19th Nervous Breakdown....oh, who I am kidding, more like 112th

Ok, let's talk hair.

I've got issues with my hair, to say the very least. But as I'm not one to say the least, ever, I'll elaborate. Basically, I have the worst hair in life. It's super thick. It's not curly, it's not straight, it's not even really wavy. It's kind of situated on this whole different plane of follicular existance, created solely as part of some weird science experiment to see how long I can hold out before beating myself to death my blow-dryer out of sheer frustration. The hair near my face is very curly, like ringlets almost. Then we have the back top region, which is basically straight. Not to be outdone, the underside of my hair closest to the nape of my neck is completely wavy. It's totally unnatural.

Because of my condition, until I was, oh, let's say 12, only half of my hair would be combed. I would get about two inches away from my shoulders and the brush would just stop, thus symbolizing it had reached the point in my hair when the thickness miraculously seemed to double and just flair out, creating an insane amount of knots that could not be detangled without first putting me under general anesthesia. I'm not kidding, those cheap plastic combs would go into my hair and never make it out alive (I like to call it the "Hot Zone"). Pretty much the only time that I had knot free, semi-straight, smooth hair as a child was when my father was given the daunting task of blow-drying it for me (everyone say "awwww").

That's right, on many an occasion my dad would come home from a busy day at The Big High-Powered Law Firm and was forced to style his 8 year old daughter's hair (my mother did her part, believe me, but sometimes she just lacked the sheer upper-body strength needed to battle the 'do. Add that to the fact that by the time I was 10, I was blowing past her in terms of height, making it nearly impossible for her to get enough leverage.) Anyway, my dad had three younger sisters and he now has three daughters, so he is not a stranger to the ways of the scrunchie, friends. I'd even go so far as to say his styling of the classic "half-up, half-down" fashion would rival any father in the neighborhood's, nay, the county. So my father would grip the blow-dryer in one hand, the paddle brush in the other, and begin to style my hair in this rather violent pulling motion (I can understand it though; he was willing to only go so far, there was no sectioning of the hair or curling it around the brush like the hair-stylists do. Partly because the texture and sheer volume prevented it. And partly because you can only emasculate someone so much before you do permanent damage to their psyche) and I would have to dig my nails into the bathroom counter so i was not propelled into the air by the force of the brush. And I would skip off happily, my hair straight (although it looked like I had experienced some kind of wind-tunnel action) until I woke up the next morning, after a force so powerful as my pillow had somehow undone all of the previous night's efforts. And I'd skip off to the bus stop with a rat's nest on my head, leaving behind my father, sliently crying while trying to gather together briefs and documents without the use of his hands, stuck in a perpetual claw-like state and wrapped around the handle of a broken brush. It was a sad time.

Things only got worse in the 6th grade, when I got the UNBELIEVABLY ill-conceived bobbed haircut. Now, if your hair is thick and unruly when it is long and has the force of gravity helping to weigh it down as much as physically possible (i.e., not really at all), then reason stands to imply that your hair will be even more ridiulous when you get a haircut described as "bouncy", but I don't think I ever really took that into account. I also never realized that if you have a heart-shaped face, getting a style that's sole purpose is pretty much to make your chin look even longer and your cheekbones set even wider MIGHT not be the best idea. It was a terrible look.

So in 7th grade I started getting my hair done at the same place that my mom goes to, and besides some misses (such as the infamous Two Blonde Streaks Framing My Face While The Rest Of My Hair Remains Dark Incident of '96, or the Big Bad Bang Affair of this past summer), my hair has been relatively ok. Oh, don't get me wrong, I still break paddle brushes with an impressive frequency, and I have to get my hair thinned out with those weirdo scissor/razor thingies to keep the craziness in check, but no major issues. Until I ran into a problem recently.

Ok, I know that not everyone in Indiana has a mullet and there are many people who get their hair done in Bloomington and it is perfectly normal and no big deal. I am not one of them. I have managed to keep my hair untouched by Hoosier scissors for four long years, buying gels and mousses and hair ties in desperate attempts to just make it to a school vacation before finally getting a trim at home. But remember the aforementioned horrific bang disaster? The fallout of this wretched decision resulted in this stupid uneven looking crap growing out from my head. Add that to the fact that the longest layer of my hair was almost to the small of my back and I knew it was bite the bullet time; I decided I had to just get my haircut in B-town.

But where to go? The answer was simple. Where do you go to get the latest fashions (from four years ago)? Why, the College Mall, of course! For those of you not in the know, this fine venue of high-class commerce houses such classy stores as The Crystal Parrot, Spencer Gifts, Smith's Sport 'N Shoe (no time for the "and", no time!), and Nailtique, to name a few. So I picked one of the THREE hairplaces that they have in this tiny one-level mall, bought a fruit slushee from Auntie Anne's, poured some tequila into it, took a swig, and sat in the chair.

And you know what? It was not terrible at all! And I don't have a mullet! And it cost only 28 dollars, which is like a fourth of what I pay at the other place! And it does not look bad, which isn't really shocking considering I only needed a trim and the front layers angled but STILL! (Below you will find me looking very, very happy that my hair is a little bit less ugly.

I won't even pretend to know how I just ended up cutting my arm off in this picture when I attempted to resize it.)

Which brings me to a whole different point and the whole reason behind the title of this post- we started the Stones in rock history the other day (yeah, I had to deal with the breakup of the Beatles AGAIN but it's ok, we've moved past it.) But because this is the longest entry in life and I will dedicated an entire post to them at a later time (lucky you!!!), I will leave you with just one thought:

If I think this is one of the most beautiful people in the land

does it make me a lesbian? I'm feeling a little confused here. I mean we all know he's a man, but still. He is so pretty.

With fabulous hair.

I really just have no clue where Torino is, to be honest

Look, I don't care about the Olympics, and if you say that you do I kind of think you are lying a little bit. I mean, it's not like ancient times when sending our atheletes to a foreign country was a monumental sea voyage of 67 months or anything. This is a global society, we go to and from different countries constantly with great ease. And what's the point of it all? National pride? Congrats, Joe Athelete, you are bringing back a gold medal in skating very quickly on ice INDOORS. Brava. Bring back Osama's head in a ziploc bag. THEN we'll talk.


Also, I think that I have pinpointed the source of all of our nation's problems:

"Because good times and good food start with 'o'"

-A commercial for the restaurant O'Charley's that I saw today (and recoiled in horror from)

I get what they are trying to say here. But in this country we are too busy making sure that our children aren't being left behind that there is just no time to teach them figurative language, so they are just going to be very confused by this.

There's a joke to be made here about housekeeping and beatles and exterminating, but I'm too tired to pun it out.

I think we can all agree that one of the most annoying things that teachers/professors can say (besides "no, my powerpoint slides will NOT be available on OnCourse" or the words "attendance" and "policy" strung together) is "first we have to do some housekeeping" because a.) "housekeeping" makes me think of wives from the 50's who were so frail and irresponsible and incapable that all they could be trusted with was keeping a house in one place when it was really in no danger of moving and 2.) regardless of the hours I spend there, crying and sleeping, the School of Journalism is not my house.


(Oh man, you see the Ringo pictures, you know what's coming!!)
But "housekeeping" is just what we have to take care of today in this entry, and it is all Beatles-related things that I would like to write about but failed to do previously for whatever reason. And please, give me some credit here; the number of "ohmigod George Harrison is so CUTE" posts have decreased vastly in the past month, so just DEAL. And look, I try to give you the interesting Beatles facts and knowledge-well, not really interesting so much as seedy and sordid. Because I know my audience, and I know their level of sophistication (except for Erica-the fact that she reads this is basically a fluke of nature and certainly not indicative of everyone else who peruses this page). Also, don't despair; we move on to the Stones on Tuesday in my rock history class, so sordid/scandalous tales will not be hard to come by.

Here we go, random Beatles facts that you should know:
1. Well, I am psychic. I will go into this further in another post, but this IS still Beatles related. During winter break I was driving around with my brother and that poor kid was listening to me recount facts for the 329322989 hour (I broke him down-he is now the only kid in the 6th grade who LOVES the White Album or who can tell you who sings "All Together Now" or who knows about the Maharishi so my job is done) when "Norwegian Wood" came on. I told him how this was the first use of a sitar in pop music, and how yeah, that sounds kind of random and not that important but you seriously can't have psychedelia in the 60's without the Indian influence that George Harrison pretty much single-handedly started by deciding to play the sitar on that song. And, plus, I told him, some other famous songs used the sitar because of it. And then, because I am PSYCHIC, out of the 1135 songs that are stored on my iPod which was on SHUFFLE....the Rolling Stones "Paint it Black" came on and as you can see in this clip which I have provided as evidence, Brian Jones ain't playing a banjo, ya'll. Is that weird?!?! God was telling me to continue to teach the world my Beatle knowledge. I am a prophet now. Moses had a burning bush...I have a blue iPod mini.

2. Maybe no one will care, but this BLEW MY MIND when my professor talked about this in class (I think I put this stuff in an away message, maybe, but LUCKILY FOR YOU I am writing it here so you can cut it out and paste it on your fridge. You're welcome!). Everyone my age remembers Oasis- I totally had "What's The Story (Morning Glory)?" and DJ's played "Champagne Supernova" at bar-mitzvah's. I thought they were cool until they kind of self-imploded by the sheer amount of ego (at least in the US, they still talk about them and their ass-ish behavior in Britain, but then again, the UK is awfully close to Germany, where they worship David Hasselhoff, so let's not let them dictate the canon of pop culture, ok?). ANYWAY (where would I be without that word? Count how many times I use it, it's SHOCKING) two of their biggest songs are about the Beatles!
The Gallagher brothers had kind of a love/hate relationship with The Beatles; everyone compared them to them, which is kind of blasphemous but whatever, and they thought they were better or more relevant (see: previous reference to ego and ass-ishness). They still had respect for them as a band, even though they were reluctant to admit it.
I can NOT believe that I never knew "Don't Look Back In Anger" was about John Lennon; you don't need to be a music scholar to hear that the song starts with the same piano intro that "Imagine" does (but perhaps I was too busy at the time trying to figure out how to dance with 12 year old boys who were a foot shorter than me to "Champagne Supernova", but that's a whole different issue). Here are some lyrics:

So I'll start the revolution from my bed ("Revolution" was the first Beatles protest song, and the bed refers to John and Yoko's famous bed-ins for peace)
Cos you said the brains I had went to my head
Step outside the summertime's in bloom
Stand up beside the fireplace
Take that look from off your face
You ain't ever gonna burn my heart out

So Sally (disputed, but a lot of people think it's a reference to "Long Tall Sally", one of the Beatles most successful cover songs) can wait, she knows its too late as we're walking on by
Her soul slides away, but don't look back in anger
I hear you say

Take me to the place where you go
Where nobody knows if it's night or day
Please don't put your life in the hands
Of a Rock n Roll band (John talked out a lot about how people shouldn't interpret his lyrics as speaking to them, or put him as a singer on a pedestal, and how the Beatles shouldn't have been blamed for their influence on the drug culture)
Who'll throw it all away

The song "Wonderwall" is a reference to George, who the members of Oasis infamously threatened to fight along with Paul to prove that they were a better band..or something, I'm kind of lost on that logic (ok, I'm not defending them anymore, they were kind of jackasses). This one is more obscure, but it's basically talking about how maybe George had the "answers" ("maybe/you're gonna be the one that saves me") instead of John, because of his spirituality and everything. When they wrote this song in the mid 90's, George was thought of to be this grumpy, old recluse who was still really desperate to lose the whole "Beatles" title and everything that went with it. So it's not the nicest song, but you can kind of see that they still had respect for him:

Today is gonna be the day
That they're gonna throw it back to you
By now you should've somehow
Realized what you gotta do
I don't believe that anybody
Feels the way I do about you now

Backbeat (movie about The Beatles about their days playing in Hamburg, Germany) the word was on the street
That the fire in your heart is out
I'm sure you've heard it all before
But you never really had a doubt
I don't believe that anybody feels
The way I do about you now

And all the roads we have to walk along are winding ("The Long And Winding Road" was one of the last Beatles songs recorded)
And all the lights that lead us there are blinding
There are many things that I would
Like to say to you
I don't know how

Because maybe
You're gonna be the one who saves me ?
And after all
You're my wonderwall ("Wonderwall of Sound" was an album that George made right after the "Sgt. Pepper" period, the first non-Beatles record made by a member of the Beatles)

And now to make things even CRAZIER Ringo's son is their new drummer. So I'm fairly certain they won't be trying to beat up Sir Paul in the near future.

3. I keep mentioning to people that I am now really into George's solo music and everyone says the same thing: "Oh, I don't know any of his songs". And then I say "yes you do" and they say "no, no I don't" and I sigh and say YES you do. And then I have to sing "I've Got My Mind Set On You" and then I have to remind them of the music video where he is sitting in the living room and all of the objects around him (you can see a different version of the video and hear the song here) come to life and everyone says "that was HIM!?" and I say "yes, that was one of his last big commercial hits and it's from the eary 90's" and now all of you at home can consider yourselves educated.

And another George related fact; his 27-ish year old son, Dhani, is basically his twin and it is freeeeeeaky.
See, George:

Dhani:

George and Dhani:
There's a distinct possibility that I will have to find and marry him. When that happens, I will have to delete this blog, so enjoy it while you can. I could not risk him finding out that I married him simply to justify posting pictures of his cute dad on a blog. Lord knows how many relationships get ruined that way....

Look..I know people

Well, things in my life have become very, very hectic lately, as I have recently become very, very famous. Some of you haters have been saying things like "JENN you ARE NOT FAMOUS. Your uncle is in a movie, NOT YOU" to which I just smile smugly and shake my head condescendingly because you little people have no idea what it is like to be a celebrity. Really, it is hard being a public figure; I thought that I could finally have some peace and anonymity here in Bloomington, but it was not to be. While I have not actually seen the paparazzi who I am positive have been following me, I know they are there and just very, very good at hiding (they're professionals, guys). And I normally refuse autographs, but professors have simply been INSISTING all week that I sign my name for them (weirdly enough they all have me autographing these scrap pieces of paper with the IU Honor Code on it- I think it might be a paper shortage or something). So since everyone wants a piece of me, I have decided to answer a few questions for the fans.

QUESTION: Wait, Jenn...what the hell are you talking about.
ME: Well, clearly you don't keep up with the news, and are therefore an irresponsible American. I'll humor you, BUT JUST THIS ONCE. So, my uncle is in a movie! It is entitled "Glory Road", and he plays a basketball announcer! And he has lines! And he was in the trailer! And they played the clip of him doing the play-by-play the other day on the Today Show! And I almost stabbed myself with my toothbrush as I ran out of the bathroom because I heard my uncle's voice! But I will not hold him responsible for that injury!

QUESTION: Well, tell us some more about this alleged "uncle"...and also is this like the time that you claimed Sir Anthony Hopkins was your 2nd cousin?
ME: Ok, it has neither been confirmed nor denied that Sir Tony is related to me. I repeat..he has not ever denied it, so take from that what you will. To answer the other less RUDE part of your question his name is Dave Cohen, and he is my mom's older brother and some of you MIGHT remember him from my Bat-Mitzvah or other functions (you'd know him because he is the only member of my family with a World Series ring. Although I'm sure I have some great aunts who favor large jewelry, but that's neither here nor there.) He is a sportscaster, he used to work for the Yankees and other sports teams which I would name here if not for my personal creed of not providing evidence for people so they can know how ignorant I am of certain subjects (let them gather that information on their own). He does a lot of voice-overs and commercials and modeling in print ads (there is nothing weirder than having the TV on and all of a sudden hearing a family member's voice. Well, I suppose seeing a family member on America's Most Wanted is MUCH weirder, and not nearly as nice. So let's count our blessings). And you can read about him here and ponder just how much genetics royally screwed me over in terms of vocal abilities.

QUESTION: So what is the most exciting thing about all of this?
ME: Since I am of the opinion that you are only successful in life once you have an entry at IMDB, I am going to say that seeing his page there is the most exciting thing.

QUESTION: Wait, what about all of the important people who are stil amazing but aren't on IMDB!??! Like Mother Teresa!!?? Or JFK!?!? Plus your parents are successful, don't they matter?
ME: No. They don't count at all. In fact I had forgotten about all those people until you mentioned this. You're no one until I can do a cross-reference search for you and Brian Austin Green.


PS: Mother Teresa can be found here.

The Most Embarassing Blog Entry In Life.

Well...I wrote about this before, but either people thought I was a.) kidding, b.) kidding, or c.)just flat out lying. So when I mentioned in an away message the other day that I hurt my shoulder when I took my family's gigantic new puppy to the vet, I got about a bazijillion IM's . Some didn't believe that really this is the hugest canine in the land, but almost all of them read like this:

"WHAT?! You HATE animals!"

which, look, ok, I have never been a fan of anything nature-related, and I just didn't get my friends who hang up pictures of strange dogs or cats on their walls (I mean...it's kind of like animal porn, let's call a spade a spayed. BADUM-CHING!). But I never HATED animals. Who hates animals?! The same people who also hate babies. I don't hate animals, but I certainly had no desire to get a pet.

And then my family adopted this dog from an animal shelter and within like 2 days of me meeting him when I went home for winter break I kind of got retarded over this animal.

PLEASE NOTE: this is specific to our dog. I still don't care about all other pets. In fact I now judge every single dog that I see, and I feel incredibly self-righteous and smug because I know for sure that mine is MUCH better looking. And also, after taking care of him for only three weeks, I have absolutely ZERO respect for owners of small dogs. If you don't have to use your body weight as leverage when trying to hold your dog still...it does NOT count.

So..and I so can NOT believe that I am even doing this and I have so much self-loathing right now (for 1983-2005 Jenn, having to look at pictures of someone's dog and feign interest was physically painful)...but really, he is effing CUTE you guys.


This is Max. Now, my family adopted him from a shelter while I was at school, but trust and believe I submitted name ideas. Because this was the end of the semester and the unnoficial slogan of last semester was "All Beatles, All The Time (And Also Some Crying Over Astronomy Homework)", they were pretty much all Beatles related. My suggestions included: Sgt. Pepper (I think giving an animal a military title is always funny, regardless of whether it is also the name of an album), George Harrison (vetoed because there is already a George living in my house. And also it is a little creepy), Ringo (because I imagine as far as men in their 60's go, he too is cute and cuddly), Bungalow Bill (which I really fought for-I mean Bill?! BILLinson?! It's CUTE and CLEVER and I stand by it 100%). I didn't put Sexy Sadie on the table, though. And not because I am opposed to giving female names to males, but because having "sexy" in your name puts a LOT of pressure on an animal. Well, in the end they named him Max and I was like "eh, whatev" and THEN we finished "Abbey Road" in my Beatles class and I became OBSESSED with the song "Maxwell's Silver Hammer" and so I kind of indirectly and accidentally won re: the whole name thing! And now everyone in my family sings the song all the time because I kind of sort of brainwashed them all with Beatles and I call him Maxwell. Now...ok, so the song is not the sweetest-the tune is nice and it's very light-hearted until you pay attention to the words, and here is a sample if you don't know it:

"Joan was quizzical, studied pataphysical
Science in the home
Late nights all alone with her a test tube
Oh, oh, oh, oh
Maxwell Edison, majoring in medicine
Calls her on the phone
"Can I take you out to the pictures Jo-o-o-oan?"
But as she's getting ready to go
A knock comes on the door

Bang! Bang!
Maxwell's silver hammer came down upon her head
Clang! Clang!
Maxwell's silver hammer made sure that she was dead"

Alright, so it's kind of about a serial killer. BUT I DON'T CARE because YAY BEATLES! WE HAVE A BEATLE DOG HAHAHAHAHAHA!

OK, now, because he was from the shelter, we know relatively little about him. He was born in West Virginia (shudder) and his name was originally Shooter (shudder-er). They told us he most likely a lab/hound/St. Bernard mix. They also said he was probably a year old. Well, as I mentioned previously, I took him to the vet last week, who cheerfully told me as I struggled with The Beast in the office that he was "nowhere near a year old! He is very much a puppy! We'll give him an estimated birthday of March 1, 2005" making him about 10 months old. Which isn't very alarming until I tell you HE WEIGHS 82 POUNDS and the vet said he would most likely be 100+ when he is done growing and that at 10 months old when he stands on his back 2 legs HE CAN PRETTY MUCH PUT HIS FRONT PAWS ON MY EFFING SHOULDERS. Let's examine, shall we? I'll provide your lines for you:


"Well, he doesn't look very huge in this picture at all. And, Jenn, how did you manage to give the dog blue-eye? You are notoriously excellent at photography, as illustrated a few posts below, so this is surprising to me."








"Oh, except...gee, his paws are awfully big"

NOTE FROM ME: He may have been originally been a backwoods hick dog, but we have totally converted him. In this picture he is resting on the floor of the dining room after Shabbos dinner-where he gets Challah, which is pretty much his favorite thing in the land. Our little Chosen Dog...



"Uh, Jenn, is that your hand? The hand of a 5'9, 22 year old human? Which is almost smaller than the paw of a 10 month old dog? Eeeek...maybe he is kind of big..."

NOTE: he wraps his paws around your arms or legs to prevent you from leaving. If I was touchy-feely I might say "ohmigod SO cute, awwww!!". But I'm not. So...whatever...I totally don't care....



(You can't speak anymore as you have fainted from the shock of the Most Beautiful But Also Most Giant Dog On The Planet and how he is almost up to my 6 foot 2 father's waist).














Yeah...while we appreciate the advice from dog-owners who haven't yet seen Max regarding the whole "don't feed him table scraps WHATEVER YOU DO" thing, as our PUPPY is taller than the table, we can try, but sometimes our efforts are fruitless. It's kind of like the whole "where does an 800 pound gorilla sit?" thing.





Interesting Fact: Dogs don't care if you aren't wearing make-up and look like hell! They will still love you! Also, I have never spent more time on the floor as I did during this vacation. This dog is crazy-he can be super playful, but more often than not he just loves to lie down and sleep anywhere, all day.






Yeah, I told you. When my mom said that he sometimes looks like a dead deer, I did not believe her. But he totally does.











If I ever feel like I am acting lame around this dog...I need look no further than my littlest sister, who is RIDICULOUS with this animal. RIDICULOUS. She CRAWLS IN HIS CRATE WITH HIM. She professes her love for him constantly. If she could she would bring him to the end of the year 8th grade dance, I am convinced.





See?














No, he is not winking (although HOW COOL WOULD THAT BE?!?!), he apparently got into a fight with another animal or something so he sometimes squints that eye, which I can not imagine because he is so sweet and nice, except that perhaps all of the other animals were jealous of him and therefore wanted to make him miserable, straight-up Cinderella-style. West Virginians...man.










So there you have it, our huge, gigantic, mutant puppy. That is so much better than yours, so WHATEVER.















Ok, I have to go shower now and wash off the shame. You know who will never EVER let me live this down? Natalie. I know it already. I made so much fun of her for obsessing over her dog and every other dog in the land and now here comes Karma. Either that or Nachman made a pact with the devil just so she could give me a great big "I TOLD YOU SO".



And just to prove that I did more than just play with the dog all break, here is a beautiful picture of me stealing my dad's hat and participating in a Very Hot Photo Shoot.

Please accept this in lieu of a clever, kicky New Years post. This blog is stressing me out, man. I have started about 6 different entries in the past week and they are all very lame (one was about "West Side Story". Good lord.) This upcoming week is going to be so terrible I can not even mention it without crying and throwing myself on the floor, scratching at the linoleum in pure, primal, mental anguish. Another 18 credits this semester, and I have like 15 minutes between classes that are more than a 15 minute walk apart. In the winter. So...yeah. There might be a lack of blogging for a little while. But fear not! Sooner or later someone (oh Bush, I'm looking at you, baby) is bound to do something so asinine that I won't be able to avoid the urge to write a billion words on it that no one will read.

ALSO: in a well thought-out effort to get me to shut up about the Beatles for 10 seconds and distract me, my parents gave me this for Channukah (in addition to the re-release of "All Things Must Pass"). Yeah. I LOVE THEM. LOVE. So unfortunately for all of you out there in cyber-space who thought that you would never have to hear about The Beatles again...we're just getting started with the solo careers, kiddies. Suck it up. And enjoy another photo of Mr. Harrison.
And on a completely unrelated and random note, I just came to the decision that in addition to being at least 6 foot 7, my future husband will be forbidden from having shinier, more manageable hair than me. And from wearing it in a half-up, half-down fashion.