Life is a question of pants.

Hear me out on this one. You go through life, and you have to wear pants. And no, we won't go into tunics or nudists or loincloths or what have you. (Gee, I can smell the seriously misguided web searches already.) We won't go into them because, well, we're talking about pants. You grow up, you live, and you gotta put on some pants. And you're always looking for the kind of pants that fit you. And sure, some people can just go in and buy factory-manufactured pants that fit really well, but we hate those people. Lucky pants people are sucky people. Everybody knows that. But I think it fair to say that many people, people that do not suck, are always looking for the right pants. And it's hard. Pants are hard. Pants are sucky in and of themselves, really. Some are too big in the seat. Some are lime green. Some are too long. Some aren't long enough. None are long enough for me. And so we have three choices. One, whatever their level of suckage may be, we deal with the pants we're given. Two, we alter our pants until they fit better; we shear off the ends, apply sequins, purchase a giant vat of acid and then try to figure out how to "wash" our pants in it without also "washing" away a few layers of skin, etcetera. Three, we make our own pants. Of course, nobody quite knows the perfect way to make their own pants. And that's a big farking allegory too. Some people think making pants probably involves a giant sort of loom, and some think it means buying suspiciously dank factory lots in Malaysia. Point is, I am not the only one in this sailing-pants boat. We all just want some damn pants. Even if it involves, oh, maybe something like a sheep.

Boy oh boy. Misguided web searches ahoy.

You know, if MTV and VH-1 had a fight, VH-1 would totally kick MTV's skinny pimpled butt. Oh sure, MTV would probably start off with a few good punches. It might throw a chair, or it might try to fight dirty, like with some whipped cream in the eye or a flying sideways-visor of doom. But after awhile, MTV would get a little tired. Especially since VH-1 ain't the type to stay down. VH-1 would keep weaving in and out, putting up some late-seventies dukes, and eventually start fighting really dirty. And MTV would be all shocked, because it wouldn't have thought that older people how know to fight dirty too. And eventnually VH-1 would bust a cap, or act like it had some kind of freaky twitch. Nobody wants to fight someone with a twitch. Especially MTV, because it might muss its hair. After all, VH-1 looks better with mussed hair.

Then Lifetime would make a movie out of it. And then E! would make fun of its costumes. And Food Network would eat stuff.

In lieu of a very bad no good last busy week, the current very bad gol-danged final-and-two-papers week, and a very slowly approaching new design, this place has been pretty slow. So instead, I now present Three Ways To Be A Popstar, Because O Bejeezus, That's An Interesting Occupation:

1. Be skinny. You will know you are skinny enough when you turn to the side and disappear, when your sole diet for the week consists of one green grape, or when you begin to slide down your bathroom drain. When these things happen, you must then prepare to pay exorbitant amounts of money for a doctor with a very bad tan to hack open your breasts and stuff bacteria-laden plastic bags into them so your fans can later insist that you have a nice and natural-looking™ rack. You must also be prepared to spend one-quarter of your life with a personal trainer so that those same fans can discuss whether or not you're keeping the weight off of your natural-looking™ abs.

2. Follow the flock. You don't have to be particularly talented, you see, since most tone deaf or creativity deaf issues can now be fixed in the studio. To further counteract these issues, you must either be skinny (refer to number 1 above), stick a microphone two inches from your lips so no one will notice your lack of breath control, or just learn to dance using a variety of jumpy poses as though stuck in a strobe light. Better still, you might consider stepping into an image, such as the "rebel" popstar with smoky eye makeup, a hatred of their childhood or the world at large, and/or a dye job in any number of freakish colors. Of course, to be a "rebel" popstar, you must firmly insist that you are not a popstar at all. Other popstar images that will serve to take attention away from your lack of pitch pipes include the "golden girl" (ooo, your insipid halo is so blinding), the "jail bait" (ooo, your exploitation is actually self-employed), the "sex fiend" (ooo, you're so crawling with STDs), or the "all-purpose vanilla" (ooo, you're . . . uh . . . all right I guess™).

3. Be lucky. If you find yourself in the right place at the right time so the right people with the right connections will throw you the right kind of bone, you just may make it into the right big time! After all, you can dream big and have drive™, but it's really just plain luck that determines whether or not you get any recognition in the end. Luck is typically gained by being born under a lucky star or being born into a wealthy family. If neither of these includes you, though, you might try catching a falling star, putting it in your pocket, and saving it for a rainy day, but they really don't make pockets like they used to . . . Of course, if they invent a "vintage-shopping" popstar someday, complete with vintage pockets, you may be in luck. Unless you think Lenny Kravitz has that one already sewn up, that is.

DORK.

Thanks to our ever-wordy modern times, there exists a myriad range of benign insults avaliable to each and every member of the general populace. (This probably means you, unless you're a despot. In which case, I feel you ought to know that you have too many shoes.) I've always had a fondness for the quintessential "dork," but what proper Christa could neglect the ever-broad "idiot," the always-useful "jerk," or the flatly-delivered "lame?" Such expressions have bowed out older ones of the same ilk, like the little-known "dip," the eighties-bound "dweeb," and especially the early-nineties "spaz." Of course, all these mumbling retorts existed long before I discovered more colourful and usually English-bent insults, insults that not everybody tends to really, well, "get" overseas. I think "bloody" is one of the best words in this vein, because it goes with almost anything. You've got your spitting "bloody ridiculous" and your sarcastic "bloody fabulous," and if you really want to be long-winded, you've got your "bloody freaking doo-dah day." You don't get a lot of bloody freaking doo-dah days, unless you're around me, on on a bloody freaking doo-dah day. And then you'd better look out, because then you might hear some pretty long words. Hoo-boy. Looooook out.

"You're kind of arty, huh."
More arty than your momma. "Very, I guess."
"Are you an art major?"
"Well, I study film, and I used to be a voice major -- "
"Ha! Voice? Is that like . . . what, exactly?"
"Opera. Musical theater. Jazz."
"Oh. Ha. I didn't know."
"Uh-huh." Good thing I don't know your momma.

Listen up, business majors. There is such a thing as art. It exists. There are many kinds of art. Art includes voice, film, drama, dance, music, literature, many kinds of visual mediums, and sometimes performance art, depending on whom you ask. (Art is most often considered to be a personal expression, sure, but is art then every personal expression? Even the experts haven't decided yet.) I know the concept of art is hard to understand, businessfolk, seeing as you're strangled by your ties and your brief cases are pulling off your arms and your pie graphs are in serious need of Kinko's color-copying. But if not for art, who would make the sculptures littering your lobbies? Who would sing the music piping into your office complexes? Who would actually seek to say or discover or redefine something about life, rather than just simply living?

And most importantly, who else but an artist could manage being both poor and interesting? I may not know exactly exactly where I'm going, but at least I'm going there with art in hand. And you know what? I'll get by. Without a tie.

I think I'm down with my bum. A friend and I were at lunch today, you see, and we were discussing the media-laden prevalence of bum-ism, and I looked at mine, and I thought it was a pretty okay bum. But then, I'm not exactly the best person to ask about the quality of bums, because I'm not down with bums in general.

When did the bum become so popular in the media? Around the same time as J-Lo, everybody says, but I think it was a little earlier. I don't know whether or not all you ardent male fans out there knew about this at the time, but around the early nineties, some females started talking about the generalized quality of the male butt -- as in, "Gee, he has a cute butt," or "Hot dog, check out his butt," or even, "Boy howdy, I'd order his butt with some curly fries and a side salad." Frankly, I never understood this. I still don't. My attentions are not now, nor have they ever been, concerned with the appearance of anybody's posterior area. I like broad shoulders, or a nice smile, or a really good laugh.

But above all, above everything, my yardstick is how somebody treats me. After all, my opinions on attractiveness lie far above the bum area. You know. As in, "Boy howdy, I'd order his sweetness with a sandwich and a tall glass of pink lemonade."

Say it with me now: "Uggggggggh." Midterms week is finally over, and boy do I feel all hibernatey. That's another one of those Christawords, Christafans. It means I feel like a big lumpy bear after a long winter's hibernation, rolling outside and blinking in the springtime sun while growling something akin to, "Buh?" And you know what they say about being that exhausted. They say . . . it causes you to . . . make . . . up . . . uh, words.

And now, a public service message. I know AW currently has a title line involving a stock phrase with the word "foot" in it, but that does not mean I have foot fetish material here. In fact, I haven't got any. None. Nada. Zilch. Zip. So for the love of Pete, stop hitting me up through Google for things like "sexy feet" or "woman toes" or any other disturbing phrases currently floating around in your weird little head. Move along, weirdheads. Nothing to see here but normalcy. Relatively speaking, anyway.