Scanner : booty calls

While You Were Sleeping: Paul Newman’s Gay Affair

Brian Fairbanks — Fri, 15 May 2009 14:02:00 GMT

Free mp3’s from the likes of She & Him, Robyn Hitchcock, and Shawn Mullins can be yours if you donate so much as one dollar to save Paste Magazine.

We really feel bad for this woman who cried in her mugshot photo, even though she put up an ad on an elevator wall offering sex for money and gave out her real phone number.

Tom Hanks is upset his Angels and Demons sex scene was cut for the PG-13 rating.

John Mayer sends text messages that say “I want to tuck you in” when he really means a word that starts with “f” instead of “t,” according to the ever-reliable New York Post.

Hey Brits– the best breasts are in Yorkshire.

Gerard Butler has been charged with beating up a pap.

Shanna Moakler asked Carrie Prejean to “stop lying.”

And a new book claims Paul Newman and James Dean slept together. That seems believable– if we were forced at gunpoint to have sex with another man, it would have to be one of these two in their prime.

Sloppy Seconds: The Summer Days of Our Slutty Lives

Emily Farris — Fri, 08 May 2009 23:09:00 GMT

Sandra Bullock is "not sure" she wants kids. Apparently this warrants a news story. [Us]

We blame South Park for making us laugh every time we see the word "probe" no matter the context. Today's laughable headline: "Police, 50 Cent see house fire probe differently." Sort-of sounds like something that could be cleared up with a little Preparation H, right? [Yahoo!]

As long as we can remember Emily has been one of the top 10 baby names for girls. This year, we're at number three. And we're pretty sure we've dated at least one of each from the baby boy section. [SSA.gov]

Sorry for the late notice on Free Chocolate Day. [The Inquisitr]

Firtexting: apparently more than just a thing to do when you want some booty. A site? A book? A worldview? [BuzzFeed]

Apparently all of those soap operas we watched with the summer between first and second grade (and second and third and third and fourth and fourth and fifth... well, you get the picture) turned us slutty. [KIDK]

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Is "Tech Sex" Somewhere Between Cyber Sex and Technical Sex?

Emily Farris — Thu, 11 Dec 2008 17:12:00 GMT

Oh, sorry. We thought the term "sexting" was the word on the street for teenagers sending sexually explicit text messages from phone to phone, but apparently the "exting" suffix is a little too niche for the broader problem, which is "tech sex."

According to a new poll, one in five US teens has sent nude or near nude images to someone by phone or email, and twice as many have sent "suggestive electronic messages."

We don't really see how this is any different than the coded messages our "friend" used to send to our pager in high school, except this takes all the fun out of us having to consult a phone key pad to figure out that he had a dream that he was shaving our pubic hair.

Anyway, this is apparently a problem, or else there wouldn't be a news story about it, right? But the real problem, as we see it is (as we've pointed out before): if you take naked pictures with your cell phone they will get leaked. We promise.

At least it's not unprotected anal sex.

[AFP: One in five US teens has had 'tech sex': study]

Video of the Day: Sexting

Nude High School Cheerleader Scandal is Disturbing for a Few Reasons

How Long Were You a "Technical Virgin?"

"Dad, Guess Who Lost Their Virginity Last Night?"

Video of the Day: Sexting

Emily Farris — Mon, 01 Dec 2008 22:28:00 GMT

If we had to guess, we'd say "sexting" is sending a text message booty call. We'd be wrong. "Sexting," apparently, is "sexy photos being sent from phone to phone.... a trend that teens and their parents ought to know about. "

Because, uh, you could go to jail for it.

via videosift.com

We're going to start using the term our way. Somebody's getting sexted this weekend!

Related:

When Drinking and Technology Don't Mix: Scanner Emily's Facebook Faux Pas

"Hey there sex E girl" Text Message Haikus for Sarah Hepola

A Booty Call From Scanner, Er Salon, Sarah

Mom Sent 12,000+ Texts To Her Daughter's Ex-Boyfriend... Then Tried To Blackmail Him

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Review: Mail Goggles

Emily Farris — Mon, 27 Oct 2008 15:42:00 GMT

When I first heard about Mail Goggles—the program that forces you to answer math problems during pre-set hours of the night before sending email—I was super excited. I've sent one too many drunk emails in my day. That's a lie, I've probably sent 100 too many drunk emails in my day. Responding to a colleague's email after a party one night, I laid out, in detail, how I talked my way out of a ticket for public urination on the way home. I've invited ex-boyfriends over, responded to Craigslist personals ads and once even quit a job via a drunken email. While that last one probably needed to happen, it seemed I'd been waiting for Mail Goggles my entire adult life.

Though I'd trained myself over the past year or so to save anything questionable as a draft until morning, I immediately set about activating Mail Goggles. Well, sort-of immediately. It took me a while, and a few Google searches, to figure out how to do it (it's under Google Labs, by the way). I finally set it up so that I would have to answer intermediate math problems Thursday through Sunday from midnight to 5 a.m.

The first night I came home to Mail Goggles I'd had a few drinks. I whizzed through the five addition and multiplication questions and answered a few boring emails with a few boring responses. A whiskey or three doesn't do much to me these days—except, apparently, enhance my math skills.

The next night I stayed in. I watched TV and ordered pizza. I was writing and talking to my mom on the phone and, of course, answering emails. I had typed out a response to my cousin about a plane ticket and clicked send. A little box popped up with five math problems. I rolled my eyes. I felt like I had when I'd told my friend to not let me eat any more cookies and then I went back for a cookie and she tried to stop me and I was like "What business do you have telling me what to eat?" But, I did this to myself, so I needed to answer the questions, except—FUCK!—I got them wrong.

Apparently, I was much better at math with a little help from my friend Jameson.

Numbers were never my forte. I was in advanced trig in eleventh grade, but that's because I was good at problem solving, not because I was good at math. That trig class was the last time I'd ever really done math beyond halving recipes and calculating tips.

I gave the problems another try and Google told me to have some water and go to sleep. I told Google to fuck off, and saved all my emails as drafts so I could send them first thing in the morning.

Sure, I could have gotten out the calculator, or an old-fashioned pencil and paper, or even typed the problems into the Google search bar for the answers, but I was too mad at myself for getting into this stupid position in the first place. Did I really need my email program to babysit me?

While Mail Goggles will surely be incredibly helpful for many people who like to drink and click, unfortunately it's just a few years too late for me. From now on I'll take responsibility for my own emailing and leave the math practice to the college kids (who probably actually need it).

Let's revisit this subject when they can put a breath-a-lizer on my phone.

Related:

Google Launches "Mail Goggles", Bloggers Everywhere Stop Getting Laid

Five Things I Learned in Vegas

A Booty Call From Scanner, Er Salon, Sarah

Emily Farris — Mon, 02 Jun 2008 13:55:00 GMT

Scanner Emily and Scanner alum Sarah Hepola met this weekend for the first time. Exciting, right? While we have no photographic evidence to back this up, Scanner Emily was super excited and we drank a lot and everybody had a good time. Even more exciting? Getting a text message booty call of sorts from Salon Sarah at the ass crack of dawn on Sunday morning.

Okay, okay it wasn't a real booty call. Nor was it directed at us exclusively, but Salon Sarah did write an article about text message booty calls that landed in our inbox at a very early hour, and we'd like to think that we're at least worthy of one of our own.

Now apparently Sarah is not much of a texter, and we can forgive her for that, especially because she hates abbreviations as much as we do:

Part of the problem is that I'm an annoying grammar snoot who refuses to abbreviate. I find it offensive to collapse the English language into emoticons and acronyms. I think text messaging has indulged everyone's worst impulses to ignore spelling and disregard punctuation. I'm a former English teacher; I've had throwdowns about the serial comma, and I used to 86 a guy if he misspelled "a lot." What am I supposed to do with "l8er" and "sez"?

SS we totes feel u alot.

But you know as well as we do, texting has is advantages and disadvantages. We've had entire sexual relationships develop over text messages and had other relationships fall to shit via the same medium. But can we really complain about how easy text messaging has made it to get laid? Because obviously you cannot:

About three months ago, I ran into Scott, who is charming and adorable and something of a scoundrel. We chatted and exchanged numbers, whatever, blah-blah. Later that week, I was five pints into an evening with friends and feeling the impatient, irrational call to action of someone who overstayed her welcome on the bar stool. Here's an idea, I thought: I should call Scott! But I was too shy, or too slurry, to actually make a phone call. What I could easily do -- well, what I could do with one eye squinted a bit -- was to type out a note to him and toss it to the satellites. I like to think what I wrote was clever and funny. I suspect it was, "Whatcha doin?"

He was there in less than 30 minutes. Like a pizza.

It was brilliant. So fast! So simple! If only everything in life could be so complication-free. I have always been the girl who wants to keep the party going, who doesn't want to go home when the bar lights cruelly flicker on. I would never dream of calling someone at 2 a.m. -- OK, I would, and I have, and I'm sorry -- but suddenly, with text messaging, I could just send an unobtrusive "You still out?" to the call list and voilà: instant after-party.

A few days later, Scott texted me at 2 a.m., and I redirected my taxi to his place.

So here's the problem: There's a reason why drunk-dialing someone at 2 a.m. invokes shame and embarrassment. It's because we probably shouldn't be doing it. What we should be doing is taking our asses home, drinking half a bottle of Gatorade and crashing into bed. My drunk self really doesn't need new and improved ways to stay out later, to get into more trouble, to do things I will ultimately regret. Maybe it shouldn't be so easy to get into someone's bedroom at 2 a.m.

Hey, Sarah. What'd you do after that party Friday night, huh? Because after you left we totally started in on the drunk texting around 2 a.m. And we saw you clicking away on that little phone of yours. Hopefully you had better luck than we did.

[Salon: U still up?]