Why do hippies give me the stink-eye when I ignore them?

I'm walking down the street, minding my own business, when someone jumps out in front of me and says, with an asinine grin, "Do you have a minute to spare for the environment?"

"No," I mean to say. Instead, because of my evident sociopathy, I say, "Do I look a hippie?" Taken aback, the hemp-clad apparition recedes.

Now, I ignore each and every person who does this to me. I even ignored the one who complimented my earrings outside Holborn Tube Station. Because I was on my way to do something in particular, and also in general anything that was not talking to a random Birkenstocked stranger.

The cause is irrelevant. I would ignore someone who was begging for money to support a society that provided good gin and expensive shoes to impecunious graduate students. Perhaps I would ignore that still more strenuously, because it smacks of performance art, and performance art is the worst.

But, when you walk by, the hippie gives you a nasty look, as if you punt baby seals and forcibly impregnate women and take food from the mouths of homeless children and then laugh maniacally. In fact, they give you a look that implies that you have just done all those things, at once, in front of them, in defiance of probability.

Look, if I find a worthy charity, I will give money. Importuning me on the street hurts your cause in the league tables of worthiness, so you better watch out lest I find a fund that provides puntable baby seals for people suffering from some compulsion in that regard.

Why is there Christian rock?

It is dreadful. It is written and performed by illiterate and dopey banjo-playing freaks.

And I would probably agree with many of the sentiments, if they weren't phrased in syrupy, barely-rhyming couplets. Or sometimes not rhyming. Sometimes not even couplets. Sometimes just self-centered quasi-theological maundering with no discernible form at all.

They're so earnest it hurts, especially because they're clearly just as dumb as anyone else in the music business, only with less snappy lyrics. And, of course, they attempt to preach. Now, I don't enjoy being lectured by Green Day; I'm not going to like being lectured by someone else just because he loves Jesus.

There is good Christian music, but it was all written by people who are now dead, and it doesn't involve guitars.

Why do we mock skinny actresses?

We always get to appeal to them to eat a sandwich, but when an actress is overweight, we applaud her for breaking out of the paradigm.

This is a stupid double standard. A woman can be a hundred pounds overweight; she cannot be a hundred pounds underweight, because she will die. That does not mean that a hundred pounds overweight is really better. It is still extremely unhealthy. It merely brings less immediate death. But we cannot say anything about it, unless we sputter meaningless "you go, girl" support, and ooh and ahh over how well she has dressed herself.

"But maybe the overweight girl has an eating problem," you say. Well, evidently. But if this means we can't make fun of her, then we should probably lay off the skinny girls too, because, well, maybe they have the opposite kind of eating problem.

I am not talking about actresses who are carrying maybe ten pounds more than "normal." I'm not ever going to make fun of them, because they're fine. They're healthy, and they like pasta. Good for them. If they wanted to hit the treadmill, though, that would also be fine; just because they could stand to lose a few pounds doesn't mean they need to.

I'm talking about the actresses who are, by any reasonable standard, actually obese. We are not doing them any favors by being pleased for them. They are not overweight as some sort of statement about unhealthy body images in Hollywood, and, even if they were, this would not prevent the health problems attendant on obesity.

The answer is either to mock everybody or nobody. At least be an equal opportunity jackwagon. That's my solution.

Why...no...WHY THE HELL don't people understand what "black tie optional" means?

Yes, I already blogged about this, but the world has ignored me, so I'm going to do it again.

You go to a black tie optional event. You are choosing to go to this event. You have paid for tickets. You are standing in a ludicrously long line on 41st Street in order to be admitted.

WHY ARE YOU WEARING AN OLD MAN SWEATER?

"Black tie optional" does not mean "please wear either black tie or alternatively whatever the hell you want, especially if it is completely unlike black tie." It means "please wear black tie or something that is very, very similar."

This does not include: mini-dresses, four-in-hand neckties (especially in, say, red), tennis shoes, trousers that do not match your jacket, button-down collars. Or any number of other things in which people offended my eye and soul last week.

Look: if you aren't the kind of person who wears black tie, stay the hell away from black tie events. Jackass.

Why is the modern novel so averse to plot?

"Modern" is in a moderately more restricted sense than usual; here it means "twentieth century," give or take.

Virginia Woolf has always seemed tiresome--Orlando was heavy going at age twelve, and did not inspire a later return. But in Orlando at least things happen, even if they're odd.

What is the point of Mrs. Dalloway? Honestly? It's better than Ethan Frome, yes, my dear readers, but by how much? Perhaps I'm shallow, but all I got from it was: "some people are emotionally crippled; also, shellshock." Which is better than "unhappy marriages and dangerous sledding," certainly, but still dire. You know, as a novel.

"Posh people are dead inside, and all insufferable snobs, except the author." "There's nothing worse than being bourgeois." "You can only throw nice parties if you hate yourself for it." "Sometimes people's lives are awful and there's not much to be done."

They all just need to be kicked.

Why did Blogger break and eat my fourth post about how Robert Jordan hates women?

It was funny, I promise. Maybe I'll re-create it some time. But that's why you all got hosed on posts for the last week; I had meant to write them all and release them piecemeal while I was out of town accumulating more sartorial rage, but Blogger thwarted me. Without warning and spitefully.

So sorry, my adoring public. Back up and running soon, and don't worry: I watched Lord of the Rings while I was away.

Oh, and PS, you lovely person who thinks I hate Robert Jordan way too much:

1. I did not delete your comment; Blogger did and I'm sorry.
2. You have no idea.

Why does Robert Jordan hate women (Part III)?

It has been a belief (or hope) of men for eons that women, when in a group and left to their own devices, take all their clothes off. Then, depending on the context, they do anything from the arcane to the diabolical. Probably they get drunk and tear Pentheus into shreds.

Robert Jordan, it will probably not surprise you to learn, follows in this tradition. At various stages, yesterday's Aes Sedai must disrobe either partially or fully for rituals. In order, apparently, to prove that they are women, because, for Robert Jordan, breasts are the number one, incontrovertible marker of femininity (and, lest we forget, awesome). Nudity also has a purificatory context here, which is more plausible, although I would point out that much less advanced societies than the ones he describes generally just use the "hair down, no belt" look for such ceremonies.

The worst instance is rituals for which women must strip but men are merely asked not to bring weapons. Really? That's...equivalent.

Why does Robert Jordan hate women (Part II)?

So someone said to me something like, "Robert Jordan doesn't hate women; he puts them in positions of power." The latter half of this is true.

There are women in positions of power, but they are witches. Both literal witches, in that they use magic, and figurative witches, in that they are sort of evil. These women (the Aes Sedai) are high-handed, manipulative, and disliked. Possibly because they have perfected the art of deceit to the point that they can, though physically unable to lie, achieve the same result while looking you in the eye and saying nothing that is not, technically, true.

The Aes Sedai are also unhinged, particularly in their approaches to men, of which there are three: man-hating possible lesbians (the Red Ajah), man-eating tramps (the Green Ajah), and nuns (all the other Ajahs). Um. Thanks?

Oh, right, and though when an Aes Sedai wishes to bond a Warder (a man who will follow her around and obey her every command, even when, as usually, it is bonkers), she has to do some magic-type stuff with laying on of hands, when a male magic-user wishes to do the same to a woman, he just kisses her.

There sort of aren't words, but I'll still have some more tomorrow.

Why does Robert Jordan hate women (Part I)?

When you read books, does it ever occur to you that you don't know nearly enough about the female characters' breasts? Because if it does, Robert Jordan is the author for you! He will introduce every woman with a description and evaluation of her bosom, with special reference to the tailoring involved. Hair color, or height, or other things about which you might wonder often don't come up, but breasts always do.

And, then, when you are reading a book, do you forget whether a woman has breasts, or suddenly have a panic attack because you suspect they may have gone on sabbatical or something? Well, never fear, because Robert Jordan is here with your breast updates! (Newsflash: they're still there. And tight bodices are de rigueur, in every nation, at every time of year.) Also, if a woman is angry (which is often, because women are cranky and irrational, of course), she crosses her arms "beneath her breasts." Which is not a phrase, but does keep us informed.

Oh, and women also have hips, which, when put in trousers, apparently cause all men within three miles to combust spontaneously.

Why is the Champions League final during Reunions?

I'm not sure who should defer here--I feel like Princeton plans further ahead than UEFA, but I could be wrong.

The final used to be mid-week. That was perhaps disastrous for TV revenues, although Wednesday evening for Europeans seems fairly plausible; it's not like they work or anything.

But honestly. 2:45 pm on the Saturday of Reunions? During the P-Rade? What the hell?

Why is Daniel Radcliffe's neck too wide?

It's creepy and he looks like a bird.