Author Archives: Danny McCarthy

Politics

NASTY WOMEN GET SHIT DONE

Written while being inspired by a Nasty Woman!!! #ImWithHer

I haven’t said it in so many words on this blerg, but if you noticed, I haven’t really talked about the presidential election here. I write about it pretty consistently for The Odyssey, but by and large, I’ve just run out of things to say. Unless I want to pick up a different language, there are only so many ways I can say, “Trump is a horrific bigoted misogynist and why won’t you just vote for Hillary so we can get this over with?”.

But the third and final debate was held last night in Las Vegas—btw, it would’ve made the debate 125% better if they had walked out to Elvis Presley’s “Viva Las Vegas” because some classique Hillary “boogie-ing down” would’ve brought some much-needed levity to what would undoubtedly be 1.5 hours of pain for Trump, and us—and I feel like even though I might not have anything crazy-brilliant to add, I just want to talk about it.

This debate marks the third time that Hillary has won against Trump. Three-for-three, people—mark it down. And this debate, compared to the madness of the first one and the weirdness of the second one, was possibly the most honest I’ve seen both candidates. Trump was in fine form, accusing Clinton of paying people to get into fights at his rallies, accusing her of rigging the election, of controlling the media, of going into abortion clinics dragging almost-to-term pregnant mothers behind her and forcing them to get abortions.

First of all, let me just say this: If Hillary has done all these things—started ISIS, rigged the election, controlled the media—girl, I do not want to get on the wrong side of her. Let her have this election; she’s a certified witch. And I don’t mess with no witches.

But, of course, she has done none of these things. She supports late-term abortions on a case-by-case basis, when the life and health of the mother is at risk. Donald said that he would appoint a Supreme Court Justice to overturn Roe v. Wade. Hillary has not paid people to get violent at Trump’s rallies. Trump has encouraged violence at his rallies. HILLARY DID NOT CREATE ISIS. I REPEAT, HILLARY DID NOT FOUND THE TERRORIST GROUP ISIS.

This debate made it all the clearer that Trump is intensely focused on being nasty, rude and ignorant. When the candidates were asked—in two minutes—to outline their economic policies, Hillary talked about bolstering the middle class, creating a comprehensive education plan, creating larger taxes for the 1%. Trump used the first 1.5 minutes to talk about Japan, China and Saudi Arabia, before briefly mentioning free trade.

Trump kept twisting Hillary’s words. When she mentioned that she was for late-term abortions—with conditions—he said, “Hillary wants to rip your babies out in the ninth month, the day before they’re due.” Which, honey, is basically just a C-Section. So no, Hillary isn’t sacrificing to-term babies to get to the Presidency. When moderator Chris Wallace brought up a paid-for speech Hillary did in which she mentioned “open borders,” Trump jumped on it saying that she would let the borders loose and there would be hell. Hillary gently reminded everyone that the full quote refers to “open borders re clean energy grids.” So, like, remember context maybe??

At this point, I officially don’t care if you think Hillary is a crook or a war criminal or from the goddamn moon. These are the facts: Hillary is wildly competent, wickedly smart, and incredibly savvy. She has thirty years of experience. She is dedicated to her work. She has cohesive plans that she wants to put in place. She has the stamina to withstand having to be in the same room with Donald Trump.

Donald Trump has no plans. He relies on bigotry and violence. He has said that he will “surprise us” on whether or not he will accept the outcome of the election, i.e. he hasn’t decided on whether he is for democracy. He treats women horribly. He is volatile. He has no stamina. He is mean; he is childish. He is a bully.

So stop pretending that both are terrible outcomes. One person might be someone you might not like. But the other person will be horrific for our nation. I’m tired of your bullshit “apolitical” opinions. To not pick a side at this point is to pick the side of Donald Trump. Do you really want to be on that side of history?

I’m a journalist, so I’m supposed to be “impartial” and “unbiased” or whatever. I don’t care. I’m smart; I’ve looked into these issues. That also doesn’t matter. You should know by now who is going to steer our country in a healthy direction.

Stand on the side of that “nasty woman,” who has worked tirelessly, endured your shit and disrespect and judgment for thirty years, all for the love of the country that you so easily disregard while you whine. Imagine that kind of love: the kind of self-sacrificing that Hillary has done, the amount of hours she’s logged, out of a desire to be a public servant. Other opinions aside, you can’t deny that. You can’t deny her deep love and devotion to our country.

I want that kind of perseverance in the Oval Office. I stand with her, fully and forever. I stand behind her, and I’ll follow her, because I trust in the direction that she will take us. Please, join me. Register. Vote. Support. Be passionate. Care.

*****

And to end on a light note, let’s focus on the true leader of America that’s already been crowned.

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Halloween, Humor, Life

LIKE YOU HALLOMEAN IT: COSTUMES, NOSTALGIA & I HATE A LEAF

Written while getting increasingly erratic and jealous of a photo I posted on Instagram of a leaf. It’s somehow gotten more likes than my other most recent photo—me, looking thin—and I actually couldn’t make up how crazy it’s making me. IT’S A FUCKING LEAF, PPL. IS SHE HOTTER THAN ME? IS THAT WHAT IT IS?! WHAT DOES THIS LEAF HAVE THAT I DON’T? IT’LL BE DEAD AND CRISPY IN TWO DAYS. If I were smarter, I would stop giving this leaf promo, but my rage-envy is giving me tunnel vision.
The beginning // Source: Twitter.com/dnnymccrthy
Trying to cope // Source: Twitter.com/dnnymccrthy
Full descent into madness // Source: Twitter.com/dnnymccrthy

Halloween always stresses me out. As a kid, it was the blinding anxiety of the whole night being without rules. As a gaydult, it’s shifted to the crippling anxiety of trying to find the perfect Halloween costume. Halloween is Gay Christmas (Christmas is Gay Thanksgiving, Thanksgiving is just Gay, and the Super Bowl is Gay Arbor Day—no one cares about it and only Beyoncé makes it better). Also, Labor Day is the same in both Gay and Straight.

I can’t remember if I did anything for Halloween in high school. Granted, as evidenced by the photos I’ve been looking at lately, in high school I was cosplaying as a cadaver 24/7 (I was thin, you guys, and not “chic” thin or even “are you okay” thin (my favorite kind of thin) but like “gangly as fuck” thin, which is never a good look). I’m pretty lean now, and it’s only now that I realize there’s a solid difference between “thin” and “lean.”

I thought I was such hot shit in high school—omg the fucking ego I had—and now looking bad, I was literally all bad skin and mile-long limbs and HORRIFIC taste in clothing (I wore decorative scarves all the time). I’m on such a tangent but thinking about how no one gave me an intervention makes me so mad.

Anywayanyway, what should I be for Halloween for my senior year—the capstone four years in the making?

Freshman year of college

I was a “dead pirate” but everyone just thought I was “beat up Where’s Waldo.” Nothing against Where’s Waldo but definitely not what I was going for.

Sophomore year of college

I decided to go as a pun. BIG MISTAKE BECAUSE NO ONE GETS PUNS ON HALLOWEEN. I was “Dick In A Box.” The idea for the costume centered around the fact that I had this outfit that I looked so cute in, and I also had a cardboard box. I hung the box around me from spooky skull suspenders and then put a name-tag that said “Hi! I’m Richard” on the box. I’m not even exaggerating when I say that NO ONE GOT IT. Was I too nuanced? Should I have said “Hi I’m Dick”? What did I do wrong?!

Junior year of college #LondonEdition

The elusive, sexy Halloweekend. On Friday night, I went on a bar crawl through Shoreditch and dressed as Sexy Dead Lumberjack (L.L.Bean boots, short-shorts, red flannel unbuttoned to my navel, gray beanie, and a “slash” across my throat in red lipstick). Saturday I was supposed to be Bob Belcher from Bob’s Burgers, but after my RA thought I was simply in my pajamas, I changed. I did my face in skull makeup (free hand) and drew a tombstone on a white t-shirt, scrawling above it “My Dreams.” I was “My Dreams Are Dead.” Pretty funny and people moderately got it. The highlight of this night was eating duck confit and waffles forty floors above misty London at four a.m.

But so far, I haven’t thought of anything that’s really grabbing me. Here are some potential (actual potential, not like “joke for the blog”) options that I’ve been mulling over:

Fuckboi/No Homo

There’s a subtle difference between a “fuckboy” and a “fuckboi” because a “fuckboi” is secretly gay. Me and my “friend” Nina* have this long-running joke where we morph into what I like to think of as the gay fratty version of Ben Affleck and Matt Damon and just riff off each other. Just two dudes who think it’s not gay to fall into the loving embrace of another man. The kind of guys who say “A hole is a hole” and “I’m not gay, but I would totally bottom for Tom Brady.” Just str8boi things.

*I fucking hate that nine-fingered bitch.

Sexy Dentist

I think there has been no greater gift to humanity than the “Let’s Turn Regular Things Sexy” trend. I mean, fire is a pretty close second, but seriously this tops that. As a “joke” (where I float an actual idea but clothe it in humor to avoid being embarrassed) the possibility of being a “Sexy Baby” but the reaction from my focus groups was (probably rightfully) almost unanimous disgust. So that goes in the “Maybe” pile.

But I think being a Sexy Dentist could be hilarious because I love doing the whole “Unsexy Things Becoming Sexy but Doing Unsexy Things.” Like I do this dance at the club called “Sad Stripper” where it’s just me pussy-popping while crying. So as Sexy Dentist, I could wear a too-tight scrubs shirt, short shorts, maybe a mouth thingy, and then just stick my fingers in people’s unsuspecting mouths and ask them questions about school.

Like, a long time goes by.

Okay, so apparently I didn’t have a third potential option, and instead of brainstorming funny ideas just for the sake of having a trio (threesomes are so hard to coordinate, I’ve learned) I went back through my blog and read funny posts. You guys, I was actually funny. What’s happened? Anyway, I can’t even think of a third choice, so let’s just say that those are my two major options. It’s hard thinking of things to make funny. I mean, I’m not funny, so I wouldn’t actually know. I imagine it’s hard though.

Btw, here’s my playlist for Fall 2k16!!!! Last year I put up my Christmas playlist, but I made one for the season of the Dying of the Leaves!! Check it out if you want.

#spookyspooky

#ISTHATLEAFHOTTERTHANME

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Humor, Life

THE ADVENTURE OF A CUP OF COFFEE, AND ALL THAT ENTAILS

It’s a harsh reality when you have to adjust your Starbucks order to accommodate your sparse resources. Instead of getting a latte—apparently the Westchester County of drinks—I had to dial it down to just a coffee—the drink of the common people. But maybe it isn’t so bad; I could use a reality check. Lord knows I’m delusional enough as is.

I feel a sense of earthy pride when I tell the barista my order. He doesn’t even have to go to the fancy milk steamer. My order comes straight from the tap (tap?) into a simple, regular cup. I’m an Everyman; a Jim Halpert. I take my coffee simple and my laughs loud. I picture this as my new life: grande hot coffee (soon I’ll skip to just say “medium” because where I’ll be from, we don’t use Italian), red flannel with raggedly-worn cuffs, and a job at the local paper. I’ll have a boxer—no, no, a border collie; something large and fluffy that’ll look good in front of my fireplace. I’ll make friends with the locals, say things like, “Life runs a little slower here,” and put buckets under my leaks because I don’t bother fixing the roof because hey, what does it matter in the end?

As the barista swings around and puts my new life—conveniently $2.45—onto the counter, the girl in front of me, who ordered a pumpkin scone (city folk) and a latte (patrician) grabs the scone from the other barista’s hand and—thinking that my free love java is hers—grabs it and makes like the Olsen twins in New York Minute (fast). I witness the life I could have crumble like a vision board that got caught in the rain.

“Um, that’s mine,” I say a little sharply, a holdover from my present/past life, where I’m a quick-talking city Grinch. Once I get that coffee, I’ll be a molasses-drawling, straight-leg-jean-wearing regular, but that bitch is trying to make a move on my new life, and I won’t stand for that.

“Oh, sorry,” she says with the air of someone who doesn’t care about my hazy Seattle dreams.

Once I got it, I realized I made the mistake of not asking for some room for milk. What can I say? I’m a latte guy. I begin to pour half-and-half—I randomly choose amongst the various dairy products, usually whichever one seems the coolest—before realizes that the amount of room left in the cup will only allow for a “Barely tolerable gray-ish” amount of milk, when I need a “Swaddled in a rich tan hue” amount of milk. With the precision of an Olympic gymnast, I slowly lift the cup to my lips. Mind you, I’m in a public Starbucks, very obviously taking up time at the accoutrements counter.

As the cup nears my lips, my eyes lock onto a friend/general human acquaintance who is 10% cooler than I am and the jolt of fear trilling down my spine causes the cup to lurch against my mouth, reminding me that the milk has done nothing for the scalding lava that lurks under the docile facsimile of coffee. I burn my tongue, flinch wildly, and cause the liquid to splash over the edge, boiling down my fingers and onto the counter.

Defeated, maimed and embarrassed, I try to—quickly as possible—pour small amounts of my coffee into the trash can until I can pour enough half-and-half into it to salvage it. After that, and a heart-achingly large dose of sugar, I replace the cardboard sleeve to disguise my dance with devil.

Trying to appear casual—I’m wearing Adidas for fuck’s sake—I casually pretend to ignore my friend/genial homo sapiens, while obviously knowing that he has moved up precisely 3.2 spots in line. He reaches out and taps me and I do the whole, “Oh didn’t see you there!” routine. I saw him; you saw him. We’re all liars here.

He tells me about his work, his class, his upcoming nap. I’m assuming, actually, because I wasn’t listening and am instead wondering, Did I spill any coffee on my shoe? I can’t look now, that would be too obvious. Ugh, it’s leather. White leather. Brown coffee on white leather. White leather sounds a little porny, like the BDSM sister of Whitesnake. White Snake? I bet it did. I can’t believe it, while going, “Uh-huhh, mhmmm” like Frankenstein’s monster.

He asks me about my day, I give him the truncated version of the truncated version and decide to disclose my little dip into Hades’ hellfire. He laughs, the sound slipping through the neat gap in his teeth. I’m making it sound cute, like “Oh I spilt some coffee. How relatable,” rather than the practically Medea-inflicted pain it actually was (great myth, Medea, if you’re looking for a fun quippy read).

Later, in the class for which I originally procured the coffee (three hours long + a me whose main job this last week has been convincing myself that I have ADD), I notice that the spillage left a mocha-hued tie-dye print all over the cover. So it didn’t matter that I changed the sleeve. The proof was in the pudding.

By the way, I had a fucking burnt tongue for two hours afterward.

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LGBTQ, Life, Love & Romance, Rambles

WHAT DOES IT MEAN TO DO WHAT YOU WANT?

No, seriously, what does it mean?

I think that there’s a difference between “doing what you want” and “getting what you want.” That’s a difference that has evaded me for a while, because when things didn’t go my way, I felt dejected. But that’s passivity, waiting for something to happen to you. But doing what you want, that’s active. That’s bold as shit.

I was listening to a podcast last night as I drifted into a sleep where I dreamt the apocalypse was occurring—weirdly, this is a scenario I dream about a lot, and in my dreams, I last a lot longer than I think I would in real life—and the podcast was taking about the idea of “manifestation.” It’s like the Secret, but a little less Wiccan and a little more realistic. No shade 2 Wicca.

But they were talking about manifestation and how setting positive, strong goals in your life sets you on a path towards making active choices and seeing those goals “manifest” in your life. You might want a boyfriend—that would be a manifest. Eh? I don’t know if I believe in manifestation, but I do believe there is something in active thinking.

Now, doing what you want comes in degrees. Totally doing what you want is something we like to call “dictatorship.” Not a good look. But doing what you want, making active and positive choices means that you’re not stalin your life. Get it? Stalin? Stalling? I’ll leave. No, you stay—I’ll go.

There are people who I hate, people who seem to have everything going right in their lives. They’re the ones standing at the podium, accepting the Pulitzer Prize, and I’m the one in the audience, making the jerkoff motion and rolling my eyes. To each their own. But maybe it’s less about the fact that they are “lucky” and I’m “unlucky”—anyone who’s ever seen me knows that I’m very lucky, genetics-wise, and intelligence-wise and humor-wise and charisma-wise, and wise-wise (v, v wise)—and more that they are making choices that direct them towards their goals.

I have goals. I have dreams—prophetic ones, but also career ones. So if I have some sort of dream, what the fuck am I doing to make them happen? If the answer is nothing—I’m not going to answer because I’m afraid of the answer—then I should kick myself. Because WHY AM I WAITING?

I was walking back to my apartment from class the other day—like Friday? Idk, I’m not a historian—and I had had a bit of a downer week. Class was stressful, and not in a “fun, running around, hectic” stress kind of way, but in a “I WANT TO SLASH YOUR TIRES” stress kind of way. But the week was over, and I was buoyed by the thought of the weekend, and I realized that life is finite and we’re all going to die, one by one, until the void swallows Earth whole like a python swallowing a wild pig in the Amazon.

Well, I didn’t think exactly that because I’m in therapy and on medication and stable, but I thought, “Why the fuck am I not doing what I want?” I’m used to mostly getting my way—when you talk as loud as I do, it’s kind of a given that people will give you what you want so that you shut up—but I’m really bad about seeking out what I want. I let things happen to me.

And for what? It’s not like great things are plopping into my lap. Everything that’s a positive in my life is something that I sought out, or something that I was passionate about. Even this grand old hooker of a blog started because I was like, “I HAVE THOUGHTS.”

For noxample (not an example, because I’m shielding the actual occurrence behind lies) I decided to bake cookies. I’ve baked cookies before, but it never really turned out great. It was always at the wrong time—too close to dinner—and it always ended up not great. I would get nauseous, or not hungry, or I wouldn’t want them. But I thought about what I wanted—I wanted cookies. So I thought, “What am I going to do to get them?” I have to be annoying and bold and bake those cookies. They might not end up the way I want, but if I don’t bake them, and I still want them, then the only person I have to blame is myself. And that’s not something I’m comfortable with—being the one to stand in my own way.

The cookies didn’t work out. Maybe I didn’t add the flour, or the sugar—idk, this is a fake example and I don’t know how to make cookie dough. And I burnt my fingers. And it sucks. But at least I fucking tried. And at least I decided to do what I want. I’ve wasted so many hours and seconds, agonizing over what to do, that the relief of making a decision—any decision—makes the blow of not having the cookies I want soften.

We should do what we want, and be okay with not getting what we want. I’m bad at it. I’m bad at manifestation, because I take every speed bump as a road block. I let the fear of burnt fingers stop me from making cookies. But even though I scalded my fingers and burnt the cookies and fucked everything up, I don’t regret it. Because I did it.

I’m getting hungry/missing Ina Garten, so I’m going to stop talking about cookies. Even though it wasn’t actually about cookies; I’m stupid, so I’m thinking about actual cookies now. Snickerdoodle. UGH.

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Source: Twitter.com/dnnymccrthy // I’m sorry but isn’t this actually kind of a funny joke?

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college, Humor

BAR NONE (IT’S A PUN; I WENT TO A BAR)

Btw, do you like my spoopy new banner image? Pumpkin, more like pumped-kin!

It was Saturday night. My stomach was roiling from the previous night, when I tried to ingest an entire bottle of wine the same way a python ingests a capybara. I was wearing a simple, well-fitted chino pant and an Adidas shoe, along with a denim jacket that I had just ordered from Amazon. It was major.

My family was in town, and rather than rejoice in familial traditions—i.e. mental warfare and ostracizing a random family member at any given moment (this reads a lot more horrible than it actually is; for us, nothing is more fun than putting one of us on the outs)—my sister, Margot, and I were drinking gin & tonics in my apartment, about to go out to a bar.

When I was a kid—still am, so I should’ve written “Since”—I pictured bars with the wistful nostalgia of a Depression-era alcoholic. Long wood counters, a grizzled bartender, a barely-clean glass of amber something. Slow, molasses afternoons, and a jukebox playing in the corner. Simple. Rustic.

When I learned about “clubs,” I was disappointed to learn that I had missed the cocaine-era of the ‘90s. I also figured that clubs were the only places where you got bottle service and tinnitus. BUT BIG SURPRISE. Apparently bars are like that too.

Now, I’ve been to bars before. When I was in London (whispers but makes sure you can hear) I went on a bunch of bar crawls. But that was to British bars, where they’ve been built four hundred years ago. And since I’ve been back/legal, I’ve gone to a few small local bars, where I was able to talk, listen, and—most important—judge.

I’m more of a house party person, where I know the people and can chat and—crucial to me having fun—sit/recline on someone’s ratty Allston sofa. I like being able to bully my way into controlling the Spotify playlist, and I get a major semi from looking through people’s medicine cabinets and room décor. Loud, too-close, too-crowded clubs don’t really do it for me.

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Source: SororityLyfe (i hate myself)

However, we’re walking up to this bar and I learn there’s this thing in the adult world called “covers” and “lines.” Let me break this down for you; I’ve had maybe two experiences with covers in my life, barring expensive, exclusive clubs in London—I studied abroad in London, London, England, ever heard of it, you dirt pleb. One was in freshman year, trying to convince some drunk frat boi bouncer to let me and a gaggle of girls into a party. The other was me, all limbs and rosacea, paying $15 to go the 18+ night at the local gay bar.

I don’t pay covers, I sleep underneath them.

Anywayanyway, we go to the bar, we/she pays the cover, and we walk in. IMMEDIATELY I AM AMBUSHED/ASSAULTED BY THE SIGHT OF HETEROSEXUALS. I love heterosexuals. My parents are heterosexuals. But I don’t generally “hang” out with heterosexuals. If I hang out with heterosexual guys, I pretend that they’re in love with me. If I hang out with heterosexual girls, I pretend they’re heterosexual guys and that they’re in love with me. I’m just not built for heterosexual fraternizing; I have hay fever and bad eyesight at night.

But this place is chockful of guys in Patagonias—so much fleece, so little space—and girls in strappy tops. Also because I’m a guy, guys trying to walk past me just shove me, whereas if I were a girl, they would gently move around me/take 33 cents for every dollar I make. Either way, we’re both fucked.

I also hate seeing straight people flirt. There’s something so creepy about it. I mean, I hate seeing queer people flirt too. I’m an equal opportunity misanthrope. But with straight people, all I see is ten years down the line, one David’s Bridal dress later, and the screaming set of twins they’re going to have while trying to figure out how to poison each other and get away with it.

Also, straight people, because they’ve never had, you know, the crap kicked out of them in middle school or dealt with having to have Perez Hilton be one of us, they’re so entitled. I was standing, talking to my sister and her friends, when all of a sudden, I feel a tingling at the nape of my neck.

Let me set the scene. I was wearing my denim jacket over this oversized skaterboi long-sleeved tee—because I’m awful—and I had popped the collar of the jacket (not full-on erect, but like a rumpled pop—I’m not a monster). I popped the collar because if I didn’t, I would’ve looked like a missing Duggar child. Anyway.

Side bar: “Rumpled pop” sounds like the kind of music Kesha would play.

I turn around, and some str8™ guy in a GREEN-AND-WHITE PLAID is putting the collar of my jacket down, saying (over and over), “Collar down, bro, collar down.” I, in my “non-threatening heterosexual man” voice, said, “HAHAHAHAHAA NO THANKS I’M GOOD” and tried to push his hand off. My fashionista nemesis didn’t get the hint and tried to make sure it stayed down.

He finally leaves, and when two feet away, I re-pop my collar and turn back to my friends. I see out of the corner of my eye, this low-rent Tommy Hilfiger try to come back to me. (!!!) “NO NO, I’M GOOD,” I Gila monster-hiss, flashing my teeth in what he thought was a smile but was actually a sign of aggression according to apes. Which is apt, because that plaid dick was definitely out to get Haram-me. And I was telling this Haram-bae “Haram-nay.” Is that even funny?

It was fun, but I’ve filled my quota for hanging out with straight people for the rest of the calendar year. However, the night wasn’t a total wash because I saw a literal grandmother at the bar, and later in the night, I saw a middle-aged guy in a Hawaiian shirt slow-dancing to ‘90s throwback pop. Every cloud.

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celebrity, pop culture

THE PATHOS OF ROB KARDASHIAN

I might be in a twelve-person minority, but I’ve been watching Rob & Chyna. I don’t know why, I think I hate it. I don’t know what’s the worst: the blurred/pop art-y effect on transitions or the fact that it’s Rob. It might be the latter. Maybe if the show was just Chyna. It would be better. Or, best option: you drop both, and it’s just a sitcom with King Cairo and Nanny Joy. And occasional appearances from that hot guy who always hangs out with Chyna (is he, like, her trainer?) and Chyna’s mother, Tokyo Toni. Omg, I just realized that it’s “Chyna” and “Tokyo.” Appropriation?

As a long time KUWTK­ watcher, I’ve witnessed the evolution of Rob. Remember when he was a model? Remember when he was dating a Cheetah girl? Remember when he had a better ass than Kim?

We saw his steady decline into depression as he gained more and more weight, until he became a recluse in Khloe’s house for the last three years. Then, through the grapevine, we hear that he started dating Blac Chyna, and he slowly-slowly-slowly starts making appearances on KUWTK.

I really wanted to like Rob, but he’s become such a reprehensible, two-dimensional character that it’s almost impossible. I try to rationalize it as depression-based, but I feel like I’m allowed to say this: Being depressed is not an excuse for being a shitty guy. I have depression and anxiety, but you just buck up. It sucks and it’s hard, but Rob’s actions should not be excused by his illnesses.

I’m talking about, of course, his most recent actions: leaking Kylie’s private phone number on Twitter. He hasn’t taken it down, and she’s probably since changed her number, but the ugliness is burned into the brain of pop culture.

The incident: Apparently Rob was pissed that his sisters were throwing two separate baby showers—he and Chyna apparently haven’t spoken in months—and they didn’t invite Chyna to his shower. Btw, she knew about the separate showers and thus probably knew that she wasn’t going to his. But Rob, the kween of overreacting, decided to go ahead and publish Kylie’s phone number.

In a weird way, it’s a perverse parallel of Kim exposing Taylor via SnapChat. Both come after perceived wrongdoing, both were attempts at exposure and humiliation. But Kim’s retaliation was supported by a backbone of righteous retribution: Taylor was lying, and it was affecting Kim’s husband and her own reputation. Rob’s reeks of pettiness, in a way that the Kardashian-Jenners never show publicly. Maybe they are petty, but their images are so carefully cultivated that that slips through.

On Rob & Chyna, Rob plays so flatly, a depressed guy so clearly uncomfortable in his skin, so unenthused with having a child, so unenthused with everything. He’s so obviously putting on this act, dropping his cut-glass Calabasas accent and talking like he didn’t graduate high school. Rob, you might not have gone to college, but you’re from Hidden Hills, California—stop talking like that. Use proper grammar. He just wants to fit in, and it makes me want to hit him.

In literature, there’s this device that’s employed called “pathos.” It’s the word from which “pathetic” is derived. Pathos invokes a strong emotion, usually sympathy. And that’s what Rob is to me—pathetic. He pulls this twisted emotion out of me, revulsion coiled around aching sympathy, strung through with lip-sneering annoyance. He’s pathetic, and I want to be empathetic, but what he’s doing is so shady and petty and small that it’s nearly impossible.

From a literature sense, the “character” of Rob is deeply fascinating. The only boy; the heir. More sensitive than all his sisters, and falling susceptible to the fame. Trying to claw his way back to that golden place, the elusive upper echelon where his sisters reside. Getting a warped version of what he wanted: notoriety instead of fame, money instead of happiness. Lashing out in a cry for attention. Helpless. Hopeless.

And if this were literature, I would hope for a redemption arc. I would hope that Rob is salvageable, that this anger that seems to be burning a hole through his skin can be quelled. Because otherwise, he’ll blow up like a social media supernova.

Depression can’t be cured by any amount of money. It takes time and sympathy and therapy and work. But as Tokyo Toni pointed out in the Fourth of July episode of Rob & Chyna, they don’t have some of the issues that most people struggle with. They have plenty of money; they are in stable homes. They [Rob and Chyna] have issues that are possible to overcome.

At a certain point, to get better, you have to make the active choice to seek it out. And if that moment won’t be rapidly arriving with the birth of their baby, I don’t know what will.

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Books, Review

Review: Live Fast, Die Hot

Jenny Mollen’s new book “Live Fast, Die Hot” proves that you can be crazy, hot, and vulnerable and not end up dead.

by Danny McCarthy

 

Jenny Mollen’s book of humorous essays, Live Fast, Die Hot, reads like an extended love letter from a hyperactive, hormone-addled teenage youth. The recipient of the letter: basically everyone Jenny comes into contact with. Manhattanite mothers on the playground. The liaison connecting Jenny to the isolated Atlas Mountain weavers of her Beni Ourain rug. Her drug dealer. But most importantly, as it becomes more evident in the latter half of the book, the recipient is Sid, Jenny’s two-year-old son.

In nine semi-independent, semi-chronological essays, Jenny explores the truth behind an age-old lie: You may be an adult, but that doesn’t mean you have your shit together.

Jenny decidedly does not have her shit together. In her second chapter, Jenny’s new night nurse describes her as the “least prepared parent she’d ever worked with.” In another, Jenny starts stalking her New York City neighbor to get them to stop smoking on their terrace, because the smoke blows towards her baby’s nursery.

Jenny’s antics are misguided attempts to make everyone like her, holdovers from lackadaisical parents—in one essay, Jenny steals the favorite toy of her mother’s prized dog Rocky because she’s jealous of the attention he’s getting. The current running underneath that manic desire to woo everyone is a softer desire to be liked. While going on Tinder to try and find other mommy friends, Jenny stops her husband, Jason Biggs, from helping her.

“It still irks me when I am brushed to the side as people clamor to talk to him,” Jenny writes. “This is why I didn’t want Jason making a Tinder profile. Because I knew if he did, he’d probably have more mom friends than me.” Jenny blunts the anxiety with humor, like when she stoppers that insecure moment by saying, “Unlike my goal of dying with more Twitter followers than Jason, having more mom friends was something within my reach.”

That vulnerability cuts the more outrageous stories, and carries the book. In a flatter essay, Jenny hates her husband’s dog—a holdover from his life before her—and manages to eventually pawn him off onto an Instagram friend. We forgive her more narcissistic moments because we’ve seen the good.

It doesn’t become entirely clear what the book is about until the last chapter. Jenny is deep in the Peruvian jungle, hallucinogenic tea coursing through her. Drawn to the jungle with the promise of enlightenment and an appearance on her friend’s Netflix documentary, Jenny goes on the trip to drink ayahuasca.

After drinking the tea, shitting and vomiting herself dry, Jenny sees a vision of her and Sid, doing a synchronized ice-dancing routine. And after looking into Sid’s eyes, she is overcome with emotion. She realizes, “‘He loves me,” I wept, like I was a contestant who’d just been proposed to on The Bachelor. He already loves me. Because I’m his mom and I’ll always be his mom.’”

Every psychotic thing—stalking her neighbors to get them to stop smoking; traveling to the Atlas Mountains to prove she could be independent; meeting weird, cold Manhattan moms so that Sid wouldn’t be excluded in preschool—becomes elucidated as Jenny’s attempts to combat her “feelings of unworthiness.” Her frenetic love for her son is her wanting to impress him. Jenny might be obsessed with getting everyone to love her, but she’s not a total megalomaniac. Hopefully.

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Humor, Life, pop culture, Rambles, Things Happening RN, Things I Like

FALL’S HERE, IT’S QUEER, GET USED TO IT

Saturday. 

I’ve spent the day writing articles and emailing back potential new writers for my section, whilst recuperating from a tough week journalistically. But, frankly, the only thing I’ll remember from today is that I’ve spent the majority of my energy today A) thinking of puns about “autumn” and “fall” and trying to engage Shelby in a Twitter war. She’s not really taking my bait, which I think just means that not a big enough celebrity to warrant her time.

This past Thursday was the first day of fall. You probably didn’t realize, but I didn’t post that day. It wasn’t because I was out, celebrating fall or something—I don’t even know what “celebrating fall” would look like, other than taking a bath in a giant Starbucks cup a la Dita von Teese. It was because I was trying to find a wall with sheetrock thin enough for me to bash my head through. It’s been one of those weeks.

But now I’ve taken approximiately seven deep, cleansing breaths and drank alcohol, so I’m uncoiling from my “stress fetal” position.

It’s been a while since I did a season-themed post, mostly because time is a human construct and I don’t believe in a linear time concept. Everything is relative.

For the first time in literal months, I’m almost chilly. Here I am, sitting in the student union, wearing LONG PANTS and LONG SLEEVES, feeling like a g*ddamn polar bear. I’m so used to being hot—last week, I sweated through multiple outfit changes—that the idea that we could be leaving that behind—I’ll start sweating beneath layers of clothing instead—is almost too good to be true.

Also I’m using Gilmore Girls gifs (try saying that five times fast) because NOTHING says fall quite like Gilmore Girls.

To celebrate the beginning of Plant Death Season and the upcoming Communing With Souls Day and National Turkey Slaughter Day, here’s a list of things I’m excited about for fall:

MORE EXCITED THAN I AUTUMN BE

(not the best pun, but you can’t argue with the fact that it’s definitely not the worst I’ve ever made up)

1). FALL FLAVORS: Not pumpkin spice, which is—I’m pretty sure—not an actual thing, but rather a scheme created by Ryan Seacrest and Starbucks. I do love me some sweet potato pie/pumpkin pie (I can’t ever remember which is which). I’m more excited for some cinnamon-dustings, some brown sugar, some sultry maple. At my internship last year, the coffee place in the basement of the building mixed their own spices and they had this autumn one that I would sprinkle over my lattes in the afternoon and it was SO BOMB.

2). SEASONAL PLAYLISTS: I never do this any other time, but I lose my g*ddamn mind for a winter Spotify playlist. I’ll gravitate towards certain bands during the summer—a fresh, very pop-beach-blue vibe—but fall is when I start curating actual playlists—more of a folk-rock-pop-brown-fire vibe—to get me pumped for making my Christmas playlist—which I’m already contemplating. I hate myself only a little for this, which rocks.

3). FLANNEL: Three words—“doesn’t show sweat.” Do you know how detrimental these last few weeks of school have been for me? I’ve been going through so many t-shirts that I think I might break the laundry machine (I’m not going to pay for a second load). In the colder months, I love to wear flannels and thick sweaters and button-downs because they don’t show sweat and I can pretend I have normal, human glands. Somehow, despite being made up entirely of genealogies that evolved in cold climates, I’ve got the pores of a Saharan camel-driver.

4). BIG MUGS: Nothing makes you look thinner/frailer than holding a huge fucking mug in two hands. GOD SO THIN.

5). SEASONAL DRINKS: I just turned 21, so I ain’t talking about no Pumpkin Spice Latte (although I inevitably break down every year and buy at least one). I’m talking about ALCOHOL. Ciders, golden-hued beers, hot toddies, Bailey’s. I can finally become the Pinterest drinker of my dreams.

Also, this isn’t one of my “numbers” but I’m just excited for everyone to lose their tans. This summer I tried really hard to be okay with my skin, but I’ll admit, I can’t wait for those beachy fuckers to know how I live 365 days out of the year. I’m also excited to not have to excruciatingly deliberate over Instagram filters that make me look as sun-kissed as possible. I can exist as a full-time marble statue™.

(whispers very quietly like a little mouse: “also number six I like pumpkin spice lattes”)…(more loudly says: “WHAT? No I didn’t say anything. You misheard. Pumpkin spice is not a thing; it’s a Hallmark seasonal scheme.”)

This blog started on Saturday, and now it’s Monday, and I’m just going to chalk that up to general laziness because the idea that it’s taken me three days to write one dumb article about FALL is an attack on my intelligence. Also today I’m wearing a deep burgundy-red long-sleeved t and I love being in them fall colors!!!! They lewk sew gud on me!!!

What if I was illiterate and that’s how you found out that I couldn’t spell and I’ve been using the “Talk-to-text” app that Luann used in the iconic “Tom, how could you do this to me. Question mark,” watershed moment in Real Housewives of New York City? And this entire blog—which I realized the other day is about to turn two—was just the longest con imaginable, and for no clear purpose.

I guess we’ll never know.

Also I’m super into yellow right now. Living for it!! So fall! So festive! So cheerful!

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Humor, Life, Things Happening RN

THOUGHTS FROM A COFFEE SHOP, PLUS SOMEONE HOT GOT FAT

Sitting in a coffee shop in the South End, drinking a Spanish latte from a mug big enough to swim in and sloppily picking apart a blueberry/undetermined muffin with my fingers. The mingling of foam and the sharp iron taste from me stress-chewing the inside of my lip.

The hum of machinery and the shrill, almost comically high, voice of a (graduate) student who hasn’t stopped talking for the twenty minutes I’ve been here.

I’m reading Jenny Mollen’s new book, Live Fast, Die Hot, and I can justify reading it because I’m reviewing it for my Media Criticism class and my original pitch of Finding Prince Charming was pushed back for a longer review. The book is amazing, and it’s this perfect blend of anxiety and humor, and it feels real and authentic.

The sky is overcast, but instead of feeling soft and snuggly, the layer of gray clouds trapping the humidity like a bug under glass. I walked from my apartment, forty minutes, and a dark circle of sweat still stains the fabric of my J.Crew rucksack. I can’t remember not being moist—my mom hates that word, but it’s the only one fitting—for these last few weeks. It’s the last vestiges of summer, the gasping breaths, the death rattle. Am I being too melancholic?

I’m in a weird mood, and if this were a book, the weather would operate literarily as a pathetic fallacy—a device where the exterior setting matches the interior mood. I’m conceited enough to actually believe that the weather reflects my mood, but I know that—objectively—it’s actually just a fitting coincidence.

Now the shrill-voiced girl is listing the pros and cons of various dating sites. Coffee Meets Bagel only sets her up with boring guys. However, she went on a string of dates with someone from Coffee Meets Bagel in an attempt to “lower her bar.” He was bougie, she has teen parents (she is so complex). He was a “businessman,” to which she scoffed. I am deep into this girl’s life. Her voice has peaked through the stratosphere and is head-butting into the mesosphere.

I had a not-fight last night (writing on Sunday, so this was Saturday) and I hate that. I’d rather have a fight where it’s explosive and loud and every bad feeling is drained out like a lance, but this was a bump rather than a bang, so you’re left wondering where the soft barriers of the fight end.

It’s super predictable and clichéd, but walking back from the party—liquid-legged—certain things become clear and it’s annoying. Like, all the pretenses are stripped away and your thoughts are cleared up and in the morning it’s a lot easier to rationalize and compartmentalize and store thoughts away. What am I saying? I don’t know. I do, but I don’t.

I’m sitting next to what I think/hope is a date. I think it’s a date because it’s two very cool, very smart people and I hope it’s a date because they seem to have a genuine connection and I just want them to get married/become partners and just do a bunch of cool things. Usually when I’m around dates or couples, it annoys the living shit out of me. But when I see people with a genuine, non-Instagrammy connection, it inspires and enlivens me.

How do you just start hanging out with people? I wish that there wasn’t that innate pressure when you’re hanging out with someone. When I’m with friends, it’s easy and light and freeing to just get coffee or walk and talk or not talk. But when there’s that tinge of something more, that slight tension in the air like the promise of a thunderstorm, I freeze up. How do we get rid of that pressure? And I’m saying “we” because, you guys, idk what to do!! I want to hang with people but not have any of the pressure or the implications or the history or the charge. I want it to be chargeless and just in-the-moment-y.

I have to eventually leave this coffee shop and explore the South End because it’s my beat, but as long as I stay in here, I can avoid my responsibilities and feelings of inadequacies as a journalist. Aka, just forward my mail (aka Amazon purchases) to my new address @ 69 Hiding From My Responsibilities Lane, Boston MA.

A few hours go by. I sweat more. I change my shirt three times.

I’m walking to Whole Foods to say that I’m going to buy bread for my soup (it was an organic tomato bisque from Trader Joe’s that I later added marinara sauce too because organic tomato bisque from Trader Joe’s tastes like the U.S. Mint) but really going to buy desserts and then throw in a random bread roll to assuage my fat guilt.

While walking—wait let me back up. I’m wearing flip-flops, an oversized tank top that says “Lifeguard” on it that I stole from my summer camp job, mid-thigh Adidas shorts and a black baseball cap, and (as always) my viciously overinflated confidence)—to Whole Foods, I spot someone who I tangentially knew of a few years ago.

He was in a fraternity that I was rushing (I was depressed and a lunatic, so don’t judge me) and back then he was so hot that it made me want to rub myself in Vaseline and slide down one of those Olympic ski mountains. He had great brows, a great hooked nose. HOWEVER, I saw him a few days ago, and then I saw him on the way to Whole Foods. He’s gotten fat. Not, like, obese, but he’s definitely gained some weight. Seeing that, bringing a hot person more down to my level (he went from a 9 to a 7, and I’m a 7 if you squint), really made up for the grey mood I’d been in all day. Ugh, so nice.

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