Something About The Jaguar Club makes me Sea-Sick

Most Americans with a pulse remember the comedy “There’s Something about Mary.” The crude and unfortunate humor, politically incorrect terminology, the most awkward moments ever fathomed by human, and the ironic plot twists made the film an instant classic. One of the most memorable and recognizable elements are troubadours that appear at every major turn of events. This modern interpretation of medieval theatre is used to fuse a theatric tradition with the most awkward and uncomfortable situations presented. Jonathan Richman and Tommy Larkins’ use of lullaby worthy vocals and serene guitar strumming serve as intermissions amongst chaos and outrageous mishaps.

Although the troubadour band used in the film is loveable, most sane individuals would not buy an album featuring their rudimentary, sleepy melodies and exaggerated corny vocals. With this being said, it is hard to draw a conclusion as to why Jaguar Club clearly ripped this sound off and ran. Not only do this band’s melodies resemble the sleepy tunes featured in the film, the vocals are equally terrible. Wait, rewind… they’re not equally terrible, they’re far worse.

If you haven’t had the pleasure of listening to Jaguar Club, then close your eyes. Now imagine the simple guitar strumming a melody intended for a fairy tale soundtrack sprinkle a little hipster bass guitar in. Take those elements and place them in a cruise ship bathroom. Crammed and painful with a relentless echo, these are vocals only a delusional band girlfriend or mother could love or even remain awake for. The amateur engineering is embarrassingly obvious. The album literally sounds as though a cruise ship or RV passenger has taken their portable DVD player in the 5 square foot space and cranked the volume. Although it seems like a novel idea to wash up with memorable songsters from a well known comedic film, Jaguar Club is a failure. Their tracks evoke such confusion, boredom, and frustration that you might find yourself wishing you were in the shower with Richman and Larkins instead of being lulled into a coma by Royal Caribbean’s dirty secret.

Dear God, Thank you for Lady Gaga. Love, Laura

In the most desolate of economic times, the creative mind takes a back seat. Americans are less likely to attend movies, buy concert tickets, maintain gym memberships, indulge in fine dining, buy art or anything else imperative to our psychological well-being. Because activities not essential for basic human survival and comfort are now seen as luxuries that must be trimmed out of our lives, we are all beginning to look alike. Hairstylists are cutting pratical, low maintenance styles. Bargain shoppers are taking comfort in discount clothing stores. Personal trainers are booked far less, and gym memberships are being cut loose. McDonald's is up in sales because of it's wildly popular dollar menu with bovine hormone injected cow eyeballs on a bun. With all of this being said, it's no wonder that we are becoming a population of homely boring slobs lacking style, originality, or the quest for physical self improvement. In a time like this, I would imagine our role models to be more natural and less high maintenance in their appearance. For the most part this is true. Men in Hollywood are sporting scruffy beards and the leading ladies are flaunting more voluptuous frames a la Kim Kardashian. Although I'm a fan of the above mentioned trends, I am glad to have one shining glimmer of hope at the end of our dreary mousy brown tunnel. (Cue the heavenly harps) Lady Gaga in her Platinum blond wig wearing glory has burst onto the mainstream pop scene with her catchy songs, but more importantly, with her outrageous and unique style. I, myself, admire a woman who runs around town pantless without looking like a psychiatric patient. A bra crafted with pyro-technics, leotards and fishnet stockings, skirts made of latex, and asymmetrical dresses resembling sci-fi architecture have made Lady Gaga a captivating character. Her "always in costume" approach to dressing exemplifies what it is to be one of a kind in a crowd of miserable, financially unstable drones.

Allow Me to Burst your Bubble Dress

We’ve all seen it. A deadly and rapidly spreading fashion flesh eating disease, the unsightly bubble dress is running ramped at underage drinking hangouts, cheap department stores, and high school graduation parties around the globe. This savage garment attacks seemingly innocent victims in a specific age bracket. Girls from the ages of 15 to 20 are being drowned in fabric or tragically suffocate at the mercy of cheap and poorly crafted club attire in the form of a shapeless, unflattering, constricting sheath. Shockingly, most of these innocent young ladies are choosing the horrendous attire in hopes of hiding flaws or just finding a dress under $20 for a night out. Once donning a bubble dress, a victim’s torso is likely to drown in shapeless, thin material. Stomach pouches, boney hips, and cellulite are highlighted by a hideous draping of this monstrosity's thin, often sheer fabric. In addition, bubble dresses often attack with a tight band of elastic material mid-thigh, making even the sveltest of gams appear shorter, thicker, and less attractive. The most frightening attack on the female body is that of the upper chest. The area under the armpits and below the clavicle is squeezed with an anaconda like grip by a merciless band of cotton/polyester blend. This creates the dreaded armpit fat captured best in facebook photographs, which are later un-tagged by bubble dress victims. Unfortunately, there is no cure for bubble dresses at the recorded date. The only fight we have in this terrible epidemic is prevention and word of mouth. With this being said, ladies please stop purchasing bubble dresses and urge your friends (large or small) to give up their bubble dresses as well. Let’s stop this sickness before it starts. Goodnight and Good luck.

Arrogance is Bliss

In grade school, I realized I was unique in my behaviors and interests. I hid during “dance time,” stayed awake, day-dreaming during nap time, and rarely touched a Nintendo game. Drawing, painting, and dressing Barbie were far more important to me than kickball, softball, or any of the other activities my classmates participated in. While my friends watched Stick Stickley on Nickelodeon, I was mesmerized and inspired by MTV’s House of Style and the Fashion Network. I was familiar with Tom Ford, Carolina Herrera, Jean Paul Gautier, and Gianni Versace before I knew my times tables. To my parents’ dismay, this was evident on my 3rd grade report card.
On many occasions, I was scolded for cutting apart my dolls clothes and hair in hopes of creating more fashionable, chic look. My bewildered father nicknamed me “Dr. Destructive” for what I considered my own line of haute couture. Ironically, for 15 years, I’ve remained that mischievous girl with scissors in one hand, and a hot glue gun in the other. I, thankfully, have received praise for my designs in recent years rather than time-out.
Despite quirks and idiosyncrasies, I was not a weird-o or introvert that spent hours in front of the TV, cutting doll clothes, or hiding from outdoor activities. Instead, I was outgoing, animated, and convivial, even during my most awkward of stages. My lively, gregarious, and at times crazy personality launched me into the Tampa social scene and initiated several friendships with diverse groups of fun, interesting people. As I made new connections, I became recognizable to Tampa locals and partiers. I charmed key individuals at every bar I frequented and my arrogance led me to believe I was entitled to special treatment at each establishment. With this mindset, it was inevitable that I became a night life promoter myself.
I realized that in going out, my own venues included, I could display ingenuity in what I wore. Dressing for any occasion thrilled me. Finding like-minded friends who would spend the day bargain shopping, brainstorming, cutting, and even sewing with me was a significant style blessing. Nights on the town were opportunity to express my moods and exhibit creativity through what I wore. My personal goal became to never re-wear an outfit I had been photographed in. I attained this objective by rechanneling my “Dr. Desructive” days on several articles of clothing, making them new again and showcasing my originality. Although I’ve had cringe-worthy moments looking back at my creations, I have never seen an outfit I’ve donned duplicated by anyone, anywhere, at anytime, or in any photo. Mission completed.