We all have questions and need advice, but sometimes the pseudo therapy in the Instagram stories of astrology girlies doesn’t cut it. Or maybe the gate-keeping culture of adventure bros has you fearing the judgment that comes with revealing yourself as a newbie at anything. This monthly advice column exists to hold space for you and your Boulder queries (especially the uncool ones).
Is it gonna be OK?
This one stumped me, so I posed it to my roommate. “Did your cereal taste the same this morning?” was his reply. “Then it’s gonna be OK.” Admittedly, I’m not sure what this means, but he also thinks Boulder is up its own ass, so I respect his judgment.
What year will Boulder’s wokeness collapse onto itself?
The funny thing is that Boulder is literally not woke. It only takes two sangrias for your white neighbor to tell you what she really thinks would solve our homelessness crisis (“‘Rough ‘em up,’ huh? That’s so interesting Stacy, but I just remembered I have to not be here any longer.”)
More importantly, Boulder is not woke in the fundamental meaning of the word. Despite all the festival girlies wearing glitter bindis to activate their third eye (girl, not very woke :/) , we’re all sleepwalking through our little queer-vegan lives.
Have you ever seen someone put down their phone and fucking ascend from seeing the sunset from the Whole Foods parking lot? Of course you haven’t, not because they didn’t but because you were too busy overanalyzing your microinteraction with the Gen Z cashier when you said their tattoo of a naked lady was full of whimsy.
Instead of worrying about if the Naropa ecopsychology department is dumping pronoun bath salts into the creek to make us all poly, maybe wake up and smell the ink on that neoliberal Daily Camera letter to the editor.
Who is Boulder made for in 2025?
Just like the ideal amount of body hair, Boulder’s most blessed child changes on a whim. In 1980, Boulder was made for (and belonged to) gorgeous beard-y men with runner’s legs who looked from the neck up like Robert Redford in Jeremiah Johnson and smoked the all-natural stuff.
In the Boulder Zodiac, 2025 may well turn out to be the year of East Pearl Men who harbor disturbingly positive attitudes toward AI. In 2027, Boulder will be made for a NIMBY who will (ironically?) Airbnb his daughter’s bedroom to Kristen Stewart’s assistant during Sundance and for the real-life (and still fine) Robert Redford.
Should BJs be only for boyfriends?
As women of a certain age (i.e. too old to be mistaken for co-eds but too young to not gag from their dads’ drunk come-ons during CU graduation weekend), we have experienced two sides of the BJ pendulum.
In high school and college, BJs were at worst a social currency and at slightly-less worse a very drunk thing you did very badly in the alley outside the Rio on College Thursday. But now, our #healingjourney and #highstandards have overswung the pendulum. BJs have become a highly potent, controlled substance subject to strict rules as determined by your post-hookup bestie and your professional post-hookup bestie, a.k.a. your therapist Caroline.
Perhaps BJs have accumulated too much power in the giver’s head ;) when they’d better serve to exert power and influence over the receiver.
How should I approach d-bag cyclists?
First of all, don’t look at their junk. Fuck, you just looked at their junk, didn’t you? Maybe it’s because if you glanced at their reflective Rapha sunglasses, you’d just see your own sweaty, entitled face. Look at yourself, blubbering something about going the wrong way on a one-way. His Spruce Confections cortado looks so tiny and classy. You’re embarrassing yourself, man. The d-bag cyclist is literally wearing a stained bib and clip-in shoes, and he still gets more pussy than you ever could even if Clairo was your wingman.