By emily
GRADE: wait for it

In the new movie Garden State (bonus capsule review: A- funny, well-written, despite disintegration into standard rom-com cliché at the end), the plot hinges on the fact that the protagonist’s psychiatrist dad has crippled his ability to feel by prescribing him various mood stabilizers since he was ten. He decides to go off the drugs and within four days he has cried his first tear in years, fallen in love, and had a variety of suburban-pastoral adventures with the Shins and Simon and Garfunkel chiming away in the background. The message is clear: psychopharmaceuticals are evil, feelings are good.

I used to feel the same way. But lately, I’ve been feeling . . . wait, sorry, what was I talking about? I keep losing my train of thought. This is one of the creepier side effects of the brain drugs. I started taking them (for the first time ever) about six weeks ago, for a variety of extremely good reasons that are none of your business. I didn’t notice anything for a couple of weeks except queasiness, and then suddenly one day I woke up and realized that I was not dreading every moment of consciousness anymore. Woo hoo! So that’s the first mark in the ‘pro’ column: the drugs do work.

But then there is the ‘con.’ As a big paranoiac, I have been supersensitive to any possible signs that the drugs have had an effect on my affect. The things I’m supposed to be watching out for are: emotional numbness, lack of creativity, change in appetite, and the dreaded ‘sexual side effects.’ My friend Katie also told me that when she was on the drugs she couldn’t dwell on her problems. “Something bad would happen, and instead of crying all night about it, I would cry for a few minutes and then start doing my homework,” she said, in a tone that indicated that she would have preferred to cry all night. Well, yeah, I would too. I don’t want my brain to lie to me about how I am feeling. Trusting your own brain is sort of the last frontier of trust.

But the amount of quotidian misery I’m still experiencing is enough to convince me that I haven’t gone completely numb. And I clearly haven’t lost my creative drive – look at me typing these words right now! As for the sexual side effects, that is also none of your business but I haven’t noticed any. That much. I think. I am a bit spacier and more forgetful, but that’s probably just because my brain is not yammering at me about all the shit I have to do anymore. And the losing focus thing . . . well, that could be for any number of reasons. Maybe I have Alzheimer’s. Maybe I’m just ditzy! America loves ditzes.

I am still opposed to the idea of taking the brain drugs, but you know what? Anyone who drinks, smokes pot, smokes cigarettes, drinks caffeinated beverages, or eats sweets is on drugs. Adjusting one’s own brain chemistry is scary, but since we do it all the time anyway, we might as well do it in convenient little doses that are covered by our insurance. Sorry, hippies, but I am going to give this shit a solid ‘B.’

Hmmm, I sure have been giving good grades lately . . .

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 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

Recently I started eating an 8 oz container of yogurt every day. This was around the same time that I started wearing clean, not-ripped clothes all the time, brushing my teeth after lunch, and being nice to people I don’t like. Clearly, I have become an adult. Also, an expert on yogurt.

Dannon: D
So easy. The yogurt of yogurt dilettantes. Too bad it has the consistency of paste and a sour, nasty aftertaste.
Stonyfield Farm: D-
Quite possibly the nastiest yogurt on the market. Sour and bitter. Can actually produce a shudder of revulsion in those with sensitive palates.
Brown Cow Cream Top: C+
Kind of a cross between yogurt and fruit-flavored cream cheese. The Brown Cow lowfat is nearly perfect and nearly impossible to find.
Total Greek Yogurt:B
The little separate compartment full of honey is so adorable. And it actually tastes good, if a little on the super-rich side. The Total with honey and walnuts is the winner.
French Yogurt with Grains: A-
Totally genius. Pear flavor especially.
Emmi Swiss Yogurt: C+
Too sweet.
Ronnybrook Farms Creamline Yogurt Coconut: Oh, that sounds good! I want to eat one right now! It looks appealing, with cute little chunks of coconut. And it’s . . . oh, wait, what is up with this consistency? It’s really thin, like totally liquidy almost. It tastes okay . . . maybe if I think of it as like an Indian lassi beverage? Wait, no . . oh, ew, I just realized that this tastes exactly like a BARFED UP PINA COLADA. F+

By B
GRADE: A+

My journalistic ethics force me to disclose that I have been friends with the lovely Ms. Rabbit for years, and I think she is great. But guess what!? That has nothing to do with the fact that I am giving her Psychic Services an enthusiastic A+. If I thought she sucked, I would say so for sure. Lucky for everyone involved that she is the best-- I had a very satisfying reading just tonight!

Unlike many dippy psychics, with their incense and their runes and WICCAN NONSENSE, Jessica is refreshingly salty-- Like if ANN LANDERS (R.I.P.) had been blessed with a mystical sixth sense. And unlike most LADIES OF THE GODDESS STRIPE, Jessica steers clear of corky sandals and other forms of ugly flats. Jessica Rabbit knows that being precognitive is all about maintaining the MAGICAL GLAMOUR. It is only the highest heels for this sassy seer.

You should visit her website and enlist her services, because it is so worth it, and can your therapist tell the future? No way! My therapist wouldn’t even give me advice! The only bad thing about Jessica is that she is in San Francisco, which is way too far away. Still, that is not her fault. FOUR STARS ET CETERA.

(Note: It is at Ms. Rabbit's request that she be categorized as a COMESTIBLE. Yum yum!)

(2 yrs later addendum: I haven't talkd to Jessica in truly forever, but from perusing her website, it looks like she's hung out a shingle. If you're in the Bay Area, you should totally go visit.)

By Emily
Grade C

She’s walking a few feet ahead of you on the street, inexplicably outpacing you even though her four-inch stilettos seem dangerously close to snapping under their voluptuous load. It’s impossible not to notice the way her Seven jeans crease under each glute in time with her clippetty-cloppetty steps. Her hair is straight, shoulder-length, and highlighted so precisely that no two strands are the exact same shade of blonde. Perhaps she’s gabbing animatedly on her cell phone, leaning drunkenly on the shoulder of a near-identical buddy, or taking quick, businesslike puffs on either a Parliament or Marlboro light.

There’s no mistaking it: you’re witnessing a Diet Coke Girl in action.

Diet Coke Girls (see: Tammy Faye Bakker Messner, Jenny Aniston, Communications majors and PR firm ladies) tend to down at least three to six of the silver devils every day in order to maintain their chipper demeanors and their quasi-anorexic eating habits simultaneously. Until recently, I’d never been tempted to join the ranks of the DCGs- in fact, I’d never had more than a sip of the stuff. For one thing, Diet Coke tastes like Windex, and for another thing, everyone knows it’s unhealthy to drink a half-dozen cans of caffeine and caramel coloring, no matter how ‘diet’ it is. But eventually fate intervened, in the form of an ultra-unglamorous temp placement during Fashion Week. While the elite preened in Bryant Park, I sat in a windowless highrise two blocks west, receptionisting at a showroom where a team of aging DCGs sold trampy preteen clothes to Midwestern department store buyers.

This job was heinous for many reasons besides the obvious ones. For starters, it was one of those situations where looooong stretches of boredom are interspersed with moments of frantic busyness. During the busy moments, the DCGs yelled at me for stupid reasons and got my name wrong (‘Melanie’?) so many times that I stopped bothering to correct them. Also I had to show up every morning at 8:30, even though twice I had to sit in the benchless hallway for half an hour until someone arrived to let me in. And although I was working there for the entire week, no one thought it was appropriate for me to know the key-code to unlock the front door, and the bathroom was in the hallway. This meant that every time I got back from peeing, I had to ring the doorbell and wait for someone to let me in- which felt sort of like announcing “I peed!” over an intercom. Actually, that would have been way more fun and less degrading. Also, because it was busy busy Fashion Week, I was not allowed to escape the building for any reason, not even to smoke or eat or get a coffee, and there was no coffee machine in the office.

No coffee machine- but there was a fridge. Three guesses as to what kind of soda the shelves were stocked with.

By about halfway through the second four billion year long workday, I was totally burnt out and ready to snap, in addition to being dangerously close to falling asleep at my desk. The boss, who was super portly and addicted to Weight Watchers Just 2 Points! bars, had just told me to clean up the takeout containers from the nasty cheap Italian lunch she’d ordered. As she walked away, she added, “And you can feel free to take some of the food home with you, if you’d like.” Was she trying to be nice? Who cares! The idea that I would salvage and reheat her soggy half-eaten rigatoni was so incredibly insulting. “I’m not that hard up,” I called after her, in a ‘maybe I’m joking, so you can’t fire me’ tone of voice. She turned and gave me an icy squint. “Everybody does it,” she said. “Not me!” I replied in my brightest, cheeriest customer- service way, and started towards the kitchen.

Obviously, I gave in to the diet siren’s lure. Caffeine is important when you’re dealing with total idiots on a scant ration of sleep. The Diet Coke provided me with enough of a bump to get through the rest of the day, and to treadmill out some of my rage at the gym afterwards in classic yuppie style. The taste, while sickly sweet and cloying, wasn’t as bad as I’d expected- you can even sort of imagine that it’s real Coke if you drink it fast enough. I would advise against letting it get warm, however- warm Diet Coke is a hundred times worse than warm regular Coke, which everyone knows is like drinking your own sweetened carbonated urine. I spent the rest of that week liberally raiding the fridge. I think that maybe seeing the cans on my desk convinced the DCGs in the office that I was doing a more professional job than I really was. A receptionist just isn’t a receptionist without certain accoutrements, I guess. Maybe if I’d worn a nauseatingly strong variety of Victoria’s Secret body spray, they would have given me a raise or something.

Lately I’ve caught myself actually purchasing Diet Coke. It sucks, but I’m starting to be a little bit hooked, although I’m certainly nowhere near sixpack level. Maybe next time I’ll get a Diet Dr. Pepper instead. After all, even if one is forced to live a crap yuppie lifestyle, one can still maintain a shred of individuality. Dr. Pepper is all about that.