Jams Of The Week (True North Edition):

~sarah p.

The Worst Of Urban Outfitters: Tchotchkes Edition

No cheerier or better way to ring in the holidays than with this uplifting, sort-of confusing, Yuletide greeting. Also, this is still on sale in March. Christmas 2015 is going to be hella depressing.

A huge fan of all baked goods, and really, it's tough to find something wrong with the mighty muffin. That is, beyond the blatant obscenity of them exposing themselves all day, every day. Put on some goddamned muffin pants, dude.

I don't know how Urban Outfitters crawled into my brain and carved my nightmares into two masks, but they really hit the nail on the head here.

I'll admit, I am not an outdoorsy person. I do not understand why, since the invention of buildings, anyone would want such a thin barrier between themselves and nature. More-so, I do not understand why you would want to actively cloak yourself as a universally delicious snack in the wild.
Goodbye arm, hellooooo mountain lions.

This is bad, Urban Outfitters. Real bad. Mostly because, no matter how stupid,  I have to ignore that tiny little girl part of my brain that still thinks it would be kind-of badass to show up at the outdoor pool with one of these babies.

~sarah p.

p.s. I'm off to Jamaica to claim my sanity! In a while, blog. xoxo

Jams Of The Week (Nerd Alert Edition):

~sarah p.

Havoc.

 Netflix has opened a world for me. I have watched documentaries so heart-wrenching that I have spent weeks thinking about the characters as if they were in my own family. I have seen strange indie comedies that I never would have come across on my own. I have also watched the absolute worst movie I have ever sen in my life, and I will readily admit to watching Harold & Kumar, AND Ernest Saves Christmas. If you stop reading this post right now, just marinate on this for a moment: Havoc is a movie about Anne Hathaway joining a late-nighties Latino gang, and it is not a comedy.

There are some good things about Havoc, mainly the shirtless Latino dudes and the brief glimpse of a still-fat Josh Peck, long, long before I started eye-fucking him on the reg, but all horny old-ladyness aside, this movie is bullshit.

A quick rundown:

-Anne Hathaway is topless several times, and gives an enthusiastic BJ to a white rapper in a pickup truck. I wish I had made that last sentence up.

-Joseph Gordon Levitt is featured for, what I believe is supposed to be, comic relief, which includes adopting a particularly offensive ebonics accent, and using the n-word like it's going out of style.

-Even the minority parts in the movie are played like caricatures of actual minorities. Not every Latin person spends all day drinking tequila shots, 40s, and attending big parties for their baby niece while a mariachi band plays in the background, you guys.

-You wait the entire movie for Hector, the gang leader/boyfriend, to redeem himself, like every other normal movie ever, but they just let him be a total dick throughout instead. No need for a pleasant climax or anything, right?

-This was a film so terrible and crass it was not even released in North America... There would have been full-scale riots to keep it out of theaters. Mostly, the film was released in Europe, where they basically think that most Americans act exactly as the film depicts, anyway.

-Anne Hathaway wears cargo pants with zips on the bottom to make the regular bell-bottoms into super bell-bottoms, and Joseph Gordon Levitt wears a JJ Walker hat for the majority of the film (dy-no-mite!). 2005 was not a good year for outfits.

-The screenplay seems to have been penned by a depressed writer in their late 40's, trying to corner that youth market one more time before offing themselves, but was actually just written by a ninth-grader (for real). By the end of the film, you just feel bad for everyone: the viewer, the actors, the director, and anyone else that had to sit through, or help produce, the worst movie ever.

I am not good with math, nor am I good with science, nor would I claim to be even remotely smart, but sitting through Havoc, in it's entirely, gives me a ton of motivation to go get a decent calculator, make BFFs with some physicists, and start hammering out the finer details of time travel. That way, I can transport myself back to the early 2000's, well before any of the actors apparently knew it was okay to turn down a script, and stop the whole monstrosity from ever being filmed. I could pay a young Anne Hathaway a visit and let her know that, in the future, she would have leagues of little-girl fans that would think she was a for-real princess, and that's without flashing her bits all over the place or being sexually assaulted on-screen. I could track down a fresh-faced Joseph Gordon-Levitt, and let him know that one day, in the near future, Havoc or no Havoc, he would be everybody's sweetheart (and while I was down there, I might try to deter him from Halloween H20 as well... When in Rome, right?). As for the many Latin gang members in the film, I could find each one of them individually, and give them a stern heart-to-heart about their careers. Sure, their biggest parts in show business may be along the lines of being caught on camera grinding on a substantial ass on MTV's Spring Break 2004, and bit parts on CSI Miami, but hey, at least it's not this crap.

A Netflix subscription is exacly $4.99 a month, but I would pay quadruple just to have the sight of Anne Hathaway's tits wiped from my mind forever. Watch with caution.

~sarah p.

Island Time.

Well, I've gone and done it again. It's almost springtime, and I'm in ultra fuck-winter mode. It was minus -17C today, and I didn't wear gloves just to spite the weather. My skin is about as pasty as it gets, and I'm sick of wearing clothes. Work is stressful, my neighbours suck, and at the moment, my fucks given are at approximately 0. It is at this very instant that my empty credit card takes it's yearly hit: it's vacation time, and I'm blasting out of this city with both middle fingers in the air.

Really, anywhere with swim-able water and temperatures above freezing would have done, but there's only one place where the jerk is so spicy that it makes you feel like you're traveling through time, pot is so accessible that they basically hand you a lit joint as you walk off the plane, and a giant ass is your ticket into everywhere you want to be. It's time for my triumphant return to Jamaica, and I couldn't be more excited.

In two weeks I won't have to worry about the cold. There will be days where I pass off a bathing suit as a decent outfit. Goats will be temporarily seen as both adorable pets and delicious curries. Every souvenir I see will be equal parts of clever and offensive. My responsibilities will be a million miles away, and every drink I have will be both slushy and served in a pineapple. It's island time, and I couldn't be more relieved.

~sarah p.

Jams Of The Week (Low As Tropical Edition):

 

 ~sarah p.