official semi-retraction

In the interest of maintaining journalistic integrity, I am here to post my first-ever retraction.

Despite being a mediocre actor, Taylor Lautner IS pretty attractive.

I still contend that his face is a bit jacked up (mostly in the nose region) but his BUILT body ameliorates this misfortune.

I feel as though I can’t win. When I said I thought he was dumb-looking, I was accused of prejudice against Native Americans. When I said (okay, loudly exclaimed in the middle of the movie theatre) his physique was FINE, I got called a creep the rest of the night. It’s not my fault he’s a teenager. It’s also not my fault he got ripped.

Don’t worry, millions of squealing tween girls: T-Laut is still yours. I’m just being considerate and admitting my mistake. Anyway, last night there was an exhilarating trailer for Me & Orson Welles featuring a VEEERRRRYYYY handsome Zac Efron, and we all know where my true loyalties lie. (Witness the photographic evidence on your left; charming AND obviously intelligent! See, I’m not shallow. He’s holding a book! Or… script! Or something.)

pop culture rejection double dose

Being a somewhat (HA! putting it lightly) critical individual, I can’t help but go against the flow when it comes to many popular items in the entertainment world. Lately I’ve felt especially annoyed with two certain trends that apparently everyone* loves besides me, at least according to everyone’s* Facebook statuses.
(*”everyone” = mostly girls and gay dudes. My guy friends seem to have their heads on straight and their topics of conversation and excitement remain to be sports and like… going to the mountains. I’ll accept it.)

Here we go…

1. Lady GaGa: “Bad Romance”
Alright, everyone is shitting themselves over this song and its video and how “crazy” she is. I agree that she is crazy, so why do we have to reward her with fame and attention? This song is so incredibly obnoxious. I mean, that beginning part: “rah-la-rah-la-LAAAA” …there is no way I can accurately portray its strangeness and unnecessary guttural noises in type. Hear it for yourself:

The most unfair part of this is that even though I intensely dislike this song, it is constantly in my head! Why am I being punished in this way?!

2. New Moon
To be fair, and in the spirit of full disclosure, I AM SEEING THIS FILM TONIGHT as a bonding activity with some friends. (It will be fun because of the people involved. At least it’s at the Cinerama and I plan on drinking lots of wine at happy hour beforehand. I feel pretty ashamed that I have to justify my viewing to this website.) I am so annoyed with all the hype surrounding this mediocre tween franchise. Let’s just all admit that the movie is NOT going to be GOOD! The source material, the book itself, was NOT GOOD. So how can one expect the movie to be high quality? I’ll go ahead and say that Robert Pattinson can be pretty hot, but don’t get me started on Taylor Lautner… that guy is just not attractive. My roommate Michaela hilariously claims “you just think that because you don’t like natives” …for one thing, thanks for basically accusing me of being racist. For another thing, I’ve had no significant experience with “natives” in my lifetime, so I don’t know how I feel about them and if I discriminate against them or not! And lastly, Michaela is a huge Twilight supporter, so any assertions she makes should be taken with a huge grain of salt. I am probably an asshole since I’m bitching about this movie then spending $10 of my own money to see it tonight, but as a girl sometimes you just get roped into obligatory duties… and trust me, this is not the worst one. Well, actually that has yet to be seen.

Nice facial expression and spiked hair.

From this entry, I think we can surmise that I have a pretty bad attitude when it comes to this stuff. I honestly wish I could just shut up and enjoy things, but I can’t. I am secretly jealous of anyone more successful or rich than me. In this case, “secretly jealous” obviously means “blatantly jealous.”  Regardless, the fact remains that Lady GaGa is just TOO WEIRD for me and New Moon is TOO OVERHYPED for me and I’m going to devote myself to the same entertainment that has satisfied me for years: Elliott Smith and My So-Called Life. So modern and upbeat! (Everyone who disagrees with the negative spirit of this post, feel free to mock my entertainment choices as well. Fair’s fair.)

moods of norway

When I was in LA, one of my top priorities was shopping. It’s funny, because when I was a bit younger, working a job that was emotionally unrewarding yet providing me with double the salary I currently make, I was a huge “shopaholic.” Ugh, I hate that term. But I was. I thought nothing of throwing down hundreds of dollars on a pair of designer jeans, and I racked up novelty track jackets like they were going out of style. (Oh. They were.) Currently, in these lean times, I rarely shop for the sake of shopping. My former disposable income and the delight I took in squandering it truly shames me now.

BUT APPARENTLY IT DOESN’T SHAME ME ENOUGH because once the plane hit the tarmac at LAX, I started rabidly fantasizing about Robertson and all the financial havoc I could wreak in one week’s time. Something happens to my brain chemistry when I’m in California. Things I could consider gaudy and wasteful in Washington suddenly become acceptable – no, more than acceptable, they become desired! For example, take my reaction when I discovered the Kitson clearance outlet in Santa Monica; I believe there were audible screams of joy and disbelief. Embarrassing…

Finally, though, I was able to reconcile my Californian thirst for spending ridiculous amounts of money and my Washingtonian rustic, cozy sensibilities with a new boutique I discovered in the heart of Robertson, right across from celeb dining hotspot the Ivy (talk about prime real estate! We saw Ciara!): MOODS OF NORWAY!

It’s a well-established fact that I am mildly obsessed with Scandinavian culture. Moods of Norway even won over my  companions, who previously had been getting a little impatient with my wild-eyed window shopping. It was decorated like a cheesy lodge (made me happy!), had a huge golden tractor you were allowed to “ride” (made Grace happy!) and it was freaking “waffle Saturday” aka FREE WAFFLES FOR ALL (made KJ kind of scarily happy!). Those crafty Norwegians, they made it all too easy to justify spending $120 on a fur-lined jacket (see image). When I told the shopgirl I was going back to Seattle and needed something that would keep me warm all throughout our miserable, disgusting winter months, she claimed my jacket would be “warmer than a Northface, but ew, I am against Northface anyway” …ha, nice way to subtly stereotype and shoot down Seattleites. But the tactic worked, once she pointed out “these are jackets made BY Norwegians FOR Norwegians, and you know their winters are really cold!” Eh, true. It doesn’t take much to convince me, especially when I’m just begging for someone to validate my gratuitous impulses in the first place.

Moods of  Norway is so hip that is only has that one boutique in LA. Otherwise it’s only in Norway itself. Providing me with faux-European elitism at its finest! Unless you are shopping in Norway or Los Angeles, YOU CANNOT HAVE MY JACKET. Apparently most people in Seattle don’t want it anyway; the other day I was walking home, proudly displaying my new coat, and this guy actually shouted at me from his front yard, “You can’t be that cold!” …whoa, way to call me out, random dude! Wearing anything with luxurious fur (albeit fake fur) seems to alienate and anger the natives here in Ballard. Everyone keeps ogling my outfit like I’m an asshole. It probably doesn’t help that I often wear the jacket with a pair of huge designer sunglasses, to drive home the fact that I am soooo fashionable and exclusive and I care enough about my wellbeing to keep myself fashionably warm while still protecting my eyes from damaging UV rays! Suck it, Seattle. My Norwegian roommate, Linn, loves my jacket. When I brought it home, she squealed, “Ooh! Moods of Norway! They’re SO HOT RIGHT NOW in Oslo!”

Made BY Norwegians, FOR Norwegians, and apparently APPROVED OF by Norwegians. As a ghetto-fabulous graphic tee I discovered at the Slauson swap meet proudly proclaimed: Haters keep on hatin, cuz u makin’ me famous.

travelin’ down that road and back again

I blame it all on the Golden Girls. The recent passing of Bea Arthur (RIP!) reminded me of my love for the program and evoked nostalgia for my lazy summers of sitcom reruns in junior high… one night, not too long ago, my roommate and I decided to pay our respects when we were flipping through the channels and settled on Hallmark and into a comfortable evening of the Girls. I just kept the train rolling on into my bedroom that night, since the channel was seemingly on a marathon… my suspicions were proven even further when I awoke the next morning to the melodious strains of “Thank you for bein’ a fri-iiiend…” Could it be?! Was this Bea reaching out to me from beyond the grave?! Was I truly blessed to slumber AND rise to the Golden Girls?!

I quickly learned that Hallmark was not on a memorial marathon, but instead just generally devotes about 83% of its content to Golden Girls. Well, I can’t argue with that programming decision. Before I knew it, my Golden Girls viewing was segueing into other Hallmark programming… the occasional Little House on the Prarie rerun here, a bit of 3rd season 7th Heaven there… do I want to go out to happy hour? I don’t know, there’s a really interesting made-for-tv movie starring Jodie Sweetin as a Christian with cancer at 6:00 tonight. Like any addiction I didn’t realize I was entrenched until I was too late. Even though my television was permanently anchored on channel 19, I still refused to acknowledge that Hallmark was my new default channel. I was completely in denial.

My next stop in my downward spiral was rationalization. What was so wrong about Hallmark? Its content is family friendly. Its reruns are comfortingly familiar. It has actual shows in the morning, versus the infomercials of most other cable channels. While Food Network, E!, and Travel Channel don’t start real programming until 9:00 or 9:30, Hallmark starts playing Golden Girls at 8:00! I guess this is part of the marketing to the elderly deal… they call it the Early Bird Special for a reason. Since I am a religiously early riser, this was perfect for me. The power of the addict’s mind to trick itself is shocking; why not just smoke a liiiiiittle of this rock? It feels so good…

There were other benefits, or what I believed to be benefits at the time. Hallmark features gentler commercials. Gone were the inferior complex-feeding TrimSpa, Nutrisystem, and Girls Gone Wild commercials of E! and the music channels. There was no pressure or competition to be as attractive as Holly Madison, as slutty as Denise Richards, or as in shape as those girls on the Ab Roller infomercials. Hallmark’s advertising is concentrated on the geriatric set, so there are commercials for resort vacations, sugar-free candies, and heart monitors. Whereas I always felt a bit guilty when I was indulging in a spoonful of Ben & Jerry’s while watching “E!’s 100 Hottest Beach Bodies” complete with diet pill commercials, I felt absolutely zero qualms about devouring the entire carton during a viewing of Family Feud, peppered with Viagra and senior living community ads. So I’m not as fit as the F-list celebrities who’ve lost 56 pounds on Jenny Craig? Whatever, at least I don’t require a pacemaker!

As with any dire addiction, before any hope of recovery, one has to hit rock bottom. Not long ago, I finally reached that point. I was lounging in bed at 9:00am on a Monday morning, indulging in a chocolate bar. I was feeling pretty good about this situation, as I was simultaneously watching Blanche Devereaux dig into an entire cheesecake at midnight after a failed date… at least I was doing better than her, being about 45 years younger, 45 pounds thinner, and didn’t even have to get stood up by a guy to enjoy my unhealthy snack. You still look great in those paisley-printed flowy beach pants, Blanche! You go, girl! (Hallmarkchannel.com’s online “Which Golden Girl Are YOU?” quiz informed me that I am fated to be Blanche, so ever since then I have felt a very close bond with Rue McClanahan.) Suddenly, I had a strange sense of déjà vu. I narrowed my eyes and regarded my television screen with intensity. Why… what… oh my God. I had successfully viewed all Golden Girls episodes currently in syndication on the Hallmark Channel. I had the distinct and unmistakable memory of dozing in the exact same place, watching the exact same episode, only a few short weeks ago.

What was I doing?! Because a fictional elderly lady was eating cheesecake and I was watching commercials for insulin monitors, it was acceptable for me to rub my youth and health in the Hallmark Channel’s face and eat 500 calories of candy for breakfast?! Because I was used to ads promoting the scary senior retirement center in Lake City, it was fine for my condo to fall to shambles around me, as I was too busy watching 7th Heaven to do the dishes?! Who was I turning into?! A Florida retiree?! I had decades before this behavior would be appropriate! If I kept lazing around taking my health for granted, I wouldn’t live to see my golden years in the first place.

Time for some rehabilitation.

Last night I re-defaulted, hardcore. I skipped right over the methadone that is Travel and Food, and went straight for the cold turkey approach: E!. Talk about getting “scared straight.” I fell asleep to the Kardashians putting on a fashion show, and awoke to a “6 Weeks to Slim” infomercial. Good. Look at those ladies. Now, Emily, you realize how fat your midsection REALLY is. I got ready for work while watching a Lindsay Lohan documentary I’ve already viewed about… six or seven times in my life. See, even though Lindsay has a trashy family, a probable drug addiction, and an on-again, off-again relationship with a Ronson, she still manages to be rich, famous, and questionably attractive. I need this negative societal reinforcement so I can reprioritize. If I’m going to form parasocial relationships to celebrities and judge my self-worth by evaluating how closely my thighs resemble those of an infomercial testimonial, I BETTER be focusing on 20something socialites and Hydroxycut, and people who rely on hotel Jacuzzis for drunken hookups, not deceased elderly sitcom women and HoverRounds and grandparents in retirement homes who rely on personal Jacuzzis for back therapy.

My only fear is a relapse.

here we are now, entertain us

You know those people who are all, “I don’t watch TV”? Yes, you do. I promise you do. (Especially if you live somewhere with annoyingly self-righteous people… I’m looking at you, Seattle.) Those people who think they are above what they consider pedestrian entertainment such as television, casual use of prescription pills, internet social networking, binge eating… God, I hate those people. Usually these are the same people who, instead of those aforementioned AWESOME uses of time, are really into so-called hobbies such as “working out” and “spirituality”. Give me a BREAK.

Anyway, if it wasn’t abundantly clear, I am not one of those people who “doesn’t really watch” TV. Quite the contrary… I love TV. I want to marry TV. I want to have TV’s babies. Instead of cutting the umbilical cord, we could cut the coaxial cable. Gross. Anyway, as an avid television fan, it should come as no surprise to anyone that I have multiple television sets in my home. The most important television I own is the one in my bedroom. In lieu of any “real” significant other, this device keeps me company throughout the lonely nights… I fall asleep and wake up to its loving, nonjudgmental glow.

As a devoted television viewer, there is an important decision one must face. What is your default channel? The title of DC is quite a significant one. This is the channel whose late-night programming you fall asleep to, whose cheesy sitcom/reality show reruns you take comfort in when waking from a nightmare in the middle of the night, whose gently rousing infomercials give you something to live for in the morning. (Remember in the old days, when pioneers had to wake to the sunrise instead of Gunthy-Renker infomercials? The cock crowing instead of that weird Australian dude yelling about the wonders of the Magic Bullet? Man, the old days must have sucked.) Basically, if flipping through the channels is like dating, selecting your default channel is akin to the commitment ceremony.

Wait! Don’t panic. While selection of the DC really is the Sophie’s Choice of the TV viewer, its ramifications are not as dire. Why? Because, the thing is, you can change defaults! For example, when I first got a TV in my bedroom back in high school (thanks Mom, for allowing that situation and forever cursing me to a life of ADD and dependency on machines/technology for fulfilling entertainment), my default channel was MTV. I’m not proud of this fact, but there it is. To be fair, back when I was in high school, MTV was still producing its very first season of Laguna Beach and the travesties that are The Hills and The City were but twinkles in LC’s eyes. I at least was watching quality, educational programming such as Date My Mom and Next: Bisexual Edition. You know… back when they boasted musically-enriched content. So I guess we could bring it full circle and agree that if flipping through channels is like being on the Next Bus, selecting your default channel is akin to the STD-ridden ho you go on a longer “date” with at the end of the episode.

that old teenage feeling…