by B

Grade: C

If you have been paying any attention to the Universal Review, you know that we consider Stevie Nicks to occupy an important spot in our personal Holy Trinity of Crazy Blondes. Duh, she is the Holy Ghost. I will leave it to you to figure out who the Father and the Son are. There are people (Henry) who scoff at our witchy muse, but even Stevie haters cannot argue with the sentiment that time makes you bolder and children get older. Guess what? I’m getting older too. For one thing, I am prematurely gray. And don’t tell me it looks “distinguished.” I don’t like liars.

The logical corollary here, of course, is that I been ‘fraid of changin’ ‘cause I built my life around you. No, not you personally, but you know what I am saying. At a certain point, one realizes that—‘fraid or not—it is time to shape up and change your retarded ways. This involves: cleaning your room, waking up before one pm, eating vegetables. All of that. Being less of a slut might be a good idea too, but no judgement!

Unfortunately, I cannot in good conscience give this process a respectable grade, because although it is good for you and inevitable, it is also essentially sucky.

Here is the good part about changing your ways: you always know where your metrocard is. It is in your wallet because you have finally managed to stick to the habit of putting it there after you swipe it. “Ah metrocard,” you say to yourself. “At least I count on something.”

The rub is that that is just about the only thing you can count on. Pretty much everything else becomes completely uncertain. For instance; if one’s room is clean, how is one supposed to be able to find the bank statements that one normally stores on the floor under one’s moist, familiar bath towel? I am not suggesting that my own room is clean. I am just saying supposing I were to clean it. Just supposing. It worries me to think about. And I know that someday soon I am going to have to stop living like this. But what after that? And what about the meantime?

I guess what I am wanting to know is: Mirror in the sky, what is love? Can the child within my heart rise above? I am trying to become a grown-up and no one will even believe that I’m 21 because I lost my driver’s license, my passport and also my social security card. (Believe me, you are fucked if this happens to you. I have been looking into a solution all day.) And what is the point of being technically an adult if you are always having to beg and plead to get into bars?

The need to grow up has been pushed upon me in the last year. I am certainly not in favor of it. But when everything around you changes, you have to change too, right? It is like a requirement or else you will quickly become out of fashion.

Well things around me have changed. Like: every single thing. Sometimes I feel like I am buried under a big pile of junk and the junk is what used to be my life. If you have seen my room, you are aware that this is barely a metaphor at all. I am working on crawling out, but it is not very fun. It might be more comfortable just to lie here.

By emily

BIG NEWS, everybody: Jennifer Aniston is in possession of some fallopian tubes! A source close to Aniston reports that she also has a uterus, a vagina, and ovaries, leading to speculation that SHE COULD BE PREGNANT! Recent photos show Aniston touching her stomach. Could her dreams of motherhood finally be coming true? “Jennifer wants kids more than anyone has ever wanted anything in this universe,” says a friend. “Now that Friends is over, she and Brad have being trying desperately to unite some of her ripe ova with Brad’s sperm!”

Jesus, sorry, I don’t know where that came from. Oh, wait, no, actually I do. It is because for the last couple of weeks I have read literally nothing except Us Weekly, In Touch, and Star. You know how, when you’re sick, all you want to eat are bland, easy-to-digest comfort foods like chicken soup and mashed potatoes? Well, these magazines are like a big bowl of warm buttered egg noodles for my brain. But even though they look exactly the same and contain basically the exact same articles, there are huge gulfs of difference that separate these three gossip rags. And if I was going to be stuck with one of them on a desert island, I would want it to be . . .

US Weekly: C+

Even with its higher price point, Us trumps the $1.29-cheaper In Touch nearly every week. It’s printed on slightly thicker paper, so you feel less like a trailer trash housewife while reading it. The photos are better, and the editorial tone is generally a little bit meaner. My main problem with all of these magazines is that they aren’t nearly mean enough. They seem to think that readers want nothing more than to revel in the stars’ WEDDED BLISS and BABY JOY. Um, no. We want close-ups of Britney’s ass acne.

I would read British tabloids for this reason, except that they’re full of people I’ve never heard of. But they really know how to be mean over there. All the articles start out like “FAT SLAG Victoria Beckham was spotted slapping a stranger’s child yesterday . . .” Anyway, Us wins the battle basically on the basis of paper shininess. Also, they have better ‘fashion mistakes’ reportage.

But coming in a close second is

In Touch: C

At $1.99, In Touch is undoubtedly the best buy at the newsstand. It’s a good thing to read on the subway, especially if you’re on your way to taking your spare change to the Commerce Bank because you’re broke. Also, I believe they originated the FACT OR FICTION feature, in which they reiterate a good rumor going around about a celebrity and then the celebrity’s publicist denies it, and we’re supposed to be like, ‘Oh, I guess it must not be true, then.’ This feature is really the most intellectually challenging part of any of these magazines. It makes me think deep thoughts such as, “Why doesn't Elijah Wood just admit that he’s gay, in this day and age? Can he possibly have a good reason? Does just he not want to be made into some sort of symbol? Weird.”

Other than that, it is just a sort of trashier Us Weekly with a just a soupcon more fertility obsession.

The clear loser, of course, is

Star: D-

This has by far the worst production values, and they never have anything you haven’t seen before. They do get a few points for having a feature called Knifestyles of the Rich and Famous. And I must say that their strong point is their coverage of ‘Now Look Who’s Fat.’ But for $3.49 I want more ‘Paris Hilton’s plumber crack’ photojournalism.

Certainly, we face a critical juncture in the history of Trashy News. In the weeks ahead, we can count on stories like ASHLEY PULLS A KAREN CARPENTER and J LO, SHOTGUN BRIDE to be the battleground upon which these formidable weeklies will fight. And maybe, someday, if we’re all lucky, we’ll get to read months and months of insipid headlines about the GODLIKE OFFSPRING OF THE PITTS.

Unless Jennifer is secretly a man.

By emily

Grade: A

UPDATE: If you would rather hear very similar sentiments from a famous feminist critic, go here. However, I am funnier than Katha Pollitt.

I know, I am tempted to go see the Nikki Kidman version too, but since it appears to be exactly the same movie except with different actors I encourage you to save $7 and rent the old one. It’s SO good, really funny and REALLY SCARY. It’s scary how scary it still is. It’s much more compelling than anything from the recent crop of ‘oh the horror of the suburbs’ movies. This is because the idea that a bunch of husbands, given the chance, would totally kill their wives and replace them with subservient sex’n’cleaning robots, still seems 100% probable. For women, watching this movie is still as scary as watching Jaws in a shark tank.

Housewifeliness has been a hotly contested topic lately, in my life and (ahem) the life of the culture. Last week in the reliably anxiety-making Sunday Styles section, there was an interview with the married authors of those his’n’hers essay collections about Marriage. The wife said something that haunted me for days, about how she used to resent her husband for not doing his share of the housework and childcare, but now she realizes that he’s just temperamentally better suited to working on “the more traditionally male things, cars, lawns, taking out the trash, renovating the bathroom.” She continues, “''I'm much calmer about all that now -- partly because all of our lives are much easier now, but also because I've come to realize that it's O.K. to do what I do best and care about most and let him do what he does.” I literally got the chills when I read this. I wondered if she’d come to this revelation after a long weekend away with her husband . . . dum dum DUM! (suspense theme from Stepford Wives) She didn’t mention anything about the joys of ironing, so maybe she hasn’t actually been Stepfordized. But still, I had to think long and hard about why I’d found her statement so disturbing. Could it be because I secretly sometimes have moments of feeling the same way? I live with two – um, for the sake of argument we are going to call them ‘men’- and it’s a generally acknowledged fact that if I want to live the kind of lifestyle I want (a lifestyle that entails not slipping in puddles of cat barf or accidentally drinking chunky milk), I am going to have to clean up after them as well as after myself, buy household supplies and groceries, and cook. And I guess after 30 years of feminism we/I should be over this fact, but the thing is, I am just better at all these things than they are (especially cooking), and also I . . . oh no . . . I enjoy doing these things!

I mean, I love grocery shopping! If I’m in the right mood, scrubbing the bathtub gives me moments of OCD satisfaction! And I find a joy in cooking -- the consciousness-free concentration that blocks out all other worries – that is usually only available to me in more destructive guises. Plus I like to eat the food that I cook. And to top it all off, there is nothing I’d like better than to NOT have to spend my days sitting in a cubicle. My fate seems clear. Bring on the apron! Turn on the daytime TV! Oh good, it’s Ellen! I FUCKING LOVE ELLEN!

Of course, there are a couple of obstacles to my domestic bliss. For starters, I have all of these ridiculous ambitions. Also, on a more practical note, I am not married to a rich guy, or indeed to anyone at all. I don’t know if I ever really would like to be. I have similar feelings of ambivalence about kids. While other people's kids are more than okay and are sometimes very cute and brilliant, and while I do want to spread my DNA around, I sometimes think that having a bunch of cats might ultimately be much more fulfilling and much less expensive.

So this is why The Stepford Wives retains its creepiness. The image of the elegantly dressed, stringently coiffed happy homemaker, reading an article in Woman’s Day while waiting for the brownies to come out of the oven, has not only stayed with us but has been expanded, updated. She’s become more Martha-ized, more competitive about cooking and baking and decorating and man-pleasing. Yeah, so women can have jobs now, can struggle and strive and ultimately rise to the top in a bunch of professions. But, as the media has obsessively chronicled, they then often opt to Stepford it up. Sometimes this is because they were doing something they didn’t really love, or that they used to love but have burnt out on, and so they jumped at the chance to give it up. But I would guess that more often it’s because a lot of us, both men and women, still have the underlying idea that being a domestic goddess is some sort of higher calling. I think I have to reexamine what I said a paragraph ago about being ‘better at’ housework and cooking than Henry or B. If, indeed, I am (well, let’s be real here, I clearly am) , it probably has less to do with some sort of biological predisposition and more to do with my and H and B's specific tastes and the ways that we were raised. In theory, of course, we have all been emancipated from the confines of the construct of gender and are now free to pursue any whim that strikes us. But I can’t help but suspect that I am not the only lady out there who occasionally feels shortchanged by her own desires.

By B
Grade: C

TV On-Demand makes you do strange things. I never thought that I would be the type of person to watch 10 straight hours of Queer as Folk. In fact, watching just the opening credits is generally enough to make me change the channel. As much as I enjoy men in their underpants, they are not as appealing when they are dancing around with feather boas and sparkle makeup on their chests. This is what happens during the Queer as Folk theme, and the song that they dance to is the even more embarrassing version of the ubiquitous Queer Eye song. Things just keep getting shamefuller…

Despite my reticence, I found myself strangely addicted to the Queer As Folk show this past winter. I had already on-demanded every episode of Curb Your Enthusiasm, Six Feet Under, and the Sopranos. What was I to do besides chain smoke on the couch while watching an entire season of the Queer Folk? Here is the one and only thing that I learned from the program: we gays have nothing at all to be proud of. We are so crappy and retarded!

Because of this, the advent of Gay Pride Day mostly made me anxious and disgusted. I’d gone to the parade only once before, three years ago with Emily. It was the most boring thing ever to happen, and I didn’t even get a blowjob in an alley. Emily was more miserable than I, and insisted on leaving after about ten minutes. She is terrified of being labeled a FAG HAG, and as a result cannot bear to be around more than one gay person at once. She says, in fact, that I am the only gay person she likes, and even that seems to be a tossup these days. Does this make her HOMOPHOBIC? (Her many lesbionic classmates at Eugene Lang College have already voted yes, by the way.)

Several of my self-hating friends have been known to complain about the drag queens and leather daddies who proliferate at the gay pride parade and inevitably dominate the evening news. Apparently these Freaks and People You See on TV are setting the Gay Movement back by several decades. Whatever. Anyone who feels this way should go back to eating pussy. Obviously, the real thing to be ashamed about is the fact that homosexuals seem desperate to sell out to any evil megacorporation that is willing to slap a rainbow and some gayfacey couple on its advertisement and run it in The Advocate. As far as I can tell, Gay Pride is just an excuse for a bunch of rainbow waving sparklefags to bend over for Budweiser. We are so desperate for love that we will eagerly open our wallets (and who knows what else) to any brand that is willing to pander to us.

This year, I hit upon the should-have-been-obvious realization that the way to enjoy Gay Pride is not to attend. Duh. Instead, I celebrated my pride by getting drunk on the roof. I could hear the parade in the distance, and that was fine with me. Around six o’clock, the party made its way to the pier, where it was really crowded and I saw some poop that looked like Wendy’s Chili in the portapotty. This prompted me to leave to go to a bar. On the way, the street was literally blanketed with trash. Despite their reputation for fastidiousness, those gays seem to litter a lot! Maybe it was the L's that were responsible for this.

In conclusion, Gay Pride is okay as long as you have a roof to be on. Otherwise you should just ignore it. And after much consideration, here is what I am most proud of: I hold my liquor like a fucking champ. This is the main perk of being a gay Irishman. The down side, of course, is bad skin and a lifetime of loneliness. Happy Pride, Bois!

By Emily
Grade: D

Rest assured, I am SO not allowing the UR to devolve into one of those Best of Craigslist rants about ‘my stupid boss’ or ‘my annoying cubiclemate’ because duh, it's boring and depressing to read about someone’s boring, depressing office problems. But this is kind of above and beyond.

I think someone is doing a sociology experiment in the kitchen of my office. Maybe they were inspired by the article in the NYT magazine, which I am linking to in spite of the fact that it is boring and you shouldn’t bother to read it. Basically the article is about how, if you put out bagels and a cashbox to pay for them, some people will pay, some people will not, and some people will steal the box. (Quick, which kind of person are you? Quick, which kind of person am I?) The experiment in my office kitchen is not as complex. The hypothesis of it seems to be: these people will eat pretty much anything as long as it’s free and sort of resembles food. Today there was a big platter of this weird Chinese or possibly Japanese (sorry!) candy, the kind that is made out of rice flour and red beans and tinted translucent neon shades for extra appetizingness. Not to be xenophobic but the Western world does candy much better. This candy was so foul. I had three pieces and I washed them down with tea from the tea machine, which takes little vacuum-sealed packets of astronaut tea and transforms them into a liquid beverage somehow. Then I started thinking about other incredibly gross things that I have eaten lately from the ‘free’ counter in the office kitchen. These include: half a decrepit sandwich, a handful of mushy blueberries, rancid pastries . . . the list goes on and continues to be fairly mundane, but you get the point. At least I do not work in a bitch-centric magazine or public relations environment, where I hear that ladies will bring in trays of delicious homemade baked goods as a strategic move designed to make the competition fatter. But I think I’d rather have someone trying to fatten me up than someone trying to make me ill. What if they up the ante and tomorrow I walk in there and find a plate of cucumber slices with fire ant and anchovy paste topping? I know what will happen: I will eat it anyway, because I don’t have any free will anymore.

By emily

GRADE: um, F?

I have a little bit of respect for JANE magazine, so I’m going to assume that they left this ‘article,’ in which Drew comes out as (gasp) PRO-VOTING, unedited on purpose. If this is the case I would like to thank them. It is the most hilariously retarded thing that anyone has ever written in the entire history of civilization, and that includes the movie 40 Days and 40 nights, which I am watching on cable right now. It stars Shannyn Sossamon, who in real life has a baby named Audio Science. Drew’s writing is even more retarded than that. REALLY.

Instead of trying to dissect why it is bad, I think I’ll just go ahead and let Drew speak for herself. I just have to say one thing beforehand, though: Drew, you are super wrong when you say, “I know that I am just an aspiring artist and that voicing all of this is a risk.” No, having sex with Fab is a risk. Being Pro Voting is about as controversial as being Anti Cute Puppy Killing. Now imagine this being read in slow, deliberate valley-girl Drewspeak:

“ I’m 29 years old. I have been asked to write an article for this periodical. I am so excited because I have always wanted to be a writer. I was in the bath tonight and I was thinking of what I would say. All these things started coming to mind . . . how I wanted to change the world, how I wanted to watch a sitcom on TiVo, how I was hungry . . . I thought about sexuality. I thought about water, any subject seemed to come easier than writing about politics. But the thing in the back of my mind right now is ELECTION TIME.”

Oh boy. But wait, that is nothing. After some digressions about the movie Election (“I look at her (Tracy Flick) and think, ‘What a great depiction of a person who has the most incredible drive.’ Then I go on obsessing in my own brain”), and other rambling, stoney-ass musings, Drew finally gets to the heart of the matter:

“Look at all the leaders that have bravely shared their philosophies to give us hope . . . Look at Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. and the individuals who inspired that civil rights be on the frontal lobe of every politician, journalist, and lawmaker. Yet, isn’t it true that when we think of the beautiful people such as Gandhi, or the family that is surviving, the schoolteacher who is struggling to make their class pass, that they are all human? Like you and me.”

Except, actually, I don’t.

By emily

Grade: see below

Last night I went to see rich and famous author Amy Tan do an Inside the Actor’s Studio-style interview with Geling Yan, a Chinese author who is Black Diamond Cheddar to Amy’s Velveeta (or Cararra marble to Amy’s plaster, if you aren’t into cheese analogies). These are the things I thought about during this cultural event, besides being hungry and having to pee:

a) I am never, ever getting Botox, even if my jowls eventually dangle all the way down to my shoulders. Amy looks like one of The Witches from the movie, except scarier. Also she is no longer capable of expressing some of my favorite emotions, such as ‘angry’ and ‘confused.’ The ugliness of her scary mask face was trumped only by the ugliness of her shoes: an unholy cross between tevas and mallgirl wedges. Her questions were self-aggrandizing, stupid, and Oprah’s-book-clubby to the max.

b) Being a successful author (or even just a highly-regarded author) has some great perks. I wonder if authors ever feel sorry for all the publishing peons who spend their nine to fives making semicolons into commas and ensuring that royalty checks get sent out on time. Probably not. I doubt that I would.

c) If you want to be a writer and have a tendency to be crippled by jealousy and insecurity, working in The World of Publishing ( where the only thing that matters about a book is how many people will buy it) could potentially be a little bit disheartening. In fact, it might kill any chance you’d have had to be genuinely inspired by anything, ever.

d) As it turns out, successful writers really do sit in coffeeshops in the West Village all day, free to fret about the state of their skin and their love lives now that the question ‘Will Anyone Ever Know How Brilliant I Truly Am?’ has been answered, once and for all, with a resounding ‘Yes.’ As a Lifestyle Choice, being a successful writer is the biggest A+ of all time. There is no possible downside of this career option, except that maybe you will write something that makes people hate you. But I do that all the time for free anyway, so it doesn’t really count.

e) Keep in mind, though, that those coffeeshop habitués are one in a literal million. There are so many people out there who feel that being a writer – of fiction, of nonfiction, of advertorials about lipstick – is the one and only thing that they are meant to do. A scant handful will make it, but the rest, including some really talented ones, will fail and be miserable for the rest of their lives. And they’ll fail for stupid, unfair reasons, too, like not being able to afford an MFA from Iowa or not being egotistical enough to relentlessly self-promote or just plain being terrified of rejection. These people may spend the rest of their pitiful lives writing internet screeds while the Amy Tans of the world make enough $$ to buy every man, woman, and child in america a pair of platform tevas and a big jade doorknocker necklace. Needless to say, being a 'struggling' writer gets the biggest F- of all time.

By B

Grade: Various

I have been remiss in my reviewing duties recently. Emily has been alternately cajoling, nagging, and bribing me to get it together. Anyway, here is the verdict on all the crap I’ve been consuming. I promise I’ll get back to the real meaty stuff soon.

Harry Potter #3
Grade: B+
Don’t go to see a midnight showing of this movie. It is really long and you will be about to pass out by the end, no matter how much you like Harry Potter. Even though it is sick, I think that Harry has gotten kind of sexy.

Stephanie Zacharek, Film Reviewer For Salon.com
Grade: F
I know this is an obscure thing to be reviewing, and that no one cares except me, which is why I am limiting myself to a capsule review only. I could write pages and pages, because Ms. Zacharek is my pet peeve. All of her bad reviews—and she mostly writes bad reviews—go something like this: “Although I enjoyed every aspect of this film, it was ultimately not enjoyable at all.”

All the movies that she really likes are pretentious, obscure and mediocre. Or they star Queen Latifah. She LOVES Queen Latifah. Sometimes I think she must have been in one of my Film History classes at Sarah Lawrence. Also I bet she has a really annoying friendster profile.

Napoleon Dynamite
Grade: B-
Laird says that this movie is getting all kinds of hype. Mostly undeserved, I’d say. It was funny, but not as funny as Welcome to the Dollhouse. And there was no story to speak of. I did, however, enjoy the silver screen rebirth of Tina Majorino. Remember when she was in Waterworld? Also there was a movie with a seal, or a sea lion, or something of that nature. And maybe a film with Whoopi. I might be imagining that last one. Anyway, now she is the new Heather Matarazzo. Bravo, Tina.

The Tonys
Grade: C
I did not watch the Tony Awards.

The Sopranos Finale
Grade: B
I didn’t watch this either, but I bet it was pretty boring unless Adriana returned to life. I will on-demand it next time I am home, unless Judge Joe Brown is on. In which case I’ll watch that instead.

Nancy Reagan
Grade: C+
Sorry, but unlike “Hip Conservative” Dorian Davis-- who, P.S., has removed comments from his odious blog because he obviously couldn’t take the heat-- you will not find me crying over the death of Ronnie. Still, I have to say that Nancy has gotten a little easier to stomach in the last ten years or so. You have to feel at least a little sympathy.

(My prediction for the celebrity deaths that will complete the trifecta: The Pope and Phyllis Schlafly.)

McDonald’s Premium Salads
Grade:C+
I got the (Crispy) Chicken and Bacon Ranch flavor. Don’t ask why; it was a total last resort. I can’t believe that these salads have revitalized the Mickey D’s brand. It is just a piece of rubbery McDonald’s chicken on a bed of iceberg lettuce, with dressing in a packet. Duh. Also, why are they allowed to call this variety of chicken CRISPY? It is actually quite soggy.

People at the Gym
Grade:D
Taking a nice, relaxing nap on the weight machines while people are waiting to use them is not going to help you lose weight. Grunting loudly while doing your nude calisthenics in the steam room might, but it is just gross.

Roll Roasters on 11th and 3rd
Grade: D
They really need to perfect the system here. Somebody stole my food before I could snag it. He got a stern talking to from the manager, and his ill-gotten burger was thrown in the trash, but I still blame the restaurant for being so lax in their ticket-checking. Thieves just hover around the counter waiting to take your food if you aren’t quick enough. I’m not joking. And when I finally did get my burger, it was undercooked.

addendum: i'm now obsessed with roll roasters and go every day. duh, you obviously get the ROAST BEEF here, not the burger. i don't know what my problem was. you still have to guard your food vigilantly but it is so worth it. certain people have a bone to pick with the ugly awning, however.

much, much later addendum: Roll N Roaster on 11th and 3rd is now closed. While my first experience with this restaurant was not good, its closing has been a real tragedy in my life. I only hope that my negative review so many years ago did not contribute to the failure of this business.

Low Budget Gay Romantic Comedies
Grade:D
Boring, way too long, and only occasionally funny.

Lesbian Comedo-Thrillers
Grade: F
Boring, way too long, and only funny to the people who are in them.

By Emily

Grade: I give my name a solid C. Sorry, mom.

Okay, so according to this, my very own moniker has been #1 for American baby girls for eight, yes, EIGHT fucking years now. Meaning, of course, that when I am a shriveled old hag of 42, there will be a bumper crop of 22-34 year old Emilies roaming the land, riding my coattails and stealing my thunder. Thank god that by then, plastic surgery will be so deregulated that we will be able to purchase DIY botox kits from a stand by the cash register at 7-11, just like we can now with trucker speed. Still, it sucks to be so . . . common. I do like the name, of course, for its librarianish attic-poetry implications. But did there have to be four Emilies on my hall freshman year of college? B says that, if I do make a Winona Horowitz-style move towards a nom de plume, I should go for the obnoxiously meta Celebrity Gould. Hmmm. Celly for short? Lebbie? Um, no. I suppose I should just be grateful that my parents are not quite trashy enough to have gone for the rising-in-popularity EmmaLee. And SPEAKING of WHICH . . .

While looking for more stats about the upcoming onslaught of Ems, I found this amazing site with lots of pages devoted to 100% REAL RETARDED BABY NAMES SO FUNNY YOU WILL DIE. A ton of people – regular people, not just Toni “Diezel and Denim’s mommy” Braxton – have allowed pregnancy hormones to kill their last remaining brain cells:

“In a few months I'm going to be a new mom, and we know its (sic) a girl. My dh and I have been discussing names lately (we already have six children: Jack Dominick, Rose Solenne, Monroe Charlize, Ophelia Eden, Heart Scarlett, Pascal Sebastien)”

The site’s moderator expresses awe that these people managed to conceive of a) that many kids and b) that many fucked up names. I heartily second the emotion. The site also exposes a wealth of Braelynns, Ashlynns, Jessequas, etc. People, why not just go ahead and name the kid Myparentsareretardslynnnn ?

Even smart, savvy people like the parents of B are not infallible when it comes to this stuff. Okay, so out of the gate they have B(bravo!) and then Lucy (perfect name, suits her perfectly), and then they follow up with . . . Devon. It’s not so bad, I guess, when you think of it in the context of England and stuff.

On the flipside, though, we have to consider the people who have genuinely extraordinary names. I can’t mention my perfectly named friend here because she made me promise not to, but every time she introduces herself people are like “Really?” and then like “Oh my god, that’s a great name.” Email me if you are absolutely desperate to know. It’s a province in France, a bird from a poem, and a forest of thieves, all in one name. There was no way she was ever going to grow up to be boring. Still, it’s only one baby step from ‘interesting’ to Jaeden Blu or whatnot.