Why Sean Lennon is Cool... and Super Models Are Infections on Human Culture. Pt.Une

Playing and replaying the French remix to Sean Lennon's song "Parachute" called "L'eclispe", and featuring the always awesome -M- (Mattieu Chedid, who is a little-known French artist who does lots of collaborations with really great indie artists, the lucky Vanessa Paradis for instance, known widely for being Johnny Depp's housemate and baby- mama, hence her being lucky) I am reminded of the sheer artistic genius that stems from the offspring of the world's most beloved Ex-Beatle, and Yoko Ono. I remember I first heard of him actually watching the the documentary about his father: "Imagine". Then, he was an articulate 13 year old boy who even then bore a striking resemblance to his famous papa. I googled him, and of course, the first thing I saw was his myspace page, because, and I'm so not kidding, even Jesus has a myspace. Actually, he has several. I haven't yet figured out which one is really him, but, if we reference the bible, then theoretically he is everywhere, so it would follow logically that they are all the real Jesus, but I'm getting off topic here. So there are several varied reasons why Sean Lennon is cool. The first being quite obvious, but, for the benefit of the post, I shall state them all below in numerical order:
1.He began life as the sperm of John Lennon, and, I have to admit, even I'm a little bit jealous of that.
2. He looks remarkably like his father, and it seems pretty effortless, though, I've gotta say, wearing the rounded spectacles are abusing it a bit...
3. His music is illuminating, dynamic, and, ultimately rad.
4. His mom is the most famous band-wrecker in world history.
5. He wrote a song in French which is arguably the sexiest language on Earth. And I hope you don't mind me saying that I dare you to prove me otherwise.





I think those are all pretty straightforward, so now I suppose you're wondering why Supermodels are Infections on Human Culture, and I'm going to tell you:

1. They are thin waifs whose main purpose seems to be to make very normal woman feel like regurgitated dog crap every time they open a magazine and realize that one of their thighs is probably twice the weight of the girl in the expensive Balenciaga ball gown.
2. They have learned to get over the incumbent stupidity of their namesakes and have begun to build empires, as if they didn't dominate the world enough simply by being beautiful. Bitches.
3. They often have long, lasting relationships with the most awesome/hot/intelligent/avant-garde/successful men. And the rest of us are left with guys like David Spade, only without the fame and money. Fucking Bitches.
4. We have to see their faces advertising everything from the makeup we wear, to the fucking underwear, and if it doesn't stop soon, I'm going to have to boycott all basic feminine products (except, of course, the sanitary ones) in order to maintain what little self esteem I have left. Goddamn Fucking Bitches.
5. One day, when their beauty has wilted around the edges, and they can't figure out whether their tits or their face is sagging faster, they will still be irrevocably rich from all that smart entrepreneurship in which case they can probably afford to surgically intervene any kind of sagging and wrinkles for the rest of their miserable, privileged lives.

Now I bet you're wondering what on Earth Supermodels have to do with Sean Lennon. Well, I'm glad you asked that. Because you see, when wondering about the age difference between he and I and deciding it was more than reasonable to date a 32 year old at my age, especially since my ex-boyfriend will be the same age in November, I realized, of course that it was highly unlikely that someone as cool as Sean Lennon would be single. And I was right. I think you can see where I'm going here. He is, quite predictably dating a Supermodel named Charlotte Kemp Muhl, whom I had never even heard of until today, and immediately wished, after seeing how beautiful she was, that I was still comfortably oblivious to her existence. I suppose, even being an American, I can't be ignorant all the time. Now that I've said that, I'd better go out and buy a flag pin to replace the one I wear now that says "Listen to your mama, vote Obama." Because properly displayed patriotic memorabilia is much more important than deciding who's going to run the country. In fact, I'd even go as far as to say that politics are really not the business of the general American public and we should spend more time being comfortably oblivious to its existence whilst doing more fulfilling activities. Like reading Vogue, or watching the Tyra Banks show, or better yet, going to Victoria's Secret to buy their new "Supermodel" fragrance. Like I'm about to do. Right now.

End.

Why Media Sucks... & Other Exciting Tales

Today, I am in a very reminiscent mood. I recovered several pictures of me in all my former glory, and found myself longing, once more, for a guilt-free all-nighter with all the liquor and cigarettes my poor body can take. And believe me, such was the norm back then. But you grow up, you get pregnant, and you live to fuck another day. Or you hope to anyway. I woke up this morning, ever the early bird, at 11.55am. Just in time for the good news reporters on WGN to do their lunchtime broadcast at noon. I couldn't help but notice the excessive use of a blurred clip of a racy billboard supposedly causing traffic in order to entice viewers to keep tuning in. And I don't know about the rest of the Chicagoan population, but I have to say, for me, it failed hopelessly. I was watching a rerun of Tyra before I even got a chance to hear the 7-day forecast. But it was that episode with the beauty tips that I missed from last season, so it was kind of a big deal. Really though it got me to thinking about how these big media companies view the American public. We are, quite obviously viewed as sex-crazed idiots who will tune in as long as you say the word "boob" enough. And I think they might be on to something. It has long been said that sex sells, but none so much as it does in this country,and it seems to be because we ourselves have had a history of making too much out of the small things. For years the only way the Beatniks could publish their racy, softcore sex scene, drug laced poetry and prose was to do so in France, or other more liberated countries. And speaking of softcore, how many late night Cinemax fliks have you seen where the man's penis is shown? I count zero. But the amount of vagina I've seen in the films is pretty much innumerable. And I've probably seen all of them. Not because of the sex scenes, but because of the story lines. You know, just like how G-Dub went into Iraq for those WMDs that were unquestionably there. Totally like that. And... speaking of nicknames, the Illinois state governor has, by far, the funniest one. Rod Blagojevich is affectionately know by the press as "G-Rod". This is of course made even more hilarious by the fact that he once used the phrase "testicular virility". I had never been prouder of state politics than I was in that moment. And I mean that. You know in thinking of the media today, I stopped to marvel at just how much influence it has on what us dim-witted Americans think. The television told us that Barack Obama was inexperienced in foreign policy, and with politics in general, and of course, on news show after pointless news show I had to listen to Kathy from Tallahassee, and George from Grand Rapids, and fucking Beth Anne from fucking Frisco feed me the same uneducated bullshit that Nancy Grace and Bill O'Reilly told me 4 seconds ago. I'm like, SO over it. Like totally. But on the bright side, Al Franken is running for public office against some creepy Republican I've never heard of (maybe he's friends with Sarah Palin), and I can only hope that he will bring all the candor and wit from Air America to his new seat in public office, without becoming the corrupt, droning, morally bankrupt fiend they all eventually do, which makes me wonder why in the hell I'm wearing this "Politicians Rule!" t-shirt. Unless I mean it literally in which case, I suppose they do. Damn, I can never remember when to take myself seriously. I think that's been George Bush's main problem for the last 8 years. Wow, I just realized that means I share a common characteristic with a republican. And they say the American public doesn't know anything about bi-partisanship.

"It's Raining It's Pouring, the Old Man Is Snoring..."

Tropical Storm Gustav is rearing it's ugly head even here in this wonderful metropolis smack dab in the middle of America's heartland... and I couldn't be more disgruntled. Sure, there are no street signs blowing in the wind, or flash floods depriving hard-working folks of their homes and businesses, but I've gotten used to the ominous lack of rain and dammit, I don't like this sudden catapult into unfriendly weather. Especially on the day of an interview. "Hi, my name is 'pissed because I just rained on'. I'm here for an interview." It set the perfect tone for what was sure to be an awesome day. I wasted 10 dollars on a cab I couldn't afford to be 30 minutes early and didn't even get interviewed until 15 minutes after my scheduled time. Because, well, this is how fate treats me. And I can't say that I've ever liked that bitch too much. Then, of course, part of the interview process was a tour of the floor which was, to say the least, the LONGEST tour of ANYTHING. EVER. And I just happened to be wearing 3 and a half inch heels. Were it not for shame I would've just said "fuck it" and put my flip-flops on. Damn you, obligations of positive 1st impressions. On the bus ride home, standing in my heels on the slippery floor packed with the rest of the evening commuters like sardines, I took a moment to reflect on the poor effect the weather has had not only on my day, but on my mood as well. Why is it that rain always tends to make me feel like shit? No seriously, you have to be out in the crap, you get all wet and cold, (oh, that's why) and you think to yourself, if mother nature were a person, you would plant no less that 50 strategically placed pipe bombs around her house, car and place of work in the hopes that, in the words of Stewie Griffin her "uppance will come." Also, I must admit a slight headache no doubt brought on by the loud-mouthed high-schoolers I had to endure the entire ride, not to mention the screaming baby who, despite the fruitless efforts of both mother and father to soothe him, continued to torment us all with high, piteous screams of obvious despair. My maternal instincts were not very forgiving given that I was dealing with wet pant legs, a rising headache, and I was REALLY fucking hungry. This is what happens when you try to have a good day. You don't. You fucking don't. And of course, this has to be the first below 70-degree daytime temp we've had in about 2 months, and it has to happen when I'm outside. Then of course, I get in the house, and have left the windows open, allowing mother nature and her inconsiderate wrath to rain all over my new leather shoes. I was a little more than livid. Now imagine if they had been the blue suede ones. But seriously I couldn't get a break today. Someone rushed and stole the seat on the bus I was quite obviously eyeing from the moment I stepped on, then when I finally did get one, I unknowingly sat next to the mumbles-to-himself-and-twitches-guy, whose quirks I had to endure because thanks to the generous tour of the floor, my feet were threatening to detach and set off to find a human that didn't treat them so poorly. This was one of those days where I could be found mouthing the words "I hate Murphy and his accursed law" over and over again like a homicidal mantra. Sometimes I think perhaps irony follows me. And other times, like today, I think fate just REALLY likes to fuck with me. Ain't that a bitch?