Author Archives: Danny McCarthy

LGBTQ

A REACTION TO THE ORLANDO MASSACRE

I’ve debated for the last 24 hours whether to address the Orlando massacre today. On one hand, I feel helpless to do anything and that helplessness has made me wonder if one more article will do anything. It seems impossible in the wake of such a tragedy.

But on the other hand, I am filled with such an anger, at the shooter, at the reaction on Facebook, and at our government, that I think to say nothing would be to be tacitly supporting false ideas. And fuck that.

The shooter, Omar Mateen, targeted a gay nightclub during Pride Month. He specifically targeted the LGBTQ+ community, marking this as not only the largest massacre in U.S. history but a hate crime of horrific proportions. The shooter was American, born in New York. The shooter legally bought his weapons. He was, according to his ex-wife and family, not particularly religious but that is something that I cannot prove or disprove. Allegedly before he attacked the nightclub, Pulse, he called 911 and pledged his allegiance to ISIS.

As a queer person, I am sickened and saddened and distraught at the loss of so many members of my community. Pulse was a nightclub, and nightclubs have been, historically for LGBTQ+ people, safe havens. We have gathered there, rallied there, found strength there, and found community there. To attack in a nightclub, Mateen struck at the very core of our community.

But watch, in the coming hours, days and weeks, how our government reacts to this tragedy. They will focus on ISIS, or on fanning the flames of xenophobia, or proclaim him to be “mentally unstable.” They will offer thoughts and prayers. We don’t need your thoughts and prayers. We need, from our government officials, action. We need them to change our laws.

I don’t need politicians like Ted Cruz, Donald Trump or Carly Fiorina to offer their “prayers” for a community that up until the attack, they called rapists, pedophiles and deviants. We don’t need those kinds of prayers. They will offer sympathy because it is what is expected of them, but memory is a long thing. I don’t need people who destructively limit women’s access to abortion clinics but allow for lax gun control policies to offer sympathy. You don’t get to protect one sphere of life while leaving another to die. You don’t get to pick and choose.

Watch how our presidential candidates react to this tragedy. Watch if they shift the focus from the necessary conversation about stricter gun control to inflaming hatred against Muslims. See what they say, what they promise.

I need our politicians to finally decide to change laws. Don’t give me bullshit about the Second Amendment, or that if the clubgoers had guns they could’ve fought back. If you want to abide exactly by a centuries-old document to the detriment of Americans, give up electricity while you’re at it. Commit.

I am angry because nothing seems to be enough. Sandy Hook wasn’t enough. The shooting in the movie theater wasn’t enough. Nothing is enough for politicians to stand up and decide to change laws. How many times does President Obama need to get up to that podium and deal with such tragedy before lawmakers decide to change?

Our politicians, our democratically elected politicians, are telling us that our lives are expendable. That our safety is worth less than preserving some ancient tome. I won’t stand for that. I don’t want to exist in a country where in 2015, there were 372 mass shootings.

Thoughts and prayers are kind and appreciated, but that time has passed. We need direct action from our government. Don’t hide behind xenophobia and Islamophobia. Don’t say that this is unrelated to gun control laws. Own up. Take responsibility.

To everyone who was affected by the Orlando shootings, I am so deeply sorry. I am sorry that you went to what you thought was a safe space and were attacked. I am sorry that we could not protect you. I am sorry to your family members, who woke up to terror and confusion. I am sorry that we did not do enough.

This attack was done during Pride. Gay Pride is not just a celebration of being gay; it is a political statement, a show of strength in a world that condemns us and vilifies us. It is not just about rainbows and love; it is showing that we still face extreme prejudice and violence, and that did not end with marriage equality. It continues every single day.

I am proud to be gay. I am proud to be queer. I will not be cowed by violence; I will not be bullied into silence. The LGBTQ+ community has existed and persevered in the face of extreme danger forever. We have done that because we are stronger than that; because we refuse to break. Remember that in the coming days and weeks. We are strong; we are united. Remember those who died at Pulse and remember why we continue to fight.

#PrayForOrlando.

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Humor, Rambles

I BUILT A GAY ARMOIRE AND MY DOG THINKS I’M DYING

I’m currently a stay-at-home child. I don’t have a job. When my friends and peers are suiting up and heading out to their internships, I’m deciding whether or not I’ll spring for the chino shorts or if I’ll just slide into another pair of gym shorts and prove that I have fully and truly given up on life.

But because I stay at home—tending the chickens, doing watercolors, and growing yams for my own organic lubricant—I’ve really gotten to know myself on a deeper level and I’ve also developed some amazing hobbies to keep myself busy and keep my mind as sharp as it usually is (a dull 7/10).

I finished building an armoire today. So weird, but every time I say “Armoire” (and I say it a lot because I’m very self-conscious about the fact that I don’t have an internship, so whenever I meet anyone, I blurt out, “I’M BUILDING AN ARMOIRE” like I’m some sort of guerilla interior designer) I feel like I’m one of those Ina Garten gays who wears multi-pattern silk overshirts and paisley ascots. Now that I think about it, I’m kind of into it.

Side bar: I’m that asshole who tries to pronounce everything in the “correct” way. So it’s not “arm-whar.” It’s “arm-mwah (while twirling curlicue mustache)”.

But anyway, yeah I built an armoire. And I can’t even pretend it’s very “masc 4 masc” of me because 1) It’s an armoire (which is the gayest of all furniture storage besides ottomans and Lazy Susans) 2) I did it while listening to podcasts, and 3) I complained so much that out of the six or so hours it took me to put Armand (the armoire) together, five of them were me just complaining to my mother. However, I did use a power drill (or power-screwdriver ? Unclear) and I, like the true serial killer in the making I am, just pressed the button and watched the power-drill whirl around, screeching its beautiful metal melody.

So besides building an armoire, power-washing my front stoop, going to the gym (omg am I secretly the most masc person ever? Is this like the time I didn’t know that I loved Beyoncé?), I’ve been watching a ton of TV and listening to a bunch of amazing podcasts. Is it so boring to name the things I’ve been absorbing lately? Or is that cool? Okay I’m gonna list the podcasts and stuff I’ve been listening to and the shows I’ve been watching, so if you don’t care, just scroll past.

  1. Throwing Shade podcast
  2. Weird Adults With Little Esther podcast
  3. Anna Faris Is Unqualified podcast
  4. Bitch Sesh podcast
  5. Candidly Nicole—a faux VH1 TV about Nicole Richie
  6. Not Safe With Nikki Glaser—tv show
  7. The Week With Charlie Rose—just fucking with you guys.

I’ve also been reading a ton—menus, receipts, subpoenas—which has been soy nice because I’ve just been so oversaturated from my school year of reading serious literature. How boring. Trying to make me a “better person.”

I made this catchy title before I finished writing the post, so I should probably talk about my dog. He’s following me around everywhere—like will not leave me alone at any point. I was washing a cup in the bathroom, he was standing at my heels (size 11 Louboutins). I’m doing laps around the first floor (something I do when I keep forgetting things and have to keep getting them) and his little feet are click-clacking behind me (I forgot to mention that he’s also wearing Louboutins in this scenario). I’ve read somewhere that dogs can sense ghosts. I mean, animals can sense tsunamis or whatever, so I don’t think it’s that big of a stretch that they can sense the supernatural.

So I’ve come to the conclusion that either I’m a tsnumani, or I’m about to die/become a medium/there’s a ghost who is obsessed with me, because my dog cannot leave me alone. I hope it’s that I’m a medium, because that’s the most positive out of all the three possible outcomes I’ve discussed. But if I die then people will find this blog post and think that I’m clairvoyant or that my dog is a witch, and I cannot condone the next round of canine Salem Witch Trials. I will not let this happen.

Also the photos I’ve chosen have no real relevance, I’m just getting burritos and don’t have time to be visually hilarious. Plus those are funny tweets.

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Humor

HOW TO BE A NARCISSIST AND GET AWAY WITH IT

Alternate titles: “How To Disguise Your Flagrant Narcissism as Genuine Confidence” or “How To Succeed In Business Without Really Trying.”

First, I’d like to just say right off the bat that if you’re funny, you could essentially get away with whatever you want. Actually wait, that’s not entirely true; if you’re hot, you can actually get away with whatever you want. And I’m not even limiting that to getting away with narcissism. If you’re hot, you can do anything. Like Gwyneth Paltrow and GOOP. Do you think Gwyneth is qualified to recommend organic lube? Of course not.

So, if you’re above an 8 (the scale varies re your location), please disregard this blog post. You’re already set for life. Actually, you could give me some advice. If you have a high level of skill in getting people to like you (being blindingly funny, or a natural blonde), then this post can serve as more of light entertainment. But if, like me and rest of the plebeian majority, your flagrant narcissism is unequal to the level of your attractiveness and/or wit (just kidding, no one can be both hot and funny), this article is your savior.

THE NARCISSYSTEM—soon to be trademarked, but it’s not done yet so don’t steal it, you guys. I’m serious.

First I should point out that I’m butchering “narcissism” in the same way that Khloe Kardashian has a video series on her app called “Khlo-C-D.” I know that I’m not referring to clinical narcissisim. Don’t send me your letters. I’m referring to the casual narcissism, the millennial narcissism.

Our generation has been bred for casual narcissism in the same way that pugs and other brachycephalics were bred to look like E.T. It’s almost not our fault, it’s the fault of others…Which is something that a casual narcissist would say to avoid taking the blame for their actions. Moving on. I don’t think that someone could be around so many front-facing cameras and not be a little bit of a narcissist. There are Instagram models, people—open your eyes. It’s completely out of our hands now.

However, it’s a complete double-edged sword. We’re all narcissists, but you can’t be too openly narcissistic, because people don’t like seeing the physical manifestations of their souls. It’s too creepy (similar to the “Uncanny Valley”). It’s a mixture of the joy of having someone to hate—thus redirecting some of that self-hate that every millennial has—and the pure rage of someone having the balls to say what we’re all thinking. But on the other hand, you can’t be too modest. People hate modesty more than they hate ostentation because modesty means you don’t know/accept how good you have it, and people cannot handle that. It’s the Anne Hathaway Syndrome: don’t be too modest or people will want to skin you alive.

Like everything else in the world—it makes no fucking sense. The very act of maintaining social media presence implies some inherent narcissism: you think that what you’re putting out is funny or pretty or palatable enough to be worthy of consumption en masse. Even the Internet troll exhibits some base form of narcissism (mutated, though; in the same way that an actual turtle is tangentially like the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles); they believe their vitriol is good enough to be coattailed onto creative content. And if you don’t have any social media presence, it’s assumed that either A) you’re Amish or B) you think you’re too good/authentic/uninhibited for social media.

So if you’re stuck between too open and too modest, finding the right balance requires a mixture of humor, timeliness, bold disregard for social norms, and a pinch of spunk.

If you’re deeply self-involved, but also critically insecure, here’s a great way to both get compliments and sympathy. I, as a gay 6 and a Boston 7, will say things like, “It’s hard because I’m so hot,” or “I wonder if I could get away with some of the things I say if I were ugly.”

Then wait, staring silently at your friends/personal assistants and wait for them to laugh or say nothing. If they laugh, it’s because they know that you’re ugly and you’re talking like an 8+, and if they’re silent, either they agree or they’re letting you have this. In either case for the second option, you win. The practice revolves on being hilarious, which is an excellent mask for the fact that you think that you’re actually that hot. Like I think I’m actually hot enough to get away with the things I say. Modern science, as well as my checkered dating history, provides a pretty strong counterpoint to that, however.

Here is where two roads diverge in the woods. Which path you takes depends on whether you’re hot or funny. We have established previously that you can only be either hot or funny, so I don’t have to worry about making up some third, weird combo path. Two paths. Accept it.

If you’re hot, take the Instagram. With a great enough following (or simply a like-happy following) you can bask in the social acceptance of your flagrant displays of narcissism. Outside of early Facebook-late MySpace, taking selfies has never been so publicly accepted. However, if you chose to Instagram, mingle your selfies with landscape shots, shots of dogs bounding freely, and/or simple, white aesthetic shots of food or furniture. Invest in a proper editing app, such as Afterlight or VSCO. Have a wide breadth of edited shots to upload at a moment’s notice (as long as that moment’s notice lies within the bracket of heavy traffic times). I edit my photos in the bathroom so when I’m out and about, I don’t have to edit at a moment’s notice.

If you’re funny (or ugly), go via Twitter. I, shockingly for a L.A. 5 and Milwaukee 8, use Twitter. Twitter allows me to be the most viciously funny, sloppy version of myself. It’s the social media equivalent of being so deep into a long-term relationship you exclusively wear sweatpants. Twitter has seen me at my worst and accepts me for it. In fact, it encourages my worst. I have never been dumber, funnier, ruder or sharper than I am in my best moments on Twitter. At my funeral, I’m going to have a flat-screen above my casket that plays a slideshow of my greatest Tweets.

Lastly, pretend that you’re in on the joke. If people knew that you were actually being serious, they would abandon you on an iceberg. But if they think you’re being funny, skewering our narcissistic society with your acute view and biting wit, then they’ll be into it. Here are some ways to coat your self-centeredness in “humor.” A). Amp up your narcissism ever so slightly, in the vein of shows like Candidly Nicole and Inside Amy Schumer (specifically the skit where she uses Tig Notaro’s breast cancer diagnosis to get people to be nice to her). B). Write a humorous article, maybe entitled “How To Be A Narcissist and Get Away With It” on your excellent, but not widely appreciated (because your humor goes over everyone’s heads), blog called the Blunderkindof and make it seem as if you’re emulating the vapid pleasure-society that we all inhabit. No one will catch on that you yourself are a wildly spiraling tornado of narcissism. It’s foolproof.

If everything else fails—fake your death and subsequent “resurrection.” This one guy did it 2000 years ago and he got a book deal out of it. So extra.

***

I hope you liked this snunny (snarky + funny + nihilism) post! I had an absolute blast writing it, and usually the only thing I enjoy is inflicting pain upon the masses! What a departure! But seriously, I actually loved writing this insane, silly, rude post and I hope that you had as much fun reading it as I had writing it. Or if that’s too tall an order, I hope that you had a modicum of the pleasure I had while writing it. I’d like to thank Nina for bouncing ideas off (even though she thinks I’m not pulling off being a functioning narcissist).

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Life, Rambles

YIPS-EE KI-YAY, M*THAF*CKA

Alternately titled “YIP, YIP, HOORAY!”

I have the yips. And if we’re being honest, I’ve had them for a while.

Side bar: “Yips” sounds like an STD (a STD?), but something particularly embarrassing. Something Tiger Woods would’ve gotten from one of his 15 prostitutes. I really don’t know why I’m starting this post by talking about El Tigre.

I’ve had the yips ever since I wrote the post about suicide and depression. It got so many views (roughly twelve times more than I’m used to) and the resulting feeling was a deer in headlights. But that doesn’t feel quite right. More like when you disturb a rock and the beetle that’s been making its home underneath freezes, suddenly aware of the vastness above it. I’m the beetle in this metaphor.

And since I’ve been made aware of the vast curve above me, I’ve realized that people might actually be reading what I write—a concept that had not been fully concretized in my head—and having opinions about my writing, and that’s led to the yips.

I do much better when no one’s watching—actually I do much better when people are actively rooting against me. In my freshman year of high school, my track coach knocked me back one running group. We would run in heats, so Group A would start their sprinting lap, then ten seconds later, Group B would start, and so on and so on.

He called out my name—well actually, he thought my name was “Murphy” so he called out “Murphy”—“Go to Group Six.” Group Six was the slowest runners—I had previously been Group Five, which was the mingled remains of runners who were not quite slow but not quite fast (Groups One to Three were largely interchangeable in speed, Group Four was always vying for the chance to jump ahead, and Five was largely content to swim in its own pond). Six was the asthmatics and the fatties.

Instead of being shamed into embarrassment, the demotion kick-started dogged stubbornness, and I roiled internally.

Group Five would go into their lap. Ten seconds. Group Six, me poised at the very edge of the line, would go. I sprinted, pumping limbs, and caught up with Group Five. The next round, I would pass the slowest member of Group Five. Then the next slowest. After every lap, I would stand, gasping, and make direct, combative eye contact with my coach. He didn’t notice, but I knew that I had made my point.

Group Five.

This anecdote tells us a few things. One, I might not know when to quit. Two, I’m very aggressive. Three, I succeed with flying colors when no one has any possible expectations of me. The minute people expect something, I deflate like a bouncy castle at the close of a middle schooler’s birthday party.

7hag78r

Source: Imgur

And it sucks, because I don’t want to have the yips. I want to use my blog for what it’s meant for—complaining about boys, writing veiled personal essays to catch certain people’s attentions, and cutting up pop culture for general consumption.

So I’m officially casting off all expectations. Most people have very low ones of me already, but shed those too. Because mama’s back, and there’s some good shit we need to discuss.

I don’t know if I should talk about them here….or….?

…

See, I started writing this on Tuesday and now it’s Thursday and I was going to write more but I was apparently distracted—probably by, like, a butterfly or I went to get something to eat. Regardless, I did not finish this post, but I want to. I think I’m going to go back to my roots and start forcing myself to write biweekly posts, yips be damned.

Side bar: I’m writing this having just woken up from a nap. I was reading Kim Barker’s book The Taliban Shuffle (which became the movie Whiskey Tango Foxtrot with Tina Fey) and that is one book you don’t want to be reading when you fall asleep because all my dreams were about the Taliban and me wanting to go to the mall.

I’M BACK.

funny-nicole-richie-gifs

Source: PopSugar

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pop culture, Review, television

REVIEW—CHELSEA & THE FUTURE OF THE TALK SHOW

Season 1, Episode 1

Grade: A

When you’re a comedy kid growing up, you study comedians. When you’re an unfunny comedy kid, you really study comedians. When I was a kid, I watched clips of Dane Cook obsessively—relax, this was when we were all on that Cook train, you liars—and then I moved on to people like Mike Birbiglia, Demetri Martin, Jim Gaffigan, Loni Love, Amy Schumer, Gabriel Iglesias, Tina Fey and Bo Burnham. But a huge influence on my comedy and my writing and my funniness—besides Lorelai Gilmore—was Chelsea Handler.

After Chelsea Lately ended, Chelsea Handler went soul-searching. She did a bunch of standups—Uganda Be Kidding Me—and books—Uganda Be Kidding Me—and then the hilarious and insightful docuseries Chelsea Does.

And more than anything else, her new Netflix “talk show”, Chelsea, feels like a natural extension of Chelsea Does, which in turns is a natural extension of Chelsea Handler in a way that Chelsea Lately never was. During Lately, you could always feel the tension, the vague bitterness that Chelsea had towards E! and the sense of a caged tiger pacing behind bars.

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Source: Netflix

Chelsea made no bones about the fact that she kinda fucking hated E! and felt like an idiot doing Lately. And something she made very clear on the first episode of Chelsea, centered around education, is that she hates feeling like an idiot.

In a year of trying to “shake up” the talk show game, Chelsea manages to succeed where others have failed. And by “others” I know that you know that I’m talking about Kocktails with Khloe. Now, don’t get me wrong—I would take a bullet for Khloe Kardashian in a way that I would never for Chelsea Handler—but Kocktails felt like a total money-funded passion project, aimed at giving a new network star quality and a ratings boost.

In a similar way, Chelsea feels a little indulgent, and is the first step Netflix is taking at live-streaming rather than binge-worthy season drops. But Chelsea is smart and funny and not talking itself too seriously, whereas Kocktails always felt like it was a little too aware of the cameras. In the first episode, Chelsea does—but doesn’t—do a monologue, and sits behind a—very fancy, black—desk, turning it into a “meta, breaking the fourth wall” version of every late night talk show. And it feels almost on purpose—like Chelsea knows that she’s going to get compared to everyone else, so why not beat them to the punch?

Screen Shot 2016-05-11 at 1.44.54 PM.png

Source: Netflix

Some of the show was a little weird—the “Netflix University” faux-commercial was boring and didn’t feel cohesive—but Chelsea had some fucking impressive guests. Her first guest was the U.S. Secretary of Education, John King. At first, when he was testing her on basic education, it felt a little like “This is about you but it’s really about me,” but after that, the interview is actually interesting. They talk about the need for education, personal mentors, and other cool stuff. After that, Chelsea brought out Pitbull, who spent twenty minutes trying to chase down Chelsea’s dog Chunk, who was loitering in the background like a beautiful teddy bear. Pitbull is starting a charter school in Miami—Slam Academy—and continued on the theme of “teacher mentors.”

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Source: Netflix

I think this could really be Chelsea’s strong suit. Since it’s a three-times-a-week digital stream, rather than doing “trending topics” like Lately, Chelsea could do much better by connecting pop culture to a larger episodic theme, similar to each documentary of Chelsea Does. Like, who the fuck would’ve known that Pitbull would’ve started a charter school? And also how he got his nickname “Mr. Worldwide?” It’s cool.

Side bar: they did that thing I hate, which is having the first guest sit in on the second guest’s interview. You had the U.S. Secretary of Education watching Pitbull try to be BFFs with a dog. It always seems so awkward, like when Bill O’Reilly had to stay while Jimmy Fallon interviewed Lorde, and I was like, “Who tf is Bill O’Reilly?” and my mom was like, “Who tfudge is Lorde?”

After Pitbull went back to his kennel—someone stop me, please—Chelsea brought out Drew Barrymore. She began by talking about how she, like Chelsea, didn’t really receive an education, but how that drives her. She read the dictionary as a kid, which is the ultimate nerd-out. The conversation veers towards Drew’s divorce, which was surprisingly honest and raw and real—a testament to the intimacy of the stream—and then how she wants to be a cheerleader for women by discussing divorce, and raise her daughters to be awesome women. The interview felt fun and fresh, unlike when talk shows bring on guests who are forced to hawk their latest project.

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Source: Netflix

In one episode, Chelsea made me do what Kocktails couldn’t accomplish in twelve—make me want to keep watching. I want to see what the next topic is, and who she brings on. I want to see what this turns into.

Keep on, keeping on Chelsea.

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pop culture, Review, television

REVIEW—REAL HOUSEWIVES OF NEW YORK: BIRTHDAY LUNCHES, BRYN THE FASHION DIVA, AND BEAUTIQUE

Season 8, Episode 5

Grade: A/A+

(Written while on my bed. Sexy. I’m in the middle of finals—well, I’ve just finished/failed one out of two finals—and I rewarded myself with an episode of The Real Housewives of New York. I don’t think I’ve done a Real Housewives recap, so I think it’s appropriate to start with this one. This has been a long aside. Oh! I’m wearing skinny jeans! That’s not relevant, but I just want people to know I wear things other than joggers. Moving on.)

Because Beverly Hills has been such a disappointment all season long—thank god it’s over—everyone and their mother is jizzing themselves with excitement over New York. It’s fresh, it’s dynamic, it has authentic drama, and so far no one has mentioned Munchausen. Seriously, Andy Cohen is circle-jerking with a crowd of Upper East Side gays in pure happiness that RHOBH is over.

Side bar: For those of you who don’t know, the entirety of RHOBH was taken up by someone—Lisa Rinna—claiming that Yolanda Hadid (nee Yolanda Hadid Foster) actually had Munchausen Syndrome instead of Lyme Disease. This is fucked-up, especially coming from Lisa Rinna, who—I was about to say “Not to be rude” but I can’t say what I’m about to without being rude, so fuck it—has lips that can only be described as two car bumpers and got her asshole waxed on television. The second half of the season was taken up by who actually started the Munchausen conversation. Except for a brief sabbatical where Lisa Rinna and Lisa Vanderpump went to Ohio to purchase a mini pony, which Vanderpump ended up not buying, this was the entire season. God, I envy that mini-horse. It managed to get out before it was too late.

Side bar side bar: Can someone confirm/deny that Lisa Rinna and Detox from RuPaul’s Drag Race have the same mouth? Thanks.

So we’re at the fifth episode of RHONY and we’ve already had a huge “To be continued” fight, Dorinda slurring her words more than a sailor on leave in World War I, and Bethenny saying someone else has an eating disorder. AND WE’RE ON EPISODE FIVE.

After last week’s episode, the botched barbeque and Bethenny shoving a bagel into her face while destroying Jules’ house, this episode has fresh drama that doesn’t feel too cringey. Here are the highlights.

1). Bryn and (I’m assuming) her personal stylist have approved her outfits for a trip. I’m surprised Bethenny does carryon, because I assumed that only my dad did that, but I’m glad to see that another tight-pursed New Yorker does the same.

2). Jules and Bethenny: Okay, so I hated Jules the first episode. And the second episode. And then I forgot she existed for the third episode and half of the fourth episode. But now she and Bethenny sat down for a lunch and, after twenty minutes of dead air as Jules formulates her thoughts, she finally tells Bethenny that she was shitty at her brunch and ran out like a total Mean Girl™. One thing that I like about Bethenny, even when I want to push her onto an iceberg and set her out to sea, is that she really digs honesty. She was totally fine with Jules telling her that Bethenny hurt her feelings, and almost encouraged it. After a season of RHOBH skirting around who said what, Bethenny’s honesty is refreshing. Jules reciprocates and confides in Bethenny that she struggled with an eating disorder.

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Source: Bravo/ Just realizing this is the same weird shirt with elbow cutouts Dorinda wore earlier this season. Can’t we let this thing die?

Yaaaas! Not “Yaaaas” that Jules had an eating disorder, but “Yaaaas” that she’s using her platform to say something. That’s a fucking hard thing to say, but I think it’s so good in the long run. Bethenny seems actually affected by the confession, which is surprising because I thought she was going to call Carole and tell her that she owes her $10, and thanks Jules for the honesty.

3). I don’t have an internship for the summer; should I ask Sonja if I can clean up her dog poop in that UES townhouse? Maybe that’s why Luann moved in with her. God bless that poor intern. And where is Pickles???

4). Sonja is hot. I kinda just realized this. But her outfit at Ramona’s birthday lunch showed off how beautiful she is. But I absolutely cannot imagine how Sonja is as a mother.

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Source: Bravo

5). Ramona tells Sonja that she has a drinking problem and that’s why Ramona doesn’t hang out with her, because people judge you by the company you keep. Um, is this fucking Downton Abbey? No one gives a shit who you hang with; also, Ramona, you’re a human tornado with eyes that enter the room ten seconds before you do, so I doubt Sonja, who was married to John Adams Morgan, an old money banker millionaire, is really dragging down your image. Let’s not forget Ramona Pinot, you bug-eyed lamia.

Sonja isn’t buying Ramona’s crock of shit, possibly because she’s so used to having it on her floor. Whereas last season Sonja actually seemed like she had a problem, this season she seems better. Ramona is just trying to seem like the total ingénue. This season’s Eileen Davidson. Ouch, that was harsh. I apologize. My favorite moment was Ramona saying, “You’re in denial; it’s so sad,” which is absolutely the best way to make it seem like whoever you’re accusing of alcoholism is an alcoholic.

6). Carole might be the only 56(?)-year-old to actually pull off a twenty-year-old’s style. Like, we dress the same. And I dig it on her. Also I love her lip injections. And she slayed in that moto jacket over her red dress.

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Source: Bravo

7). When there’s a crossover between franchises, it’s more uncomfortable than seeing your parents tipsy at a holiday party. And funnily enough, that one snippet of Bethenny throwing the ladies of Beverly Hills a dinner party was more interesting than the entire RHOBH season. And that was, like, episode two.

8). Ramona now owns red. She has previously laid claim to blue, so it’s unclear if she’s giving up blue or just adding red to her arsenal. Is someone going to tell the cardinals in Vatican City that they’re going to have to change? Maybe they could do a deep emerald. Ramona Red.

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Source: Bravo

9). Luann, former Countess and current MMA fighter, has fallen far from her gilded perch. Her voice is lower than that military facility where District 13 lives in Mockingjay, and she’s now the “Don’t be Uncool” girl. At Ramona’s birthday lunch, she gives Bethenny a belated present—even though she already gave Bethenny a hula hoop at her birthday barbeque bonanza (who can top a hula hoop?)—in the form of a Carlos Falchi leather bag, embossed with Bethenny’s initials. That, in itself, is sweet. Until you get to Ramona.

Luann gave Ramona a necklace from her own line, which she had given her two months earlier and had to repair. LUANN REGIFTED A FORMER GIFT AND GAVE IT TO RAMONA. I’m living, and Ramona’s eyes pop out so far when she sees that Falchi bag that you can see the back of the inside of her skull.

That’s so not classy, to give someone an amazing gift at someone else’s birthday party, when you give the birthday girl a janky Claire’s knockoff necklace. How far Luann has fallen, and how much of a sacrifice it is to be “Cool.”

10). It might’ve just been the editing, but there were at least ten UES biddies who clamored around Bethenny and screeching, “You changed your hair!” like she was Moses giving the Israelites manna. You could practically see them smelling the youth off her, like the Sanderson Sisters.

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Source: Bravo/ The absolute fear of a woman surrounded.

11). Sonja implied that she might have a pube stuck in her eyelashes? And why does that make me like her more??

*****

In this episode, RHONY has managed to do what RHOBH couldn’t—shake off a storyline. Sure, the John arc will come back, but RHONY was able to bring in fresh, organic drama to spice up the season. RHOBH, for all its trying, just keep resuscitating the cold dead corpse of Munchausen for twenty episodes. Which means we had to listen to Yolanda trying to pronounce “Munchausen” for twenty episodes. Yolanda, you speak, like, three languages—surely you can Google search how to pronounce “Munchausen.”

This was such a good episode that I had to write about it. I can only hope that it just keeps getting better. And that Sonja makes more uncomfortable small talk about blowjobs.

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Love & Romance, Rambles

ROM-COMS HAVE SUNK THEIR GILA MONSTER FANGS INTO MY HEART

(written after eating Panda Express and talking about RuPaul’s Drag Race with Thea, a tru g0ddess)

Mindy Kaling once said that she classifies rom-coms in the genre of science fiction, and I agree. The premises are so thin, the coincidences are so transparent, and the characters are…Matthew McConaughey.

But there’s something about the rom-com that appeals to me, and since its Gila monster fangs into my heart. Rom-coms shape, for better or for worse, how we interpret romance. We think it should be hard, with twists and turns, and at the end, we believe that everything will work out in the end. And that’s not bad, and I don’t want to stop believing that. Because the alternative to the rom-com world—likely Nihilism—sucks ass.

Rom-coms allow us to take the shitty and spin them into gold. The boy that didn’t call back, who was kind of a douche—instead of taking them as them, you take them as the steady montage of Boys That Weren’t, before the Boy That Was. Unconventional romances take the tune of a No Strings Attached.

Side bar: remember when everyone was very into the “friends with benefits” movement? That’s very much the grandfather, or slutty uncle, to our “hookup culture.”

And the boy that drags our hearts through the mud like a kite—made on last week’s episode of The Amazing Race—becomes not just another guy, but the One. We make all these excuses and parse all these moments for hidden meanings; we peel apart words like artichokes, searching layers for the core.

Sometimes things aren’t artichokes. Sometimes they are, but sometimes they aren’t. and that really sucks. But I don’t know if I can shift my frame of mind to believe that. For better or worse, I’m a sucker for a Mindy Kaling, Nora Ephron moment, a swell of non-diegetic music when their name pops up on your screen. There’s something painfully beautiful when fantasies crumble, a la Her, but life is hard enough. I have depression and anxiety—I feel like I’ve filled my cup full of all that kind of hardship. I’ll keep believing in rom-coms and even when the poison incapacitates me, I’ll welcome that fat, slobby Gila monster into my bed.

Because why not? It’s better than nihilism; it’s better than cynicism. The world is built for cynics, and who wants to follow that crowd? I might be dumb and hopeful and completely wrong, but all that buildup before the fall is excruciately beautiful and inspirational and worth it. I don’t mind falling and breaking and sad. I can deal with that. I’ve been dealing with that. But to put up with the inevitable fall for the taste of rushing wind and the excitement before the strike of teeth and flash of pain…that seems like a good trade for the flush of excitement when he likes your Instagram, or when she looks your way. In a sickening way, it’s all worth it. Even when it’s not.

Give me a Troop Beverly Hills over a Ten. Give me Guardians of the Galaxy. Give me improbable love that I can ingest and carry with me even when I’m feeling like smacking books out of people’s hands. Give me unlikely, unrealistic, sci-fi-worthy romance that’s so saccharine it’s painful. I’ll deal. I’ll take it all. I don’t have a sweet tooth, but I can handle it.

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Inspirational, Life, Rambles

BAD DIVING BOARD METAPHOR

(Written in front of Tatte Bakery while shivering violently and pretending that I’m not)

Today in the last British Literature class I’ll ever (hopefully) take, my professor asked us if we write in journals. He did, and he said how fun it was to look back on journals from years ago and read what he thought. I had to bite my tongue to avoid plugging my blog (because not even I’m that obnoxious to do a shameless plug in British Literature)—

I should point out, legally, that I have actually put my Twitter/Instagram handle on the blackboard in this class; but that’s less of a shameless plug and more of a public service to my classmates. @dnnymccrthy on Instagram and Twitter.

—and thought back on when I had my old, horrific teenage blog—The Amazing Unicorn Files—where literally all I did was talk about boys I had a crush on, Honey Boo Boo (she was big in 2012), and vaguely offensive satiric “articles.” I have since shoved a stake into that blog’s heart and started this wonderful old broad. And this Elaine Stritch of a blog—shocking, funny, elderly—has morphed to be greater than TAUF. I get to write about politics and pop culture and what’s happening in my world.

But when I look back on this blog in a week, or a month, or a decade, I don’t think I’ll care about Donald Trump—unless he’s Il Duce Trump by then—or Lemonade or what queen went home on that week’s RuPaul’s Drag Race. I’ll still care about the Kardashians obviously, but that’s because I’ll be curious to see how Kris Jenner manages to outlive everyone else in her family.

I’ll care about what I felt, and what was happening in my life. What boys I liked, and what friends I had made, and how good I looked that day. I plan on getting extensive plastic surgery when I turn 40, so it’ll be nice to be able to look back on that youthful boy that I’m desperately trying to recreate.

So I just finished the last day of classes in my junior year. I still have finals and papers to write and loose ends to tie up, but that’s next week and an eternity away. Right now I’m sitting in front of a very chic café, watching cars go alongside my table and shivering from what I’ll say is the cold but might just be the coffee that I’m sucking down but don’t want to acknowledge because coffee shouldn’t make me spasm like a dying fish.

I’ve just finished my junior year of college and the long slab of summer lies ahead of me, but it’s weird, right? It’s odd. Suddenly, I’m about to reach this huge milestone—21, senior year of college, the world beyond—and it feels like it’s all happening too soon. I’m a kid. I don’t know how to get a job. I just figured out how people get cake pops to stick together. I can’t provide for myself. I can barely provide a hilarious one-liner response to cute cashiers.

I have friends who are graduating in a few days. I have friends who are engaged, or are in relationships that could blossom into long-term situations. I can see people going into jobs that lead to careers that lead to the rest of their lives. I can see it all, and it’s making me want to break a table. Because my life is one big sexy, messy black hole.

I feel like I’m always referencing my Brit Lit class, but bear with me. we read Gerard Manly Hopkins this week, and his poetry stuck in my brain like a half-remembered song. He writes like I write, adjectival and messy and complicated and complex. It’s a structure compounded words and thoughts, weaving together to create a parts-of-the-whole thing. And that made me flutter. Because here was someone who did what I want to do. Who was a writer and successful (I mean, he died at 45 of typhoid or something, and all of his poems were published posthumously, so I don’t want to do exactly what he did, also he was a priest which is so not my MO, but still) and loved what he did.

I can’t see my future and I can’t see what the next step should be, but I know what I want my narrative to be. I want to be able to get a job where I can be weird and funny and write in my voice. I want a cool life. I want to not find love right away and be able to have one of those twenties where I can have a shit ton of content off being a twentysomething. I want to live somewhere warm. I want to laugh until I cry, and choke on food and cackle-scream. I cackle-scream now, but I want to keep cackle-screaming.

(I had to move inside because I was cold and can’t pull off that “artist suffering for their work” mentality.)

I want all of these things and it’s weird that they’re beginning to be possible. That in a year, maybe less, I’ll have to start making big-boy-out-of-Pampers decisions. What a horrific image. Maybe I can pull a Lisa Rinna and make my money off adult diapers. That must be my rock bottom, but no one says you can’t make bank on the bottom (insert filthy joke here).

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Source: riffsy.com

I don’t want this to turn into one of those fucking annoying feel-good posts, or one of those “Don’t make me adult” travesties. I want to adult. But it feels a little like being a kid at my grandma’s pool club. There was this huge dive—literally massive when you’re six—and one day, I decided to conquer it. Obviously this is a metaphor—pay attention.

I was—am—a total chickenshit, so I don’t know what made me think I could confidently pull this off, but maybe even then, I was trying to self-destruct. I climb up, and I’m eager. I want to be at the top; I want to make the jump. And suddenly, I’m at the top, and the breeze is stronger up here than it was on the ground, and everyone looks tiny, and that water looks like it’s going to hurt an awful lot from this high up. And so I’m torn, because I want to jump, but suddenly I’m thinking about the very concrete logistics. What will I look like as I fall? Should I tuck my arms in? Fling them out? How deep into the water will I go? Should I scream?

Then the lifeguard and my sister hovering on the top of the ladder are letting me know that I’m holding up everyone and I have to jump. I have to disregard all the questions and queries and potential situations. And so I curl my toes over the edge as the diving board wobbles underneath my weight. And almost before my brain can become okay with it, my feet make my decision for me and step off the edge.

The way down is as ungraceful as I feared, and the primitive instinct within me is making me flap my wings but if I’m a bird, I’m Big Bird, and I’m plummeting to the earth with the help of vengeful gravity. And I hit the water like a cannon, and shoot deep into the depths. My palms sear from the impact, but I float upwards without thinking and start swimming.

I’m hoping that life after college will start like that. That my body will move ahead of my over-agonizing mind and my palms will sear from the pain but that I can rely on muscle memory and start swimming towards something, anything.

I just had a really good conversation with a friend—let’s call her Libby—and she basically said that after college you just look at what the next best decision is, and you take it like that. Step. Step. Step. Evaluate. Step. Step. And if that’s not exactly what you meant, Libby, frankly take that up with my lawyers. Creative license. I’ll have my day in court.

I’m on that diving board and the wind is picking up. It’s fucking terrifying, but I’ve seen all my friends jump, so I have to assume that there’s something spectacular in the deep end. At the very least, there’s got to be something spectacular in the fall. And maybe that’s all that we can be promised at this point as soon-to-be functioning people. The fall is fun and shit-scary and your palms with sear with the impact but you’ll start swimming.

That seems like enough metaphors for today. This was fun. This was right.

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Source: Giphy

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pop culture, Rambles, Things I Like

APPARENTLY I’M A HUGE BEYONCÉ FAN, AND I DIDN’T EVEN KNOW

(Written in a campus Starbucks because my lifeline has been voodoo-linked to my Gold Card status)

I’ve been starting every conversation I’ve had this week with, “Have you listened to Lemonade?” It’s a good ice-breaker, and allows me to know who I should shun and who I shouldn’t (shundn’t?). I’m a pop culture whore/anthropologist, so it’s important to me thtat I surround myself with like-minded people. Or rich people. Or people who can explain how planes get off the ground. I get the whole “in flight” thing, but how do they get there?

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Source: Giphy

Anyway, anyway. When a major cultural moment occurs—Adele’s 25, Britney shaving her head, Justin Bieber’s nudism—we as a people need to acknowledge it. I was simply doing my part. I found out about the album dropping almost accidentally on Sunday night (pure luck) and have been listening to it pretty much this entire week (I mean, it’s Wednesday, but nothing sells a story like hyperbole).

My favorites are “Pray You Catch Me,” “Hold Up,” “Daddy Lessons,” “Freedom,” and “Don’t Hurt Yourself.” I’m not mentioning “Formation” because that’s obvious. Anyway. I’ve been thinking about it, and I have poor impulse control, so since I’ve been thinking it, I’ve been bringing it up in conversation. Sue me.

Side bar: I’m pretty sure Beyoncé was wearing Yeezy Season Threezy in her visual album. I think the song was “Don’t Hurt Yourself.” It was definitely when she was screaming that she would “bounce to the next dick.”

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Source: Giphy

I have an in-depth discussion of the visual album with my coworkers. I insist that my classmate finds some way to access Tidal purely so she can listen to the album and we can talk about it. Normal, sane things.

I’m at a meeting for the magazine I work for—City Editor—and I was casually bringing up Lemonade because, remember, culture. Then someone at the table remarked, “Wow, you really like Beyoncé.”

“No I don’t!” I objected. Which is technically true. I like Beyoncé, but do I love Beyoncé? Well…yes. But am I obsessed with her? Am I a diehard fan? Of course not. I appreciate her as a vehicle for discussion, and for what she represents. And also for how sick her vocals are and how bomb her nails are. Seriously, did you see how good her nails were when she was in that bathtub singing…“Pray You Catch Me(?)”?

And then someone pointed out that my sweatshirt, which has a picture of the painting Madame X (one of my all-time favorites), had Beyoncé lyrics over it: “I walk like this cause I can back it up,” from “Ego.” And that my phone’s background was just an endless repetition of the lemon and bee emojis. And that I had brought up Lemonade at least sixteen times within a half hour meeting. And suddenly…my world spun.

Lemonde Background

Source: Danny McCarthy via his phone “Voldemort”

Was I a huge Beyoncé fan? How could I have missed it?

My whole image of myself shattered. I had always thought that I never stanned for anybody, that as a journalist I kept a healthy distance from my pop queens. Sure, I track RuPaul’s Drag Race tags on Tumblr, and my phone backgrounds include a regular rotation of gag-worthy pop culture icons.

But apparently, this entire time, I was harboring a secret love for Beyoncé. My journalistic ethics have been biased this entire time (beyased—omg, I can’t be stopped. I’m addicted). Since I’m now a huge fan, I need to change a few things in my life. Firstly, I’ll get a social media face-lift: everything that can be Beyoncé will be Beyoncé. No more funny Real Housewives testimonials. No more picture of drag queens caught at unflattering angles. No. I will be committed, and I will not waver.

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Source: Giphy

One thing I’m still wondering—am I still allowed to make fun of Kelly Rowland and Michelle Williams? I feel like that’s a definite gray area for us Beyoncé fans.

In other news, I started the week by dry-heaving halfway through my workout. I had just finished doing squats and lunges, and had stopped to talk to my friend Thea. We’re having a conversation about a class that I’m in now that she took last semester. In the middle of discussing the video project, I stop talking and inform that I need to excuse myself because I’m pretty sure “I’m going to vomit.”

I did that fast diarrhea walk to the bathroom—you guys know the one—and promptly started gagging as soon as I was in the bathroom. I didn’t end up throwing up—frankly, a letdown—but after I was sure that my bile would not make an appearance, I shakily rose from my Hidden Tiger Crouching Dragon position, washed my hands, and walked back over to Thea to finish our conversation. I’m nothing if not a professional. I decided to cut that workout short and go home.

That’s been my week so far—Beyoncé and dry-heaving. Not that different from my usual. Except maybe a little more Beyoncé. I feel like I’ve fulfilled my dry-heaving quota for the month. That feels good to get that off my chest. I almost named this post: “DRY-HEAVING TO BEYONCÉ,” but that’s a little niched. Trying to broaden my audience.

Also I realize in my fervent attempt to convince everyone that I’m not a Beyoncé fan, I’ve written a 1000-word article entirely about Beyoncé. The irony is not lost on me. But I am lost. Can I borrow your cell phone to call my mom?

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