Tuesday, August 25, 2015

Sex, Lies, and Real Estate.

 On Friday, my condo goes up on the market. It's real, it's happening, and I'm finally saying it out loud.
To be honest, I avoided the sale for a while. Last time I moved in with someone, it was a disaster in the purest sense. I was with someone who was not only a poor romantic match for me, but also, despite only being four years old at the time, may have been the inspiration behind the Thompson Twins' 1983 smash hit "Lies". However, after careful deliberation, and a stark realization that, outside and inside our relationship, my current partner is one of the most kind, wise, thoughtful, helpful, and wonderful humans to grace this earth, I snapped on a pair of rubber gloves, started "putting lipstick" on the pig that is my apartment, and called Remax. Here's a quick and dirty guide to getting your house ready for sale:

*Most realtors are akin to used car salesman, except they smell a whole better.

*If you are a pot smoker, be prepared to take your beloved stash on a casual walk every day, because people can, and will, be looking in your cupboards. Also, the smell of weed probably won't help the place show well, unless the potential buyers are super fucking cool.

*You won't be able to cook or prepare meals in your kitchen anymore, for fear of messing up the shiny surfaces, so you'll probably be taking your life in your own hands trying to see what this lobster sandwich at Subway is all about.

*The disgusting, hacking cough that rolls in after days and days of sweeping dust from behind forgotten shelves to get the house ready for showing is going to afford you some extra room on the bus. Enjoy it while it lasts.

*Nights that you used to spend casually lounging around your apartment will temporarily be spent lounging outside your apartment, trying to send subliminal messages to potential buyers to please take this craphole off your hands.

Like the Thompson Twins said back in '83, the true backbone of selling your place is lies, lies, lies. Did the kitchen leak a little during a terrible hail storm a few weeks ago? Helllllll no. Are all of your immediate neighbours noisey, nosy, or lonely alchoholics? No dice. Did you ever catch a homeless dude jacking off in your window? That's a big nope. Point is, with the right smoke and mirrors, a decent realtor, and a life-altering commitment to cleanliness, you are going to eventually sell your home. It may be annoying, but it's totally, totally worth it. Let's do this shit.

~sarah p.

Jams Of The Week (Restless Edition):

 ~sarah p.

Wednesday, August 19, 2015

Jams Of The Week (Subliminal Simulation Edition):


 ~sarah p.

Appreciate, Not Appropriate.

Hip hop is for everybody. All ages, shapes, and colors of people. It is a wide art form with many levels of devotees,  and we all come together in clubs and at shows to appreciate beats and lyrics. That being said, as white folks, hip hop is not historically our art form. It's important to respect, and not appropriate, the culture.  As somebody that works Monday-Friday in a field where cultural appropriation is a daily discussion, I often question how shit like hip hop karaoke is culturally sensitive. Even if you avoid shit like the 'n' word, the margin of error is so large up on that mic that it's just better to avoid it all together. Having said that, there are artists that are Caucasian, and are able to pay respectful, careful homage to hip hop's roots. Writers, musicians, b-boys, DJs, and graffiti artists of all races, ages, and backgrounds share a love of urban art. Here how to keep your respect of hip hop AND respect the inventors and the creators.

1. You do not have a "hood pass". Ever. Not even once.

2. You can use the slang, but know what it means, use it correctly, and you are 100% not allowed to adopt a "black-ccent" if you didn't have one the day you started speaking.

3. You might understand part of "the struggle", but not all of it. You can sympathize, but never empathize, so maybe stop trying.

4. White girls. No cornrows/braids. Instead of looking fresh, you look like you just got back from Cancun.

5. White dudes. Stop scream-rapping the following tracks at the club: Dead Prez's 'Hip Hop', The Pharcyde's 'Passin' Me By', Mobb Deep's 'Shook Ones', and obviously, Biggie's 'Juicy'. We get it, you know the lyrics. So does everyone in the room.

No matter who you are, you can love and respect hip hop so long as you all remember: Miley Cyrus did not invent twerking, it's never okay to paint your face a darker color to emulate anyone (even someone that you like or respect), you are only allowed to tell racist jokes about your OWN culture (What's the scariest thing about a white man in prison? You know he did it.), and Iggy Izalea should probably just return those VMAs and keep her damn mouth shut.

~sarah p.

Tuesday, August 04, 2015

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


 ~sarah p.


Have you ever met someone who is the same age as you, but seems to be at a totally different space in their life? At thirty three, I am starting to be in the minority when it comes to my youthful ways. People my age have kids. Marriages. Watch dramas on TV. Wear sensible clothing. Don't get stoned and go to the zoo at least once a year. I've had a bit of a personal journey over the last few months. Rectifying my age with my lifestyle, so to speak.

The baby-face and lack of stature are mostly to blame, but I hear it at least twice a week. You are NOT in your thirties, they say. Yet, here I am. I have a mortgage and pets that are well provided for. I have had the same high-stress job for almost ten years. When I'm submitting payment for my phone bill, you better believe I feel like a grown up. And yet, I give exactly one million fucks about the fact that they replaced all solid Cracker Jack prizes with paper puzzles and stickers (maaaaan, funk that).

There have been some things from my younger years I have learned to release. My teenybopper ways took a sharp nose-dive as soon as I learned Jonathan Taylor Thomas was a pro-lifer. Ain't no bigger boner-killer than being starkly against a woman's right to choose. My Tiger Beats went out the window with my dream journals and wishing stones. What didn't go out the window were my sneaker collection, my penchant for cookies with a sassy bear on the label, my adoration of blue freeze pops, and my first-name basis with the clerk at the candy store.

Sure, I may still go out drinking until all hours of the night, pick the black jellybeans out of the candy dish, watch almost exclusively cartoons, and run through sprinklers, but I'm growing up on MY terms over here, and I wouldn't have it any other way.

~sarah p.