Extremely Good Shit of March 2016

Ah, March. Truly the maddest month. Truly the month with the Superest Tuesdays. Truly the month with the most drunk white people claiming Irish heritage.

I had a good March, in case you’re wondering. March is the month during which I began publishing my Extremely Good Shit series, which gained me a lot of validation from my Facebook friends. Social media recognition is the best Shit of all.

I also learned that Jesus was only dead from Friday afternoon to Sunday morning, instead of the three full days I always assumed. So it’s reassuring to know that even the son of God has to pad his resume a little bit.

Enough introduction. Let’s Shit it.


I wrote a piece for TheFirstinline about concert codes of conduct and what it’s like to be a queer feminist One Direction fan. Also, I’m not sure why the link image is a bomb-ass selfie of me but to be honest, I’m not mad about it.


Jordanian pop artist King Deco released “Castaway,” a bubbly little breeze of a tropical banger. The synths and steel drums meld nicely with her sugar-sweet vocals, and the desert-island metaphors in the lyrics are just twee enough to not get on my nerves. “Castaway” is the “Cheerleader” we deserve.


Yoko Ono didn’t break up the Beatles. Yoko Ono could make the Beatles (even the dead ones) get back together if she wanted to, but Yoko Ono, quite frankly, has much better things to do with her time. Like breaking up the Rolling Stones, One Direction, and other famous bands in this transcendent, fictitious listicle by Romie Stott.


Cait Bladt wrote a wonderful Medium piece about sexism in the microcosm of the music industry and the macrocosm of our society as a whole. Bladt uses language of ‘taking’ to condemn men who steal women’s dignity, who help themselves to women’s comfort, who claw at women’s self-confidence. It’s a powerful, wrenching piece that makes me thankful for female resilience and reminds me that I’m not crazy for telling drunk men on the metro not to fucking touch me.

“This is me telling everyone to stop taking things from me. Stop taking my personal space. Stop taking my comfort in public places. Stop taking the enjoyment I get out of feeling hot in my black dress. Stop taking my good nature and jokes and smiles and twisting them into shit that I am not saying.”


I was saving this space to talk about the triumphant self-titled debut EP by 16-year-old, Beyonce-signed Sophie Beem, but I want to give it its own post. Regardless, it is an Extremely Good album and you should go listen to it right now.


Bebe Rexha, the Charli XCX of 2016, released “No Broken Hearts” with Nicki Minaj and gave us the best breakup anthem the world has seen since “Ridin’ Solo.” Unfortunately, Nicki seems to have written her verse like a Mad Lib— did we really need that supremely relevant reference to Monica Lewinsky? Thankfully, Bebe also has bars, and her yodeling vocals are perfect for such an anthemic chorus.

Sure, the song is last in a very, very long line of “we’re only young once, so let’s turn up and then die” anthems. It’s not reinventing pop in any way. But newly single partiers aren’t looking for a genre reinvention — they’re looking for an absolute banger of a song to slap them on the back, hand them a shot, and remind them that there’s no crying in the club.


Netflix has presented its dear viewers with plenty of original programming, ranging the gamut from critically-acclaimed Will Arnett vehicles (Bojack Horseman) to critically-reviled Will Arnett vehicles (Flaked). In March, Netflix also presented us with The Characters, an experimental show that gave eight up-and-coming comedians a half-hour each to do whatever they pleased. The Paul Downs, John Early, and Kate Berlant episodes are instant standouts. Berlant introduces us to a Marina Abramovich-esque artist and her sycophantic followers and assistants, playing many of the lead roles herself with versatility. Please, please give Kate Berlant a one-woman show. And let John Early open for her in his Southern soccer mom/stand-up comedian persona.


Racism and a holiday traditionally celebrated by drunk white people — the match no one saw coming. VICE reporter John Saward spent a day in Manhattan observing St. Patrick’s Day celebrations, and the results are poetic in their predictability. Each vignette reads like the author has found himself hopped up on acid like something out of Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, unable to speak the native language of “BRO FIVE COORS???”


Meme this article to your #FeelTheBern Facebook group. Snapchat this article to your friends with benefits and friends without benefits. Write a thinkpiece about this article using the words ‘PC culture’ and ‘yasss, queen.’ Make sure to reference Girls. This article slays, hunty. Fire emoji cat with heart eyes emoji hands clasped in prayer emoji.


Zayn Malik released his debut album Mind of Mine, a woozy R&B soup full of vocal tricks and synth licks that were incredibly original when the Weeknd did them two years ago and Justin Timberlake did them a decade before that. The best part of the nonstop media coverage of MoM was the fact that everyone and their parody Twitter account had something to say about his Myspace-ass sOnnG TItLeS. The roast started strong with this wonderful contribution by Fran Hoepfner, Aubrey Bellamy, and Caitie Delaney:

Caitie: I imagine this is Zayn trying to say the word “innit” sexually. Ie. “Roight, welcome to my album, innit? Prepare to get wet.”

and it just kept going thanks to Fuse.tv:

9. Are you high right now? (Asking for a friend.)

10. Do you ever get nervous?

11. Are you single?

12. I heard you fucked your girl, is it true?

13. OK, we know it’s true because you make it painfully clear with every step toward this album. You have sex. What is that like?

and finally my dear friend Zach Kobrin delivered a smackdown of toxic masculinity and how Zayn benefits from it:


Bad W0lfy’s new single is apparently about concepts like rebirth and gender fluidity, but all I hear is a hypnotic whirring bass line and a flawless drum breakdown under the chorus. And, to be honest, that’s all I need.


VICE is known (and often mocked) for its ridiculous gonzo journalism. Contributors detail their exploits investigating wartorn countries, dabbling in sex work, and snorting and smoking any drugs that have made headlines out of Floridians.

This article is about Cadbury Creme Eggs, and it’s the most gripping, hard-hitting piece of journalism they’ve ever written.


Phoebe Ryan‘s new song “Chronic” is pretty lit. Ryan’s smoky pop vocals are tremulous and aching, and the ascendant bridge spiraling into the chorus is intoxicating. The lyrics speak to the dizzying sugar-high of teenage relationships, and the guitar power chords of the chorus lend the song the slightest pop-punk edge. While I couldn’t tell you what the song’s title is referencing, I’ll give “Chronic” 420/69 stars.


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