That’s what she told me.

We were sitting in lawn chairs, squinting and blinking against the smoke from the fire as we made s’mores, and she told me to write about marshmallows. I cocked my head and furrowed my brows. And then I nodded. I told her I could make that work.

When it comes to cooking marshmallows, I like mine pretty much charred, with a gooey lump of sugary goodness on the inside. I let it catch on fire until it’s nothing but a sticky wad of marshmallow wearing a jacket of ashes. That’s my perfect marshmallow. And considering my ideal marshmallow is what most people so often think of as an accident that happens in pursuit of their own ideal, I’m not difficult to please when it comes to toasting the little buggers. But as much as I love my fireside treats well-done, there are far more people who prefer theirs a different way entirely: golden brown.

Golden brown. It’s the color of everything delicious. Cookies, French fries, biscuits, and marshmallows. If it’s not golden brown, it’s not even worth your time. Golden brown is the standard of heat-related perfection. It takes skill. It takes patience. It takes a lot of mistakes. But if you ever get that golden brown marshmallow, that’s a little piece of heaven on the end of your skewer.

If you’re too timid with your roasting, you wind up undercooking it. It’s still cool in the middle, and the outside is barely flame-kissed. If you’re too bold and always say “Just one more second… One more second and it’ll be perfect,” you typically char the life out of it (and then you give it to me, and I eat it with gusto). Meeting the Golden Brown Standard is something most spend their lives trying to do, but not many actually succeed at.

…And that last sentence was where I stopped talking about marshmallows.

The trials and tribulations that surround roasting the perfect s’mores component go far beyond the campfire. The quest for Golden Brownness is something we work toward in our daily lives, whether we realize it or not.

Some of us are scared to push things too far. When the going gets tough, we get going. We do what’s good enough, and that’s good enough for us. Our marshmallows are always cold and barely cooked at all. But we eat them anyway because we made them.

Then there are others of us who seem to always take it too far. We don’t know when to stop. We get so caught up in “go big or go home” that we miss the chance to rein things in and do something great. We jump the shark. And our marshmallows are charred all to hell. And I eat them because I like ‘em that way, but most people just chuck it into the flames and start fresh.

But then there are those of us who watch, wait, and plan, always aware that there’s a delicate balance between tenacity and timidity. We don’t think ourselves out of great ideas because they require a lot of work, but nor do we go balls to the walls when it comes to taking on a project. We’re adventurous and cautious. We’re leaders who follow. We take initiative and let others storm ahead. We learn from our mistakes, both from undercooking and charring our marshmallows. And when we think we’re onto something, we slow down. We keep an eye on things. Because ain’t no way we’re gonna miss our chance at some Golden Brown perfection.

More often than not, we just barely miss it. The edge caught on fire, perhaps. But it’s ruined as far as we’re concerned. And it’s kind of sad. We can turn it around, inspect it from every angle, and see its only one flaw. Aside from that, it’s a thing to behold, our nearly-perfect marshmallow. But we saw what it could’ve been. It was almost ours. But we missed it. We eat it with a sigh. We say “Wow, that was so close.” And maybe we start to think that it’s not worth the fight. And some of us stop trying.

But those of us that don’t stop never will. Because even though none of us are guaranteed our Golden Brown perfection in our lifetime, we know that if we don’t keep going, it’s guaranteed that we’ll never get it. And that’s not something we can accept. So we stick our faces back in the smoke, carefully turn our skewers, making sure not to get too close to the flames, and give it another shot. And sometimes, if we’re fortunate enough, our hard work is rewarded when we slowly draw our marshmallow from the fire and see that it is a delicious, wonderful, and perfect Golden Brown. We sit looking at it for a moment, in awe that we finally did it, and pop it into our mouth. It tastes like victory.

When it comes to roasting non-metaphorical marshmallows, my ideal is considered to be an error by most people. I love the burnt ones and dislike all things lightly toasted. But once you get me away from the campfire, I’m all about that Golden Brown Standard.

My stomach is full of slightly-burnt marshmallows that were so close. I’ve got a little bit of a tummyache.

But since I love marshmallows, I think I’m going to buy another bag of Jet Puffed, throw another log on the fire, and keep on trying.

Life is filled with things like the puzzling, evanescent onion aroma that perplexes me so. These are things toward which I am very ambivalent. Does this onion smell mean there are tasty sandwiches nearby, or am I standing close to someone whose deodorant isn’t working? It’s anybody’s guess.

But this ambiguity exists in things more serious than lingering remnants of sandwiches and body odor. In the case of one enigma in particular, my dichotomous feelings go much deeper than feeling either hungry or nauseated: I could feel either empowered and proud or just plain disappointed. This particular enigma concerns ladies and booze. And by “ladies and booze” I mean powerful, take-no-shit women and single malt scotch.

Scotch whisky has a considerable presence in movies and television. Tough, hard-edged guys sit hunched over a bar, lamenting the loss of money and/or women as they gruffly order it on the rocks—a double, and tell the bartender to keep it coming. Sharp-dressed lawyers sit in comfortable, yet minimalist chairs as they sip it neat from wide-mouthed glasses. Polished businessmen flirt with the cute cocktail waitress as they order it with soda in an attempt to make the dull chitchat of the company Christmas party more bearable. It’s become quite the cliché at this point. Any time the strong male protagonists decide they need a drink and reach into their desk drawer for the bottle they keep for such occasions, you can almost always count on it being scotch.

Scotch is power, refinement, and luxury. Scotch is warm, amber masculinity. And no strong alpha female should be without a well-aged bottle, just in case.

About a week ago I was watching an episode of Ugly Betty online. Wilhelmina, the co-editor-in-chief, was discussing shrewd financial strategies with a male colleague. After their conversation came to a close, this colleague made an observation about her. He remarked that she seemed like the kind of woman who would have a bottle of single-malt scotch. She pulled out her unopened bottle from the cabinet, along with two glasses, and poured a couple of drinks.

Girl power, right? She can rival men in both business and social matters. She can take that symbol of strength and masculinity and make it her own. She can pry the “BOYS ONLY” sign from the side of the clubhouse, stride in on stilettoed heels, and make herself at home. This can be the sign that women are officially equals in the same profession as their male colleagues. I’ve seen this happen in a handful of other TV shows and movies, which could indicate the un-gendering of scotch’s symbolism. Maybe now scotch is just Power, period.

Hey, wait a second… Do you smell onions?

On the Sandwich Side, strong women sipping fine scotch may indicate the overcoming of gender discrimination in the workplace. Women are forces to be reckoned with. Women can do whatever the men can do, and perhaps even better (especially when it comes to wearing suits, because that can be sexy as hell. But I digress). And by writing our female leads as being refined drinkers of astronomically expensive whisky, the characters (and by extension, women in general) are given more respect and admiration.

But here’s the Body Odor Side: Perhaps the co-opting of a traditionally male pastime is not the beacon of feminist achievement that it first appeared to be. What if it’s more of a commentary on women conforming to predominately male standards pertaining to power and its display? Are women drinking scotch because they discovered what all the fuss was about, or are they drinking it because that is what successful men are shown doing? And if it is the latter reason, does this mean that these women are merely mimicking this behavior so they can fit in with the other guys? If the Body Odor Side is the true side, then women aren’t being portrayed as powerful and independent ass-kickers at all; they’re being made to look like conforming man-wannabes who need to do what the boys do.

When I think I smell onions, I always look for clues. Am I OK with potentially craving a sandwich if what I’m really smelling is someone’s rank bodily aroma? Would I be bothered if I was put off my hunger because I assumed it wasn’t really onions I got a whiff of? I’m always so torn.

And much like when I think I smell onions, I must accept that I might never know the truth. Whether sandwich or body odor, female empowerment or copy-catting the boys, the confusion will not be overcome any time soon.

But I kind of like it that way, to be honest. It keeps me on my toes. It keeps me interested.

And sometimes it makes me hungry.

I saw Twilight: Eclipse. And by and large, I thought it was a pretty decent movie.

But this post isn’t going to be about why I saw this film or what my critiques of it are (although originally, that’s exactly what this was going to be). This post is going to be about a very important choice I made while watching the Twilight movies.

For those of you who are unfamiliar with the fandom and its factions, I’ll simply say that for the most part, lovers of the books and movies generally fall into one of two categories: Team Edward or Team Jacob. Edward is the fugly vampire (sorry, Nonroot. It’s the truth!) and Jacob is the super-gorgeous werewolf. And Bella is the little trollop who has her hands in both of the monster cookie-jars. To choose a team is to say “She should be with THAT guy!”

Much to my best friend’s Cullen-lovin’ dismay, she and I are in opposite camps. I find myself squarely situated on Team Jacob. And while watching the movie, I found myself confused as to why one guy seemed better than the other.

After much thought, I decided that it wasn’t that Jacob had something spectacular to offer her (besides his astonishingly chiseled abdominal muscles), but that Edward’s relationship had something really shitty to offer: immortality.

Who the hell would choose immortality? Where’s the excitement in forever? Where’s the romance? The beauty? At least for me, the lack of a reasonable answer to any of these questions is why I think the best chance Bella has at a good life is with the mortal dude. Yeah, he’s a werewolf and that’s kinda strange, but at least he’s got a normal lifespan.

For the purpose of this Tangent, I’m going to focus on the question of beauty and immortality.

I purchased a book recently that contains single words in other languages that are not directly translatable into English. In the section for words pertaining to love and beauty, I came across a word that absolutely nails down my entire beef regarding the lack of beauty in neverending life: Aware (ah-WAH-ray). It’s a Japanese word that, more or less, describes the feelings of love, appreciation, and sadness upon seeing something beautiful that you know won’t last. Anybody who has been given a flower from someone they love knows about aware. Anybody who is fortunate enough to see the leaves change colors in autumn does too. And anybody who has washed their car only to see it covered in bird shit the next day understands it very well. In our mortal lives, aware is something to be found everywhere, because everything that lives must eventually die. And people are no exception.

With every passing moment in our lives, we are closer to dying. And I don’t mean that in a morbid, depressing way. It’s just how it is. We are fragile, vulnerable beings, us living things. But that’s what makes us beautiful. When we are adults we can look back on our childhoods and remember how carefree and full of wonder we were. When we’re middle-aged we can look back on our twenties and remember what it was like to be just starting our independent lives. And when we’re in our old age, we can remember it all and appreciate what we’ve had. That’s aware. It’s recognition of something incredible and wonderful and beautiful. It’s recognition of something that is fleeting and impermanent. It’s recognition that we should treasure life because, above all, it doesn’t last. It’s an aspect of life that we can all share. Immortality would deny us the experience of aware.

Beauty isn’t just pretty pictures and flowers. It’s also about joy and sorrow. About fulfillment and bereavement. It’s about the calm and the chaos. There are many kinds of beauty, but all of them are vital to a complete life. To miss out on even one of its aspects would be tragic.

After reading all that, would you choose immortal life? Do you think you could possibly appreciate every moment you have if you knew you had an infinite amount? Would you want to be unable to truly feel the aware in wilting flowers and aging bodies? I’m almost sorry to say it, but to be on Team Edward is to essentially answer “yes” to all these questions and more. How sad.

So join Team Jacob. Sure, that means we think Bella should ditch the vampire and get with the werewolf, but at least we know what’s beautiful.

It’s more about what goes on before sex. How is it that two individuals wind up in the sack together? What exactly took place to get them there? My education on mating rituals has been twofold: the detached viewing of wild animals searching for a mate courtesy of National Geographic, and the up-close and personal exposure to the randy desperation of pub crawlers lookin’ to get laid. It was through participating in a pub crawl myself that I observed the rituals that comprise an average night’s partner hunt.

For the purpose of this piece, I will give a pseudonym to the friends I accompanied to the various bars on our journey. Cola is a rather quiet guy, and Iron was more extroverted. They had both been out to the same couple of places recently, so they had a pretty good idea of what the hot-spots would be. While Cola didn’t explicitly state his intentions, Iron made it clear he was looking to get some action. They had observed a trend in the patrons of a certain sports bar nearby, which goes a little something like this:

A sports bar seems like the type of place a bunch of men would frequent. These men might sit at the bar, suck down a pitcher or two of cheap domestic macrobrew, and watch whatever games were on TV. Women, who are out looking to hook up with men, are aware that a sports bar would probably have a higher concentration of men and visit in the hopes that the male/female proportion will be in their favor. Therefore, the concentration of women looking specifically for men will be higher in a sports bar, because that’s where women think the men will be.

Based on this hypothesis, it was decided that the drinking and cavorting would be best done at the sports bar that had a dance club upstairs.

So we went.

Once we were in the bar, we made our way to the dance floor to put the guys in closer proximity to potential hookup partners. While making use of the ever-popular dance sensation, the Caucasian Lunge/Retreat (AKA the default “I can’t dance” dance), I watched as my friends positioned themselves behind or next to a woman. Without openly hitting on her, Cola and Iron worked to get the attention of their targets by dancing wildly or accidentally bumping into her.

After about thirty minutes of vigorous “dancing” and watching as my friends tried to work their subtle charm, I decided to be bolder and grab the focus of a guy by slyly placing my hand on his buttocks. My boldness was rewarded with a few minutes of good-humored dancing before he turned back to his own target.

Now this was a crucial realization for me: by not caring if I left the club alone or had to buy my own drinks, I was free to act however I wanted. Because I wasn’t out to impress someone, I could brazenly pinch asses and hump-dance with whoever was interested. So pinch asses and hump-dance I did.

As my friends and I situated ourselves more in the middle of the throbbing mob of people, we found ourselves face-to-face with a guy Cola and I had met as we entered the bar. I’ll call this specimen Dolittle.

Dolittle originally thought Cola and I were together. He developed an irrationally mounting interest in me once I divulged that not only were Cola I not Chitty-Chitty Bang-Banging, but that I had siphoned males from my dating pool entirely. Dolittle’s reaction was typical of men of his caliber, and I politely declined when he offered me his cock if I ever found myself needing it in the future. What a generous, selfless guy.

When retrospectively making judgments on Dolittle’s behavior, I came to the following possible conclusions:

A) He went to the bar without intending to find some adequately-intoxicated female to hook up with.
B) He was interested in hooking up if it happened, but would be just as content to have fun where he was.
C) He figured he could rile me up enough to forget how I’m oriented.

[In reference to C, I commented to Cola that it was common for men to hit on really unavailable women because they think that with enough effort, they can be that guy to straighten her out. I likened this approach to pushing on a door marked "pull." It's an amusing use of bravado, but ultimately a waste of effort.]

Regardless of what his  intentions had been before we serendipitously met, he seemed to quite driven to pursue Option C’s course of action. And in true player fashion, I led the headstrong hetero along like a desperate and dreamy little puppy.

Dolittle, eager to be so close to a woman who seemed to be having fun with him, began to get a little grabby-handed toward the end of the night. And this is where lack of interest was in my favor. I traded a grope for a drink. Gin and tonic. I thought it was pretty fair.

So I drank his drink, said goodnight, declined his multiple offers to go home with him, and disappeared from his life forever. Did I use him? Perhaps. But do I mind? Not one bit. Because it’s use or be used in this club-scene jungle. And it’s play or be played. And with the right attitude, anybody can turn themselves from being prey to being predator.

For me, that attitude just happens to be apathy. Armed with apathy, boldness, charisma, and a d-z’s worth of other helpful character traits, I can be the ultimate hunter.

And so can you.

[This post is dedicated to the memory and tenacity of Iron, without whom this crawl might have never taken place.]

Pride is gay.

Southern Maine Pride took place last week. It culminated Saturday with a parade replete with dykes on bikes, floats sponsored by local gay bars, religious organizations fighting for equality, student groups for gender diversity, and a handful of odds-n-ends guests (a lone man in a black cape, someone riding a tandem bike dressed up like a bumblebee, and a troupe of actors from a local production of “Hair”) The parade started in Monument Square and ended in Deering Oaks Park, where booths, stands and a stage were set up to present, proffer, and perform various ideas, comestibles, and songs (respectively). The group of revelers was at once incredibly diverse and similar, for all in attendance had in common, if nothing else, the spirit of celebration.

The decorations, the floats, the flags, and even the small costumed dogs had this queer glow about them. And the people!—oh baby, the people. Bulldykes, lipstick lesbians, soft butches, androgynes, bisexuals, pansexuals, trannies, grannies, twinks, bears, leather daddies, and topless ladies of both chromosomal origin buzzed around the park like a hive of excitable honeybees. It could’ve been gayer, but only if it was being viewed on TV as shot through a rainbow lens.

It was quite an unusual atmosphere for me to be a part of. And my mild sense of displacement has nothing to do with the people or the goings-on. I’ve got no issue with watching svelte, shirtless men saunter by in a pair of denim daisy dukes. I don’t turn away at the sight of the grandmotherly life-partners sharing a kiss or two next to the lemonade stand. I love every one of the myriad expressions of queerness and hereness.

But the thing that’s always made me a little confused is the name attached to all these festivities: Pride.

When I think of “pride”, I think of something worth being proud of. When I think of something worth being proud of, I usually go next to things that one can achieve or attain, either through individual or collective efforts. Perhaps this achievement required the overcoming of an obstacle of some sort. Pride, to me, is a reward earned from and for ourselves. Pride involves making choices.

A self-made person should have pride in who they’ve become through hard work.

A person who takes confident steps down a winding path of life questions should have pride in their dedication to arriving at some ultimate truth.

A person who is able to break free from a pattern of harmful behavior should feel proud to have overcome themselves.

But should the parade-goers and flag-wavers whose lifestyles don’t fit the heteronormative paradigm feel proud?

One of the largest misconceptions regarding homosexuality is that it’s all about choice. You choose to be gay. You choose to act on it. You choose, choose, choose, choose. But the overwhelming response to questions and accusations of choice is simply “this is just who we are.” So although there is always a choice in whether or not to come out, it would appear as though there is no choice at all when it comes to truly being gay.

Because of my ideas surrounding the topic of pride, I am not proud to be an American. I am not proud to be white, of French-Canadian descent, or female-bodied. I wouldn’t deny that I identify as any or all of those things, but I never chose these aspects of my identity for myself. No choice, no pride.

So to me, being gay is as worth being proud of as having a naturally good complexion, size-7 feet, no family history of heart disease, or a ring finger longer than your index. It’s just part of who and what you are.

However, tremendous pride should be taken in the work of the gay-rights activists who have fought and continue to do so for all of us.

Through great effort and perseverance are events such Pride celebrations able to take place and bring together the local queer community and its allies alike. Wherever the easy choice is made in a difficult situation, amazing things can occur. The magic really happens when so many people from all walks of life choose the same thing for a common cause.

And Pride is magic—and I’m not just saying that because there’s so much goddamn glitter.

So maybe Pride isn’t about being proud of who we are. It’s not about being here and queer and telling the others to deal with it.

Maybe Pride is about being proud of what we’ve done

Maybe we’re just proud of Pride. I think we’ve got plenty of reason to be.

And might I add that there’s a very unique sting that comes from seeing a man’s ass and realizing it probably looks better in those denim daisy dukes than yours would.

After exploring the trends associated with juvenile queries like “buttsex”, “boobies”, and “orgies” and seeing no obvious trends, my brother and I moved onto more serious terms. Predictably enough, “turkey” showed a spike in  frequency twice a year: Thanksgiving and Christmas. “Eggs” had their 15 minutes around Easter time, “pranks” were in high demand just before and on April first, and great interest in  “shopping” took place during the holiday season.

After getting bored with the easy ones, we put a little brain work into our terms and discovered that “dieting”, “weight loss”, “quit smoking”, and “champagne” all peaked at the end of each year. I put my guess to the test with “thesis”, and sure enough, it spiked around the beginning and end of each semester (perhaps for those grad students who show initial interest in what will be due, and then again near the end to frantically figure out how to accomplish what will be due?). “Wedding” had small spikes in the spring, summer, and fall, but had a huge lull  during the winter months. “Jewelry” and “diamonds” were eagerly sought around Valentine’s Day.

I think we all get the gist of these annual happenings, right? Well how about singular and interesting spikes?

For example, never before had people been so interested in Saddam Hussein until the day he was executed (thanks a heap, YouTube). And spinach was extraordinarily intriguing when the whole E. coli deal went down. I didn’t check, but I’d bet just about anything that pigs are experiencing a lot of popularity at the moment. And then there are people who win stuff on reality TV shows, who get feverishly searched for until the next person wins it by combining the contestant’s name and the show he/she was on (“David Cook, American Idol” or “Bob Crowley, Survivor” will get big hits for a while).

And while “superbowl” itself has its predicted spikes at the beginning of February every year, and “nipple” typically has a steady– albeit slow– stream of Googlings, if you add those two terms and throw in “Janet Jackson”, you’ve just hit on a veritable trifecta. Common Spike Phenomena.

(Note: “Nipple ring” could replace “nipple” and garner similar results)

Even after another hour or so playing around with Google Trends, I was unable to beat that discovery. Oddly sexual queries like “Vaseline, cucumbers” yielded no appreciable signs of CSP, nor did “sex, candy” (Sorry, Marcy Playground!). I decided to stop before I exhausted myself, lucky to have scored just one Google grand slam, but not before haphazardly throwing a few more combinations out there (“bubble gum, rocket launcher”, “shoe bomb, horse shoe”, and “aardvark, watermelon”). Sadly, my pessimism was justified as none of these last-ditch efforts to find a preposterous example of CSP were successful.

But maybe it’s just as well. I’m not exactly sure how I would react if I found overwhelming CSP with “bondage, teapot”.

Infant baptism is like an eBayed level 80 in World of Warcraft.

I love World of Warcraft. I think it’s such an amazing game with so many things to enjoy. It has incredible detail, fascinating lore behind it, and there’s just so much to do. In WoW, like in the real world, there are people who just want the end result without putting in any of the work. This is where eBay comes in. It’s a well-known fact (among people who play) that there are people who have been able to turn quite a profit by purchasing a copy of World of Warcraft, leveling a single character up to the maximum, getting high-end gear, and then selling the account (the username and password) on eBay to the highest bidder. I have a friend who’s done this and said he’s made as much as $800 on one account.

So now we, the hard-working lovers of the game, have any number of level 80s in supurb gear who don’t know what the fuck they’re doing. They haven’t been with their character since the beginning, meaning they don’t know all the finer details of how it functions. They don’t know the lingo, they don’t know the stories, they have no experience aside from logging in and beating stuff up. They’ve missed out on the best part of the game– growing up. These folks are not people you want in your group because they’ve yet to work out the kinks in steering their character around. They’ve arrived at Point B with no idea how they got there, or even where Point A is.

Likewise, I think philosophy and religion are absolutely fascinating. I find myself to be in a state of undecidedness on many things, but if I wanted to pin myself down with labels I’d have to say I’m an agnostic deist. I also have a penchant for investigating the writings of atheists and imagining how I’d feel if I didn’t believe in God at all, which is kind of the philosophical equivalent to trying on a bathingsuit without your underwear. I did it because it was convenient and more comfortable that way, and nobody will know I did anything at all. Maybe it wasn’t the best choice to make, but I did it and that’s that. And it looked great on me.

But I digress.

Anyway, I feel that religion has the potential to be a very great thing in the lives of some people. If I spend years and years searching for something I can call the truth for myself, then nobody out there can say I did anything wrong. No matter where I end up, the journey I made was mine. In fact, I can’t imagine anything more fun than being lost and exploring different avenues of faith and reason. Every new thing I learn and every new question I ask is uniquely mine, and nobody else can share that or take it away from me. In the Christian religions, the ultimate move to make when someone says “Yes, this is my truth” is to get baptised and fully embraced by their church. It’s like parking your car in your driveway and saying “Ah, this is home, and I’m glad to have found it!” Each person who has “found faith” and been baptised as an adult has probably found with it a sense of serene satisfaction. Their journey, while maybe not at an end, is at least back on the MapQuest directions on how to get there from here.

That being said, why does anybody think that baptising their baby is a good idea? It’s effectively a denial of their birthright to a free mind and ability to find their own truth. Sure, they can still figure it out later, but some people think “Oh, well I’ve been baptised… So I guess that’s it.” The kid has arrived on the scene having achieved– nay, been given the greatest prize of all. They’ve already missed out on the best part and they don’t even know it. They’ve got the “gear” but no idea how it works.

In conclusion, my friends, I hope I have done an effective job of explaining why though baptism might be your way of reaching the mountaintop of monotheism, it really doesn’t make any sense to plop your baby down at the summit. And it also baffles me that someone could care so little about the hows, whys, and wheres that they would pay $800 (and not even WoW gold!) to get the “what”. We gotta stop being such a bunch of eager beavers and realize that the best part of life is LIVING it and the most important part of getting an answer is asking a question.

Because I understand that mentioning a moment of fear I experienced when I was sure I was wearing nothing flame retardant to inhibit the fiery mess I’d make if I happened to explode from rage when I witnessed four men bouncing and lip syncing to “Hot and Cold” will do little to bring about sympathy, I will attempt to persuade you all that Katy Perry is bad by employing a strategy that will both rouse emotions and appeal to evidence.

Point 1: Katy Perry offers nothing unique to the musical world.

A relatively rational individual who has listened to Ms. Perry’s music for any length of time will come upon two conclusions: the songs are catchy as genital herpes and the lyrics bring to mind a dump truck full of stale mixed metaphors covered in smelly cliches. Her big hit songs include such lyrical gems as “I kissed a girl, and I liked it”, “you’re so gay and you don’t even like boys”, and the entirety of the chorus for “Hot and Cold”. Hooray, Katy! You kissed a girl like so many drunk chicks before you in an attempt to explore your sexuality and test the limits of your relationship! How we laud you and your open-mindedness! News flash: I don’t fucking care, and that’s mostly because that song was done 13 years ago way more impressively by someone more talented than you times infinity. And how can a guy be gay if he doesn’t like boys? I know you’re not aware of the more old-fashioned usage of the word, so are you using “gay” as an insult? How urbane. And could you please be more creative than “hot and cold”, “yes and no”, “up and down”? I know your manager probably informed you that your core audience would be 15 year-old girls and boys of varying levels of intelligence, but I doubt he said “your songs can only be as smart as your dumbest fan.”

Point 2: There is nothing extraordinary about her music.

I think it would be safe to say that her two biggest draws are her infectiously catchy melodies and the shock value of “going there”. Her songs are frequently stuck in my head, I’ll give her that. I’d also give her a kick to the tits if I had the chance for believing for even a New York minute that she’s unique and groundbreaking in any way. Oh, my! She’s not even bothering to mask her messages with symbolism or allusions! What will we do with this bare-bones barrage? Um, we could always take the lack of extra effort to conceal for what it is: an inability to craft thoughtful phrases due to a weak literary imagination. It’s so tired to be bold these days. We’ve had blatant and wild since the ’60′s back when it really was shocking, so if you want to be someone today you’ve really gotta bring it. Does she bring it? No. I’d rather have to research the meanings of lyrics to get the full understanding than begin the process of wading out into the wordy waters only to realize I’m standing in a puddle. I’ve been sensing a downward spiral in popular music in the past few years, and in the same way I doubt humans today are the pinnacle of evolution, I also doubt Katy Perry will mark the end of pop’s devolution. That frightens me deeply.

Point 3: I have too much in common with Katy Perry to not hate her.

Katy Perry is female. I am female. Instant connection. I have no desire to transition in order to escape this gender commonality with her, but nor would I three-move check-mate the males of this world into death by shame by coercing her to have a gender identity epiphany and transition herself. I also wouldn’t dare to slide her over into the androgynous category as mentioned by Aristophanes since I consider the modern application of androgyny to be quite attractive. Unfortunately, the only solution might be to make Katy Perry a former member of the human race. She’s a blight on humanity and we must act swiftly and without mercy. Immediate excommunication.

I have more points, but I grow weary of reining in my fury in order to present hard-hitting facts to further discredit this musical scam artist. If there is anybody brave enough to rebut me, please bring it on. I do so love a debate, and I feel confident that I could verbally decapitate an opponent in this battle. In the same way that we cannot help with whom we fall in love, we likewise cannot help what we find to be an auditory pleasure. So long as the affection for Ms. Perry and her stupid-ass songs is only skin-deep, I am confident I can remain friends with anyone who does not 100% agree with me on this.

For next Tuesday, I have due a five to seven page fiction piece on pretty much anything I choose. I’ve got my topic, and after much metamorphosis, things are pretty well-cemented down. It’s going to be filled with regret and a feeling of hopelessness, but in the end –SPOILER ALERT!– the protagonist will ultimately be thinking “Hey, I can turn my life around tomorrow. It’s never too late.”

You know, that sappy shit.

But more than a touching tale of new beginnings, this break-out short story is about riding the bus. I’m happy to report that my misfortune is now doubling as a new way to get around and my muse these days. I’m also excited that this blog is now safe from becoming one of those sitcoms where every episode is complete on its own and is never referred to in later seasons (How do those writers think we’re just going to ignore the fact that there is a totally new actor playing that character or that last week that person was on his/her deathbed only to be back in action this week with no explanation as to how the situation was resolved?)

So, faithful readers, I’m bringing back the topic of my car having shit the bed on me. I’m still carless, and I’m not even really searching that hard right now. I’m kind of resignedly dependent on the family VW and the bus for the time being. The bus isn’t that bad, though. There’s so much weird stuff going on if you just look for it. Great details to be written down for future use in a story or something.

For example, the VERY FIRST DAY I took the bus I had one of those conversations where I learned all about one person by only asking the “…and you?” questions and giving curt answers to ones directed at me. Her name is Amy. She doesn’t go to school because she can’t afford it, but she would love to go back to school. She thinks that it would be great to go back to school because on top of learning lots of stuff, she would have access to the school cafeteria and she could eat there every day. Do they serve pizza? she asked. I could eat pizza every day if I had the chance. And do they have vending machines? What do they have in them? Snacks and stuff, cool. Do they have soda machines? Do they have Mountain Dew? Man, I love Mountain Dew. I drink Mountain Dew every day (She was, at the time, holding a bottle of Mountain Dew, so I wasn’t about to doubt her).

What spurred this intimate conversation, you are wondering? I moved my backpack and asked if she wanted to sit down. I know– that will be the last time I do that.

And I saw winos! They were huddled together in the bus stop booth thing and passing around a bottle in a paper bag! Their conversation was mumbled and rambling at best (and downright incoherent and loud at worst) and they were chain-smoking Swisher Sweets. Cherry, I think.

And there was this old lady with her grey hair pulled back tight in a bun, with this black coat that covered her like some deflated parachute. She was rocking back and forth and muttering to herself. I think she was just moving her lips, because I tried very hard to hear what she was saying. Her arthritic hands looked like claws protruding from the cuffs of her oversized jacket.

And most recently, this very loud woman was talking at this man and she was telling him how she stood by her boyfriend while he was in prison and how now he’s got a new girlfriend but she’s not mad. She likes her. And she doesn’t want the new girlfriend to be afraid of her because she doesn’t want to hurt her ex, so she’d never try to get her to run. In fact, if anything ever happens to Current Girlfriend, Ex Girlfriend will call her cousins to lay the smack down on the offender because her cousins were crazy fighters and were brought up on charges for assault at one point. But they got off. But if anything happens to Current Girlfriend…

This is spun gold, people! You’re never as exciting as those unusual folks you’ll meet on the bus! Two bucks a day, two or three times a week, and I can fill up a notebook with all the awesome stuff I see and hear. And since you never really find out who these people are (except the Amys you meet), you can use and twist their stories to fit your purposes freely!

Bus stops are the Parisian cafes of the twenty-first century.

That being said, I don’t know that I’ll ever be able to like post-rock.

For those of you unfamiliar with this genre, post-rock can sometimes be described as ambient, droning, emotional, aimless, and/or deeply stirring. I have long since found the concept of post-rock to be quite interesting. However, my many experiences in sampling this category have left me feeling extremely bored. I once tried to listen to post-rock to help lull me to sleep and instead found– much to my surprise– that I was boring myself awake. I wanted so bad for post-rock to occupy some small niche in my life, yet I couldn’t possibly do it. I think the idea of it is awesome and hip, yet for all my respect I have not one bit of interest in it.

–To digress for a moment, I would like to set the scene to introduce someone–

The web affords each of us as much or little anonymity as we want. In the spirit of keeping identities private, I hereby declare that my good friend– who shall be making future appearances, I’m sure– will be known as Pudding from this day forward. This decision was made partly because of my desire to hold back on personal details, and also because the idea of giving my friend a Bill Cosby-endorsed product as a moniker amused me greatly. I reserve the right to mention Pudding’s family either by real name, by using a derivation of Pudding (for instance Br’er Pudding, Mrs. Br’er Pudding, Mama and Papa Pudding, etc), or by another desert name. Names are subject to change with little notice. Pseudonyms will be issued as needed or for humor’s sake.

–End digression–

To speak on behalf of post-rock, I have asked Pudding what he likes about the genre. Even though I razz him a good bit for being pro-something that I am emphatically con, I definitely respect his opinion and even envy it a little. For him, post-rock has the ability to “convey feelings so powerfully and intensely”, but it’s subtle enough that each listen can get you to notice something completely different. He likes how the typical lack of lyrics forces the artist to show you rather than just tell you what he or she is feeling using musical elements alone. I totally get what he’s saying, and I only wish I could find a song that could show you how out of the loop I feel on this matter.

There was one time, though. One time where post-rock was it for me, where I was so into it I could hardly stand it. The song was building, and the tension was increasing, and everything was crescendoing… It was insane. I wanted the song to just resolve, climax, end, ANYTHING! Every beat in every measure was every emotion for me. For one afternoon I loved post-rock and everything it did for and to me. And then I realized I couldn’t spend the rest of my life high. Can’t win ‘em all, I guess.

But for those of you who yearn for more depth in your music and take musical exploration seriously, I recommend giving post-rock a shot. I don’t know anything about it, but Pudding’s got a decent arsenal of artists and albums from what he tells me. I wish I liked it, I really do. I think it’s sooooooophisticated (I can never remember what song that’s from, but I always think of it when I’m about to say “sophisticated”). And cool.

But I don’t like it and that’s kind of a bummer.