Why I'm Going to Hell

Hasselhoffing: The act of changing a colleague's desktop wallpaper to display the manly physique of David Hasselhoff.

Dear God, man! I leave my workstation for a few moments to visit the big boys' room and you've Hasselhoffed me.

The other night, I was that irrational, angry girl at a bar. I thought this guy was whispering about me and laughing, then I could have sworn he said, "What the fuck are you, anyway? I commie?"

I flipped a shit.

In general, I don't think being called a communist is a big deal or even bad, but at that moment I felt like he was attacking my soul, and no other title could have upset me more. I ended up yelling that he didn't know anything about me and that he "had a very punchable face." He also happened to be cock-eyed, but I didn't say anything about that.

The next night, I was informed it was actually a glass eye he had, which he proceeded to take out after I left. Who screams at a partially-blind person? I do. And that was only the beginning of my ridiculously stupid eve, but I'll spare you the rest of it.

If he threw his eye at me, I would have shut up.

Another story: We watched Magnolia in screening the other night, which is one of my favorites, and you know at the end when it's raining frogs? The moment when the first frog hits the windshield, I felt something fall on my shoulder. I immediately brushed it off, then I swear I saw a giant cockroach on my knee. Once again, I flipped a shit. I started cursing under my breath and shaking my entire body. I tried to be discrete with all the other people around, but I was still a spaz in the dark. I should also point out we've had cockroaches in this theater before, so my vision was actually based in reality. I'm still worried one of them crawled into my purse then moved to my bed and has since laid eggs in my hair.

If asked what I did this weekend, my answer would have to be "flipped shits."
Thought: I feel bad for guys who come to my Zumba class. They probably just want a break from the weight room or basketball court, so they slip into what they think will be some harmless aerobics. Little do they know they are entering a room of full-on girl power. Besides all the shimmying and booty-shaking we do, we end each c

lass with a strip routine of "Man, I Feel Like a Woman." Sometimes I watch the one or two guys to see if they're actually trying to keep up or have just settled on staring at the gyrating ass in front of them. But usually, they really are trying.

Hating his life a little.

Moving on, I've been thinking about the idea of low versus high art lately, and how those lines can be blurred to mean something else. Quentin Tarantino, for example: He's considered an innovative, "post-modern" filmmaker... but why? If you individually look at all the different genres he references—kung fu, slasher, blaxploitation, western—along with his chart-topping soundtracks, it's hard to believe such mainstream, commercial and sort of dated subjects could blend together to create movies like his.

Chopping a guys' ear off is one thing, but having "Stuck in the Middle With You" playing in the background makes it something else. QT is the king of kitsch or, as my professor said, "cheese." Somehow he manages to transform what many audiences would typically scoff at into a product worthy of glorification.

I think Girl Talk and Andy Warhol are also artistic figures who have done this—celebrating and intellectualizing unlikely, everyday things... whether it's Brillo boxes or Lil Jon. All three use existing elements, so does that make their work unoriginal or even more original because of it? I suppose parodic irony like this is nothing new, but it seems worth examining in terms of "what makes art" and how to appreciate it. I'm not sure what I'm arguing here, but it's been on my mind.

Katie Fine, I bet you have this game. Lets play it soon.

Anywho, productivity, or something like it, is calling. Until then, carpe diem (it is 420 after all).

-J.