The month of May marks the end of an era; not only am I graduating from this wonderful institution (god-willing), but my BFF, Rory Gilmore will also be graduating from Yale and possibly leaving the airwaves of CW forever.  I’ve come to terms with the fact that there may not be an eighth season of The Gilmore Girls; besides, next year, just like Rory, I’m supposed to be a grown up with a job and some sort of future.  I know she’s been interviewing at all sorts of newspapers across the country, and I’m very excited for her.  I probably won’t be able to afford cable, so I will rely on my set of Gilmore DVDs to sustain me while I do homework as I work toward a master of arts in teaching (again, god-willing) and wonder why I chose to attempt certification to teach high school English before realizing that I’m not a fictional character who attended an Ivy League University.  Deep breath.  If Rory can graduate, I can, too.  After all, she’s a communications major but I’ve not seen her take one journalism class.  Sure, she writes for and served as editor of The Yale Daily News, and she had that internship, but I’ve only seen her in a few classes over the years, and none of them taught her how to write a good lead or get a decent job.  And why isn’t she going to graduate school?  She has enough money.  They could easily stretch out this show as long as 7th Heaven without all the stupid plot twists if they put Rory in a graduate program at Yale.

I know Rory has a bright future, whether it play out on The CW or in the fan fiction that probably exists all over the internet.  She and I have been tight since my sophomore year of high school when my friend Megan (who actually exists) told me about this show that reminded her of my mother and me.  Syndication and TV on DVD made me this way, though.  While living on my own over the summer, I often spent the evenings in Stars Hollow when I should have read Shakespeare, because Rory and Paris performing Act V of Romeo and Juliet totally counted as studying for my then-far-away comprehensive exams.  I often pop in a season of the show as background noise while I’m doing schoolwork or trying to drown out the drunks in my hall; thus, I’ve been with Rory through various academic achievements and personal traumas too many times to count.  I probably remember what has happened to her better than she does at this point.  The Gilmore Girls is essentially a part of who I am, and sometimes people look at me strangely when I reference an event that took place in Stars Hollow with the authority of someone who was there.

By now, you probably think that I’m a wack job.  My obsession with Lorelai and Rory is justifiable, though. My life mirrors Rory’s, and I’m not just saying this because I’m completely obsessed.  My mother and I really are best friends even though there’s a greater age difference between us; plus, like Lorelai, she’s my biggest supporter and my number one fan.  Rory’s father flaked out when she was in high school but started to redeem himself once she went to college, just like mine.  Rory freaked out and took a semester off from college, I spent a semester at Lebanon Valley College for financial and personal reasons. Rory and I are totally twins, and she’s always there for me.  When something bad happened with one of my relationships, I’d remember some tribulation Rory faced and find courage to continue on.  She and I went through relationships with good boys and bad boys; I felt her pain when Jess bailed, wanted to smack her face with that whole Dean thing, and I’m still not sure how I feel about Logan. And for the record, I can’t come right out and say anything that happened after Rory graduated high school because I’m currently spreading the obsession to one of my favorite professors.

What makes The Gilmore Girls so wonderful, and its impending series finale so tragic, is how the characters become like family to those who tune in.  I feel like part of me lives in Stars Hollow, even though I have only spent under five days of time with the folks who live there (assuming I did the math correctly).  I’ve grown up so much since the show came on the air in 2000, and I can put in season 1 and see myself reflected in those big blue eyes any time I need to remember my own roots.  Saying goodbye to the girls is going to be saying goodbye to a wonderful yet turbulent stage in my own life, sealing it in cardboard DVD cases forever.  I’ll miss them, but I’ll know that Rory is doing well at whatever paper she ends up gracing with her presence, and I’ll hope that Lorelai finally makes things work with Luke, aka the only man that is right for her.  When I’m at the bar, I’ll play “Walk Like an Egyptian” on the jukebox and remember the concert that Lorelai and Sookie took Rory and her new Chilton pals to in the first season.  I hope that Miss Patty, Babette, Taylor, Lane and especially Kirk, will keep a relationship with “the business we call show” so that I can see them on Law & Order or in a small movie roll and clap like an excited toddler.  If I end up needing surgery some day, I’ll pray that my surgeon’s collegiate life wasn’t akin to that of Rory’s mildly psychotic, uptight roommate, Paris—hopefully no one sees her and thinks “twins!” the way I do when I see Rory.  And I’ll think of Richard and Emily, Rory’s grandparents, on the holidays, and hope that they’re all sharing a fine meal with a nice bottle of wine.  After graduation, they may be gone from television, but I will have seven years of memories with the Gilmore Girls, and they will always color who I have become.

I will admit that I haven’t really given Ke$ha’s Animal a fair listen. I’ve been known to pause for her songs on the radio, or request her singles when Dan’s DJing car rides with his iPod. They’re fun, poppy dance tunes–or are they?

My Brownie troop is made up of seven- and eight-year-old girls. I’d say a handful of them have fairly involved parents who actively monitor what’s going on in their daughters’ lives and the rest have parents who are trying their best but virtually clueless. One of the girls was singing “TiK ToK” at our meeting this past week, confusing some of the girls who don’t know what a Ke$ha is. Two tables of girls were arguing back and forth as to whether it’s “key-sha” or “keh-sha.” I was already at my wit’s end because they were sewing bean bags to earn a Try-It.

I bought myself a huge Shamrock Shake as a reward for surviving that night, but since then I’ve also been fuming over the very fact that I had to stop an eight-year-old from yelling/singing about brushing her teeth with a bottle of Jack.

While I realize that such a conservative stance goes against my very nature and all I’ve aspired to be myself, I can’t help but be upset by Ke$ha’s lyrical content. In a time where we’re trying to push girls to respect themselves, songs like Ke$ha’s undermine efforts to promote healthy decisions and self-respect–even if her lyrics are meant to mock or be sarcastic.

In an interview with Digital Spy, Ke$ha states says about her latest single, “Blah Blah Blah”:

“It’s a cool song about a woman talking to a man the way men always speak to women. If you listen to any rap or pop station, the way men talk to women is just so cheeky and a little bit degrading. I’m not offended by it though – I just think it’s funny. This track is meant sarcastically. It’s me throwing it back.”

However, when trying to explain to my Mom why I was so upset about the Girl Scouts incident, I found myself unable to read the lyrics aloud to her. Now, considering I regularly use profanity around my mother AND discuss my personal life with her, I would say I’m not a complete puritan. And I’m really not sure if my inability to read “Just turn around, boy, let me hit that / Don’t be a little bitch with your chit chat / Just show me where your dick’s at” to my Mom would truly classify me as a prude. Maybe it does.

My friend and fellow blogger AJ Star, of Stalking with the Stars, recently posted “On Radio Edits” after watching Ke$ha’s American Idol performance where the lines that gave me so much trouble were changed to “Just turn around, boy, let me get that / Don’t be a little chick with your chit chat / Just show me who you are.” AJ’s premise is not about how the integrity of songs is compromised by “radio-friendly editing/censorship” but rather that it’s pointless to choose songs “as singles and then butched for radio play and live performances.” I agree with her point even though my blog comments contained a condensed and angsty version of my Girl Scout rant (i.e., I missed her point on there because I was still really pissed off). If Ke$ha truly wants “Blah Blah Blah” to “throw it back” to men who objectify women in their music, why choose a single–or, dare I say, pen a song–where the lyrics will have to be altered so much for mainstream play that it will completely undermine her point? After all, how is “don’t be a little chick” conveying a feminist message at all? He’s whining, so he’s a girl? What happened to Ke$ha’s girl power?

It’s not fair to pin extra responsibility on female artists, but such is the plight of women in general. Yes, it sucks that men constantly objectify women in pop/hip-hop songs. But how is writing a song mocking that an effective way to take a stance against such objectification?

Maybe it’s the responsibility of the parents to keep their eight-year-olds from singing about excessive partying, Jack Daniels and boys trying to touch their junk, but a pop artist makes a song with the intention of it reaching #1 on the charts and gaining huge exposure through mainstream radio play, so isn’t it partially up to them to have some couth? Some subtlety? Some understanding that their song has the potential to make an impression on young minds?

Then again, maybe it’s me. Perhaps I’m just getting old; maybe I’m turning into a prude. I managed to harness the girls’ energy into a rousing round of “Make New Friends” and then had them sing songs they learned in their elementary school music classes. Still, knowing some of them–and their parents–makes me worry about what they’re learning from mainstream popular culture that inundates their little lives. And I truly wish their parents would tell Ke$ha to get off their lawns, as I would be apt to do if she ever showed up at my house with a bottle of Jack.

Okay, so maybe you won’t be thanking me, but according to Condoleeza Rice, you will be thanking Bush for all he’s done. I love ya, Condi, but are you serious? Apparently so:

“This isn’t a popularity contest. I’m sorry, it isn’t. What the administration is responsible to do is to make good choices about Americans’ interests and values in the long run — not for today’s headlines, but for history’s judgment,” she said.

She then goes on to say that diplomats who say people in the rest of the world don’t like Americans are wrong and that historians who think Bush was a craptastic president are also incorrect. Additionally, she says, “there is no spoon.”

Less than three weeks and he’ll be gone! Will you miss him? Me either.

Speaking of (not) missing Bush, Politico has a list of people we will miss in 2009. I totally agree with their pick of Governor Ed Rendell. I kind of adore my state’s governor, even though some people think he’s a prick. A commenter on a Jezebel post referred to him as “the Gregory House of politics” and I think that is the best short description of him I’ve ever read. He’s honestly sleazy–a true political figure. He is also the first major candidate I voted for when I reached legal age. The list doesn’t mean these folks will disappear completely; they’re simply stating that these figures more than likely won’t be fixtures on CNN. Joe Biden, Dick Cheney and Howard Dean also make the list.

Surprisingly lacking from the list is Grandma Palin. Oh, wait, that’s because we won’t miss her. Ever. (Or perhaps because the media plans on keeping her around. Ew.) Sarah Palin’s daughter Talladega–I mean Bristol–gave birth to a son in December. His name is Tripp Easton Mitchell Johnston and his baby pictures are worth $300,000 to People magazine. Please insert name jokes, drug-addicted mother-in-law jokes and jokes about babies shooting wolves from helicopters here.