James Franco at a recent book signing in Palo Alto. Image courtesy of Laura Soriano

Sometimes famous people are not satisfied just being famous for one reason. When this happens they often call in some reinforcements and decide to dip their toes in the lapping author-y waters. Since being an actor, reality star or celebutaunt comes so easily to them, becoming an author is the next logical career choice. Many choose to write what they know, which means they, usually along with a ghostwriter or two, pen their own autobiography. Some of these, life Keith Richard’s story Life or Betty White’s If You Ask Me (And I’m Sure You Won’t) make for compelling reading. While many others, including Vanilla’s Ice’s 1991 memoir Ice by Ice, are not as well received by the public. Lucky for us the is no shortage or ego amongst celebrities and this simple fact let’s us know that the insane celeb autobiography will never go out of style. If celebrities want to write but don’t have it in them to go for a full chapter-book, they tend toward children’s stories. John Lithgow, Jamie Lee Curtis, Julianne Moore and Billy Crystal have all enjoyed success as children’s authors. However, a few brave celebs have taken the plunge into full-blown fiction writing often times with hilarious consequences. With Goodreads.com as our guide, we take a look at some of the worst (best?) in celebrity-penned fiction.

9. Hilary Duff: Elixir

Rating: 3.59/5 stars

Released in June 2011, Duff’s debut novel is a real page-turner. This 334 page thriller follows photojournalist/daughter of rich people Clea Raymond as she and a mysterious, handsome stranger, bond and attempt to solve the mystery of her father’s disappearance. The New York Post proclaimed ”It has everything: romance and the supernatural; a globe-trotting Hillary Clinton-esque mom; characters with names like Sage and Clea…and a shout-out to Page-Six!” Sounds like this former child star took the good news in stride releasing Devoted, the second book in the Elixir series, in Novemeber 2012.

8. Lauren Conrad: L.A. Candy

Rating: 3.37/5 stars

Reality star/fashion designer/blonde girl Lauren Conrad decided to test her storytelling chops in this June 2009 release L.A. Candy. The first of a trilogy (oh boy!), L.A. Candy chronicles the tale of Jane Roberts, a young, beautiful woman who moves to LA and is cast in a reality TV show. I’m sure she had to dig deep to find the inspiration for this one. ”I didn’t take anything specifically that happened to me,” Conrad told MTV News in 2009. ”The only thing that I did was … it was a way to show not necessarily me but just the other side of being on a show like ours.” For her efforts, Conrad briefly earned a spot on the New York Times Best Seller list.

7. Nicole “Snooki” Polizzi: A Shore Thing

Rating: 3.21/5 stars

Everyone’s favorite pouf-head, Snooki, took her deep love for the Jersey Shore to the pages of her first novel, A Shore Thing, in 2011. Not surprisingly, the story details a wild summer at the Jersey Shore shared by two cousins with super Italian-sounding names. Most plot-summarizing quote from the book: “[The girls] soak up all that Seaside Heights, New Jersey, has to offer: hot guidos, cool clubs, fried Oreos, and lots of tequila.”

6. Macaulay Culkin: Junior

Rating: 3.21/5 stars

The party monster himself takes a crack at the novel. Here, Culkin surprises his readers when instead of a linear, coherent story, they receive a dizzying tumble through a wild mind. Clearly, Culkin doesn’t stray too far from his own life’s experience with childhood mega-stardom and family dysfunction when creating his character, Junior. Kirkus Reviews says, “With this audaciously empty mishmash of poems, letters, comics, etc., former child star Culkin (of Home Alone fame) has managed to lower the already low bar set for celebrity fiction.” Better luck next time, Mack.

5. Fabio: Wild

Rating: 3.00/5 stars

Though he’s normally accustomed to adorning the cover, male model/goose target Fabio took at stab at authoring with this 1997 novel, Wild. Set in sizzling hot Miami, Wild  chronicles the sexy exploits of A.J. Sutton, a maid who falls in love with the ruggedly handsome (and undoubtedly bronze-skinned) businessman Marcos Esteves. However, a shocking murder causes A.J. to flee in order to survive and forces her to choose between love and her fears. I’d go with love, if I were her. Unfortunately, most people agree that Fabio is better half-smiling on the covers of romance novels or selling faux butter than he is at writing. His amazon reviews are hilarious.

4. Nicole Richie: The Truth About Diamonds: A Novel

Rating: 2.97/5 stars

On the heels of former bestie Paris Hilton’s self-indulgent 2004 book Confessions of an Heiress: A Tongue-in-Chic Peek Behind the Pose, wild child Nicole Richie penned her first novel The Truth About Diamonds: A Novel, in 2006. I like that the title feels it’s necessary to mention that this is in fact a novel. Perhaps it was included to remind people since the entire book reads like a memoir of the rocker-celebutaunt’s real life. She includes a character named Nicole Richie. She seems really down to Earth.

3. Pamela Anderson: Star Struck: A Novel

Rating: 2.93/5 stars

Centerfold/Canadian Pamela Anderson released her first novel Star Struck: A Novel in May of 2005. Pam also felt the need to mention that her book was a novel in the title because, surprise, surprise, this “fictional” story reads a lot (identically) like Pam’s life with rocker Tommy Lee. If you’re in the market for a trashy page-turning modern romance, this could be the book for you. Put this in the “beach book” pile for summer reading, why dontcha.

2. James Franco: Palo Alto

Rating: 2.825 stars

I was really pulling for Yale PhD candidate and overall babe James Franco. I wanted his collection of short stories to be the best. Sigh. Alas, his 2010 collection of stories about misfit teens in Palo Alto reads a bit more like a sanctimonious memoir; a mesh of Jim Carroll and Bret Easton Ellis mixed with a dash of gore. The New York Times’ Joshua Mohr wrote, “As a writer, Franco needs to harness the skills he’s cultivated as an actor, mainly the ability to inhabit a consciousness independent of his own.” Sounds like this Jimmy F should heed that advice before he writes another book, or a tweet. At least he’s easy on the eyes.

1. Naomi Campbell: Swan

Rating: 2.67/5 stars

In an astonishing turn of events a short-tempered supermodel writes a fictitious novel about a mega-successful supermodel. I guess we can’t blame Naomi Campbell for writing (or convincing someone to write for her) what she knows. If we did, she’d probably throw a phone at us or something. Swan has a plot, I think. Critics are torn. Many loathe it for being a rambling stream of incoherent events while others see it as an inspiring look at the world of modeling. It’s basically a foggy, fictional version of America’s Next Top Model written in 1994.

Naomi is going to be tough to beat but I’m certain countless more celebrities will inadvertently throw their hat in the ring for the Most Entertainingly Terrible Celebrity Author. Who is your favorite or least favorite celebrity author? Bonus points if you say Danica McKeller.

Book cover photos via Barnes and Noble and Amazon.

Nicole & Robin
Photo by Tomo Saito

Whether you’re the kind of person who bikes to work every day or never bikes at all, May 9, also known as Bike To Work Day, is a celebratory moment to consider the delight that biking adds to our lives. And this year, my third as a regular yet very non-serious biker, got me thinking about my tumultuous journey to the love affair that is my bike and me.

Five years ago, I got a hand-me-down bike and decided that I’d henceforth be a cyclist! I saw all the cool girls in their dark jeans hunched over their handlebars, navigating through the world with a casual ease that I too wanted to possess. Most of my friends and my husband were avid riders, leaving me to hail cabs and get places way after they did, and for way more money. So I began dutifully biking places, arriving flustered and disheveled, having nearly wiped out after catching my high heel in a street grate. I needed help locking up and generally didn’t feel at all cool or effortless. So I wasn’t destined to be a cyclist after all. I didn’t like hopping on and off the seat at lights, or lifting my hand up to signal a turn and endanger my already precarious state. I couldn’t wear dresses, skirts and impractical shoes, which are my daily uniform. Citing myriad legitimate (but mostly lame) reasons, I retired the bike and went back to the expensive, crowded, dirty, insanity-inducing world of SF public transit.

My first day with my bike!

Then, for my birthday, my husband made a big to-do about how we had to go somewhere to get my present. All sorts of things went through my head (primarily diamonds for some hilarious reason). It ended up being even better than diamonds, though I didn’t know it yet. He took me to the PUBLIC Bikes store and told me to pick out a bike. The gesture was so loving and generous I could hardly say no, though I sort of wanted to. The bikes were insanely cute, which provided an essential initial motivation. I tentatively took my test ride around a quiet tree-lined loop that couldn’t have been more perfect for my hesitant, poorly dressed self (I’d worn a dress and boots to pick out my diamonds). Though I nearly ran over a man jaywalking with an iguana, I felt pretty comfortable. The low, sloping bar of the Dutch style “Step-thru” made hopping on and off in a lady-like fashion very easy, and the high handlebars and basket made me feel a tad European.

Fast forward three years and I bike everywhere. I recently biked some deranged hilly route from North Beach to the Richmond, giddy with gratitude that the journey would have been impossibly long and annoying any other way. I cannot imagine living without my bike; I have a nickname for it and sometimes find myself humming the theme song of the Wicked Witch of the West as I ride. My bike just makes me happy on this immediate, cellular level. I can lock it up just fine, signal that I’m turning without falling over and wear whatever I want. As one of my fellow girly friends says, “if you sometimes like to wear dresses/boots/heels, you may think you can’t bike without changing your wardrobe, but you’re wrong. Rock them anyway! It’s easier than you think. If people can see up your skirt a little bit, who cares!” This is an important biking philosophy I’ve adopted. If someone can see up my skirt for a second, it doesn’t matter cause I’m already gone.

That’s the beauty of being a biker in San Francisco: you can be any sort you want, from the serious to the amateur, and everything in between. You can bike up to Point Reyes or down to Pacifica. You can proudly navigate your 10 minute commute, or make your way through the lovely Panhandle. It’s all OK. Not only does biking offer the cheapest, fastest, most environmental form of urban public transport, but you get to see unexpected, intimate details of your city and the world magically opens up to hold you in a different sort of way. Another biking friend of mine agrees, “There’s something different about putting your feet on the ground mid-transit that changes how you see things. This week I saw: fog lit from above and below, a broken dead seagull, an empty freeway entrance, the third street drawbridge open and close.” More than once, gliding down Sanchez toward 17th late at night on “the wiggle” I’ve thought (and said out loud), “Life is perfect,” because that’s the feeling invoked by biking. In his book Bicycle Diaries, Talking Heads lead singer David Byrne describes his adventures all over the world and says biking “facilitates a state of mind that allows some but not too much of the unconscious to bubble up.”

My sister and I in Kyoto, Japan where we rode bikes in 100 degree heat to the bamboo forest!

There’s no better feeling than riding with a group of friends through Golden Gate Park on a Sunday when the roads are closed to car traffic, ending up at the beach for sunset and beer. Or realizing I have to run some random errand that would normally take an hour, and instead it takes half that. Or taking the ferry to Angel Island for the day to bike around considering the most gorgeous views I’ve ever seen. Or heading over the gusty Golden Gate bridge to Sausalito for white wine on a deck overlooking the water. Or going to the store and putting all my groceries in my basket (I usually refrain from flowers and baguettes, but not always). You’re probably getting the picture about the leisurely take I have on it, but one of my favorite things about biking is its democracy, that everyone has their own style and way they ride.

My fellow more hardcore bikers and even cars, are usually incredibly kind (I’ve been yelled at about five times in three years). I’m intimidated by people who clearly bike faster and more skillfully than me and yet there’s no real reason to be. Once a group of men at the shop where I went to get a tune-up told me that I was part of a club since I’d biked there in the rain (they later held the door for me and gently reminded me to brake sooner than usual because the roads were slippery, which meant I wasn’t really in the club). There was also the car who stopped traffic so I could retrieve my sunglasses that had fallen into the middle of the road and the driver of a delivery truck I ran into who insisted on bandaging my bloody finger. And there was the good looking boy who tried to show off by balancing on his pedals at the red light, bit it, hopped up and said, “C’est la vie, right? We’re on our bikes!” I now fight the urge to yell that at everyone I pass by: “We’re on our bikes!” Here we are, out in the air, rain and sun, feeling our legs and hearts and city. How lucky we are.

Important things I’ve learned about biking: Wear a helmet; it’s fine to look like a dork (ignore helmet-less boys that look cool). Actually stop at lights and stop signs. Shop at/support the array of local awesome bike shops like Box Dog, Freewheel, and Heavy Metal Bike Shop, to name just a few. Join the SF Bike Coalition. Be zen (people do crazy things) and be nice. Don’t chase/try to impress cute boys or you will crash (this wasn’t me, I swear, this was my friend who shall remain nameless). Warm Planet Bikes will park your bike all day for free. Watch out for doors opening into the bike lane. Take up a whole lane if you have to. And, most importantly, there’s no reason not to bike. You can start by biking to work on May 9. I’ll see you out there. I’ll be the one in the dress biking so slowly you’d think I never had anywhere to be.

Kriss Kross/Sony

Tonight’s saddest story is: Chris Kelly, “Mac Daddy” of the ’90s rap group Kris Cross, died of a possible drug overdose. He was only 34.

I grew up without a TV but even I knew Kris Kross and liked to sing, “Jump! Jump!” at every opportunity and wear my pants backwards occasionally, to the consternation of the adults in my life. Really, what an amazing and hilariously tame form of youthful rebellion that Kris Kross cultivated with their signature backwards clothing style. Of course, it was probably a producer somewhere that came up with the idea, since the boys (the group was him and the other Chris, Chris Smith, “Daddy Mac”) were all of 14 when they hit the scene in 1992. And if he really did die of a drug overdose, then we might want to think about that, what our culture’s obsession with kid stars is doing to the kids, seemingly all the time. Whatever happend, 34 is too young to die without it being a tragedy. Tonight Facebook is lit up with this video but if you haven’t seen it, watch now. And if you have, watch again. RIP Chris. May we remember your sacrifice when we jump to your song and scream along with the lyrics at weddings and dances for the rest of our lives.

from kevincharnas.com

Schadenfreude is a deliciously German word which means ‘taking pleasure in the misfortune of others’, of which, surprisingly, there is no English translation. This is truly surprising given the amount of time we Americans spend taking great pleasure in all the pitfalls of our anointed celebrities. Picture Britney Spears: we grin sadistically when the pictures of her bald meltdown surface, even though it was our original interest in her pop career that made her millions.

We all live for the moment when the Fashion Police are called

This is what Us Weekly was made for. It was created for our own entertainment at the expense of those who unfairly take up so much of our headspace. That, and escapist fantasies of the rich and famous. Strangely, a while ago someone signed me up for a free subscription to Us Weekly, Shape, and Glamour. I have no idea who it was, but I suspect my sister or my mom. They pour out of my mailbox and fill me with revulsion with their baby pics, teen trends, and beach bodies. I pull them out of the mail pile and throw them face down on the floor like I am going to catch a disease from them. Dumbness disease. This whole time I’ve been receiving the Us Weeklys for free, I have never actually read one. I worry mostly about my attention-span and my list of things to do. Us Weekly has been designed to keep you utterly enthralled in idiotic un-news from cover-to-cover, and then has the audacity to show up every week in your mailbox, retraining your brain to think of the things you’ve just mentally encrypted as interesting into yesterday’s news, and you start the whole obsessive process over again.

Last week’s issue- Gotta keep up!!

While I have flipped through a few pages before, as I attempt to really examine my first issue, I thought we might take this uncharted journey into celebrity hate-love-love-to-hate of Us Weekly together, and try to study this specimen as dedicated explorers to see just what these pages really say about us as a culture.

The issue we’re exploring is already outdated

My god, the cover is a real juicy one. Kim K and her enormous boobs just overflowing out of that spandex dress, (that you later learn is loaned from the fat sister), and the tiny British princess, Kate, eaking out her pregnancy ever-so-daintily and covered in plaid like a tartan doily. The main headline is in yellow all caps (a sign of serious importance): BABY WEIGHT BATTLES, second line: TOO THIN? TOO FAT? It makes you immediately wonder if they are battling each other. Then you think, “Yeah, baby battle! Fight, you fame-hungry whores!” Then the subtext grabs at your empathy: “Both six months pregnant, Kate & Kim are constantly bullied and judged. Inside their support systems and how they fight back.” Just who is actually bullying them and advertising their weight “problems”? If pictures like these weren’t published, neither of them would be “fighting back!” The magazine is simultaneously broadcasting their shame and tsking that darn media for creating these dramas. But then…if it wasn’t news to you, the magazine wouldn’t exist because they wouldn’t sell any issues, so inadvertently, we are to blame. Crap!

I love when the magazine completely ignores a celebrity being so clearly annoyed we are looking at them, to talk about their pecs.

The next part is “Who Wore it Best?” with the percentages tallied of a vote which supposedly happened regarding two similar ensembles on different celebrities. My hunch says it’s unhappy teens and moms on sudafed who are doing the voting online. Examining the winner and loser of the same-outfit-OMG-I-wanna-die contest says a lot more about our expectations of our fantasies than it does about who really looked better. Let’s take the easy one: Kris Jenner, (easily 50s +, Kim K’s mom, mega-millionaire media hound), vs Blake Lively, (known on-screen as the super stylish babe on Gossip Girl, young and hot, hasn’t done anything scarring to her image in recent memory). The answer: 10% for Kris, 90% for Blake. Duh! This tells us about the avatars we live vicariously through as we look at famous people: We are a youth-obsessed culture, being thin and trim is an important sign of youth, and WE want to be likable- not media hungry and desperate. We love to hate the media hungry and desperate. What I mean is that when we favor one of them, it’s because they embody something we wish we were, not because they looked ‘better.’

You’re picking out yourself, not their outfit.

And what do I mean by ‘we’ anyway? I don’t mean absolutely everybody- not your dad unless he’s reading it in the bathroom. Let’s examine the demographic of the magazine by looking at the ads and who they are targeting. That is the ‘we,’ and you and I are in it because somehow we picked up this copy. There are ads for quintessentially mainstream foods like Ritz crackers, Orbit gum, and Lunchables. This, plus the Honda and pet food ads, means they are targeting middle income families. And while people in places like San Francisco might find themselves eating Ritz crackers on accident, most over-educated foodie jerks in cities are making their own wheat thins rather than buying anything processed. (More on that in another post). So the ‘we’ are women in suburban neighborhoods with enough time, boredom and dispensable income on their hands to flip through the fantasy lives of others on a whim.

This one is just weird- what the hell is an ‘e’ cigarette, and has Stephen Dorff’s career really not taken off at all since that Sophia Coppola movie?

You know what else is advertised to death in this magazine? Baby products. Holy hell, there must be millions of moms just dying to dare to dream of having that immaculate Cuban romance that Jay Z just whisked Beyonce away on, (we even learn what the two ate for dinner), while they are lugging around screaming brats.

Do you really need to know that she had the chicken?

Every other ad is for a diaper, or in one case, permanent birth control! Moms are the real demographic here, or why else would we care at all about all these mundane baby pics. My god! Who cares that Hilary Duff thinks her one-year-old is “so funny”? Moms who think their babies are “so hilarious,” too- that’s who.

Like it’s hard to read how they are promoting products for babies right next to celebrity babies! Don’t you want one now? Better get Huggies for it!

How about permanent birth control? It’s almost like sterilization!

Or worse, we’re supposed to care enough about stars’ pets to be able to name them in a quiz? Really!? What this says is that we are rewarded by subscribing so devoutly to this deluge of “interesting” tidbits that readers can actually gratuitously pat themselves on the back for knowing the stars so well. It’s almost like you are one! OMG!

Don’t have a baby? They know a pet is practically a baby, so here, buy cat litter just like a star!

Let’s talk about the fat thing. Yes, by comparison, actors and fashion models make us feel fat and so we hate them. Yet we wouldn’t accept anything less than perfection from them. Picture the humiliation of Kirsty Alley as she grew bigger and bigger and couldn’t get roles in anything anymore except for her own self-depricating show, Fat Actress and then that tanked, too. Oh Kirsty. We don’t want to see a fat woman in the lead romantic role. That is, again, where our fantasy selves go, and our fantasy selves are hot. As impossible as the standards we set for celebrities are, the more eagerly we live to see their defeat because the window we gave them is too small on purpose. Jessica Simpson’s chipmunk cheeks: Oh, the horror! And the glee!

“Just keep it up, fatty!” we drool with delight.

They call these women ‘beautiful’ in this spread, but they really know we are dying to pick apart what pregnancy can do to someone like Penelope Cruz.

So when we look at articles like, “4 Ways to Spring Clean Your Workout: Wipe the slate and steal stars’ fitness tips!”, we are gently manipulated into falling into our own small window of hotness parameters we gave the stars. “Yeah! I’ll steal your secrets and be just as hot and then I’ll laugh even harder when you fail as an actress someday!” We’re encouraged to plan a girls’ trip like Reese Witherspoon, Drew Barrymore, and Cameron Diaz did at Bikini Bootcamp. First of all, even though Reese and Drew might look a little round, it’s only the photo comparisons to rock hard athletes like Diaz who make us even see them that way. Second, they have trainers, year round, plus money for a meal-planner and personal chef. Then there’s the fact that they have to look good or they will get fired. If you were going to get fired for having a muffin top, you’d lose it real quick. You can squeeze your thighs in and out as you read this and buy the yoga outfit the stars all wear to make yourself feel better about the fact that YOU are essentially the one who would be firing them by not seeing their movies.

Now after you’re done eating like the stars, make sure to buy some terrible-tasting diet hippy pasta!

Oh geez, we just hit the tip of the iceberg but it’s time to end our explorer mission for the day. I could write an entire column about this magazine. One last thing we must talk about: A red circle splashed on the page with all-caps letters again: “STARS- THEY’RE JUST LIKE US!” This is like the Cadillac of Us Weekly pages because it is at once so ridiculous and yet the most consuming. Why? Why do we want them to be like us? Is it so that we feel more on the same level with the mega-human we created and by that token have just elevated our own status? Or is it the reverse- “If Tom Cruise can drink a Guinness he’s really no better than my drunk uncle Charlie”?

Look at Tom’s pained expression, counting those calories.

And everything has so many exclamation points! “They Tie Their Laces!” We know these are pictures from sub-human cretin paparazzi photographers, and are one of two things: promotional shots for stars’ businesses, or embarrassing moments snared into digital cameras for our future glee. Gerard Depardieu: barely a notable figure in American stardom but fleeing a D.U.I. charge! Golden schadenfreude moment in the subtext below he “rides in a minivan cab!” just like us!!!

Tori doesn’t eat burgers. I can tell you that because I read it in Shape magazine. Sometimes she eats sushi with rice because “you have to let yourself live a little!”

I can’t help but feel someone is condescending to me as I read this page. I’m sure it’s tongue-in-cheek, and perhaps the whole magazine is, really. It’s not made by one person in their living room, after all. This is a mega-business, run by an entire crack team of people to steal your attention and take your money, capitalizing on your desire for runination. But remember what I said before, it’s not really the magazine’s fault for being so stupid. It’s our own, for wanting it to be this way and forking out $4.49 for new un-news every week.

Hello, boys. Frankly, if a man wrote an article attempting to guide my own dressing habits towards a more male-friendly appearance, I would be miffed and dismiss him entirely. What right does a man have to tell a woman how to dress? You’ve been throwing hints at us since the dawn of time, and we already know what you like, anyway. There’s a reason Victoria’s Secret and stores that sell stripper heels stay in business — that’s what you like, not what we like, and we’ll agree to throw you a literal bone every once in awhile. The main thing to remember, however, is that women dress for women, as in, we wear fashion to impress and compete with each other. It doesn’t have much to do with you. You will take us in a sack-like dress, just like Molly Ringwald in Pretty in Pink, as long as you can eventually see our boobs.

On the other hand, straight men need to dress for women. They might not always do so, or they might not know how. What’s at stake in our whole gender game is that you need to convince us to go home with you in our Molly Ringwald sack dress, so we can show you our boobs. If you aren’t convincing, someone else just might be, and therein lies the scientific process of natural selection, my friend.

Sure, there are other factors in the decision process — I mean, we aren’t completely superficial, you have to be capable of having a conversation, etc, but what you need to understand is that we have a new world order out here. There was a time when women were just dying to get married because it was the only way we could survive. These days we’ve got our jobs and our cake, too. If you want to have a partner in crime, you’ve got to have a crime worth committing, if you catch my drift.

The bad news is that you don’t really get a whole lot of clothing options in contemporary society. It’s sad, but you basically just get the pants/shirt/jacket combo in various iterations. In my MFA thesis research on dress, I learned something important about your clothes. Back in the era of kings and serfdom, power was connoted with leisure. Men and women in high society got to convey their status through ostentatious fancy clothing. However, along came the Industrial Revolution. All of a sudden, power was synonymous with work. Men wore serious, identical suits because they were all of a sudden gettin’ ‘er done, while the wives became the family vehicles to show off. And in one swoop, you got stuck with a suit as your only means of style, and we got all the fabulousness. Sure, it seems unfair, but I think you still own most of the Fortune 500 companies, so whatever.

So, in light of the dating and clothing rules I just mentioned, let’s talk about your dressing options. Here are some gentle guidelines designed to help you get the girls.

 *There will always be exceptions to the rules. I just want to point out that this is a subjective and personal list designed to illustrate what girls like me will like, not all women.

There are a few celebrities that I would take in any form. Joaquin Phoenix, for example. Even in his crazy phase, with the disheveled hair and stoner scat-speech, and/or because of his harelip, I would help him make a full recovery to normalcy and hotness. Or Eric Northman from True Blood. Sure, cut your hair, fine. Sure, wear my tank top. I don’t mind.

*If you are not a celebrity, but could pass for either of these men, dress however you want — be my guest.

Hot viking vampire god, Eric Northman, a.k.a. Alexander Skarsgard, can dress in a pashmina for all I care.

Joaquin Phoenix can go crazy if he wants to.

Here are the obvious ones: 

1. No pajamas in public. I know, just like us, you have days off and you don’t feel like putting in much effort. But never, under any circumstances, are you allowed to cruise around town in your pajamas, unless you want everyone to know you are a homesick college student, or perhaps a crackhead.

This is Robert Downey Jr. and his son walking around in pajamas from www.posh24.com

This goes for sweatpants, too. As Jerry Seinfeld can back me up, you basically just gave up on the world.

 2. No white guy dreadlocks. If you have to spend a lot of time making your hair into a textured, smelly mess, it’s probably not meant to be. Everyone has always known this, except for Winona Ryder, who made an unfortunate error in judgment by dating the lead singer of Soul Asylum in the ’90s.

Winona Ryder and her Soul Asylum boyfriend

3. Dress like an adult. Also, if I can’t see your ass, I can’t see you.

Original Vice “Dos and Don’ts caption: The true New York look is totally indistinguishable from the true well-behaved-toddler look. If a day-care worker saw them standing there at the museum he’d make them hold on to the rope and go, “Come on, you two. Get with the group.”
www.vice.com/vice/dnd/736

 4. Speaking of pants, avoid “jeggings.” Please leave something to the imagination. Wearing girl jeans this tight tells me all I need to know and more about your chicken calves.

From the Sartorialist.com

5. Obviously, no. We already talked about how I feel about these goth pants.

www.vice.com/vice/dnd/1098

And here are the not-as-obvious ones: 

1. Wear a suit.

I know it’s been the same for 200 years, but we women still like the way you look — just like that Men’s Warehouse commercial — in a suit. We don’t really want you to change. Which is why this image from redcarpet-fashionawards.com is so funny. The awards ceremonies, like weddings, are not really for you — you just have to show up and hold a purse for someone else.

 2. Don’t be a douchebag. All I had to do was Google flip-flops. Fine, if you live in an ocean community, you can wear flip-flops. But somehow jocks got it in their head that if they combined baggy designer jeans and a guido-style button-up shirt with flip flops, it would be like catnip to us. Guess what? It’s not. And we don’t really want to see your feet.

I don’t know how ‘N Sync ever made it- there’s only like 2 1/2 cute ones. And their stylist should be arrested.

Look at this guy I found on denverpost.com. Doesn’t he just look like he is convinced he’s living out some “Scarface” fantasy on his honeymoon while mountain climbing and wine-tasting?

3. There are limits. Even for two of the hottest men on the planet, you just can’t ever wear a college-dropout scrubby beanie or a thin, patchouli-scented hippy scarf. Ever. David Beckham and Johnny Depp should know better.

What’s worse is that David Beckham is at a Lakers game, so it’s probably not even cold out. From fanpop.com

Johnny has been a pirate for a little too long, I think. From usmagazine.com

4. You can’t groom yourself more than we do. We don’t like it when your hair looks better than ours, or when you use our fancy, expensive shampoo.

From the Facehunter.blogspot.com

 If you’re going to wear your hair long, it has to be a little unkept and ratty, a la the Grunge days.

Pearl Jam from stereogum.com

 5. Try going to an actual hair place and getting them to give you a real haircut. That means somewhere besides Supercuts and you will probably have to pay more than $10. Just do what we do, pick a celebrity, and copy them.

Morrissey just found a style and stuck with it for the last forty years. It works — he looks as good as ever, and a little salt and pepper is the real catnip for us. From mhpbooks.com.

6. You have to at least attempt to look like you have a job. That might make it seem like we are gold-diggers, but we just don’t want to have to pick you up from your warehouse you share with six roommates and have to get the tip for you every single time.

How much you wanna bet this girl buys him groceries? From the Facehunter.blogspot.com

7. Brand-whoring doesn’t work, and please stay away from anything Kanye wears, ever. What does it even mean to have a Fendi logo on your head? Did Silvia Fendi come over and shave it in? I sort of understand the hip hop act of appropriating the culture of wealth as antagonism, but it still just makes it look like you are giving a label power over you. And it also makes you look like a billboard, like you’re essentially wearing a Budwesier t-shirt. If you want to convey you have money, you should wear things that are obviously well-made. Those who are in the know, will know.

Look, Will Smith understands understated. It’s probably Ralph Lauren, but who cares? He’s the boy, we just want him to look ‘money’, not wear $$money$$. From starpulse.com

Kanye is the worst. From TMZ.com

8. If you don’t have money, you can still fake it with a little swagger, a thrifted suit, and some crazy socks. Like these guys who call themselves “Smarties” in South Africa.

From the Sartorialist.com

9. Keep your clothes on, even if you go to the gym. Ok, so you’re not into suits. Fine. You don’t have to show us your muscles to denote masculinity instead of money. Muscles to me say one thing: you spend all your free time at the gym, which is both boring and intimidating.

Look how much better Henry Rollins looks in a black t-shirt and pants, compared to his naked performance below. If all else fails, go for black jeans and a t-shirt, any time.

I always thought it was really weird that Rollins performed in these short-shorts with Black Flag. Original image probably by Glenn E. Friedman.

10. You don’t have to be a muscle man to win our hearts. We are OK with you being super skinny or a little rotund, because it makes us feel better about ourselves.

The fine Mr. Adrien Brody, while sort of muscle-y, is probably made to be that way by his handlers since he is a movie star, after all. But I get the sense he is naturally super skinny. From universeactressportal.blogspot.com.

I kind of have a sweet spot for the teddy-bearish working man, Stan Larsen, from “The Killing”. From blogs.amctv.com

11. Have confidence.  Just look at Prince. He’s a tiny man who wears ruffles, but I wouldn’t trust myself alone with him. He is the definition of confidence, to a panty-dropping T.

Or, take Lemmy from Motorhead. Not the most attractive man, especially with the moles, but you can just look at him and tell he knows exactly what he likes and who he is.

Lemmy likes black and cowboy hats, and has been wearing the same thing for forty years. He also has too much speed in his veins to ever safely detox or he’ll go into shock, but we don’t have to talk about that.

12. Speaking of Lemmy, be a bad boy. I mean, if you have those tendencies. If not, don’t fake it. Until we get older, bad boys have their time and place as a great distraction from our boring lives.

We’ll forgive Keith Richards for wearing the same kind of stinky hippy scarf as Johnny Depp, above. It was the ’60s. It was a different time then. From guardian.co.uk

Sooner or later, we grow out of bad boys. Probably because they don’t age well. And if they’re not rock stars, they have a high chance of becoming the homeless alcoholics that live near your dumpster.

I don’t know what happened to Keith, but if he stopped watching Pirates of the Carribean, he’d be on the right track, even at 60+.

13. Did we talk about how hot tattoos are? OK, I know it’s such a cliche, and I am outing myself big time right now for being so superficial, but tattoos totally work. As in, on my wild, wild heart. But the reason is not that they signify tough guys, cause yeah, I know that they do, but because to me, they say that you don’t take yourself so seriously. Why does your body have to be a temple? Can’t it just be some thing you write dumb things on? It’s especially refreshing when you’re not afraid to get stupid tattoos, like Flea from the Red Hot Chili Peppers, and his elephants.

Flea and his dumb tattoos = fun guy. From metalsucks.net.

Hello, Bob Harper from “The Biggest Loser”, you amazing specimen. Without those tattoos you’d be just another muscle-y nordic-blooded jock, but you’ll do. From fitnessmagazine.com.

14. Let’s talk about shoes. If you are one of those guys with a sneaker collection, you’re just showing the world that you are an over-paid infantile computer programmer who plays video games with internet strangers every day of the week instead of spending your money on a few pairs of classy shoes that you could wear to a nice restaurant. You think your day-glo sneakers express how “funky fresh” you are, but they don’t.

Just get some Vans. From melroseandspaulding.com.

Maybe you could take a cue from this guy and his sophisticated way of pairing Red Wing worker boots with a clean Rude Boy aesthetic?

From the Sartorialist.com

15. I’ll respect your authority occasionally. These boots touch on another slightly underplayed style trait that girls like to secretly dig: Authority is hot. While his pants might be just a tad too jegging-ish, tucked into these boots they both remind me of a punk and a cop and I am pretty into it. Let me state for the record that yes, of course, cops are lame, but, just like your “madonna/whore” complex, girls are equally into boot-wearing authority figures and soft-spoken boat shoes kind of boys.

16. Enough with the beards. Seriously. Did you hear me, San Francisco? Enough. Look, I know that shaving is probably really annoying, but please think about shaving. If everyone grows a beard, does that mean everyone has to dress like they’re a carpet-bagging snake oil salesman like this guy, too?

From the facehunter.blogspot.com

And another thing about beards: Let the bears have their culture back. I’m sure they are annoyed and confused.

17. Wear clothes that fit you. Look at this guy — take the tie away and he’s just some regular guy, but he looks great because he is actually wearing the right size. If you are confused, ask a salesperson to help you. That’s what they are there for. Or take a gay or a girl along. That’s what they are there for.

From the Sartorialist.com

18. When in doubt, go nautical. Never underestimate the appeal of a sailor outfit or a grandpa cardigan.

From the Sartorialist.com

19. Dress like a normal person. Look at this guy. He’s just a dude, wearing dude clothes.

From the Sartorialist.com

So I should probably tell you that my boyfriend is European, so I have it easier than most, and maybe he has raised my expectations. He knows how to wear a pair of pants that fit, but that doesn’t mean he is a walk in the park. Every time he agrees to go shopping, we spend an hour on his clothes and then he’s too tired when I want to shop for myself. That being said, it’s opened my eyes to your potential, boys. So, remember what we talked about — there are things that girls like and things that we don’t, but above all else just remember…

20. Be yourself. But try a little.

SPOILER ALERT! If you aren’t caught up on Mad Men, stop reading now.

I’m a huge fan of Mad Men, but lately I’ve had trouble feeling quite as excited as I probably should for this new season. Maybe I’m taking it for granted because it’s been on for so long, in contrast to something like Game of Thrones, which is still new and exciting to me.

Or maybe it’s because the last season was so overtly damning to nearly every character: the agency of Sterling Cooper Draper Pryce swallowed Pryce whole and prostituted Joan and drove out Peggy. The show, via none other than the dream-ghost of Don’s dead brother, came out and basically explained to Don, and us, that a rotten tooth was a metaphor for Don’s soul or whatever. Roger unintentionally exposed Sally to “dirty” sex. Pete was punched in the face repeatedly, and everyone watching it with me cheered each time, even though the second face-puncher was a far greater monster than Pete could ever aspire to be. And as for Megan, I’m not saying she’s a gold digger, but…

So what hope do these characters have? More importantly, can we care what hope they have? Can we get ourselves worked up, for old times’ sake? For… nostalgia? For the good old days of 2007, a time before Skrillex, before the Ikea monkey, when people still sometimes gathered around the soft, forgiving glow of actual televisions, with loved ones— can we reach back to this place we ache to go again, and feel a twinge in our heart more painful than mere memory—

Sorry. Something in my eye. Anyway, yes! Of course we can! Here’s how:

1. Do Some Reading

Since Mad Men is one of the most literary shows since Wishbone, why not check out some of its influences? What else are you going to read, articles about pop culture? Please continue reading articles about pop culture! But afterwards…

–The Short Stories of John Cheever. Cheever wrote his stories, which often concerned mid-20^th-century New York, booze, existential despair, sexuality, infidelity and privilege, with such heartbreaking attention to detail that he became known as “The Chekhov of the suburbs.” If you’re not familiar with his work, check out “O City of Broken Dreams!”, “Torch Song,” (which features a character named Joan Harris), “The Country Husband,” and “The Swimmer.”

–The White Album by Joan Didion. Given the pacing of the show, it’s safe to assume that Season 6 will take place in or around 1968. Here, Didion writes about aspects of that particular zeitgeist—The Doors, The Manson Family— with beautiful, ambling sentences and a mood of dread and paranoia.

–Meditations in an Emergency by Frank O’Hara. Because tell me this scene, in which Don reads from O’Hara’s collection of New York School poetry, doesn’t get you amped as heck for Mad Men:

The regret! The misery! You don’t have enough of that in your real life, right?

2. Dress Up Like Your Favorite Character!

You think you’re better than cosplayers and LARPers just because your favorite show makes allusions to Frank O’Hara and Sylvia Plath? Guess what? Allusions to Frank O’Hara and Sylvia Plath are actually the nerdiest thing possible! Embrace it, Poindexter, and check out these great vintage stores in the Bay Area for all of your sartorial needs:

–Mars in Berkeley. This Telegraph Avenue highlight features two floors of old-time class at decent prices.

–La Rosa and Held Over in the Haight. In a part of town that already feels like an unsettling tribute to a bygone era, La Rosa and its less expensive sister store stand above the rest.

–Retrofit in the Mission. This Valencia street space places an emphasis on drag and personal transformation.

You’re sure to find period-appropriate realness at any of these places for your dorky Mad Men get-together.

3. Drink!

(Or don’t. At least, please don’t drink like the characters on Mad Men.)

When my friends and I first got big into this show, we started ordering “old-fashioned” cocktails at bars, a la Don Draper. However, the old-fashioned you get at most bars nowadays, poignantly enough, is not what it used to be. It’s more like a weird, sangria-esque soup of fruit and sugar, or a fruit salad drenched in whiskey and bitters. Are you at all surprised that Rachel Maddow has the most succinct and charming explanation for how to make an old-fashioned old-fashioned?

And of course, the order here is important– don’t drink too much before trying to read any of those books or put on fancy clothes.

What are you doing for the upcoming season of Mad Men? Probably going about your business, not worrying about this kind of stuff? Planning a super-cool party that you’re still waiting to invite me to? Wondering how I got through this article without making a single reference to Jon Hamm’s recent trouser difficulties? Let us know!

Spring Breakers/Via YouTube

Here’s the thing about Spring Breakers, the absurd, exploitative, manipulative, totally sick (in all possible ways), Harmony Korine movie that came out nationwide on March 22: even if you don’t like it or think it’s offensive, you will agree that it looks totally cool.

Yes, yes, yes, I understand that a constant stream of drugs and parties and beaches and sunsets and swimming pools and cologne and strip clubs and guns is not healthy or good. But after I saw Korine’s first movie (which he wrote but didn’t direct) Kids, back when I was actually a kid myself, as much as I fully agreed 12-year-olds shouldn’t be allowed to run free around New York City giving each other AIDS, I also thought they were SO BAD ASS. Their outfits, their haircuts, their skateboards. I wanted to be them! Just without the AIDS and juvenile delinquency. And now I feel the same way! I can’t wear booty shorts in public, much less bikinis every day, because I am a 30-year-old woman and I haven’t had hind-parts smooth enough for that sort of behavior since I was roughly 11, and also this is San Francisco and I work in public media. That said, it doesn’t mean I can’t start planning my Spring Breakers “Halloween” (to be worn ASAP, for any reason) costume. Here is a breakdown of how you too can get the ultimate Crime-Spree-in-Florida look. Skrillex soundtrack not included.

1. The Perfect Ski Mask:

Puff, Puff, Pink Ski Mask/Via SB4EVR on Etsy

Whichever direction you decide to go with your Spring Breakers outfit (ultra authentic or more interpretive are the options here), you are going to need the iconic pink unicorn ski mask. Yes, it completely defeats the purpose of the ski mask for robbery when you all wear matching outfits and everyone knows it’s you but whateves, you look so cute! This Etsy shop is capitalizing. Get yours before they’re gone.

2. The Tiger Face Monokini:

LOVEsick Tiger Face Monokini/Via Hot Topic

As you can see, I am going for authenticity. The best criminal outfit involved this swimsuit, which I assumed was some sort of trillion dollar designer number. Nope! It’s from Hot Topic! Available at your local mall for $7 on SALE. Except that it’s sold out. Don’t worry, though. I’ve started a Twitter campaign directed at Hot Topic:

In the event that Hot Topic doesn’t get it together and make this suit available stat, here are some other, more interpretive choices:

Tiger Swimsuit/BlackMilk Clothing

Ladies Swimwear/Via Ebay

4. Sweet Neon High Tops

Spring Breakers/Via YouTube

Another unfortunate problem is the shoes that the girl rampagers wear. Are they Reebok Freestyles?

Reebok Freestyles That Don’t Exist Anymore

If so, why are these shoes not available for purchase ANYWHERE ON THE INTERNET? There are these purple ones, but they aren’t neon. We need neon. In different colors. My advice, if you don’t have a pair of vintage Freestyles in your closet, is go with these expensive customize-able Nike high tops, as a nod to the Selena Gomez character who leaves before the gang gets really serious. Fancy shoes for a penniless young girl but who cares? They look so good!

5. Multi-color Manicure

Portrait of the Artist as a Spring Breaker

Obviously you are going to get your nails done. Obviously they will be a very bright color. But want to take it to the next level? Paint one or two nails a COMPLETELY DIFFERENT COLOR. The kids are doing it. The sociopathic girl law breakers are doing it. You want to be real? You do it too.

6. Bleached Hair with Roots

Spring Breakers Sweet Hair

This is where we separate the real Spring Breakers from the wannabe babies who call their grandmas and put a sweatshirt over their bikinis and take the bus home. Which one are you? A Christian youth or a hedonist? A brunette or a blonde? If you decide to fully commit to the costume, you’re going to have to bleach your hair. But not too bleached. We need to see your roots, see you are kinda dirty after all. We don’t want to get the feeling CARE or that you AREN’T hung over.

7. Guns

You’re on your own here. I don’t want to be responsible for anyone thinking your ironic automatic weapon is real. Maybe just stick with a hammer?

And there you have it. The perfect Spring Breakers Halloween/anytime costume. Let me know if you find a pair of those shoes!

Poor Vivian in “The Slums of Beverly Hills” didn’t like her boobs, either.

1.  The Age of Boob Enlightenment

Having big boobs is humiliating. If you don’t believe me, you’ve probably never had them. Big boobs get in the way, they make your clothes fit weird and worst of all, they draw a lot of the wrong kind of attention for a young girl. Just because they’re there, people assume you put them out there on purpose as an invitation for commentary. Just try wearing a bathing suit in public and not getting stares. Worse yet, try running. (For fun, watch gravity meet boobs in this art video, but be warned, there’s nudity- duh).

Compared to the busty babes of the ’50s who would have, like in a bank robbery, taken the boobs and ran (literally), while I was growing up Heroin Chic was flaunting those sad, black and white haute junkies in my face and my rapidly growing boobs and I hated it. I did what I could to deal with the boobs. I wore two bras at all times. I wore a Condoleezza Rice-conservative bathing suit. I avoided construction sites. Then my mom came home one day and told me she was tired of her boobs that having kids had warped and wrangled. Well, I don’t think she said it like that- she said after every kid, they had shrunk and shifted a little lower. After kid four, she was down to low-hanging fruit. Ba dum bum.

2.  Barbie and Me 

Barbie’s corvette

By this point in my life, at age 21 I had chosen other ways to control my image. To my mother’s dismay, I had tattooed large portions of my body. In doing this, I felt I could reclaim some lost power. I felt stronger, more aggressive, and people stared because of how I had chosen to look. I wasn’t the inadequate, disrespected, slutty dumb girl the boobs turned me into. I was Xena, the Tattooed Princess. With my new-found self-confidence, I decided it was time to quit thinking of burning bras. It was time for cutting off the boobs.

So when my mom told me she was going in for a ‘lift and an implant’, I just had to come along. I said, “Fine, do what you want, but don’t give me any crap for what I do to my body anymore. And I want new boobs, too”, and we were off for our consultations. The irony was not lost on me, but mostly it spoke to the fact that we came from different generations. My mom grew up with icons like Cher and Suzanne Sommers and even drove a corvette like Barbie. She prescribed to a completely different set of gender values, including, “Women do not ask men out”, and boobs=good, whereas I believed the opposite.

3.  It’s All Fun and Games Until Someone Loses an Eye 

Nadine from “Twin Peaks”

People think it’s funny we had the same doctor. And the joke about how I should have given her my excess boob is pretty played out. She got her surgery first, a little before mine. I was supposed to help take care of her, especially since after a boob surgery, you can’t lift your arms for a few weeks. A ‘lift and implant’ consists of pretty much what it sounds like: lift ‘em up, stick some stuff in. Surprisingly, it was an outpatient procedure that our gray-haired, slightly lecherous plastic surgeon could do in his office. All I had to was swing by in the minivan, put her in the car and take her home. I will never forget what I saw when I got there.

The nurses cooed softly, telling me, “Your mom was so brave,” and handed me all the prescriptions with stern directions on how to take care of her. Slowly they wheeled her around as I hopped out of the car in the loading zone, ready to pop her in the back. As they leaned over to gingerly help her up, I burst out laughing. She was drugged out of her mind, barely coherent, with a blanket over her lap and an eye patch on her face. What the hell happened in there? She went in for a fairly routine suburban vanity procedure and came out looking like an old pirate. It was too much. I felt bad, laughing as the nurses scowled at me. They explained that she was so sedated that she scratched at her face when she woke up and hurt her eye. They also explained that I would basically have to carry my six-foot-tall mother’s body up the stairs as she would not really be able to walk. Now they tell me, I thought.

I managed to get her up the stairs and into the bathroom, but I will spare you the rest. I thought, This is what it will be like when she’s really old. The whole thing seriously frightened me. Putting her in the bed, spooning soup up to her mouth and dabbing her chin, telling her when she could have another vicodin… my future of older-daughter-taking-care-of-mom was flashing before my eyes. The rest of her story is pretty unremarkable*, but all of a sudden I knew what I was in for, both in the distant future and also with my own surgery.

*Though, sadly, my mom’s boobs broke during a routine mammogram, which the hospital doesn’t cover, and she never got new ones.

4.  Huge 

When I went in for my breast reduction consultation, my plastic surgeon made me take off my shirt and informed me of his medical opinion of my condition. My breasts, he said, were “huge”. He told me, “We should have no problem getting the insurance company to pay for the operation.” Great. His nurses came in and took headless photos of me, making sure to play up my sloping shoulders and terrible posture. What a fascinating job someone at the insurance company must have, approving or denying surgical proposals like mine.

We then had a concerned rap session on what I was getting myself into. Most people who get breast reductions, it turns out, are fat ladies and old women. This was a big decision. Sometimes on a big lady when you take off only a portion of the excess, he explained, there can be weird gaps, or fat-back flaps, where once your boobs sort of smoothed everything into big curves. There were pictures, and it was fascinating. Luckily, I was not in danger of fat-back, or the other things I saw in those photos, like a half-missing tattoo, or scary instances of skin falling off of the smoker patients. Lastly, we discussed the ‘ideal breast’. He drew me a scientific picture of a line with a perfect cone placed jauntily above it, like the one below. Then he drew a line with a droopus magoopus, sad ‘U’ shape that hung past the line, like so. The former, he explained, was a perfect breast. The latter, you guessed it, was mine. The objective was to have a boob that defied gravity by its own volition, but mine were “waaaaay below the line”.  We decided to go for the all popular cone-shaped C cup, which would keep my ass from looking like an out-of-place pear-shaped balloon.

After I was approved for a free surgery, all I had to do was come back the day before for the operation and have the surgical marks put on. I’m sure you are wondering- no, they don’t cut off your nipples. They cut around them, in a sort of anchor pattern, open the boobs up and scoop the fat out. The opposite of my mom’s surgery, basically. My friend once saw this operation on some surgery channel and it scared her so badly she had nightmares. I chose not to look it up.

The surgical marks, amazingly, are hand-drawn dotted lines that the plastic surgeon makes with a marker where he is planning to cut you. It’s incredibly weird, and also kind of remedial. I got back in the car as it started to snow, ready to go ahead with everything, with sharpie drawings on my boobs under my clothes. As I drove up the hill to the house, I noticed that the snow had gotten pretty heavy and all of a sudden I was fighting to keep my car on the road. The next thing I knew, I was desperately trying to dig my tires out of a snowdrift-covered ditch. When I finally made it home, and got ready to put my pajamas on, I realized that the whole time I had been sweatily shoveling snow outside, I had been erasing my surgery lines. It was just a black fuzzy mess. No! I was so excited to have the operation- it represented a new, improved me and I simply couldn’t reschedule my transformation. So I got out a sharpie and started frantically redrawing the lines in the mirror. I looked at my reflection and noticed I was doing a pretty bad job. The exact lines my surgeon would follow were now some child-like backwards jaggedy scribble. I nervously laughed, bit my lip and set my alarm for the next day, anyway.

When I got there, he was confident my chicken scratch surgery guidelines weren’t a big deal. I breathed a sigh of relief. Unlike my mom’s outpatient surgery, this was a five-hour intense operation in the hospital, and I would have to stay there for a few days. The anesthesiologist showed up and I counted backwards. I woke up on a gurney with my catheter being pulled out on my way out of the operation room. Every hour while in my hospital bed, a nurse would come to check and make sure my nipples hadn’t turned blue. Other than that, it seemed pretty great, but I was definitely blitzed out of my mind on pills.

Celebrity breast reductionist: Drew Barrymore, from http://plasticsurgerystar.com/drew-barrymore-before-and-after-breast-reduction

Celebrity breast reductionist: Soleil Moon Frye (before). Poor Punky

5.  Free Bird

My mom picked me up and took care of me, naturally. Once I had worn the mummy bandages and drainage tubes, (yes, gross), for two weeks, I got to take out my small, perky, Frankenstein-stitched and greenish bruised boobs and slip them into a triangle-shaped little girl bra. It was the best thing I have ever experienced, like holding a soft kitten under a rainbow.

Celebrity breast reductionist Soleil Moon Frye (after). Image from a revealing boy perspective on the dreaded breast reduction.

I wish that I was a better feminist. I wish big boobs were something I had been able to righteously declare as something that made me, me, and commenters be damned. I also wish we were like birds, and that the males were the ones with the plumage who strutted around attracting mates with their unpractical accessories. I can’t change the way we are as a sexist society or how men treat women or how women treat women, and I don’t have the energy to try. I just want to wear a tank top in public.

I love it on Siouxsie Sioux, too

I always loved this Vivienne Westwood boob shirt, on Sex Pistols’ guitarist, Steve Jones