Good evening my friends and welcome to Crasstalk. Wishing you all a wonderful day and a great evening. Here are a couple of educational films to help you all learn to be well-mannered Crasstalkers.
Now you are ready to go out and wow the rest of the gang. Have a great night.
Congratulations Crasstalkers, yesterday we reached the one thousand post mark. Thanks to your hard work we are now even closer to winning the Internet.
Also, the 13th of this month will be the 6 month anniversary of the founding of Crasstalk so I thought it would be a good time to look back on a few of the really great articles that have appeared here. Here is the first post ever posted on Crasstalk by our Beloved Leader. It actually just contained this prophetic video.
Here are a few articles that I think have been especially memorable. This list isn’t even close to exhaustive, so please feel free to add your own choices in the comments.
As I said before, there are many, many more. A huge thank you to all of you have put in your time and effort to get this place up and running. Hopefully, this will be the first of many thousands of great articles.
Until about two weeks ago a stranger could be forgiven for mistaking me for a raccoon.
Okay, not really. I would never let my mustache get THAT out of control. But ever since I was a kid, I’ve had deep dark circles planted firmly beneath my eyes. Teachers and coaches used to pull my mother aside periodically to ask whether I had a sleep disorder. Denying I had a drug problem was routine.
Not cute.
When I discovered the joys of concealer I learned to mask the problem. As I aged, late nights out, followed by early morning practices or classes only made the prominent smudges deepen into twin pools of despair. Concealer was beginning to fall short of its monumental task. I tried almost every eye cream on the market and while they all made the skin softer none of them worked for the circles.
Despondency loomed!
Then, about two weeks ago, on a whim, I decided to try, the Garnier Skin Renew Anti-Puff Roller (or rather its generic counterpart). I now refer to it as The Magic Wand.
I’d show you before and after photos but I have destroyed all evidence of my life BMTW (Before The Magic Wand). Being poor, I bought the Rite Aid version, for about $10 (roughly $4 cheaper than the name brand). I swipe a bit on in the morning and night over moisturizer and it soaks right into my skin. It does not effect make-up application. I noticed a significant reduction of my dark circles in two days and the situation continues to improve, even after several consecutive days of five hours of sleep or less. It also reduces puffiness.
On a scale of 1-5 Glitter Unicorns (hopefully the official rating system for Crasstalk product reviews) The Magic Wand earns:
*Thank you EthologyNerd, Honkifyoulikecookies, Alluson, Chad_Sexington and most importantly Tunamelt for your help with the rating system.
Hello Crasstalk, I’m Mark Shields’ left jowl.
And I’m Mark Shields’ right jowl.
And this is World Roundup with Mark Shields’ Jowls.
As jowls go, we’ve seen a lot. We’ve been there and back again. We’ve forgotten more stories than most of today’s firm-cheeked young “journalists” have followed on Twitter. We’ve jowled with jowliest of the jowls from the limpest Liebermans to the meatiest McCains—we’ve literally gone jowl-to-jowl with every established, occasionally centrist, and often infuriatingly inconsistent politician in this town, and we know you and David Brooks wouldn’t have it any other way. With our bona fides established, Left Jowl begins our Roundup in North Africa. Continue reading
So this one time I got dumped for Jesus.
Not exactly in a sexy way. Well, I guess it’s possible that this guy was fucking some Latin dude named Jesus, but I find that to be somewhat unlikely—I have totally awesome gaydar! He was cute, funny, and made a shit ton of money. I have never been a very good gold-digger, as I tend to gravitate toward men who think a bed frame is an unnecessary expense and who appear to subsist entirely on ramen noodles and PBR. It did seem, though, that it might be nice for once to not have to be the one buying the Chipotle. Maybe even go to a movie! You know, in a theater! All you really need to know about me can be summed up thusly: I am seduced by the promise of stale popcorn and box springs.
As you might guess, two months later, this gentleman began to perform the Fade Out®. The Fade Out is a trademarked move used primarily by men between the ages of 14 and 60. When employing the Fade Out, the man either slowly reduces the frequency of phone calls, text messages, and Facebook “likes” or, in extreme circumstances, ceases all of these activities immediately until the female on the receiving end does one of three things:
1) Remembers something she maybe once heard about him not being that into her, stops calling, and moves on with her life.
2) Continues to call and text unawares until giving up after one month to several years later and moving on with her life.
3) Becomes increasingly obsessive in correlation to the decreasing frequency of phone calls and text messages, until one night she finds digging through his garbage and peering through his windows, since obviously he must be dead or at the very least stuck under something very heavy because it just DOES NOT MAKE SENSE THAT HE WOULD NOT CALL ME BACK AND OH MY GOD WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME I AM GOING TO DIE ALONE. Sob!
Actually, I lied. There is really only one response that women have to the Fade Out. It’s number 3.
So, dude pulled a Fade Out. I should really not have been surprised by this. This was a man who paid for his Lexus, house and apartment (yes, I’m a whore for popcorn and real estate) working in mergers and acquisitions for a very large healthcare company. One so large, in fact, that it was my healthcare company. Basically, this is the guy who lived solely buy out smaller insurers so that his company could get a bigger market share, driving out competition and doubtlessly contributing directly to exorbitant cost of the $11,000 tonsillectomy that I had soon after we broke up. The one I could have gotten for $20 from a back-alley doctor in Tijuana. I mean, I could have probably done it myself with a pair of scissors, a stapler, and a very large bottle of vodka, but when it comes to my healthcare, I’m all, “Jesus, take the wheel,” you know?
Oh, right, Jesus. So a few weeks after he starts pulling the Fade Out, I gave in and called him (see #3 above). And he answered! My heart fluttered.
And then informed me that he was sorry he hadn’t called. He had been busy at church because he had Found the Lord®. This is a less-used but also trademarked move in which a man claims that Jesus has become his One and Only while in fact he is fucking another redhead. Guy had a thing for gingers, apparently. I know this because I saw it on Facebook, and the Book of Faces never lies.
C’est la vie, I guess. He wasn’t a good, ahem, fit anyway. (Zing!)
I don’t pretend to know why men love this Fade Out technique. I don’t really know a lot about men, despite having three brothers. Like, why do men always need to scratch their balls? What could possibly make them so itchy? Do they have mites or fleas or something? And why do they believe that putting Gold Bond down their boxers is the Best Thing Ever? If I did try to hazard a guess, I would venture that the appeal of the Fade Out probably has something (okay, everything) to do with it being the path of least resistance. You meet a girl, like the girl, sex the girl up, and things are fine but then one night you find her steaming open your mail or drafting Save the Dates two weeks after you met and you figure that perhaps this is not meant to be. Easier than having some kind of talk is just gradually ignoring phone calls and text messages, hoping that the problem will resolve itself.
Men (and women): this is a shitty way to end things. It is also selfish. Okay, sometimes I have done this, too. But that is because I am a selfish person and probably a hypocrite. Be ye not like me.
Now, friends, I do not dare say that this is the worst way to break up with someone. I’m sure you all have been on the receiving end of worse break-up speeches and actions. Even more, I would not be surprised if you all have done some terrible breaking-upping things yourselves. So go ahead, tell me all about it…
Do you want to know a dirty little secret? I don’t have a car and I can count on one hand the amount of times I’ve been behind the wheel of a car that wasn’t attached to a pole or a track. My sister claims to still have traumatic flashbacks to the time I once drove her car in a parking lot. I don’t know why she let me do that.
But I live in Los Angeles, car city!, have a regular 9 – 6 job and a semi-active social life when I’m not commenting in the IRC about how much I want Chad to be my boyfriend.
How is that possible? (To those of you who live on the east coast, please, just go with this.)
Well, and I’m asking you now to please stifle your laughter and/or incredulous looks—Los Angeles has a pretty sweet public transportation system. Remember, Los Angeles’ sprawl wasn’t built by the car, no matter what people tell you. It was the Red Car that spread LA out. Watch Who Framed Roger Rabbit? for more on that.
We’ve got trains, light rail, buses and a subway. Because our weather is lovely and our streets are relatively flat in the city-portions, it’s also a great city for bicycling. And if you believe our Mayor, we’re interested in improving the public transportation system we have and have committed money towards doing so.
Location, Location, Location
I live in the central part of Los Angeles near a Red/Purple Line (the subway) stop. It gets me quick access to downtown, Koreatown and Hollywood. I never have to think about parking or valet or any of those other supposed typical Los Angeles experiences.
The best way to choose a place to live that’s convenient to your job, your transportation choices and “necessities” is to research. I like Walk Score for grading the walkability and transit-ability of your new neighborhood. It’s actually how I first ended up picking my post-college apartment. It had the best walk score of the different places I’d looked at. This is also a good thing to do so you don’t end up being the human interest anecdote in an LA Times article about traffic.
Train, Bus, or Rapid
You need to familiarize yourself with the public transportation options in your city. One way to do that is via their website, Google transit, and of course, experience.
I like to explain the way that LA’s transportation system works to n00bs as a series of levels. First, you have the train. This is easy. Everyone likes trains. It appeals to your inner 8 year old. The Gold Line is the cleanest and prettiest, going through Arroyo Seco. The Blue Line carries the most people and goes past and to some really awesome stuff. (Watts Towers, Long Beach.) The Red and Purple are the fastest (and the most underground. Yes, LA has a subway.) The first phase of the Expo Line will theoretically be opening in December and then we will get to visit Culver City, where the set of Cougartown is located.
The next level is the Rapid level. It’s hard to hate a Rapid bus—they’re so fast. These are the Red express buses that have limited numbers of stops. Depending on the route, they can be crowded. The 720 at rush hour going westbound on Wilshire can be a sardine can of attractive professionals commuting from downtown to the Westside.
Lastly, you have the orange regular buses. Depending on the route, you can run into hipsters (the 2 or the 4 going through Echo Park and Silver Lake has a really high concentration of skinny jeans), grandmas, families of five or me. Wave to me. I’m cute. I’ll probably be reading a book, because I can, because I am not driving.
There’s also the DASH. Everyone loves the DASH once they’ve ridden it. This is actually a Los Angeles Department of Transportation system that runs small circular routes throughout the city and costs $0.35. (Full disclosure in the interest of being journalistic-y, I used to work at the LADOT and I cannot say enough good things about paying $0.35 because you just don’t feel like walking the last 3 blocks and it’s right there.)
Bicycling in Los Angeles
I have to admit; I’ve actually gone on only one group ride. I was previously a much more utilitarian bicyclist versus someone active in that community who did all of the fun social stuff like the crazy rides. Since the ride I did with C.I.C.L.E. was the most fun I’ve had fully clothed in months, I definitely am changing my tune on that.
Los Angeles has an incredibly active cycling community. I previously thought they were kind of crazy, but if you ever ride your bike on a lovely sunshine-filled Los Angeles day, you can identify with the kind of crazy that they are. And they have done a lot of good work in the city and county towards recognizing cyclist’s rights, getting safer bike paths and routes (4th Street Bicycle Boulevard!), and better amenities for bicyclists and pedestrians which benefit all residents of a community.
They are also the main force behind the creation of CicLAvia, a car-free festival in Los Angeles that is coming back on April 10th. It’s closing down 7 miles of street in the heart of Los Angeles for people to walk, bike, play and basically interact with their community in a way that is impossible from behind the windshield of a car. It’s also a great way to positively experience neighborhoods people often have negative assumptions about: MacArthur Park and East LA, for example.
So I hope to see all of you LA-based Crasstalkers on the streets this Sunday. Next time, I’ll write a round-up of really great bars/restaurants that are accessible to public transportation. Because remember, if you take the Metro there, and a cab back, you don’t need a designated driver.
Earlier this week, I was at a divey piano bar, and we were all having a good time. Until they showed up. A gaggle of girls/women. From Westchester. With their boyfriends. Everyone was drunk, and one girl was wearing a tiara (of course). They spent the time being obnoxious, loud, requesting Total Eclipse of the Heart, and then Grease when informed that this was a show-tunes bar. These are the types of women who have watched too much Sex and the City and usually have or crave their own Stanford Blatch to their Carrie Bradshaw. These women dread the phrase fag hag, because it tends to carry the association of being overweight, classless, possibly promiscuous, losers who don’t have anything better to do then hang out with their gay friends and discuss baby names for when they both hit 35, single, and their marriage compact kicks in.
No, these women will proudly let you know that they are NOT losers, and that their Bump-It™ and Prada bag informs you that they are a different breed of girl. There’s always some sort of stupid name they come up with whenever some drunken idiot comes up with “Hey, aren’t you Mikey’s fag hag?” “No, I’m not! I have a boyfriend! I’m wearing a tube dress and a tiara cause it’s my birthday!! I’m a fruit fly/fairy princess!!” Yet, I’ve noticed something missing about these women when push comes to shove. An inner strength that I found in every woman I’ve known who’s worn the badge “fag hag.”
In college, I knew two women who were loud and proud to be fag hags. One of them had the most active sex life I’ve ever seen (and I’ve seen a lot. Low self esteem has its perks). One of her specialties was to go out and find a big hulking red-neck and first introduce him to her gay friends, then the gay clubs she hung out with, and rock his world with things he never thought he’d allow himself to do/have done to him (we’ll just leave it at that). The other one I knew was one of the sweetest humans I’ve ever met. She always had a smile on her face, and a kind word. She’s the type that will grow up to be Sharon Gless on Queer as Folk. And that’s a good thing, folks.
Later on, I meet a young woman at a music conservatory who knew how to treat her gay friends. She was pretty, just out of the armed forces, and studying musical theater. She abhorred these bridge and tunnel bitches that come into the city and try and instigate Straight Night at Splash. As she put it, “As a straight girl at a gay club, you’re like the puppy someone walks in the park; you’re there for conversation starters and not to be the center of attention.” I might not completely agree, but I do appreciate that she was willing to recognize that she wasn’t in “straight world” and therefore, tiaras and annoyingly drunk behavior weren’t cute, nor were they wanted. As a gay man, I barely like that in guys that I’m interested in, so when Miss Jersey Ego shows up, it’s just insufferable.
On the flip side, I spent a few months being one of those folks who stop you on the street going “Hi!!! Do you have a minute for gay rights?” (we can talk about that later) Numerous times I stopped a young (or a youngly dressed woman), often carrying an armful of bags. I would proceed to get an earful about how they supported their gay friends (with whom they were having lunch with this weekend, even!!). And they vote for gay friendly politicians! (only, like, every 4 years, when it’s a choice between the Anti-Christ and a hard place) But, as I could see, they were broke (since they just spent WAY too much money on shoes) and they’d love to help, and couldn’t they volunteer or something? (do you have a law degree? No, well, we don’t really need any envelope stuffers, thank you.)
The girl I used to sublet from was one of these girls. Drowning in credit card debt (thus she was trying to sublet her studio apartment for double what she was paying), thought her Snooki hair poof was the shit, wore a hounds tooth patterned coat, dated a total jerk, thought I was super awesome for being gay, but quickly turned into disgust as it turned out that I wasn’t the type to fawn over her. Things got ugly VERY fast. And then she got hit by a car while out on tour, but that’s neither here nor there.
For a long time, I wanted to be liked by these girls (of course, I also wanted to be liked by a hot rich, hung 35 year old millionaire with light chest hair and a . . . I’m sorry, I’ll be in my bunk.). I thought it would mean that I had achieved some sort of level of social acceptance, like I finally took off the glasses and braids and put on a cute slinky dress to find that people really liked me. Only it took me a while to find out that when Josh finally asked me out to the Non-Denominational Winter Dance, that he was just using me for free publicity. While plenty of folks might be nice to that person’s face, at best, we’re all just waiting for her to end up as a Real Housewife, only without people being interested.
So, here’s to the fag hags, the girls who are a gay man’s true friend. The ones who will be there when you’re drunk and high, and can’t find your pants.
There was a great article on Crasstalk about pet peeves recently. I suffer from a variety of them which is probably not one of my best personality traits. As I thought about it, I realized that there are some pet peeves that are particular to being a parent. Then I decided to do a post on this because it’s extremely fun to hear other parents’ pet peeves.
What are your parenting pet peeves?
Last week, one of our faithful overlords gave us an article about a simplistic method for Canadians to figure out their true political leanings.
Once we got into the comments, however, someone piped up that a tool for evaluating the same in America would be nice to have. Dogs, ever the helpful one, gave us that link, and we had some fun with it in that thread.
We learned that Ethnology Nerd is almost definitely a red, and that at least a few of us think some (probably small number of) folks really do deserve to go to jail for the eternity of their time on this planet.
In the end, I thought it might be fun for a bunch of us to take the test, (linked above) and see where we fall as a group. The test only takes about 10 minutes, and if everyone posts their results here in the comments, I can round them up in a few days and do a little analysis, and then we can get to work on taking over the world from a more pragmatic perspective. I’m sure certain tendencies will reveal themselves, but I expect to see some interesting results.
If you already did this in the previous post, and have a second to repost your results here, it’ll make life easier for me from a collection standpoint.
The situation happens faster than you can blink; someone says something or does something so awful to you that you freeze in shock, anger, or both. Much as Betty eloquently described, your face turns red, you feel that hot embarrassment flush across your face, and you mutter some quick reply and the situation dissipates and the moment is over.
Hours later, or even minutes later, the perfect retort comes to your mind. You want to run back and find the insensitive prick that insulted you, mocked you, or annoyed you, and shout at them your perfectly formed, scathing, ego-bruising remark. Unfortunately, they are long gone.
Here is your chance, fellow Crasstalkers, to join me in “What I Wanted to Say.” Below are some situations in the past couple of months that have truly annoyed me (some less than others), and what I wanted to say:
I hate you. I put my water bottle down, I go get my step, and I come back and you are a foot away from my spot. Do you not see my water bottle there? Why are you so rude? Why can’t you just have basic gym etiquette like the rest of humanity and respect the water bottle markage? What do I have to do? Pee on my spot? Please go away.
What I Wanted to Say: “Hey, I was here first. That’s my water bottle. (Bitch)”
What I Actually Said: Give a dirty look (that she doesn’t catch) and move my spot.
I hate you too. I’m sure this is your seat – IN THE FOLLOWING CLASS. I’m sorry I take too long for you, princess, to gather up my belongings and move my rotten ass out of the way, but I’m SLOW, okay? And not just MENTALLY. Please, just stand there an extra thirty seconds, and I promise I will be out of your way.
What I Wanted to Say: “Great, BITCH.”
What I Actually Said: “I’m in the previous class. I’ll be out of your way in a second, honey.”
Mom, I’m sorry I have no money management skills and have no money to pay for my cell phone bill right now. You’re right – if you weren’t paying it, it would be turned off. You’re right, I did buy a new dress for my friend’s engagement party. No, I shouldn’t have charged on my credit card. Yes, you are enabling me.
What I Wanted to Say: “When you said you would support me no matter what my decision was regarding law school, I guess that didn’t mean financially.”
What I Actually Said: I left and went back to my apartment in NYC instead of talking about it.
This guy found my cell phone, hung up signs around the school until I saw them, and then gave me my cell phone back. He was also smoking hot. Did I take this opportunity to form a connection with another human being in law school? Absolutely not.
What I Wanted To Say: “Hey, thanks! Where did you find it? Do we have any classes together? We should get together some time and study. And bone. Either or! Call me!”
What I Actually Said: “Thanks so much! I didn’t even know I lost it.” (truth)
Hey, buddy. Relax. I’m going to buy some bubble bath, don’t worry about your sale. The bag is hideous, and it’s a typical black tourist bag with “Amsterdam” written over it. I’m pretty sure they have them in Times Square and they say “New York City “ all over them. Mine is not any prettier than those. Please cut the phony sales routine and give me my damn bubble bath.
What I wanted to Say: “Thank you!”
What I Actually Said: “Thank you!” – after all, it’s a compliment, no matter how phony, no need to be excessively rude.
You said that the super would come fix my mirror a month ago. Nothing has happened, and my mirror is still cracked. When it shatters and I cut my foot on glass, I will have malformed feet and I will sue you for pain and suffering. I will theoretically also not be able to practice my future career, and will request compensation for that as well.
What I Wanted To Say: “Dear Rude Ass, my mirror is still broken and I have no fucking hot water in my kitchen except on random weekend mornings. Can someone please fucking fix this so I don’t have crusty ass dishes?”
What I Actually Said: Nothing. I’ve had to call the super twice, once to let me in after I locked myself out of my apartment, and once to turn my oven off when I left it on and went back to Long Island for the weekend. I feel like I’ve used my quota up.
* * *
Okay! Now your turn! Share your most infuriating story in the comments below, and tell us what you said – and what you really wanted to say. Or, if you’re one of those people who never hold back, give us your best retort – tell us about the time you put that douche bag right in his place – and be sure to describe in detail your smug satisfaction for all of us to take vicarious joy in.