Tonight I asked Carolyn who One Direction was because I heard they performed on SNL. She didn't know who they were either so we looked them up on Youtube. Apparently they are a British boy band who were on The X Factor. I think my favorite part of learning about a new band is the first twenty seconds of their first song you listen to. Because generally my reaction to the first twenty seconds of a band I've never heard is going to be one of two things. It's either going to be "meh" or it's going to be instant over-the-top enthusiasm. Here's how it went with One Direction (and bear in mind, we were watching this music video):
0:00-0:10 absorbing the situation
0:11 Me: Oh my God, I can't decide which one is my favorite. Carolyn: That's probably a good thing because I'm pretty sure they're thirteen years old.
0:19 Hair... yes, you in the mock turtle. You know which one you are. Get. Your. Pose on. #foundmyfavorite
I'm not sure at what point Carolyn said what everyone else I was thinking, but this song will undoubtedly be starring in every powerhour featured in the Summer of Sangria. One Direction, meet us on the roof.
If you still aren't convinced, 2:20-2:23 will seal the deal.
It is like the Monkees came back as Justin Biebers, repurposed the Spice Girls tour van, and stole Joseph Gordon Levitt's wardrobe. These boys have to be slaying left and right. Especially Hair. Boy band rule numero uno: having the most recognizable hair automatically makes you the lady killer of the group. Just ask Justin TimberlakeChris Kirkpatrick.
Screenshots of Hair's best moments:
That's a panty-droppin' pose. Get it, Hair.
Steals the show from the back row. Suspenders gets style points honorable mention.
Everyone wants to be the guy lying across everyone else on the couch in the picture.
The best hair always wins. Just ask Justin TimberlakeChris Kirkpatrick.
Well, once again I have failed to meet my posting-once-a-week pledge but in the meantime, I apparently passed the 1,000 page views mark - I just checked and it's at 1,111.
I used to be am secretly obsessed with checking my blog's stats. Especially the traffic sources section. Google searches of both "phil collins hour of power" and "phil collins and the hour of power" have routed people to my little cyber soapbox. I have a feeling Phil Collins is a televangelist and his hour of power involves twelve apostles rather than sixty shots of beer, but either way, it all boils down to a groovy kind of love, right? "Paul Schneider" also redirected someone to my site. I like to think that it was Paul Schneider Googling himself to check out his star meter on IMDB. Come to think of it, I look at this "stats" tab on my Blogspot homepage as kind of like my pre-IMDB star meter. Especially because when I write this blog, I pretend as if more than just my brother, a few friends, and my roommate's mom read it. Oh yeah, I had big plans for this blog. I was so concerned about protecting my identity that I literally created a separate email address (mostlikelytohavebadhair@gmail.com) to set it up so that there was no way of tracing it to my name. #7FollowersTotal.
Oh, here's my favorite Google search stat. TWO different people have been led to my blog by searching "guy looks like satan." Did you mean balthazar getty? I know I talked about a guy looking like the baby Satan from Passion of the Christonce, but I have a feeling it just took them right to this picture.
My next favorite tab? Pageviews by country. Let's check out where I have been spreading good will across the globe. You're welcome, America.
I took this picture of my cousin when we were in Berlin.
Most likely to be an ausfahrt. Am I right, Germany? Eh?
United States: 1,060.
Ireland: 28. Thanks, Nathan.
Germany: 14. Danke! I went to Berlin last year and it was pretty fantastic. Also, thanks for inventing Advent calendars. And hot dogs. You made my childhood.
Denmark: 3. Thanks, Julie.
Netherlands: 2. I assume you took your queue from Denmark.
Romania: 2. To be honest, until junior high I thought you were a made-up country where Bunnicula came from.
United Kingdom: 1. You speak English, and Germany has 13 on you. And you call yourself an ally?
Portugal: 1. Paul Schneider is shooting on location.
Seriously, though, whoever is reading this in Germany, please tell me how you found this blog. I promise I will cheer for you in the next World Cup.
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Sidenote to all my loyal followers out there, I have a Lucy-fer update. My uncle went out of town and asked me to take care of her. I immediately had visions of her strapping me to the roof of the apartment building, duct taping a lightning rod to my mouth, and then dialing her friend Satan to request he redirect the next tropical storm to the Upper East Side. I politely declined, explaining that things were busy at work, and apparently the rest of my family did the same, so asked one of his parishioners to take care of her. I guess Lucy could sense that the woman who volunteered was trying to perform some sort of service for the Church and consequently decided to go into full anti-Christ mode, because evidently the woman called my uncle within the first 24 hours to say that she couldn't handle it, and now my other uncle is taking care of her.
My friend Carolyn and I are signing a lease tomorrow to move at the end of the month, so it seems appropriate that I blog about finding an apartment in New York City, the difficulty/stress level of which lies somewhere between passing a kidney stone enveloped by porcupine and destroying a horcrux (happy Harry Potter 7 premiere, ya'll!).
Let’s begin with my search for a temporary sublet this past spring. The only other places I’ve lived are Iowa City, Iowa and South Bend, Indiana so I was a little too optimistic in budgeting rent. Trying to rent a bedroom in Manhattan for $900/month or less is like trying to buy organic avocadoes at Whole Foods with food stamps. But I learned this the hard way. With my Craigslist search parameters set to a $950/month max, I sent out a flurry of e-mails and set up my first sublet viewing. How exciting! The hellhole I entered became my Rosetta Stone for translating Craigslist real estate advertisements:
“Ideal location on the Lower East Side.”
If this is advertised as $850/month, it isn't a real apartment.
Unless rent includes giving mandatory lap dances.
Translation: Welcome to scenic Chinatown. I got off the subway and within a couple of blocks was surrounded by the stench of dirty refrigerator and feral cats.
“Safe neighborhood”
Translation: Don’t mind that the building has no locks. That’s right, these folks are so confident in the security of their home in Far East Pleasantville, that when I was outside the building and reluctantly called the Swedish exchange student from Craigslist so he could buzz me in, he said “Oh you can just walk in and come upstairs.” (unspoken understanding: don’t touch the banisters or breathe through your nose on your way up.)
“Perfect for students!”
Translation: You’re poor so you don’t mind sharing a room and living in what was or will be a crime scene, right? I walked into the apartment and the “tour” consisted of the kitchen/living room/orgy pit, and three bedrooms. I was then informed that I would have “at least” six roommates and was asked if I like to “drink lots of beers” on the weekend. I said I preferred hard drugs but would be in touch, walked out the door, and called FEMA on my way to the subway.
Discouraged, I texted my mom that the first apartment was a disaster but that I was considering starting a blog because I was sure I’d collect lots of good material in my search. She responded: “Do it! Dad and I have some great stories from househunting in Westchester when I was pregnant with you including ducks in an attic. Alive!” I think those ducks migrated to Chinatown and died under the floorboards of that shitpit.
Some Craigslist advertisements need no translation. One guy advertised a sublet for “free rent.” He was looking for a female roommate who would live there for free in exchange for getting naked any time he wanted. Sex was optional but not required. Just nakedness on demand. Free rent in Manhattan? It probably would’ve been worth taking to the negotiation table. What about toplessness and homemade mac-n-cheese on demand? Or bra-and-panties and pumicing your feet on demand?
Anyway, I ended up moving out of my bachelorette pad at Grandma Rita’s into a fantastic 3-bedroom in the East Village with two awesome gay roommates who don’t really care to see me naked so the search paid off. But alas, the sublet was temporary and it was time to hit the pavement once again. This time, though, there were new players added to the mix. First of all, I was moving with Carolyn so I had someone else to appreciate these amazing stories with. And second of all, there were brokers.
What do you mean, south of 68th Street?
So you live in... Brooklyn?
The broker we were going to use was a friend of my cousin. I met him at a bar, and when I explained I was looking for apartments with my friend, he gave me his card and said he’d help us out and give us a discount on the broker’s fee. Done. He was very nice, but reminded us every 10 minutes that he was a male model and name-dropped like a beeyotch. Congrats, you’ve met Blake Lively on two separate occasions. And you ran into Janeane Garofalo in Union Square which is so weird because you did a movie together. A) Janeane Garofalo? Was that worth mentioning? B) Just because you were Asian Guy #4 doesn’t mean you two “did a movie together.”
Again, though, he was nice and told us he was going to give us the discount he gives family and ex-lovers. Carolyn then asked me to hook up with him so we could get the discount he gives current lovers. Speaking of which, his greatest contribution to our real estate tour of New York was the bedroom on Rivington and some street I’d never heard of which had one wall covered in 10”x10” mirrors. This might have been the moment where totally tacky meets totally awesome – like a denim thong or Branson, Missouri.
The mirror sex room that could have been
Ultimately we went through our lovely broker Phil who asked us what a facial was because his girlfriend was getting one while we were seeing apartments with him. Umm… yeah… Anyway, when he took us to our lovely future home just a few blocks from where I live now, we felt that sense of “gestalt” (which 3 celebratory sangrias later, became the word of the day) and pounced on it as these two other turds with braces who were viewing it left to call their parents to ask if they could sign a lease. Suck it. You're the Chesapeake Indians and we're John Smith. We claim this apartment in the name of America! And powerhours! Don't forget your smallpox-infested blanket on your way out the door.
I realize I haven’t blogged in forever but, well, I’m not going to talk about the frozen linksys situation earlier this week. And before that I was in Minneapolis for a reunion with my college roommates. Sorry I’m not sorry. Anyway, I knew I needed to get back on the horse but have been devoid of inspiration lately. I was about to resort to “Things That are the Worst: Part II” when I remembered a conversation I had with my friend Ian recently. A couple of weeks ago, Ian told me I should start a powerhour blog. I don’t know if this means that he read my blog, thought it was crap, and was being polite by suggesting I rebrand rather than close up shop. After all, they say you should write what you know and, well, I know powerhours. So that’s the theme this week! Don’t worry, though.. there will be a sequel to Things That Are The Worst but I’m going to save that for when I’m suffering from a combination of writer’s block, apartment-hunt exhaustion, and PMS. I suspect that shitstorm will result in my Sistine Chapel of blog posts.
Jon Hamm powerhours with double shots of scotch
Powerhours are the greatest drinking activity ever created. Don’t question it. I’m almost as defensive about my powerhours as I am with opening up Triple Word spaces in my Words with Friends games.
First of all, what’s more fun than drinking beer out of a shot glass? Maybe drinking sweet tea vodka out of Jon Hamm’s belly button, but I’m working with the cards I was dealt. If you don’t have a shot glass, experience has proven that measuring cups, soy sauce dishes, and urine sample containers also suffice.
Pre-made powerhours are sacrilegious. If you're going to partake in this noble tradition, have some respect for the art. Choose your own songs, choose your own minutes, choose your own transition (preferably Tracy Jordan shouting "Our basketball hoop was a rib cage! A RIB CAGE!") The song choice has to be universally appealing. This is not the time to be a pretentious asshole.. Your favorite band that no one has ever heard of will blow up in your face harder than the Challenger but with less sympathy because everyone’s drunk and now you’re killing their buzz with a hollow attempt at musical education. There is nothing more awkward than that moment when a song comes on and no one knows it. Mary Moon was my Bay of Pigs. Never again.
There are certain songs that cannot fail in a powerhour. The “Dirt Off Your Shoulder/Bittersweet Symphony” mash-up (minute 0:25-1:25), “No Diggity” (minute 1:49-2:49), “Like a Prayer” (0:22-1:22), etc. Creativity is key. Unexpected throwbacks > Top 40 everytime. Remember "Hey Leonardo"or City High? Slam drunk:
If every song I chose, could please the crowd, I'd choose "Forever"
The song order is important, as well. Before a sporting event or on holidays such as President’s Day, Memorial Day, or 4th of July, start off with the National Anthem. Your best choices – most importantly, the sing-a-longs - should start around minute 25. At the beginning people are still talking/sober, so the first songs should be impressive as a hook but nothing that you’re going to wish people had gotten overly-properly-enthusiastic-drunk-person excited about. But right around minute 25… This is when it gets loud and awesome. Every 60 seconds someone should be saying “oh my God I love this song” or else you haven’t done your job right. And God kills a puppy. Choosing the right minute is also crucial. Don’t worry about the beginning of the minute because people may still be taking their shot of beer/singing the previous song (it is impossible to pick one perfect minute in “Say My Name” because you have to include the “doc shah nah nah” at the beginning but then it ends right before “somethin’s goin’ down that’s the way it seems” just as you’ve unleashed your singing-Beyonce-in-the-shower diva voice). But it should end on a high note so everyone is singing along and even the babysitters’ club lightweights who insist they aren’t going to do the full powerhour, can’t not toast that glorious minute.
Minutes 55-59, bring it home with sentimental, sloppy drunk songs like “Piano Man” and “Tiny Dancer” (think people get sappy about those in a bar? How about when they’ve realized they only have 2 more shots of beer left in what has become the most awesome hour of their lives?). And always, always finish with the theme from Rudy.
After four years of pouring my heart, soul, and what's left of my liver into custom-making powerhours, I have ended up with the most fantastically diverse iTunes library ever. Once we even made a powerhour of songs that I only had for the purpose of powerhours. This musical collection might make me look like an alcoholic schizophrenic pedophile but in my heart, I know that only the first part is true. So I'll leave you with a little peek at my iTunes powerhour library.
Cookie sheets..
For the seasoned veterans' spill-proof powerhours
2) "Groovy Kind of Love" - Phil Collins (Rise and Shine Powerhour... you know when you wake up with a song in your head? My roommate Andrea and I recorded them until we had 60 and then powerhoured to them)
3) That song from A League of Their Own(Grand Slam Powerhour)
4) "Bananas in Pajamas" (Andrea's Powerhour.. It wasn't long enough so we listened to it twice.)
5) "Money Can't Buy You Class" - Countess Luann (Gay Pride Powerhour)
6) "Poop in a Jar" - Hayseed Dixie (Georgetown Powerhour)
7) The Dreidel Song - Nick Jr. Kids (Christmas Powerhour)
8) "Hold Onto the Nights" - Richard Marx (Power Ballad Powerhour)
9) "Cha Cha Slide" - Mr. C the Slide Man (Dance Powerhour)
10) "It's Raining Men" - The Weather Girls (Drag Queen Powerhour)
11) Christian Bale yelling at the lighting guy on set (Georgetown Powerhour Part II)
12) "The Galaxy is Ours" from Disney Channel original movie Zenon: Girl of the 21st Century (Kyle's Powerhour.. it was a boy band thing)
13) Dawson's Creek Theme - Paula Cole (T. Ro's Powerhour.. because he looks like James Van Der Beek)
14) "Eye to Eye" from A Goofy Movie (Castle Point Powerhour)
15) "Too Close" - Next (Valentine's Day Powerhour)
