The Tragically Unhip

a blog with three fingers on the pulse of uncoolness.

Poison Pen Letter to a Barbecue June 12, 2009

Filed under: Advertising,Etiquette,Manifesto,Signage — Tragically Unhip Staff @ 2:53 pm

 

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Dear Weber® Q® 140 Outdoor Electric Grill’s advertising agency,

 

Thank you so much for ripping off the logo created for The Tragically Unhip by totally awesome graphic designer Laura F. Cline in August 2008.  Now that your billboards are all over Manhattan and your GIF ads are being e-blasted into the inboxes of all Flavorpill subscribers, you should have been raising our profile as the little blog that could, but instead we seem to have gone as an uncredited source of your design team’s inspiration. I hope that you’ve at least shared our URL around your impossibly sleek and modern SoHo digs so that the account managers and marketing team could read and benefit from our unhip humour. But should ever you require the services of a few brilliant, tongue-in-cheek writers, do inquire within.

 

Yours respectfully,

 

The Tragically Unhip

 

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Post-Its as Death Threats April 1, 2009

Filed under: Culture & Society,Etiquette,Manifesto,Signage — Laurin McNiff @ 6:20 pm

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Some of you may think that I’ve fallen off the grid or that I’ve eloped with a nice girl to an island with blue waters, tiki torches, and neverending alcohol. Unfortunately, that type of vacation will have to come later, because right now I’m basking in the warm and ecstatic comfort of Vicodin and homemade spaghetti that I probably won’t even be able to eat due to a recent trip to the dentist’s chair. I’m at my parents’ place in Maryland’s fabulous Eastern Shore: home of blue crabs, the Chesapeake, restaurants called The Red Roost, and other assorted wonders of half-country/half-beach living.

 

You might be wondering how I’m enjoying my stay thus far. I can happily report that there is still alcohol in the house and enough food to make me create my very own eating disorder. (Although it would seem I already have a drinking disorder, however.) Truth be told, I miss New York. I miss the hedonistic parties I find myself perpetually partaking in and documenting, I miss the Brooklyn bar-hopping, and I miss ingesting such strange and appetizing drinks as Pickle Backs. However, one thing I realized I did miss about Maryland is the incredible clarity of the stars at night. It’s also a welcome change to sit outside with a cigarette and not hear gunshots, incessant horn honking, or the same damn drum beat blaring from some tricked out shitwagon speeding down my residential street. Ah, Brooklyn.

 

But I have readers to entertain and I’m sure you already suspected that there is a whiskey and coke keeping me company as I write this. With that said, I would like to tell you about a site out there on the interwebs that has had me laughing more times than a few. I can’t really remember why I haven’t posted this sooner; could be a number of reasons, blackout being the most likely. So without further ado, I link you to Passive Aggressive Notes, a site declaring itself as “painfully polite and hilariously hostile writings from shared spaces the world over.” This claim doesn’t disappoint, its content comprised of submissions from readers from all over the world, taking photos of public notes (slash tell-offs) like ”Your stairs think you’re fat“ and my personal favorite: ”Any 17 year olds who thinks they are the man of the house needs a psych eval.” These sassy notes are the complete antitheses to the friendly notes that Craig and Chris have been posting around their respective towns (and subsequently warring over, as I reported here).

 

Reading the passive-aggressive notes brings back memories of my own office wars. My last job was at a staffing firm in Midtown, where we shared office space with the famed Beau Deitl and a law firm that will go nameless due to its incredibly immature (even by middle school standards) staff. What I remember most fondly is the Milk War. My co-worker Priscilla and I had a decent working relationship: we freaked out over deadlines and staffing requirements, and had a habit of making fun of everything and anyone (even our COO was fair game). One morning, Priscilla went to the kitchen and used some milk from the communal fridge for her cereal. This milk was obviously for the employees because I can’t imagine any one person buying five cartons each of fat free, skim, whole, and half and half out of their generous, beating little hearts.

 

Priscilla ate her cereal and we went about our day. Later that afternoon, when we went back to the kitchen to refill our water, we stumbled upon a huge, new note pasted onto the refrigerator door: “Milk is for COFFEE ONLY“. Priscilla immediately went to Duane Reade and bought her own carton of 2% milk and labeled it with her name in the fridge.

 

The next day, her milk was frozen solid. I can’t tell you how amazed and shocked we were that someone had spitefully put it in the freezer, but I can tell you that it sparked our office’s Milk War. Every chance we got, we’d go into that kitchen and take milk, sometimes with enormous flair, even if we didn’t drink milk. It got so bad that the kitchen staff began hiding the milk. We never knew where they were hiding it or if they were just taking the milk home, but we knew they were serious. Eventually, the office manager had to create a separate fridge for Beau Dietl and ourselves, because even people who were not involved in our direct assault were getting their hands slapped (literally!) for using milk for other purposes than coffee.

 

The length of this war? Six whole months.

 

That’ll Teach You to Throw a Pickle on a Windshield January 13, 2009

Filed under: Etiquette,Food — Laurin McNiff @ 3:42 am

During the time my family’s first house was being built, we lived in a hotel beside a Burger King. Back then, I was still young and uninfluenced by No Logo enough to be able to appreciate the generous good fortune of having a fast food joint straddle the limits of our hotel property. Every morning, my mother would take my older sister and I—both clad in Catholic school cardigans and skirts—to school in my father’s pride and joy: a 1980′s Cadillac Sedan DeVille he’d bought while stationed in Guam. It was big, gray, and embarassing, but he loved it, and by proxy so did we. We were lovingly chauffered to school every day by my still sleepy, always colorful mother. That is, until one morning, when our routine was greatly disrupted. With the morning sun breaking in the distance and my sister and I ambling behind her, eyes clouded with the residual of sleep, my mother stopped in her tracks and asked, “Is that a pickle on the windshield?” 

 

It didn’t take a forensic genius to spot the parked Mustang 5.0 a few feet away from us, with two girls and two guys sitting in it, munching away on what were clearly—by color association—Burger King entrees. I could also easily discern that these kids were not the virgin, Catholic school-going variety.

 

My sister and I got into the car and watched as my mother prepared for battle. With ears and windows opened we watched her, half in fear and half with overwhelming excitement. She walked to our car’s windshield and gingerly picked up what indeed turned to be a sliced pickle. She then went over to the dark Mustang filled with smoke and fast food air and asked, “Excuse me, did you throw this pickle on my car?” In response, the boy in the driver’s seat glowered, “That’s not our pickle. Why don’t you get into your tin can and get out of here, you old bitch?”

 

As we sat, transfixed by the scene unravelling before our eyes, my mother took the pickle between two fingers and began using it to paint grand brush strokes, marked curlicues, on the Mustang’s windshield. When she was done, she said in a cold, stoney voice, “Well, I say this is your pickle.”

 

If it had been anybody else, my story would have ended right here. It wouldn’t have gone on to become the side-splitting holiday or family reunion favorite it is today. See, this is my mother, and no story stops at boring with her. As she walked away, the driver decided to get back at her by throwing a previously undetected burger it at her, with all the precision of a major league pitcher.

 

When we’re young, we all believe our parents have some degree of superpowers. How they catch us awake too late at night doing what we’re not supposed to be doing; how they know what we’ll do before we do it; how they can almost laugh when teaching us right from wrong when they themselves did it; it’s all beyond me, but still truth. My mother, mid-step and with sheer peripheral luck, turned in a single movement and caught the burger before it had the chance to taint her sharp ensemble, and with less than a thought she turned and threw the burger back.

 

In just a few seconds, a simple hamburger exploded onto the middle of the two sets of doors, with the top half of the burger flying into the open front windows and spraying ketchup, lettuce, mustard, mayo, and beef all over the two boys in the front seat, while the bottom half of the burger, in an act of glorious gravity, equally exploded onto the two girls sitting in the back. Ignoring their cries of shock and disgust my mom went in for the kill: “That’ll teach you to throw a pickle on a windshield.”

 

Pterodactyls = Not Dinosaurs November 24, 2008

Filed under: Etiquette,Language,Manifesto — Poppa John @ 11:24 pm

I’m tired of people calling pterodactyls “dinosaurs.” They are simply a flying, prehistoric reptile. There is a large model of a pteranodon hanging in the middle of my living room. My absent-minded friend (whose name I shall spare from ridicule) falsely and loudly proclaimed “nice ‘saur, dude” when he first visited my domicile.

 

After choking back my own bile, I questioned him: Did he see FEET on this particular reptile? Did the pteranodon have access to a regenerative chiropractor that could grant it the specific upright stance needed to be considered a dinosaur?

 

No, I scoff, it did not.  Heck, while we’re at it, why not call turtles, Martha Stewart, and plesiosaurs dinosaurs, too. They are all cold-blooded and old.

 

All I ask is that my friends do a little research before making such offhanded comments. Dumbasses.

 

UPS? UP yourS! November 13, 2008

Filed under: City Living,Etiquette,Fashion,Shopping — MP*erron @ 10:35 pm

I recently made a frivolous purchase. See, I just had to have this fabulous, leather, Mackage jacket in black. The problem is, it’s from last fall’s line and is sold out pretty much everywhere. Then I found it online. And on sale. Having little funds of my own, I did what any girl on my block would do: I begged my daddy to let me use his credit card. No easy task, but I succeeded. Then I sent it out to a buddy in NYC via UPS. 

 

Photo courtesy of Kaboodle

Photo courtesy of Kaboodle

Now, you’d think that UPS would take their clients into consideration when making deliveries, but no such luck. Being paranoid as heck, I obsessively tracked the package online for 48 hours. The first delivery attempt occurred while my buddy was at work. Maybe a roommate got the door, but the UPS man labeled this an “exception”. Online I read the description: no such person at this address. 

 

Freaking out I called UPS and tried to clarify things. I spoke to about four different agents and departments, found out you can’t pull a switcheroo and order your package to Canada in the middle of the game, that you need a signed note to make a pick-up for somebody else, and that the pick-up service is a) in the middle of no-man’s-land, NY, and b) only open from 9-5 Monday thru Friday. 

 

My friend being a working man, he could neither pull a Ferris Bueller nor stick around all hours waiting for UPS to come a-knockin’. So we decided to hold our breaths, and hope the UPS man would find one of his roommates home on day 2. 

 

Well, what actually happened was that somebody buzzed the UPS man into the lobby, where he decided to leave my parcel in a safe little place—the middle of everywhere. That’s right. He used his fine judgment to leave a large box unattended to in the lobby of an apartment building. In Brooklyn. I won’t even tell you what this jacket is worth. When my friend came home 6 hours later, he found the parcel and emailed me in awe. I just couldn’t believe it. UPS almost cost me a pretty penny. Which is why I decided to make a move for a new section of this blog: the Up Yours section.

 

Cheap Thrills – The Price of Milk October 20, 2008

Filed under: Etiquette,Food,Money — Kimberly Senf @ 2:19 am

Maybe I’ve spent too many of my hard-earned pennies feeding my shopping habit lately, but the encounter I had at Nocochi yesterday left me wanting—some of my money back, that is.

 

I ordered my standard fare of an allongé with warm milk on the side, not seeing an extra price indicated on the menu for the milk, nor did my server mention anything when she took my order. When my steaming Illy espresso was placed on the table in front of me, I was too enthralled by the lush crema to notice that the little steamer of hot milk that came along with my coffee was less than a third full. I didn’t mind, seeing as this obviously meant that the milk was complimentary and not going to be added to my bill, which made this poor girl pretty content.

 

Yet when I made my way over to the cash to pay I noticed that I was charged for what I thought was the price of a double espresso. I only had a single espresso, so I immediately corrected the cashier. This is when she informed me that it was in fact that right price, because the warm milk added an extra dollar to the price of my coffee. A full dollar for an inch of warm milk? I do not think so. Like my father always says, it’s highway robbery—and for once I can say that I actually agree with him.

 

For The Love of Garbage October 5, 2008

Filed under: City Living,Etiquette,Manifesto — Kimberly Senf @ 1:45 am
Very feng shui (Photo by Kimberlily)

Very feng shui. (Photo by Kimberlily)

 

On my way to the metro this afternoon I happened upon a sight I’ve seen one too many times and done nothing about: garbage sitting on the curb when there ain’t no truck coming. Well, I won’t be silent about my discontent anymore. Who can possibly think that it’s acceptable to leave any sort of trash (and today it was a toilet) sitting in their front yard to wait days for the garbage men to haul it away? There’s no reason why toilets, soiled carpets and mattresses need to be put on display for the whole neighbourhood to see.

 

I’ll be the first to admit that I’ve left my fair share of discarded possessions outside my apartment come moving day, but they have always been in decent condition and they’ve never lasted more than a couple of hours on the street. From tea sets to school books, people have taken everything I’ve left up for grabs. But no one has any interest in the toilet from 1987 that’s seen better days—unless it’s to take a picture of it in order to complain about how your neighbours treat your street like a rubbish bin, which is exactly what I decided to do. This girl likes her streets sunny, green, and without a toilet on display, thank you very much.

 

Hop on the Bus, Gus – We Need to Discuss Much August 16, 2008

Filed under: City Living,Etiquette,Transit — Kimberly Senf @ 2:00 am

Montreal has a solid and more or less reliable public transit system that helps everyone get from Point A to Point B. From the wonderful sounds of the metro, to the “advance to the back of the bus” yells that are heard daily (albeit in French and totally incomprehensible on a good day), this city has a transit system like no other. But the question I have is this: When exactly did bus etiquette fly out the window and onto Parc Avenue in one ungraceful swoop? Because I feel like I’m riding around with STM virgins that have somehow forgotten how to coexist in harmony with their fellow travelers—and is it ever getting my knickers in a knot.

 

Firstly, let’s talk line-ups. The whole point of queuing is to accurately display the order in which people arrived at a designated area in order to await public transit. If everything is running along smoothly, each would-be commuter will just get in line behind the last person waiting at the bus stop. But as everyone knows, things get rocky when it comes down to those limited seats on the bus. All of a sudden, the back of the line seems rather undesirable and the front all-too-interesting. You’ve got the ones who are pretending to look at the bus schedule, hoping that they can stall their way onto the bus before everyone else (i.e, me). Then there are the little old ladies who play the sympathy card. While I’m no heartless scrooge, I do like to judge each golden girl on her own merits and decide which ones deserve to inch ahead without the ten minute wait attached. I let most of them get on before me, but if I’m not convinced that they’re even paying the reduced-rate seniors fare, my pity ends at the black and yellow line by the driver’s seat.

 

Ridin' the bus in style (Note the window seat) (Photo by Kimberlily)

Ridin' the bus in style. (Note the window seat.) (Photo by Kimberlily)

Once I’ve made it past the driver and sauntered my way down the centre aisle, the many faults of the system present themselves. Sticky summer buses are their own special version of hell, and all the more so if I’m stuck next to Johnny Noshower. And then there’s the twelve-year-old kid with the backpack that weighs more than he does who stands in the middle of the aisle and refuses to budge, no matter how many dirty looks (or elbows) I send in his direction. My personal favourites are the people who hold ridiculously loud conversations on their cell phones about everything from dog food to genital warts. I don’t think they got the memo that not only can their caller hear them, but miraculously, so can everyone else in their immediate vicinity, and we don’t necessarily want to listen to them postulate on the many differences between their current boyfriend and the one they had three weeks ago.

 

At this point, a seat has likely been found beside one of the aforementioned undesirable characters and my journey is in full swing. I’m usually happy to settle down with a book, but sometimes I’ll take a look around to see what type of odd behaviour is on the loose. The people who talk to themselves can actually provide some much needed entertainment, but most of the time the eavesdropping is rather lackluster because the pitch gets so high that it’s almost as if they want everyone to hear what they’re saying. Oh yeah, that’s right—they do. For others, the bus is an intimate environment that must make them feel like they’re amongst kin, because the number of times I’ve seen my seatmate pull out a nail clipper and just go at it is high enough for me to realize I should have switched to the train a long time ago.

 

As for the send-off, I often find myself being catapulted out of the bus by my own sheer force, while my bags remain entangled amongst the folks who like to hug the poles near the exit door like they’re the only things rooting them to this Earth. As I squeeze my way out, I never forget to send poignant looks in the direction of these pole-huggers. I hope that one day they will figure out that standing right next to the door and blocking my way out is not only rude, but also that they’re touching the most germ-infested poles on the bus, since every person who goes by holds those poles as they wait for the bus to come to a complete stop. Once outside, I breathe a sigh of relief, inhaling the sweet, noxious fumes of exhaust that trail before me as I make my way to the metro. And then I start the whole process again.

 

The Clone Syndrome August 10, 2008

Filed under: Etiquette,Fashion,Shopping — MP*erron @ 11:47 pm

Fashion is about edge, originality, and theft. The true fashionista has to be able to assimilate and re-invent. Fashion on a budget is all about having an eye for the best pieces available to you. Often that can mean scouring magazines and thrift shops for ideas, diving into discount bins, and tailing key pieces for entire seasons until they hit the reduction rack. At other times it means scoping out what the competition is wearing, even accosting strangers with the question some consider a faux-pas: “Where did you find that?” 

 

Once you dare to become a fashion-scout you’ll quickly realize that there are many different personalities you may encounter. There’s the free-spirit: ready to distribute any knowledge and divulge all secrets, she’ll even give you directions to the shop. The elitist: she’ll smirk as she rolls the designer’s name off her tongue; the more obscure the label, the smugger the girl. The petty princess: she’ll actually refuse to tell you where she made the purchase, and will sometimes even claim it’s a personal policy. And of course, the Carmen Sandiego sister, who will vaguely drop an international hint: shaped like a boot.

 

But what if the owner of the perfect shoes/purse/jean jacket is a friend? What’s the policy on cramping your girlfriend’s style in the name of your own? If you grew up as part of a school-yard gaggle, chances are you went in fear of the other CC label: that of copy-cat. Somehow, coolness came to be defined paradoxically: Be the same, yet different. In the grown-up world it seems the same rules apply. Especially when it comes to fashion accessories. The rarer and quirkier the find, or the more into it your pal is, the less acceptable it is to copy.

 

Personality type also comes into play. Some girlfriends couldn’t care less. They’re happy knowing you can both look good rocking a particular item. Others are more possessive and don’t mind sharing basic pieces, but will get uptight about you moving in on more original items. And then there are those who just won’t budge. Stubborn and snobby, you know they’ll kill you for cloning. But what about when you just hafta, hafta, hafta have it? Is it OK to be a closet-cloner?

 

Maybe. When you can get away with it. Sure it’s devious and sneaky, and risky business when you’re wearing your outfit out on the town, but that can add to the fun. You must, however, follow the golden rule: Avoid places the original is likely to be. Actually, this rule applies to knock-offs of all stripes; follow it, and the (fashion) world is your oyster!