Why all award shows are demoralizing mind rot.
Remember when someone took twelve years to make a movie and it was just okay? I mean, it still won all of the awards it was supposed to—the film industry is too mathematical for it not to—but I have to disagree with the folks over at Roger “we gave Gigli three stars” Ebert dot com’s assessment of Boyhood as “indescribably moving.” And not just because calling a thing indescribable is, itself, technically a type of description.*
Can you imagine the decade-long boner that this director had to have for himself, though? Just going to bed every night, knowing that in ten years he would be blindly issued a rubber stamp of approval by the fucking Methuselahs who vote on this shit. That all he needed to do was show up with a camera every so often and pay Coldplay some royalties. Think about the 4,383 days he spent believing he’s creating this haterproof time capsule, and that anyone who doesn’t want to look like an uncultured knave would have to nod along because it’s indescribably fucking moving!
Continue reading “Award Shows Are Fucking Terrible”
Author’s note: to fully represent all of the malicious inner workings of these shopping-oriented house parties, I interviewed several women who’ve attended them as guests. Their anonymous testimonials are referenced throughout this article.
Connie breathes down your neck as you scan the pages of her kid’s holiday gift catalog. In your periphery, two other coworkers scurry off to eat lunch in their cars. A cold sweat envelops you now as you wonder… have popcorn tins always been this expensive? Even the tea light candle thing is like fifteen bucks—damn!
We’ve all been in this situation in one way or another. You’re either the one being detained in the break room, forced to buy gross toffy or you’re one of the Connies of the world, enslaved by an overwhelming pressure to out-parent everyone else in the booster club. Both people in this situation are dealing with impossible, irreconcilable guilt:
Connie could not take the catalog to work, leaving it up to callous chance (and her neighborhood’s generosity) as to whether or not her kids can raise enough money for band camp.
You could not buy the working class mother of four’s $20 friendship bracelet assortment and just keep on being a douchebag your whole life.
One thing though is clear — someone is exiting this transaction as the sucker. What a shitty, exploitative business model, right? What other shopping experience has so many interwoven expectations and potentially hurt feelings?
What if I told you there is an even more insidious sales tactic that makes school fundraisers seem as innocent as a lemonade stand?
Continue reading “Pyramid Schemes Aren’t Sexy – The Guilt Driven Psychology Behind Pure Romance”
As you casually wear that Superman shirt, do you know his backstory? Can you name any of the writers and artists that brought it to life? What of the ancient Els on Krypton? None of that “On my planet it means hope” crap either. See, a real nerd can’t just go home after watching the latest DC movie flop, lick their wounds and re-watch The Wire for the sixth time. Actual nerds turn to things like the Smallville podcast or obsessing through the Superman wiki—lest we torment our friends and coworkers with all the fan theories and canon discrepancies that we physically can’t hold back. Meanwhile, non-nerds have the benefit of catching a few episodes of Doctor Who and grabbing a Funko Pop doll, instead of agonizing over the Face of Bo’s timeline or if the Silurians have the same makeup in each iteration. Nerds wield the responsibility of having an encyclopedic knowledge of the inane—that comes up in no normal daily conversation—which is why we overflow with excitement when someone indulges our discussions about which Comic Book universe is better or which season marked the decline of The Simpsons. This culture has gotten to enjoy the fruits of our laborious tending while we watch our passions rot into oblivion. It’s fine to like stuff that’s cool but it’s become far too easy to claim the nerd struggle as your own just by transiently consuming various “nerd” things. Things like:
Continue reading “Stop Appropriating My (Nerd) Culture!”
Is there any quicker way to tell if your neighborhood Mexican restaurant is bullshit than if the food there is described as zesty? How about chalkboard wall menus detailing various brunch specials? Or perhaps the mere presence of brunch specials at all? For what purpose are there rotating taps of craft beer? Surely we all know at this point that Modelo is the only acceptable non-margarita beverage for Mexican cuisine. Look around you. Is that an all-white wait staff? I guess she’s kind of tan—nope, nope. This place is boojie as fuck. Taco Tuesday used to mean something, dammit!
Continue reading “Qué Onda Güero? – A Thorough Evisceration of the Mexican “Bistro””
Woah now, put those @’s away and hear me out for a sec, yeah?
I’m not just another one of those self-loathing Millennials, too cool for a kid’s game. On the contrary, I was memorizing the Pokedex long after most people my age were learning about investment portfolios and how to overpay for grilled cheese. To me, Pokemon has always been an amazing concept—vastly superior to sports or hour-long dramas—so trust me when I say that this critique comes from a place of true concern. Continue reading “The 5 Real Reasons Pokemon Go Sucks”
For two years I sat behind a desk at one of those ultra-trendy, twenty-teen’s web startups.
You know, the kind that you ride your longboard to and from. The kind where you “work hard and play hard”. The kind with paychecks that you use to buy ugly dressers at Restoration Hardware. Recently the company fell on hard times and I was let go, with the option of staying on for an extra week to finish up some projects. Uncertain of my financial future, I went home, drank a 40 oz. of King Cobra—as is mandatory when you get fired from any job—and plotted out what the next few months would mean. That’s when I remembered the tinfoil in my freezer with 2 ½ hits of the world’s gnarliest acid wrapped inside. Continue reading “I Microdosed for My Last Week at a Failing Startup”