Gratuitous Ruffles

Things. Are. Happening.

2010-11-04T14:29:00.000-07:00

Greetings, fastidious readers, of which I am sure there are none. It has been a long time, hasn't it? I suppose a life update is in order, for the approximately zero readers who do not know me personally. Having graduated Vassar College with much pomp, circumstance, tears, booze, etc., I am now on my way towards the vast, glittering prize that is a PhD. At present I am seated in my office chair of questionable quality in my office of decidedly poor quality in the psychology building of my university in sunny Los Angeles. It is 97 degrees today. On the fourth of November. Truly glorious.

As a developmental psychology student, I am studying not babbling babies or ferocious toddlers but rather tweens, teens, adolescents, young adults, emerging adults (a fancy name coined by psychologists who want to justify the amount of research done on 18-22 year old co-eds), &etc. Specifically, I am studying the way they interact online. That's right, I am basically majoring in ANGSTY TEENAGE INTERNET STUDIES. This is what I am being paid to do. Awesome, non? As such, I thought it would be appropriate to get the old blog rolling again. In the interim, I have been found most frequently trolling the following social media communities: Tumblr (I can be found at bonbonsofsin.tumblr.com, though I don't promise anything groundbreaking), Twitter (@lauren_sherm, mostly ruminations on Barnes and Noble, the perils of nannying, drinking wine in bathtubs) and Livejournal (but my personal LJ is deader 'n a doornail, so it is not even worth mentioning). Someday some genius will figure out how to combine all of these things into one giant mega-site. And it won't be Mark Zuckerburg.

Just kidding, that is never going to happen. Frankly, I am surprised Facebook has managed to combine so many aspects of other SNSs and remained relevant, despite privacy issues, my grandmother having a facebook, etc. Brief intermission now to gaze at Zuckerburg's fictional alter ego or, more specifically, the beautiful and infinitely nerdy man who plays him.

via

Poor quality, unknown tumblr origin, but can we talk about the fact that usually the image of a grown man wearing New Balance sneakers outside of the gym causes me great emotional strife, and yet somehow... no cognitive dissonance. He is dressed exactly the way my fashion-clueless male friends used to dress in 9th grade. Why is this endearing?

Oh and, of course:

It's actually the first time that Nylon managed to find someone who subscribes to the lifestyle unironically. Nice work. Now just send someone out to take care of Terry Richardson and maybe I'll consider reading you again ever.

Longer intermission than initially planned. Therefore, I will save the psychobabble for next time. Until then, farewell. Sorry about the whole crappy weather all the time thing, East Coasters.

What I learned this week

2010-02-28T17:43:00.000-08:00

I always have difficulty keeping up with my blog during the school year. I still spend an unholy amount of time on the internet reading blogs, articles, etc., but I find that with all the writing I must do for class, I'm simply not inspired to add on to the pile. It is interesting, then, that I continue to read for pleasure despite my many reading assignments. Who knows?

Anyhow, I have decided to make more of an effort with my blogging, mostly because-- and I give you all a hearty NERD ALERT in advance-- I am learning some super cool stuff in my classes, and I want to share it. Go ahead. Taunt me. Stick my head in a toilet. I am a total dork.

Anyhow, here is what I learned this week, SparkNotes (or, my favorite, Great Illustrated Classics) edition:

1. Ring-tailed lemurs are, like most primates, social creatures. The details of their relationships and social groups are fascinating and occasionally mystifying. Males lemurs have glands under their arms and in the crook of their forearms that produce a smelly, fatty secretion (yum! that's like the stuff left at the bottom of the Lay's bag when you're done, right?). Lemurs rub their tails in the glands to anoint them with the scent. Male lemurs, especially those in the presence of a female in estrus, will have elaborate "stink fights" that involve growling, grimacing, and waving their smelly tails at each other. The fights can last as long as an hour.
An HOUR!

Mary Katherine Gallagher probably would have made a great male lemur.

2. Grabbed this from Deborah Blum's fabulous book Sex on the Brain:
In 1889, the US Surgeon General's office reported that 51% of all operations to remove ovaries were necessary to "repair" mental disorders. American mental institutions at the time kept gynecologists on staff so that they could quickly perform the surgery to calm down the "hysterics."
Gotta love that. Blum also taught me that a German scientific team from the 1930's, eagerly searching for the magical male hormone (which turned out to be testosterone, and not necessarily all that magical), "mashed up some 2,000 pounds of bull testicles."
Just picture that, dear Readers. 2,000 pounds of bull testicles. Ovary removal and bull testicles. However men managed to be in charge of science (as well as everything else) for so many years is a mystery to me.
I was considering googling "2,000 pounds of bull testicles" to find a nice image for this section, but I'm sure you'll appreciate my decision to refrain.

3. Some stellar quotes from William James, historical love of my life (look him up if you aren't familiar with his extensive work in early psychology and philosophy), and apparently a man who loved to party:

"Faith is synonymous with working hypothesis"

"If merely 'feeling good' could decide, drunkenness would be the supremely valid human experience."

"Metaphysics means nothing but an unusually obstinate effort to think clearly."

"The ideas gained by men before they are twenty-five are practically the only ideas they shall have in their lives."

"The sway of alcohol over mankind is unquestionably due to its power to stimulate the mystical faculties of human nature, usually crushed to earth by the cold facts and dry criticisms of the sober hour."

"To be conscious means not simply to be, but to be reported, known, to have awareness of one's being added to that being."

Hear that?? Drunkenness= mystical faculties of human nature. I don't know, he did a lot of great work in his life, I'll assume he knew what he was talking about.
And an excellent nugget from my other main man, Charles Darwin:
"All nature is perverse and will not do as I wish."

Don't I know how it feels, Charlie dear.

And a final note: one of the student composers here is writing a piece for me to Sylvia Plath's Mad Girl's Love Song. In his most recent email, he told me he was thinking about including some "basic overtone throat singing technique."
Oh, ok.

No biggie, right? I don't even know. I like extended technique and all, but the chances of me mastering this in 1.5 months are questionable. In other news, enjoy this totally freaky video of a five year old child performing throat singing:

Oy vey.

Everyday mind-control techniques of Gaga, Mozart

2010-01-11T19:59:00.000-08:00

Turns out that Lady Gaga is actually a puppet of the massive secret society that controls the United States, and her freaky style choices are filled with dastardly symbolism... according to this guy, at least:

Lady Gaga, The Illuminati Puppet
http://vigilantcitizen.com/?p=1676

The article is ripe with lulz, but perhaps my favorite thing about it (and the site in general) is the fact that the writer doesn't really seem all too concerned about the fact that we are all being mind-controlled by the secret symbolism in pop music, architecture, and corporate logos. No subject is safe from his attacks, and yet he never really seems to say exactly what it is that is so bad about the Illuminati symbols.

My biggest problem with The Illuminati is the fact that it is a less-exciting rip-off of Freemasonry that probably doesn't even exist anymore. The Freemasons, on the other hand, are alive and well and don't give a shit about Lady Gaga. She, on the other hand, is probably well-aware of the origin of her symbols and is using them the way she uses her bizarre fashion choices and public behavior: to stir up interest, occasionally make a statement, and have a good time.

It has long been one of my dearest desires to become a Freemason. Unfortunately, as a woman, I will never achieve this dream (not sure how they feel about sex changes). It isn't altogether important to me whether or not the Freemasons control the world, or if they have crazy ceremonies involving virgin sacrifices and whatnot. If, upon being ordained at the highest level of Masonic leaderhood, I learned that it really was just a fraternity of bored dudes donating to charity and feeling excited about their secret handshake, I'd still be good. Being a part of the secret is more than half the fun- it is really the whole of the point. Being a part of a secret that Mozart was also a part of is icing on the tricornered cake.

Mozart visits the Vienna Freemasons Lodge, Alfredo Dagli Orti

Did you know that Mozart's Die Zauberflöte is absolutely chock-full of Masonic symbolism? No conspiracy theory necessary: Emanual Schikaneder, the librettist and a Freemason buddy of Mozart's (as well as the original Papageno), crafted what was essentially a Masonic fairy tale.

The Overture is written in Eb major, a key signature with three flats (Masons are all about the number three). Mozart incorporates dotted rhythms, including those which imitate the symbolic knock at the beginning of an initiation ceremony. He throws such nods here and there throughout the opera, which centers largely around a quest that a young man must take to gain enlightenment and entry into a fraternal order. Pretty straightforward stuff but, then again, who doesn't like to be beaten over the head with symbolism?? Just ask Faulkner... or Hawthorne... or Shakespeare... or, well, Lady Gaga, I guess.

The logical next step, in my opinion, would be for Gaga to rock some sort of Queen of the Night ensemble, perhaps a la the fabulous Ms. Damrau:

Not to mention if I ever hear Gaga break out the high Fs and vocal acrobatics, I will completely forgive her for Bad Romance (the song, of course.. I won't even admit how many times I've watched the video).

As a last note, I will mention that I was once part of a secret society, known as Auratus Hetairia (I take no responsibility for what may be questionable Latin grammar). I was fifteen. We had outfits. We performed secret rituals. We had a blog. It was great:

The shining, innocent faces conceal all sorts of dark secrets.

Now, of course, I cannot claim membership status to any secret societies. You would think Vassar might have something, but we really are just a bunch of semi-intellectual, pop-culture-loving hippies and/or hipsters without anything lurking beneath the surface.

"Well!" -you might say- "Maybe there are secret societies that you just don't know about." I simply cannot believe that. No one wants to be in a society that is totally secret. People only keep actual secrets about things that are embarrassing, like fetishes and fanfiction authorship, etc (and even then, they still tell the Internet). Fun secrets: gossip, socially acceptable fetishes, secret society membership are, if not completely open, then at least whispered about and hinted at.

So, anyhow, if you know of any societies that are looking for new members, let me know. Unless they involve freaky sexual rituals. Because, you know, all of my kinks are completely socially acceptable.

Young Victoria and The Case of the Missing Plot

2010-01-09T08:37:00.000-08:00

Yesterday, I went to see The Young Victoria with a friend. In one respect, I was quite satisfied: the movie was a two-hour lush-fest: sumptuous fabrics, intricate hairstyles, and endless rooms elegantly wallpapered and furnished, filled with beautiful stuff (The Victorians really loved stuff.) Miranda Richardson flouncing and huffing around as the Duchess of Kent with enough hair to keep a dozen Dickensian orphans warm on a cold winter night. Rows of men in plaid pants and impressive muttonchops. Jim Broadbent getting uproariously drunk. A large supporting role for Victoria's Cavalier King Charles Spaniel, one of the cutest fucking dogs in British history (thanks, Charles II!):

omg!

Anyway, the movie was unquestionably pleasing to the eyes. Unfortunately, that was about where it ended. Second to the sheer lusciousness of the production, the most impressive aspect of the movie was the fact that it seemed to have literally. no. plot. whatsoever.

This is not always actually a problem for me. As someone who spends an unspeakable amount of time each week simply looking at images of pretty things, I don't need a plot to make myself feel better about doing it. I suppose it is a bit like the way some people consider pornography: do we really need to know that Vivienne McGoodLay is a lonely housewife who needs a brawny young fellow to stop by and fix her, er- plumbing? No, thanks. Just skip to the goodies.

Sofia Coppola's Marie Antoinette gets the pretty things porn formula exactly right (and yes, Dear Readers, I understand that I am now, officially marking myself as unoriginal for bringing this movie into the mix. Deal). Coppola dispenses with plot almost entirely, but she makes it ever so clear that she has done so intentionally. She wants us to gush over shoes and macarons and corsets and Jamie Dornan without any pressure to remember which one is the Duchesse de Char and which is the Comtesse de Cavazzoni. The little glimpse of Converse in the pivotal shoe-shopping scene (I love any movie with a pivotal shoe-shopping scene) is a not-so-secret message: Enjoy the frivolity. Imagine that you, too, can have a picnic on a boat in a gigantic dress, drink a ton of champagne, and then sleep with whoever you want because you are the queen, goddammit.

I love the little girl's expression in the background.

The Young Victoria, I imagine, had greater ambitions.

Okay, I just tried for several minutes to formulate my impressions of those greater ambitions, and I came up with nothing. I honestly couldn't tell you what they were getting at with this movie. Yes, being a queen is hard. Yes, having a better job/ bigger salary than your husband can cause marital strife. Yes, Paul Bettany, despite looking dashing as fuck in a fancy hairdo and gilded military jacket, can potentially lead you to fall from favor among your people. So what??

He will charm you right out of those restrictive lace undergarments.

How I wish one or more of these themes (or another potentially more coherent theme) could have been explored in more detail, with more focus. Or, alternatively, that the director had given us free reign to sit back and enjoy the pretty things with some secret message of his own (my vote is a quick, nearly imperceptible shot of Rupert Friend jumping into his big royal bed in a pair of striped H&M boxer briefs. But this is only one option).

My advice to anyone who is considering spend ten hard-earned bucks on The Young Victoria is as follows: if you love the Victorian (or, sort-of-leading-up-to-Victorian) aesthetic, you will probably derive some enjoyment from the movie, plotlines be damned. However, do not expect any of the following: believable dialogue, boobs, Jim Broadbent lasting past the first forty minutes. The movie earned extra points from me because of the German dialogue and the excessive composer name-dropping (who knew that Schubert's Schwanengesang is actually the perfect theme for a movie created in the 21st century?), so if you are into that: go wild. But don't say I didn't warn you.

...

In keeping with the theme, a couple other points of interest:
http://www.vanityfair.com/style/features/2009/05/emily-blunt-portfolio200905

Emily Blunt as photographed by Michael Roberts, in the tradition of the September 2006 Marie Antoinette photoshoot in Vogue.

And, just to keep an air of class about the place:

Perfection.

PS: Hi! Welcome to my newest blogging experiment!