Bitchy Rant #1509

I've Got Standards, For Literature.

In order to make a novel irresistible to me, there are only a few simple criteria that need to be met:

A] Reference historical apocrypha, legend, or unsolved mystery
B] Reveal a hidden "factual" foundation to the legend
C] Insert enough legit-sounding details to make it sound academic and well-researched. Add invented footnotes and citations to taste.
D] Top with a long-running international conspiracy theory to add spice.
E] Shake well and publish.

This shit is like crack to me. In fact, I spent all of yesterday reading "The Historian," a bestseller from a few years ago that squarely hits all of these nails on the head. Like The Da Vinci Code, but with better characterization and less plagiarism.











With visions of Dracula and Cold War-era intrigue still dancing in my head, I stopped by the library this afternoon, intent on finding something similarly titillating and addictive for my winter evenings. Hopping off the bus, I congratulated myself for choosing the public library instead of temptation-laded used bookstores.

(New Year's Resolution: save money/no more book-buying until I finish the gazillion unread books I've got at home.)

But my pleasure at this burst of self-discipline did not last long. "Maybe it's just the reading habits of this neighborhood," I told myself. "The librarians are just doing their job. All of these stacks of trashy novels- this is just what the folks in this neighborhood have requested, it's what they want to read."

Making my way down the few aisles of the fiction section, these were the plots I saw in 90% of the books:

-Romance novel masquerading as midlife existential crisis: marriage falls apart; woman takes risks, finds her true self, and discovers the love of her life.

-Romance novel masquerading as historical fiction: life in 16th-century England/14th-century Italy/1st-century BCE Egypt is stifling for beautiful, headstrong woman; she takes risks, finds her true self, and discovers the love of her life.

-Romance novel masquerading as murder mystery or thriller. Man has been wronged (by a woman or a male comrade); he seeks revenge, takes risks, and discovers the true love of his life.


Also:
-Books that have been made into Oscar-winning movies and/or have been featured on Oprah.
-Required reading for high school literature class.
-Chuck Palahniuk.

HOLY FUCK, IS IT SO HARD TO FIND A DECENT BRAINLESS BOOK THESE DAYS? I do not want to read another 200-page book in which a shabby adventure plot serves as the vehicle for an undercooked, one-dimensional romance with sex scenes that read like junior high fan fiction.

If I wanted that, I could've just gone to Borders.

I wouldn't even mind that every single one has the same female character and the same male character that do the same things with only the most minute variations. I wouldn't mind all the stories of suburban adultery and tortured masculinity and leading ladies afflicted with Princess Buttercup-syndrome. I could maybe even handle the fact that there's not a single queer, not even a stereotyped one, to be found. I could do this, if I could be assured in any way of literary and artistic merit to be found in their pages.

But since I found no such assurance, I settled for an Umberto Eco book and slunk back out the library doors. Next time, I'll just play it safe and stick with nonfiction.



Eyes in a book, ears to the street,




Jenn H.

Bitchy Rant #1209.2

Ben Gibbard's Comeuppance

Until he died, I was only vaguely aware of Heath Ledger. I thought he was really good in “Brokeback Mountain,” and I was excited to see him play The Joker in “The Dark Knight.” I’ve seen “10 Things I Hate About You” more times than I care to recall. I even watched “Roar” when it was on TV. But when a classmate told me he had died, I was shaken. I could barely recall that day’s lecture because I spent most of the hour thinking about Heath Ledger.

Later, I wondered why Ledger’s death was such a big deal to me. Part of it was surely the reminder that we are all mortal and our lives could expire at any time. But I think another part of it was that, even if we may not consciously think about it, we think of celebrities as people we know. We imagine futures for them. I’m sure many people wondered what Heath Ledger would do after “The Dark Knight,” even if they didn’t really sit there and think about it.

Taken a step further, those imagined futures could involve us in some way. Even if I’d never thought about it before, I now know that any hope I may have had of co-starring in a cop buddy movie with Heath Ledger is now entirely outside the realm of possibility. I can no longer entertain that fantasy. The chances of me co-starring in any film are now greater than the chances of me co-starring in a film with Heath Ledger. But enough about Heath Ledger; what I’m really getting at is that Ben Gibbard is ruining my life.

My high school girlfriend was a huge Death Cab for Cutie fan (“before they got big,” of course), so I was vaguely aware (and vaguely jealous) of Ben Gibbard. I now go to school at Western Washington University in Bellingham, Washington, where Death Cab got their start. Therefore, I’ve heard plenty of stories about how “this dude who knew the dude from Death Cab gave my brother this sofa,” etc. To be fair, I know a dude who knows Chris Walla. But my beef has always been with Gibbard, if only because “Such Great Heights” was the sing-along favorite at so many parties during my first couple years of college.

So imagine my frustration when I discovered that Gibbard was engaged to Zooey Deschanel. You may remember her from such films as “The Happening,” “Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy,” and “Elf.” She has big hazel-ish eyes and long wavy dark hair that often falls down in bangs over her forehead. Also, she does this adorable thing where she doesn’t open her mouth very wide when she speaks and sort of talks out of the corners. She’s ridiculously cute.

And she’s engaged to this guy:

Really? This guy looks like your weird uncle that sits in the basement and watches Star Trek during family gatherings. He looks like Rivers Cuomo’s reflection in a fun house mirror. Now, I’m sure he’s probably more interesting than me. He’s probably read more classic literature and seen more obscure movies. He’s definitely a better songwriter. He may even be a better lover and all-around more thoughtful and decent human being than I am. But frankly, it’s really easy to superficially mock someone’s physical appearance, so I’m sticking with that.

Oh look, it’s John Krasinski. Man, he’s a looker. And there’s Rainn Wilson back th—HEY, wait a minute, that’s some other four-eyed moon-faced smarty pants!

Yeah, I play the vibes too, fucknut. Have since junior high. Did your percussion ensemble win second place at state? No. That’s what I thought. Jerkweed.


So anyways, whatever my chances were of marrying Zooey Deschanel before, they are now zero. I’m heartbroke. And yet at the same time, I’m still mulling my chances of one day rubbing elbows with America’s new indie sweethearts. As I write this, I think, “What would Ben Gibbard think if he read this? Would he just have a good laugh? Would he even read the whole thing? If I met him in person, would it come up in conversation? Would he be like, ‘oh yeah, you’re that tall lanky dweeb that wrote that blog about me getting engaged to Zooey’? What would Zooey think?”

That’s the magic of celebrities: We are on a first-name basis with them, even though they don’t know we exist. But there’s always the possibility. There was always the possibility that Heath Ledger might one day buy me a drink. And there was always the possibility that Zooey Deschanel might one day give me a smooch on the cheek.

And even as I write this I wonder, “Would Zooey still give me a smooch on the cheek even if she was married to Ben Gibbard, if only to fulfill the fantasy I disclosed in this blog?”

What’s a tall lanky dweeb to do?


Angrily yours,



Steve R.

Bitchy Rant #1209

Segregation - BULLSEYE!

This is so obviously ridiculous as to be hardly worth commenting upon ... but nonetheless. Pre-Xmas, I was looking for super-twee instruments to give to my roommates. You know, children's rainbow xylophones, kazoos, anything that makes noise and comes in primary colors.

I am Amazoning and eBaying, getting an idea of what's available and price ranges, and a link directs me to a melodica sold on Target's site, the Schoenhut 37-key melodica.

Whatever, I'm not gonna buy gifts for my roommates from Target.

But then I saw the sidebar, where they had Kids' Musical Instruments divided into categories, "Boys' Music" and "Girls' Music." What, drums and trumpets for boys, recorders and pink sparkly microphones for girls?

Not even that!

Although the girls' section featured the addition of a Disney Princess something-or-other- oh, it's a xylophone book- the same gifts were otherwise the same in both categories, even including the Fancy Baby Grand Piano in Pink under the boys' section.


Why even bother?



Sincerely making Steve's anger look like soft kisses, sincerely,

Jenn H.

Bitchy Rant #12808

Hey Seattle, FUCK YOU!

Not the people, not the places, just the inadequate parking situation in the city.

You Meter-Monitoring-Motherfuckers are BLEEDING ME DRY! I can't afford to pay to park, and I can't always repark my car every two hours, because, well, I'm trying to do my work. What's a person to do?

I've only been living here for a few months and I keep racking up the parking tickets, the $35 parking tickets. That might not seem like too much, but that shit is financially devastating for me right now. For every couple people who are ballin' in the city, there's a hundred of us trying to pay the rent, and the last thing we need to worry about is digging in our pockets to pay the city's bullshit fines.

After getting another ticket today, I got a little frustrated. Meter Maids are just doing their jobs, but damned if they're not just the perfect place to take out my anger. I'd like to leave a slip on their windshield that reads: Hey Seattle, FUCK YOU!



I guess I could always take the bus, but this is America, I do things on MY TIME!

Bitchy Rant #12708

You Are Not Stevie Nicks.

I had a dream last night, a crazy dream.

There was a hallway of fire and a small part of my brain was removed, but that is not what I came here to write about. It occurred to me earlier today that even though most people are polite, they could give 2 shits about our dreams.

The endless minutia that defines these images in our subconscious are so vivid to us, and by extension of our vanity we assume everyone else will be as blown away as we were. You heard it here first y’all, they never are. Some people will humor you out of kindness, others get paid to take it all in and give you an analysis; again, they could not be less interested.

Of course, there are two exceptions to this general rule, as I see it. Dreams, translated through art, in almost any media, can be downright delightful. Also, because I’m not a complete ethnocentric tool, I acknowledge that some other cultures place importance on meaningful images from dreams. Those two exceptions aside, you’re not going to get anyone hard over the blueberry rain and carpeted-dragons in your mind.

So what’s the point to all this? I’m calling for a social boycott on recounting dreams. Yeah, I said it. Some might see that play out as rude; I’d call it being blunt, or very matter-of-fact with people. Now we’re just arguing semantics.

Let’s not argue semantics, or listen to our friends babble about their dreams anymore.