The Flowers are Still Standing

Via
I spill coffee, wine, and queso on myself daily. I'm scared to go camping because bears will sniff out my awkwardness and attack me while I sleep. I, in turn, will respond by flailing into the tent while struggling to escape, and accidentally wrapping myself up like a giant burrito, or a fly in a spider web of my own design. For me, taking off a pair of gloves is less like an En Vogue video, and more like an I Love Lucy excerpt. Yep. I'm "That Girl."
Shit like this amazes me.

A Triangle More Perplexing Than That One in Bermuda

So, scientists have discovered that a woman's most mystical place, may not exist. Again.

"A sexual quest that has for years baffled millions of women — and men — may have been in vain. A study by British scientists has found that the mysterious G-spot, the sexual pleasure zone said to be possessed by some women but denied to others, may not exist at all.
The scientists at King’s College London who carried out the study claim there is no evidence for the existence of the G-spot — supposedly a cluster of internal nerve endings — outside the imagination of women influenced by magazines and sex therapists. They reached their conclusions after a survey of more than 1,800 British women."

Haven’t we seen this study performed more than a dozen different ways with a dozen different results over the last 50 years? Why are nerve endings within the human body more illusive to scientists than dark matter? And who are the intrepid field agents “gathering data” on this seemingly unquantifiable topic? My guess? These guys:

You May Develop a Leathery Tail

There are so many terrible commercials for this birth control pill that it's tough to pick a favorite. However, I'm partial to this one. Here's why: A.) One of the women has clearly been having near-suicidal bouts of depression mixed with agoraphobia. This is quickly glossed over by the group's alpha female. B.) Girls hang out at trendy rooftop nightclubs and talk about PMDD. Now you know, boys! And when we go to the bathroom, it's just an excuse to exchange medical journals on the topic. C.) What about this ad would ever, ever, ever lead a gal to want to put this hormone-based Hiroshima in her body? It's crazy talk. They might as well have run the ad for Annuale.

You Can Jump Into the Fire

Alex Carnevale's lovely post over at This Recording got me thinking about the past decade. I came into the 2000s at 19, going on 20. I left them at 30. In college, I had a cell phone, but only because my mom gave me one before I went away to school. A cell phone meant that, even if I was kidnapped and raped and thrown in a ditch (her worst case scenario), I could call and let her know. Now, there are too many ways to let people know you're possibly a headless corpse wandering I-95. Such is progress. We adapt.

I graduated college eight months after 9/11. The "Iraq" war started right when I got my first job at a newspaper. I moved to Austin the day after Bush was re-elected. It's strange, all these milemarkers in life measured against the horrible things that rode in the backseat with us.

Are you perpetually afraid you're going to lose your wallet? I am. When you grab for it and it's gone, that sinking feeling in your gut is a powerful feeling. This decade had a lot to do with adapting, as well as balancing a foggy daydream of youthful invincibility with waking, walking terror.

A do-over, Carnevale asks. I learned a lot in my 20s, and made bad decisions and mistakes and told out-and-out lies to get out of things, like the people that run our country do. I also had a really fun time and met some of my best friends. In the past decade, music, for the most part, got really bad again, which means the ten-teens can only get better. Well, historically.

Whew. Let's bring the lights back up. Please enjoy this video of a cat whose crazy owner forces it to eat with a fork. Yes, the Internet is a vortex and we will reach the end soon.

Forever 21 Has It

Style highlights from Roseanne.

This Time I'm Gonna Be a Free Woman

Comin' at ya like a Northern bullet. 

Like Those Nicotine Patch Night Terrors, But Real

Wilton Manors, Sweaty Updo's and my former residence, is a quirky city that spoons Fort Lauderdale. Census data shows that it has approximately 1270% more gay men per capita than the national average. This means, basically, that the grocery stores blast Donna Summer, there are no women's restrooms anywhere, and "Female Illusionist" is everyone's night job. You also learn that no illusionist wants to be just a woman; he wants to create the largest, most inflated representation of female characteristics imaginable. It gets a little creepy. It also gets a little cutthroat.



Enter scene: Twat LaRouge. Why fight the crowds as just another man-turned-diva with size GGs, Dolly Parton hair, and giant, Florida Turnpike employee finger nails? Especially when you can take the road less travelled: Giant striptease drag puppet.