All In The Family

One day during my trip to Iowa, my mom and I drove across town to do some shopping. I was feeling generally unenthused about my hangover when, from the driver’s seat, my mom said:

“Have you ever had a bra that made your nipples itch?”
“Wow. No. Just…no.”
“Well this one does. I don’t know what the problem is, it’s from Victoria’s Secret. It’s just…so…itchy.”
“Ah, God,” I said pressing my ponytail into the head rest.
“Oh. That’s too much information.”
“Maybe, yeah. Just throw it away.”

Hoping the undergarments discussion was far behind us, later that weekend I experienced a small crisis as I got ready for my good friend’s wedding. Ella, it seemed, had chewed through, well, the only g-string I brought. And there was no way I could wear anything else with the dress.

“Hmm. You could go commando?” My mom suggested as I shrieked at Ella, who was looking coolly at me like, “Look, Holmes. You drove my ass all the way to Iowa in the middle of summer. What did you honestly expect?”
“Absolutely not. That didn’t end well last time.”
“Well,” she said, disappearing into her room, “I haven’t worn these yet.”

She came out and threw a scandalous pair of undies at me, similar to the ones Ella had for breakfast, only with…jewels. And things spelled in French.

What could I do? I wore the underwear. Which later spawned this drunken conversation in the ladies’ room:

“My underwear are bejeweled. And French.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. They’re my mom’s.”

Camera Obscura in Support of Mom Jeans?

Say it ain’t so. Say it ain’t so.

I was cleaning my place tonight, inhaling the sweet smell of fudge brownies which are about to invariably equalize my workout, when I heard the unmistakable sound of Camera Obscura on the television.

Now, we’ve all experienced the horror of seeing (or, rather, hearing) a favorite artist succumb to television commercials. We were all upset with Peter Gabriel for lending “Solisbury Hill” to Cingular a couple years back, and we’re presently pissed at the Postal Service for lending the rights of their songs to UPS. (Yes, we all get the UPS v. U.S. Postal Service jab. It’s very clever; kudos to the advertisers and their limitless budgets.)

I know artists have got retirement to plan for, but believe me when I tell you that my soul crumbled a bit at the sight of a group of moms, strolling in the sun in high-wasted jeans, equally as sinful denim skirts, rocking tucked in t-shirts and twirling fresh flowers in their finely manicured hands.

Holy shit, Camera Obscura is the soundtrack for a JC Penny commercial, I say to Ethel Merman. Accordingly, she poops and I wretch.

That was just a warm-up for what would come next, because the commercial wasn’t for JC Penny at all. It was for Coldwater Creek. Home of everything gross and horrible for your body.

I feel dirty. Thank god for the brownies. I now need the comfort food.

[Jam of the Day]: The Whitest Boy Alive, Above You

Camera Obscura in Support of Mom Jeans?

Say it ain’t so. Say it ain’t so.

I was cleaning my place tonight, inhaling the sweet smell of fudge brownies which are about to invariably equalize my workout, when I heard the unmistakable sound of Camera Obscura on the television.

Now, we’ve all experienced the horror of seeing (or, rather, hearing) a favorite artist succumb to television commercials. We were all upset with Peter Gabriel for lending “Solisbury Hill” to Cingular a couple years back, and we’re presently pissed at the Postal Service for lending the rights of their songs to UPS. (Yes, we all get the UPS v. U.S. Postal Service jab. It’s very clever; kudos to the advertisers and their limitless budgets.)

I know artists have got retirement to plan for, but believe me when I tell you that my soul crumbled a bit at the sight of a group of moms, strolling in the sun in high-wasted jeans, equally as sinful denim skirts, rocking tucked in t-shirts and twirling fresh flowers in their finely manicured hands.

Holy shit, Camera Obscura is the soundtrack for a JC Penny commercial, I say to Ethel Merman. Accordingly, she poops and I wretch.

That was just a warm-up for what would come next, because the commercial wasn’t for JC Penny at all. It was for Coldwater Creek. Home of everything gross and horrible for your body.

I feel dirty. Thank god for the brownies. I now need the comfort food.

[Jam of the Day]: The Whitest Boy Alive, Above You