I HATE! Assholes - Part Deux

I have a confession to make. I (gulp) wore my sunglasses on the subway last week. I know! I know! It's awful. But I had a really legit excuse for committing such an egregious hypocrisy. And you know that I wouldn't have worn sunglasses inside unless I had a really, really, really good excuse... I can only afford to look like that big of an asshole once or twice a year!

The excuse is as follows: I went to the dermatologist last week one day after work for a follow-up appointment. My first visit was rather tame - a consultation really - so I wasn't expecting anything too different the second time around. The doctor, apparently, had other plans and immediately went to work on my face. She wiped off all of my make up (with a towelette that was so saturated with alcohol that it could have been used as an anesthesia substitute) and then proceeded to poke and prod my face with some sort of crazy-looking metal tool that I initially thought to be a medieval instrument of torture.

To put it bluntly, I left the doctor's office looking like my face got stuck between a rock and a cheese grater. I had planned on reapplying 'my face' before I went back out in public, but the doctor had just blown up my spot by saying that the "large amount of make-up" I wear was probably the reason for my clogged pores, and even though I am somewhat vain, I'm not a glutton for punishment. So in lieu of the make-up, I searched my purse to try to find something that might help me to conceal my battle wounds. Save covering my entire face with a tissue, the best I could do was my (brand-new!) sunglasses. In MacGuyver-like fashion, I managed to create a disguise for myself using only the sunglasses and my hair, succeeding in almost completely concealing my identity (and the cheese-greater face). Brilliant!

Don't mind the lengthy transgression - on to the real point of this post. So here I am, walking the streets of New York at dusk idiotically wearing sunglasses as if I'm hiding from the paparazzi. I am already self-conscious enough at this point because I'm feeling super hypocritical, like a real douche. After all, I'm the one who always makes fun of those who do just what I was doing at that instant - wearing sunglasses despite the lack of sunlight. If I could have seen myself, I'm sure I would make fun of me.

Anyway, as I'm making my way to the subway, I begin to notice that people are staring at me, without even trying to hide it - just blatantly looking me up and down with expressions ranging from the stifled, cynical smirk to the completely unbridled sneer of disapproval. Let me make something clear to all the morons I encountered on the street that day: just because I am wearing sunglasses does not mean that I am blind and cannot see the way you are looking at me! Are you people retarded?!?! Correct me if I'm making assumptions here, but Ray-Ban Wayfarers usually aren't the type of glasses that might indicate that one is blind. While you may not be able to see my eyes, I can certainly still see yours AND that horribly judgemental expression written all over your face!!! My dark glasses do not obscure my view of you or any of the other people checking me out (sleazy businessman in cheap suit) or giving me undeserved dirty looks (overly made-up middle-aged woman carrying the wonky-eyed lap dog).

I'm the one wearing the sunglasses! I'm the one who should be secretly judging people! If you're going to overreact to me, my appearance, or the fact that I'm wearing sunglasses at dusk, at least demonstrate a little bit of decorum and try to hide your judgement! It's the only way to be :-)

P.S. I just found out that there is actually a song called Sunglasses at Night written and performed by a fellow named Corey Hart. He wears his sunglasses at night so he can "watch you weave and breath your story lines" and also so he can"keep track of visions" in his eyes. Hmmm... I'm not sure I approve.

I HATE! Assholes

eccentrichic: for someone so small you have a lot of anger
eccentrichic: what about being told to go back to LI?
Kelirish18: hahahah
Kelirish18: i'm not very small
Kelirish18: but yes, the anger abounds

I doubt there are any habitual readers of this blog, but if there are, I'm sure it has become apparent that my posts come in waves. For a week or two, I'll be filled with rage toward everything and anything and therefore, be inspired to write a feverish number of posts in a short amount of time. Other times, I'll have a weeks-long lull in posting. I'm apathetic and lethargic and nothing makes me particularly angry. (Ok, I just laughed out loud. That statement is not true, not even a little bit; I'm always angry about something, but there are times when I am just too damn lazy to type the word 'blogger' into my browser.) Obviously, the recent weeks past have been one of said lulls and in an effort to be more productive in getting my message of anger out to the masses, I asked a good friend of mine for some suggestions as to what I might write about next. (See excerpt from AIM conversation above.)

Genius that she is, she struck pure gold with one of her suggestions. Why I had not thought to write about this incident earlier, I don't know.

Let me preface the following tale by saying that this post is going to be a bit different from the others, in the sense that it will be focused around one particular incident rather than explaining why a specific source (person, place, thing) is worthy of my hatred.

I had just arrived back into NYC after spending the holidays on the west coast. It was New Years Eve and because I had just been traveling, I hadn't made any concrete New Years plans. So I spent the night at home with my roommates drinking champagne and counting down the minutes to the New Year. After a relatively unexciting ball-drop, I got a call from an old friend from high school (let's call him Goldy) asking me to come meet him at a bar uptown. Eager to fill my night with a bit more fanfare, I happily obliged.

After a bit of confusion over the actual location of the bar in question, I finally met up with Goldy. Because it was just the two of us (the rest of his party had mysteriously disappeared), we took a seat at the bar. For New Years Eve, the bar was pretty dead save for a small group standing right behind Goldy and I at the bar. Everything was going just fine, Goldy and I were chatting, catching up, swapping stories, etc. when one of the girls standing the group behind us (let's call her AssholeFace) elbows me in the back. An accident, I'm sure. Two minutes later, she does it again. I take a deep breath, internally blame it on the girly drink she has in her hand, and go back to my conversation with Goldy. A few seconds later, there the elbow is again, in my back, and harder this time. I turn around and, in the most pleasant and polite way, ask AssholeFace to stop elbowing me in the back. She ignores me. I turn back to Goldy, trying to maintain my composure. Mere seconds pass before I feel the elbow again. I tried to control myself (ok, no I didn't), but I snapped around and forcefully told (read: yelled) AssholeFace to "stop fucking elbowing me in the back." I guess I finally got her attention because she called me ugly and told me to shut up. I turned my back on her again, hoping she had taken my point, and was planning on ignoring her until she left. I mean, what can you say when someone calls you ugly? "No, I'm not"? Not a very good comeback. But then again, calling someone ugly is a desperate, floundering, middle school insult.

I really thought that would be it. I really wasn't trying to get into a fight. (And I'll make a confession here, when it comes to fighting, I tend to do more talking about fighting than actual fighting.) But a few moments later, AssholeFace crossed the line and I couldn't let her foolish and asinine behavior go unpunished. As I tried to continue my conversation with Goldy, I heard her yell, "Go back to Long Island!" Obviously being the tipping point, I literally jumped out of my bar stool and lunged at her, kind of crowd surfing atop the rest of her group of friends. It was over in an instant. I think I was able to get a firm grip on a chunk of stringy, overly-styled, bridge-and-tunnel-hair, while she managed to claw me in the face before Goldy pulled me off of her. Out of nowhere, the bar's bouncer appeared and practically picked AssholeFace up and threw her out of the bar.

Despite my obvious victory, I was seething at AssholeFace's insult. Long Island? Me? She told me to go back to Long Island? I was flabbergasted, especially because AssholeFace looked like she came right out of Jersey City with her crunchy, overly-teased hair and ten pounds of eyeliner. What an asshole. There is simply no way that I could be misjudged for someone from Long Island. Do I look like I come from Long Island? Do I sound like I come from Long Island? I believe the answer to both of those questions is no. A big HELL NO.

Anyway, the moral of my long-winded story is that I hate assholes. Specifically assholes who elbow me in the back at bars and then tell me to go back to Long Island.

I HATE! Ed Hardy

I'll openly admit that I love VH1. I love the fact that the formerly-music-based cable net now primarily airs reality programming. I also love the fact that virtually every show the net broadcasts is a spin/rip-off of the one launched right before it. (The Surreal Life - Strange Love - Flavor of Love - Rock of Love - I Love New York - Real Chance of Love - Charm School - I Love Money... the list goes on and on.) I love the caliber (i.e. extreme levels of trashiness) of the contestants featured on said reality shows.

In fact, I'll even go as far as to say that I've learned a great deal from the countless hours I've spent glued to VH1's back-to-back line-up of stippers, excessive drinking, and humiliatingly debasing physical competition; a few select gems: don't get so drunk that you sleep through your first elimination ceremony, don't play roller derby if you have breast implants (they might burst), don't call the boyfriend you still have at home while you're on a reality show hoping to find love with an aging rock star (cameras are always filming), and hocking a loogie into someone's eye is the deepest insult you can hurl (both literally and figuratively) at someone.

While clearly I've learned a great deal about etiquette and decorum from watching VH1's fabulous, white-trash-laced line-up, there is one thing that is prevalent on the network that I will never incorporate into my own life. I will never, ever, ever (you'd have to kill me first) adorn my body with an article of clothing designed for Christian Audigier's brand Ed Hardy. (Keep in mind, I use the word 'designed' loosely here because as far as I'm concerned everything in this 'collection' is created by a retired tattoo artist with a Lisa Frank stencil left over from middle school and some neon Crayola fabric paint I found in the back of my closet.)

So I'm sure you get my drift. I absolutely detest Ed Hardy. Detest it. It absolutely screams "I'm trashy". Ed Hardy is one of those brands that people buy because they want people to know they've spent a lot of money on their clothing. And it clearly doesn't matter that everything produced under that label is utterly abhorrent. When I say Crayola puff paint and Lisa Frank stencils, I'm not joking around. Ed Hardy designs strike me as the result of a collaboration between a musclebound tattoo artist and a three-year-old coloring-book-enthusiast.

Sometimes I look at people wearing articles of Ed Hardy clothing and I think to myself that Christian Audigier must be playing a big joke on everyone; he creates the most hiedous clothing possible, charges a ridiculously large amount of money for even the smallest, most obsolete piece (read: belt buckle and/or bedazzled trucker hat), and sees how may idiots he can trick into buying and wearing his strikingly hideous garments. Then, I gesticulate, he laughs at everyone stupid enough to fall for his brillant scheme and then spends the rest of his day rolling around in all the cash he's made.

And when you look at the clientele to whom Ed Hardy caters, that scenario doesn't seem so inplausible. The entire cast of Rock of Love is pretty much decked head-to-toe in Ed Hardy and they're just about as trashy as you can get. Other notable (and point-making) fans include Britney Spears, Paris Hilton, Madonna, Ceiling Eyes and Plastic Surgery Barbie from that show The Hills, Ashley Tisdale, Carmen Electra, Tara Reid... need I say more?

As an afterthought, I guess I have to clarify something as I started this post with somewhat of a trangression: I love to watch VH1, yes, but more specifically, I love to watch VH1 and laugh at how the quest for fame and fortune can cause people to behave in the most ridiculous ways in front of millions of people. Wearing Ed Hardy from head-to-toe falls into the 'ridiculous behavior' category. It's a blatant attempt to broadcast how much money you've spent on your ensemble, no matter how fucking ugly the clothing actually is.

P.S. I have just found out that Christian Audigier is also responsible for the Von Dutch phenomenon, a cause championed by another one of my faves, Mr. Ashton Kutcher. This tibit speaks for itself.