Ever wonder if playing the guitar outside your crush’s dorm could be considered flirtatious? The folks over at Am I Flirting? a blog dedicated to helping you figure out if your wayward glance or awkward joke about his biceps are flirtatious say “absolutely”. They had this to say to in response to chump who wrote in asking “Am I flirting if I play the guitar in her general vicinity?”
This question is older than time, older than Dire Straits, and almost as old as guitars themselves. If that guy on the steps of his apartment building or out on the campus lawn just wanted to practice some Jack-Johnson-ass modern rock hits, he would do it in his room. That’s not going to happen, though, because that destroys his chances of being able to casually refer to a passing girl’s body as “a wonderland” without getting spit on.
If that guy is you, you should be aware that you’re emitting a semi-spherical aura of flirtation. Casting a wide net has its pluses and minuses. Plus: if you’re talented and not obnoxious, you could potentially strike up some good, productive conversations. Minus: if you’re either a horrible musician or a really skeevy individual, EVERYONE CAN HEAR YOU. The moral of this story is that flirting is hard work, which means you might have to actually practice music and/or basic hygeine before you take your game out in public. Read more…
Relationships
Fein and Schneider
Recently, a friend who’s had his life “changed and revolutionized” by The Game suggested I research the 1995 book The Rules. Written by Sherrie Schneider and (semi-recently divorced) Ellen Fein, The Rules is a depressing and perverse collection of weird advice and silly mantras aimed at helping women trick and manipulate a man into marriage by playing hard to get. Most of the criticism about the book seems to stem from the fact that it’s one, big, antifeminist manifesto.
Though I didn’t really read it all the way through—one can only spend so long flipping through stuff one has no intention of buying in Barnes and Noble—my biggest problem with the book’s philosophy is not that it’s inherently antifeminist, it’s that I think it’s full of good old-fashioned terrible advice. As far as I can see, The Rules would be more appropriately named How to be a Vapid and Emotionally Unavailable Bitch. Deliciously idiotic tidbits after the jump.
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Relationships
Amber’s (very drunk) new best friend: “I just don’t know what to do, he’s so sexy and I’ve told him I’m not the kind of girl who wants a relationship, that I’m only looking for casual sex, but I don’t know if he even wants to fuck me. But I’m sorry, I don’t know why I’m telling you this. You can’t advise me; you don’t even know who I’m talking about.”
Amber’s (very drunk) new best friend stumbles into wall. Amber (maybe a tish intoxicated) and Amber’s (very drunk) new best friend hang out by the wall.
Amber (maybe a tish intoxicated): “Actually, I do know who you’re talking about. He’s got some nice facial hair, but…”
Amber’s (very drunk) new best friend: “Ohmygod I know! I want to pet it and rub my face against it!”
Amber (maybe a tish intoxicated): “Carpet burn? As for your other point, I’m a loudmouth and a sex/relationship blogger for the DP, so I practically have a PhD in dishing poorly substantiated advice about sex/love/dating. Be careful, I say unto thee! Almost every time I’ve tried to act ‘liberated’ and had a ‘no strings attached hookup’ with someone, it’s because I secretly want them to realize that I’m the lady they want to date. My friends try this a lot too. It never works, and it’s a bitch to deal with afterwards.”
Amber’s (very drunk) new best friend: “Yea, I guess you’re right, but I would make such a good girlfriend for him! Don’t you think we’d be the cutest?”
Amber (maybe a tish intoxicated) repeatedly bangs head against wall
Relationships, Sexxx
brain damage due to banging head into brick wall, carpet burn, new friendships, yuengling
I think I would be agitated if I knew my billets-doux were going to be published less than 25 years after my death, but this broad looks so tough, she might be OK with it
I’m beginning to explore a voyeurism fetish. It started last month with Reborn, the first installment of Susan Sontag’s private diaries, and since then I’ve spent countless hours tracking down the journals, letters and autobiographies of favorite novelists, essayists and artists. There is something undeniably delightful about drowning oneself in the minutia of another’s daily life, and reading through the journals of authors like Sontag and Plath has been quite reassuring: as far as sex and dating are concerned both women were spending their 19th and 20th years thinking about a lot of the same issues I’m currently ruminating on.
One particularly interesting find was this December 8 1909 letter from James Joyce to his wife Nora Barnacle Joyce (Ellmann 1975: 185). Within the context of some of his later letters, it becomes clear that he was writing the letter to help himself and Nora get off during their physical separation. Given this purpose, Joyce does an excellent job of employing diction and syntax to make this writing highly functional smut. Though the descriptive language is at times exquisite, its belletrism never obscures the point. Also, I imagine the plethora of short, staccato sentences and lists make this fabulously easy to beat off to. Compare with some of the shitty-beyond-belief erotic writing over at Literotica to get a better sense of how well-composed this stuff is.
As usual, the kinky stuff is after the jump.
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Relationships, Sexxx
me and my obsidian handaxe in Rosengarten
Any flintknapper will tell you that transforming a hunk of stone into something that looks like one of the bifaces, blades or points found in the archaeological record is a time consuming and challenging process. Why is it then that the hominins of the Acheulian and Mousterian industries were interested in devoting so much time and energy to crafting highly-symmetrical, homogeneous handaxes when it was much easier to produce flakes or notches/denticulates, which were often acceptable substitutes for handaxes?
Archaeologists Kohn and Mithen (1999) propose that handaxes were so common at Middle Paleolithic sites because they “were products of sexual selection: they were used as reliable indicators of a potential mate’s quality by those of the opposite sex” (Kohn and Mithen 1999: 524).
Though this paper is a prime example of post-processualism gone terribly, gut-wrenchingly wrong, Kohn and Mithen have hit on percussed a rather important point about human sexual selection: we are totally into people who make cool shit. It may seem fairly obvious, but I suspect that explicitly identifying and harnessing the power of craftiness may be a real boon for those attempting to attract mates. Read more…
Relationships
flintknapping, handaxes, Mousterian Industry, sexual selection
After three years of living in West Philadelphia, a city where men have zero shame and drool at the Penn girl’s affinity for leggings and other butt-hugging leg-wear, I have come to learn that one must contend with many (FAILED) attempts at attention/ass grabbing. I felt it necessary to share some of the WACK pick-up lines and pick-up attempts that my friends and I have had to deal with, as we traverse the (filthy) streets of the Killadelph, and I’m dying to hear yours.
Freshman year, a Commons employee slipped me a hot pink note, as I was on my daily search for Commons’ food that wouldn’t induce my gag reflex. The note said: “If you haven’t allready noticed (yes, “already” was spelled incorrectly), I have a crush on you. Call me. I get off of work at 11” and his number. He’s been my boyfriend ever since. NOT. Read more…
Relationships
penn boys, West Philly
Cartoon from the Boston Globe
I have a nasty little habit of shopping in between classes. This little practice has been curbed by the fact that it’s Depression 2009, and my cash flow is now a cash trickle, but I’ll still make occasional stops into Urban. I’ve even purchased a romper/jumper/vest or other fake-edgy staple that isn’t my style because “It looked so cute when I tried it on!” In the store.
In the light of day, outside of the hipster haven of Urban Outfitters, my newly-bought fedora, snake-skin leggings, or booty-shorts with suspenders look ridiculous, and I’m forced to contend with the fact that I spent my food-money for the month to look like a poor-man’s Rihanna. Buyer’s remorse isn’t too wretched when it involves having bought a “ShamWow” or making a poor choice of sandwich at Houston, but what about buyer’s remorse in the bedroom? Read more…
Relationships
This weekend I learned some very disturbing news. I didn’t want to believe it, but when People.com reports, we all know it has to be true. Rihanna and (Anti)-Chris(t) Brown are back together. A source on the “inside” claims that “While Chris is reflective and saddened about what happened, he is really happy to be with the woman he loves.” Please excuse me while I vomit.
Even more nauseating than the fact that Mr. Kiss Kiss—or Mr. Bite Bite—could so easily pop n’ lock his way back into Rihanna’s good graces, is the fact that she let him. Chris Brown’s little phone call to Rihanna “to wish her a happy birthday” sparked the reunion, and now they’re sunning on Miami Beach’s Star Island.
Before you start pounding your fists and smashing your computer screen in disgust, think about situations in your own life. Is it really that much different? You’ve been “dating” that kid in Beta for a year. He calls you “pudgy”, he makes you do his laundry, constantly ignores you in favor of his bros (or his hos) and forgot your birthday. He treats you like a flaming plate o’ crap. Sure, he didn’t beat you on a street corner outside of his rented Lamborghini, but he’s still a douche bag. He should get drop-kicked to the curb, but all your break-ups end in make-ups. Read more…
Relationships
Chrihanna
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