She bends gender rules. She loves fashion. She loves pissing people off. She loves being the center of attention. She loves creating things and making people think. And, of course, she loves music and dance.
Today I watched this interview no YouTube, broken up into three parts. She openly admits that she has tricked the world into thinking she is somebody, when in fact she is nobody. She explains that the whole point of her album is to make people realize that celebrity is an illusion supported by things like wealth, fashion and power, and that celebrity and fame should not be confused. Anyone can be famous, she suggests, because fame is not about how much money you have or how many people know who you are; it's about a feeling inside, a sense of self-confidence, a veil of vanity.
I know exactly what she means because I live it everyday in New York. When I go out dancing with my friends, I am famous. I feel it on the inside, and it's confirmed by the fact that when I dance - usually in cohorts with Z - people watch. People don't just casually watch - they watch. There's something inside me that shows through when I dance and makes people go, Who is she? What is she doing here? And - most importantly - Who the fuck does she *think she is? There's just something about the city that makes me feel like I am somebody, even though I am actually nobody.
I have had this experience in my life for years. I first went to a dance club when I was 18, in Birmingham, Alabama, and I tasted it there. I have experienced it in Oxford, Memphis, Atlanta and DC. But New York. Goddamnit, New York. Knowing I can come to New York, do the same shit I've been doing my whole life, and *still have people watch me with gaping mouths - that is The Fame. That's what GaGa is talking about when she says, "In New York, you have the ability to self-proclaim your own fame. You have the ability to experience and feel a certain amount of self-worth that comes from a very vain place, simply by your choices. You can literally choose to have fame."
If and when I get a tattoo, it will be something GaGa-inspired. She represents something I have always seen in myself, and everything I love about New York, and pretty much everything I love about life. I haven't designed the tat yet, but I'm going to work on it. Also, I literally squealed today at work when I read that this fall she will be re-releasing The Fame with some bonus songs.
I realize this issue came out August 20, but I just found out about it today, OK? I love football. Nay, I LOOOOOVE football. I am ridiculously, unashamedly (is that even a word?), disproportionately excited that Ole Miss is ranked sixth. The first game is this weekend, and I will be attending, in my own way. Hotty toddy.
