Emo 4.0 champions Future Islands.
Recently I’ve found myself over-emoting in unclever ways. To keep a handle on things I have decided to call myself emo, although I never used that term as a self-descriptor when it was actually appropriate in the early 2000s. I didn’t even learn what an emo was until the summer of 2005, at debate camp, when a boy with one of those pretentious monosyllabic names like “Chad” or “Brad” or something came into the lunchroom wearing a Death Cab For Cutie t-shirt and blew my mind. I’d heard of DCFC before but had subconsciously conflated them with Hootie and the Blowfish, which [...]
The amazing man I'm with told me to improve my looks when we first got together. We've been together four years now. Here's the story:
When he first met me, he had fallen for me straight away, always coming in for coffee on my shift at the local cafe, always texting first, offering rides home, asking me out first. He was very sweet and persistent.
I was hooked and I said yes, yes I will be your girlfriend. Then some shit started…
He never complimented me on any of my physical traits, yet every weekend we hung out, he would somehow manage to tell me that [...]
It was an acquaintance and former editor of one of those gay lifestyle magazines who advised twenty-year-old me to tone it down if I ever wanted to find a boyfriend. This coming from a man obsessed with anything Disney-related; the walls of his West Hollywood condo adorned with carefully framed Snow White and Fantasia animation cels. "You don't need to tell them how much you love Belinda Carlisle on your first date," he said. "But I do love Belinda Carlisle! That quavering vibrato!" I whined. "Well," he said, "they'll find out eventually, and by that point they will love you, Belinda and all." While I hate(d) him for saying [...]
"I like my women like I like my computers … exported from a sweatshop in china." —Meet the sexist joke-writing computer.
"Philip Johnson used to say, 'We’re all going to go to the Century Club—the architects, but not their wives. And we're going to wear evening dress and we're going to talk about architecture.' So they invited Bob. The person who called said to me, 'I'm embarrassed to have reached you, Denise, I wanted Bob. You can't come to this meeting because you're a wife.'" —Haha, old asshole Philip Johnson strikes again, as recounted by the architect Denise Scott Brown, who was also married to an architect, Bob Venturi.
But this job posting for a "tech-oriented magazine show" is, you see, on the web, ladies. On the Internet, no one wants to see your old faces.