Friday, December 12, 2014

Top Ten Reasons Why Nobody Would Be A Christian If Jesus Existed In 2014.

10. He would hang out with the Kardashians.

9. He would always be trying to sabotage your birth control, and heaven forbid you try to have a pro-choice conversation with the guy.

8. His birthday always has to be a big ordeal. Like, crown-and-sash and free shots big deal, OR ELSE.

7. He'd always be showing up drunk to things, after a hard morning of turning water into wine.

6. He'd always be pulling the "daddy" card to get out of trouble. 

5. He'd be super moody and judgey all the time, not to mention all the casual antisemitism.

4. His Christ-Mobile would always be trying to one-up he Pope-Mobile. 

3. His Tinder profile would say he was multi-racial and multi-talented in many ways (wiiiiink), but on the actual date? Three hours of listening him talk about himself, followed by a clumsy make-out attempt, followed by three months of him threatening to go nail himself onto a cross if you don't call him back.

2. He'd have conversations at parties with anyone in earshot about how his DJ career of dubstep-remixing hymns was about to take off majorly.

1. He would get real bitchy when everyone just wanted to sleep in on a Sunday.

~sarah p.

Jams Of The Week (That Girl Edition):

~sarah p.

Saturday, November 29, 2014

Five Upsides To Winter.

1. That non-returnable cashmere bra and panty set that seemed like an exercise in the most frivolous of spending starts looking more and more necessary all the time.

2. It pisses off the right type of people to, upon them complaining that the winters are getting worse due to global warming, remind them that we'll all be dead before shit really hits the fan anyway.

3. It's so awful out that it no longer becomes "shut-in-y" and worrisome to your loved ones to watch Netflix for the entire day.

4. You don't sweat your face off like you do in the summer, which means you stay looking hot for at least three times as long.

5. It's a really fun game to guess what people's bodies look like before they remove their layers and layers of coats.

~sarah p.

Jams Of The Week (Summer Is Only Six Short Months Away Edition):

~sarah p.

Thursday, November 20, 2014

A Short Note About The Aaliyah Biopic.

Last Thursday, after some poor decision-making around a dicey takeout dinner, I succumbed to a vicious bout of food poisoning. After a lengthy battle in the bathroom, I emerged weak and dehydrated on Saturday night. I thought I was hallucinating at first when I saw that a Canadian channel was about to air the Lifetime Aaliyah biopic, 'The Princess Of R&B', and honestly, I still wasn't sure by the end if my brain had invented the entire thing. Maybe it was just all a bad dream, I thought. However, the internet's rage-filled explosion directly afterward told me that it wasn't a mirage, it was just a really terrible movie.

For starters, let's just get something clear: they made an Aaliyah biopic without a single Aaliyah song. It's important to note that the movie did include a couple recognizable songs, most prominently, Bobby Brown's 'My Perogitive' (because let's face the facts, the man's gotta eat), and some cover songs that Aaliyah did sing, but the majority were songs that kinda sounded like Tamia's 'So Into You' without actually being Tamia's 'So Into You', or trashy demo-reel R&B that nobody has ever heard before (or ever wants to hear again). I don't really think that Lifetime intended to leave out Aaliyah's music, which means that Lifetime approached the estate of Aaliyah, most likely her parents, showed them a script of a biopic about their daughter, and they were so horrified that they were not willing to release the rights to a single song. Just let that sink in for a moment.

From the very beginning, it was clear they'd really phoned it in on the casting. The younger versions of Aaliyah through the 'rise to stardom' sequence each looked like an entirely different child in each scene. R Kelly looked like the dude that drives the bus I take in the mornings. Actually, this one may not be that far off base. Missy Elliott was thin. Like, now thin, but this was 1997, and Missy was wearing suits made of blown-up garbage bags in most of her videos, because I'm not sure she could even fit into most pants at the time. I'm pretty sure the dude that played Timbaland was one of the prop guy's nephews that accidentally wandered onto the set, because there is no way any human actually selected this young man for an even remotely reasonable facsimile.

Let's get to the real bread and butter here: R. Kelly. Instead of approaching the relationship with any sorts of rape-y undertones, they chose a 'kids-will-be-kids, and 38-year-old-men-will-be-38-year-old-men' spin. Puppy love, if you will. That is to say, if puppy love included some sort of child-bride situation, and a whole lot of statutory contact. I'm sure they were fearful of any repercussions from Kelz himself, because as pedophilic as he is, let's face the facts: he can buy and sell just about anyone's ass (and probably has, on occasion).

Lastly, the final quarter of the movie was a glaring tribute to one person, and one person only: Damon Dash. Though in real life, they dated for around a year, the movie approached the relationship like the be-all-end-all for this girl. She was young, attractive, rich, and in her early 20's. If that plane didn't crash, you know that bitch would have dumped his ass, and would probably be dating Drake right now.

There's more than just the reasons I've already listed. Glaring omissions of her relationship with Jet Li (and let's be honest, those sex scenes could have been hot like fire), era-inaccuracies (did you know Aaliyah invented 'talk to the hand' in 1988?), and not-so-fabulous singing in a movie all about singing. Really, I could go on all day, but the real point of this post is: wouldn't it have been so much cooler if I was just hallucinating the whole thing?

~sarah p.

Jams Of The Week (It's Time To Admit That I Love Early 50 Cent Edition):

  ~sarah p.

Thursday, October 23, 2014

An Letter Of Unwavering Support:

Dear Chicken Girl,

I've got to admit, when I came across your story, I initially thought to myself "this bitch is batshit". However, I then realized that, almost a year ago to the date, I would've thought you were on some next-level shit.

You see, much like yourself, I was dumped. Not only was I dumped, I was dumped in the most hurtful, painful, damaging way possible, the "slow-fade", where my previous partner tried everything in his power, over the course of several years, to get me to dump him first. This included infidelity, many a lie, and tons of general asshole-ness. I'm assuming your breakup was very similar. There's no way you'd be hunkering down in a fast food restaurant if the feelings were mutual.

Maybe you were a child of divorce. We are a funny breed when it comes to relationships. We either are total commitment-phobes, or do-or-die idealists that try to weather through rocky relationships, even when that dead horse is beat into a bloody pulp in the dirt. Sorry for the visual, but you live in China, so that shit probably doesn't faze you.

I got you, Chicken Girl. Maybe you can't wrap your head around why someone would ever be so cruel? Maybe you wonder how your ex can sleep at night.  Maybe you just really love fried chicken.

I can't make the hurt better, Chicken Girl. I hate to break it to you, but those eleven herbs and spices probably aren't going to mend your heart either, try as they might. Here are some good ideas to get you through this tough time:

-Drink a whole bottle of wine. Just once or twice, or until you forget everything. Those emergency benzos that you had stored in the back of your drawer? The emergency is now.
-Take solace in the fact that people may, one day, describe your ex's new girlfriend as "plain-looking" or "annoying" or "reeking of white privilege". "What the fuuuuck was he thinking?" is a phrase that may become a cathartic mantra every time you hear it. All rules of being a good person say that this is not supposed to give you any sorts of self-satisfaction, but let's face the facts: it totally does.
-Buy yourself a place to live! Get your own shit! Make your own life, then look around and admire how much better it is than your old life. Also, get a dog and a cat, or at least a fish tank.
-Fuck a black guy. This one is so obvious.
-Put on a punchy lipstick. Use lip liner. Make it perfect. Your face may be puffy and sallow from crying so much, but nobody will notice if they're hypnotized by your pout. Also, do your nails.
-Don't start dating right away. Why? Well, despite your recent actions, you're probably not a crazy person. When you do start dating again, date someone way our of your league, because they probably weren't ever out of your league to begin with.
-Enjoy the post-breakup weight loss, while it lasts.
-Delete his number, and forget he exists. He sounds like kind-of a bitch.
-Max out your credit card, and take one hell of a vacation. If one doesn't do it, take two. Order room service, and probably also have some borderline risky sex (like, use a condom, but don't get his last name).
-Watch sad movies and cry until crying just becomes kind-of boring.

You know what? Maybe you are right. Maybe eating chicken for a few days straight helps, too. The alarming lack of 24-hour chicken joints in this city means that I didn't ever get the chance to try it out. You might have found the "cure".

It's time to wipe the grease off of your sad little forehead, Chicken Girl. I'm sorry, you're going to have to use one of those scratchy printed napkins. Brush the chicken crumbs off of your elastic-waist pants. It's time to venture out of the Colonel's walls, and be the best damn Chicken Girl you can be.

Don't spend too much time trying to justify the breakup. There's probably nothing wrong with you, Chicken Girl. A good person would have broken up with you in a gentle, humane manner that wouldn't leave you mulling around KFC for a few days. It's true that some people just aren't meant to be, but it's also true that some people are just straight dicks 4 lyfe.

Feel better, Chicken Girl. It gets better.

~sarah p.

Jams Of The Week (Matters Of The Heart Edition):

 ~sarah p.

Thursday, October 16, 2014

Adulthood Means:

*Eating four handfuls of Nerds and calling it a meal.

*Letting go. Or holding on. Or whatever you like, because you say so. 

*Replacing bathtub toys with bathtub doobies.

*Popsicles in the middle of winter, even though it might make you cold. Or catch a cold. Or whatever it was my mom used to say.

*Staying up until 4AM on a work night, because you found an old iPod and you're really vibing out to it, and the only sass you're going to get from anyone is when your co-workers tell you that you look "tired" all day.

*Paying your taxes every year (because heaven forbid you get a refund), and writing a teeny, barely visible swear word in the memo line of the cheque.

*Kind-of impressing yourself with how many vitamins you can swallow at one time.

*Buying albums with explicit lyrics without having to explain to your hippie Dad why that "Snoop Diggity Dogg" character is so angry.

*Remember that lizard you wanted as a child that everybody told you would be too hard to take care of, and it would just die and you would be really sad? Well, it's time to find out if that's true.

*Reminding yourself twenty times a day that nobody can tell you what to do anymore. Except for your boss, and the government, and good luck getting away from those guys.

~sarah p.

Jams Of The Week (Cool Out 90's Style Edition):

~sarah p.

Saturday, October 11, 2014

Jams Of The Week (Stranger Danger Edition):

~sarah p.

Run This Town.

A flailing woman tries to pull my purse from off my shoulder. As I jerk it back, I think to myself "Calgary is a crack town".

For the fifth time since the beginning of the year, one of my clients shoots up after being clean for a short while, and overdoses herself. "Sometimes," I think to myself," we are a heroin town".

While in the convenience store, a twitchy man nervously asks the clerk if they have an Sudafed. It is an emergency. As I stand behind him in line, I think "Actually, Calgary is more like a meth town".

I go for sushi early in the evening one Saturday, and on the back of one of the toilets are two perfect, powdery lines that someone must've forgotten about. I shake my head and think "Man, we're more like a cocaine town".

Trailing exactly ten steps behind a random group of business men waddling from the Stampede grounds in July. There are grease stains on their shirts. It is barely noon, and they are already loud and boisterous. I change my mind once again; "We are a gluttonous town. And a drunk town".

I admit to my co-workers that I haven't watched 'Orange Is The New Black', and their murderous stares tell me one thing. I had it all wrong from day one. Calgary is a Netflix town.

~sarah p.

Tuesday, September 30, 2014

Jams Of The Week (Teen Dream Edition):

~sarah p.

p.s. NehruvianDOOM drops in a week, and is really something to be excited about.


Sometimes there are situations in life, much like this Ariana Grande and The Weeknd song, that you can comb and comb for flaws, and keep coming up empty.
It only took me 32 years, guys, but I have finally started to believe whole-heartedly in the concept of perfection.

~sarah p.

Thursday, September 25, 2014

Dear Reggie:

You are lucky I have this "just take the first animal the pound hands you" philosophy, because you were probably not exactly what I was looking for. When I took you into the cement yard to see if we bonded well, you ignored me, then got your fur all over my pants. You were seven years old, had bad teeth, and I was warned that you had a severe anxiety disorder. Nonetheless, home you came. My boss said I saved your life that day.

It took me about a minute to fall in love with you. There is something soulful and sincere about your eyes. You slept upside down, with all four paws in the air. I stopped watching America's Funniest Home Videos, because you became a live version all of the animal bloopers in the world. Still, despite your constant ability to make me laugh, it was clear, and is still clear, you are a little tormented inside. Your constant worrying has been challenging to say the least. Every meal, in your little dog brain, is your very last. Each time I leave the house, you are unsure if I will ever return. You have panic attacks over walks and snacks. Although thanks to a pricey DNA test, I know your breed (a first-generation cross between a Yorkie and a Chihuahua!), the rest of your past is a complete mystery to me. I wonder if your old home was troubled. You remind me of the kids I work with, and I often use similar calming techniques between home and work, flesh and fur.

Last year, you lost so much weight... Seven pounds! I was so proud of you! It was over a third of your entire body weight. You worked really hard, and probably added years onto your life. The vet said it was one of the most impressive weight-losses she'd ever seen on an animal. You are like the dog version of Subway's Jared, minus the sandwiches. If you wore pants, you could probably fit three of you inside of your old pair, just like the commercial. Also, if you wore pants, that would be hilarious. You would wear them belted over your belly, like a mature Italian man.

You form astonishing bonds with people. I can't walk anywhere downtown without someone yelling down the street "Is that Reggie?". I walk you past the bottle depot twice a week. I have to allot myself extra time on these days, because everyone picks themselves up off the ground and scratches you with dirty hands. One of the guys always says he can tell that you were homeless once, too, because you "get" him.

Even my boyfriend adores you. It's a bit strange to walk out of the shower and see a well-dressed, not to mention very allergic, black man carrying you around like a baby, but I guess you just have that affect on people. The cat loves you to bits, and she loves no one. I know you growl at her sometimes for trying to bathe you, but to be honest, man, she's doing you a favor. Your smell is not one of your strong points.

Your favorite, and probably best, friend is an 80-year-old man that wears a backwards hat every single day. This would be unusual for any other being in the world except for you. We get to see him most mornings on our first stroll of the day. One time, we hadn't seen him for a few days. He rushed to us, as rushed as he gets, the next time he saw us. He looked at me with concern in his wrinkled eyes. "I didn't know where you were", he said, "and us old guys go fast, you know". We talked for a while longer, and right before waving goodbye for the day, he said that he was so glad I had rescued you all those years ago.

People say that I saved your life. They say that they are glad I rescued you. What they don't know is that you've saved my life many times over, and that I could never, ever re-pay you for the amount of times you've rescued me. 

With all the love in the world,

~sarah p.

Jams Of The Week (Money, Money, Money Edition):

~sarah p.

Monday, September 15, 2014

Jams Of The Week (Dynamic Duo Edtion):

~sarah p.


The year was 1997. I was in the early years of my chronic insomnia, and a fresh-faced Conan O'Brien kept me sane during the long nights. Conan ran his show different in the early days. It was raunchy and had very little structure, and typical guests included an even fresher-faced Dave Chapelle, who would spend his entire set bouncing racist jokes off of Conan in his best effort to offend the audience, and the pot-smoking granny from "Half Baked", who loudly proclaimed "I loooove the reefer" while sitting beside straight-laced Andy Richter.

One evening, Conan had invited Norm Macdonald to stay past his interview. Andy moved one chair to the right, and Norm was placed immediately beside Courtney Thorne Smith, of Melrose Place fame. Courtney was at the show promoting a movie she had just made with Carrot Top. When asked what the name of the movie was, she stated it was called "Chairmen Of The Board", to which Norm, with his typical deadpan delivery, followed by mentioning to the audience that "board" was spelled B-O-R-E-D. Laughter erupted, and for once, 3AM didn't seem like such a miserable time.

I've been at a statistics conference the last few days, and I have recycled this joke exactly one million times to delighted audiences. Let me re-phrase this: I am re-telling a stolen joke from 17 years ago, and it's killing. I am the class clown of the entire conference.

At first this revelation startled me. I live a life wherein I should never, ever be considered the funniest person in the room. However, I soon realized that I was not from their world. At my office, there is no such thing as water-cooler chat. Nobody cares about what the weather looks like outside, because children are hungry and homeless and over-dosing. There is no censorship at my office. My jokes seemed to shock and amaze my fellow conference attendees. They also seemed to genuinely enjoy the jokes being told by the lecturers as well, all while I picked at stale danishes and stared blankly at the ceiling.

On the second day, after a three-hour long lecture, there was a bright spot ahead. I saw them cueing up a Youtube video, and I said I silent prayer that it might be one of those compilation videos of animals being jerks to one another. At the very least, I hoped it would be that I Love Lucy chocolate factory clip, the very one that they play at basically every conference I've ever been to. As they stopped drawing on the whiteboard, and pressed play on the video, my hopes sunk. I watched as a person in the video drew out another efficiency concept onto a whiteboard. I lost it, and laughed so hard I had to leave the room. Bad turned into worse, in a way I didn't even think was possible.

I was in a cab on the way to the conference at 6:30 this morning, listening to my Kazakstani driver fight with his wife loudly on the phone. I could taste his cologne in my mouth. We were on our way to the Glemore Inn. I knew I was going to spend another day eating shitty hotel sandwiches and going to the bathroom to pass the time. I was feeling pretty sorry for myself until I realized that there was an end in sight for me. This conference, like every other conference, would come to a close, and I would not ever have to think about it again. Instead of feeling sorry for myself, I should really feel sorry for the people that put on the conference. The ones that wake up in a different hotel bed every few days, and have to switch on videos of dudes drawing on whiteboards and then pretend to be excited about bookkeeping and statistics. Today, I tried to be nicer. I made significantly less jokes about meetings in the "bored room". I did, however, make fun of the lecturer wearing silver and gold wingtips and flared jeans, because I'm not made of stone. At the end of the day, I skipped down the long hallway I had called home for the last few days, and made it my official mandate to volunteer to attend significantly less of these things.

~sarah p.

Thursday, September 04, 2014

The Perfect Outfit: It's Complicated.

I have two very creative, very anti-social hobbies in this world. The first is obvious; I am a total word-nerd. I love to write. Whether it's pen-to-paper, or typing furiously on my seven-year-old laptop, there is scarcely a time where I am not, somewhere in the back of my mind, piecing words together. The second may not be so obvious, but if you have read this blog for any length of time you may be aware: I looooove makin' outfits.

This love of outfits may stem from a weird place. I have quite a bit of social anxiety that seems to fade, almost completely, if I know that my ensemble-game is tight. I also get tired of my jeans, crew-necks, and sneakers wardrobe that I wear day-in-day-out at work. I have three closets and two sets of drawers just brimming with garments begging to be thrown together in wonderful ways. 'Thrown' is maybe not the right word, however, because it actually takes a lot of time, effort, and money. Here are my top tips for getting dressed for a night out on the town:

*Know your eras. Understand that a good outfit often "borrows" ideas from decades past. Here's a quick guide- there are fun looks to copy from the 60's (mod dresses are a go-to for every dressy event), the 70's are too crunchy to ever look fresh, the 80's is gaudy but fantastic (particularly the scarves and jewelry), the 90's had a ton of great looks, and the 2000's is probably the darkest era for fashion. Leave the 2000's alone.
Here's the thing, though, guys. There is a fine line between having a 90's flair to your outfit, and showing up to a non-costume party in straight costume. Recently, I have been enjoying donning a Chola/90's Aaliyah uniform(minus the brows and heavy lip-liner, they're actually the exact same look), but it's a balancing act. Add modern pieces, like slim plants instead of baggy, so that you don't end up looking like you're an extra in the No Scrubs video.
On the flip-side, if you are going to a theme-party, do it up. A couple of years ago, my significant other at the time and I were invited to a 90's theme birthday bash. I went out and bought the perfect 90's outfit, from a splatter-paint mini skirt straight out of Saved By The Bell, to a pair of flawless Betsy Johnson heels I found on consignment. After I got ready, my boyfriend (again, at the time), rolled his eyes at me and told me that I was going to look like a total idiot for dressing up. Hipsters are weird about not only clothes, but also parties. Sure enough, we get to the party, and nobody else had donned a 90's uniform. I think I realized, that night, that the relationship was not sustainable. A few weeks ago, my fabulous new boyfriend mentioned that we were invited to a 90's-themed party. He then produced, from his dresser, a carefully crafted costume. When I mentioned that others may not dress up for the same event, he rolled his eyes and told me that we would look like total idiots if we didn't dress up. So, out came the perfect Blossom-style floral heels, the big hoop earrings, and a heavy coating of iridescent lip gloss. It was perfect, and one of the best evenings I've ever had out in this city.
Abbreviated lesson: be mindful of going overboard on period-pieces on regular nights out, and don't date anyone that thinks that 90's party is a 90's party without costumes, because it's not.

*Scarves and jewelry and hats can seem like they take too much effort to chunk into an already-existent outfit. Here's a good rule: if the outfit can stand on it's own, it's cool to drop all accessories, but it's also a great plan to build outfits around accessories. This rings particularly true when it comes to shoes. Sometimes I think that I could wear the filthiest rags in the world, so long as my shoe-game is on-point. Take for example, one of my favorite looks of the entire summer was a basic baseball jacket (satin, usually about five sizes too big), a ratty white tank-top, cut-offs, and often a backwards cap of some sort. This sounds basic. Super fucking basic. However, add on a pair of sky-high cage heels to the look, and you're really onto something. Accessories can be a real bitch, and also a total outfit-saver.

*It can look super high-fashion and chic, and believe me, I adore a fresh pair of kicks, but do not wear sneakers to the club unless you are over 5'10 and a legit model, or risk delving into stump-territory.

*Gold hoops go with everything. Gold chains go with most. Hot tip: if you are wearing something super low-cut, a heavy opera or rope-length chain can help conceal some of the cleave. Spend a little cash on your gold, or you will get weird green marks on your skin. If you have a boyfriend, make sure he lets you wear his chains. It's one of the few accessories you can share (also, ball caps). I have a complicated relationship with silver, but mixing metals can look super fresh on anyone.

*When it comes to painting your face, always, but you have to choose between lips or eyes. Never both. If you are dead-tired, wear a bright lip and nobody will be able to focus on the luggage under your eyes. Also, trust me from experience: don't get stoned when wearing navy eye-makeup, because no amount of Visine is going to be able to conceal your baked gaze. It's something to do with the color wheel. I think I once did some research on this while under the influence, but I'll spare you the details.

*The most under-rated, and most conversation-inducing, accessories are: watches, scarves (I found a book from the 80's on scarf-tying, and it has been a real game-changer), and minor injuries.

*Summer is the best time for fashion, because you don't ever have to worry about bundling up. However, I love a challenge, and when fall comes, I line up all of my jackets and try to figure out how to look fresh whilst not freezing to death. A recent purchase of a gaudy-ass vintage Cam'Ron-style faux-fur coat is really helping me in this matter.

*Make sure the shoes you wear aren't going to have you hobbling around at the end of the night. Nobody can see your outfit if you're sitting down the whole time because your feet are too sore, and being one of those bitches that removes their shoes and walks around barefoot is not an option. Here's another great tip: buy any heels over 3" in a half-size too big, and supplement them with gel insoles.

*Don't be a total hoarder of clothing, but also be careful what you get rid of. "Donator's regret" is one of the worst feelings on the planet.

*Be yourself, man. Don't always look around at others for inspiration. Have fun with your clothes. Pave your own path, and don't forget the best outfit game-changer of all: a cocky-ass attitude.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have many, many outfits to procure for the upcoming fall season. Wish me luck.


~sarah p.

p.s. On a serious note, thanks to Joan Rivers for all of the comedy, and fashion, inspo over the years. I wouldn't be half as bitchy, or as bold, without it.

Jams Of The Week (Sample Progression Edition):

~sarah p.

p.s. For the non-basic explanation of Jermaine Dupri's brilliant 'Jump' sample, please enjoy this super-clever breakdown.

p.p.s. Sometimes I think that I'm never going to love modern music, then a monster track like the final in this post comes along, and I feel like a total fucking idiot for ever being so close-minded. Dating a DJ has been a real eye-opener for me, y'all.

Friday, August 22, 2014

Five Observations From Recent Rap Shows:

1. Rap shows are the only time anyone under the age of 40 ever orders cognac, or cognac-based liqueurs.
2. I have now seen a million different gold pieces hanging on chains studded with diamonds and rhinestones, in all different shapes (Captain Crunch, turntables, and an angry lion are just some prime examples), and not unlike your average magpie, I am extremely dazzled by it all.
3. There are these dudes that show up to most of these concerts that appear to be hype men. They wear sunglasses, despite the rather dark atmosphere, and crawl up on stage, for no reason other than to sway around and drink beer. Nobody seems to stop them, but the only person they actually seem to be hyping is themselves.
4. Hipster dudes at rap shows. Amiright, people? From the clueless hand signs that they keep throwing into the air, to the awkward air-swiping and clumsy grinding, to the part where they have to stop rapping along to the lyrics when the n-word comes up, to the part where they check on their phones halfway through the concert to see if they are still supposed to think the artist is cool or not, it's clear that nobody ever outlined basic rap show etiquette to these guys.
5. Rap shows are ass for days. The only way you ever see more ass-cheeks in one room is to watch a Nicki Minaj video. I like to absorb as much ass-based fashion as I can, and take mental notes like: "crop-tops are a great way to highlight what you've got", and "it's okay to show a little under-cheek, even well into your 30's". Obviously, I am forever in debt to rap shows for this knowledge.

~sarah p.

Jams Of The Week (The Game and Kayne: Pre-Beef Edition):

 ~sarah p.

Tuesday, August 12, 2014

Jams Of The Week (We Love Rick Edition):

  ~sarah p.


It only took 32 years, but I am finally starting to understand the finer details of how the universe works. Terms like "what goes around, comes around", and "you get what you give" sounded stupid ten years ago, but resonate louder and louder the older I get. One lesson I have recently learned is how much a bad attitude can skew a situation. I only say this because I am pretty positive I am ruining my brand new iPhone because I was sure I was going to fuck it up long before I had even made the purchase.

I was a late bloomer, phone-wise. I had friends carrying clunky iPhones in 2007. The technology alluded me at first. The thought of checking e-mail, or watching that video where the monkey pees in his own mouth, while out at the bar at 2:30AM, was a concept that, for many years, I couldn't wrap my head around. This was mostly because 2007 was the year my mom handed me my first flip-phone while rolling her eyes at me. At first, I could hardly get the hang of texting, so never mind trying to figure out the semantics of downloading shit off of iTunes on the bus.

I had a natural resistance to the idea of smart phones from the get-go, but technology moves fast, and pretty soon strangers were making fun of my phone out in public. The homeless kids I work with all had significantly nicer phones than I did. It was about three years ago, following a particularly harsh razzing from street children, that I started considering the merits of a smart phone. No more drawing out complicated, messy maps on napkins when I wanted to go somewhere new. No more mental notes on shit to remember to Google when I got home. An entire universe of music and information in one tiny computer. There was only one thing holding me back: my complete and utter inability to trust myself with anything that cost $700.

This is where my shitty attitude comes into play. After only two months, my iPhone has a dainty scratch across the screen, and it probably wouldn't have happened if I just trusted myself in the first place.

For the first month, despite the fact that my monthly bill had just tripled, I hardly carried the phone at all. I was too scared to take it out in public, for fear of losing it, or getting it stolen, but after a stern talking-to by my tech-savvy boyfriend, I begrudgingly started carrying it daily. I put it into a fancy case, but was still 100% sure that I would drop it anyway. A month passes, and I was starting to get used to burying my face into it's tiny screen as I walked home from work, but my gut still told me to be careful every step of the way.

Then it happened. Of course, in front of several people. I had just hopped up onto a curb, about three blocks from my house, when I felt my feet slip from under me. Despite the fact that I have a very small distance to go to reach the ground, historically I tend to fall very, very hard. As I careened to the sidewalk, all I could think was "it's happening". In slow motion, I watched my phone slip from my palm and land on the pavement, screen-down. I landed on my knees, which both tore and scraped under the pressure. I had hurt my hand badly, but was not concerned for my own well-being. Instead, I said I silent prayer as I swept myself, and my phone, off the sidewalk. Please, please, please let this phone be okay. When I opened the case, there was the tiniest, barely noticeable scratch. I dragged myself home, bleeding and embarrassed, and made a mental note to not be such a self-defeatist from now on.

~sarah p.

Wednesday, August 06, 2014

Jams Of The Week (Deep, Deep, Deep Edition):


 ~sarah p.

Mature Advice For Young Club-Going Females.

My recent exploits have found me head-over-heels for a DJ. This means a lot of late nights at a lot of venues that I haven't frequented in years. I wasn't sure how I'd fit back in to the nightlife culture at 32 years old, but honestly, I couldn't be having a better time right now. I spend half of the time eye-fucking my boyfriend on stage, and the other half dishing out life advice to young bar-stars. You see, I was once quite the party-goer myself (see years 1-7 on this blog). I really enjoy sharing no-bullshit advice with my predecessors. Here are some grown-ass women observations for all of my non-grown-ass counterparts:

1. Girls are wasting booze and cocaine in this city with reckless abandon. Every other bathroom stall is lined with half-drank cocktails, and dusts of yayo on top of the toilet paper dispenser. I know this city is crawling with money, but finish what you started, people.

2. If you're not 100% sure you've gotten the hang of it, practice dancing in front of the mirror before you leave the house. Videotape yourself if you need to, until your moves won't embarrass you in front of others. Music has gotten progressively harder to dance to over the years, to the point where bitches are putting off real Elaine Benes vibes all over the floor. It's painful to watch, and totally preventable.

3. You might not be good at outfits yet, young buck, but give it ten years. Short and tight and revealing is actually a fucking great look, but it's the right kind of short and tight and revealing. You have to go through years of looking like a cross between an over-stuffed sausage and a kid that got into mommy's closet before you get that shit on point. Pay your dues, and one day you will look fresh without much effort.

4. Nobody cares anymore if you have a boyfriend. When a guy is giving a chick a lot of unwanted attention, the first instinct is to shut him down by telling him you are taken, but that shit doesn't fly anymore. It's too played. It might have worked back in my day, but modern relationships are all so up in the air anyway that nobody gives a fuck. It's so much easier to just shut a guy down by telling him his breath stinks or you have to go deal with "period stuff".

5. Approximately 89% of female bathroom chatter is "Should I go home with him?", and honestly, the answer is "probably". The only reason why any girl farms this question out to the masses is to make it seem like she's actually contemplating saying no, but usually your mind is already made up. There are upstanding circumstances, like if you are too drunk to stand, there is an obvious butcher knife sticking out of his back pocket, or he is already your ex, but otherwise, shrink-wrap the hell out of anything you bang, and live a little.

The rest of my advice is simple: be nice and polite to everyone (bartenders, DJs, door-people, everyone), don't get jealous of other girls, don't get in fights, don't cry, and if you can no longer walk in your heels, get your ass home.

~sarah p.

Monday, July 28, 2014

A Few Thoughts In The Middle Of A Summer Cold.

*It's hard to make even the best outfits look fresh with a wad of Kleenex in your pocket.

*There are only so many episodes of "The Office" you can watch on the couch before you start to realize that you are actually perpetuating Caucasian stereotypes.

*High fevers mean that, for the first time this whole summer, you're freezing and giving your Cosby sweater collection a good workout.

*Fuckin' soup. Not a meal at all. Creamsicles, on the other hand, actually encompass two whole food groups, fruit and milk (three if you count "frozen" as one), so they are probably more nutritious than anyone realizes.

*They made they daytime pills blue, and the nighttime ones white, which means that the people at the Sudafed factory are real jokesters.

Jams Of The Week (Marvin's Room Edition):

~sarah p.

p.s. Remind me, one day, to tell you guys the tale of the smoothest cab driver ever, who pulled up in front of the Dillaville concert bumping the most sample-worthy Marvin tracks for all to hear as he waited for his next fare. Moral of the story: know your audience, man.

Monday, July 21, 2014

I Love Summer, An Annual Declaration.

It's my 32nd summer on the planet, and I know I say this every year, but it has been the best one yet.

First of all, if you've never fallen in love in July, then now is the fucking time, you guys. I'm walking around this town in very little clothes shooting hearts from my eyes at every turn. Everything I do seems fun when he is around. We spend hours trying to out-music-geek each other and eating sashimi. I spend a fair amount of time watching him on stage as my heart beats out of my chest, and at the end of the night we retire to my tiny basement apartment, where it's always cool. Sometimes we stay in bed most of the day. Honestly, I don't care what we're doing, so long as he is near. 

Also, let me tell you about living downtown in the summer. The second I leave my place, the heat hits me like a wall. I say that like it's a bad thing, but I have a deep love for warm cement and tall buildings. The other week, Reggie and I sat in the park across from my house and listened as a band practiced covers of The Roots songs while mosquitoes and homeless folks buzzed past us. It was one of those moments where I thought I had died and gone to heaven. In the very same park, two nights ago, I watched a little old volunteer gardener cut a stem of roses for an ancient Asian man that didn't speak English, and it was the most beautiful wordless transaction I had ever seen. Reggie and I sat on the wall until he disappeared from sight, smiling and smelling his flowers. I've been pinching myself a lot lately, because just about everything seems too good to be real.

And the outfits? All sheer everything. Very little pants. The whole neighborhood knows I love Wu-Tang, because their concert shirts have become my dog walking/hungover uniform. Every bar I like is within short walking distance, so my high-heel collection has gotten out of control in the best way possible. 

Now it's the time in my annual "I fucking love summer so much" post where I scheme on keeping the feeling for as long as I can. October comes fast, y'all. Here's the solution: give a giant middle finger to everything Environment Canada has been saying, and get to tearing a giant hole in the ozone layer. If we all pitch in, I really think we can be successful! Double-barrel cans of Aqua Net deep into the sky. Idle your cars. Forget recycling for good. Do your part. If we all work really hard on this global warming thing, then parkas will become a thing of the past, and you won't have to hear anyone blabbing on annoyingly about snowboarding anymore. Sure, this plan could backfire and throw us into a second ice age, but that is a chance I am willing to take.

With love, love, love,

~sarah p.

Jams Of The Week (Patrick Alavi Edition):

 ~sarah p.

Tuesday, July 15, 2014

Legalize It.

Some people think that legalizing marijuana is going to cause a complete downfall of society, but if my smoking habits are any indication, then the breakdown of the whole world is basically eating four popsicles in a row, listening to Gap Band albums on repeat, and watching videos about when animals become best friends. In short, this downfall is going to be fantastic, y'all.

~sarah p.

Jams Of The Week (10-1 Edition):

~sarah p.

Tuesday, July 08, 2014

Jams Of The Week (Kashif Party, USA Edition):

~sarah p.

p.s. In case you didn't know, everything Kashif ever did was perfect.

Monday, July 07, 2014


You know that feeling when you make up a perfectly attractive, kind, smart, respectful hip hop DJ boyfriend in your head, and a few months later he is spending the night at your place, and likes you back, and is treating you like a fucking queen, and you have to keep checking yourself for signs of psychosis because you're still not sure it's not all some sort of delusion?
No? Just me, then?

~sarah p.