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Aug. 19th, 2002 | 07:46 pm
mood: flirtyflirty

OK... For the past couple of weeks I have like been going nuts trying to figure out what the hell "Emo" is.. I see people who "like Emo boys"... "i'm an emo girl"...
And I am just like.. what the hell is that?? (hey.. i'm old... what do you expect....)
so, I found this site... and this is what it said... sounds to me like a sick subculture of american society...
Kids that need some help (maybe???)

By Sarahbeth Purcell
Okay, let me just start this rant with the bottom line: Emo sucks.

Let me elaborate for those who aren't already sitting at their computers screaming, "Yes, Sarahbeth, it does! And thank you for noticing, you postmodern cultural anthropologist/pathologist, you!"

I know Emo. I don't like Emo. I wish Emo, whether animal, vegetable or mineral, would just crawl, grow, or disintegrate away. I am sure, like any other stupid, pointless, ridiculous trend it will with time. But if there is anything I can do to expedite that process, help me Lord, help me. Here is my Emo resume:

I have a boyfriend. Who Emo'ed. He was not, mind you, really Emo. He tried very hard, bless his little heart, to play the part. But I saw straight through that soft, squishy, retarded and whiny little backboneless act to the real man he is, vertebrae and all. And I patiently excavated. And waited for him to emerge into Adultland. And lo and behold, my archeological dig proved that he is a multi faceted, fairly optimistic, ambitious human being after all. Take that, you Emo body snatchers!

Until I brought my dear amour to his senses, there was the painful process of suffering through the effects of the disease. And here is where I again offer my services as a defender of all intelligent, non-stereotypical life everywhere. Ladies and gentlemen, this is Emo:

First, we will tackle the female of this species, although, admittedly, it is damn near impossible to tell the difference most times. Emo "girls" are usually Goth/punk transplants whose boyfriends went Emo and they switched sides, too, or who read in some issue of Seventeen magazine that Goth died before it was unborn and punk died before any of the impressionable girls who think they understand it were born. These are nasty customers, folks. Maintain a realistically safe distance.

Many have haircuts that resemble traditional male chop-jobs. Short. If not short, usually at least kinky, looks-like-they-stuck-their-finger-in-a-lightsocket hair. Brown or black in color, almost always. Terrible dye jobs. Lots of wax and pomade and anything else that will make the hair appear to be ungodly filthy.

Most thought they were "punk" at some point, and so carry with them scars from the battles of being eighteen and still mad at Mom and Dad for not buying them the Barbie Ferrari when they were seven...Piercings. Probably in places you would not want to touch on them. Ever. Think nipples, genitals, noses, other areas that discharge leaks out of when infected.

And they have tattoos. Really pointless ones, too. They most likely have suns and moon and stars inked from their neighborhood my-first-tattoo-parlor-experience that are now turned into unrecognizable crap they swear has deep, painful inner meaning. They wear boys' clothes. Soccer T-shirts. Truck stop T-shirts. Save Jesus T-shirts. Anything procured from a nearby thrift store that they think is so tight, an eight-year-old boy would be called a slut wearing it, although, surprisingly enough, most eight-year-old boys have bigger tits than these girls. Big, ugly janitor pants. You know, Dickies. Or jeans no one looks good in. Anything that Grandma would have begged you not to wear, hell, would have begged Grandpa not to wear. And the clincher: Big brass belt buckles. Huge. Procured from thrift stores, Grandpa's junk drawer, swap meets, but most likely from their Emo boyfriends. If only they were culturally wise enough to realize the root family of these belt buckles, usually Southern, white, racist cowboy types who dip and go "coon" hunting and would beat the shit out of them, thinking they were gay little boys....And the best part: the ugliest glasses you have ever seen on anyone. Cat-eye, or just a horrible plastic black type even Weezer wouldn't write a song about. Usually nonprescription.

The male of the species is a more recognizable and more popular target, although in the opinion of this researcher, just as obnoxious as the female counterpart. Belt buckles, yes. Stupid haircuts, dye jobs, expensive hair products, yes. Old moth-eaten wool sweaters over holey button down oxford shirts. Stupid glasses. All reminiscent of female Emo.

Actually, the only real difference between female Emos and male Emos is behavioral. Female Emos behave like adolescent boys. They curse, spit, throw rocks at cats, and even walk like they have a load in the back. Male Emos "emote." That's it. They react to everything. If they're not screaming at an innocent kid for listening to Kid Rock at the TigerMarket, they're crying along with their friends to a drone of a single bass chord over and over and over again.

One is not allowed to interrupt their crying fits, or, alternately, their head-bopping fits during a music performance they call a "show," usually held in a friend of a friend's basement or tiny coffeehouse. Do not panic if they are all lying motionless on the floor when you enter such an event. Unfortunately, there is not a mass Emo-suicide occurring. This is supposedly normal "show" behavior.

But, as in bipolar illness, there is the manic side to this show behavior. Just as easily as you would walk in to find them lying on the floor, playing dead, you could also find them jerking their heads (head-banging is passe, kids) along to decibels above and beyond any jet engine flying right above your head. Schizophrenia is the norm in this culture.

Female Emos are usually mistaken for lesbians. Male Emos are usually mistaken for gay men. Go figure. The males usually display a tattoo (or ten) that plagiarizes some album cover of some unknown Indie band, with some form of transportation on it, i.e.: a ship, train, plane, etc. which in fact roots from their seventies' predecessors drawing "Kiss Rocks!" on their closet door. Most own LPs and no turntable. In fact, most were too young to have ever owned a real turntable.

And the seemingly least noticed trait of this species: the music. Firstly, the music is supposedly their raison d'être. Being snobby to a fellow Emo-Ian because he/she/it has not yet procured a super rare import copy of the latest three word band's LP from Iceland is old hat. Just like in the good old days of "grunge," the less people who have even heard of a band, the cooler the band is. The ruder and more sniveling, whiny, pious and pathetic a band is, especially to the unfortunate journalists who take an interest in them, the more legit they are. Sound familiar, Nirvana fans?

Once again, the bottom line turns to the widely known fact: Nothing is new under the sun. Here's a scary reality check for the Emo kids:

Fact: James Taylor, in fact, was quite popular for his "emo"tionally driven music in the seventies and many a man in the seventies suffered emasculating effects as a result
Reality: Carly Simon, Fleetwood Mac, Carole King and Cat Stevens are also considered emotionally driven music

Fact: Tattoos are forever, unless you get rich and like lasers and dermatologist offices
Reality: You will never make that much money

Fact: Supermodels and half-witted actors wear nonprescription glasses to appear intelligent
Reality: Rico Suave wore glasses, too

Fact: Emo is really just lazy punk
Reality: Punk, my friends, is dead.

Thank you. Goodnight!

Or you can just click on this link...

It's the same thing :-)
Thats it for now.. I'll write about my day later :-D

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Comments {1}

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from: dirtbomb
date: Aug. 20th, 2002 03:44 pm (UTC)

You've been a tad misinformed. :P

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