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"The outrage is tiresome and deeply hypocritical, in all the tiresome ways you’ve been tired out by before. M.I.A. was illustrating her line, acting out the attitude of the words: performing. Fine, it may not be legal to flip the bird on television, but that’s simply a remnant of the fifties we haven’t shaken. Unless somebody was handing out Xanax with the foam fingers, Lucas Oil Stadium was ringing with the music of profanities last night. More to the point, television viewers were submitted to ad after ad that likened women—negatively—to sofas, cars, and candy. Mr. Winter didn’t have anything to say about that, so I’d like to raise both of my middle fingers to him and anyone who thinks profanity is somehow more harmful to our children than images of violence and misogyny. (My two sons, fourteen and eleven, thought the Fiat ad was corny, so I guess they will be safe without Mr. Winter’s intervention.) I say we get out of The Pretending To Be Moral game altogether and use the Internet for important things like posting pictures of cats looking at croissants and PDFs of sensitive government documents."
—  Sasha Frere-Jones — M.I.A. Shouldn’t Have Apologized (via annaetc)
"Yes. Writing is always a way, for me, of coming to some sort of understanding that I can’t reach otherwise. It forces you to think. It forces you to work the thing through. Nothing comes to us out of the blue, very easily, you know. So if you want to understand what you’re thinking, you kind of have to work it through and write it. And the only way to work it through, for me, is to write it."
—  Abridged excerpt from Believer mag interviews Joan Didion. If you write, or want to, read this. Add to: “People who inspire the fuck out of me.” Not even for who she is, or how she writes, but because of the way she approaches her craft.

{ How do we feel about men in high-heeled shoes? }

History + power v. oppression + women + gender expression + sexuality + fashion + homophobia + etc

The concepts that intersect when it comes to the high-heeled shoe. Thoughts on this, the disservice of the fleeting ‘men in heels’ trends + more for latest Life, etc. at The Genteel. Also, two completely different approaches to men in heels circa now. Which one do you think is less “silly/stupid”? Think about why - if you’re reading this and a man - you wouldn’t wear heels. Exactly.

and…

{ life, etc.: tweet me something, a.k.a. thoughts about social media v. fashion's 'other' stars v. pinterest }

For The Genteel, this week I’m talking about Twitter: how I never thought it would be a thing for me, and if I can seriously see myself using it beyond midlife. Also, there’s a fashion-y angle to it, discussing the once-silent stars now thrust into microblogging movement. So, aspiring PR-types (slash y’all who want to be Twitter-famous) here’s a fashion-y vid about DKNY’s PR gal (…who I wrote about in this…) to think on:

Oh, my Twitter you didn’t ask for? @pliving. Also, there was this thread on my Facebook of your confessions of obsession, so I also joined Pinterest. Still figuring that mess out.

"Some people are saying something with their clothing; others say nothing at all."
—  This, and other thoughts about image & identity for The Genteel. The opening image is a little extreme though, no?
"But what if, instead of making resolutions, we took risks?"
—  Me, for The Genteel. In this week’s Life, etc., I write about last year: not having a job or any money, and what I did in one year that certainly wasn’t a resolution miracle.

the currency of happiness, pt. 3

Life, etc.: Optimism is (Still) the New Black—>

For The Genteel, my column this week is a continuation of my own, probably self-indulgent (not - I promise) exploration of what happiness means to me/us/you/them. This time, it’s more me looking at the concept of “optimism,” which I guess is like being…optimistic?…that you + me will be happy. I was once told you can’t base your faith upon your sight. I think a lot of this has to do with that.

friends forever?

“Is adulthood the fork in the road for childhood friends who feel like they’ve morphed into The Odd Couple?” »

My latest for The Genteel. About best friends, and friends who change, and friends who want nothing more than to make it work. Sometimes, it’s not about thinking or believing you’ve made strides. Instead, it’s about showing yourself that you have. And that, as it turns out, happens one day at a time.

love letters from strangers

“Met you today under less than ideal circumstances, and there’s really nothing I can say that will let you know who you are or who I am……just because.

When I saw you, that exact moment, is lost to me, because I didn’t fall in love or crush or whatever with you for a little while. There was no thunder, there were tiny sparks from an exploding pinecone in a comfy fire, landing on my cheeks and eyelids, making me shy with blushing and brushing to escape the tiny singes.

You’re beautiful - there’s something about your features that came together for me under the harsh fluorescent lights, and just……made me clumsy, and ashamed, and awe-struck, and excited, and happy - because now I know there’s a man like you out there.

For today, and tonight, and tomorrow, I’m going to ghost you on Facebook like a complete creep, and think about impossible ways I could say hello, start a conversation, try and grab a tiny spark before it singes my cheek and try to light something in your heart, but it won’t happen. I want you to know that you’re special, and sweet, and for all of my bitchiness and jaded Torontofagseenitall attitude, I wanted to hold your hand in spite of its flaws, and hoped that you could look beyond mine. “

I read Craigslist Missed Connections like it’s hard news. Most of it is bullshit, and annoyingly vague, but sometimes - sometimes - you come across something so vulnerable, and so real, that your heart skips a beat and you find meaningless faith in men you don’t even know. Who is this guy? Who is he talking to? Why can’t it work? Who knows. But the thought is beautiful. The idea is lovely. The emotions are raw. See the post here, but by the time you click, it will probably be long gone, just like this moment.

a stranger asked me a question about love

On Formspring. “And sure, you can “be in” love just like you can “be in” a pool; it’s a mass that can drown you, and give you that heart-aching fear for life and breath the moment it’s happening. It can drown out your thoughts and consciousness of the surrounding. But then you can get out. Sometimes with or without help. Before its too late. Or you can keep swimming. Or you can choose never to get into the pool at all. But that would be like never feeling sunlight on your face. And who wants that?”

ghosts, again

So, do you believe in ghosts? he asked me as I lay across the floor, organizing things. I’m not sure, I looked up at him. Have you ever seen one?

No. But they’re real. I believe it.

A few days later, I asked him about love. If it was possible to be in love with someone you’ve never met, or known, or to just fall out of love with someone you’ve spent entire lifetimes with.

I’m not sure, he said. I’ve never been fortunate enough to experience that. Or it. But I know it’s there, I believe in it.

Like ghosts?

I guess, he said.

I knew.

"The only thing more elusive than the search for love is the search for happiness."
—  When the chance came to contribute to the new Aggregation Magazine, an online collection of stories based on a collection of links, I knew exactly what I wanted to write about: the allure of happiness. We’re flooded on a daily basis of what happiness should look like; what it should mean, how it should feel. But where does the self come into play? How does one define it? I’m not sure I’ve answered any of these questions, but I hope these links bring you one step closer to doing so.

Others links that didn’t make my cut in the piece (too recent and you’ve probably already heard about because the media obsessed over it for about a week), but are worth a look nonetheless:

Looking for happiness? Try Bhutan. Boston Globe. 
The world’s happiest countries. Forbes.

ghosts in the attic

Yesterday, over eggs and pancakes, I brought up a relic. A remarkably difficult, Caulfield-esque relic that still haunts the tiniest parts of my mind. It wasn’t love, or even lust. But it was something. I remember when I was 17 and just got an all-access pass to the open road and dad’s mini-van, and after driving around all night, asked a friend over McPancakes, “Who’s the one person you wish it had worked out with? You know, if you had the chance to make it work, who would you choose?”

As the years moved forward and the friend stayed behind, the moment never left. What a question to ask yourself at 17. I had only ever “seriously paid attention” to one person, obsessing over countless others without cause and without effect. What did I really know about being haunted by failed attempts or fleeting lovers? The dread of having the most intense sex of your life knowing it might not happen again for years, or forever, with him, or with anyone else, seems like a more favourable ghost to walk with now that I know better. But then there’s that one that gets under your skin. That might not necessarily live up to his own memory in your mind, or understand you, or even feel the way you would feel back, but the one that remains all the same.

I periodically think of him, like a reminder that it’s time for my weekly dose. The ghost glides across my hardwood floors at the same time, too. No, I don’t creep, and I don’t stalk. I don’t need to. But I do wonder. And I do wish. For what? Maybe that we would have worked out. Maybe that I had that chance to make it work. Maybe that I’d let it go, or that he’d let me go on.

So yes, I asked myself that same question yesterday, over eggs and pancakes. Not out loud. But to the parts of him that live within me. And I know that I know better than that. But he was here tonight.