In Defense of Miley

I've sort of kept my mouth shut about all of the Miley Cyrus hubbub that was sparked by her VMA performance in August for fear of being misinformed. But much time has elapsed since then, and the media--and subsequently the public--will not let up on their relentlessly condescending and degrading barrage of insults towards Miley. 

Miley Cyrus represents the dilemma of the woman in today's society quite succinctly. You can either fit in, do what the majority tells you is "acceptable," never deviating from the beaten trail, and be called boring or be criticized for being just another girl. Or, you can do what you want to do, ignore the oppressive delineations of social acceptability, and de-objectify your body through a reverse-psychological tactic of commodification (example: Miley demystifies the eternally used and abused female form by treating it as no big deal, because it isn't. A nipple is just as much a part of the body as a nose or a finger), and be called a slut, skank, whore, tease, the list goes on and on. Essentially, you're not taken seriously if you take yourself seriously. The rest of the world takes you seriously ONLY if you take THEIR standards seriously. Herein lies the as-yet indomitable dichotomy between satisfying oneself and satisfying others. 

Let's start by breaking down the uncensored version of Robin Thicke's--that hypocritical and disgusting bastard--music video for his infamous song "Blurred Lines," which talks about lines which are definitely not blurred and are in fact quite clear. The video consists of three women wearing high heels and underwear, breasts bared, dancing around two fully-clothed men. I recommend taking a moment to watch the video right now. 

Once you've done that (or not, your choice--even a few seconds will sum up the ensuing four minutes), keep scrolling. I took some screenshots while watching the video that exemplify the nauseatingly pro-rape message.

He's holding her down, she's naked, he's clothed...Does he really want his name hash-tagged over that image?

Someone has low self-esteem...

That's a mini STOP sign. See that word, right there? STOP.

If we can all stop retching and look at the Jezebel article that juxtaposes Thicke's lyrics with rapist's comments to their victims, I think we can conclude that "Blurred Lines" is one of the most offensive songs in mainstream media in at least the last decade, if not the history of forever (disclaimer: I have no data to back that up).

But here's the real catch: the song that Miley sang and danced to that put her in the media spotlight and heralded her advent into the spot of the "token punk slut" or something ridiculous like that was--you guessed it--"BLURRED LINES" BY ROBIN THICKE. Did Thicke get any shit for it? Absolutely not. He was grinding on her just as much as she was grinding on him. That's it, the golden example of female oppression. Congratulations, world. You have succeeded in perpetuating one of the most pervasive evils of modern culture.

Earlier this month, Barbara Walters debuted her "10 Most Fascinating People of 2013" list, and Miley was on the list. Walters' interview with Miley showed just how demonized she has become. Miley said that she wore a Marc Jacobs dress to an event recently and was called boring because she wouldn't get naked, yet when she bares her body in a bra and underwear, she's labeled a naughty slut.

A few days ago Miley posted a short preview on her Instagram of a new music video that's debuting on December 26th for her song "Adore You." In the clip, Miley is wearing a bra and underwear and is touching herself. So of course, the media pounced on her, calling her "provocative" and "racy," and patronizing her for showing "self-admiration." In this case, self-admiration is just a fancy word for masturbation, which according to The World is a deadly sin for females but is perfectly acceptable for males, the same way male nudity is deified and female nudity is completely taboo. Prime example: Dylan Sprouse posted Instagram photos of him straight-up grabbing his penis and it got little press; there have been no parodies made, no global uprising of anti-Dylan backlash, NOTHING. He can put up a few Tweets and a blog post on Tumblr and have it all blow over, being forgiven by his faithful fans within moments. But Miley performs a deeply personal and heartfelt song while sitting naked on a wrecking ball (neither her breasts nor her crotch were actually displayed but rather tactfully covered by her arms or legs depending on the shot and camera angle), and she gets months, maybe even years worth of shit for it. No amount of apologies or Tweets or anything will make anyone think differently about her.

There's also the issue that when a woman chooses to portray herself as a sexual being the way Miley does, it's sinful and tasteless, but when a model in a bra and underwear is placed on a billboard in Times Square with the words "Victoria's Secret" smacked on next to her, it's called an advertisement and is a lucrative business. No one thinks twice about how overtly sexual the Victoria's Secret models are. And even if it is their choice to be modeling the undergarments, they are not doing it for themselves; they are doing it for a broad audience. When sex is handed to us, relinquished to us, surrendered to us, we take it wholeheartedly. But when sex is shown to us and we can't have it, we shame it into a state of scandal.

The truth of the matter is, Miley Cyrus grew up in the spotlight. If you're a teenager right now, think about how difficult it is to simply exist. And then think about doing that with the entire world watching. And if you're an adult, all you have to do is think the same way, only retrospectively. People go through phases, they undergo transformations, they reinvent themselves from the inside out--IT IS NOT A SIN, IT IS NOT MISGUIDED, IT IS NOT A SIGN OF BEING "TROUBLED" OR "NEEDING HELP." It is a natural process that each and every freaking one of us either has gone through or will go through, and to completely dehumanize Miley in this way is further testament to our world's (but especially this country's) insensitivity and outright aversion to noncomformity, healthy sexuality, and, to put it bluntly, females.

Have anything to say? Post it in the comments!!

An Explanation

I believe I owe all of you guys an explanation as to why I've been such a lazy blogger these past few months. As a writer, I know that sometimes, words are not enough. That's why things like karaoke and GIFs were created. So, those are the mediums I have chosen to express my thoughts. I think these two pieces of evidence provide a realistic representation of my mental state and thus an explanation for my lackadaisical behavior.


[A bit of background: I was playing Disney Sing It on my Wii and completely ignoring the fact that I couldn't really breathe/probably shouldn't have been shouting because I had a weird flu shot-induced cold.]

Hey

I hope that cleared things up for you all. 

Goodnight fellow faeries, it's all gonna be a-oke. 

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Françoise S. McSass

In the past year or so, I've become really really good at procrastinating. I've become so good, in fact, that I've created new words that correlate with the form of procrastination I am participating in (ie procrastisnacking). This form of procrastination, right here, is a double-whammy: I'm avoiding doing my homework and I'm avoiding writing any of the blogposts I know will take more brain power than I'm willing to exert at the moment (basically more than one nanowatt per hour) (that's definitely not how you measure brain power). So, in light of my sick procrastination skillz, here's some mindless inspiration from one of my preferred French ladies, Françoise Hardy. 

Françoise is one of the classic '60s/'70s musicians: tall, blonde, bang-ed, skinny, glamorous, and sad. She's like the French Joni Mitchell. She's got a beautiful voice, a dolorous soul, and a knack for being so freaking French. 

...There's really not much else I can think to say about her. But you should listen to her music to get the whole picture. Here's some of my favorite songs of hers (not in any particular order):

1) Parlez-moi de lui

2) A quoi ça sert

3) Suzanne

4) J'aurais voulu

5) Il n'y a pas d'amour heureux

6) Toi je ne t'oublierai pas 

7) La rue des coeurs perdus

8) La mer les étoiles et le vent

Now you get to look at her pretty face and clothing. 

[Photos via the vast Interwebs]

Sass McSassypants

Sad...guitar....scalloped dress...knee socks...

Still sad

Eff you all, I ain't sad no more cuz now I'm sassy!!!

Probably still sad

but glamorous

Pensive 

and sad

and nice hat

Sassy

French

Still pensive 

but now wind-blown

Older, but still sassy-sad

I hope you found my interpretations to be accurate. 

Happy freaking Sunday lil bubs. 

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Soul Food

A spiritual experience. It wasn't quite what I was actively searching for, but it was a hidden desire, buried deep underneath layers of post-middle school dust and slowly being shaken awake by my recently kindled fascination with yoga. But I think I found it. Or I found one. 

Religion is and always has been debatable, but spirituality? No, that's personal, you can't deny someone a supernal, holy moment. I think, perhaps, that's one of the things I love about Edward Sharpe & the Magnetic Zeros. The band--quite literally a band of people--offers the world a chunk of rawness dislodged from the core of each of them, and ultimately from the core of humanity. And what is more raw than one's spirituality? One could argue love, or sex, but in the end, spirituality encompasses both of those in a succinct, broader sense. Edward Sharpe was borne of deep loss, a natural root of pain, and thus began a route to combatting that inherent and inevitable pain of existence. Oftentimes when people are grieving, or in a bad mental place, they claim--although "claim" alludes to disbelief; belief in the claim is subjective--to see supernatural apparitions, voices of (a) God/god, angels, seraphs, holy choirs, etcetera. That's where Edward Sharpe's music comes from. That place of distress, and then the spiritual release, the saving grace. 

I wasn't in desperate need of a cosmic intervention per se when I discovered the band's first CD, Up From Below. I was only thirteen, but the music spoke to me in a way that everyone else was afraid to. They sang of intense love, of sexual desire, of mind-altering substances, of things that thirteen-year-olds are taught, generally, to be wrong. But I was never deterred by the messages I was sent throughout my childhood. When I read Romeo and Juliet, I found myself even more attracted to the idea of I'll-die-for-you love; everyone else in my seventh grade class wrote their papers arguing free will, whereas I was the sole student that fervently argued the power of fate. Our "adolescent issues" class was aimed at teaching us the perils of teenage sexual encounters ("If you have sex you will get pregnant and die" -- Mean Girls) and the irreversible dangers of alcohol and illicit drugs (say no to everyone! Everyone is trying to get you addicted to everything! Say NO!), and I will admit that for a while, I religiously, for lack of a better word, believed in those rules. And then I heard the music. 

Their voices crack(ed), they clap(ped) and stomp(ed), they were (are) loud and they didn't (don't) care, they love(d) the universe with no reserve. Me: a frightened quiet middle school graduate with too much to do. I wanted whatever it was that they had. I played the CD on repeat, all sixteen songs, and I prayed for a gust of fairy-dust-wind to whisk me away and take me to the magical land in which I could find all these wonderful and foreign things of which they spoke. 

CD number two came out a year later, entitled Here, a word that I just recently discovered the importance of. The songs were a little sadder, a little happier, a little more aware of what they wanted. I was a little sadder, a little happier, a little more/less aware of what I wanted.

Edward Sharpe songs are the kind of songs you must treat like classical music: you must either play them very softly or very loudly, never in between, or else the effect is lost. Perfect for falling asleep to, perfect for blasting from speakers while lying on the floor waiting to feel okay again, perfect for a jubilant dance party, perfect for sing-along car rides, perfect for putting on mixtapes, perfect for getting you through long subway rides...Just all around perfect, but perfect in their imperfection. Like people. Humans. That's it, maybe; their music is irrevocably human. And that's really the only thing we can truly know about, as people: what it's like to be who we are. We can study a million other things, astrology, zoology, botany, but in the end we're not stars or tigers or flowers, we're human beings. And that's where Edward Sharpe writes and composes from, that impossible-to-ignore but often impossible-to-tap-into place of pure existence. Not human survival, no Darwinian theories or Freudian philosophies or academia at all, because none of that is truly relatable.

But these songs--they hit on something, a rare and treasured thing that is nearly inexplicable, but may best be described as harmony, as finding the point of peace among discordance. If you look at the demographics of people that listen to their music, it will shock you. This much I can tell you from going to see them play at Governor's Ball in June. There were Long Island teenagers, doctors, middle-aged office workers, art students--and this was only among the people I could see within a five-foot-radius of myself. Everyone was swaying and singing and chanting and maybe even crying together, complete strangers united by a common sound and feeling. I could attribute that to the universality of their music, but another theory comes to mind. The band's all-around vibe, emanating from their songs, their appearance, and their performance, exudes a feeling of "I DON'T CARE WHAT YOU THINK ABOUT ME," something that everyone needs more of. Especially in modern society, a time and place in which almost all we do is care what other people think about us, this is refreshing. I'm a guy and I have long hair and sometimes I don't wear shoes and cry? YEAH WHO CARES. I'm a girl and I have short hair and I don't shave my legs and I'm fragile? GO AWAY IF YOU THINK I CARE. I'm singing about things that aren't dancing in clubs and getting drunk out of my mind, and instead I'm talking about universal love and spirituality and peace? THERE'S NO WAY YOU'RE GOING TO MAKE ME THINK I'M WEIRD. 

If Edward Sharpe & the Magnetic Zeroes teaches us anything, it's that we shouldn't be afraid. (This is really drilled into us in their eponymous third album that came out last month.) Don't fear, the world loves you, we love you, the flowers and the sand and the asteroids love you, and as long as you love yourself, "everything will be alright forever and forever and forever" (The Dharma Bums by Jack Kerouac). Wear what you want, say what you want, do what you want, because the only thing that's holding you back from living without inhibition is what you think everyone else will think of you. Thus the only thing holding you back is you, because in the end, you are you and that's really all that's certain. They don't teach us to break the laws and go smash things and commit arson and murder, but more that we're not as trapped as we think we are. The shackles are invisible, all it takes is a little bit of power to break yourself free. 

*Of course this all relates to fashion. Everything relates to fashion because fashion iz lyfe amirite holla at me if I'm rite 

[First five photos taken by me; last two photos taken from Google.]

Lead singer Alexander Ebert at Governor's Ball

Lead singer Alexander Ebert stomping it out at Governor's Ball

Lead singer Alexander Ebert stomping it out on the other side at Governor's Ball

Lead singer Alexander Ebert concentrating on the ~soul~ at Governor's Ball

Band member and vocalist Jade Castrinos acting cute while singing at Governor's Ball

Band member and vocalist Jade Castrinos swaying with a tambourine

The whole crew on the grass

Check out all of their albums on iTunes, or on YouTube (The YooHoo, as sometimes I like to refer to it, as in, "How can I download these darn em-pee twos from The YooHoo?!"), or Spotify, or wherever.

PS DON'T FORGET TO ENTER THE SOLE PROVISIONS GIVEAWAY...PLEASE....

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J'irai en France

Eighty-five percent of my dreams are about to come true because I am set to hop on an airplane to my favorite country in the world tomorrow. The city of Paris awaits me, with its historic greenery and looming architecture and endless inspiration and beguiling language and everything I ever need. I've been practicing my French for the past three nights, starting at 10 pm and staying up until 2 am conjugating verbs, reviewing grammatical structures, working on speaking quickly by singing along to French pop songs from the '60s (I have played that song maybe 80 times since this morning), and just trying to prep my brain for the culture I'm about to be submerged in for a few weeks. 

My passion for everything French is no secret, but for some reason I feel like this trip is going to be especially important. I feel like I'll be able to communicate more, and more easily, and that it will be amazing to get away from America for a while and experience something new. I used to relish my time at home and spent a great deal of it sitting in my room doing whatever the hell it was that I did. But now my apartment entrenches me in a sort of stale apathy that I can't seem to do much with. It makes me anxious and tired and restless simultaneously. I need a change of scenery. France is exactly the place to go for that. 

I'm also going to be turning 16 while I'm there. After a consecutive sequence of abject birthdays, I can just tell that this one's going to be good. I want to go to Shakespeare & Co. in the Quartier Latin and buy French books, and eat delicious food, and wander around Paris. It all seems so unreal, but at the same time I can't wait. The feeling is inexplicable, which is why I'm doing such a bad job of explaining it. 

We also might be traveling to the south a little bit, which of course I am hella pumped for. I want to buy some orange lipstick somewhere, and get a refill of my perfume in Les Baux, and eat fresh fruit from the market in Aix-en-Provence, and see the Palais des Papes in Avignon, and glide along the Promenade des Anglais in Nice. And maybe stop in Italy for lunch. Who knows. 

Here's some photos I gathered off the internet of places I might be going. 

[Photos via Google.com.]

This is where we go running. We run that whole frickin' thing. It's like, 7 kilos. Sometimes we bike it.

The Promenade des Anglais, right on the coast of the Mediterranean

The market in Aix-en-Provence

The Pont d'Avignon

Montmartre, home to the Sacre Coeur and an ungodly amount of Parisian beauty

One of my favorite bridges on the Seine, the Pont des Arts. I'm bringing a lock to put on it this time.

Shakespeare & Co., the store in which I plan to work when I move to France.

The village of Les Baux

I'm not bringing my digital camera with me this time because it's so heavy and I'm worried I'll break it and/or my back, but I just came bought some disposable cameras to use instead because they're very light. Basically what I'm saying here is that there won't be much live-action reporting from France, but who knows if that even matters? I'll probably write about the trip sporadically on here.

Have a blast back in the States. I can't decide if I'll miss them.

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Mapple

I recently finished reading Just Kids by Patti Smith. This book inspired me to write, to make art, to sing, and to learn about my city's and culture's history. It follows the story of Patti Smith and Robert Mapplethorpe making their way into the art and music scenes in New York City in the sixties and seventies. She introduces you to some of the most remarkable people of the 20th century, like Jimi Hendrix, Allen Ginsberg, Sam Wagstaff, and Bob Dylan. 

As a poet, visual artist, and performer, I like to think that Patti and I have a lot in common (in theory). But one of the most beautiful aspects of the memoir is her relationship with Robert. Their devotion to one another is so wholesome and unconditional that it sort of makes you want to go find Patti Smith and hug her, or maybe write her a really long letter, or look at every picture of them together. Patti allows you to experience the intimacy of their relationship unapologetically and fully. After I finished Just Kids, I immediately Google'd Robert's work and took out some of my favorite photographs of his. I felt that much more connected to his pictures because I'd learned his personal history and about his climb to the pinnacle of artistic talent. 

I strongly recommend the book to everyone, no matter if you're a Patti Smith fan or not (I'd never heard her music before I read her book). It's wonderful and well-written and beautiful. And it has lines like, "It had started with the moon, inaccessible poem that it was." 

If there's a Robert Mapplethorpe exhibit near you at any point, you obviously must go see it and report back to me.

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Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close

Here comes the semi-juicy stuff. We're working our way up to the finale post of this lil mini-series about Governor's Ball, because I've been waiting months to write about a certain ~thing~ and I had to wait until the day of the concert had come and passed. 

Now that I think about it, there's not really much to relate to all you good people out there except for

a) MUD

b) the music was incredible 

     b1) we saw Dirty Projectors at 3:45 pm. There was a drunk woman and all her annoying friends standing right next to me and at one point said woman began crying and falling on me and being straight up dumb, but eventually they all left. It was a miracle. Also, the band was effing amazing and managed to play nearly the exact playlist that I had sent them telepathically. I think they got a few wrong merely because the signals were interrupted by the stupid lady falling all over me. 

    b2) then we saw Edward Sharpe & the Magnetic Zeros, and it was a spiritual experience. I guess I can't keep the secret in much longer, so I'll just release the information now that that third post is all about Edward Sharpe. They have contributed 23% to saving my life, and for that I owe them everything. And they owe me more music. 

    b3) the last band we saw was Animal Collective. I don't know much of their music, but they happened to only play one song that I knew, so I was just sort of bobbing my head for an hour and twenty minutes waiting for a moment when I could actually sing along. And it was also very dark and very muddy and everyone was very rambunctious. 

c) I had some decent Chinese food 

d) we met a tall Latvian man named Roma 

e) we had to endure twenty minutes of drunken flirtations between a neurosurgeon named Megan and Roma 

f) MUD

g) it was quite loud and we got up pretty close to the stage all three times

h) the whole day was bangin' 

[Photos by me.]

The muddy expanse.

Dirty Projectors! They sounded awesome and were a pleasure to watch. Especially David Longstreth because Alina aptly described him as a baby sloth. And if you rearrange and cut out some letters in his last name it would spell 'sloth.'

Edward Sharpe & the Magnetic Zeros! Jade and Alexander singing to/with each other! ~~LUV IS IN THE AIR~~

Animal Collective! Lots of crazy sounds and crazy lights and crazy people. 

Now that I have time to do stuff I've spent most of my non-test-taking time going running. But now I feel like a crazy person and need to do some really creative things to get all my insanity out of my system. Who's with me?

P.S. Congrats to my sister and all her friends for graduating high school yesterday, and especially to the entire class of 2013 for completely botching up their rendition of the school's Alma Mater. That was atrocious.

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The Secret Life of Mud

The day finally came. This past Saturday, I went to Governor's Ball. There are another two blog posts dedicated to the actual event coming up in the near future, but in this one I'm just gonna focus on what me and my quasi-date Alina wore. 

Festival fashion is kind of like, a big deal. The fact that there's a certain class of trends dedicated to what people wear to music festivals is telling enough. Since it was hella hot out, most of the ladies were wearing some semblance of shorts and bustiers/bra tops à la the spring 2013 shows. A few women were just wearing straight up bras. Props to them. About one-third of the people had been there on Friday and lived through the rain and knew to wear rain boots. The rest of us were wearing anything but rain boots. Alina was wearing jelly shoes and some people were wearing canvas shoes or flip flops or nothing suitable for mud. I was luckily wearing my hiking boots, but by the end of the day they were just blocks of mud that I was dragging around. I had to hose those puppies down well, but I still feel like there's going to be a little farm inside those shoes forever more. 

I decided to take an alternate route in terms of what I wore. The road less traveled by, if you will. I wore my mom's maternity dress, wrapped a weird black and white flower choker around my neck, put my hair in lil dumplings, got on my Timbs (that's Timberlands for those that don't understand abbreviations), and put a temporary tattoo of a sun on my chest. Alina also wore a dress, a tent dress of sorts from Topshop, with her pink jelly shoes. She had to take them off and walk barefoot because the mud was too slippery. She stepped on a helluva lot of smushed beer cans. 

Enough talking, you must now look. 

[Photos of me by Olive; photos of Alina by me.]

Dress: my mom's maternity dress

Boots: Timberlands

Choker: shared by me and my sister, from the baby years

Watch: present from my mom

Just hangin' in the mud.

This is the point at which I became a puppy. 

Dancing prep. Gotta keep the machine well-oiled, ya know? 

Dress: Topshop

Belt: yo idk this ain't my wardrobe

Choker: on loan from me

Temporary tattoo: probably Claire's....

Baby Alina, bein' cayute. 

Costume change! 

Overalls: Forever 21

Bustier: Topshop

Backpack: Topshop

Mud: courtesy of the stupid effin' weather

The next installment in this series will be about the music and the bands I saw. Despite the mud and the heat, EVERYTHING ROCKED. I was jamming out so hard and I was in my main element. Plus my hair was up in dumplings, so everything was perfect.

Also, today was my last day of school. THANK GOD THANK GOD THANK GOD THANK GOD I'M DONE I MADE IT IT'S OVER HOLY EFF. I can't believe I made it. And that was only 10th grade. ...Fuq.....

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Ashish And His Sequins

Ashish Gupta is a genius. Or a madman. Or likely both. I think to an extent madness and genius are directly proportional. Whatever Ashish is, it's awesome and I love it and he should never stop being that thing. I happened upon his eponymous brand around a year ago and felt like crying and doing a little jig when I saw his Spring/Summer 2012 collection. It was a perfect combination of flowers and cowgirls and braids and sequins. And when one combines those four items gracefully--nay, MAGNIFICENTLY--said person clearly has a great deal of talent and should be showered with rose petals and chocolate chip muffins every morning. 

There isn't a whole lot of info on the designer himself on the Infinite Internet, but I did find a short interview he did with the people at London Fashion Week. He began his line in 2005, interweaving pop culture references and product placement between his messily glamourous clothing right from the get-go. Ashish has been quoted saying that his signature design focal points are, "Sequins, glamour, sportswear, and more sequins."Basically, SEQUINS. He sometimes uses them subtly as small accents, he sometimes dunks the models in bowls of sequins and sends them on the runway, he sometimes loads Nerf guns with sequins and goes on midnight panty raids thus armed. (Disclaimer: nothing I just said is true at all.) 

Ashish gathers inspiration from the cinematic world and pop culture, as well as Tumblr. He thinks Tumblr is fascinating because of how it gathers inspiration and information from millions of people worldwide. He calls it an "ever-evolving giant scrapbook of ideas." That's one way of putting it. 

The thing I love about Ashish is how endlessly funky and fearless it is. Whoever's wearing his clothes obviously does not give a flying fuq about what other people think of them, which I think is highly admirable. Good for them, and good for Ashish for promoting such intense awesomeness. 

You should check out all his collections on his website, I promise promise promise you will not regret it. 

[Photos via Style.com.]

SPRING/SUMMER 2012

SPRING/SUMMER 2012

FALL/WINTER 2012

FALL/WINTER 2012

SPRING/SUMMER 2013

SPRING/SUMMER 2013

FALL/WINTER 2013

FALL/WINTER 2013

Now I want to destroy all my old pairs of jeans and create a patchwork jumpsuit. Actually, I think I'm going to go do that. Like, right now. 

P.S. Alina and I are going to Governor's Ball this Saturday (along with a bunch of other Can I Have Your Closet veterans, like Octavia and Olive) so I'm definitely going to post about that once I've recovered from the psychedelic experience. We're seeing Edward Sharpe & the Magnetic Zeros (aka the one band in the entire world that I would follow around the world if I had the funds/means), Animal Collective, and Dirty Projectors, among others. My excitement is ova-flowin'. 

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