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Everything's Trash, But It's Okay: Essays - Hardcover

Robinson, Phoebe

 
9780525534143: Everything's Trash, But It's Okay: Essays
Hardcover
ISBN 10: 0525534148 ISBN 13: 9780525534143
Verlag: Plume, 2018

Inhaltsangabe

DON’T MISS PHOEBE ROBINSON’S COMEDY SERIES EVERYTHING’S TRASH—NOW ON FREEFORM!

New York Times bestselling author and star of 2 Dope Queens Phoebe Robinson is back with a new, hilarious, and timely essay collection on gender, race, dating, and the dumpster fire that is our world.

Wouldn't it be great if life came with instructions? Of course, but like access to Michael B. Jordan's house, none of us are getting any. Thankfully, Phoebe Robinson is ready to share everything she has experienced to prove that if you can laugh at her topsy-turvy life, you can laugh at your own.

Written in her trademark unfiltered and witty style, Robinson's latest collection is a call to arms. Outfitted with on-point pop culture references, these essays tackle a wide range of topics: giving feminism a tough-love talk on intersectionality, telling society's beauty standards to kick rocks, and calling foul on our culture's obsession with work. Robinson also gets personal, exploring money problems she's hidden from her parents, how dating is mainly a warmed-over bowl of hot mess, and definitely most important, meeting Bono not once, but twice. She's struggled with being a woman with a political mind and a woman with an ever-changing jeans size. She knows about trash because she sees it every day--and because she's seen roughly one hundred thousand hours of reality TV and zero hours of Schindler's List.

With the intimate voice of a new best friend, Everything's Trash, But It's Okay is a candid perspective for a generation that has had the rug pulled out from under it too many times to count.

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Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Phoebe Robinson is a multi-talented stand-up comedian, New York Times best-selling writer, and actress. She is best known as the co-creator and co-star of the hit podcast turned TV show 2 Dope Queens, which aired eight hour-long specials on HBO in February 2018 & 2019. On her second WNYC Studios podcast, the critically-acclaimed talk show Sooo Many White Guys, Phoebe interviews today’s biggest stars and ground breakers such as Tom Hanks, Issa Rae, Abbi Jacobson, and many more. Phoebe is also making her presence known in publishing as she is the author of The New York Times best seller You Can’t Touch My Hair & Other Things I Still Have To Explain, a collection of essays about race, gender and pop culture. Phoebe made her feature film debut as one of the stars of the Netflix comedy Ibiza and followed that up by acting alongside Taraji P. Henson in the Paramount film What Men Want. She was also a staff writer on MTV’s hit talking head show, Girl Code and IFC’s Portlandia, as well as was a consultant on season three of Broad City.

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Introduction

In summary: The world is currently one big “Previously on Homeland” recap that plays on repeat. Nothing but a bunch of dumpster fires and Claire Danes ugly‑cries.

Despite a few glorious things—Beyoncé’s historic Coachella performance and Solange’s A Seat at the Table, Pamplemousse LaCroix, sitting in the window seat on a flight with an empty middle seat next to you—the world is en fuego, boo‑boos (and has been for a while, to be honest), and I have the receipts to prove it. I mean, Brexit happened. And some of the people who voted for it were like, “Oops, J/K,” and the Legal System responded, “Lol. Wut? This is literally how voting works. The thing with the most votes wins. I don’t have time for your #Jokes‑NotJokesButForRealWeHighKeyJokesLife, so please pack your bags.” Then there was the De‑Peening of 2017 aka very powerful men such as award‑winning actor Kevin Spacey, legendary journalist Charlie Rose, comedian/auteur Louis C.K. watching their lives and careers implode following the uncovering of their sometimes decades‑long sexual‑deviant behavior, which ranged from harassment to sexual assault. And let’s not forget the murder of Harambe, the gorilla, at the Cincinnati Zoo; Apple removing the headphone jack from their iPhones because this company is hell‑bent on being the Nurse Ratched of our time; or the first black bachelorette, Rachel Lindsay, incorrectly choosing Bryan over Peter, thus denying the world some cocoa, gap‑teefed babies. Oh! And remember a few years ago when a dude in the US legit had Ebola and went bowling and ate chicken wings with friends instead of quarantining himself because #WhiteNonsense? Say it with me: Dumpster. Fire. But far and away, the most telling sign that the world is in dire straits is the fact that in the past few years, the universe started killing off everyone who mattered in my childhood.

There was Carrie Fisher (White Jesus, why?), Prince (Black Jesus, why?), George Michael (Levi Jeans Jesus, I can’t), and David Bowie (Alien Jesus aka the feathers from Björk’s swan dress at the 2001 Oscar ceremony, <squawk, blergh, blop>—because y’all know Björk and anything in Björk’s universe only communicates through sound). Oof. I don’t know about you, but I was overcome with emotion at seeing so many pop culture icons pass. Utterly devastated. Heartbroken and beside myself. So I mourned like we all did. Appropriately. Okay, I didn’t, but I tried. Well, I tried the way I do when the heater in my apartment is too high and instead of getting up to adjust the thermostat, I say to no one, “It’s too hot,” and then unzip my onesie down to my hips so that I end up looking like a caterpillar taking a cigarette break mid‑metamorph‑morph aka metamorphosis. #IgnorantAbbrev #SorryForWastingYourTime. Anyhoo, I did not try very hard not to be utterly inappropriate mere days after Bowie’s death.

When he passed, I fell down the usual internet rabbit hole many of us are wont to do when someone famous dies. I read think pieces, bought any albums I didn’t already own, watched old performances on YouTube. After about forty‑eight hours of this, I became an unofficial truther of Bowie’s personal life, hoping that in my quest to unearth all the last unknown details about him, this busywork would distract me from the reality that we’re all going to die. And since this mission was rooted in earnest and profound love for the dead, I felt like Doogie Howser at the end of Doogie Howser, M.D., just writing smart bon mots about what I’d learned. But I wasn’t. My good intentions were quickly replaced by my just‑below‑the‑surface hot‑mess tendencies.
About three days after Bowie died and amid a particularly wide‑eyed‑and‑awake‑at‑four‑in‑the‑morning internet hunt, I typed this into Google:

Did David Bowie have a big penis?

I know, I know, I know! And it’s not like I pulled up Googs’s “incognito window,” which wouldn’t have recorded this question in my browser’s history. I typed this question in the broad‑as‑the‑Alaskan‑daylight‑during‑midnight‑sun season aka Google’s regular search window, where anyone could track what I’d done. To which, Google basically responded à la Danny Glover from the Lethal Weapon franchise, “I’m too old for this shit,” and then set about unsuccessfully trying to save me from my trifling ways. I started with “Did David Bowie,” and before I could continue, Google countered with this auto‑ complete:

Did David Bowie wrote “My Way”

What in the hell kind of poor‑grammar‑of‑a‑troubled‑youth‑from‑Dangerous-Minds voodoo is this? Can’t lie, I admire the tactic, but this search engine knew not who they were messing with. In my twenties, I once had a girls’ sleepover and made us watch Showgirls. Then we went to bed, and when we woke up, I convinced them to watch Showgirls again. Clearly, my ignorance is only matched by my determination. Googs sounding like the “Cash Me Outside, How ‘Bout Dat” girl was cute, but no way was that stopping me.

So next Google tried to attract me with honey:

Did David Bowie Have Pets

Suggesting there might be pictures of pets at the end of this search is the visual equivalent of a coworker telling you there are cookies in the break room. I’m intrigued, but I’m a grown‑ass woman and can literally get cookies any time I want. Plus, I have an “in case of emergency” photo album on my phone called “Chocolate Puggle Puppies.” I’m good, Google.

Starting to feel defeated and tired, Googs began throwing haymakers, but it didn’t have the strength, and as soon as I typed “a,” I was met with this:

Did David Bowie Have Any Siblings

Lmao.com/WhenSearchEnginesGiveUpAndStartSoundingLikeAOneNightStandStrugglingToMakeConversationOverBreakfast.

And then when I hit the space bar after the letter “a” and typed “big,” Google knew it couldn’t save me from myself, probably did the sign of the cross, and mumbled under its breath, “Maya Angelou, I know you didn’t work this hard so Phoebe could do this bullshit, yet here we are.” I typed “penis.” And pressed enter.

Yes. This. Is. Trash. And. I. Am. Not. Proud. But like I stated earlier, I’m a truther, and somewhere along the way of reading copious amounts of articles and learning the basic deets—why his eyes were two different colors (they weren’t; they were both blue—it’s just that one had a permanently dilated pupil after he got in a fight with a good friend whose fingernail sliced into his eye), the name of his first band (the Konrads), and checking out his and Freddie Mercury’s isolated vocals on “Under Pressure” (if you haven’t, please listen ASAP)—I stumbled across an old interview with one of his exes, who “casually” mentioned that Bowie was packing down below.

Three things:

1. LOL for the rest of my life over his ex “happening” to provide a State of the Naysh about his peen. It is wack to kiss and tell about someone, especially if the person in question has moved on (Bowie married the love of his life, Iman), but more importantly, peen size never casually...

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Verlag
Plume
Erscheinungsdatum
2018
Sprache
Englisch
ISBN 10 
0525534148
ISBN 13 
9780525534143
Einband
Gebundene Ausgabe
Auflage
1
Anzahl der Seiten
336
Kontakt zum Hersteller
Nicht verfügbar
Verantwortliche Person
GPSR Kontakt
gpsr@libri.de

Europaallee 1
Bad Hersfeld
36244
Deutschland

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