Help Feed The Starving Artists of the World

"Art student"

What comes to your mind when you think of that?

Do you see a person or a persona?

At my college, as I'm sure at many of your colleges, there are "art students." The ones I'm speaking of here aren't the ones with actual artistic abilities and creative mindsets to erect something of such originality, such innovation. I'm speaking of those who carry around art portfolios, in hopes to conform to the nonconforming starving artist types, to be seen as an "art student" rather than what they really are: students with identity crises. Not necessarily fake, but not necessarily real, either.

There's a boy I know at my school who has no artistic ability whatsoever. Who has showed me his "work" which consisted of a traced superhero, stick figures and multiple sketches of lopsided eyes. He carries around a giant black art portfolio, hoping thats his "key" to becoming someone he's not.

I know, I know. Art is art. A twig glued to cardboard is art. A solitary ice cube on a silver platter for the moments before it melts, is art. A baby's spit up on a rag is art. Is there anything art isn't?

Art is turning into an image more than anything. What we are getting from select artists nowadays is not art. It's wannabe art.

Be who you are. If an "art student" is who you are, leave the black portfolio in your class, rather than lugging it around to perhaps look different to those who couldn't outwardly tell you're an anti-trendy trendsetter (Casey, 2004, phone conversation with Amee).

I am not a nonconformer. I am not a conformer. I am me and whatever category that leaves me in, cool.

There's so many different norms on my campus that are becoming so apparently notieceable as of late. We have "hackey-sackers" mainly high school students who walk up to our campus to skip school and kids who sniff sugar. We have "preachers." C'mon, you know the type, the ones you love to hate...the ones who think they have it all figured out and can't help but pass the info along to someone like yourself. We have "psuedo intellectuals," with thier "original" zig zag goatees and messenger bags strung over thier shoulders. "Starving artists" which the aforementioned falls into, "Starving for attention artists," as it should be called.

There's about 400 more and I'm limited with space here, so maybe another day when the world gets on my nerves will I finsh my hate entry, filled with such debauchery and bitterness of the crowds that surround me.

But maybe I'm not so different than any of them.

My Fortune

Here is my very own internet fortune cookie:

 

And what I'm sick of most isn't the long lines or the hiked up prices or the crying little banshee children, what I'm fed up with is the actual term "Holiday Season."

 

Instructions?
Go into your AOL-J archives.
Find your 23rd post (or closest to).
Find the fifth sentence (or closest to).
Post the text of the sentence in your AOL-J along with these instructions

Piano Man should stay home

Who else thinks Billy Joel shouldn't be allowed to drive anymore?

I mean, c'mon now, another accident? This guy needs to retake his driving test!

Don't get me wrong, I love me some Piano Man, but shit!

In other news...

Nope. I guess that was it.

 

90210---or whatever.

I was watching one of the very first episodes of Beverly Hills 90210 today. Matthew Perry (The Chan Chan Man) played an allstar tennis player with not only ambitions to look up Serena and Venus Williams' skirts, but also to kill his father. Or so concerned young Brandon thought.

Picture it: 1990s, West Beverly High, fade in on yet another one of Brenda's pale, ruffled-looking facial expressions, walking hand in hand with Dylan, her James Dean-esque beau clad in none other than a hideous multi-toned striped number that ironically enough matched Brenda's plaid blazer, which, of course, was paired with a pair of classic fit high rise acid washed jeans and cowboy boots. The most fashionable couple of West Bev, I'm sure.

Consequently, during this same episode, Donna (Tori "My dad got me this gig" Spelling) gets a 600 on the SATs. "I'm stupid!" She wails, and lets face it, that some good acting right there. "No, of course you're not stupid, Donna, you have a learning diasbility!" Oh gee, really? Thank God I tuned in on this lovely Wednesday night to get clued in on some of the social and academic problems I myself, as a high school student, may be encompassing in 1991. They were so with it.

I loved how they always tied in some "afterschool special" -type nonsense like suicide, eating disorders, sex, the school paper, wretched outfits into each episode, to make it really reach out to its targeted younger audiences.

Mind you, at the shows beginning, I was 6. When it ended, I was 15. And I watched religiously. I'm talking every Wednesday night. And yes, I even stuck it out with the disappearance of Jason Priestly and the return of Luke Perry. I was there through every heartache, every runaway kid found and brought back to the beach house, every murder, every AIDS patient and every mental breakdown. I suppose you could say 90210 was pretty rad here in the 13501. It was a lifestyle, really.

 

(Not gonna lie, every episode is on tape.)

Been There, Done That

Ah, what a glorious day. It is a whopping 52 degrees outside!

 

I suprised myself this morning by rolling out of bed at 9:30. A reasonable time! I even went to bed before midnight, apparently I was veddy tired as I was yawning during "Sex and the City." That never happens.

I'm going to see BFF's wonderful play again tonight, if any of you are in the big UT area you should come check it out. Tickets are $3 unless you show your hooters at the door.

Been there, done that.

Sometimes It Be That Way

I'm frustrated and angry and sad and depressed all rolled into one today. It may be because the last episode of Friends is nearing...I don't know.

But, as some of you may have noticed, the weekend assignment for this week is to:

Weekend Assignment #2: Describe your second-favorite of the following: movie, book, album, school teacher, ice cream flavor, sports team, comfort food, celebrity crush, cartoon character and way to relax. If you feel like it, add in any other second favorite you like.

2nd Fave movie: hmmm..."Fight Club"

book: "White Oleander" Janet Fitch

album: "Houses of Holy" Zeppelin

ice cream: chocolate (no brainer)

comfort food: potatoes

celebrity crush: Jon Bon Jovi

way to relax: It has been a while, if you know what I mean.

There you have it. I am not longwinded today. Sorry.

A special shoutout to my chica Amber. Love you, Girlie.

It never ends.

You called me beautiful.

Then you called me a bitch.

Now you won't stop calling me.

I hate you.

 

Consider that a haiku about Charley.

25 Things You Didn't Know About Me

This is the new thing going around AOL, so allow me to pass it on.

1. I have 77 pairs of shoes.

2. Sometimes I forget to wear a bra - on purpose.

3. My ex-boyfriends look like a bad police lineup.

4. The last 4 or 5 cheesecakes I have baked have caved in.

5. I have a huge crush on Jame Gandolfini.

6. I wear granny panties to bed.

7. And rarely wear thongs.

8. One of my guilty pleasures? The Disney Channel.

9. I hate season 5 of Sex and the City.

10. I would love to volunteer at a soup kitchen.

11. I haven't had a job in over a year and a half.

12. My 4.0 is really a 3.78.

13. My hero/mentor is my father.

14. My most prized possession is my stuffed animal/best friend Fluffy.

15. My brother once knocked me out.

16. If jail wasn't what I was afraid of, I would've killed quite a few people by now.

17. I am obsessed with a guy who treats me like dirt.

18. Favorite movie? Top Gun.

19. You will only find nailpolish on my toes. I don't have any fingernails.

20. I find it plausible to go a few days without a shower, but only if you're staying at home.

21. I love school.

22. Salvation Army = my favorite store.

23. There's nothing I love more than a great conversation.

24. I'm a sucker for love. Unless it someone elses. Then I'm jealous.

25. I thought this would be hard.

Loppy Cootiebuns

The cold front has moved in.

We went from 82 degrees to 44 degrees in a matter of 12 hours. It's times like these I hate Upstate NY. And weathermen.

Alas, I am at a loss for words. I'll get back to you.

Dude, Your Mother

I spent the weekend with Steve and Brett.

And what do I have to say about it?

Slider: "Goose, whose ass did you have to kiss to get in here?"
Goose: "Well, the list is long but distinguished."
Slider: "So's my johnson."

Another Day

Another day has come and gone and here I am.

Spent the last few days with Steve and his buddy Brett (my personal bed buddy) laughing and running with tangents that are incomprehendable to anyone outside our circle.

Anthony (BFF) and I have been frequenting Walmart nightly, the faces are actually becoming familiar and the merchandise is becoming more and more interesting. There are some aisles we didnt'e ven know existed. Who knew you could buy real live worms there for fishing? It's gross, really. Just go outside on a rainy day, there's tons.

My new hair is thanking me everyday for cutting the last 6 inches off. It's about time.

The weather is looking up, but I am still drowning in a sea of mediocrity. The highlight of my day is staring at Bobby in a gray t-shirt, looking all muscley and alive.

It's 7:15 and the sun is still out. It never ceases to amaze me. It gives me hope, I think.

Sugar n Spice and all that other crapola

I need to visit a gym. I'm finding little rolls and hangy spots that were never there before.

Don't get me wrong, I'm not paranoid over gaining a little weight. In fact, I'm very happy to report about these little sightings around my tummy and back. I'm growing curves-I finally feel like a woman instead of a stick with boobs.

 This is a good thing.

And as for the gym, well that's just to turn these tiny areas into muscle, perhaps gain some definition rather than some attention for being noticeably thin.

I've never had an eating disorder, other than eating too much of a good thing. Some of my favorites?

Steak. Potatoes. Cheesecake. Chips & Dip. Strawberry Ice Cream. Banana Splits. Rice. Somoas (yes yes yes). Porkchops. Lambchops. Egg Salad. Ham. Cheese.

So basically anything edible is on my grocery list. Except:

Veal. Spinach. Vanilla Ice Cream. Liverwurst (That's the WURST!)

My big thing lately has been ice cream. BFF and I hit up the local Friendly's at least 3 times a week. You think I'm exaggerating?

Well, I'm not. And I can't really prove that to you, so I digress.

But anyhow, perhaps I will hit up the Fitness Center at school in a few months when I start to get unbearably chubby and miserable.

Until then I'm continuing my diet of chocolate Fribbles and cheese quesadillas and my exercise routine of clicking away the abundance of popups and free porn ads. As well as sitting around in my underwear watching "Sex and the City," drinking chai and crying because Carrie and Aidan broke up.

The one bad thing about life is that you can't pause it when things get shitty. Now is one of those times and I'm reaching for the remote to hit "stop" but it just doesn't work that way.

Stop.

Top 10 reasons he doesn't call

Oddly enough this was headlines on AOL news. Either it was a slow news day or somebody at AOL hooked up with a Charley type.

10. Mental block
"If I was drunk, I might not really remember the person who goes along with the number or I might have lost it."
9. The list
"Some are building up their very own 'I'm Bored/In Case of Emergency' directory, you maybe just another number."
8. Burn unit
"I've had a few women give me wrong numbers, too scared of rejection I don't call."
7. Social grace(less)
"Some men have no idea how to end a conversation tactfully, They ask for a number because they don't have the backbone just to say 'nice to meet you' and walk away."
6. Dream girls
"Sometimes, I don't call because I wake up the next morning thinking she's out of my league, I figure I'll save her the trouble of rejecting me by not calling. 5. Improving the pool
"I get many numbers over the course of the evening, and then rate them, I'll call the one I like the best. "
4. Instant gratification
"When we get your number, it's because we're interested in you at that time and place, But actually using the number means too much effort. Dinner, a date, which won't happen without many more calls and we don't even know if we really like you."
3. The uncertainty principle
"If I ask for your number or email, at best, I'm not certain I'm into you, If I really wanted to go out with you, I'd go ahead and ask for a date."
2. Vanity
"Some guys collect numbers for self-esteem, He has no intention of calling her — hell, he might not even like her — but he wants to see if she likes him."
1. Betting man
"Getting or giving digits is like dropping a quarter in a slot machine, it's a harmless gamble and a bit of fun. What have you got to lose, other than the quarter?" 
 

And what do I think? Not sure. It could be any of these. And where is #11-Just wanted some action?

TWO whom it may concern:

Anyone who knows me knows I have a low threshold for handling things. In other words, I'm very apt to get freaked out. And by freaked out I mean racing heart, pink cheeks and cold sweats.

Right now is one of those times.

My dam is being threatened by invisible pressure. Too much water too soon. And the problem? There's not even a drip and I'm freaking out.

I sit here in this chair, in front of my computer, thinking of how cruel life can be. And I don't laugh at this. Not one inch of a smile spread on this face. I'm biting my lip. A nervous habit I have. But then again, what nervous habit do I not have? I'm a black belt nail biter, a first class pillow puncher and freaked out child in a crowded room. A crowded room that is filled with a few familiar faces, too many strangers and too many faces that I wish I'd forget, but can't. And here I am, standing in the middle of it, screaming at the top of my lungs and no one looks up. I know if they did, I wouldn't notice, because I am too selfish of a person.

I'm sweating. Tears are filling my eyes but I am too proud and too idealistic to let them pour out, because I know by crying I am open again to the possibility of hurt in an otherwise hurtless situation. Yes, folks, I am single. Single.

Even my tears fall in solitude. Just one. I only let one fall. Does that make me vulnerable or does that make me human?

Or do the two go hand in hand?

There's that word again. Two.

The imagined pressure is getting the best of me and I wonder if there's really any other pressure beside the one I myself have helped to build upon my own two shoulders. And I know the answer.

And I think you do too.

It's raining, it's snowing, the red river is flowing

I'm sick of being the driver.

Being the only one of my friends who drives or has an access to a car, I am torn between going out or not going out. If I go out, I must drive. If I don't want to drive, I can't go out. Perfect little math equation. If something, then something. Let X=Marissa's laziness. Let Y=Saturday nights at home.

You do the math.

It's beginning to snow here. Can you believe this? I'm reminded of a quote from a great little journal I read regularly:

"Okay, not to be wearying on this particular subject, but this flagrant disassociation from the truth by those at the National Weather Service has just got to stop. I was promised -- promised! -- 45 degree weather today, and what do I get? Snowflakes the size of bumble bees! Even now they're falling from the sky, mocking me in their polyploidial size and unnatural enthusiasm to aggravate my Seasonal Affective Disorder." http://journals.aol.com/johnmscalzi/bytheway/

It's only right that it should start to snow again. When it began to melt, I was excited and a little hopeful that I would find love soon. And now that it's snowing, it fits almost perfectly together with my slightly broken heart and lack of faith in love and meteorologists.

 

Sittin in my drawers

I am blessed today.

I have the house all to myself.

I've sat around in my underwear since about 11 am and life is good. Except when the remote is on the other side of the room, then it gets a bit tricky again.

 

 

Just when I thought you were gone

Oh, life. Life life life life life.

It's all fun and games until someone gets hurt.

Any guesses on whose hurting?

No, but I'll put all my money on the chick with the Robert Plant pin and the distraught look on her face.

Thanks again, heartless bastard.

Star Jones: A Profile of one of the most annoying women in talk television.

I'm sure you journalers have caught glimpse of a little show called "The View."

It's a female talk show with 5 of the most annoying hosts ever. With the most annoying award going to: Star Jones.

Star Jones is one of my least favorite people on the planet.

Why is she always so inclined to tell us just how fat, black, bald, engaged and proud of it she is at that particular moment which just happens to be everyday? She expresses such grandeurism that she may be a borderline personality disorder. Star Jones's shit don't stink. And neither does the future Mr. Jones, a 17 year old gold-digging boy with a degree in coloring in the lines.

I know what you are thinking.

I'm being a huge bitch. How could you possibly hate someone you don't know so much?

Oh trust me. It's possible.

I'm sick of her throwing her opinions out into the crowd in a loud, obnoxious voice only to be praised with applause. (The applause of course only dutifully follows the red flashing Applause signs.)

And her Payless commercials make me gag. But, on the flip side, at least they have that whole aisle dedicated to women with wide feet now. Now Star can slip her fat dogs into a cute pink ruffly pair of stiletto sneakers. Or whatever.

"I love getting up every morning and picking out my hair."

Yeah, that must be nice. It must be even nicer to pay someone .07/hr to work in your sweatshop making frilly shoes for fat footed women. Oh wait, sorry, wrong annoying talk show host. My bad, Kathie Lee.

Tune in. 11:00 EST on ABC.

It makes me want to pull my hair out.