Pantapalooza
[ 2 Comments ] Posted on 02.03.05 in observations
Unless you’ve been living under a rock as the fashion world has been spinning around these last few years, you know that girls’ pants are all the rage on male legs. These tight little excuses for clothing are apparently all the rage amongst the emo crowd, and yesterday at lunch I tried to be society’s slave. I traded pants with Taryn. I fully expect a line of parental questioning regarding this event; the “last time”:http://sociallyconsciousbird.com/wordpress/?p=29 I traded garments with Taryn, the folks wouldn’t let it go for a while.
Upon slipping into the ultra-long, ultra-tight jeans, I’ve noticed a few things about girls’ pants that were quite interesting:
# There is excess butt room. I thought I had some junk in the proverbial trunk, but compared to girl, they have got it going on. I originally disliked this feature, but as the hours wore on, the butt grew on me. I think its main selling point is the room for growth: you know, prospective butt room that all of the sistas will be jealous of whence I fill the void.
# Thanks to the constriction of the jeans, I have a newly formed schema of just how luxurious my thighs really are. I know you’re jealous. Go on, eat your heart out.
# The (obvious) shortcoming of girls’ pants on a man’s figure is the constriction of the nether regions. I found myself readjusting myself with every beat of my tiny little uncomfortable heart, much to the dismay of my female compatriots who, in their wincing at my fiddling, expressed noticeable discomfort.
# Girls have the greatest clothes ever, primarily because they are stretchy.
Overall, wearing Taryn’s pants was a worthwhile experience. I think, however, it went on just a few hours too long. This extended period of discomfort in low-riding pants scarred me for life. No, I don’t think that acquiescing to the demands of the new style of society is for me. For the time being, I’m content to wear my Wranglers.
Ying’s 15 Minutes
[ 8 Comments ] Posted on 01.29.05 in friends
*carrie8820:* you should write about how we went to starbucks in your blog
*BathingInEggnog:* write it for me, im not in the mood
*carrie8820:* okay
*carrie8820:* copy and paste this:
*carrie8820:* tonight, a very special night, i joined my beautiful chinese woman friend for a lovely getogether at starbucks.
*carrie8820:* as we covered a series of topic discussions, being IB nerds, we then proceeded to talk about our teachers and their private lives. by private lives…. i mean sex lives. yes being the lonely deprived IB nerds that we were, we engaged in a lovely conversation about how gleason’s husband is whipped, mcgonagel was hairy, and dr y is a pi-yimp
*carrie8820:* i love ying more than any other girl i know, besides my mom, yes ying is cooler than all of you!
*carrie8820:* BIAAAAAA
———-
That is the last time I trust an Asian to write for me.
Vroooooooom
[ 6 Comments ] Posted on 01.22.05 in cars
Last week, my parents made up for my half year of driving their baby blue 1974 Volkswagen Beetle – a rusty metal death chariot less powerful than most standard lawnmowers – with the purchase of a new car to relieve my reservations over facing the upcoming summer without air conditioning. Or a radio. Or a working second gear. Or any hint of safety features. Yes, this one has all that and more.
Now sitting in the deep recesses of my tiny little garage is my 1991 Dodge Stealth ES, refracting the gleam of the solitary light bulb on the ceiling with its coat of newly polished Scarlet Red and humming like a sexually aroused lion upon ignition. I must admit, though, that moving up from 55 horsepower to 222 gives quite the identity complex to my automobile.
For a little short of a year, I carted around town in a dandy car. Upon realizing that most serious car owners named their trusty companions, I decided that my Beetle’s name should be Herbie, after the famed number 53 in the 1969 Disney film, _The Love Bug_. At least, that was what people called it. If you’re me, you would call it Herb; if you’re sending it mail, you would address it to Herbert Aluicious Peterson III. What made Herb so cool, though, was the fact that it was actually a she. You couldn’t drive her without thinking such. The way she shifted, the way she accelerated, everything about her down to color made the car effeminate. I don’t have any qualms over driving a lovely lady, either – she was the best thing in my life.
But like in any normal relationship, we ran into some difficulties. She was old. She wasn’t as beautiful as she once was. Call me shallow, but I was looking for someone just a little more satisfying. In my defense though, she wasn’t playing nice anyway. Every now and then, just to spite me, Herb would grind going into second or refuse to turn on her headlights. Like in the late days of Chrissy Snow on Three’s Company, things were getting rough. Things had to change.
Then, he came into my life. Now I’m not gay, mind you, but there’s just something about a gentleman of a car that can steal away my heart in mere seconds, much like the way my perpetual love can be stolen with a nice piece of fresh Grouper. Herb and I parted on good terms; she sits as I type in the other side of the garage awaiting the restoration that I promised I would give to her when I have the money. And I totally plan on keeping my promise, just as soon as I win the lottery.
After deciding that the Stealth drove like a man – not a rough, domineering man, but rather a sincere, smooth operator – came the task of choosing a name for him. After conferring with people in the past week and thinking on my own, I’ve narrowed the list down:
!http://www.sociallyconsciousbird.com/storage/images/stealthpost/01.jpg!
*Ringo.* Recently, I’ve been more and more into the Beatles than ever, which is apparently a stage that most civil people go through. But to name a car after any of the other members of the fab four would be sort of lacking in exoticism. John? No. Paul? No. George? Please, no. Only a queer would name his car George. So I settled on Ringo, the coolest living Beatle.
!http://www.sociallyconsciousbird.com/storage/images/stealthpost/02.jpg!
*Jimmy.* What would a list of possible names be without payment of homage to Mr. Jimmy Buffett, King of Somewhere Hot? Though this one is, too, a bit plain, it holds more sway than Ringo, simply because of color. Ringo has always been to me sort of a black and white kind of guy, while Jimmy is a spectrum of excitement. I have to admit, too, that a Red Dodge Stealth would be quite excellent in the parking lots of Buffett shows when I am of age.
!http://www.sociallyconsciousbird.com/storage/images/stealthpost/03.jpg!
*Holden.* What better way is there to compare the standard awkward teenage blues in my life to the human experience than to name the one best companion in your life after Salinger’s cynical and depressed Holden Caulfield? It’s also fancy and quazi-irregular, which puts some points in Holden’s column.
!http://www.sociallyconsciousbird.com/storage/images/stealthpost/04.jpg!
*Jeff.* For some reason, Doug suggested this. I kind of like it.
!http://www.sociallyconsciousbird.com/storage/images/stealthpost/05.jpg!
*Suggest something.* These ideas suck.
Other than that, my creativity well has run dry. If ever girls change their minds about me and I somehow get one to have my kid, I hope she has an extensive list of possibilities for names, because otherwise we won’t give him one and he’ll be referred to by social security number for his entire life.