Posts Tagged ‘Plastic Surgery’

Wherein I Weigh in On the Events and People of the Day

Thursday, January 21st, 2010

1. Why am I Facebook friends with jerky conservatives I was never even friends with in high school? One girl’s status this morning was “Still makes me smile when I think about Scott Brown’s win! Way to go Massachusetts!!” To which another classmate replied, “Me too!!! We The People WILL INDEED TAKE THIS COUNTRY BACK!!!!!!” And all I can think is YOU THE PEOPLE HAD THIS COUNTRY FOR EIGHT FRICKING YEARS. IT’S OUR TURN NOW. And then I think, TOO BAD THE DEMOCRATS ARE DICKTRIPPING BUMBLEFUCKWITS WHO SHOULDN’T BE ALLOWED TO CATSIT OR HANDLE POINTY THINGS, after which I mutter and seethe and look at baby animal Xanax to settle myself down, like this:

lovable sloth

Or this:

fennec kiss

2. I am officially bored by the late night wars. I suppose my initial sympathies were with Conan, just because he’s tall and brainy and dry, which is enough to make me date a guy, (but not, apparently, enough to watch a guy’s late night TV show, no matter what it’s called or when it’s on). Leno’s just too Velveeta-Everyman for me, in bed (I’d imagine, although I really don’t want to), as in commentary and comedy. (And eww, why am I picturing these late night yuksters naked? It’s like a bad dream where you get all gropey with your Driver’s Ed teacher, a man with sansabelt coach’s shorts and a blond-grey backwards combover.) But enough already. These overpaid joke-hounds are taking up a disproportionate amount of space in my brain and I don’t even watch any of them. Just call me Team Past-My-Bedtime.

heidi fake

3. I am afraid of this face. She’s 23, but she looks twice that, like a living version of bad photoshop. And, although I think she’s a loathsome little fame-bot I’d like to delete from my knowledge bank, with her look-at-me, guns-and-jesus, demi-porn twittery, I am sad to say that I now feel something that passes for kinship with her. Sigh. I hate these sudden shots of empathy for celebudrones, because it’s just so much easier to hate, but what can I say? She makes me feel all squidgy inside, like I’m looking at what happens when the inner eighth grader who lives inside most girls can’t quiet the voices in her head that tell her she’s not good enough, not pretty enough, not worthy or wantable. Damn you, plastic-Heidi for making me feel something for hurty, artificial you.

What about you? Who have you had to hide from on Facebook? Do you watch the late night shows and have you picked a side? Would you undergo ten hours of plastic surgery for double-Ds and a fakey face? What about two hours of surgery to look a little fresher, more like the person you still expect to see in the mirror?

images via: sloth hug, fennec kiss, knife job

Check-Up, Checked-Out

Tuesday, December 15th, 2009

ford check-up

Ford had his one week check-up today and everything is healing nicely, the doctor says. Apparently “healing nicely” is board-certified plastic surgeon code for “freaking gruesome.” I’ve included pictures after the jump, but don’t you go running off to click through, because I have a little ranting to do before we get there. That’s right, I’m still in the P part of the MS, and right now, P stands for pissy.

ford check-up2

I will spare you the work whine, but you know the worst thing second worst thing about breaking up with someone? It’s the loss of the shared joke. Suddenly, the one you used to spend all day instant messaging with is off limits, and when something happens—something tectonically loopy, something sublimely awful—you no longer have the person with whom you most want to share. I could tell you guys, I suppose, but that would mean snarking on a public stage. Word could get back. And I want my schadenfreude without fear; I just want to crack wise, not make people cry.

ford check-up 3

Oh, but it’s so good bad delicious. And I am just really sad apocalyptically crabby that I have no one to  tell. (more…)

This is Where the Moonwalk Debuted

Friday, June 26th, 2009

It’s also where MJ should have stopped messing with his face. His nose is thinner, but he’s just all kinds of ferocious-pretty here:

I can identify this song in one slink-thud, it’s that much a part of my pelvis.

From the “Motown 25” show, 1983.


Thee Temple…

Wednesday, July 23rd, 2008

young genesis

For a person with average taste in music, I’ve spent a lot of time listening to Throbbing Gristle. I had a nest of friends in earlier days who had every album, every video, every possible psychick cross tattoo or necklace. And they played that shit all the time. Me? I was the hippie-looking chick twitching in the corner to “Black Angel’s Death Song” or firing up Marianne Faithfull and Leonard Cohen on my record player.

But whether or not it was exactly my thing, cut-up industrial noise-smog has been a frequent soundtrack to my hanging out. Not an easy listen, but bracingly seminal. I knew even then that it was good medicine for stiffening the spine and toughening the ears, and all those hours spent listening to the static meanderings and threatening thumps stood me in good stead in the heady underground days of survival research San Francisco, where I am one of the only people I know who escaped without genital piercings or tribal tattoos or polyamorous habits. (That noise you just heard? My mother exhaling in loud relief.)

old skool genesis

I’ve always been drawn to/repelled by—which I think is a curious phenomenon and needs its own word, complete with that faint tang of the ookily, spookily erotic; suggestions welcome in the comments—Throbbing Gristle and Psychic TV mainstay Genesis P-Orridge, who, it was rumored, lived up in Marin while I was SF. He’d make the papers occasionally, and I fantasized about running into him while walking dogs in the Open Spaces parkland near my best friend’s house.

But mostly I didn’t think about him. Not for years. So I was riveted by my first look at the latest incarnation. (more…)