I got the shakes -- hand me that paper

Anger is like my crack; I am horribly, painfully addicted. I love the way it feels coursing through my veins. It enervates me. It makes me cackle gleefully, and unlike other potentially life-damaging chemical addictions, it comes with absolutely no hangover. 

And that is why I cannot help reading the New York Times, no matter how insufferable it becomes. I am especially a fan of the Sunday Styles and, most particularly, the wedding section. It is the worst. 

Who Are These People? An actual kicker line from a one this week: "They discovered they lived only one block apart, which made it convenient for dating." If that's not a recipe for true love, I don't know what is. 

"Hey, you live here? I live here! OMG Let's bang!" 

If that were the real way of the world, don't you think I would have been in some interesting situations with the surly lesbians downstairs by now? Get real.

I wonder how these get written up. My theory is that it's something like a Mad Lib (okay, a form letter, for those of you who have progressed since middle school). You pay the Times whatever obscene amount of money you have to pay to get in there, they send you a questionnaire: Name an Ivy League School. Which brokerage firm employs you currently? Do your parents live in A) FL, B) Manhattan, or C) NJ (JK! we don't care about people who live in NJ!)? A company my father has been president of =  etc. Then they get those darling Times writers to just whip up one of their insightful and extremely well-phrased narratives. Voila -- the announcement of your special day looks just like everyone else's. Congratulations, you do fit in here.

Of course there are some that stand out: The couple who did not run a picture this week. Are they too poor? Or just really ugly? Where are your investigative journalists when you need them?

Another stand-out: those scallywags who were the main feature -- the best friends who ended up getting married. I was going to overlook the fact that they stole their romance from the plotline of every Julia Roberts movie ever, until they actually compared the bride TO JULIA ROBERTS. Smooth move, Freud. 

The worst part, though? The part that really inspired my utmost rage? The in-set picture on the featured couple was not a close-up of their faces, nor a photo of the ring, nor a crowd shot dancing. It was the groom's sneakers -- shiny black Converse. Because he's EDGY. 

Hey! Hey Guys! Do you see these? Do you see my "kicks" -- I am forever young! I am Virile! The Man can't hold ME down! Who wants to see me make out with Erin Brockovich over here?

If you can't wear big boy shoes to your own wedding, maybe it's time to re-think that whole life-long commitment thing -- it can get awfully tedious if you start counting when you're 14.  

I hope that next week features a wedding with a completely un-ironic Paris Hilton theme -- I'm going to need an even bigger hit to feed the addiction.

Why I didn't major in history

There are a lot of reasons why I didn't major in history, and many of them have to do with personal preference: After living in Colonial Williamsburg for 4 years, I decided that colonists, even with their wacky butter churning parties and ale-soaked taverns, were boring. I dislike dealing with numbers of more than two digits, which makes it hard to keep track of important years. I despise the study of government, which always seems to be latching on to history's coattails, and I find the idea of competing in a class with Nora Wolf terrifying.

However much I would like to pretend, though, that I would have done excellently in a history class had I deigned to take one, my recent adventures with a certain historical mini-series have shown the situation to be otherwise.

Things I've learned from the 7-part John Adams TV movie (which, yes, I have been watching on DVD. Alone. All weekend):

1) Paul Giamatti (in the role of John Adams) has a finely-shaped skull.

The man repeatedly removes his wig, and, astute history-movie-scholar that I am, I sit up and take notice. I count this one as an important take-away lesson only because Mr. Giamatti is normally not cited for his looks.

2) Thomas Jefferson definitely went to William and Mary.

According to the great truth-disseminator that is HBO, Thomas Jefferson was painfully awkward, bookish and anti-social. When dragged into conversation with the more verbose Adams, he often directs his comments to the ground rather than to poor Mr. Giamatti. That one of my alma mater's most famous grads would act in such a way was less a history lesson than vindication; William and Mary students have not changed much (for reference, see my previous post, on my inability to interact with strangers). Still, it's one of the few things that, half an hour post-viewing, I can remember, and so I count it as a sign of my great historian-type abilities.

3) South Carolina is a douchebag.

While I have no idea who this Mr. South Carolina delegate is supposed to be, I do know that he is one of John Adams' main frenemies in the Congress, and that HBO has decided he is the "bad guy" (denoted by inordinate amounts of yelling, bitchy eyebrow raising, and a smugness that could only be surpassed by that of a true a Mean Girl).

That's it.

I can't tell you the names of any of the important meetings Mr. Adams attended (and believe me, there were a lot). I have no idea if the man attending the meetings alongside him is the famed brewer Sam Adams (though I like to believe that it is, and drink accordingly during my viewings). It baffles me why New York (the delegate, not the state nor the reality TV star) is so fat and belligerent. When I IMDB'd the show, I was astounded to see that Adams' daughter's name is supposed to be "Nabby." Really? Nabby? -- I hope she lives through episode 2 and goes through a revolution of her own, involving piercings, tattoos and a chain-smoking boyfriend.

Had I any brains for history, I might have picked up some actual facts from this, by all accounts, mostly-accurate depiction of our country's birth. I would have gotten a true picture of all the tensions, motivations, struggles and dramas of the real people of the time.

Instead, I formed snap judgments about their character flaws and pitted them against each other in imaginary dramas (SC and Regina George V. John and Nabby Adams, cage fight/bitch fight extravaganza. If this were on HBO I might actually pay for it.).

And that's why, barred from the hallowed and stately halls of history by my own inadequacies and perversions, I slunk off to the English department to receive a degree in something I was good at: nonsense.

And speaking of on-the-spot come-backs...

(and posting more often): Sometimes I wonder if there is something wrong with the way I was raised. I can never seem to interact with crowds and strangers appropriately; even simple, human reflexes, like saying "hello" or "thank you" dry up in my throat. I often find myself whispering to people, or worse, mouthing things at them. Imagine if a giant goldfish came up to you -- a check-out girl at the grocery store -- you might nod encouragingly as the goldfish gulped away at the air, but in the end, you would never know if the poor thing wanted cash back or was just making small talk about the weather. 

I don't remember any dark moment of my childhood that might have led to this extreme form of social anxiety. Maybe I was secretly raised by evil gypsies, forced to travel the land and deliver sub-par stand-up routines each night of my young life, and I just repressed it like any other unpleasant memory. I doubt it. Perhaps I spent too much time staring at Jim, my fish, or playing with Ninja Turtle dolls, and, like a child raised by wolves, lost any need for language. I don't know. 

It's only important that I discover the cause of this problem so that I can cure it. My inability to speak to strangers has, aside from causing small annoyances like not being able to order in bars, really cut down on the amount of biting sarcasm and well-deserved citizen citations that I can dole out. 

Example: I was standing in line at the worst Dunkin Donuts in the world, when I felt this tapping on my shoulder. I ignore it because who taps people at 9 AM before they've had their coffee? Children? I don't talk to them. The tapping continues, so I turn, and it's a full-grown lady, who tells me, "I could take your wallet right out of your purse!" I froze. Was this a threat? She went on, however, to tell me that she could see my wallet sitting inside my very large purse and that, if she were a thief, she could have grabbed it and been gone. 

I wanted to respond that the joke would be on her because then she'd be stuck with a raggedy wallet, an out-dated Georgia driver's license and a gift certificate to the GAP. But I couldn't tell her that. Nor could I tell her, "Don't worry -- this is just the decoy wallet, I keep my real wallet hidden from criminals like yourself." All I could do was make big eyes at her, nod and remove the wallet from my purse -- thereby keeping it safe in my grip of steel. That story isn't nearly as amusing as the one I imagined -- the one where I had a voice! 

 

There are many people in this world who need my particular brand of tough love. That woman needed someone to tell her that, while she though she was doing a public service, she was really just annoying me and providing fodder for a blog post. The asshole who sits on the stairs in the subway station needs to be told that stairs are for walking on.  The drunk ex-fratty who thinks that massaging your arm as he yells inanities at you will help him get you home from the bar needs to be told that I will stab him if he doesn't stop. If I have no voice, how can I tell these poor, misguided souls that what they are doing is, in fact uncalled-for and, also, that it makes everyone want throw them in a very deep pit? They need these warnings, and I need to cure this serious affliction. 

Suggestions, dear readers, are welcome. 

Life is soooo hard

Hey people. I don't know if anyone reads this blog anymore because I've been so awful about posting regularly. If you do still check occasionally, I'm sorry there has been not been a fresh supply of hilarious anecdotes and charming puns streaming forth from thelaurenbell. 

What can I say? One, I'm lazy. Two, cleverness cannot simply be tapped and harnessed like oil from a fresh Texan field. And, even if it can, I am, unfortunately, no Daniel Day Lewis from There Will Be Blood (does anyone actually remember his character's name in that? I'm pretty sure he was just playing himself.). If I were DDL, it probably wouldn't make any difference because I'd be too busy crushing people and being maniacal -- very time-consuming. 

As it is, I am simply thelaurenbell: a girl so un-clever that she couldn't even come up with a vaguely amusing blog title. No, I had to depend on the glorious cinematic masterpiece that is Maverick to supply my obscure and unrealistic blogger name (it' s the name of the boat, for you philistines who have yet to revel in the genius that puts Mel Gibson on a riverboat gambling binge with Jodie Foster). In fact, I have the same user name (and password, for all you identity thieves out there) for every possible online identity. And my password is definitely a carryover from seventh grade.  

Excuses aside -- I promise to post more often than I have been of late. Feel free to berate and belittle me if I don't. I probably won't be able to think of any good comebacks on the spot anyway.

thelaurenbell's List of Things that should Just Stop Trying...

...because they are so painfully bad.

1) the New York Times:

I was perusing the New York Times this afternoon (read: trying desperately to burn time at work. Why is a work day 8 hours long? Doesn't that seem excessive to anyone else?), and an article about the latest Starbucks opening -- in Jackson Heights, Queens -- caught my eye.

I know it's a stupid topic. That's why I wanted to read it. You don't spend your futzing-around-at-work time reading about the latest breakthroughs in applied physics, as they relate to the economies of third-world countries with lengthy and confusing histories, do you?

My choice of reading material doesn't matter. What matters here is the Times' choice of writing material. 

Now presenting New York Times: The Blog: A Very Special Episode in Phraseology:

From the "City Room" NYT blog: "the debate has been debated on the local blogs like Jacksonheightslife.com and JH Families.com."

Really? The debate has been debated? Not, i don't know, raging, highlighted, represented, or anything that makes sense without using the same freaking word, Mr. NYT? Or, how about an interesting verb -- why can't the debate be gargled or bamboozled or passionately ravished, if we're not really thinking through this whole verb-usage thing? I demand answers.

And another thing (I will never tire of arguing the argument that the times is shite...[see what I did there?]): "the local blogs like Jacksonheights.com..." Is it me, or is something about this little journalistic nugget just terribly, incredibly awkward -- like elderly Uncle Jack showing up at your 14th birthday party...in a speedo? 

Hey! Hey! NYT, have you heard about what all these kids are doing? These Web Logs? They're somewhere on the internets! You believe that?

Why can't they just be "local blogs like J.." or "the local blogs, J...?" There are too many words here, no? We live in the age of speed and concision, NYT; now stop hurting my brain with your inferiority.