One more, just for the road

I can only imagine what these interactions must have been like.

"Hey, is this where the orgy--"

"FOR THE FIFTH TIME, NO!"

I think it's a brilliant idea, personally, but I would've used a library computer.

I've hit a new low. In fact, I've hit a bunch of them. Three so far.

Come, loyal followers, sit upon this erudite knee as I regale tales of a boardwalk supreme, a place where courtesy, decorum, and class are swapped in favour of hair gels and Ed Hardy T-shirts. A place where lite beer flows as fresh as the water it takes like, where you're just as likely to find a skinny bitch on the rag (that's vodka, club soda, and cranberry juice) as you are to find a skinny bitch on the rag (that's an emaciated... you get it). I'm talking about the pure, blissful genius that is MTV's Jersey Shore.

It's eight people sharing a beach house in the land of the Jovi, all hoping to have the ultimate Jersey summer, filled with boozin' and bangin' . This shit is beyond reality TV. It's unreality tv, because who had any stinkin' clue that this place, like this, actually existed? I'm learning more about the world, plain and simple, exposing myself to new cultures and new ideologies all at once. I've seen the future, and it has a fake tan and a stupid nickname. This, my friends, is Guido.

This week, "Guidette" Angelina's home-girls Alana and Elena swung by the shore to visit, which led her to skip out on her job at the custom t-shirt store as she dealt with the fight she had with her married boyfriend. Get the picture?

DJ Pauly D, of the pierced wang and italian flag tattooed across his back, has been hooking up with fake-tittied J-Woww. Yes, her name is J-Woww.

Muscleman Ronnie has been hooking up with Sam Sweetness or something like that, who's right on the verge of kinda-hot (the delightful upper-limit of the girls on the show). Sweetness was previously hooking up with Mike, who calls himself "The Situation", in some reference to his abs that I can't even begin to understand. Ronnie and Sam just had a really adorable date. At least, adorable for the Jersey Shore.

There's also a Slate-dubbed "unfortunate little person" called "Snookie", whose obnoxious attention seeking is compounded by her addiction to pickles and drunk-to-the-verge-of-barfing-like-a-freshman guidos, one of whom spat out the immortal line "i think we're on the same page". It was his only one of the episode. Speaking of Snookie, I know from the season preview that there's an episode in which she gets punched in the face. I can't wait for it. That's how low I've sunken.

And then we have Vinny, who really doesn't contribute as much as the rest, but once he got in a fight at a club. That was kinda cool. Go Vinny.

It occurs to me that I could, and probably should, make this incoherent rambling into some sort of observation on modern reality television and the numbing of North America's collective brain. Thanks, MTV. But I'm going to end that preachy shit right there, because I'm really damn glad this show exists. Am I going to try and be Guido? Fuck no, our knight Thug Wrangler fills those crisco'd shoes quite smoothly, thank you very much, although I can only dream of one day being able to look directly in to a camera lens and espouse "fuck it, it's the fuckin' jersey shore! what do you expect?". I love it because it reminds me of two important things. 1. the outside world exists, and there are some really entertaining real people in it. 2. I am much better than them, and it's fun to know that. they are all selfish, manipulative, and I would pay never to speak to them in person. Yes, I understand the irony of exploiting them on television for my own entertainment. But, if that's wrong, I don't wanna be right. Besides, I'm three deep already. No way I'm turning back.

One last observation: Whenever the tanned unite to make a spitoon of one another, a female hand is always raised to the camera, attempting to block the view of the actual act, as if we can't tell that theyre doing the tongue-dance. Tough shit sister, this is my damn entertainment.

Bruce Teabags America II

DT 4 LYFE!

Housekeeping III

I'll Tell you what again, put your best procrastination stories in an email to me and i'll repost them, or post them yourselves. we'll start a new series, probably called "procrastination" or something like that. tag the post with something to that effect and the series will be born, A La bacontrepreneurs seems a good idea for a blog ostensibly about going to college.

especially since McGill exams begin in 54 hours.

We Are The Centaurs of Our Forbidden Forest

Over the last nine months (Nine!), we've seen our fair share of emotional rants, poetic waxings, and good-god funlovable pith. 
We've inexplicably synthesized our thoughts, feelings, and influences, somehow spat them into a small taupe box, and seen them take new life in this space, growing like the little plant we all wished we knew how to take care of. Fact is however, this little experiment of ours is not just any plant, but more like the chia pet who grows not up, but in all furry directions. 

And this chia pet is turning 100.

This particular silly passage marks Dessert Ticket's ascension into the blogosphere's century club. Despite traditional responsibilities such as family, friends, lovers, and work up the wazoo, we've managed to keep our little buddy from going brown and brittle. 

Huzzah.

There are countless times we could have been, should have been, doing more important things, but instead, each and every one of us has chosen to spend at least some time here, where our internet boxes are in sync.

We should all be proud of ourselves, and continue spinning our own twisted brands of science like it ain't no thang, cause it actually is a thang. And quite a thang at that.

And that's what makes it sweet.

Us here at DT HQ love the ability to open the same page every day and see something new, something unique, something consistently fascinating, and we love all 19 (19!) of you others for that.

And to the reader dude from Cleveland--rock on. Go visit the Hall of Fame for us.

We're doing great, team; keep up the inspirational blither.

"Consistency is the Hobgoblin of little minds" - Ralph Waldo Emerson

Thank you for your continued support of Dessert Tickets, 

Love to All God's Chilluns, 

ICGYABL and Bernice.

Management 450: Bacontrepreneurship

In our new series of bacontrepreneurship, I present to you a masterpiece of ideas

To paraphrase Mr. Skylight,

"Nobody should ever be allowed to drink anything else again"

Enjoy.

I'm to preach, mafuckas.

At the Temple of Ishtar

What the fuck is up with clubs?

OK, dancing can be fun. For my part, I'm always gonna take slamdancing (or, honestly, skanking, or even just fistpumping) than going to a club and boppin' around to beats I could have written on my computer in half an hour--but to each his own, right? That's cool. It is a lot of fun when you get into it, any kind of dance. But that's because dance is powerful.

I've always maintained that moshing is a way to connect to the spirit of heavy music in a way that's aggressive, felt rather than thought, and deeply primal. It's rage in the storm, and while there's a code to it at most shows, the soul of the mosh pit will always be to mimic and thus channel the spirit of the music through the motions of your body. For me, all dancing--to music--has this purpose. I don't know anything about jazz or ballet or modern, but I know a little about music and how to connect to it through locomotion.

Except club dancing is different from slamdancing. Sure, you're channelling the spirit of the beats with your body. But what are you doing, really? Grinding up against someone, trying to grind up against someone, throwing your arms and hips all over the place so that it looks like you're having sex with yourself, or engaging in some weird dance-conversation with someone so that you can grind up against them later. The music you're hearing is specifically engineered, mixed, looped, and crossfaded to facilitate these purposes. In a very real way, the spirit of club music is sex itself. Sure it can be fun to dance to--in the sense that jumping around and being silly and revelling in movement can be fun--but what does it represent, what does it imply, this musical culture of casual sexualization?

I believe that what we pretend to do influences what we will do. Our offhand remarks desensitize us to our actions, our actions force us to bend our morals--and our personal Cosmo archives (or, to nod to Frank's post a few days ago, favourite porn sites) make us think about sex in different ways than we otherwise would. So naturally I find an activity totally designed for and comprised of movement that is intended, for whatever reason, to be redolent of the sex act highly suspect. Dance has power; sex also has power. The union of the two, either the apex or a sick parody of natural physicality, should maybe be given more consideration than it is. Because you can only pretend to have sex, to music, for so long; eventually something gives. And, indeed, I'd further suggest that this is also part of the culture. Guys don't like to dance, by and large; they like to pick up. And they do. From the pseudosex which is called dance (and which is made socially acceptable by a metronome attached to a subwoofer) to something else is an intentionally easy transition. No surprising observation here.

Maybe I'm old-fashioned--maybe, as has been suggested, I belong in the 15th century in the employ of the Pope--but I have a problem with that model. I think there's something demeaning about casual sex, and consequently I find something wholly sinister in what constitutes, through the shit-coloured glasses I seem to be wearing this evening, an abuse of the musical form to condone and promote animal depravity. This isn't to say there's anything wrong with casual sex in and of itself; nor should I criticize without experience--I leave clubs alone. But I notice it's strange that club dance is so sexualized. What else is sexualized like this kind of dancing is? What societal role does it fill? Would it be as much fun if it wasn't part of the mechanism I believe it is part of? Imagine clubs were full of people dressed in normal clothes and dancing like they wanted to go have picnics instead of put parts of themselves into one another. Would they still be fun?

I know this kind of emotion isn't really what the blog is intended for. And if you think I'm criticizing you, or your lifestyle--rest assured. I'm not. I just wanted to hear some thoughts on the subject that come from heads not coloured by my specific and personal prejudices. I realize too that I'm riding the same hobby-horse as I was responding to Frank's porn post. It's obviously important to me. So--what do you think? Am I wrong, or should I seek therapy, or what?