Cute? Or Creepy.

Ah when we’re awkward, there’s such a fine line between cute and creepy. Because 'cute' to awkwardists may mean 'creepy' to the average folk. So then at what point does cute become creepy? Some instances of definite line crossing found in the best cesspool of social deviance--the bar;

1.) The relator. We have everything in common. I mean, everything. At first, finding similarities is entertaining and comforting. You feel you have a special bond with Mr. Coors because he went to the same YMCA for swim lessons that you did. AND you were both minnows. Things, however, start to take a creepy turn when he literally has everything in common with you. Same dog name, same college major, same favorite artist, same double-jointed big toe. This is when you stop providing the information first and stop enabling Mr. Ripley.

2.) The name commenter. Your name’s Alice? My sister’s name is Alice, I love that name. Who doesn’t like their name to be complimented? It could go the other way when you introduce yourself and the belligerent dude behind you shrieks ALICE?! NOT ALICE. THAT’S A BAAAAAD NAME. Within seconds you are informed about some horrible Alice who tried to kill him, stole his projects in advertising school, was crazy, etc. As he’s grabbing your wrist and shaking you because of the PTSD that’s been triggered thanks to your name, you may want to tell him he hadn’t heard right. It’s Sally…yeah SALLY. And you can fake laugh until you track out an escape route.

3.) The drink buyer. Thanks, that’s so nice! A free drink! Especially with the economy, how great, generous, etc. Until he orders you another one and another one and another one. You’ve hardly taken a sip and you’re staring at a row of greyhounds. Maybe they’re for him (something in common?), but no, turns out he doesn’t drink. That’s right, he’s stone cold sober and you’re only a fifth as drunk as he likes ‘em. Declare you have to go to the bathroom as he pulls the five drinks in and “keeps them safe for you.’

4.) The fly. A guy pops up next to you. You smile, kind of blush and he smiles and kind of blushes. Cute. You make your way to the stage and you’re doing some kind of rabbit dance when you hit someone and….it’s him. What a coincidence. You move stage right and you’re pogoing and sway to your left and you say sorry! But it’s him and he just smiles. Soon you’re in the bathroom and he’s outside the door, you’re at the bar ordering RedBulls and he’s in the seat next to you. Smoking a cigarette, his hand juts out from no where, holding a steady flame. Yup, you got yourself a bar stalker, find fake mustache.

5.) The watcher. Dancing, you notice a guy across the audience watching you. You meet eyes, etc and it’s cute in a tragi-emo-hipster kind of way. But the next song, he’s still watching you and you shrug it off; you’re a pretty good dancer after all. But song after song, he keeps watching and you start to lose a bit of rythym. You keep looking over your shoulder paranoid that maybe this guy knows you from somewhere else. Maybe he’s the guy who prank called you a month ago and pretended to be a serial killer (that never really got resolved, afterall). What if he’s a narc and knows you’re holding? The music grows faint and your blood’s beating in your ears. Ditch the show before you panic-seizure the two grams out of your pocket and all over the dance floor.

6.) The drug guy. Sure why not? It’s been a while. You smoke a joint out back, do a line in the bathroom—whatever your forte. You thank him and part ways. How generous. But in fifteen minutes he’s back and wants another go around. You kindly turn down his offer but he won’t let up. He’s got you by the arm dragging you to the bathroom so he doesn’t feel pathetic doing it alone and he’s talking the whole time, going on and on, asking you questions, not caring if you answer. Soon you realize you’ve become the drug-guy’s babysitter and he’s quite an addict. P.S. There’s no such thing as free drugs.

7.) The DIY cell phone guy. He’s asking for your number and he’s, well, very attractive. You go to type it in. But he wants to see it, he’ll type it in. How nice. Until you notice him going through your text messages and taking a ridiculous amount of time to punch in ‘ROB.’ You ask for it back, but he’s not done yet. Finally, after a good five minutes of pestering, you get your phone back and immediately go to erase his name, but it seems as though he didn’t even get around to doing that. Five days later, you’ll be going through your contacts and find Mr. Big Cock. Erase.

And good God, this was only in twenty minutes of observation. Must. Rekindle. Faith. In. Mankind. Awk on.

Hipsters Welcome Ski Pants Into Wardrobe, No One Into Band

Last night I went to a show in glorious downtown Costa Mesa, California. The bar was kind of dungeon like (in a cool way) and the clientele was, to be expected, hipster-esque. I say hipster-eque because while Orange County hipsters are full in force, they are a slightly unique hybrid—varying form the L.A. hipster and certainly from the hipster of New York origin. Of course, they all have two things in common: beards and fedoras. And there were plenty of both. However, the Orange county hipsters opt for more beachy-geekdom. Board shorts with a white button down (I swear) and, for the girls, a low-cut one-piece bathing suit under high-waist jeans. Interesting. And then there was the girl wearing full-fledged ski pants and I just really don’t know what to say about that one. Because, one, it’s Southern California and two, they were the bulky mom-ski pants. I mean they were actually legit for taking on Stowe or Okemo back east. Bizarre. But quirky. What I also found interesting was that there had been three different bands listed, yet the same members seemed to compose all three of the bands. There was one folky-twang girl who remained exclusively in the first, but the rest of the members just rotated instruments like those weird gym classes you used to have when the gym teacher was too hung-over to organize a softball game and would instead opt for ‘stations,’ while he did nothing and you jumped rope for three minutes before moving on to buddy-crunches. Is this the new hipster phase; pretend you’re in three bands when it’s really just one with a different name and some guy playing the fiddle instead of the bass? How confusing. It was good despite the videotaping that seems to be taking over hipster shows. Is it some kind of indie-folk-stage porn? It isn’t uncommon to see people videotaping live shows, but it is strange to see an old school video-camera (a la vintage typewriter) held by some little guy without shoes on. Also there was shushing. People actually sushed during the show. Wouldn’t it seem that a shush could be louder than hipster-mumble-judging? Wouldn’t it maybe irritate the band to perform to an audience that is relentlessly shushing? Let’s not do that, concert-shushing. Perhaps the ski-pants should be reconsidered as well.

Dog Talk and Other Trivial Things In Which I Find Myself Participating

Small Talk. Just the phrase gives me anxiety. The blatant waste of time, intelligence, and self dignity just to feel more comfortable near the person you're stuck with in the elevator, neighboring bathroom stall, on line at the drug store, etc. Perhaps you've experienced the bountiful joy of working in retail or hosting at a restaurant where you are paid to spend six hours engaging in and striking up small talk.

Some of my favorites:

Dog Talk--So you have a dog. I don't, but I'm aware of dogs. I know enough to get by in the conversation. Because actually, this isn't really a conversation at all. You are talking at me about your rhodesian-pug-poo's latest romp through the neighbor's trash. Not cute, not funny, this conversation is officially utterly boring. Even though I've, for some reason, felt the need to bring up my childhood dog and continue marinating in the ennui of this conversation. Ed did this, Ed did that, Ed's the best. "Who's Ed?" I ask...oh, it's your dog, again, you're talking about your dog. Please let me go. (Also applies to people who revert to baby talk when speaking of or at their cat, hamster, or parrot, ARR!)

The Weather--Wait. I'm not blind! I can SEE! For the love of God, the world is clear! So approaching me with, 'beautiful day out yeah?' is almost grounds for a fist-fight. Perhaps I were blind. Perhaps I am colorblind and the sky always looks gray. I could be a manic-depressive who dwells in storms and lightning strikes. Thus making this 'beautiful day,' ugly to me or the same as every other day. Do you need clarification? Are you unsure if the day's beautiful? Is it sort of but not really? Are you longing for some sort of common human bond based on the weather outside? Well, to get out of this, I have to say yes, despite what I think because apparently you've failed to recognize the alternatives. Oh, it's supposed to rain tomorrow? What are you, some kind of Weather Channel Robot? Did you memorize the 7-day forecast so you can talk confidently to random people? Am I supposed to go, "Oh really? That's too bad," Is it bad? Is it? It's the weather and it changes and there's nothing you can do about it. Quit acting like you created this glorious day for all of us, you bastard! Try a pick up game of baseball for a more productive sense of camaraderie with your fellow man.

I really like that! Thanks. Although, I say this too sometimes. I say it when I really don't like something as well. Because it is socially unacceptable to say 'Good GOD! What the fuck are you wearing?!' I'll smile and say 'Wow, I really like your pants,' because I have to say something about them, I just can't keep quiet on the matter. But suppose you really do like that hat, scarf, balaclava, fake tooth. Your smug smile after announcing it shows that perhaps that was your charitable act of the day. At home, you will, before drifting off to a saintly sleep, congratulate yourself on being so selfless, so nice to that clerk at the new age store. You're just great. Keep it up. Oh, and then there's the people who make a whole big to-do about the thing. You like that! You have something just like that! Your grandmother gave it to you right before she rocked back too hard in her rocking chair and feel out her 3rd story bay window! Your grandmother was crazy! She was also a drunk! Maybe you're a drunk too! Maybe you need help! Maybe you should have stopped talking after "Here's your change, have a good day."

Politics. Ok, now wait. Small talk is supposed to be self-explanatory. It's talk about small, insignificant things. Who said you could talk politics to me while waiting for the bus? Why would you think I care? Please don't show me your Obama tattoo. Did you just tell me a statistic? Are you quoting things? Now wait. Wait just a minute. What do you do again? You work at TCBY? The fro-yo store that went out of business three years ago? You're high on PCP? Ok Mr-I-read-half-a-Wikipedia-article-on-Obama-and-now-I'm-more-educated-than-you. Just because you know about the same amount as our politicians doesn't exactly make you one. Let me off of your crazy-train of political misunderstandings. This is a bus-stop, after all. (Also applies to issues of religion, race, sexual orientation, abortion, or anything that you could get you potentially killed, or at the very least stabbed with the refill of a mechanical pencil, at any given intersection in Santa Ana.

Where are you from? Sensing an accent are we? Picking up a little telepathy of snow and hailstorms? Alaska maybe? The Arctic? BOSTON! Ah, you were close. Well, you have a fourth cousin who lives in Boston. Surely this random person knows him. What's his name again? Something McDonald. McDonald! Know anyone with the last name McDonald? Oh, well you're worthless to me. Unless I can remember anyone I've ever met being from Boston. First and last names would be a great help. Scottie? Was there a Scottie? SCOTTIE DOUGLAS! You just yelled that at the poor woman, but who cares! She could know someone you know! Wouldn't that be INSANE?! No, she doesn't know him. Who is this stupid bitch and why doesn't she know anyone from Boston? Wait, wait! You went there once. Yes, yes, you were three and a half and your mother got you frozen yogurt...if only you could remember the street? That frozen yogurt place by that statue? Kind of by the highway? There was a school nearby and dogs...she, naturally doesn't know (this woman is a moron). She starts guessing....no, no, wait a minute. That sounds right! That must be the frozen yogurt place! And if not, you feel better making some sort of connection with this poor woman who will say anything to get you to stop badgering her. Her finger is poised in her coat pocket ready to dial 9. Dude, you're a psycho; Boston isn't an Amish village with a pop. of 48.

Did you See American Idol Last Night? No. Actually, I'm a junkie and I sold my television some four months ago for dope. Or I live in poverty. Or I'm not a complete moron. Or I don't care what judge was drunk and who's an asshole and why you think it's so amazing that YOU have the power to CHOOSE America's next CELEBRITY! Newsflash; buy an mp3 of a song you like. It is ultimately the same thing, without the voluntary loss of your brain cells or the staggeringly expensive phone bill with all of those text update on what dumb-fuck-pinstripe-beret-wearing-girl-voice-loser is doing backstage RIGHT NOW! Or at least, don't drag me into it. I try hard enough to avoid that show.

Wait, I now have to urge to gauge out my eyeballs with a computer key (which seems both difficult and enticing). How about talking about something interesting? Have nothing interesting to say? Well then how about keeping your mouth shut instead of contributing to the intelligent decline of humanity.

Awkward Memoirs Make Great Gifts!

I signed on here to post something about horrible Christmas songs and I was warmed to see someone had beat me to it. There should be, I believe, a world-wide Christmas music burning, along with; the drowning of carolers; the strangling of Salvation Army bell-ringer (I know that sounds horrible, but your stupid bell does not make me more charitable); and the snowball-pelting of old women wearing embroidered Santa Claus sweaters on December 6.

But alas, I'd rather not get hot and bothered about the ridiculousness of Christmas traditions. Instead, I've decided to delve into the frightening world of memoirs. I work at a bookstore and our biography section is quite popular. Perusing the shelves today for some man who "wanted a biography about someone from history" (very specific), I was surprised to find the talentless protagonists of these vain homages to self. Here's a list of some 'riveting' memoirs lining the shelves:

Alec Baldwin: A Promise to Ourselves; A Journey through Fatherhood and Divorce.
Ok. Now I'm assuming this 'promise' is not sobriety. What it is, quite fankly, I care not to know. Tips on fatherhood and divorce by Alec Baldwin....I'm sorry, I can't even comment seriously. Please do not give this book to any one with active reproductive organs.

Life with my Sister Madonna by Christopher Ciccone.
Who knew Madonna even had a brother? Who knew anyone would care?

Split: A Memoir of Divorce by Suzanne Finnamore.
Be sure to check out her next book; Memoirs of Fights with My Bastard Husband and Other Such Unenjoyable Parts of My Life. Can't wait!

Thin is the New Happy by Valerie Frankel
FINALLY. A positive book for women, can't wait.

Artie Lange: Too fat to fish by Artie Lange
Ok, so the Howard Stern show has that funny, unbridled misogynistic charm. Why? Uh, because of Howard Stern. Not that his lackies don't compliment the hilarious sexual harrassment of those witless, deranged girls fresh off the surgery table. But does this warrant a book? Do you like the Howard Stern show so much you want to read 'Artie's' memoir? MadTV had its moments, and so did...uh, what were those great movies he was in again? Don't forget the inscription on the back cover, "I'll explain this homo bullshit in Book Two," Homophobic and misogynistic--a bargain!

Maureen McCormick: Here's The Story; Surviving Marcia Brady and Finding My True Voice.
What.

Accidentally on Purpose: A One-Night Stand, my Unplanned Parenthood, and Loving the Best Mistake I Ever Made by Mary F. Pols
Mistake, eh? It's going to be hard to turn that around when she's fourteen. Save the royalties for therapy and ketamine, she'll need plenty of both.

Lynne Spears: Through the Storm
They ditched the title Lynne Spears: Through My Daughter's Wallet, I've Successfully Bribed Someone Into Publishing This 'Book.'

sTori Telling by Tori Spelling
I just sold one, I swear. And to a customer who asked about Tori Spelling's "new book. " Only book. Rest assured; there is only one.

Well Enough Alone: A Cultural History of My Hypochondria by Jennifer Traig.
Doesn't sound irritating at all. Destroyed by the blatant exasperation of her friends and family, she turns to the public to ask, "Do you think I have...?" A must read for sure.

Undiscovered by Debra Winger
Remember Debra Winger?! Wait, me either. Apparently (from the blurb on the inside flap)she is an "Oscar-caliber" performer who wasn't exactly the 'cool-kid' in the acting world. The flap continues, "As this beguiling book reveals, Winger is that rare star who dared to resist the all-consuming industry that is Hollywood becoming her entire reason for being." Despite the horrendous use of grammar in that sentence, it seems that, in the end, Debra Winger would (ironically) publish a tell-all called "Undiscovered" in a last-ditch effort to...um...be discovered. Yawn.


There are so many more, but as the list goes on, so does my dispair for society and not to mention, the trees that could've been used for much more productive things (toilet paper? tissues? those litter-enducing flier hand-outs at music festival exits?)

Deck The Halls With My Disapproval

I know Christmas isn’t for another twenty days but I just can’t wait to listen to those good old traditional Christmas jingles I've been hearing for over twenty years now, so do you think we could all start playing them right now? In fact, I think we should all play Christmas songs as soon as Thanksgiving is over because I never know what to listen to repeatedly between Thanksgiving and Christmas. So... Is this what most people are thinking? No, seriously, I don’t understand why the Christmas music has already begun. It’s annoying enough to have to listen to these ridiculous songs that don’t make sense on the day of, but why does America start playing Christmas music so early? I know they bring back those sweet childhood memories of your mom screaming at your dad about where the tree should go and you’re dad telling her to shut the fuck up before they got that divorce, but these songs are really annoying. I mean, if someone wrote one of these songs today I think the record producer might slap them across the face just for making them listen to it. First we've got this reindeer named Rudolph, who’s got this huge shiny-ass red nose and everyone hates him and makes fun of him for it. And you know what? Santa doesn’t really seem to give a shit. We all know that he knows everything that goes on at the North Pole, so why doesn’t he stop this torment earlier? It’s probably because he’s making fun of Rudolph along with the other reindeer. Yeah, so everyone hates on Rudolph until he’s actually needed because no one can see on that foggy Christmas Eve. And they all try to act like nothing ever happened and Rudolph gladly accepts Santa’s request and guides the sleigh. Can you say pushover? What sort of a message is this for kids? If I were Rudolph I’d be pretty pissed off. I wouldn’t want to drive that sleigh. I’d tell Santa to go buy a fucking flashlight. And what’s the deal with Santa? He sees you when you’re sleeping and knows when you’re awake? This is pretty fucking creepy, is he a stalker or something? Does he use his army of midget elves to spy on everyone in their homes? I don’t know how I feel about knowing that some old fat dude can see me every second of the day. Should I get some sort of harassment suit or restraining order?

And then there’s the twelve days of Christmas song. Not only do you have to keep repeating the song over and over in case you weren’t annoyed the first eleven times, but have you ever actually thought about these gifts? Seriously, these are actually the worst presents ever. You’ve got a partridge, two turtledoves, three French hens, four calling birds. What’s with all the birds? Do you think you could switch up the gifts, I’ve got all this bird shit on my carpet and these birds are going crazy in my tiny apartment? But no, there just aren't enough birds apparently. Next you get six geese a laying. So now I have to pick up all these eggs along with the bird droppings? Do I look like a fucking farmer to you? Apparently so because now I get seven swans a swimming. Swimming where? In my tiny bathtub? I think not. And as soon as you get used to all the damn birds, eight maids milking cows waltz in. I’m sorry, I don’t need any more milk, I got some at the grocery store and this isn't a dairy farm. But no one is listening to you because immediately nine ladies dance into your house uninvited at this point with about thirty dudes banging drums and piping (who pipes now-a-days?) and the police are knocking on your door because of all the noise complaints. They probably think you’re hosting some sort of illegal cockfighting tournament in your apartment, but instead they see all these birds and weird ladies dancing to horrible banging and they decide not to ask any questions and leave because they probably want to forget they ever saw this ridiculous Christmas spectacle that has forced itself into your apartment through your stereo. Can our generation please start some sort of new Christmas tradition? Or can we at least replace the old songs with new ones? I mean how many times do you want to have to sing "all I want for Christmas are my two front teeth?" I've had mine for about fifteen years now and I'm not a redneck or a meth addict so I think I'll be keeping them for quite a while. This song really only applies to a small group of children.

The Awkward Poetry Corner

Once upon a time I bought a bottle of Jack
And when I opened it a tiny man jumped out
He said his name was Gary
And he had been held prisoner in this very bottle
By and evil old hag
Who cast a spell on him in a land where wishes are worthwhile
He told me I had set him free
And he would grant me one wish
So I told him I wanted a new bottle
But he said he couldn’t do that
So I left him and walked back to the liquor store
Cursing the Brothers Grimm for creating fairy tales

Another Awkward Co Op Experience

Jonpaul is the house pervert. He is a small pudgy man who looks somewhat like an anemic mouse. He basically ignores all the men who live here and talks to all the girls like children. But as a girl you can tell that while he’s talking to you like a child he’s looking at you like he’s wondering what color your nipples are. He wore a mask at the last party our house had and took pictures of girls dancing all night. I forgot to mention that he’s about 40 years old and he has a really annoying child that he brings over the house all the time and it’s really awkward because you’re trying to drink your beer and say those inappropriate things that 20 year olds say and there’s this little girl in a tinker bell dress using all the house’s TV space to save episodes of Blues Clues and asking you how you hold your top on when there’s no straps on it. This is a house for people in their 20’s; it is a sanctuary for those who do not plan on having children right now and most likely feel really uncomfortable around them.

Our house is having this meeting; we do it every two weeks where we vote on silly things and bring up issues like who doesn’t flush the toilet or close the lid on the sugar. The bulimic girl just butted in when someone commented on the bathroom downstairs needing to be flushed. She didn’t seem to realize we were all talking about her. It’s disgusting when you go down there and find pasta in the toilet and cereal in the trash bin all releasing that barf aroma. It’s not how I like to start my mornings.

I peer across the room. Jon Paul is looking around the room like a predator. He stalks all the girls with the slits that are his eyes as he shovels spoonfuls of what looks like baby food or apple-sauce into his creepy face with baby hands. Yes, he has very tiny hands, similar in size and color to that of a baby’s. Some gay dude is going on about getting a subscription to entertainment weekly. I can’t understand what he’s saying because when someone talks with a gay accent I lose focus. There’s something about that high-pitched jabber that refuses to enter my ears. I’m not a homophobe. I just have trouble distinguishing the words over the fast paced banter. My roommate from India is sitting across from me. I secretly resent her because she constantly eats Indian food in our room making the room smell permanently like fart. When I’m alone in my room I always fear some hot guy is going to knock on my door and when I open it and they get a whiff of the room they will think I’ve been farting in their all day.

Jon Paul seductively shoots his hand into the air to show how strongly he agrees with some stupid issue I wasn’t paying attention to. He eyes me; I look away. He thinks we’re playing a game of eye fuck tag. I think I want to stand up in the middle of the meeting and call him a fucking creeper. Alas, this game will continue, but only in his mind.

The food steward just announced that they messed up the ordering of our food yet again. Everyone gets on her case. It’s a little vicious. The bulimic girl is ripping her a new asshole. Maybe there’d be enough food if you stopped eating it all and throwing it up. I won’t say that out loud but I’m sure that’s what the whole house is thinking. I look around the room. Everyone looks bored as shit. I look over all the strange and peculiar people that live here. There’s Santiago. He goes OCD on all the house chores, spending double the time. He never talks but sort or walks in robotic strides with his head down. He always has this backpack on that is so large I believe it holds the secrets to the universe. He carries the world on his back to and from wherever he goes; no one knows, but then again no one asks. He keeps to himself but he’s usually around. Then there’s Pat. I think he has Aspergers or some mild form of Autism. Once when my friend John tried to smoke weed in the basement, Pat attacked him. John said, “What the fuck, why would you do that?!” and Pat replied “because I hate myself”. He’s incredibly awkward, but in that way where even awkward people like myself feel uncomfortable around him. He’s definitely not from this planet. And it’s not in that, “oh you’re from this place and you’re into these hobbies and I just don’t get it, we’re so different” kinda way. It’s “whoa, I have no idea what you’re thinking right now your eyes are blanks” sorta way. Wow, the bulimic girls is still yelling at the food stewards. She’s so fucking angry about the food. You can almost tell she has an eating disorder because nobody cares this much about the meals. I really don’t give a shit about this. I’m only here because the house is angry that my stupid friend Jeff keeps eating here for free and they want to talk about it at this meeting. Jeff decided not to show up at the last minute so I have to speak on his behalf even though I’m not the one who always invites him over. The house president is making this an issue the house will have to vote on. She creeps me out because she’s super religious and looks exactly like me. People for a while didn’t even know we were two different people, like it was some weird doppelganger shit where half the time we seemed like a responsible Christian house president and then the other half of the time we were an awkward freak show. People probably thought we were severely bipolar or something. We’re supposed to talk about making a mural somewhere in the house. The house decides they like the idea of a Dr. Seuss mural above the kitchen. Great, now I can throw up when I stumble into the kitchen all hung over and have to look at some gay nursery picture. I mean we just discussed how annoying this guy’s kid is and now we’re turning our kitchen into a sanctuary for children. It’s such a Co Opy idea. Look at us, we’re funny and quirky, creative and we think outside the box. Well the Co Op is a box in its own way. It’s predictable. It’s members are of a few general types of hippies and nerds and we do annoying group activities. That’s a box. A group of 8 including myself protest the decision and call a recount. We lose. There’s going to be yet another lame symbol of cooperation to look at every morning when I’m most bitter about the world.

Finally we’ve reached the last topic of discussion. Jonpaul is asked to leave, indicating this is some issue that involves him and as a rule you can’t be in the room when the “council” is discussing you. After he has left, all the girls begin to talk about how he is a pervert and makes everyone uncomfortable. Most of the guys don’t like him because he’s a creepy asshole so as a house we vote that he can’t come back to live here next year. The house president tells him when he returns into the room. He seems to take it pretty well. Something in his face reminds me that he’s human and I actually feel bad that we all did this to him as a group. I don’t know why because he is such an annoying pervert, but it’s not like he was a bad person. I guess the world is a cruel place sometimes.

This News Really Shouldn't Be Breaking

Do you know that annoying electronic band Justice who uses burning crosses as a form of identification? This really awkward friend of mine who's obsessed with conspiracy theories mentioned that they're totally Daft Punk in disguise. They tossed the motorcycle costumes and donned trendy outfits in their new project; to infiltrate the hipster mainstream scene and pass off as 20-year-olds in their 30's. I looked up pictures of both groups on the Internet and they really are the same people. Why hasn't anyone else noticed this obvious connection? Daft Punk is popular as fuck, you'd think some die hard fan would have spoiled this "secret" already. That is, if it actually is a "secret". I mean, is it really a "secret" or is it a conspiracy? It's a bit ridiculous how obvious this "secret" is when you look at the pictures. There are articles from notable magazines that discuss how the "new band" Justice has replaced Daft Punk, and Wikipedia mentions no relationship between the two bands. Is everyone really this blind in an age were people's pictures and information are way too easily accessible for comfort? I mean, I know they've been wearing motorcycle gear for the past few years so nobody knows how they've aged, but it's definitely Daft Punk plus about eight years. It must be some sort of French conspiracy, it's the only way I can make sense of this information slipping under the radar.

Breaking News, shitting in a CO OP is really fucking awkward

Yes, it is 1:37 AM and I am sitting in the lounge of Truth, this Cooperative living house I reside in. It's kinda like applied socialism so you'd expect us all to be hippies and everything should just be chill, dude. Well, it's not. I haven't "gone to the bathroom" in about a week now. Communal living means communal restrooms and I know that most of the guys that live here have never heard a girl take a shit and I'm not about to be the one to give them that sick dose of reality. So I'm sitting here trying to decide which of the two private bathrooms to use. There's the one that exists right out in the entrance hallway, but this, my friend, is it's main flaw. For, when I make my grand exit everyone will be able to tell that I just shat, which defeats the purpose if you are trying to poop ninja-style. Then there's the bathroom in the basement. I would have already used this bathroom but there is this bulimic girl in our house who sort of unoffically claimed it. Every time you walk down there you can find last nights leftovers, or maybe some regurgitated cereal in the trash bin. Either way, it makes me feel like I'm shitting in the bathroom of a dingy, disgusting pub for alcoholics.

It doesn't matter, I can hold on for one more day. But seriously, home is where you can sit down to take a shit with out being judged. And the people that live here do a lot of that. There's also this really awkward Co-Op bathroom culture which I refuse to be a part of. I noticed it when I went to pee and happened across a fellow shitter in the middle of his business. I know this because the bathroom smelled and the person in the stall next to me became completely silent. It seems that if you are going to go "number 2" you hold off if someone else comes into the bathroom, even if you are in the middle of it. You wait for them to leave and then you continue. The consideration on the part of the pooper is returned by their stall-mate who will leave and not try to find out who was shitting next to them. Therefore everyone can poop in anonymity. Well, I refuse to be a part of this because I know that if this situation happened to me I would end up with that nosy kid who would wait outside to see who the pooper was, just out of sheer curiousity. When they discover my secret identity our relationship will be changed forever. It will be weeks before we could even make eye contact. Therefore I will continue to wait until tomorrow when I can use a public restroom in a place where nobody knows me.

Awkward Existential Crisis

I wish I could scream and break everything in the the material world. I’m sick of having to placate this internal, spiritual part of me with material things. I’m so frustrated and defeated but what is kicking a wall going to do? Or breaking a computer? These are two separate entities we’re talking about. The material and spiritual world are two different things but we deal with one through the other. I feel empty so I break a lamp, but what is that really doing for my spirit? I wish I could slip across to the other side and deal with these feelings that I know have nothing to do with all the things around me. I know because nothing around me satisfies that hunger. I’m so fucking famished. But there’s no food. At least, not the kind that would fill me for more than an hour or two. I need to see things on the other side, I want to step across. I just need to find the signs. I don’t want to become a drone. I don’t want to become addicted to Time, becuase I’m so very terrified of it. It’s chasing me around and I can’t grab it, touch it, see it, feel it, I just know it’s there, stalking me. And I feel so helpless, because it doesn’t want to get me. It has no emotions, it’s just going to consume me. So I do crazy things to try and forget that time is there, with its empty arms stretched out, sucking the life out of me, but also putting some back in, but slowly sucking more out than it puts back, until I reach that day when it will take me away and lay me down, and fill me. Will I feel whole? I hope so. Let’s face it, Time is going to be the best fuck of my life. It will leave me breathless.

Start Mixing Your Fake Blood; It's Coming...

Ok, so Halloween's right around the corner. Pumpkins are for sale, costumes are being sold, Halloween II is all rented out at Blockbuster. So why is Halloween so awkward?

1.) Screaming at the top of your lungs when the electric pumpkin says 'ahahaha!' is, well embarrassing if you aren't under the age of three. Especially if it sounds like you may be getting attacked. Or if you're a girl who can scream at an adult decible now and hasn't realized it. If your scream scares other people more than the thing you're screaming at, you might be a candidate. Beware.

2.) Costumes are especially limited if you are eighteen and over. No longer acceptable: fairies, ghosts, M&Ms, princesses. You could always settle on the staggeringly cliche costumes of being a witch if you're a female and something resembling Tarzan if you're a man. Otherwise, the more elaborate the better. However, let's say one goes overboard--overboard includes any sewing you are doing, a costume that costs more than your monthly health insurance bill, or anything with decadent body paint. If you tend to choose costumes like these, beware, it is a tad bit awkward that you are so excited for a holiday geared towards little kids that you're willing to compete with them despite the fact that you're thirty and well, it isn't much of a competition with anything when there's that big of an age gap. Chill out and have a beer, all that face paint'll smear anyway after your eighth turn at the beer bong.

3.) You're really going to go Trick or Treating? It's great motivation to imagine all the candy you could get now that you're twenty. You have all sorts of new schemes to get certain houses to give you double the snickers bars, but to actually go through with it? Hmm. There's nothing more awkward than opening your door for the hundredth time to tell the little snot nosed kids that your lights off for a reason and finding a fat man with a beer belly, shoddily covered with a dirty sheet moaning 'ooooooooo'. At this age, you will never be a ghost, you have dressed up, regardless fo your intention, as a creep. You know CVS sells candy really cheap during Halloween? Save everyone the pity they'll surely have for you and buy a big 'ol bag of mini chocolates. You can still wear the cape if you want, in the privacy of your own home (please).

4.) Scaring someone to the point of restraining order may signal a more severe deep seeded mental affliction. I had the pleasure of going to Knott's Scary Farm this past week and despite the embarrassment I now feel for how scared I actually was, it was generally fun. However, there were a few times when the fun turned into early signs of an ensuing panic attack. Whenever the process of holy-shit-did-he-just-say-that-I-forgot-my-Mace comes into your head, you've been scared beyond an appropriate amount. The 'Scaries' who walk around the amusement park take their job a little too seriously. Not satisfied with a meager scream and a laugh, there were Goblins who came up to your ear saying 'Aren't I pretty enough for you?' and 'Do you want to die?' and the surprisingly frightening, 'Bitch, I'm going to kill you,' This is the kind of scary that ends with chalk outlines and police-tape. If you get the urge to scare others in this way, mayabe it's for the best that you sit this year out and have a little one-on-one with the Therapist.

5.) Carving pumpkins. There's a strange book out right now called Extreme Pumpkins. The title is fitting. Some guy has carved pumpkins into intricate designs. There's the radioactive pumpkin, equipped with broken glow sticks, the crime-scene pumpkin sporting an exit wound to the side of its gourd and even a pumpkin destroyer who has been menacingly propped up with sticks to give the impression that this pumpkin will fuck your pumpkins up. While my coworkers asked in awe, "How does he do that?!" the more appropriate question may be "But why?" Not only do the pumpkins look impossible to replicate, but the book is basically a how-to guide so you can make your own. If you have this much time to spend on carving pumpkins that will get smashed, rot, and go out of style in exactly three weeks, maybe you should start that novel you're always telling everyone you'll write. At least then you'll have something to show for those two weeks than some pumpkin pulp and cuts from the carver.

Coming Soon: Awkward, Mockward: Halloween Edition. Equipped with costumes and traditional (and some not so traditional) Halloween festivities. Awk-on.

A Poem About Babies

Oh God, no, please no
don't ask me to hold the baby
I don't want your baby
you're all watching me
you want to see if I'll succeed
with this baby test drive
why don't you ask Uncle Victor to hold the baby?
Yeah, that fat dude without a shirt on
eating that burger and drinking that can of beer
God, I want to be that guy
no one ever asks him to hold the baby
damn family reunions

How About Those Old Folks...?

Ah old people. They conjure to mind black and white photos, Goldbond itch powder and dentures...also, smells of soap, disinfectant and moth balls. At first thought, it would seem that geriatrics are quite possibly the most awkward of all age demographics. 8ut upon closer inspection, do the geezers have us all fooled? Onward Awkward investigates...

So today, I was grabbing brunch at a diner frequented by the more senile set. Glasses and walkers, dentures in cups of yellowing icewater (gross?) and silver blue tinted tresses dominated the scenery that lingered inches on top of cholesterol packed hashbrowns and concrete pancakes (which are apparently now referred to as hotcakes, which seems slightly redundant, but whatevs). Anyway, these two old guys grumpily ordered and their meal arrived within minutes while we sat, young and fully-toothed, waiting...and waiting...and waiting. Their order was fast, but not quite fast enough for the two old-timers who muttered bitter nothings and groggled death rattles from some dark mucus addled chamber within. Instead of the waitresses annoyed eyerolls that I've grown expectant of, the old folks received a sincere apology and an inquiry about the state of their french fries. Are they done well enough? The waitress asked fretfully. They both prodded their once-at-some-point potatoes wiyh gnarled fingers and grumbled yes. Their fries had been fried to perfection. The color of their french fries was mouthwatering and I grew envious as I watched them slowly eat a sixteenth of these impeccably produced frites. You could just tell these fries are just right...crispy on the outside, soft and warm within. Well what the fuck? Because they're old, the fryer at some dipshit 2 buck plate diner gets used properly? While the rest of us suffer for wilted, green strings of insta-tots that taste more like the plastic bag they came in than the potato treats they should be? I smell injustice and canola oil.

And then I remembered a story an exboyfriend told me about his crazy grandmother. He explained that she would frequently steal items from pharmacies, speed (? I know) and make insanely inappropriate comments all under the guise of being 'a little old lady'. And it hit me that maybe old people aren't that awkward afterall. If you can excuse the pants-shitting and phlegm tissue wads, the HUHS? And the stories that, like the Lambchop theme song, are literally unending, old people don't have it so bad. We, as a society, just seem to assume they are and so give them these ridiculous exceptions to rules that would never fly when applied to someone under the age of 60.

And so I sat eyeing the men's golden fries, wondering why it looked like my hashbrowns were sprouting, I realized that's why people don't kill themselves at 50. You see, you don't really live until you've got the world convinced your frail and weak and dreadfully old. No, that's where the fun begins. When you can make the Norms waitress your bitch, steal those new padded tube socks from aisle six and piss off that tattooed, speed loving 16 year old couple behind you by driving 26 on the 405. So next time you're asked to do some assinine thing for an old person, scope out the request. You feel like a jackass for asking staff to get that hemeroid cream for some old dude who just asked u, remember he's just old, not Helen Keller. And now you've got two irritated assholes.

I'm sorry but you really need to clean up that poop

Parks rules. I'm at home in New York City just kicking back and enjoying the silly trends and past times that this city offers. If you're a dog owner in New York you have probably heard of the dog parks, which are everywhere. They're similar to those places for human children, but used by the dogs of rich and childless workaholics in order for them to feel like parents but with out the extreme full time commitment. They're not actually playgrounds, but fields of dirt enclosed by fences because dogs don't understand invisible boundary lines.

So here I am, walking dogs for rich old ladies (it's good pay) and putting myself in the most awkward of situations. I mean, we all try to be these civilized people, wearing respectable clothes and bringing our dogs to this park to feel like we're a part of something special. Only a minute later, we're bending over to pick up our dog's shit with our hands which are only protected by a plastic bag. How dignified is that? I bet parents at the playground a block away don't have to apologize because their kid won't stop humping another kid in the middle of the park. But in the dog park everyone laughs. It's just animal nature they say. I sit next to a stranger and we both comment on how well our dogs seem to be getting along as they sniff and lick each other's nut sacks. A woman in the corner yells at her dog because he keeps eating another dogs' shit. Alas, a fight breaks out among the humans because one woman's dog took a dump and she hasn't cleaned it up. She claims she didn't notice it, but I think she did.

Cheesy Joke=Slow Painful Death, Motherfucker.

I dunno what it is about cheesy jokes. I work at this bookstore and a coworker of mine uses the cheesiest, corniest jokes I have ever heard. After each transaction, he'll say would you like a complimentary bag with that? Or someone will say rhetorically, There are so many books in here! To which he'll reply, well, "please buy them up, there's no limit here!" And I just sit there, wanting to join in in the unsolicited comments and say "Wow. You're a complete jackass." Now what gets me about cheesy jokes is that there is no end in sight. What I mean is that it is still politically incorrect to groan at a cheesy joke when someone who you aren't accquainted with recites one. Every time this goober says one, which is often, the customer always smiles and laughs. And I want to scream in bewilderment "Why are you laughing! You know that wasn't funny! Why are you perpetuating this horrifically un-funny (yes un-funny) dufus of a man? Just as it is in good form to tell someone when they have spinach or whatever-the-fuck in their teeth, one should be informed when someone is saying something that lacks any substantial humor. Plus, it's super fucking awkward! Not only do I feel umcomfortable after the joke's been said because uh, it's not funny? but also, I want to tell the customers that it wasn't funny either. I want to tell the douchebag who told it t never speak again. I want to rewind the scene and put the video on YouTube with subtitles encouraging everyone to NEVER EVER DO AS THIS MAN DOES! So maybe instead of laughing at the movie theater ticket ripper next time he says, "Time to get a watch!" after you breathlessly ask him the time because you fear you may have missed the opening of a movie, don't laugh the moron on. Why even give him the satisfaction of pretending that his 'funny' anecdote is, in fact, funny? Speak the truth. Be a good citizen. Look him dead in the eye and say "That was the corniest shit ever man. That was the opposite of funny and now I'm in a bad mood." Then maybe there could (finally) be an end to the cheesy joke as we know it.

Moving and Hans' Hairy Pits

So. The blog's been a bit stagnant recently. If I were to break down the cause of this problem into a percentage, I'd have to chalk this up to 98% laziness and 2% stress because I've moved. That's the great thing about this blog because all of a sudden, you've got cellophane wrapped around your face and a drawer just fell on your right foot and you're like "holy shit! This is completely fucking awkward! I can't wait to blog about this." Well, kind of. In all seriousness (or as serious as one can be here), moving really sucks. Let's see....it has been a blast waiting a day and half without food or water for a mattress that was scheduled to arrive yesterday during a 'one to five hour window' which ended up being an impromtu, makeshift episode of Urban Survivor where I forged for crumbs and ate popcorn kernels left behind by my mattress-endowed roomate and tried not to be phased by the mild hallucinations I was having thanks to the fresh paint job and heavy-duty cleaning supply stench that seems to occupy every new apartment. But starving and slightly high, I ended up smoking a half pack of cigarettes, pacing the lot of my tiny abode roughly 40+ times, and actually jumped for joy when the mattress men showed up (that sounds a bit off, huh? mattress men...) a few minutes ago . Anyway, the 'mattress men' showed up and there are two guys, one of which I've presumed is named Joe, and the other looks like, get this, an over-sized Kiebler elf. Ok, I know you're thinking wow, who the fuck cares about this story, everyone hates moving, get over it. Or: Yeah, moving's awful so why would I want to relive it through you're snarky little opinionated rant? But the whole point of this story is this overgrown Kiebler Elf. He is by far, hands down, the hairiest fucking person I have ever seen. His hair is the color of a new penny and it's insanely frizzy. But it isn't the hair on his head that's got me thrown. He has the hairiest pits I have ever seen. It looks as if he's about to give a noogie to two ginger, friz headed toddlers. We're talking Don King-like hair. I mean, his pits are so hairy he could smuggle a small child across some illicit border in there. A kilo of coke, his stash of steroids. I just can't look away. With a twitch of his mandarin mustache, he smiled over my cheap mattress and said, "I'm Hans." I swear the bush under his arms reached out at me a little. Anyway, if I turn up missing, send help and check the pits.

On Jam Band Concerts: Is there such a thing as too awkward?

A few days ago, I had the wonderful experience of seeing Rusted Root, a band of which I was not very familiar with pre-concert. Yeah, I checked out their MySpace, heard that Matilda song, but I figured what the hell, a live show is a live show right?

Unless it's a jam band.
Unless everyone there is wearing khaki shorts or pants or pants too short to be pants and too long to be shorts.
Unless the median age is 35 and everyone smells like patchouli and scalp.
Like I said, unless it's a jam band.

I mean, this was just definition awkward. There was the white people dancing moves--you know, the snapping fingers-stiff legs-planted feet-saying 'yeah', 'yeah' with your eyes closed-twisting hip-less hips-rythymless kind of dance. Instead of a mosh pit, there was a 'circle of love'. And beyond all of this, there was a severe lack of personal space. What I mean is that when one enters a jam band show, you forfeit your right to boundaries. I learned this pretty quickly when this hippy bitch hopped up on sun-grown bud came up to me, grabbed my hand and tried to drag me into her cultish, circle of love deal. And when, of course, I recoiled as I would from a hot flame, she gave me the dissapointed hippy look. This look, cleverly crafted, says 'you negative asshole, you're the reason peace doesn't work.' And I must say as horrible and boring as the show was (I actually had to stop myself from lying down in the middle of the desolate floor--where I'd nearly been killed months before at a much more exciting, energetic, and comfortingly black-clad Adicts show--because the band's jam sessions just wouldn't fucking stop.) My friend and I were the 'negatives' dressed entirely in funeral colors (worse yet, one of us wore a Highway to Hell shirt and a gun necklace.) Why we had to stay to the end I'm not sure, maybe it was the fact that we'd spent money to be spiritually assualted by middle-aged NGOers on a weekend night; stoned off ganja brownies and patting us to "move a little, man." Anyway, I'm sure someone somewhere likes Rusted Root and their shows, but the whole time I just couldn't get over the awkward scene. It was on another level. It is officially the first thing I have deemed as too awkward--who knew there was such a thing...

Yeah, yeah, it's been a while...

Sorry.

Hipster Olympics

Which brings us to the more important question: What do you call the people who make fun of and poke fun at the awkward or mockward societal demographics? 'Kward Anthropology? In either event, this is awesome.

Dear Onward Awkward, Am I?

We've received a few question regarding this whole awkward business. Specifically, we've had quite a few inquiries as to whether or not the individual in question was awkward or 'mockward'. So we've decided to start a new column devoted to determining how awkward you are. Here's this week's Q&A:

Q: I'm crying at Starbucks. Awkward or Mockward?

A: I have to say that crying is definitely awkward. However, crying at Starbucks is another case. Hmm, I'd go with mockward...but old-school mockward, circa 1996 perhaps? Dust off a Nirvana record, break out some flannel and reminisce over your now soggy Turkey Bacon sammy.

More Mockward? Cruise to an independent coffeehouse for a chai and let the crying commence after perusing the oh-so-touching 'spread of capitalism' article in the latest Adbusters.

More Awkward? Turn to the guy behind you, sob and fall into him, snotting on his shirt and taking a sip of his grande nonfat cappucino. Tell him, "it's just so good what they're doing for water in 3rd world countries" while hugging a bottle of unopened Ethos. Steal his cap and hum 'Time' to yourself on the way out.

...........................

Have a bizarre situation? Hit us up and we'll tell you how awkward/mockward it is, plus how to make it more so. E-mail us at onwardawkward@gmail.com Awk-on.

Awkward. Why?

Here's a pointless list of things that are awkward for reasons unbeknown to us. Things that are awkward but maybe shouldn't be, if you really thought about it:

1.) Wearing the band shirt to a concert of the same band. Made famous by Jeremy Piven in PCU, wearing the same shirt of the band your seeing is not cool. Why? Because when you're going to see the Decemberists, you gotta wear a New Pornographer's shirt because if you're a true fan, you should act as if you aren't (damn Mockwardists.) As Piven so succinctly put it, "don't be that guy" even if you aren't quite sure who or what 'that guy' is and why you shouldn't be him.

2.) Crying. Alright, crying's always awkward. Have you ever seen someone pull up next to you on the road and they're bawling, like really, really sobbing? You just have to look away right? It actually bothers me. It kills the whole driving buzz, makes you think outside of yourself, and suddenly you're caught in a web of your own rhetoric thoughts. What the fuck is that lady crying about? Is it a song on the radio? Did she just get dumped, found out she had a terminal illness? Are you an asshole for being annoyed by her crying? And what is there to say about someone crying. Hugs offer minimal consolement and the whole tears-on-your-shoulder-thing is gross--especially if it's a snot combo. But it's natural right? I mean, some people can't help shedding tears. But fuck it makes me uncomfortable. Also, crying has been made mockward by the emo-music movement, cocaine come-downs, and lame hipsters on the verge of mental collapse at the LACMA. Mockward or Awkward, crying is inexplicably creep-inducing.

3.) Working Out. Wow, you look great! I mean right now. Because when I saw you running on the treadmill an hour ago, I hid. Not that I didn't enjoy your mock-hurtle-jumping-routine. Or your deep breathing sequences. I even kind of liked the swamp-ass you had going on. But wow, working out in public is awkward. There's the sweat, that skinny guy trying to lift 3x his weight, some guy stretching his quads while you try to figure out how to work the fly machine. As humans, we should be intrinsically exercising our bodies, staying fit, etc. But fuck, the process is humiliating. And the whole mockward spin on workout just isn't, um, working. If you're at a bar in SOMA drinking a Pabst tall boy while wearing spandex around your beer gut and a headband made of terry cloth, the effect is something a bit worse than mockward. Only a loser would want to look like they're working out when they aren't and so obviously haven't--ever. Sorry, Dan Deacon, no one's buying the whole "I just came from the cool LES/Krispy Creme Gym" look.

4.) Tap Dancing. C'mon. Admit it. You tried it out when you were, say, 8. You had a whole routine you practiced to "Put on a Happy Face." You had the shoes, the cane, a tophat from Capezio and you had some quick-paced feet. So why did that stop being so cool? At what age is it decided that tap-dancing will no longer suffice as a socially acceptable extracurricular activity? Who decided that jazz hands and metal soles lose their cool at such a young age. Tap Dancing is so awkward that the mockward set can't even comment. I mean they've got the roller-skates-in-the-street-shoes thing, but not yet taps on the toes. I guess, like diapers, tapping is reserved solely for the extremely juvenile or outrageously senile demographic.

5.) Phone Conversations with Family. You're friends are yelling at you to throw some more lines on the table, you're roomate's going on about her "outrageous orgasm" she had last night, you're boyfriend's on the phone with his dealer begging for "just one sack, man." And there you are, cupping the phone, horrified by the wildly inappropriate company you keep. Or maybe you're hung-over and your mom just asked you a billion questions about your future. There's your senile aunt, who you have to scream at while ordering a double-shot over ice at Starfucks, while smiling apologetically to the wigged-out barista. Or the mundane run-down of who you're dating, how work's going, and enthusiastically concurring that Dancing With the Stars really is a great, great show. No mockward equivalent here, unless you're Jack White and you may or may not be married to your sister.

About the Awkward Poll: Maybe the Fairy Tales Had an Effect on us...

Ok, so people have asked us about the new poll. "How can fairy tales be awkward?" they say. Wait, how are fairy tales not awkward? Here's a run down of some childhood classics that have earned a spot on the good ol' Onward Awkward blog.

Rumpelstiltskin--Whoa, this fairy tale is weird. Check it out on Wikipedia. Basically, this chick is ordered by the King to turn straw into gold in three nights or be executed (and according to WikiP, some versions go so far as to explain that she'd be skewered and skinned like a pig, wow.) Anyway, impossible right? So of course, she can't. But this dwarf (and dwarfs are always awkward, no offense) is kind of like a dealer or a loan shark and says he'll help her in exchange for her necklace the first night, her ring the second night and then on the third she's run out of jewelery and prostitution's a little heavy for three year olds, so he says he'll help her in exchange for her first born child. So thus, gold is spun. And the King's so pimpressed (that was an unintentional typo, but it works) that he has this woman marry his son. Everything is fine until they actually have a baby and the dwarf returns for his 'payment' of one fresh child. So he strikes up yet another deal so that the Queen can keep her granddaughter, she must guess his name, and she does. Rumpelstiltskin gets so upset he stomps his foot and opens up a chasm into which he fall into. What the fuck. What is supposed to be learned from this? Dwarfs are pimps. And newborn children make good payment.

Little Red Riding Hood--Why is a little girl dressed all in red confusing her grandmother for a wolf? Granny's either a man or a hobbit. Again, little children are appetizing/unimportant.

Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs--Again with the dwarfs. And why do they all live together in some kind of hippie commune and Dopey was drunk, right? I mean he burped bubbles for fuck's sake. The lesson to be learned? Only a grown man can wake a pasty drug addict up from a coma. Or, seven little men do not equal the resuscitation abilities of one tall one.

Princess and the Pea--Wait, how many mattresses? Wasn't it like 20 or something? Someone will feel a pea under 20 mattresses? The pea, obviously would be smushed and would rot. Way to teach boys that girls are high maintenance whores. Or, that she'll be lying when she asks "is it in yet?".

Rapunzel--um...this story's pretty wild also. According to WikiP, this couple wants a child real bad, but they live next to a witch. And so the the woman longs for these flowers found on the witches' property. Loyal husband that he is, he crosses over the threshold to retrieve the frivolous token of his love. So he gets caught and his punishment is that his wife will get pregnant, but that once the child is born, she must surrender her kin to the witch. Child's born, named Rapunzel, is locked in a tower. The only way to get up to the tower is by letting her hair down from the only window which they would then climb up and into. So some prince overhears and does the same thing. She lets him up, he proposes, she agrees. They plan an escape--she weaves silk hidden in her hair into a ladder. But, because she's a silly girl, she accidentally tells the witch about it (why is he heavier than you? insert origin of dumb-blond stereotype.) And witch hauls the prince up and tells him that he will never see the freakishly-long-haired woman again. Despair! He jumps from the tower and blinds himself on the thorns below. Anyway, he wanders around the forest while Rapunzel has twins (little hussy, eh?) The prince again hears her and they leave the place to live--that's right--happily ever after. Wait so this is why long hair is kind of creepy. I thought it was all Cher's fault. Perhaps true love is blind, but being in love will actually make you blind. Premarital sex is so good, you'll climb a rope of human hair for it. But, if you don't want twins, be sure to sew yourself some silk condoms. Also, blind people wander through forests.

Awkward.

Awkward Can Be Appetizing

Let's say you're not really that awkward. Maybe you're dating this really awkward guy/girl and you want to impress them by being that dorky-awkward-cool-guy/girl. So how do you do it? Well, here are the ingredients for an awkward moment:

!. Make sure to say something that no one will understand (maybe an obscure book reference, or a one hit wonder nuwave band from the 80's)
2. Say your weird thing at a really inappropriate time (like during someone else's childhood story, or while someone's on the phone, or right after someone's told a joke and everyone's still laughing)
3. AFter you say the weird thing, say nevermind when everyone looks at you or just say nothing. Try staring at the floor or a crack on a far off wall.
4. Explain nothing.
5. When people ask questions about the weird thing you just said, say "forget it" or "I don't know." Throw in a "nevermind" too.
6. When everyone's moved on from your odd outburst and is on tot eh next subject (or just trying to get over your social ineptitude), explain what you meant. Do it right in the middle of someone else's sentence.
7. Say something that could be considered "wildly innapropriate" (more on this subject soon), maybe talk abotu how you haven't had sex in a year or how you sometimes get off on old people porn. Whatever, you get it, something real out there (stay away from things too out there like beastiality and necrophilia). Cough after you've said it.
7. When everyone looks back over at you, shrug your shoulders and head for the bathroom.

Congratulations, you've just concocted yourself an awkward-moment cocktail. Shake, stir gently and serve over ice. Enjoy. (And don't blame us if you lose a couple friends/potential date, you're the one who has to follow instructions on how to be awkward--which, I guess is awkward in itself, so maybe this whole post was pointless. Maybe they all are. Um...yeah, bye.)

Awkward Tribute: Be Your Own Pet

Because we're awkward and you probably are too if you're reading this, we've decided to hand out awkward awards. But, we've never really received awards for anything (actually no, that's not true...I think I got a manager award in high school for running Cross Country, but that was only because they were trying to ease the blow of firing me from the team because I'd go smoke bowls in the woods during those '6-mile warms-ups'. Back-handed award maybe, but an award none the less.) Anyway, we've got mild resentments against awards so we'll just call them awkward tributes. Basically, you get one if we like your awkwardness. So today, we're tributing Be Your Own Pet with their amazingly-titled second album, 'Get Awkward.' Fuck yeah. Also, that Kelly Affair song's pretty cool (and absolutely mockward.) Check it out.

Intrinsically Awkward

Some things that are just awkward. You cannot talk your way out of these things, nor can you make them cool (or mockward). These things actually define awkward.

Losing your virginity. Drunk, high, or sober, it's just awkwardly quick if you're the guy and surreally dissapointing if you're the girl.
Getting your period/First wet dream. Ah, puberty. Both are gross and awkward to explain to your parents when the respective bodily fluids are present on your 12-year-old sheets.
Having to poop at inappropriate times. Like on a date, at work, or stuff in traffic (wear Depends)
Seizures. Drug-induce or biological, scary, period.
Boners. Dude, it's the eighty-year-old librarian, get a hold of yourself.
Talking to old people. You're yelling, making hand gestures, drinking beer out of coffee mugs and making elaborate facial expressions. You do realize you're doing this?
Talking to handicapped people. Ok, not in an offensive way. In the you're-trying-so-hard-not-to-look-at-the-dissability type way. Believe it or not, you're making the guy with no legs more uncomfortable, congratulations.
Buying drugs. You're asking for a slice of pizza, a piece of gum, a CD? You just want your fucking drugs and all the codewords are taking up the cellphone minutes you just sold your couch for.
Death. cricket, cricket...no explanation here.
Celebrities talking about politics. Sharon Stone get a hold of yourself.
Smelly feet. duh.
STDS. Whether it's in 8th grade health class or after last night's scary half-night stand, it's all pretty gross.
Child Actors When They're No Longer Children. Good God Daniel Bonaducci's unstable and midgetly-awkward looking.
Family Functions. Especially with crazy Aunt Irene who gets a little too close to naked after one too many at Grammy's.
Having An Offensive Friend. Yeah, you are the company you keep. "Those people" don't want to rob you....wait, no, now they do because you're ignorant BFF just got you "a cap in yo ass." (or at least, that's what he said)
Boundary-less Acquaintances. So you dropped your pen on the ground, not in my lap or down my shirt. Also, there's never really a "friendly" reason to touch inner thighs, creeper.
Overly Outgoing People. Whoa. Will you shut the fuck up? I'm not deaf and you're not that interesting.

It's Friday the FUCKIN 13th! (whoa, that was awkward...)

So do you still get excited about Friday the 13th? Do ya, do ya? Well I do. Naturally, I bet i'll be stuffing my face with popcorn (speaking of which why are popcorn bags getting so much smaller? there's like two kernels a bag and it tastes like cardboard with ear wax topping, it's disgusting but I digress...) while I fevershly alternate the channels from Freddy to Jason. And actually, I didn't even realize what day it was until, like, 5 seconds ago. So I'm really psyched. This also brings me to another question. Why on earth doesn't Google have icon art for Friday the 13th? I half expected, when I checked Google five minutes ago, despite my having been to the search engine's homepage a bajillion times today (sorry, short term memory loss, I used to live in SF), I expected there to be...I dunno, like Wes Craven's knife-hand or something? perhaps Google spelled out in blood-drops? hell, even just a stupid little ghost or something. But no, of course not. Want to know why? Because Google's retarded. Because Google spends so much time trying to look smart with their Velasquez-holidays (wtf?) and documenting the obscure anniversary of some dude who invented the laser (who cares!), that have very little time for the things that matter like Friday the 13th and May Day. Screw you, Google, I notice.

Turns Out Not Having Friends Has an Up-Side if You're a Creep

Yesterday I went to see The Strangers...solo. Alright, a lot of people see movies by themselves--especially if you happen to live in a booming metropolis. But these movies are usually artsy, or long, or so obscure you can't pay your friends enough money to tag along. However, it seems as though viewing a horror flick by yourself isn't as socially acceptable. This was evident by the fact that 3 out of 4 of the couples littered throughout the theater whisper-yelled; "is that girl here alone?!" And at first, naturally, I was slightly mortified. I even went through my bag to find a notebook to open as if I were a film reviewer. And I actually even said to myself, I write a blog! I'm doing research! But I wasn't. I was just bored and ditched by my friends. As the movie progressed, I realized that scary movies aren't that scary without people next to you. I laughed when some bitch got stabbed. I snickered when these masked freaks popped out of horribly obvious places (like the closet, the fornt door, a darkened window). And soon the couples began turning back and looking at me presumedly bewildered--presumedly because well, it was dark. But while the two people in front of me nearly severed their hands on each other's flies (jumping everytime a staged floorboard creaked, interrupting their heavy-petting matinee date--gross.) I sat there, in a dress mind-you, giggling like a creep. I became, in all essence, a part of the scary movie experience. Maybe I had even been the scariest part of the whole movie--that scary, creepy girl laughing like an idiot as two helpless movie victims get bludgeoned to death. Anyway, I suggest seeing a horror movie sans acquaintances. Nothing beats scaring boring yuppies on a random Thursday afternoon.

Awkward, Mockward: Summer Wear

Awkward/Mockward

Thong swimsuits for men/short-short bathingsuit briefs for men (?)
XL-Disney spray-painted tank-top bathing suit cover ups/Mesh (why is this happening again?)
Corona-logoed string bikinis/American Apparel suspender bathing suits
Colored Zinc sunblock on nose/SPF 100
fake tans/pasty pale
Casino-logoed visors/'Blossom' hats (whoa.)
Tube Socks with long shorts/Those new shoes that came out with Kurt Cobain's fake blood on the tops of them (real classy)
Leather vests (uh, it's hot?)/Denim vests
TeVas/Jellies
Cowboy hats/Feathered Head-scarves.
Dock-Siders/Dock-Siders
Ponytail, if you're a man/Wearing a headband, if you're a man
goggles, flippers, or fins/fanny packs (yes, again, they're making quite a comeback)
Old lady dress-bathing suits/Those weird bathing suits with holes cut out of them that only look good on supermodels, and no one else. I mean, really. No one else.

Differentiating Awkward from Mockward

So we've had more than a couple people ask us; "well which is better? Awkward or Mockward? And what the hell's the difference"? For clarification purposes, we've decided to explain these surprisingly vague terms. Ok, awkward can be good or bad. I mean, usually it's bad. Rollerblading is awkward. If you are a rollerblader, chances are you aren't the coolest guy on the block--and if you are, good for you because you must have some really great qualities to cancel-out the whole rollerbading bit. But mockward would be like wearing old-school 70s roller skates to a party pumping Elvis Costello (no pun intended) and serving PBR tallboys. So in terms of cool, mockward's where it's at. However, mockward can also be irritating and annoying, like what's her face from Juno or that horrible folk Kimya Dawson soundtrack that came with it. Awkward would be being an actual pregnant teen walking around an actual high school without having any actual emotions about it listening to actual Joann Newsom folk music. I think the lesson to be learned here is that like life, your relation to the awkward/mockward lists should be relatively balanced. If it's all on the mockward side, whatever: You're a wannabe with a sick Urban Outfitters wardrobe and maybe you really like Death Cab. But dare, you faux-weirdo you, to take a longer walk on the awkward side of life--the mountain man look might just suit that new tight, French-cuffed flannel shirt you copped over at Fred Segal's. And if it's all on the awkward side, I'm calling the cops. Awk-on.

What the Fuck.

This is ridiculous. Is it boredom? Is there nothing to do over at Google headquarters? Does Google have a headquarters and if this is all they're doing there, why do they have a headquarters? This is just stupid. STUPID. Look at it. What. the. fuck.

(Velasquez, I'm sure, would be thrilled by Google's elaborate multi-colored, kindergarten finger-paint font colors. And the missing O is not clever, it's illegible...I didn't think it could get worse after the laser-logo. Congrats Google, it just did.)

...And So Are Amusement Parks...

Yesterday I had the privilege to participate in one of America's favorite pastimes; a day at the amusement park. I hadn't realized just how strange and surreal amusement parks were before going as a 23-year-old. And if you haven't gone since that middle-school field-trip where you frenched Johnny behind the cotton candy-machine, I suggest you read this before attempting another go-around as an adult.

First, smoking has been drastically reduced. Not only are there designated smoking areas, but these areas are not the cool/gross fish-tank fume ovens that can be found in Dulles airport, these smoking areas are merely sad benches with blue paint rectangled around them, containing haggard tourists spitting phlegm at your feet. My suggestion: bring your own paint and wear a raincoat.

Then there's this whole FlashPass business, a $20 rip off that you can purchase in order to jump ahead in line. This may actually be worth it mind you because the average wait-time on a Tuesday is an hour per ride. I can only imagine what the weekend wait-time is. So as you sit in the infinite snaking lines where there is no smoking, profanity, or drinking, you watch these rich SOBS literally run to the front of the line, dropping cash out of their designer slack pockets on the way. It's quite unnerving and wildly unjust. Bring a schizophrenic friend to entertain you, because the hour and half line will not be 'worth it' after the 45 second ride (yes, even if the ride is equipped with hot flames.)

Speaking of hot flames...new rides boast EXTREMENESS. The X2, which we were told was the "best ride in the park" by a buck-toothed beaver-looking employee, ended up being a 2 and a half hour wait for a ride in which you actually thought you might die. Not in the fun I-kind-of-want-to-test-fate way, but in the -wait-they-spend-so-much-damn-time-trying-to-make-these- rides-look-cool-that-they-may-have-overlooked-safety- kind of fear. Yes, there were smoke and flames and mist, but it ended promptly after I prayed that I get off this ride before it kills me (though I could hardly hear my own life-pleas over the horrible Guns-N-Roses remix blasting from the "cool new speakers for an Xtreme sound experience!") I think the ride was actually 15 seconds. And as it ended, I wondered if it had, in fact, happened at all. The X2 should be called the FUCK YOU! for actually waiting 2 hours to ride it.

Also, the rides have gotten strangely sexual. By this, I mean that the positions people are put in to enjoy a little thrill are very, how do I say, explicit. This one ride, the Tatsu, actually puts people in the doggy-style position and while I enjoyed the ride, I had this sinking feeling that perhaps I was about to endure more of a thrill than I'd signed up for. Another ride had you flat on your back, with your legs splayed out spread-eagle style. For the secret exhibitionist: wear a dress? For everyone else: bring Mace and for the love of GOD wear shorts (see previous blog Shorts Are Scary for more info about the proper use of this garment.)

Also, everyone who works at an amusement park looks like a creature from the Amphibian exhibit at the San Diego Zoo. And the carnie dialect, I have learned, is quite possibly, more difficult to decipher than Greek. Also, fanny packs seem to be a requirement. What else...oh yeah, make sure you buy a cape, T-shirt, bottle-opener, jock-strap, etc. sporting the name of your favorite ride, it's all the rage. And Funnel cakes, it turns out are a rare delicacy--get yours early quick because it will be the longest line you stand in. There's nothing like the deep-fried, sugar-coated, fat ride to make you feel like a true American. Awk-on.