Tuesday, November 25, 2014
Recurring Arrival Delusion
An endless thought-loop, regardless of how many times it is proven incorrect, dedicated to the idea that each and every train in the city is running perfectly fine—except for yours. Your train must be re-routed today. Broken. Driven into the sea. Where is it? It is definitely not here. There goes the F. And another. But your train will not be coming today. Why are you still standing there?
The way the Appalachian region sits in the popular imagination, it’s the last place anyone would expect to find a film festival celebrating queer identity. But in the same month that West Virginia—the only entirely Appalachian state—legalized same-sex marriage, it also welcomed the first annual Appalachian Queer Film Festival, boasting a diverse lineup of features and documentaries. It included mainstream films like Skeleton Twins, starring Kristen Wiig and Bill Hader and To Be Takei, the Sundance documentary about actor George Takei. The festival featured lesser-known films such as Kumu Hina, a documentary about a transgender woman who teaches and preserves Hawai’i’s indigenous culture, and Goodbye Gauley Mountain, a protest against the ravaging practice of mountain top removal by filmmaker Beth Stephens and performance artist Annie Sprinkle.
I spoke with festival founders Tim Ward and Jon Matthews on the eve of their opening night. Over the telephone, we talked about growing up queer in Appalachia, bringing independent film to West Virginia, and showcasing the contemporary Mountain State. READ MORE
Brought to you by Rimmel London
In this video, Rimmel London showcases the inspiration behind The Pierces’ beauty, style, and music, and celebrates what it means to rock beautiful lashes on and off stage.
The Pierces share a love for classic London beauty, including beautiful bold lashes and sultry cat-eyes.
Get that amped, lifted lash volume with Rimmel London’s ScandalEyes Rockin’ Curves Mascara. Rimmel London’s first broken heart-shaped brush creates a fringe of big, curvy, rockin’ lashes. This cleverly shaped applicator twists and curves to hug the lash line; the thin tip grabs hard-to-reach inner lashes, while the amplified base pulses lashes with incredible volume and curve.
The Pierces demonstrate that you can be whoever, stay true to your style, and even do what kings do!
Cancer: The Olive Garden
When you're here, you're family! But even if you're not, that's okay, because Cancer’s extreme need for emotional stability and fear of change will force you to stay, eating endless salad and breadsticks, until you have no choice but to love them.
My voice isn't adequate for this conversation.
But I can't ignore it.
So here's what I've got for you today.
"It’s tough to believe in anything other than the present when you’re forced to fight for every inch of ground you’ve got; it’s harder still when you’ve got to question most of your interpersonal interactions. Is this why I didn’t get the job? Is this why my lease application was denied? Is this why I got into college? Is this why this person keeps following me around the grocery store? And when you ask, you’re looked at like you’re crazy, met with denial — because it’s always plausible, deniable."
Everything that could've been said has been said; everything that could've been done was avoided. Last night, Michael Brown was put on trial for his own murder. You will hear me repeat this a lot: what age is a black boy when he learns he's scary? Millions learned last night.
Let's focus on the good. Mike Brown was 18 years old, freshly graduated from high school. He was funny, silly, quiet and respectful, a gentle giant. He liked to take selfies. He liked to rap, and there is not a goddamned thing wrong with that. He is gone, but we cannot forget him.
If you are angry, like me, here are some things you can do. First and foremost, always and forever, register to vote. There is no excuse. You can contact your local representatives to implore them to require body cameras on every cop. You can sign petitions like the ACLU's against racial profiling, or Change.org's to protect communities from police violence. You can donate: organizations like Black Lives Matter and Operation Help or Hush are on using social media to garner change, the National Lawyer's Guild is providing legal support to protestors, and the Ferguson library will remain open today even though schools are closed, to provide solace and shelter.
Keep thinking about Michael Brown. Keep thinking about Trayvon Martin, about Oscar Grant and Tamir Rice and Sean Bell, about so many others. Keep thinking about all those little black boys who never made it home, about all the little boys who are afraid to leave. But do more than think: do. "Let's not just make noise," as Brown's family has implored us. "Let's make a difference."
Emily Gilmore has just taken off her skirt and escaped the basement through the window. Richard has followed her outside.
As you no doubt already heard, yesterday marked the passing of a man the media has aptly named an “entertainment icon” by the name of Mike Nichols. Mike earned his icon status by performing just about every major task one can perform in the modern creative arts, working as a comedian, a director, a producer, and a writer. He will be best known as the director of such films as The Graduate, for which he won an Oscar, Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?, Catch-22, Angels in America, Working Girl, and many others. But today, we dip into the archives and take a look at the first job Nichols performed that brought him to national attention: that of one half of the comedy duo Nichols & May. READ MORE
I dropped out of college the first time in a bright kind of fall. The college, because I’m Canadian, was actually called university, and the university was of Western Ontario, a great, big, unevenly beautiful school at which both of my parents had matriculated. It would have been nice if that’s why I too had enrolled, or why my decision was forcibly encouraged; the real reason was that the U. of W.O. was a 12-minute drive from our house, where as a stay-at-home student I’d cost a lot less, help with the chores, and continue to attend our evangelical hell-hole of a church.
Resigned, I spent my first year of an undeclared major wearing comfortable shoes and riding the city bus to school. I remember making very few friends. One of them I kissed for 20 minutes by the light of a neon Sublime poster, and when my mother read my diary to find this out, she not only sat me down for a long talk with my dad, but also, the following Wednesday, showed up at 3:10 p.m. to an even longer lecture on Hegel. Five hundred students of Modern European History turned to look at her. I looked for a sharpened pencil. She just had a feeling, she said to me later in the van, that I was doing something here besides learning.
Amy Lombard attended a Brady Bunch convention for VICE. Brady Bunch convention?! I can hear you thinking. Yes! That's obvious. What took them so long?
According to Jodi Ritzen, an organizer for BradyCon, they decided to hold the weekend after they saw a successful Monkees convention earlier in the year.
For a show that went off the air forty years ago, there's a pretty good turnout—and to answer your question, Greg and Peter showed up, Marcia, Jan, and Bobby didn't. As for Cindy:
From across the room, I spotted the piercing blue eyes of [...] Susan Olsen—also known as Cindy, the youngest Brady sister. At the convention, Olsen was surrounded by cat and dog shit–shaped candies.
Cindy are you ok????
Mr. Kreisberg is a freelance copy writer, a husband and a father. He is also a member of what he and other men describe as an often overlooked portion of the population: the growing number of working dads who cook.
“We do a lot more than barbecue,” Mr. Kreisberg said wryly...
“It really frustrates me that this is so often framed as a women’s issue,” said Natalie Pacholl, the mother of a 3-year-old who lives in Vancouver, Wash., and works for a high-tech manufacturing company. “Where are the dads in most of these discussions?”
Where are the dads in most of these discussions about parents and household meals? At the grocery store, I guess, buying food for dinner. Where are the dads in conversations about grocery stores, though? Where are the dads right now? Where are the dads heading after the kitchen? What are the dads doing? What are the dads thinking? What are the dads reading? Have you heard from the dads lately? Are the dads hanging out without us? What is a dad? Have you seen my dad?
Anyway, this article answers at least one of those questions.
Hell yeah fucking right today's weekend roundup post is a photo of Gushers. We've been talking a lot about self-care around these parts lately; I have a few things I do when I need to recharge, but lately it's been shutting everything down for 30 minutes, cueing up an episode of a funny show—The Mindy Project or Futurama, usually—and devouring a pack of those goddamned delicious explosive snack treats we call Gushers. I highly recommend.
This week, we: were tired of your shit (in art!), peed on ourselves, threw a dinner party, celebrated Danny DeVito, found that Richard really was a Dick, saw Foxcatcher, could not unhear, asked our partner 39 questions, reviewed store catalogs, "stuck a very small pin in his posterior hole", remembered our summer, had Cars mansplained to us, felt our feelings, and generally had a bang-up time.
This week, the Hairpin was called a cult women's website. Expect your badges and initiation forms soon.
Found under Ladies, Killing It: Marie Lodi wrote about online friendships for Rookie, Jaya Saxena and Some Man are interviewed in the paper of record about #dads, Arabella Sicardi is just plain famous, and Ellen Cushing wrote this crazy-insightful piece on Uber for San Francisco magazine. AWWWWRIIIGHT.
I hope you have a warm, restful weekend, and I can't wait to see you back here Monday. I am going to eat more Gushers now.
In October 2012, I went to Sierra Leone to cover the elections, the first without a peacekeeping presence since the end of the civil war. I didn’t have to wait long before I ran into Reagan Bush, a man gifted in the art of mocking earnest American writers. I met him in a bar that was just a concrete hutch decorated with warm cans of Fanta and baggies of plantain chips. When Andy and I walked in, looking for a quick lunch on our way into the jungle, we saw two drunk police officers. Before long, the bald, skinny one staggered over to our table.
“Ah, you are American! I love America. My name is Reagan Bush!”
“America kills its enemies,” he said, swaying drunkenly, waving his arms. “China, Russia, France, England, they are all—” here Reagan Bush kicked the air. “Qaddafi killed Americans. Now where is Qaddaffi?” Reagan Bush slid a finger across his throat. “Osama bin Laden killed Americans! Now where is bin Laden? Where is he?!”
“He’s dead,” I said.
“I support Nick Romney," he said, "because he says he will kill the enemies of America. Jimmy Carter was a very weak president.” He then named all the US presidents since Nixon, recited their years in office, and considered whether they were strong or weak. “If anyone gives you any trouble, call me. I will kill him,” he added. He wrote down his phone number with handwriting that was admirably neat for a drunk man. After a final round of congratulations, Reagan Bush lurched out into the street.READ MORE
Everyone has a favourite activity for when they’re mildly depressed. For some, it’s huddling in bed with a comforter pulled up around their ears to shield against this cruel world; for others, it’s donning neon underwear and blasting “Deceptacon” for an impromptu bedroom dancing party.
My own ministrations involve watching old episodes of Freaks and Geeks I’ve already seen at least four times, soothing myself with the familiarity. (If I need a quick hit of joy, it’s straight to Youtube to watch a 47-second clip of Bill Haverchuck stutter “You cut me off mid funk!”) When that’s not working, I go watch videos of Michael Clark. For the unitiated who may not share my interest in post-punk and wacky outfits—Michael Clark is the apotheosis of the two combined. He was the enfant terrible of 1980s contemporary dance and you can watch old videos of him leaping gracefully along to the jagged guitar screeches of The Fall in ass-baring leotards or polka dot face paint. And now that it's November, I’ll surrender to the sweeping melancholy of the Arcade Fire’s The Suburbs and let the music seep into my listless limbs.
The point is, no one is immune to getting the mean reds, the SADs, the abject paralyzing fear of continuing to live your own life. No matter what you want to call it we all have our own unique ways of coping with the world when everything turns to shit, and I’ve made it my mission to collect some of the “sadness routines” of some of my favourite people on the Internet and IRL.
So here’s to buying an entire box of Hallowe’en candy for yourself and eating it while watching The Craft. Here’s to buying overpriced essential oils and pouring them in the bath. Here’s to putting your socks in the microwave to warm your feet. And most of all, here’s to allowing ourselves to wallow and assuage our guilt with the knowledge that hopefully soon we’ll feel temporarily a little bit better. READ MORE