Sweet Tweets!
Twitter is an interesting beast. When I first started an account years ago ( a.k.a. I was on twitter before you so… COME AT ME BRAH! I AM the internet. WHAT?) it was slim pickins’ on who to follow, so, naturally I clogged my feed with anybody and everybody who advertised with an @ before his name. Then Twitter started recommending other “celebrities” based on my “preferences,” and who was I to shun it’s intelligence? I was content sending 140 characters about crazy homeless people on the bus out into this void where no one would ever read them. My twitter account just grew and grew like a cancerous hell-beast, and my follower list grew too, full of spam-bots and porn-bots and doctor-bots and basically any -bot you can think of. This being said, my twitter feed sucks more nuts every day, but there is nothing to be done, it has snowballed into something bigger than me. I think I need to hire an intern to streamline my account or something. That’s like a social media, digital community manager, assistant role, right?
Instead of un-following Martha Stewart and Lauren Conrad and Kim Kardashian (worst tweeter in the world) and DJ Pauly D (better than Kim K. but still…) I have made vain attempts at overshadowing their shit-storm of sponsored tweets for Xenadrine and cellulite cream by rapidly following local comedians and regular comedians and members of the Upright Citizen’s Brigade, but the thing is, real people, with funny shit to say, they just can’t tweet fast enough to keep up with the evil robot tweeting about protein shakes for Vanessa Manillo. It’s honestly just insulting to anyone with a 6th grade education to think that any “digital marketing professional” would assume a poorly written sentence with the #sponsored tag after it might motivate me to lift half a finger to find out about the product…I don’t think I would even want to use toilet paper anymore if Brody Jenner endorsed it: “Dude, I love wiping my ass with @quiltedangelsoft! I’m doing it now! #sponsored”
UGH.
Don’t get it twisted, I really like Twitter and I agree that it has changed the way we transmit and receive information. (Comm. 101 textbook talk right thurr) I got mad respeck’ for the shit! It’s a tool of the FUTURE! All I’m saying is once you trash your Twitter account there’s almost no turning back. Despite my struggle I still chirp at my 254 followers, even though probably less than 10 are listening.
I always like to capitalize on a captive audience, so I’ve shared some of my recent twitterings below, and since there’s no character limit on this B, I’ve taken the liberty of adding some context:
SERIOUSLY! Skinny people are too serious…that’s why you were funny…because you were fat…like Star Jones…she got skinny and shit got weird…she married that gay dude and started fighting Barbara Walters on The View. I don’t care how tight that tummy tuck is honey! NO ONE PUTS BABS IN A CORNER! Not to mention fat to skinny celebs all look weirdly sunken-in and droopy-dog-like.
Just a truth bomb. Too bad it’s 2011. Oh well, the world is gonna end in a year anyways, right?
Before you could secretly waste money alone in front of your computer you could secretly waste money alone on your couch, in front of your TV, on the phone: Chia Pets, Muzzy, Thigh-Master (BTW: I’ve always wanted one of those) etc. etc.
Still waiting on an answer to that one…if you watch the reunion specials you’ll know what I’m talking about! I thought body oil was exclusively found on the sets of low-budge porno, get it together, BRAVO.
Not ALWAYS true…you can know the person pretty well…but you totes wanna M.O. (apologies if i’ve recently “liked” your boyfriend’s status on Facebook…you probs need to stop being so literal anyways.)
My personal favorite because it elicited a response from a random asshole! YES! Well, EvilGenius1000, you’re right, I am alone. But at least I’m not giving some nerd in a Dorito-crumbed Eagles jersey head on a moldy couch while he accidentally dribbles salsa off his chip into my hair and searches Twitter for tweets about “football jerseys.” Just saying.
Livin’ Rent Free With The ‘Rents.
The other day I realized that I could probably afford to move out of my parents house if I just stopped spending money on anything but life essentials: like tampons…and rice-a-roni. So theoretically, I could be sitting in some moldy studio apartment with one window eating rice-a-roni and watching youtube videos on my iPhone.
Welp, that sounds SHITTY. I’d rather invest my greenbacks on Kardashian Kollection sunglasses at Sears (yup.)
i look JUST like a Kardash!
Moving back in with my parents was one of those double-edged sword decisions. But, I shouldn’t give myself TOO much credit, free food and cable pretty much seals any deal with me. The reason they make all those movies like Grandma’s Boy is because it’s totally TRUE. You move back in with your parents “temporarily” but then you get comfortable and six-months turns into a year and pretty soon you’re coming up on the 3 year mark…fuck. Time flies when you’re livin’ rent free, let me tell you.
When faced with this living situation you realize how to navigate your relationship with your “roommates” and you tell yourself all the time that it isn’t THAT BAD. In fact, in some cultures children are SUPPOSED to live with their parents until they are 30! But, then again, you aren’t Filipino so that’s not really a rationalization. You forget the little things that made living on your own worth the price of a monthly electric bill…like taking bong rips on your couch….in your underwear. Or cleaning the house to gangsta rap on blast….in your underwear.
Living with your parents is kinda like becoming accustomed to living with one leg after you’ve had two your whole life. It’s less convenient and you have to figure out new systems to get the same shit done but it’s do-able, and you’ll get by. I also think it’s great preparation for marriage, having to live with someone who you don’t always like, having to sneak your shopping bags into the house after spending money you are supposed to have been saving, trying (and failing) at appearing sober upon arriving home post wino lunch with the girls…or, way more likely in my case, a sunday beer picnic.
just like the good 'ol days!
The day I left for college my Dad pulled the ‘ol “turn your room into an office” move. Better luck next time, homie. These days it’s hard to imagine life any other way than eating “your food”, getting lectured on Sunday mornings for the drunk-cooking mess I have no recollection of making in “your kitchen,” fighting over “your TV” (you want the U.S. Open and Obama and I want Bad Girls Club and Real Housewives), getting scolded for leaving my laundry in a pile by “your washing machine” or the time you wouldn’t talk to me for 3-days because I attempted to put a leash on “your cat” and take her for a walk. Never a dull moment! Despite being completely absurd at times, I really think living together as adults has had it’s precious moments…almost as precious as those dolls, not quite.
accurately precious.
Dad, you are totally gonna miss me when I eventuallyyyyy fly the coop.
Is This Real Life? Dinner Cruise Edition.
A few weeks ago I went on a “lavish” dinner cruise on the San Francisco Bay. These cruises run about 90 bucks, which is why I obviously made sure my maiden voyage was comped courtesy of a good friend who just so happens to snap the “professional” photos of all the overdressed lovers in front of a fake buoy as they board. I’m always convinced that these types of photos are not only souvenirs, but they also serve as documentation, just in the event that this seemingly unsinkable buffet barge were to go down and everyone on board perished.
Date Night?
Romance was in the air....
Anyways—-
It was PMA (pretty much amazing.) And by PMA, you know what i’m getting at: like the tackiest wedding EVER of the people you hope never to know.
It still boggles my half-J.A.P mind (thanks a lot DAD) that some people actually go on these things with a night of true romance in mind. Trust me, they do! We had the pleasure of joining about 50 couples ages 21-81 on their anniversary nights (and two bachelorette parties in the mix for good measure) Trust me again, the DJ, a goofy looking 50-something year-old dude in a Hawaiian shirt who goes by possibly the worst emcee name in history: DJ MR. SPIN, announced these happy occasions before playing the romantic song dedications (read: Goo Goo Dolls and Tim McGraw) In between these odes to true love he announced the OSHA rules and regs. for the buffet, which really gets me in the mood.
"please, for health reasons, use a fresh plate each time you visit the buffet"
We were seated at table 12, for two. To our right was the bridge and tunnel romance fest, and behind us, the bachelorettes and their nautical themed bridal parties were obnoxiously giggling while taking pictures with the Mexican buffet staff (it’s part of a scavenger hunt!) We “daintily nibbled” on the decadent buffet and took in some of the most amazing people watching I have ever been privy to:
There was this one couple straight out of Sixteen and Pregnant (minus the pregnancy part…but that probs. became part of the equation later that night.) She was dressed to the nines in Forever 21 couture and 6 inch stilettos, when she got chilly, he offered her his oversized sport coat as they both awkwardly sipped on a bottle of Moet. This dude pulled out the STOPS. My idea of 21 year old romance was a five-dollar pitcher of Bud Light at trivia night, but then again I’ve always had questionable standards. Icing on top: when they did a solo turn on the floor as the DJ played “their song”: it’s just meeee and youuuuu…and all of the people…with nothing to do…nothing to lose…(by Lifehouse, I just had to google that. Ew. I feel dirty.) They probably had their first kiss to it in his Ford Explorer in the parking lot of the football stadium after homecoming. Ok, I have to stop because my bitterness is becoming apparent.
So, then there was the middle aged double date next to us, which seemed tame enough, minus the bedazzled kitten heels and Kate Gosselin c. 2006 hair-dos. It was all pretty PG until they ordered a few more rounds of Cornoas and DJ MR. SPIN decided to turn the beat around. Once he flipped the switch on his multi-colored disco light and pumped up Beyonce’s “Single Ladies,” I knew shit was about to get weird. I have never seen, nor did I ever think I WOULD see a 60-year-old straight man, who looks like he coaches football at some high school in the ‘burbs, grind with his wife to this song. Just a note to all potential suitors out there reading this: you’ll never have to do that for me to keep the spark alive. ever.
If you like it then you should'a put a ring on it boss!
After a bottle of wine and a full plate of chocolate covered strawberries (all you can eat, baby!) I didn’t think things could get MORE hilarious…ohhh but they did. The dance floor flooded with the most bizarre mixture of people when “Apple Bottom Jeans” came on (DJ MR. SPIN kills it.) There were Filipino grannies tootin’ it and bootin’ it next to thugged out homies and their girls getting hella low, next to the 60-year-old should-be football coach who was casting an invisible fishing line out to one of the bachelorettes who caught it in her mouth….and then….the Electric Slide started…and obviously at this point we were in no position to fight it anymore, so we got up…and we did it. And it was magic.
The dance floor, life's equalizer.
Bottom line—Buffets will never be romantic, but the buffet level of the California Hornblower might truly be the only JUDGEMENT FREE ZONE left on earth.
decadent.
The Time I Took Candy From A Stranger
It was late January of 2010 and I had just barely made it to the airport for my early morning, non-stop flight home to San Francisco from Boston, where I had spent the previous 48 hours pretending I was still in college.
It was Sunday, bloody Sunday, I was in airport zombie mode, where you prepare for the flight as if you’re never gonna land: dropping 20 bucks on a pre-packaged sandwich, 50 bucks on tabloids all with the same cover story, Mentos and a bottle of VASA water (the official airport spring water. WHY?!), I was in such a daze I easily became distracted by a Cinnabon novelty, fuck it i’m still on vacation for the next 6 hours, I’m gonna eat it.
75 bucks poorer and a dry turkey sandwich with wilted lettuce and a mayonnaise packet richer I boarded the flight.
You know the feeling of doom as you walk towards your seat on a plane, holding your breath as you get closer to it, looking at all the obese or baby bullets you’ve already dodged praying it can’t get worse? Or, when you’re already seated and you watch the guy who might maybe be like a 1/4 Indian walk down the aisle towards you, and you think: PLEASE DON’T BE SEATED IN 23B! OH SHIT YOU DON’T HAVE ANY CARRY ON! PLEASE, NO! (don’t even START with me because you KNOW you’ve thought that.)
Anyways, I get to my seat and much to my surprise two normal looking lady strangers were already seated, buckled-in and reading the in-flight magazine (HORIZONS) in the seat back pockets in front of them, I think they were even perusing the selection of beverages. First timers? Little did I know we were about to learn EVERYTHING about each other’s lives. AWWWWKKKKWAAARRRRD.
I have a love/hate relationship with strangers, mostly hate. I hate when people butt into my conversation when I’m waiting in line for the ladies room or something with a nugget of info: “It’s on 5th street, couldn’t help but over hear!” It’s like… you’re not being helpful, you’re just annoying me because if I wanted to know exact directions I would have ASKED. AND WHAT ELSE DID YOU OVERHEAR, BITCH?!
I admit, I’m guilty of butting into a conversation, the last time I did I was waiting in line at Safeway and these two gay guys were debating the cover of Life & Style Magazine and wondering how Amber from Teen Mom tried to kill herself…I just couldn’t stand to hear their struggles anymore so I had to intervene with some knowledge, and I assure you, it was well received.
Ok, back to this flight. Everyone knows the kiss of death is chatty seat-mates. I’m not sure if it was because during the course of the trip I became deathly hungover and I just wanted to be held and consoled and assured that I wasn’t going to die aboard the 747, or because I was still arguably drunk when I sat down, but this time it was different, I loved my chatty seat-mates! I can’t even remember their names, but I felt like I was on an episode of Tyra, sharin’ stories, choppin’ it up…SISTAZ DOIN IT FOR THEM-SELVES!
So “Aisle Seat” was in her mid to late 40′s, had been a housewife in suburban Massachusetts, got married too young, but once her kids went off to middle school she had regained control of her life and was living her dream as a makeup artist at Sephora in the Natick mall. She had never been to California before, but the company was sending her to some classes at headquarters for a few days, all expenses paid! Girl was ready to get her fake lashes and her PARTY on! (After she ditched the turtleneck sweater)
“Middle Seat” was in her early 30′s, pharma sales, recently had come out of a bitter divorce from her cheating, lying-sack-a-shit, no good, controlling husband who she had married, against her parents will at age 18. When she went to pawn her ring in the aftermath, she was informed it was fake and not even worth 100 bucks. WHOA. DRAMZ. I was eating this shit UP. She had contracted swine flu due to the extreme stress, moved back in with her parents and while she was sick in bed had met her NEW man….on plentyoffish.com. She was headed to California for the first time as well for a job interview with a bio-tech company.
“Window Seat” (me) didn’t really have any good stories, I was just a drunk, jaded, recent college grad with a lame internship. Luckily, since I was from California they both assumed I totally knew like all these celebs and I drove around in a convertible and my life was basically like Lauren Conrad’s on Laguna Beach. At one point I confided to “Aisle Seat” (momma bear) that I felt really sick from my hangover and she gave me a Tums and ordered me a ginger ale from the flight attendant and even offered to switch seats with me so I could make a swift exit to the bathroom if necessary. Talk about livin’ the DREAM!
It was the shortest cross country flight on record. Between swapping mags, and stories, dating tips, life advice, makeup tricks, I even think “Middle Seat” recommended a bra from Victoria’s secret at one point. I hated who I was in the moment, but I loved it at the same time. Just a couple’a gals livin’ life! Then the plane landed, and we wished each other luck and rolled our suitcases down the jet-bridge and went our separate ways. It was as if I didn’t know your ex-husband cheated on you with a stripper or that your son had been suspended for bringing a pellet gun to 6th grade and now none of the other Mom’s looked at you the same way.
Did I just have a one-flight stand? I kinda felt used.
BUS! MAGIC BUS!
Public transportation is everyone’s favorite thing to bitch about, myself included. I realize, much to my creative chagrin, that probably 90% of my tweets are about some hoodrat bullshiz goin’ down on San Francisco’s Muni at any given moment. Perhaps this is because I spend the majority of my life on the bus, but I’d like to think that it’s more so based off the fact that the people in this town are the most shameless group of hell-beasts in the entire world.
See, the thing about public transportation is it forces people who would never touch each other with a 10-foot pole to stand next to each other in a 10-foot tube, sometimes, (especially on rainy days for some horrifying, coincidental reason) so close that you are forced to know the scent of the other. Clearly this is a recipe for some of the rawest human interactions since the first season of Real World, I’m talking straight up Heather B. shit here!
Viral internet hoopla has definitely brought the amazing theatrics that us commuters are treated to on a regular basis to the public, but as a Muni Lifer I’ve seen the stuff that was too hot for TV…
BY FAR the WORST thing that has ever happened to me (in the history of my life?) was on the 47 Van Ness, rainy winter day, c. 2002. Bus packed like sardines, homeless people sippin’ on King Cobra’s in the front seats. Clearly not phased by what was occurring, they were toothlessly jeering at all of us poor, unfortunate souls trapped in the humid steel trap about to pass out from the sight and smell of yellow diarrhea mysteriously covering a row of seats. Pretty sure that bomb was worse than the one about to detonate in Speed, not even Keanu could have saved us.
Best bus to make fast friends on: 14 Mission. This dude's girlfriend told us a story about how she was on her way to turn herself in at the Misison Police Station. Then he proceeded to ask me for my #. "THIS IS A PHONE NUMBER ARREST BABY!"
Then there was my friend, “Marshmallow Meth Face,” I would usually encounter him on the N-Judah where he would board at Civic Center with his Dora the Explorer baby stroller full of trash, dirty Reebok sneakers and other detritus. Rain or shine he wore a make-shift poncho and was always giggling uncontrollably displaying his 3 remaining rotting teeth, his face was covered in scabs. I really had a chance to study this guy, by the time the train was heading towards the Ballpark stop, and most of the commuters had emptied out in the Financial District, it would be me and him alone in the car, this was when he would usually begin to “roast” his marshmallows. He would rustle around in the stroller of doom, elbow deep in his belongings and procure a bag of mini marshmallows, I was always real impressed because they were never generic brand, always Jet Puffed. High class. He would proceed to take a handful and mash them together in his greasy, dirt caked paws, then pull out a lighter (I assume the same one he used to set numerous crack rocks ablaze) and he would quite literally roast the marshmallows in the back of the N-Judah, laughing the day away. Quite ingenious actually. I wonder what ever happened to my campfire companion…
not amused.
Of course not everything is marshmallows and diarrhea on public transportation. Some of the most near-apocalyptic, rage-blackout moments have occurred to me aboard the bus. This post would not be complete without a quick list of my Muni Pet Peeves…
-When people cause a huge, embarassing stink by yelling “BACK DOOR” when all you have to do is STEP DOWN and the doors will automatically open.
-When people cause a huuuuge fuckin’ stir, climbing over other seats, causing mild concussions, hitting small children with their TimBuk2 and Chrome bags in order to get to the door in time for the next stop when the bus is STILL IN MOTION ON ITS WAY TO THE STOP. When was the last time you saw someone not make it out in time once the bus reached the stop? NEVER.
-When the bus driver awkwardly announces all the landmarks at each stop to a train full of local commuter-zombies, who have yet to sufficiently caffeinate themselves, at 8am on a Monday. “Civic Center, Asian Art Museum, Davies Symphony Hall, Opera House.” Look, I understand you’re just trying to make your own day a little less miserable, but NO ONE on this train is on his way to La Boheme, alright?!
-Pink “Thank You” bags full of raw squids and other things that I DON’T need to smell. (Think Borat, wild chicken on the Subway scene)
-Ok, this isn’t really a pet peeve, more of a mystery, but why do ghetto ass dudes who are clearly friends always sit in the very last row of the bus on complete opposite ends like they’ve never met??
one of my best mobile captures to date aboard the last 38 geary, outbound, some friday night awhile ago.
God, there is just so much to say about public transportation as a social phenom. I could go on for days…but….
…I seriously have to catch the bus. Not kidding.
-
Patriotism Might Be Vegan!
I guess we can thank American Apparel for delivering well packaged, trendy, ironic patriotism to young, jaded, metropolitan liberals (read: hipsters). Personally, I don’t really care if you actually believe that these colors don’t run, or if you weren’t one of those crazy people popping blood vessels, screaming in the street after Osama’s capture (WE GOT HIM!) I just love a good theme party, and this past weekend, I sure did got one!
The red, white and blue was flowing like it was 1976 all over again, and in a city like San Francisco, where we have the highest per capital Kombucha consumption in the country and people hand out fliers for things like “naked yoga,” this couldn’t be a more curious sight.
But the more I think about it, fuck, I love America….my America, and I’m not ashamed! This place might not be the gun toting, McNugget bellied, women born from men’s ribs (mmm…ribs) America, but it still counts!
My America is the place where cops simply tell you to cross the street when they come across you rolling a joint outside the movie theater before you go indulge in the latest Tyler Perry hit ( don’t judge me, it was ONE time), where a 40oz. of premium malt beverage can be enjoyed in plain sight in the out of doors on a sunny day. My America is where hundreds of thousands of “Dykes” ride off into the sunset (some of them topless) on motorcycles every year at the end of June, where grown men casually stroll naked along the beach at the foot of the Golden Gate Bridge (I’m supporting freedom of expression here, not old man balls, FYI.)
This is a place where homeless guy’s piss their pants after being given one too many free beers out of the kindness of happy strangers and then repay the favor by seductively dancing for the masses:
San Francisco, God damn you sometimes, you and your pagan tree rituals, and overpriced vegan baby food, the rude homeless hippy-punks on Haight Street and the trendy charcuteries and speakeasy’s. God Damn you, but I love you, you’re my America and you better bet your Yankee Doodle Dandy that I’m gonna tip a Bud Diesel to you in my thrifted red-white-and blue cut-offs in Dolores Park on the fourth of July!
Because, let’s face it, It ‘aint so bad bein’ a patriot in my America.
Paris Seeking Nicole
My friends in this town are dropping like flies, leaving me for greener pastures, hotter boyfriends, higher paying jobs and warmer summers. I guess this is what happens in your mid-twenties, a mass-exodus, a second wave attempt to “find oneself,” because apparently, we all failed to find anything at the bottom of all those handles of Jack during college like we thought we would.
I’m a pretty classic misanthrope (which is basically a nice way of saying I’m a judgmental asshole.) So I’ve been thinking about how to beef up my fast dwindling “crew,” obviously I want to cast the widest net possible and explore my options, so, I wrote the following Craigslist post soliciting for a new BFFL.*
I am straight, 5’3”, sassy, brunette who occasionally walks the line when it comes to off- color humor and hipster fashion trends. I am looking for a new BFFL in San Francisco. If you meet the following requirements please send am e-mail so we can arrange a screening session. (Marina Babes, Club Rats, Dykes on Bikes and Suicide Girls need not apply)
-Must never refer to other friends as “lady” or “babe”
-Must be reasonably up to date on pop culture and tabloid trends (ie: appreciates a good NeNe Leaks impression, knows the hypnotic ways of Keyboard Cat )
-Passable knowledge of professional sports (excluding MLS and UFC) Note: knowledge of pro sports must not surpass knowledge of pop culture.
-When in a car there is a 90% chance you will initiate a dance party and/or sing-along (mandatory when listening to MJ)
-Eats meat. Or at least bacon. Or at least IN N OUT when hungover. (could be negotiable)
-Eats food in general.
- Has never been a member of the Junior Leauge.
-Wouldn’t hesitate to participate in a Case Race, Keg Stand, Dizzy Bat, etc. no matter what grade of beer is being consumed.
-Drinks beer.
- Agree’s with this statement: Saturday’s are often best spent day drinking.
-Able to “get ready” in an hour or less.
-Doesn’t scare easily.
-Reasonable amount of hood-rat #swag (when appropriate)
-Knows all the words to at LEAST one rap song.
- Understands a night out will never be bottle service and techno beats at Ruby Sky (or equivalent venue)
-On “girls night” you will refrain from dry humping every balding turd at the bar in effort to get a free drink.
-Recognizes that some of the best conversations ever take place with homeless people.
-Willing to ride the bus and/or walk
-Acknowledges that jokes about rape/race/dead babies can be funny
-Always carries a road soda
- Similar sized/willing to allow occasional extended borrowing of clothing items.
-Appreciates art/music/culture but not in a pompus, thick framed glasses, bali-shag type way
…I’ll let you know if I think of anything else.
****JULY 6TH 2011**** i thought of some other things:
-when a lewd celeb/politician sext goes viral you always check out the junk.
-no history of violent crimes (jail stints will be evaluated on a case by case basis
-unsure about this whole vampire thing (ie: you aren’t on edward or the other guy’s team…)
-oh and if you have a car…that would be great.
Looking forward to matching friendship bracelets in our near future!
Sincerely,
C. Meyers
*So, I didn’t actually post this on craigslist…because that would be really fucking weird. But part of me is severely tempted, in the event it goes live, any and all replies will be posted here. TRUST.
Oh, and if you’re reading this, and you live in the area, call me…. :-/
