Hey I'm done! I DID IT!
www.katecarraway.com
Let's blow this popsicle stand forever and ever. TO THE REAL INTERNETS!
(I will probably/definitely continue to tweet more than I blog, that is just the reality of life, friends.)
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
Tuesday, November 16, 2010
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
Sorry!
Sorry my blog is so stupid! If you care/are cool enough to come and read this sometimes then I owe you an apology for how bad it sucks.
I am currently checking out and interviewing peeps to make me a new one. I had hired a guy to make me a site but it didn't work out.
I need someone who can build/set up a pretty basic site, nothing flashy (or Flash-y), and set up analytics etc. I suck at all that stuff and also do not care to do it myself. I pay dollars. (If you're interested in the gig, email me! My nerd friends only have so many developer/designer type friends.)
xoxoxooxox
I am currently checking out and interviewing peeps to make me a new one. I had hired a guy to make me a site but it didn't work out.
I need someone who can build/set up a pretty basic site, nothing flashy (or Flash-y), and set up analytics etc. I suck at all that stuff and also do not care to do it myself. I pay dollars. (If you're interested in the gig, email me! My nerd friends only have so many developer/designer type friends.)
xoxoxooxox
Sunday, October 24, 2010
Nope.
I'm a little bit sick and thusly a lot bit immature and self-sorry feeling. What's that Marilyn Monroe line, like, "If you can't handle my worst, you don't deserve my best"??? Here's some worst.
Spent three hours at the laundromat today, a first in a very long while. (I have mostly hand-washables and dry cleaning, so usually drop my remaining sheets/towels/hoodies/etc off for wash-and-fold, but owing to some recent parental commentary about how free and easy I am with my discretionary income [taxis, wash-and-fold, occasional cleaning lady BUT ONLY WHEN I AM VERY VERY BUSY], I was attempting Protestant-style thrift.)
Though I have washed my clothes in an en-plein-air basin in the middle of a field in Guatemala and in sinks around the globe and in ten years of laundromats, and have written about the Laundry Experience in a column at EYE, this was among the worst.
EYE column is here.
It included:
My Roots sweatpants (hello, I am from the suburbs, I own several pieces of dense cotton casualwear from Roots that I wear exclusively when I am alone or ostensibly so, like at the laundry place or the unsexy grocery store (not Whole Foods obvi)); anyway my Roots sweatpants (reddish/v. baggy/like a girl with an accountant boyfriend and a desk job to tolerate while planning their pathetic wedding) falling down below my butt, because my day-to-day wallet (a heavy black un-logoed Coach affair that I got long before the grosser Coach items were the most hateful thing) was in the pocket because WTF are you supposed to do with it? Sling your bag around your shoulder while you're making change and pouring soap and stuffing your long johns into the dryer? Anyway, I had boxer-briefs on underneath (just a lowest common denominator fashion situation but my hair was doing this amazing unwashed Bardot thing so I was kind of sunny about it regardless).
Leering (not just "Ew that creepy guy looked in my direction" leering, but the kind where dude keeps opening his mouth at you, waiting for something great to say (those words never arrive)) ginger man who followed me around to the point where I had to just stand and stare at him and give him some Really? eyebrows.
Reading a bunch of Super Sad True Love Story, which is my book club's selection of the month and which I am really digging. Except every time I put it down to check on my shit I kept squirreling out because I'm perennially obsessed with being robbed and a fresh hardcover is something robbable, right?
A total cost of thirty dollars for the whole situation, not including my laundry supplies, which is not enough savings to justify not just dropping it off on the way to work and getting it days later all packed neat and sweet. (Actually I saved probably thirty dollars which is maybe a lot but three hours? Maybe if they did neck massages too.) My sister's old nanny (her name was Princess! FOR REAL, PLUS SHE WAS SO COOL) used to fold my underpants into these little panini-looking things so part of the wash and fold experience is to recreate how nice that was.
I forget why I'm writing this? Ok byeeeeee.
Spent three hours at the laundromat today, a first in a very long while. (I have mostly hand-washables and dry cleaning, so usually drop my remaining sheets/towels/hoodies/etc off for wash-and-fold, but owing to some recent parental commentary about how free and easy I am with my discretionary income [taxis, wash-and-fold, occasional cleaning lady BUT ONLY WHEN I AM VERY VERY BUSY], I was attempting Protestant-style thrift.)
Though I have washed my clothes in an en-plein-air basin in the middle of a field in Guatemala and in sinks around the globe and in ten years of laundromats, and have written about the Laundry Experience in a column at EYE, this was among the worst.
EYE column is here.
It included:
My Roots sweatpants (hello, I am from the suburbs, I own several pieces of dense cotton casualwear from Roots that I wear exclusively when I am alone or ostensibly so, like at the laundry place or the unsexy grocery store (not Whole Foods obvi)); anyway my Roots sweatpants (reddish/v. baggy/like a girl with an accountant boyfriend and a desk job to tolerate while planning their pathetic wedding) falling down below my butt, because my day-to-day wallet (a heavy black un-logoed Coach affair that I got long before the grosser Coach items were the most hateful thing) was in the pocket because WTF are you supposed to do with it? Sling your bag around your shoulder while you're making change and pouring soap and stuffing your long johns into the dryer? Anyway, I had boxer-briefs on underneath (just a lowest common denominator fashion situation but my hair was doing this amazing unwashed Bardot thing so I was kind of sunny about it regardless).
Leering (not just "Ew that creepy guy looked in my direction" leering, but the kind where dude keeps opening his mouth at you, waiting for something great to say (those words never arrive)) ginger man who followed me around to the point where I had to just stand and stare at him and give him some Really? eyebrows.
Reading a bunch of Super Sad True Love Story, which is my book club's selection of the month and which I am really digging. Except every time I put it down to check on my shit I kept squirreling out because I'm perennially obsessed with being robbed and a fresh hardcover is something robbable, right?
A total cost of thirty dollars for the whole situation, not including my laundry supplies, which is not enough savings to justify not just dropping it off on the way to work and getting it days later all packed neat and sweet. (Actually I saved probably thirty dollars which is maybe a lot but three hours? Maybe if they did neck massages too.) My sister's old nanny (her name was Princess! FOR REAL, PLUS SHE WAS SO COOL) used to fold my underpants into these little panini-looking things so part of the wash and fold experience is to recreate how nice that was.
I forget why I'm writing this? Ok byeeeeee.
Saturday, October 16, 2010
I feel bad for everyone who knows me, at least a little bit
A few weeks ago, my super-nice friend (who is somehow involved with the band? I don't remember the partics) gave me front-row tix at Massey Hall to see The xx, who I really like. I teach a writing class on Wednesday nights (I have to revise how I say that: strangers always get really excited and I have to be all "Calm down, it's Continuing Studies," a.k.a. I'm not one of those twentysomething Ph.D. genius-cools), and I couldn't get there till 9:30 or so, which meant that an usher had to walk me and Alexis down the middle aisle in the middle of a song to our seats.
I knew about 100 people there so I tried to obscure my face with my scarf/hair (oh and to be extra-extra-cool I later realized my scarf still had two dry-cleaning tags on it, so that's great). This move didn't work: the next day a colleague told me she saw it happen and was like ASSHOLES! and then I was on the phone with a publicist and he was like "Uh yeah I was two rows behind you."
Anyway I just found out that the opening band was Warpaint. Like I just found this out now. I'm SO BUMMED OUT, I LOVE WARPAINT! Not that I could have done anything; the "teacher" can't really skip. Especially when I give everyone a hard time about showing up each week because "writing and workshopping is a collective process" (extra-extra-cool).
Anyway, read this article on Warpaint by Vice's Hunter Stephenson, who I quite like, and sometimes I think he does a similar thing with his writing that I often do, which is to make real and serious use of his personal sensibility and the subculture(s) from which (whence?) he came (comes?) alongside (and this is where it gets good) a pretty formal way of doing journalism. A lot of dude-guy-young-writer-no-rules-mom! stuff can get pretty tiresome in all its overdoneness, so reintroducing structure feels important sometimes. (I'm not saying we're similar writers, but I am saying I relate to his stuff. Anyway.)
http://www.interviewmagazine.com/blogs/music/2010-10-14/warpaint-the-xx-the-fool/
Le siiiiiiiiiigh. Also I cried during "Islands" because I had been like "Nope" to an adored/doomed boy/relationship earlier that day.
Fuck, Warpaint are good.
I knew about 100 people there so I tried to obscure my face with my scarf/hair (oh and to be extra-extra-cool I later realized my scarf still had two dry-cleaning tags on it, so that's great). This move didn't work: the next day a colleague told me she saw it happen and was like ASSHOLES! and then I was on the phone with a publicist and he was like "Uh yeah I was two rows behind you."
Anyway I just found out that the opening band was Warpaint. Like I just found this out now. I'm SO BUMMED OUT, I LOVE WARPAINT! Not that I could have done anything; the "teacher" can't really skip. Especially when I give everyone a hard time about showing up each week because "writing and workshopping is a collective process" (extra-extra-cool).
Anyway, read this article on Warpaint by Vice's Hunter Stephenson, who I quite like, and sometimes I think he does a similar thing with his writing that I often do, which is to make real and serious use of his personal sensibility and the subculture(s) from which (whence?) he came (comes?) alongside (and this is where it gets good) a pretty formal way of doing journalism. A lot of dude-guy-young-writer-no-rules-mom! stuff can get pretty tiresome in all its overdoneness, so reintroducing structure feels important sometimes. (I'm not saying we're similar writers, but I am saying I relate to his stuff. Anyway.)
http://www.interviewmagazine.com/blogs/music/2010-10-14/warpaint-the-xx-the-fool/
Le siiiiiiiiiigh. Also I cried during "Islands" because I had been like "Nope" to an adored/doomed boy/relationship earlier that day.
Fuck, Warpaint are good.
Monday, October 11, 2010
RIP My Life, My Fault; Long Live As-Yet-Unnamed Advice Column
Preambles: I had a rad summer, thank you for asking, not quite spent shopping at Chanel and experiencing the bohemian juju of unscheduled days on the Left Bank in Paris (that is a Gossip Girl reference), but one spent living on an island, and everything beautiful that comes with it, including hundreds of ferry rides (I wrote "fairy" by "mistake") and making out in nature, and waking up every day in a house beside a lake. Plus: superiority.
And then it turned into September and I moved back to the city and was instantly mortified that I had to exist at all. Like, this weird thing happened, and kept happening, where the one second difference between being totally engaged in something and then not being engaged anymore would just break me, and I would just close my eyes and want so badly to get to go to sleep. It was Classic Depression (no: "Depression Classic"), but it only happened in small, exhausting moments. Usually when I feel like that for more than a day it is:
1. Boys
2. Friends
3. Family
4. Work
5. the XYZ of internal monologue and vision and creativity and all of that unexplainable, alone stuff.
Turns out it was eeeeeverything, all of the above, and for serious, and for too long.
Then in one period of three or four days, I kind of solved everything at once. (Not really, but life/sanity just came together in a convenient way after almost two months of stress-barfs and frustration, and it's more fun/dramatic to imagine waking up and thinking "Oh, I'm fine." Which did actually happen, on Sunday morning, but only after I had naturally arrived there.)
That's me, cooooold chillin! (He's smiling!)
One big change of a few (the others aren't your business I'm terribly sorry) is that I won't be writing My Life, My Fault anymore. I've been writing my column every week for a while now (months!), and started writing it almost two years ago. Not to gay out too much but that column changed my life, as did the fact of many people responding to it. (Liked it, loved it, hated it, wrote me emails, stopped me on the street, called my boss/father to complain, offered me other jobs and other gigs, stopped being friends with me, asked me on dates, told me to die, scribbled notes on the back of the package they were delivering that said "Love your writing, keep it up - The Messenger.") So, thank you if you ever did any of that.
I play like such a dick sometimes, but that is 90% because a) I'm an extremely melty and emotional individual and that is how we protect our quick-thumping hearts and b) I'm a professional critic of the world around me, soooo it's just good and nice to take a sec to be like "That was for real."
Magnificent.
In its stead I'll be writing an advice column. It'll start in... two weeks! Soon. Here's the thing about that: I need help. The new column will focus on problems that span the experience of one's twenties and thirties: relationships, love, sex, friends, family, work, money, identity, purpose... Fuck, could be God, your haircut, buying a couch, drinking too much, whatever. This will be fun, I think: my project as a writer is not to front as an expert (Trust: I am not "figured out" as a human) but to dig around in the dirt a little, and ask why we do the things we do, why we want what we want, and how to get it, and how to deal with it. (I think that if you liked the Quarterlife Crisis story and/or My Life, My Fault, you'll like it.) SOOOOO if you have a question, please email me at kcarraway@eyeweekly.com.
^^That's the art from the Quarterlife cover.
In time the column will have a name (I think I know what it will be, but not 100%) and stuff, but for now, if you have a question (anonymous!!! of course) about anything that I could point my arrows at, please send.
Oh and I'm going to keep writing essays about myself OBVIOUSLY. Just not in the same forum or on the same schedule. Oh and I want to say a thing here, because I can and because I want to note my friends who have tolerated the emotional and practical byproducts of my weird job: Edward Keenan hired me and on my second day of work I pitched him a column that was "like an indie rock Leah McLaren" (which is gross/gauche, but he knew what I meant and it worked). Chris Bilton listened to me being like "Soooooooo is THIS a good idea? Is THIS?" way too much and told me when I was being a retard. They are both SUCH smart, radical, open-minded dudes. My Private Citizen Best Friend is so patient and overwhelmingly CORRECT about everything that it is almost implausible, and he listened to me wonder over My Life, My Fault a whole lot; WORD also to pals Micah, David, Reen, Aaron, Shaun, Star, Anna and everyone who was cool and didn't get mad/jealous/mean; FUCK YOU to everyone who did. (I wanted to do that for effect, but I don't really care, actually.) (Actually, fuck you guys.) (Jkjkjkjkjkjk.) Nick and Brutal Knights lent me the column's name. The guilt over "being like this" that I've felt since I was 11 or 12 has completely dissipated, even as I wrote about our dog dying, not measuring up to my mother, the way I imagine my father's death, my sisters' six children, and being the youngest child, because my parents and sisters have been gigantically cool and generous about it. That's the BEST part!
And then it turned into September and I moved back to the city and was instantly mortified that I had to exist at all. Like, this weird thing happened, and kept happening, where the one second difference between being totally engaged in something and then not being engaged anymore would just break me, and I would just close my eyes and want so badly to get to go to sleep. It was Classic Depression (no: "Depression Classic"), but it only happened in small, exhausting moments. Usually when I feel like that for more than a day it is:
1. Boys
2. Friends
3. Family
4. Work
5. the XYZ of internal monologue and vision and creativity and all of that unexplainable, alone stuff.
Turns out it was eeeeeverything, all of the above, and for serious, and for too long.
Then in one period of three or four days, I kind of solved everything at once. (Not really, but life/sanity just came together in a convenient way after almost two months of stress-barfs and frustration, and it's more fun/dramatic to imagine waking up and thinking "Oh, I'm fine." Which did actually happen, on Sunday morning, but only after I had naturally arrived there.)
That's me, cooooold chillin! (He's smiling!)
One big change of a few (the others aren't your business I'm terribly sorry) is that I won't be writing My Life, My Fault anymore. I've been writing my column every week for a while now (months!), and started writing it almost two years ago. Not to gay out too much but that column changed my life, as did the fact of many people responding to it. (Liked it, loved it, hated it, wrote me emails, stopped me on the street, called my boss/father to complain, offered me other jobs and other gigs, stopped being friends with me, asked me on dates, told me to die, scribbled notes on the back of the package they were delivering that said "Love your writing, keep it up - The Messenger.") So, thank you if you ever did any of that.
I play like such a dick sometimes, but that is 90% because a) I'm an extremely melty and emotional individual and that is how we protect our quick-thumping hearts and b) I'm a professional critic of the world around me, soooo it's just good and nice to take a sec to be like "That was for real."
Magnificent.
In its stead I'll be writing an advice column. It'll start in... two weeks! Soon. Here's the thing about that: I need help. The new column will focus on problems that span the experience of one's twenties and thirties: relationships, love, sex, friends, family, work, money, identity, purpose... Fuck, could be God, your haircut, buying a couch, drinking too much, whatever. This will be fun, I think: my project as a writer is not to front as an expert (Trust: I am not "figured out" as a human) but to dig around in the dirt a little, and ask why we do the things we do, why we want what we want, and how to get it, and how to deal with it. (I think that if you liked the Quarterlife Crisis story and/or My Life, My Fault, you'll like it.) SOOOOO if you have a question, please email me at kcarraway@eyeweekly.com.
^^That's the art from the Quarterlife cover.
In time the column will have a name (I think I know what it will be, but not 100%) and stuff, but for now, if you have a question (anonymous!!! of course) about anything that I could point my arrows at, please send.
Oh and I'm going to keep writing essays about myself OBVIOUSLY. Just not in the same forum or on the same schedule. Oh and I want to say a thing here, because I can and because I want to note my friends who have tolerated the emotional and practical byproducts of my weird job: Edward Keenan hired me and on my second day of work I pitched him a column that was "like an indie rock Leah McLaren" (which is gross/gauche, but he knew what I meant and it worked). Chris Bilton listened to me being like "Soooooooo is THIS a good idea? Is THIS?" way too much and told me when I was being a retard. They are both SUCH smart, radical, open-minded dudes. My Private Citizen Best Friend is so patient and overwhelmingly CORRECT about everything that it is almost implausible, and he listened to me wonder over My Life, My Fault a whole lot; WORD also to pals Micah, David, Reen, Aaron, Shaun, Star, Anna and everyone who was cool and didn't get mad/jealous/mean; FUCK YOU to everyone who did. (I wanted to do that for effect, but I don't really care, actually.) (Actually, fuck you guys.) (Jkjkjkjkjkjk.) Nick and Brutal Knights lent me the column's name. The guilt over "being like this" that I've felt since I was 11 or 12 has completely dissipated, even as I wrote about our dog dying, not measuring up to my mother, the way I imagine my father's death, my sisters' six children, and being the youngest child, because my parents and sisters have been gigantically cool and generous about it. That's the BEST part!
Monday, October 4, 2010
Things To Do Before I'm Dead (30): Part One
1. Finish the THREE IMPORTANT THINGS I have been simu-writing, which is just such a misguided way to get something done. Two are so close I can feel them on my teeth like I just drank a Coke and the sugar is still fizzling.
2. Either get my hair coloured dark-dark again and stop missing blonde, or plug ears to the rational and do blonde again (at the beginning of last winter I found a very long, very blonde strand of hair trapped in my coat's zipper from the year before and was heartbroken to have abandoned it), or accept, really accept, that it will be another few years of a few different colours before I'm a virgin brunette. This really tears me up, I mean it.
3. Have more for-reals girlfriends. I currently have a LOT (10? 15?) of good girlfriends, the kind who slay me for various reasons at various times, who are cool and CONFIDENT (a must) and creative and warm and weird, the kind of girls I talk a lot about in a passive, whateversies way, as if to suggest that their high quality reflects somehow on me (does it???), but only a very few who are on the particular level of my closest boy friendships. I don't know why. Yes I do:
I find it hard as a grownie to be THISclose with women because there are millions of landmines that I never seem to be able to predict (like you're supposed to say this and go there and be like this and not be like that). Despite having two big sisters who are very smooth and very good at that girl-game (I have spent a lot of years watching them Being Women), I never really learned it. And it is im-por-tant. The reasons for this are many and complex and not your concern at the moment. Generally: it's like most of them speak a language that I don't, which is a used-up metaphor but almost literally true.
Anyway I like this:
"I want to have slumber parties even though we’re not thirteen. I want to be able to call you at four in the morning and know it’s OK and that I’m safe and you won’t be mad at me because you love me and you understand that I wouldn’t be calling if It wasn’t important. I want to feel understood and accepted even if I’m not perfect... I want us to be Madonna and Gweneth, minus the weird fight they got in that is still a little unclear to me, and ultimately none of my (our) bizness."
"I don’t want to make-out or for us to have a threesome. I don’t want to sexualize this. This female friendship is a safe zone. We give enough blow jobs and bad hand jobs as it is. The last thing I wanna do is learn about your clitoris. I mean, I’m sure it’s beautiful, but it’s just not for me. Anywayzies, together we are in a safe, fun, cozy, girly bubble. We can talk about dreams and boys, and shopping, and fucking, and taking over the world. I don’t even wanna borrow your clothes. This isn’t about that! I don’t want to lend you money or borrow money, I just want to be emotional rocks for one another and to be each others person to be held accountable. I want to have movie marathons, and go dancing together and maybe even go on a road trip to Vegas- even though I don’t even really like Vegas. I want us to be better off for knowing eachother and being in each others life."
- Selected bits from imboycrazy.com who *gets it*.
2. Either get my hair coloured dark-dark again and stop missing blonde, or plug ears to the rational and do blonde again (at the beginning of last winter I found a very long, very blonde strand of hair trapped in my coat's zipper from the year before and was heartbroken to have abandoned it), or accept, really accept, that it will be another few years of a few different colours before I'm a virgin brunette. This really tears me up, I mean it.
3. Have more for-reals girlfriends. I currently have a LOT (10? 15?) of good girlfriends, the kind who slay me for various reasons at various times, who are cool and CONFIDENT (a must) and creative and warm and weird, the kind of girls I talk a lot about in a passive, whateversies way, as if to suggest that their high quality reflects somehow on me (does it???), but only a very few who are on the particular level of my closest boy friendships. I don't know why. Yes I do:
I find it hard as a grownie to be THISclose with women because there are millions of landmines that I never seem to be able to predict (like you're supposed to say this and go there and be like this and not be like that). Despite having two big sisters who are very smooth and very good at that girl-game (I have spent a lot of years watching them Being Women), I never really learned it. And it is im-por-tant. The reasons for this are many and complex and not your concern at the moment. Generally: it's like most of them speak a language that I don't, which is a used-up metaphor but almost literally true.
Anyway I like this:
"I want to have slumber parties even though we’re not thirteen. I want to be able to call you at four in the morning and know it’s OK and that I’m safe and you won’t be mad at me because you love me and you understand that I wouldn’t be calling if It wasn’t important. I want to feel understood and accepted even if I’m not perfect... I want us to be Madonna and Gweneth, minus the weird fight they got in that is still a little unclear to me, and ultimately none of my (our) bizness."
"I don’t want to make-out or for us to have a threesome. I don’t want to sexualize this. This female friendship is a safe zone. We give enough blow jobs and bad hand jobs as it is. The last thing I wanna do is learn about your clitoris. I mean, I’m sure it’s beautiful, but it’s just not for me. Anywayzies, together we are in a safe, fun, cozy, girly bubble. We can talk about dreams and boys, and shopping, and fucking, and taking over the world. I don’t even wanna borrow your clothes. This isn’t about that! I don’t want to lend you money or borrow money, I just want to be emotional rocks for one another and to be each others person to be held accountable. I want to have movie marathons, and go dancing together and maybe even go on a road trip to Vegas- even though I don’t even really like Vegas. I want us to be better off for knowing eachother and being in each others life."
- Selected bits from imboycrazy.com who *gets it*.
Thursday, September 16, 2010
TIFF, teaching, other shit
Today is the last day to register for my Creative Journalism class, which runs on Wednesday nights at U of T's School of Continuing Studies. Issa so fun! Join up! Yes do it.
I've been doing a TIFF blog for EYE. I'm doing it instead of my usual Required Reading blog, which btw is changing format on Monday, because I want to make it better, and I want to be harder (content effort) and easier (desk slavery) on myself. Anyway: TIFF blog has meant a diary of my TIFFy activities, which means "parties". And, even with the weekend off for Lady Isis' wedding, I'm FUCKING EXHAUSTED. It's all here, somewhere.
This week has been a big one for my bosses getting emails/phone calls about me. Which leads us to: my column for this week, also on TIFF but mostly on how something like TIFF demonstrates Toronto's institutional low self-esteem. Read it here.
I've been doing a TIFF blog for EYE. I'm doing it instead of my usual Required Reading blog, which btw is changing format on Monday, because I want to make it better, and I want to be harder (content effort) and easier (desk slavery) on myself. Anyway: TIFF blog has meant a diary of my TIFFy activities, which means "parties". And, even with the weekend off for Lady Isis' wedding, I'm FUCKING EXHAUSTED. It's all here, somewhere.
This week has been a big one for my bosses getting emails/phone calls about me. Which leads us to: my column for this week, also on TIFF but mostly on how something like TIFF demonstrates Toronto's institutional low self-esteem. Read it here.
Monday, September 13, 2010
GUYS I SUCK
Here is everything I didn't put on my blog and should have:
1. A column about my marriage ambivalence ("What's your beat at EYE?" "Feelings, mostly.") is here!
2. A column about the positive aspect of gossip is here!
3. A column about how nostalgia is the opiate of the hipster masses is here!
That one is probably the best one I've written in a month or so.
Byeeee writing another thing about how TIFF is making me an asshole.
1. A column about my marriage ambivalence ("What's your beat at EYE?" "Feelings, mostly.") is here!
2. A column about the positive aspect of gossip is here!
3. A column about how nostalgia is the opiate of the hipster masses is here!
That one is probably the best one I've written in a month or so.
Byeeee writing another thing about how TIFF is making me an asshole.
Thursday, August 19, 2010
Thuwsday
"Maybe you should just stay at home and cook dinner for your husband, unless you're some male hating dyke. I'd be more then happy to give you instructions on how to open up a can of soup, but I doubt you would have the gall to email me back because you are nothing more than an uneducated TorStar brain dead skank. You have yourself a wonderful day sweetheart."
What is most fascinating about this kind of email is not "dyke" as pejorative (or "skank", really, because who cares) or its mean-ness, but that they think I'll be offended by it. Want to know how to offend me? Be right about the stuff I'm doing wrong. That is why I scrap with my best buddy all the time, because we Get Real and it can hurt feelings. Generic vitriol doesn't cut it.
Anyway here is my new column about my sisters and birth order, called A Sister Act, in Three Parts.
And here is this week's Love and Sex column (I write one in four of these) about rape jokes.
What is most fascinating about this kind of email is not "dyke" as pejorative (or "skank", really, because who cares) or its mean-ness, but that they think I'll be offended by it. Want to know how to offend me? Be right about the stuff I'm doing wrong. That is why I scrap with my best buddy all the time, because we Get Real and it can hurt feelings. Generic vitriol doesn't cut it.
Anyway here is my new column about my sisters and birth order, called A Sister Act, in Three Parts.
And here is this week's Love and Sex column (I write one in four of these) about rape jokes.
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