Nerds, Music, and Love in the Capital City.

I placed iTunes on shuffle and slung the thick strap over my shoulders, the Telecaster wobbling on my knee. He spun the drumsticks, fresh from the package and not yet chipped to his liking, between calloused fingers and paused to readjust the practice pad between his legs. It's not the one he usually uses, still laying haphazardly in the back seat of the Jag, but it does the trick. One pad to tap a rhythm, one hand to strum a chord. Perfect.

Skip, skip, skip. I love my music, but not all of it is jam-able. We play along to a couple tracks, blathering on about the woes of bar chords and missing high E strings. We pause to simply listen to some tracks, punctuating our conversation with hard cider and too-dark beer (he tastes like coffee grounds when he kisses me). One song inspires us to look up another, to deviate from the ordered path shuffle tried to lead us down.

He disappears into one of three closets and returns with a grey, pilled suit jacket, nipped perfectly in the waist. He fakes a limp on his way back to me and takes the guitar from my hands (I've had House on the brain for about a month). It makes me smile. My own curmudgeon doctor. As drummer's fingers, with their rigid angles, strokes over thick strings, he smiles at me.

"You should go as androgynous!Wilson for Halloween."

I kiss him, those disgusting wheaty lips, and I think I'm in love.

Viva la SlutWalk!

I'll be completely honest: I've caught a glimpse of a girl in a revealing top or a short skirt on a day when I'm feeling absolutely shitty about myself and found that word passing through my thoughts. I've watched the girls with stars in their eyes and liquor in their veins teeter on sky-high heels from the latest party and found myself thinking 'they're just asking for trouble'. We all have. We're all guilty. 

I'm by no means a societal expert, but I am an expert in my experiences. And my experience is telling me that we think these things because society has told us that it's okay. In high school, a friend of mine was involved in an incident involving her, a pair of shorts, and a boy who couldn't keep his hands to himself. When she went to the principal to address the issue, she was advised to stop wearing those shorts. The boy was never even called into the office. 

It was wrong then, but I just kind of assumed it would get better. Over time, people are supposed to learn from their mistakes and get smarter. Or something. How silly of me, of course it didn't change. I think it actually got worse. With every new sexual assault reported on campus, I kept hearing the same damn thing.


"She deserved it"


"She shouldn't have been drinking."


"She should've known better than to wear that."


Bullshit, bullshit, bullshit! What about the guys who get raped? Were their tits hanging out too much? Or kids who are sexually molested? Their Cinderella nightgowns were too short, right? And let's not forget the girls in cultures where women can't drink/wear revealing clothing/breathe without someone else's approval. Totally their fault, duh.

Honestly, I was starting to lose some faith in humanity. And then, through the magical world of Tumblr , the phenomena of the SlutWalk was revealed to me. Women and men taking a stand against the absolute asshattery that is slut-shaming and victim-blaming in one of the best ways they know how. Taking to the streets, spreading the world, forcing others to address the issue. It's worked for Civil Rights, Gay Rights, Women's Rights... Sounds good to me. 


The movement started in Toronto, after a misguided (read: asshole) police officer offered the suggestion that "women should avoid dressing like sluts in order not to be victimized". People gathered together with their signs and their proverbial balls on their sleeves, ready to fight to the good fight. "Sluts [heart] consent", "consent turns me on", "my dress is not a yes", and "causes of rape: [ ] alcohol [ ] short skirts [X] rapists" are amongst some of the absolutely brilliant statements being made. 


Rochester had their first walk on April 15th and I've been keeping my eyes peeled for the next one. I know a lot of people won't see the point in it, but every small bit of help makes a difference, right?

Music and the Fate of Modern Girls: Workshop Essay!

A couple years ago, for her daughter’s 10^th birthday, my boss purchased tickets to a Taylor Swift concert. I’d heard the name before and knew she was supposed to be some sort of country prodigy, but, seeing as I don’t listen to the radio much, I had no idea what any of her songs actually sounded like. As a lover of music, I’m willing to give anything a try. A nice Google search gave me a list of her singles and a couple rounds in piracy (rest in peace, Limewire) provided the material. All that was left was to get one step closer to being some mother’s “cool” coworker.

First up, “Tears on My Guitar”. A pretty voice, a fairly simple guitar line, but some of the most melodramatic lyrics I’d ever heard:

“He's the reason for the teardrops on my guitar

The only thing that keeps me wishing on a wishing star

He's the song in the car I keep singing, don't know why I do…”

Whatever. She was in her teens when she wrote it. Every girl goes through that heartbroken, lovesick girl phase. I switched to something from a year later, “Love Story”:

“Romeo, save me, they're trying to tell me how to feel.

This love is difficult but it's real.

Don't be afraid, we'll make it out of this mess.

It's a love story, baby, just say, "Yes".”

Maybe I was just crazy, but the entire thing seemed a bit… well, contradictory. A young girl trying hard to rebel against what is being told of her, yet relying on the words of someone else in the end. If she doesn’t have to follow what the ominous “they” say, why does she need to follow what “Romeo” says? Why does she need his help to escape from it. They couldn’t all have been this bad.

But they were. Every single one of them was full of the same, melodramatic, and downright demeaning lyrics. This was what young girls were being taught these days? That the only way to be happy was the find the right man, to have him whisk you away from all of your troubles, and to not be “that girl”, whatever “that” may be. It just all seemed so back asswards to me. Even her songs of supposed “empowerment” demean other women, those who fit into the standard ideal of what is beautiful.

No, not every girl is the “perfect” woman. But since when was it okay for these different types of girls to be pitted against each other? It’s hard enough to be a girl when you have society and the outside world at your back, but to have your own kind shooting you down, too? That is the message that we’re trying to give to our girls?

When I was ten, I had Gwen Stefani telling me that someone could be “Just a girl” and try and break from the norms. Destiny’s Child was telling me that I could make it on my own and that I didn’t need anyone else to achieve my dreams. The Spice Girls were even telling me that if someone wants to love you, they need to love every part of you (especially your friends). These were women who taught me to stand up for myself, dream as big as I possibly could, and then dream a little more.

I’m nowhere near starting a family of my own, and there’s absolutely no guarantee that I will have a daughter. But if I’m ever so lucky, I am genuinely concerned about who will be the good role model for her. I’m not looking for someone perfect (because who in the music industry ever is). All I want for my future daughter and the girls of tomorrow is to find someone who will give them the right messages.

Fairy tales are what you make them. You don’t need a man (or even a woman) to validate how special you are. And if you want to run away on your “white horse”, hold onto the reins for yourself.

Horror Fan: I'm Doing it Wrong

We file into the theater in an amoebic cluster, inappropriate jokes and raucous laughter echoing down the dark hallway. We are fifteen and sixteen and have finally been given parental permission to join the ranks of mall rats, and seeing the "scariest movie of the year" seems like the most logical way to kick-start our new freedom.

Even the poster intimidates us, so plain and yet so striking. A wide, bottomless eye stares out at me through a shroud of black, stringy hair. If not for the text spattered across the strands, I'd have sworn she was coming from the wall itself (in retrospect, it was probably done that way on purpose). I stare at the poster for what seems like forever, letting it all sink in and nearly jump in my skin when my shoulder is tapped. It's about to start and, like proper mall rats, we need to get front and center.

It's everything we expected and even more that we didn't. Violent deaths, houses with large, ominous windows, and plenty of dark corners for creatures to spider-crawl out of. We jump and assuage nervousness with forced laughter, and they tell me they'll never look at my cat the same way again. It's over far quicker than we would like it to be and we begrudgingly rejoin the ranks of obedient children.

I'll later hear that we all had trouble sleeping that night. Some swore they heard the low, throaty gurgle of the strangled wife, while others told me of the yowling boy that haunted their dreams. But, for me, it's different.  While the images had been beautifully frightening, I find myself overwhelmed no by fear, but by sorrow. They were fictional characters, but the anguish they felt was so real. How terrible an existence it must be, to be doomed to relive your pain for all of eternity, through no fault of their own. I pitied them, more than I had pitied the living (real or otherwise), and I shed my tears for them, like most would for the melodramas.

It is that bizarre reaction that keeps me coming back to the theaters, that strange desire to feel what they do. To watch these poor souls, forever trapped and lonely, and praying to whatever god will listen that I don't end up like they do. I no longer sit front and center, tucking myself away in the back row, where I can jump and yelp and even cry in peace.