Miley Cyrus is Addicted to Sex…ually Exploiting Herself

Now that she's of legal age to bang Bret Michaels and smoke salvia and get her labia cosmetically altered to resemble chick rock guru Pink, Disney has apparently decided to stop sexualizing Miley Cyrus.

In its defense, a company that makes a small country's GDP by surreptitiously marketing around the notion of hypersexualized pre-teens can't very well be caught fetishizing legal consenting adults. That would be pornographic.

Still, Cyrus seems to be doing a fairly good go at keeping the tradition alive. She's been caught with magically appearing new tattoos, piercings, cropped and/or violently dyed hair, leather, spikes, side boob, under boob, excessive cleavage, smoking, drinking, flashing her underwear, and after years of tireless efforts by paparazzi the world over: flashing no underwear.

I've mentioned before how the best way to get on the cover of a women's magazine is to be a mostly-naked woman. Cyrus, it seems, is no exception:

So that's low-rise, lack-of-shirt, cleavage, underboob, do-me eyes,
and a large, very phallic Italian ram's horn necklace between her mammaries.
And white, because she's so pure.

I count eight headlines on that cover, three of which are not overtly sexual, one of which is legitimately platonic. ("FINALLY - Stop living paycheck to paycheck.")

"Super SEXY Spring," "Hot abs and butt," "Best sex ever!" Those are splashed around Miley Cyrus along with "Threesome confessions." I don't know what happened in that hot tub in Malibu with Selena Gomez and the Biebs, and frankly I don't even want to watch the leaked tapes.

And what's the headline around Cyrus née Montana?

"It's Miley, bitches … 'I never faked anything.'"

The insinuation is orgasms, but let's be real, Cyrus has an orgasm every night when she rolls around in a giant pile of money stroking her … hair … to a looped vinyl of "Missundaztood."

The 10-12% | Jedi, Economics, and the Hyperelite

One of my prized possessions.

Star Wars is one of those things nerds could–and do–argue about for hours. I'd be chief among them. You want to have one? Please do. I relish the opportunity, because instead of emotionally maturing as a child, I learned about Star Wars.

Part of the problem is that Star Wars became too big to be coherent decades ago. The expanded universe was fun, but with the release of prequels and now the promise of non-George-helmed sequels, there's new canonical information that has to be wedged into old B-grade canon, much of which was frankly better and more sensical than the new information.

Certain things get dropped by the wayside, however, and always have. Example: beings tend to need to buy things with money.

Star Trek has always maintained that its Federation is a post-scarcity society. Cheap energy is made freely available all as a common good, and combined with replicator technology, functionally all necessities and luxury items can be created by anyone with enough time and effort. Careers exist more for the betterment of citizens and at their own discretion than on any real need for goods. Functionally, it is a socialist paradise. Only backward, tangential worlds and the Ferengi maintain capitalist ideals.

Star Wars takes place in a galactic-scale capitalist culture. Banks have their own clans, Trade Federations start civil wars or tarif rates and embargo disputes. The capital of all known systems caters to the support of an upper-echelon elite, high above the lower strata of Coruscant. In the Outer Rim, slavery is a common and accepted practice, especially on worlds controlled by the Hutts, an entire species primarily devoted to being crime lords.

Perhaps this has something to do with the level of technology achieved in each universe. Star Trek has faster-than-light travel, dematerializing transporters, and the ability to replicate anything from basic elemental building blocks, themselves saved as pure energy as if via transporter. Star Wars, meanwhile achieves FTL transport, but transporters are relatively unknown and widely considered impossible, although short-range models have been demonstrated effective. Largely, however, means of production and distribution of goods remain in line with what we possess currently. Goods are produced either by hand or machine (sometimes both!) and curried from A to B by ship to be sold in stores for currency. Want a nice nerf steak and a cup of caf for a meal? Go to the ship's galley and heat up a couple. Principles of technology may be more advanced, but the long-and-short of it is Aunt Beru had to go to market to buy her blue milk that came from a dairy farmer.

Herein lies a problem for the narrative. In Star Wars we rarely get to see what the average being is doing in the galaxy. Dictation and data pads are mentioned somewhat frequently, credits as a form of currency as well, and "(re)freshers" exist so that gentlefolks can scrawl out an invoice or missive, buy a BlasTech DL-44 pistol, or take a sanisteam after a long hyperspace jaunt.

Except that's boring, and as an audience, we tend to follow the action. If protagonists ever involve themselves in a financial transaction, it's either illicit, or cover while surveilling. Consider primary characters:

• Jedi
• The Republic/Rebel Alliance/New Republic/Galactic Alliance/Galactic Federation of Free Planets and associated militias
• The Empire
• Smugglers

These are not the types to necessarily lament a lack of access to funds. Han Solo and his bands of rogues? They steal what they need, blast through security, and make a delivery to earn their payday. They've all won and lost fortunes a dozen times over–Lando Calrissian is famous for it. If a job didn't go bad, we wouldn't read about it. Federal governments don't exactly request expenditure reports during a war either. While the Rebels acquired their superior X-Wing fighters specifically through capture of the plans and defection of the creators, the Empire has entire worlds' resources at its disposal. It is an evil, tyrannical dictatorship, after all.

At the top of society, the Skywalker-Solo clan own multiple apartments, furnished many times over with expensive accoutrements and the highest, often illegal security measures. They are heroes upon heroes. Leia was Galactic President, for god's sake. Twice. The sheer volumes of riches lavished upon them necessitated teams of specialized accountants just to manage. The result is that none of these characters ever need to worry about money for the rest of their lives, and being appropriately paranoid for the eight most important beings in the galaxy, they have access to secret assets.

There is never any mention of these elites ever receiving spam mail.

Even the Jedi are above the need for funding. Between all the money funneled into the organization through Luke and his friends, government subsidies and "gifts" of tactical armaments during times of crisis, the Jedi are perhaps the most well-trained, well-funded, well-organized private army in existence, and yes I'm including the revived Mandalorian warriors. They maintain leagues of accountants whose sole purpose is to ensure that their investments allow them to function completely autonomously from any governmental oversight.They go to the laundry and are handed a new robe from the Coruscanti employed by the Jedi Temple. They travel to Ilum to pick their own crystals to construct their own lightsabers. If the cost of antimater and fusable material were not so expensive, one might almost consider this a green movement. Rather than living as ascetics, Jedi exist in a post-scarcity near-paradise simply because they have more money than some star systems.

As of 40 years post-Endor, there are approximately 400 known living Force users in the Jedi collective. Let us double that number to account for spouses and non-Force-wielding family members who enjoy the perks of residing within this hyper-elite group. Let us round off to an even thousand to compensate for the rotating cadre of bandits, allies, and planetary elites who operate within their bubbles of influence.

Of the 100 quadrillion sentient beings living in the Galaxy, that makes the Jedi and their surrounding parties civilization's top 0.000000000001%.

They are The 10^-12%.

The First Timer's Comic Con Survival Kit

Everything you need to last three days at New York's fabulous labyrinthine Javit's Center!



1. Water. At least two 12oz bottles daily. A Vitamin Water is a suggested substitute as it replenishes electrolytes but has less sugar in most cases than Gatorade, so no crash. Energy shots are acceptable, half in the morning, half in the afternoon.

2. Camera. Or something with a camera. You will see some things. Oh man, will you see some things! Anything you can fire off a quick snap is best. If you're a smartphone user, look into that swipe-from-lock-screen kind of stuff beforehand.

3. Phone charger. You will not find three-prong outlets anywhere EXCEPT: power strips at info desks and on the uppermost anime floor. (The former are manned until the wee hours of the evening, the latter you merely have to assault a JSDF foxgirl cafe maid to get to.)

4. A backpack. Aside from holding all this stuff, it will—hands free!— hold all the stuff you're going to buy. Speaking of…

5. Like twice the money you thought you would need. Listen, you're going to be buying a lot of swag. Stuff you didn't even think you'd need. And there will be free stuff. You'll probably buy a thing that comes with a giant bag. These bags are awful. Put that inside a smaller, better bag. As for money, take 1/3 with you the first day, 1/2 the second day, and if you're there the rest on Day Three. With this plan you may only need to break out the debit card at after parties and for a train ticket home.

6. A book if you plan to stand in line for anything.


Additionally, Never bring the following items:

A. A coat. I know it's cold out. It's New York in October. However the temperature inside will quickly climb past "balls hot" with a stench to match after the first day.


B. Anything heavy. Remember that backpack? Still gonna get too heavy too quickly. The goal for most of your time is going to be "pack light." If it looks like you can save your buying until the end of the day, do it. Many vendors will gladly hold your 30lb, $400 Green Lantern statue for you at their booth, since you just gave them $400.

C. Your house keys. Unless you live in NYC and are heading home every night, leaving your keys and any non-essentials/valuables wherever you're crashing. You don't need them, you don't want to lose them, and, yes, it's possible even Iron Man can be mugged in New York. I think that's happened at least once in the comics.

D. Your computer. Seriously, don't be that guy. Unless you're already being paid to be there for a specific panel, you're not a reliable news source and you don't need to be leaching the cell networks trying to tether your Pad, Pad, Book, and MiFi through your phone's carrier signal because you're too cheap to shill out the $11 a day for Javits Center WiFi. Get your blogger apps ready early, prep posts, and bulk-update over meals and after you get out like the rest of us "blue collar bloggers." (I just heard that on The Daily Show. Neat.)

Money, Prostitutes, and Taylor Swift

Context: I let myself into a friend's house to leave him money to buy baseball tickets. (I'm essentially paying $91 for a Fenway Frank, and I'm told the privilege of likely being ejected within the first 3 innings. I have taken the over-under and bet on four.)

In defense of The Hangover,
I didn't like it back when it was Very Bad Things either.

Me: I considered hiding the money in one of your shoes to make you look for it, but instead left it in your computer. Much less work. (Ryan has many, many shoes.)

Ryan: Thanks, yeah. Did you leave the computer open?

Me: It was half-open, half-fallen diagonally inside a half-closed drawer. I more just threw the money into it like a spent and malaised prostitute after a business transaction.

Ryan: Nice simile. I was downloading a file, so I left it open.

Me: Thanks. Yeah, I killed my battery the other day downloading Taylor Swift. I'm … not proud.

Ryan: We all have our guilty pleasures.

Me: That's just the thing. I can't tell if I get any pleasure out of it. She's like the tween country equivalent of S&M. Catchy bitch.

How I Know I'm A Failure | Taxes

Here's how I know I'm a failure:

I was working out my taxes, thinking if I didn't get much back I might take a second pass at them. Last year, I got a $14 refund. It was pretty sweet.

This year? Let's just say when I saw that little ticker calculate my TurboTax refund, I did a quadruple-check on their guarantee and it "submit" before my laptop and the laws of mathematics decided to glance back my way.

So to reiterate, here's how I know I'm a failure:

1. I'm not rich enough to only complain about how much I pay in taxes

2. I'm actually excited about getting anything back, because…

3. …I make so little any return is actually going to affect my life.

And while we're at it, let's include 4. I feel the need to complain about getting a tax refund and I think it's worthy of blogging about when I could feed a small tribal community for a year were I to convert my refund into the local currency and surreptitiously mail it to their community.

Then again, if I'm passive-aggressively flaunting my new found wealth and prosperity, I certainly must be a success after all. I patiently await my Illuminati induction invitation.

Childlike Wonder, Lousy At Math

I saw a child in the book store today saddle up to customer service and, when prompted repeatedly, pull his attention out of the book in his hand to inquire as to it's price. It was $18.

Perhaps five minutes later I encountered the same child, pouty and a bit loud at the refusal of his mother to pay $18 for said book. She very pleasantly asked if he'd like this other book she was making a fuss over, ostensibly because it cost less than $18. (I'm just going to keep saying "$18.")

Par for the course, so far.

Another five minutes later, I pass by the family yet again, and as I'm walking out, I hear the most adorable attempt at negotiations ever:

"Mommy, do you have an $18 bill?"

"Give me back my $18!" came up in a search for '$18.' Nice.

That kid knew where he had to start if he wanted to prove he could have that book if only his mom caved. Granted, he didn't yet know what denominations money comes in, but damn it if he wasn't going to try anyway.

Which makes me think we should at least give this kid something for his gumption, logicalness, and initiative. Even just treating him to a junior-sized ice cream for a dollar at McDonald's and the explanation that, while we know he really likes it right now, we know he's going to be bored with that book very quickly and $18 isn't worth the limitted fun we know he'll get out of it, and that this refusal to purchase is more about teaching him to do without every single thing he likes in order to appreciate what he does have in life all the more.

But he's fucking four, lady. Just throw the kid a laugh and a hug and maybe that ice cream, He'll be a Hollywood agent by 2028.

"Keep the Change"

At work today I pointed a guy over to the help desk to find some books on coin values. I was working register, so I got to see him when he came up to check out.

I can understand that he was in a rush, but he just spent about 20 minutes finding these books. Did he really have to run out without a bag, or his receipt, or even his change? I know, I know, it's just a quarter, but that's gotten me thinking: "Keep the change," has always been an expression of generosity and benevolence.

Too bad cashiers get just as much flack for their drawer being over at the end of the night as they do for being short. Great job, guy. You acted all cool, like 25¢ doesn't even matter to you (anyone?), but I've got to stand there and deal with a new moral conundrum. Do I pocket the quarter? Is that stealing? From who? Would I be caught? Unlikely. But if I was, wouldn't I be punished worse for that than for leaving it out and/or reporting it? Would that have acknowledged my guilty intention to thieve? Should I leave the quarter on the counter and risk the assumption that I shorted somebody only to sneakily fix the drawer later, only to be branded both incompetent and unscrupulous?

Jesus Christ, guy, just take your fucking quarter and leave me alone.

On Desperation

Gizmodo keeps teasing me by posting the exact job I want and calling it an "Internship," which has become contemporary parlance for "Do it but we don't pay you."

Then they have the nerve to post along side that an even cooler job I might have to work harder at to do more but actually get paid and feel accomplished at, but they demand five years experience doing effectively that job somewhere else.

So I have to go back to the only job I do have five years experience at.

No, not selling children's clothes; I'm pretty sure when you take my seasonal work into consideration, I've only got about 2.5 years in that, maximum.

No, I'm back to odd jobs, penny pinching and eBaying my childhood. Wonderful.

Honestly, it feels great to clean out obsessively collected memories while earning some scratch, but the joy of waking up one day to see $27 was made overnight is kind of a bummer when you remember that it took a week. Right now I'm making about 20¢ a day.

… I'm thinking of moving to China and becoming a small boy in a Nike factory.

Career Catch-22s

You ever get into one of those cycles where you can't seem to really get much of anything done, because everything you need to do is reliant on everything else getting finished first? This last week was my own personal Yossarian vacation.

Want a better paying job. Better job requires experience. Can't afford experience without better paying job.

Can't afford to move to a new place with more jobs unless I already have a job there that pays enough to be able to afford to move there, which I can't accept until I have a place to stay.

Can't stop hearing complaints about a job until I have money, won't get money until I sell my book, no one will accept my book as a job until I have money.

Just want to marry a rich doctor lady, but can't do that until I get plastic surgery and ab implants, but I can't afford ab implants until I have money, and I won't have money until I marry a rich doctor lady!

Man, life is hard. How did Betty Crocker do it?

Of Tax Season

My great-great-grandfather used to do this,
except he did it with the racing forms and a
radio in a secret room next to the only telephone
in the neighborhood.

I'm actually excited to do my taxes this year. Why? Because for the first time there isn't some ridiculously complex dealing in the past year which bumps me from one bracket to another despite my usually meager earnings. I've been out of school long enough. There's no tuition, no loans, no cashed-in bond of money market which paid for last semester's schooling. For once, my taxes are going to be "I earned [x]. I have [0] deductions. Business expenses totaled [$64]. I owe [something tiny]."

Hell, maybe I'll even get paid something. Like $5. How great would it be if the government had to pay some bean counter forty grand a year and a mail clerk eight bucks an hour to mail me my check for $5.50? It'd be great.

I am actually going to do my taxes myself this year, and it's going to be kind of fun.

Next year, however, I plan on being rich enough that I need to hire my own accountant, so I'm going to enjoy it while I can. I already started a tax shelter, donating $10 to the people trying to extend a moratorium on geo-fracking in the Catskills into a permanent ban. That's called a "charitable donation," kiddos.

On Banks

Let me preface what I'm about to say with something else that I'm about to say:

I do not partake of illegal substances.

Now I fully support everyone's right to do whatever they want responsibly, I just don't do certain things because I think my mental state is suitably askew already.

That said, I know a drug dealer who closes up shop at 9 p.m.


Think about that. He sells drugs and he keeps normal business hours. Costco is open later than this guy. "Hey, what time is it?" "It's like 9:55, dude." "EFFFFFFF MEEEEEEE…."

Really? You're really going to stop selling drugs just because it's getting late and you want to go out with your friends? Or sleep? Dude. Those are prime drug trafficking hours.

Kid doesn't even start his day until two, anyway. What kind of respectable drug dealer is gonna stay open exclusively from two to ten? You really want to keep to an eight-hour day that badly? You're like my fucking bank.

I hate banks.

They're only open weekdays in the middle of the day. Everyone else is at work. How the fuck am I supposed to get my money into you if you close in the middle of the fucking day? Seriously.

I mean, yes, I understand that you don't make anything from my money, but from taking that money and–essentially–playing the stock market with it, but man … you could at least do me the courtesy of pretending like my business affects your business hours in the slightest.

Man, help me out, banks. I got drugs to buy and my guy closes at ten.