Friday, January 29, 2010

I feel like I'm not supposed to like Mel, but...


I'm quite excited to go watch "The Edge of Darkness."

I have this vague sense that I should be embarassed to admit that I'm thrilled over the Return of Mel after a protracted seven-year hiatus, particularly because I land squarely in the middle of that demographic that ought to be permanently offended by him. I'm in that Female & Evangelical camp that should probably just say "no thanks" to drunk, misogynistic anti-semites that leave their wives and fifty children in favor of younger, more nubile euro-home-wreckers.

Hmmm, when I look at that in writing.....

Ok, wow - pausing for a moment because I'm looking at a Jack-in-the-Box sidebar add that's making me ridiculously hungry for lunch and it's only 9:45. Forget anti-semetic misogyny for a minute because that $3.49 Jumbo Deal (that also includes two tacos - !!!) looks too damn tasty. Mmm. I've been out of the fast food loop for too long. Think it's time to fall off that "No Wendy's" wagon like I really mean it. My car hasn't smelled like french fries in too long.

But back to Mr Apocalypto.

Remember the movie "Ransom?" Waaaay back before "The Passion of the Christ" (which I patently refused to watch much in the way I refuse to read anything by Dan Brown or see Avatar. If everyone else is doing it, I'll politely decline and feel vaguely culturally superior) and back before "Signs" and back before "The Patriot" and back before field sobriety tests and twitpics of Mel with Beer and Blonde Groupies and that uncomfortable movie "What Women Want" we had "Ransom."

Mel's kid gets kidnapped, he and Renee Russo spend an hour and a half trying to find Gary Sinise and get their kid back. Great movie. Probably some of Mel's most watchable screen time - he played an "average guy" in "extraordinary circumstances." He was vulnerable. Human. Sort of the Anti William Wallace. A reluctant hero. A father doing what any father would do.

That's the comparison "The Edge of Darkness" has drawn. It's a slightly political crime thriller that pits Detective Mel against the government while he tries to figure out who killed his activist-daughter. Apparently makes the most of the fact that Actor-Mel is older now, the hairline a little further back, the lines around the eyes a little deeper. He's Middle-Aged Mel now. Seems like the role of road-weary detective caught up in a struggle against the big bad powers that be would be a good fit. And a good way to test the waters of the public's good graces. He's not trying to cover new cinematic ground or completely re-invent himself, he's just easing himself back into the public consciousness by playing a sympathetic character in a formula that's held up well for him over the years. Hollywood.com box office analyst Paul Dergarabedian puts it this way: "In revenge roles, Mel Gibson has few peers...If you've been away for awhile, it's smart to go back to what people are comfortable seeing you do."

Public opinion on Mel's return is mixed. USA Today likes the film plenty well, seems to think he's in fine form, calls it a "restrained performance," which seems like a welcome change of pace from the high-intensity, high-concept attempts he's made over the past five years or so.

Huff Post offers a sort of mixed bag retrospective of the last seven years of his absence from the big screen while pondering his chances at a successful comeback. On the one hand, he's had moments of seeming defiantly un-repentent (which is fine, I don't think every overrated celebrity necessarily needs to choke on crow to be welcomed back into America's warm and fuzzy folds - sometimes they just need to disappear until we forget). On the other hand, he's been reasonably gracious in a subtly self-deprecating way when he's made recent public appearances (the Golden Globes come to mind).

Film reporter Lewis Beale put it this way: "As a Jew, I have to say Mel Gibson's my favorite anti-Semite...He's an incredibly talented guy both behind and in front of the camera." In the same Huffinton Post article, film historian David Thomson is quoted as saying "Gibson's not a tidy person. There's an authenticity to the unhinged characters he plays that sets him apart. Whether you like him or not, there's a daring there that makes him compelling."
I like that sentiment.

So, he's another imperfect Hollywood personality. Join the brotherhood, Mel. Welcome back to the movies.

Thursday, January 28, 2010

My favorite countdown of the year:

Somewhere along the road I became a huge AskMen fan (fan of the "subscribe to the email newsletter and everything" pursuasion). I know, I'm not a man. Doesn't mean I don't share a manly appreciation for hot chicks. That's probably why the ask men Top 99 Most Desireable Women is an annual thrill for me. My favorite countdown of the year. According to the AskMen people, more than 6 million votes were tallied to come up with the "ideal female companion" for 2010. Even more monumental: they track down GOOD pictures of all 99 women for the slideshow countdown.

It's like mainlining something very pure and pricey for my little celebrity-obsesssed pysche.

Here's an incremental recap. Ironically, one of my underrated favorites of all time snagged the top spot (and she's been decently out of the spotlight this year, so....YAY MEN (or, whomever actually casts the votes) for having great taste this year.

99 - Jamie-Lynn Sigler

Apparently just edged out Kristen Kruek for the bottom spot. I'm glad. Miss Neutrogena has always bugged me...with the possible exception of her fun role in EuroTrip where she rocks out with a very Grunge-Bedazzled Matt Damon during "Scotty Doesn't Know." Jamie-Lynn's cute. Has nice hair. Dated Turtle.

90 - Carrie Underwood

She's a living, breathing Barbie doll with impeccable eye makeup and a set of Cinderella pipes. As far as I'm concerned she can do *almost* no wrong (see: obnoxious duet with Brad Paisley where she over-sings and drowns out Prince Charming).

80 - Selita Ebanks

Victoria's Secret model. Got her start in Sports Illustrated (all the best ones do). Originally engaged to Nick Cannon before he went slumming with Mariah Carey. Has an amazing, mesmerizing, incredible pair of....cheekbones.

70 - Tricia Helfer

Battlestar Galactica. Nuf' said. Those are the types that vote on web countdowns like these.

60 - Eliza Dushku

Ok MEN - bad choice here. Bad choice. Er - good choice if you like your women tough enough to chew your, uh, arm off in a single chomp or kick your pants halfway to Detroit. She's just too horrifyingly TOUGH for me. SO GLAD Scarlett trumped her for the Black Widow role in Iron Man 2. I would have recoiled if she got within a football field of my Tony Stark. I guess some guys will never get over the Buffy days.

50 - Frida Pinto

I decided I loved this girl when she professed to Sally Hansen nail polish for the Oscars. Good for her. Drugstore shopper. Bargain-minded. Classy. Well done, MEN.

40 - Zooey Deschanel

Every hipster's favorite sweetheart. She's darling. Rocks the signature bangs. Redeemed the otherwise groan-worthy "Failure to Launch" with her sleep-deprived, bird-loathing antics. Haven't seen 500 Days of Summer, but apparently therein she rekindled our love of The Smiths.

30 - Olivia Munn

Alright, she's one of those women that ManBloggers love. Egotastic, Hollywoodtuna, Idontlikeyouinthatway, those guys are always the first to post the bikini pics of this Woman of Righteous Cleavage. She's like Keely Hazel - a woman we only recognize when she's undressed. Worth getting excited about, however: Olivia will make an appearance in Iron Man 2. That should put her on the household name map. But then, I thought the same of Olga Kurylenko. Look how well that turned out.

20 - Paz Vega

Ummmmm - she was in that movie The Spirit that "everyone" saw? Mmm hmm. That, and "7 Vidas," which AskMen tells me is the Spanish language equivalent of "Friends." Gotta be honest, never heard of her. Lovely, though. Way to vote, MEN. Who knew so many of you were fluent in famous bullfighters' daughters.

10 - Miranda Kerr

Everyone's favorite "new" Victoria's Secret model. Technically she replaced Gisele. I've yet to find anyone who doesn't think she's cute. It's the dimples. Everyone likes dimples. I'll pardon her taste in "men" (my verdict still out on the official "manliness" of Orlando Bloom.....but hey, supermodels seem to like 'em wimpy....).

1 - Emmanuelle Chriqui

Yay! I've loved her since "100 Girls." She was pretty adorable in National Lampoon's Adam & Eve (actually, check that flick out - I may be the only person I know that's watched it, but as far as brainless gross-out college cinema goes, not bad. She had serious virtue). Then there were those episodes of The OC...and Entourage. And SOON - she teams up with Mickey Rourke, Jason Statham and Alexander Skarsgard in "13." Best I could find out, that's a story about an "underground world of power, violence and chance where men gamble behind closed doors on the lives of other men." Excellent.
Also on the list: Christina Hendricks, Audrina Patridge, Kristen Stewart, Megan Fox, Eva Mendes, Jessica Alba, Marisa Miller, Kate Beckinsale. And about eighty others. Worth checking out during a slow Friday afternoon at work.

Wednesday, January 27, 2010

Today: brought to you by my ADD.


Couldn't make up my mind today - found lots of little stuff worth a few sentences, nothing that really developed into more than a paragraph or two. So, courtesy of my stunted attention span, here's a "Wednesday linkdown."


1. Under the "please tell they're kidding about the name" heading, Apple officially introduced the -- wait for it -- iPad. Not the iTab (which would have made more sense in a tablet pc context). The iPad. And females the world over winced. The good news: males and females alike will soon be able to shell out $499 for a pad. A pad holds 16 gigs of multimedia goodness and reads e-books. The pad will not necessarily go grocery shopping for you or walk the dog, but most everything else will probably be taken care of by an app. Pretty soon you'll probably be able to get married courtesy of an app with a clever name like iRev or iPreach or iRab...


2. Angelina hates the Big Easy. According to US, "...Pitt is devoted to the Mardi Gras burg because it allows him to indulge in his passions for architecture and environmentalism (he established a foundation to build 150 "green" homes in the wake of Hurricane Katrina). If the actor had his way, he'd love settle down in the southern town with Jolie and their six kids."


But on the flip side: Jolie "gets really bored" there, and would prefer staying at Chateau Miraval, their 1000-acre, $70 million estate in Provence, France -- and continue traveling the world. Yet Pitt has lost the globetrotting bug." Ehh.....I'm confused. How can this woman EVER be bored? 6 kids? And not just marginally bored, but "REALLY BORED." Witness my "obnoxious celebrity pity meter" dropping rapidly. Go bust out Apples to Apples and play a round or two with some of those kids.


3. Did my eyeball just pop out of my skull a little bit? Yes it did. Because I just read this: "California School District Bans Dictionary Over 'Oral Sex' Definition." Your eyes do not deceive you. The words Dictionary and Ban were just used in the same headline. 9000 students in that Riverside county district have just been subjected to one of the most heinous academic injustices administrators could possible perpetrate on their young minds. Knowledge of the English language has been deemed inappropriate. Here's a quote from the executive director of the California First Amendment Coalition, Peter Scheer: "Whether banning a dictionary would actually violate free-speech laws is a complicated legal question...But the decision to remove the reference books certainly offends free-speech principles and values that all public schools should hold dear." I'll say.


This skims the surface of another American Pop Culture pet peeve I nurse from time to time: we're very comfortable with gratuitous violence. We're particularly uncomfortable with sex. Case in point: Merriam-Webster's definition of a sexual practice becomes the enemy. Riddle me this: I'll bet the word "disembowel" is in that same dictionary. I'll bet a curious kid could stumble across that word. I'll bet he's neither going to strike out on a disembowling rampage nor encourage his other students to experiment with disembowelment. And if he did, I'll bet it probably wouldn't get blamed on the dictionary. This is one story I'm following....stay tuned. Never underestimate the destructive potential of fear-mongers "protecting" their young.


4. I'm sleeping with this picture under my pillow for the next 100 days. To ward off the Nick Nolte dreams, you know. Iron Man 2: May 7th.


5. On the other hand, not sleeping with this picture under my pillow. Or anywhere near me. This one has me at a loss. Let's leave it at that. And to clear your mind (you know, I wouldn't want to cause anyone to, uh, stumble (???) over the, uh, snake in the grass) I'll offer you this: the latest in the Stephen Colbert v Miracle Whip campaign. Score one for the Whip.


6. I can't help myself, I love the Ludacris. Apparently so do these girls. This video will pretty much change the way you think about those "dancing in your undies in front of the mirror" moments. You know you do it. After watching this, you'll be looking over your shoulder for the next three weeks..."Dirty South....is that you? Did I dance well enough to bring on the magic Get Low genie??????" Welcome to the next generation of slumber parties.


7. Saved the best for last. SIX MORE DAYS TIL LOST RETURNS!!!!!!!!!! Dig that last supper photo. Also dig this particular PopCandy link-centric post about its return....this is sort of the Sephora of resources for Lost junkies. Everything, all in one place.


Monday, January 25, 2010

you'll do yourself a disservice if don't watch this movie.


I was preparing to apologize for the recent glut of "serious, personal posts" in lieu of brainless pop-culture trivia (because, 'brace yerself, Effie,' here comes another reflective one) but realized I can scrap the apology because today's blurb is -- technically -- a movie review. Of a movie that's snagging Jeff "Stark Industries" Bridges a slew of well-deserved awards. So it's timely. Relevant. Therefore: no apology.

More to the point: I'd owe everyone an apology if I didn't encourage seeing "Crazy Heart." I walked into it blindly, knowing only that Jeff Bridges won the Golden Globe and the SAG award for his role and that there was "music" in it - that was the extent of my familiarity. I just hope I can manage to do the emotional experience justice here...

Left the theater feeling like I needed more time to process everything -- because the story was well-told, the script beautifully real, the characters' struggles surprisingly authentic, sure -- but also because I was so unexpectedly haunted and exhausted and circumspect afterward in the sort of singularly bittersweet way that only really well-constructed films manage to trigger. It was equal parts unconventional coming-of-age saga (the character was 57 years old, for instance) and poignant Addiction Fairy Tale (sounds oxymoronic - stick with me here).

The nutshell premise: old, washed-up country singer with a whiskey problem needs some cash (because playing old bowling alleys to equally washed-up old fans doesn't pay the bills and just barely keeps gas in the Suburban). Agrees to write some songs for his old protege, the "hot young country star" tearing up the charts. Meets a plucky young reporter along the way, falls awkwardly in love while deteriorating into an alcoholic death grip. Standard bio-pic + addiction issues = Academy Award nomination formula.

The difference: Jeff Bridges made it possible to really, really love, cheer for, and commiserate with his train-wreck character. Maggie Gyllenhaal nailed the "woman who should know better but is charmed in spite of herself" journalist character who gets a front row seat to the destruction of addiction and makes the smart decision to steer clear of this old man's pending self-implosion for the sake of her young son.

So, about that Addiction Fairy Tale.

This film took the same general story arc of last year's Mickey Rourke vehicle "The Wrestler" but "Crazy Heart" managed to twist that arc into something closer to a happy ending (if that's possible, since - without spoiling anything - we still end the movie as we began: with a lonely old man alone on the road). But in this case, the lonely old man's salvation arrived in the form of the Love of a Good Woman; with the plucky journalist as his goal and inspiration, lonely old man kicks the whiskey habit, starts writing songs again, comes back to himself, gets back on tour, and "makes something" of himself before it's too late. He's motivated to impress her. Spurred by the hope that if he can clean up his act - and stay clean - he'll win her back. That she'll love him for how far he's come. Powerful motivation, to see what could be yours if only you weren't already beholden to the bottle...kick the habit. Write new, beautiful music -- music inspired by that Good Woman.

It's a beautifully intoxicating Hollywood fallacy. One with which I was all too intimately acquainted...except....

Except in my case, the love of this good woman wasn't enough. Would never be enough. And where loving wasn't enough, leaving certainly wasn't enough, either. Begging, pleading, reasoning, rationalizing, bargaining, punishing, withdrawing, beseeching - none of those were inspiration enough to propel the tortured alcoholic under my roof into a treatment program. Or even into self-imposed, or doctor-imposed, or wife-imposed sobriety. So it really was rather like watching a fairy tale unfold on-screen - in this lovely fantasy the woman makes a stand for herself and her son, acknowledging that her gut instinct to run far away was probably right all along, but not without a nod to the fact that the things we do for love typically defy logic. She sends the addict away, that's all the motivation he needs to kick the habit -- before we know it he's free and clean and determined and creative all over again. Reaching his potential. Doing what he can to make the Good Woman proud.

Now, lest I misconstrue this as some sort of wistful plea for a different, fairy tale ending for myself it's worth mentioning that Plucky Journalist and I agree on one point: it's best to move on. We're wasting our lives to try to save them - it's a victorless battle.

In her case: she had a son to protect and nothing (no love song or promise of a better future or all of the golden years in the world) would ever override the maternal imperative to protect her child at any cost.

In my case: I just fell out of love. And inexplicably in spite of that, still wanted to see him make the best of himself, still wanted to see him succeed, still wanted him to have a happy ending.

Right up until the moment I realized I was robbing myself of my own happy ending while tending to his demons.

While trying to keep a lid on them.

While trying to keep them from taking me down with him.

Nearly five years of failed incentives later, I chose myself and my right to a happy ending. Then found myself in a movie theater watching it play out in other character's lives. Lives where treatment programs and twelve-steps really work. Where it's never too late for a second chance. Where saying no to addiction leads to giant royalty checks and sweet, poetic moments of closure in scenic places where tender conversation and long, meaningful looks let the audience know both parties will "be just fine."

This Good Woman has no idea if the one she left will "be just fine."

Only that she will be.

Sunday, January 24, 2010

I have an amazing scream....and other theories on automobile soundproofing and spirituality.


I made it 28.66 years without realizing I can actually crank out an absolutely astonishing, blood-curdling, primal scream.

Who knew?

I certainly didn't.

Let's put it this way: when exhaustively lame, mascara-smearing, self-pitying tears just didn't quite cut it for releasing some of the ever-building internal pressure I've been cultivating pretty expertly lately, I decided to give something more....viscerally expressive a try.

Figured being inside the car at freeway speeds on a rainy day provided a pretty great opportunity to try The Scream.

Interestingly: it required a little wind-up. 28.66 scream-free years meant I wasn't even exactly certain how much lung power this little non-cognitive exercise required. The first attempt ended up sounding more exasperated than restorative. Too much from the throat, not enough gut force. That felt silly.

Attempt 2: cast me in a slasher flick, because I have one serious set of lungs on me.

Amazing. A little wind up, a big deep breath, and I managed a sound I've never heard my own body make. Strange, really - to have lived inside this skin for so long and never hear that noise come out of my own mouth. Sure, there have been roller coaster squeals, Tower of Terror shrieks, cliff-jumping cries, but nothing quite like this.

I think it has everything to do with intent.

When we're responding to physical stimulus (upside down on an amusement park ride, for instance) there's a certain amount of breathlessness that comes with being surprised, thrown, alarmed, thrilled, twisted, spun, dropped, shocked, you name it. When you're responding to, oh, the Cry of Your Soul - it's an entirely different ballgame. To hear that sound bounce off of the Toyota windshield and realize I'd just created that sound all on my own: liberating. To have used up all of the air in my lungs in one long, loud exhale of everything that had been nibbling away at my sense of peace: very neat. To know there was no one around to be bothered, worried or otherwise even AWARE of my accomplishment: worth repeating.

HOWEVER: speaking of repeating...as delightful as the screaming felt (and as impressively, therapeutically loud and silver-screen worthy as it sounded) I wondered precisely how soundproof my little car really is. Sure, sometimes I play my Butch Walker too loud at stop lights and figure the family in the car next to me gets to rock out vicariously whether they like it or not...but what about the sound-carrying properties of Primal Screaming?

If it works in reverse, I would be safest administering the scream therapy in a Lexus. Since (and I'll hearken back to the auto show again for a moment) Lexus automobiles block external noises better than anything else on the road (yes, that's right Buick LaCrosse, one more way you don't quite measure up), stands to reason they conceal INTERNAL noises just as well, right? That if I really want to sit in a parking lot and let off a little steam, I'm less likely to draw attention to myself in a Lexus than a Corolla? And when I next decide to go car shopping would it be apropos to ask the car salesman to stand next to the car while I holler a little, to find out how soundproof the car really is?

Either way: I've leaped another life hurdle...the Screaming to Let Off Steam hurdle. Didn't expect to startle myself with what an accomplished technique I've managed straight out of the gate.

Do I anticipate making a regular habit out of the Scream Therapy? Nope - hope to have no further need for that, thanks. However: given that life seems to have recently dished out a little more than my plate comfortably accomodates, I have a few options. Option A: Freeway screaming.

Option B: a luxurious vacation to some sort of all-inclusive resort where I focus on nothing but myself for a week or so. Take care of myself. Pamper myself. Nurture myself. Take a honeymoon with myself.

Find a place with the best pool imaginable, spend 5 days straight at that pool...order lots of room service and spa treatments and get some serious progress made on that novel I'm writing. Tend to the soul.

Tend to the soul that needed to let off some steam this afternoon.

The soul that's had the same horrifically sappy song on repeat for the last 11 hours straight.

The soul that had something like a power surge this morning while crossing a parking lot and suddenly required some spiritual TLC.

The soul that wants nothing more than to be absolutely at peace, but is struggling a little bit in the practical application department.

The soul that's trapped somewhere between young woman and old lady, determined to come out ahead with wisdom to show for the journey, not bitterness, not fear, not anxiety.

The soul learning daily to live with grace, walk with hope, stand with courage, trust in faith and rest peacefully within the promise that I'll never be asked to stand up under more than I can bear.

The soul that's absolutely determined to live joyfully in the eye of this recent hurricane of struggle.

The soul that thinks bacon is perhaps the best way to start the day.

It it well with my soul.

I just scream from time to time to keep things that way.

Friday, January 22, 2010

One-stop political shopping: now open!


I suspect it's difficult as mere "voters" not to feel like the rug has been completely pulled out from underneath us on the heels of the Supreme Court's decision to overturn precedents that upheld federal and state limits on independent expenditures by corporate treasuries to support or oppose candidates. Difficult not to feel like special interest dollars have just been given free reign over the electoral process, difficult not to feel like the spirit of the first amendment has been horribly, violently molested. Yes, molested.


BUT, maybe we're looking at this with our glass-half-empty glasses on. Really: what about the greater deluge of Big Box consumer options this opens up for us mere voters now that our political decisions will be made for us by pharmaceutical and insurance companies, big oil, Wall Street and labor unions?


Imagine this: since insurance companies may, theoretically, now Buy Votes, doesn't it stand to reason that a trip to the doctor's office (no longer a physician's domain, anyway; thanks, American Health Care!) might now also involve a trip to the ballot box? Stop in, cast your vote, get your blood drawn. One dollar, one agenda.


Or, that you could cast your vote while on the job site? Being employed by a contractor working with a union that funnels its money into the pockets of the campaigns of the candidates it supports should, really, mean that you could vote for that union-sanctioned candidate while on the clock, right? Since it's all free speech anyway.


Trip to the bank: turn in your absentee ballot.


Ordering at the Wal-Mart McDonald's counter (on my list of the most hellish places on the planet, but for the sake of example, quite the hallmark of Big Box excess): I'd like 10-piece nuggets, and to cast my vote for Candidate X. And I'd also like to refill my blood pressure prescription and take out a loan, please (that would be cute if it weren't so close to true....).


As if election season television ads weren't miserable enough already, now we have bigger, better, more expensive corporate advertising to look forward to. What a delight. So nice to know that Pfizer will be telling me for whom I should vote...because it takes all of the guess-work out of the electoral process....it makes it easier, really. If Big Oil decides Joe Bob Smith should own that particular seat in the House, then I don't have to worry about reading those voter guides. Good, I can get that hour of my life back from here on out. What a great way to make sure my freedom of speech isn't trampled...


Ok, levity aside, I don't usually land on this side of the political fence. I tend to be (honestly) very pro-corporation. Very pro-free marketplace. A good little capitalist. But today I think it's BECAUSE I respect corporations' rights, as artificial entities created by the government, to accumulate large sums of cash in order to operate efficiently in the economic marketplace that I find a bitter taste in my mouth over any notion these these "artificial entities" are entitled to the same rights and protections under the first amendment as individual - living, breathing - citizens.



"Indeed, in other ways we don't treat corporations or labor unions as 'people' -
they have no constitutional right to hold political office or to vote, for
example, so why should they have the same First Amendment speech rights as
'real' people?"Precisely. Though it seems we've come desperately close to saying
they now DO have a constitutional right to hold political office and vote. "
And here's a great excerpt from dissenting Justice John Paul Stevens (aka: the Guy in the Bow Tie):

"At bottom, the Court's opinion is thus a rejection of the common sense of the
American people, who have recognized a need to prevent corporations from
undermining self-government since the founding, and who have fought against the
distinctive corrupting potential of corporate electioneering since the days of
Theodore Roosevelt. It is a strange time to repudiate that common sense. While
American democracy is imperfect, few outside the majority of this Court would
have thought its flaws included a dearth of corporate money in politics."
Jim Wallis put it this way (also in a commentary for the Huffington Post):
"The logical outcome of this decision is that there will be
a new torrent of money into the electoral process. Corporations are now free to
directly support candidates who support their interests, and oppose those who do
not. Big banks can now target seats on the banking committees, insurance
companies those on committees dealing with health care issues, and defense
contractors the armed services committees."

A commenter on this Reuters article put it like this (emphasis mine):

"An activist Supreme Court delivered a stunning blow to the core of Democracy
today.
Corporations are not persons, and money is not
speech
.
Every one of us, Democrat and Republican, rich and poor, Liberal
and Conservative, has been dealt a blow today by powerful corporate interests
who have taken over our representative Democracy and turned it into a way to
transparently funnel every available bit of wealth and powerful to the already
wealthy and powerful.
This is the stuff that all of should be marching on
Washington D. C. to protest.
Instead, the disaffected on all sides of the
political and economic fight point fingers at each other while the corporate
takeover of our government destroys our society.
Stand up! Socialists,
Teabaggers, moderates, and party faithfuls. You, unless you are already part of
the wealthiest 1%, have had your representation stolen!"

Anyway: I - wearily - suppose now, rather than ads brought to us by obscure PACs, we can look forward to Merck-funded mud-slinging. Get ready for it. It feels like floodgates have just opened. Floodgates holding back a filthy torrent of free-speech abuse.

How's that for a change of pace after Heidi Montag's brow lift?

Thursday, January 21, 2010

This is one crazy bird:


I'm not going to take the judgemental road in this case: that would be too obvious. At the risk of sounding like I'm being contrary for contrary's sake, the truth is I find Macaroni-For-Brains Heidi Montag so transparently, unabashedly self-conscious it's hard to fault her for going under the knife again. The peroxide has just gone to her head. If it's Nicolette Sheridan she wants to become, then by all means, let her at it (is that just me? Doesn't she look a little Nicolette-esque in the After photo?).

I dished on Heidi before when she actually admitted that she'd rather die in plastic surgery than continue suffering through a small-breasted, dramatic-nosed life spent hating every other bikini babe God gifted with better cleavage. At that point, I took the judgemental road. The "you'd actually DIE for those life preservers?" road. Nose job, boob job, those were predictable "welcome to Hollywood" procedures; show me a made-for-MTV starlet that hasn't done the same. I was mostly just surprised by the cavalier attitude with which she faced Death-By-Nosejob. And I can't stand that strange Sponge-Bob-Headed "husband" of hers for happily pushing princess off onto the scalpel in the name of another corny, staged post-op photo-op on the beach.
But now noodle-brain has done it again: Spencer Pratt's more preternatural half racked up a laundry list of 10 more procedures
- and (we're led to believe) nearly died. Her face was immobile. She was over-medicated. Her respiration was cryo-chamber-slow. Close call. But ask her why she took the risk and you get this justification:
"I was made fun of when I was younger, and so I had insecurities, especially
after I moved to L.A. People said I had a "Jay Leno chin"; they'd circle it on
blogs and say nasty things. It bothered me. And when I watched myself on The
Hills, my ears would be sticking out likle Dumbo! I just wanted to feel more
confident and look in the mirror and be like, "Whoa! That's me!" I was an ugly
duckling before."


Here's why I can't help feeling this strange, misplaced sort of endearment toward this head case: she takes the inevitable insecurities that most girls THINK, but she actually speaks them.

And then gets surgery to correct them...ten times over.
Of course "women" (whom no article ever specifically finds, quotes, or credits, by the way, with the predictable exception of her equally attention-whorish Hills co-stars) are screaming that she's sending the wrong message to young girls, that she's a billboard for everything wrong with Barbie-doll pop culture.

I'm not so sure that's true.

Show me the young girl that actually wants to Be Like Heidi. Kids are savvy these days: they can smell desperation a mile away - they cruise D-Listed, they know she's a laughing stock (see above quote. Funny how the surgeries haven't made anyone any LESS likely to make fun of her...hmmmm).

I'd be hard pressed to find an impressionable 15 year-old who models any part of her life after the Heidi. Heidi's more like Octo-mom: an obviously maladjusted girl living in an entirely different universe than the rest of us who simply doesn't know when to stop. An agonizingly insecure perfectionist that thinks a brow lift will make everything better (much like Octo-Mom who seems to think having a varsity squad to love her means she'll eventually love herself).

She's a girl who's dad probably didn't tell her she was beautiful nearly enough. A girl without the social filters to know it's best to lay low after procedures like these, not meet Billy Bush for happy hour as soon as the band-aids come off. A girl slowly erasing what makes her distinct and becoming less recognizeable, hoping that one day she'll wake up and deem the stranger's face in the mirror finally as good as everyone else's. The trick: she won't even recognize herself.

Here's the thing: I can't honestly say that, given the money, the opportunity and the public over-exposure that I wouldn't get lipo'd....or maybe have my "buttocks augmented." I'm probably a similarly dangerous combination of vain and self-conscious that makes me particularly likely to compare myself against everyone else and decide I need improvement.

Sure, I was made fun of.

My ears stuck out like a mouse.

My arms were "hairy as a monkey."

My bottom lip was too much bigger than my top lip, my hair looked like I stuck my finger in a light socket, my Inspired-by-the-Baby-Sitters-Club fashion choices meant that people went to halloween parties dressed up like me (ooooh, that one stuck with me for years).

But maybe the difference is that I've never looked in the mirror and hated the face looking back at me. I've never wanted to look at myself and see someone else. I've never felt like I couldn't love myself unless my nose or my eyebrows or my cheeks or my lips were different.

Thighs, okay, that's a different story. Hips: don't get me started.

BUT: I've sort of figured the great secret of the human condition is understanding that EVERYONE has those things about themselves they'd like to change. Even the most perfectly formed (*cough* Megan Fox *cough*) among us have things they hide. Cover up. Resent. Envy in other people. ALL. OF. US. That person across the room I'm looking longingly at, thinking, "wow, I wish my legs were as long and thin as hers" is looking at me and thinking, "She's so nice and petite...she can wear heels on a date..."

And for every 10 things Heidi fixes, she'll find one or two more she missed. Maybe THAT'S what we don't want to pass along to high school girls the world over: that we'll ever feel perfect. Feeling imperfect is what makes all of us alike, all of us able to relate to, accept, and love one another.

Nevermind the price tag. That's gotta be one hell of a price tag.

Oh, and also: the implants are WAY too big. See, I'm a blogger that just made fun of you, Heidi. See how well all of that surgery helped?

Wednesday, January 20, 2010

I've said it before: Women who like themselves don't "date" John Mayer

About a year and a half ago, I suggested female-kind should wise-up and Just Say No to Mayer. He's a publicity hound that gets...well: crazy horny for the shutterbugs. If he feels he's slipping from the public consciousness, he does something like, oh, "date" an ex-girlfriend to be certain he's back in the celebrity gossip-blogs' front-page-good-graces.

Case in point: it's not good enough to show up on the cover of Rolling Stone. Average, likeable, nice-guy musicians do that every month.

Nope.

Instead he invokes the Aniston name and lands in US Weekly as well, where he indirectly - and painfully abstractly - alludes to the fact that he "never got over her." Alludes is a generous term....he basically makes a handful of bizarrely existential references to nailing someone named Dimple$ in Vegas (Dimple$ is, by the way, somehow cosmically connected to Jen in the great John Mayer Revolving Mattress Cohesion Theory), but I couldn't quite follow his "f***-riddled" logic on exactly what that means in terms of his "destiny." Yes, he references Dimple$ and destiny in the same convoluted thought.

Desperately hoping there's a song called "Dimple$ Destiny" on his next album.

But back to the idea that D-Bag Mayer should be quarantined, re-programmed, disinfected and otherwise removed from the Celebrity Dating Pool.

It seems other women are finally beginning to agree. In an exerpt from RS, he laments the fact that "his sex life has become an endless loop of new girls rejecting him in clubs." Congrats, ladies. Keep up the good work. He also further legitimizes his king douche status by elaborating on his quest for "this life partner thing" by saying "'Think of how much mental capacity I’m using to meet the right person so I can stop giving a f--- about it.'”

Isn't that nice.

I know I think about my own "happily ever after" in terms of how much nicer it will be when I no longer have to give a flying pop tart about falling in love and can actually use my brain power on legit pursuits. And I know I can declare my Prince Charming well and truly snagged when he can sit back, put his hands behind his head, smile and say, "Great. Now that this life partner thing is done, I get all of that mental capacity back."

He also whines about what a pain it is to date "non-celebrities" because "I can’t fathom explaining myself to somebody who can’t believe I’d be interested in them." Because, clearly, any girl that's not famous wouldn't be able to fathom a famous man being interested in her, for any reason. Sure. Because if, oh, Bradley Cooper were to tap me on the shoulder and say, "Hey, let me buy you a drink" my first instinct would be "Explain yourself!!!! Why ME?!?!??!?" Show me that woman.

Her name is probably Dimple$.

I've said it before, I'll say it again: women who like themselves don't date John Mayer. Now, I'm heading off to Hollywood to go be a life coach. Where Bradley Cooper can feel free to buy me a drink, with no fear of retaliatory disbelief and probably only one or two offers to have his babies.

Tuesday, January 19, 2010

I know where I'll be this April...


I do.

And it will probably be almost as great as the flying dream I had last night. Setup: the strange sort of modular shanty-town I was living in somewhere in a spooky bayou was "sinking." Didn't want to get sucked down into the swampy bayou muck, so since the little lean-to, mobile home horror I called home in dreamland was going down, down, down, I did what any girl in distress would do: catapulted myself, Super Mario-style up, up, up into the air with the help of a rather heavy-duty version of what I can only describe as an empty wrapping paper tube. Sort of witch-on-broomstick-ee, but I could swoop and dive and soar on this wrapping paper tube...lean a little to the left, zooooom. The wrapping paper tube "cornered like it was on rails" and as long as there was a little bit of a breeze, I could stay up in the air for hours. And I would have, had my ex-boss' son not showed up in the dream and swatted my flying wrapping paper tube right out of the sky. Man. That was a huge disappointment. Punk. Didn't he know not to swat a lady when she's learning the finer points of "flying turns?"

Anyway - great dream. Very fun, that flying thing. Highly recommend it.

So - in the great quest to come up with "Something to Do" for a vacation this year, I've got it figured out:

C O A C H E L L A .

Yep.

Mark your calendars: April 16-18th, I will join about twenty seven billion people (approximately) to rock my tail off in beautiful Palm Springs. Tepid and rainy in Seattle, SUNNY and HOT and DUSTY out in the desert. Here I come, baby. Get ready for it: 130 acts. Three days. 93-degree average temperatures. Lineup just announced, tickets on sale Friday. Band of Skulls. LCD Soundsystem. Beach House. The Soft Pack. Sunny Day Real Estate. Gorillaz (I know...wha...?) MuteMath. DEVO (heh. heh). The Raveonettes. Toyko Police Club. Muse. Faith No More. She and Him. Orbital. Thom Yorke (!!!!!).

Oh, and Jay-Z.

That's right.

If it doesn't sell out before the tax refund arrives: consider me packed and on my way....

Because this guy looks like he needs a friend:

Sunday, January 17, 2010

Golden Globes wrap-up coming soon (maybe)...for now, a denim treatise:


Strange discovery this morning:

My wallet is jean-ist. Like sexist, racist, ageist.

Jeanist. Denimist.

As in, displays a prejudice against skinny jeans (in my case). Descrimination based on ankle circumference.

Wallet = Jeanist.

Here's how it works: I own a lot of denim. Among my many life-long pursuits is the pursuit of the UNICORN pair of Perfect Jeans. The ones that are magically just the right length for my leg, that make all the right parts look slim, perky, "squeezable."

Every now and then I take the plunge and pony up a little more cash for ones that seem like they have UNICORN potential. Every now and then I cheat on my A-Pocket 7's with a pair of Hudsons or maybe a pair of Citizens that I ultimately decide make the ass look, yes, perfectly grab-worthy and so the groceries/gas/books budget gets trimmed to make room for the jeans.

The hitch: only if they're bootcut.

There's something about my skinny-jean psyche that won't allow me to pay Nordstrom prices for hems that get hidden under my boots.

The problem:

Since all jeans get hidden under boots these days (that is, since skinny jeans have completely supplanted the flare in the Hems De Rigueur category) my "classy jeans" are sitting, folded neatly in the closet, getting absolutely zero airtime.

The $22 Vigoss skinny pair(s): worn once a week. The "cheap n' diry sale rack" pair that was only ever supposed to be seen from thigh-to knee (with back pockets and ankles duly concealed under clothes): also being worn once a week. The "aren't I too old for these" pair from Hollister: worn tucked into boots on the weekend. The $19.95 stretchy, pre-distressed, paint-splattered pair from Papaya (yes, Papaya): traveled with me to Napa (where the goal is to sip wine and look good while looking like you didn't give looking good a second thought) and the A-Pockets stayed behind.

Starting to sound like I need to revisit my wallet's ankle-circumference bias. Those Hudsons really are a thing of beauty...and I suspect I'd still look squeezable even if the hem was hidden under the Steve Maddens or the Nine Wests. I suspect.

Time to stop being Jeanist. Why not over-spend equitably. Allow that perhaps it's OK to hide the bottom 6 or 8 inches of those Rock & Republics, because the top 24 inches would look pretty great. Purchase fancier skinny jeans. Chase that Unicorn in a strange, new direction.

And yes, that was just 396 words on jeans. It's a gift.

Friday, January 15, 2010

Confessions from the other side of that customer service call


I have a confession to make:

I work in a call center.

(I make a point not to get too specific about work in the "public forum" but every now and then a little good clean venting is in order...) SO:
I come to work each day, make myself a cup of absolutely horrible coffee, flop down in a tiny cubicle full of monitors, and fire up approximately fifteen different software programs on my underpowered little computer (including 3 different versions of the exact same program since we can't "end-of-life" the obsolete releases until every last procrastinating customer has upgraded). I log into a computerized call tracking system where I am known as Inbound Extension 213, wedge a handsfree headset on my head, and...wait for the phone to ring.

Oh, it rings.

This month is my busiest of the year (which means, in call center terms, that my standard "15 incoming answered per day" jumps up to 35, 40. The fact that I spend my days in an environment where statistics like that even mean anything is a testament to the fact that I'm in the wrong line of work. But that's another complaint for another day).

Customers are trying to close out their fiscal year, trying to issue W2s, trying to crank out 1099s, trying to make up for a year of NOT reconciling their general ledgers by calling their friendly software support line and acting as though their bookkeeping shortcomings are actually a programming bug. Not. Kidding. If I had a dime for every time I muttered "we are not Bookkeepers R Us" under my breath, I'd have a buck. Or two.

As a tribute to my righteous job-loathing, here are some of this week's favorite conversation excerpts (read: conversations rich with the sort of brainlessness that makes me wonder how the industry I support remains afloat at all if these are the types of geniuses at the accounting helm...) - I've changed a little of the software-specific jargon to pack a more universally-understood punch:

Conversation A:

Cigarette-voiced AP clerk: Something's wrong with my 1099s. The names of the vendors are all....weird.

Incoming 213: Hmmm. Have you run the 1099 update for this year? Is it possible you're seeing last year's data?

C-VAPC: No, that's not possible. I updated.

I213: Would you mind if we tried the update again? Just to say we double-checked.

C-VAPC: Well fine, but that's not the problem.

I213: Humor me.

C-VAPC: Ok. So I type in my dates...oh-one-oh-one-oh-nine through one-two-three-one-oh-nine, right?

I213: You got it.

C-VAPC: And then I click OK and I'm done, right?

I213: Did you click "UPDATE?"

C-VAPC: Oh. No. I'm supposed to do that?

I213: If we want the 1099s to have this year's info. Yes.

C-VAPC: Oh! Ok. I just clicked UPDATE...and...Hot Dog! My vendors aren't weird anymore!

I213: Magical. Funny how that works.


Conversation B

Skeptical CFO: When I run my CSR report, there's no period end date at the top. The date field is just blank.

I213: Let's try just typing the date in ourselves.

SCFO: I can do that?

I213: Give it a shot.

SCFO: Oh. That worked.

I213: Happy to help.


Conversation C

Easily-distracted IT guy: Hi, we have a problem with our ****Software.

I213: (to self: really? that's why you called the *****Software support line?) That's what we're here for - what's goin on?

E-DITG: So, my payroll person says there's something wrong with the way Workers Comp is handled when we pay employees bonuses.

I213: Yeah, that's a known-issue, actually. We'll have that fixed in the next service pack. In the meantime, you can blah blah blah blah blah blah blah....as a workaround.

E-DITG: Well that won't work for us.

I213: ........

And then E-DITG hangs up.


Conversation D:

Cocky Project Manager: Hey, so, question for ya.

I213: Sure, go for it.

CPM: Can we link a site to a job?

I213: Not in version 12. In version 13 you can link a job to a site

CPM: But not a site to a job?

I213: Not a site to a job.

CPM: But in Version 13 we can link jobs to sites?

I213: One site. One site per job.

CPM: What about jobs to sites?

I213: In Version 12 or Version 13?

CPM: Version 13.

I213: Then yes, you can link one site to one job.

CPM: But not jobs to sites?

I213: Are we even talking about different things? This feels very who's on first.

CPM: (chuckle) I think I got ya.

I213: Great.....(not sure that we just accomplished anything at all....). Let me know if there's anything else I can help you with.

I could probably drone on about how quickly my blood pressure sky-rockets when I'm on the other end of a conversation with a computer fear-monger ("Is it OK to click this button? Can I click it now? Should I press OK? Is that OK?") or with a Gum Chewer or with the old guy fighting a chest cold that coughs and wheezes breathes generally too heavily for comfort directly into his phone. That always makes for a very long 4 minutes and 36 seconds.

There are the "I called support before I used my brain" types and then there are the "Oh, shoot, where did I put that piece of paper with my question" types.

There are the "I know more than you do" types and the "This is probably a stupid question, but..." types.

There are the heavily-accented types ("What company are you calling from? I'm sorry, come again? Zenisdlikjwbanen Construction? No? Oh - could you give me the first few letters of that company name?") and there are the "five things going on in their office including several other phone calls and a barking dog" types.

There are the "Let me get my boss before I answer that question" types and the "I think I screwed something up, so help me fix this and we'll just keep it between us" types.

There are the Alabama slow-talkers and the Buffalo quick-talkers. There are the ones that shout into the phone and the ones on speaker that are probably halfway across a very large conference room speaking in a whisper.

You get the picture. Either way, I'm on the other end of the line, waiting to roll my eyes, kick my desk, throw my headset or make a generally startling "AAAARRRRRG!" noise the second they hang up.

Suddenly that "everybody's working for the weekend" song takes on a whole new meaning. As does my general level of understanding when I have to call any sort of customer service line. It's like a fraternity of under-appreciated, under-thanked, over-stressed people. I always want to say, "I have this sort of job, too...I sympathize, I really do."

Because, really: is there ANY kid out there that says "When I grow up: I want to be a customer support rep in a call center!"

Show me that kid, and I'll show you the black eye I'll give 'em while knocking them senseless.

Thursday, January 14, 2010

For once: Megan Fox loses


Let's be honest - there are a handful of people, places and things that I will always flat love and for which I will eternally, shamelessly shill, no matter how out-dated, tacky, predictable or overexposed those people, places and things become. On that list: Chicago songs from the early 80's. Pink champagne. These. Sour candy. Weekdays beginning with "S." Celebrity gossip. This place. Cheap Machine brand jeans. Garlic fries. The Last of the Mohicans soundtrack. Songs sung by this guy. The Gloria Ferrer patio. Banana flavored chapstick. Megan Fox.


Soooooooo...as readable as I'm sure conversations about Saturdays or chapstick or patios would absolutely be, I'd rather take the easy road today. The Megan Fox road. Which is not to necessarily say that Megan Fox is easy, since I have no real idea. But easier to yak meaninglessly about (and gee, probably marginally more interesting to others) than my tube of Green by Nature, 100% paraben-free, Banana Shea lip butter...incidentally, however (or, tangentially, take your pick) I'm the only person I know that actually enjoys that artificial "essence of banana." Hate real bananas, love fake banana scent. And banana bread. And banana popsicles. Those things are damn fantastic. And you can ask me about that time as a 3 year-old that I smeared an entire tube of mostly melted banana lip gunk all over my face to be able to lick it back off and I'll say, "yep, I did that. one of my earliest memories."


So, Megan Fox.


On the 1 to 10 scale of "people I really, really, really, really wish I'd been born looking like," Megan's a 12.6. Maybe a 13. Her hair and eyebrows alone would register a solid 8 even if the rest of her parts tended more toward Jessica Simpson. But, as those other parts (like perfect lips, dramatic chin, teeny tiny waist and excellently proportioned rack) are actually totally enviable as well, she's left the "wish I looked like that" competition in the dust. Other contenders for top spot on The List: Kate Beckinsale, Delta Goodrem, Emmy Rossum, Jennifer Connelly.


That said: Audrina Patridge knocked the panties off of Megan's sort of boring Armani campaign with these Maxim shots. Did Mert Alas and Marcus Piggott forget that Megan's got the greatest hair in Hollywood? And, fine, so Armani has its steadfast, sort of dependably stalwart fashion reputation to defend, but frankly, David Beckham's spread-eagle man-brief debut smoldered (yeah, I know that's a painfully geeky romance novel word, "smolder") considerably more than Megan "sitting in a white dress shirt." No new ground covered with the photos. It was sort of "here's Megan Fox. You know her, right? The Transformers girl? Yeah, here are Some Pictures Of Her. One even features a raised arm." I think I was expecting "THAT'S Megan Fox? Really? WOW. And I thought she was hot before." Hate to say it, but Victoria Beckham preceeded her with a much more distinct WOW factor. Actually, correction, I don't hate to say it, because I have a soft spot for Posh, as well. Watch her in an interview (where she speaks instead of glowers) and her infectious little giggle will win you over - promise.



On the other hand - good old famous-for-nothing "The Hills" alum Audrina Patridge sits on top of a washing machine in a boring pair of bikinis (the type I purged from the lingerie drawer just this month...hmmmmm....), shoves cake in her face and looks nine times as sexy. I'd much rather do laundry and eat cake with the girl in the boring bikinis than lounge around in a charcoal-colored purgatory with Smokin Megan.


Sorry Megan, for once, you lose. Next time: more hair! fewer khaki pants! Ditch the weird Train Conductor striped vest. Go with flowered Hanes and a...dishwasher or something. Actually - that's hot. Plays up the sort of "boring housewife" motif in an unexpected way. Quick, get me in touch with those Armani marketing people - STAT. Everyone would prefer to see Megan leaning over the bottom rack to load up last night's dinner plates.


Genius...

Wednesday, January 13, 2010

Sappy diversion:10 years later I'm still convinced he's singing about me...



I remember very precisely the moment I fell eternally in love with Sister Hazel. Parking garage, 7:56 am, Monday morning back in 2000...while killing the last few minutes before heading into the office I was listening to their cd "Fortress" for the first time. The song "Champagne High" played (this was, incidentally, years before I developed any sort of affinity for sparkling wine, so that's pure coincidence)...


It's a fascinating song...the beautiful, heartbreaking elegy of a man watching a woman he loved marry someone else. It's melancholy. Poetic. While he reminisces over the million hours that he belonged to her and laments the fact that their story's come to a close, he's regretfully toasting the celebration of the rest of her life....I guess the juxtaposition of beautiful wedding imagery eulogized in a verse about loss and grief struck me as so lovely, so unconventional, and so sobering ...I listened to it and cried. Ten years later it's still my favorite song.


At that point, I had absolutely nothing in my life that compared on a personal level to that sort of humbling void, but I still felt so poignantly for his loss....to be moved to tears by a song the first time I listened to it was a first...I'd found my lyrical soul mate. I make the lyrical versus musical distinction because it's the beautiful way they string their words together that I particularly love.


Champagne High by Sister Hazel


From there: every sappy love song Sister Hazel cranked out was written specifically for me (and released with the unspoken understanding that the studio version was just an excuse for them to produce a better, more emotionally raw acoustic session later). The women they sang about always felt like they must be just like me. The women they loved, the women they lost...every time Ken Block sang about everything else falling away in her presence, it was my own personal aria. An ode to me. A search for me...a serenade to me...He was looking for me out there, somewhere. I was the woman meant to take him "to sunrise, from indigo..."


Here's the latest item certainly written with Heather in mind (the acoustic version, in this case because it gets an entire additional verse at the end...). Firefly. I haven't actually seen a firefly since I left Indiana, so all I have is a mystical, dreamy half-memory of summertime backyards aglow with the tiny, magical shimmer of what seemed like stardust. We'd catch them, put them in jars at our bedsides, and watch them flicker until we fell asleep...so childhood Heather thinks that to be compared to a firefly is as delicate, beautiful, mysterious and glowing a description as a woman could hope to inspire. And then to describe her speech as vivid paintings, her words colorful, her conversation enough to take you away to a better place, her beauty enough to light up a room....it's a stunning song...


...can't help it, these are precisely the sort of images I dream of inspiring in someone myself someday....of inspiring someone to the type of poetry in which I'm cast as that magical, summertime backyard glow that takes them - even for a moment - away to someplace better...the one that lights up the room...irrisistible, shining, luminous...


Firefly - Acoustic by Sister Hazel


she's not like anyone else...
you wonder why she captured you like a firefly
and makes you shine like you never could alone...

and tell me, can you see her shining through a crowded room where she's the view
and maybe she'll embrace your innocence, maybe...

she gets high but hates those cigarettes
she speaks and breaks your intellect
she's allowed to change her mind
just you try to stop her...

and tell me, can you see her shining through a crowded room where she's the view
and maybe, she'll embrace your innocence, maybe...

and so it is, the same you've not been since...
one hit and you were lit up like a firefly...
be careful what you wish...

she tells stories like a painter
with colorful words that I don't always understand
but it always sounds like somwhere better than here...
well anywhere's better with her...

and tell me can you see her shining through a crowded room where she's the view
and maybe she'll embrace your innocence, maybe...

and so it is
the same you've not been since...
one hit and you were lit up like a firefly...
be careful what you wish...

she has a subtle way of making you forget your darkness
behind some clever conversation
no finer heart could ever beat... for you

and tell me can you see her shining through a crowded room where she's the view
and maybe she'll embrace your innocence, maybe...
laugh at your nervousness...
don't let her slip away...

and so it is
the same you've not been since
one hit and you were lit up like a firefly
be careful what you wish
she's not like anyone...

In which I perform manly internet searches.

Yes, I did feel stupid googling "auto show babes" to find the best pictures. And yes, I felt even more silly when that didn't produce sexy enough results and I conditioned my search with "hot auto show babes." Admittedly, that spandex queen isn't quite what I was looking for, but she's showing the requisite amount of leg. And if the Workplace Big Brother spied anymore "sexy car babe" google searches I'd have to officially relinquish my status as a girl.

Anyway.

I love auto shows - make a point to go every year when the scaled down version rolls through Seattle. Get a huge kick out of peeking under the hood, playing "find the USB port" in the console of each one, settling down into those nice leather seats and imagining how much more fun, more comfortable, more stylish my next road trip to Napa would be were it spent behind the wheel of, oh the Volvo C30...or the Acura RDX...or the cute little BMW 1 series. If I had that lovely Nav package, I wouldn't NEED to continually work to hide the sad fact that I was born without an internal compass (read: born female. it's true).

BUT - it also got me thinking about my next job, since frankly this week from Hades makes barista work, or garbage man work, or Strip Mall Tax Prep Service Advertiser work (think that Liberty Tax guy in the Statue of Liberty costume) or Dog Walker work or Mall Kiosk Hair Extension Sales Girl work sound pretty good. Pretty good indeed. But none of those sound as good as Auto Show Booth Babe. Put on a hot dress (definitely add the Ridiculous Bra), sexy heels, too much eye makeup, and stand around looking svelte, coy, brainless, vacant-eyed and vaguely unattainable. Make that Buick LaCrosse look like just what every man needs.

Oh - and speaking of Buicks...

Played hookey from work last time the auto show came through town - did my best to completely avoid the Vacuous Buick Booth because there had been such an uncomfortably concerted effort to convince us ahead of time that the redesigned LaCrosse would revolutionize the way "my generation" views Buick. I didn't want my Buick Views revolutionized. I'd been revolutionized enough by how annoying the Scion People still insist on being. So, I tried to slink past. Cast a sidelong glance at the LaCrosse. Admitted it didn't look bad, exactly, just: bland. Not overtly American, just: beige. Not distinctly Middle-Aged, just: too large. Oops - now there's a sales guy approaching. Head down - eyes to the floor. Quick - grab blackberry, Pretend to Text. Shoot - he's speaking:

"What do you think of the new LaCrosse? It's going to Revolutionize Your Generation's Views of Buick."

Fine. I'm stuck. May as well be polite. Bat eyelashes. Smile. Walk his direction...

"Don't like it."

Oops - now sales guy is going to have a heart attack. Here I am, their new target demographic, trendy shoes and all and I've written them off already and it's only 3pm on the first day of the show.

"It's because you haven't touched it. Come here. TOUCH the car."

"Are you serious?"

"Just lay your hand on it. You'll see."

Great. Seriously? Now if I pitch a fit and refuse to touch the car I become That Girl With Irrational Fear of Buicks. I'm not that girl. I'm the Girl Underwhelmed By Buicks and Non-plussed by This Salesguy.

Ok.

Approach car. Extend hand.

ZAP!

Righteously shocked.

"Ow!"

Cue moment of Salesman's dreams:

"It's ELECTRIFYING, isn't it?!"

"Oh, that's one way to put it."

"So, what do you think. It FEELS good, doesn't it?"

"It's, uh, really smooth paint." Stop looking down my shirt.

"Would you buy one?"

Again - are you kidding? Okay, let him down easy. He's got nothing but middle aged dads and their bored wives and sons to look forward to for the rest of the afternoon anyway.

"I'll be honest, it's a little...Too Big to fit." Smirk. "To fit me, I mean. I drive smaller, lighter cars. And I parallel park every day. This beast would be a pain in the ass to parallel park."

"Handles like a dream...I used to sell Cadillacs - I'll be honest, this thing out-handles the Cadillacs, hands down."

"Sure. It's just that, well...I sit in a lot of traffic. I don't get much opportunity to, oh, really let loose, open it up, feel the power...drive hard..." and other such innuendo. "Oh, you know - I see my Dad over there - gotta run."

Phew. Narrow miss. Next thing he would have wanted me to sit in the thing - stroke the wheel, grip the shifter, caress the stereo controls, melt into the smooth, leather embrace of the LaCrosse. Fall in love, basically.

Thankfully, it's time for cold shower over at Honda.

But enough about the Seattle iteration of the Real Deal. This week the Big Boys take Detroit. For 14 days, American Automobiles strut their re-vamped, re-designed, re-marketed stuff (and visitors ignore them and bee-line to the Love-it or Hate-it Porsche Sedan, the automotive industry's most grievous oxymoron...). Oh, to visit the Real Deal someday. I'm pretty convinced James Bond would be there somewhere. And platform slingbacks would be perfectly acceptable attire. And sitting down inside a Buick would instead involve showers of glitter and perfectly chilled glasses of Krug and the Booth Babes would look like Allesandra Ambrosio and the salesmen roles would be played by Aaron Eckhart and Billy Zane. People would pile into the backseats for little speed-dating style mini-parties before they move on to the next model. The fun would last until the sun comes up. There wouldn't be such a thing as a "high-brow concept car off-limits to the public." Every day would open with a live performance by Flo-Rida.

Er...wait. Detroit.

No....

Generic-looking executives in suits. That's pretty much it.

Either way - they've got Hot Chicks Standing Beside American Cars. Either way, I'm not buying that Buick.


That IS the LaCrosse hanging on the wall there, yes.

Tuesday, January 12, 2010

Cougar Cruises: not happening on Carnival's watch.




Cougars at Sea were just too much fun for Carnival lines. A spokesperson for the Cruise line ambiguously described it this way: "there were not any particular issues on board...however, we simply made the business decision not to have future groups book on this theme.'' This after more than 300 May-December vacationers took to the waters between Miami and San Diego for a little Spring Break, Alumni-Style.


What that really means: there were clearly some very "general" issues on board. Like, maybe a cruise ship overrun with cougars and their eager lil "cubs?" Apparently, according to the Miami Herald, the "first International Cougar Cruise included a group cocktail party before dinner each night, help hooking up for shore excursions, and the requisite hot tub party, of course." Seems harmless enough (*cough* SHORE EXCURSIONS *cough*).


There's a theory circulating that Carnival Lines prefers to promote itself as squeaky clean and family-friendly, and along those vaguely discriminatory lines has decided that there's nothing clean and family-friendly about 52 year-old divorcees taking their Excursions to Shore with little frat boys.


Never fear - Royal Caribbean is more than happy to pick up Carnival's...slack (heh. xtra points for appreciating my pun). In fact, singlestravelcompany.com has already booked not one, but two international cougar cruises for 2010, one on Royal Caribbean - ostensibly for the West Coast Cougars - and another next December on Norwegian Cruise lines (departing from Miami, for the East Coast Cougars). Apparently, according to the Singles Travel Co. website, you can look forward to the following "Added Values:"

  • Coordinated single get-togethers throughout the week (also known as SHORE EXCURSIONS)
  • Past & new Singles Travel Company travelers from our years of past trips/cruises (oooh, ahhh, they've got the OLDEST COUGARS and the FRESHEST CUBS)
  • Dancing & socializing every night within our singles group (meaning they'll corral them off in their own banquet room so that someone doesn't accidentally "socialize" with someone their own age)
  • Roommate matching to avoid the single supplement (this one has me mystified...."supplement?" what the...?)
  • Complimentary bottle of wine from Singles Travel Company
  • Singles Social Director Host (if college social dynamics still hold true in "real life" this means you'll be daily subjected to the most obnoxious personality on board - and they'll have a microphone)
  • Meeting new and fun single friends……and so much more!!! (the "so much more" rather goes without saying....Why else would you opt to strand yourself in the middle of the ocean with strangers unless there was So Much More on the menu. And involves SHORE EXCURSIONS, I can only imagine)

The most fun part about the Herald article was comments from lots of righteously indignant readers who came out to throw their support behind older women's right to vacation with young men...they're standard "newspaper comment" fare - knee-jerk tirades that don't make much sense but are fun to quote:

"Unless these young men and older women are having drunken, loud, rude public parties on the cruise, how can Carnival justify not allowing a certain group?An what about gay/lesbian cruises? What's the policy there? If straight, similarly aged couples where making out in public like teenagers, that would be objectionable to many. The reason most don't do it is because of MATURITY. It looks ridiculous.So, if a "cougar" and "cub" behave appropriately, where's the problem. If they don't, then Carnival should deal with it as they would with any other passengers.I think this is a big mistake for Carnival Cruise Lines and will come back to bite them."

"This is just, straight up, age and sex discrimination. I think all Carnival cruises should be checked to make sure there are no young girls cruising with older males that they are not married to. It is the same thing. Why is it that older women are prevented from having the same kind of social interaction that men have with younger partners. They take other single theme groups. What a bunch of hypocrites. I think young guys are just tired of wasting time with all these shallow young girls who think they should be able to leave home and move straight across to the same comfort level that it took their parents a lifetime to acheive. Good on both the Cougars and the Cubs and these questions of money are ridiculous. Can't people just be attracted to people without some motive?"

Then there's this one from the one person that actually makes a rational point:

"You guys are missing the point. They are not banning older women and younger men from sailing. They just do not want a group with that theme on board. There may have been complaints from the other passengers over this."

And finally the requisite angry, insult-flinging reader who tries to get a rise out of the other brainless commenters:

"Those women should be ashamed of themselves! It's one thing if an older guy wants some pretty young "arm candy", that's only natural. But if an older woman is with a young guy it's basically prostitution."

Note, there's even an exclamation point involved in that one.

Anyway - point....do I have a point? Not really. Just an interesting glimpse into the "still-slightly-taboo" nature of cross-generational relationships (er, SHORE EXCURSIONS) when the gender roles are reversed. And how strange it seems for any cruise line to decline good business in an economic climate when fewer people are probably booking theme cruises.

Coming tomorrow: the not-quite-annual Detroit Auto Show post (and my new career goals: become one of those Car Show Models who dress up and stand next to a Buick trying to "sexy up" the LaCrosse. Or something).

Monday, January 11, 2010

Cute idea, weak analysis.


Got excited by the title of this article: 10 Ways to Flirt with a Nerd.

I'm a terrible flirt.* And I like nerds. So initially this seemed like a sort of biblically enlightening premise.

It fell flat.

Granted, this was written by a woman who blogs for Marie Claire (and "yes, that magazine does still exist") about her "Year of living flirtatiously," so I suppose as part of the larger project I'm not surprised she doesn't delve too deeply into any one topic, since, from what I can tell, she yaps pretty exclusively about the different NYC bars she frequents each weekend, whom she spotted across the crowded floor, and which places were too filled with aspiring yuppies. Less pop-psych, more Yelp-lite.

Essentially I think the trouble is this: she interviewed a guy that organizes speed dating for geeks and when she asked him for his definition of precisely what makes a nerd a nerd, he says:

"As the Boss of Nerd Nite, I've always maintained a very broad — and thus, very inclusive — definition of nerd. The word applies to anyone who is both passionate and knowledgeable about one particular thing. The title isn't exclusively reserved for scientists and Trekkies. For instance, take the world's sexiest rock-star drummer, like a Tommy Lee. If he's able to spend 45 minutes explaining the different ways to tune a snare drum, then he's a nerd, too, on top of being a rock star."

Ahem.

I'm calling him on that one.

Because even the un-nerdiest stud could probably wax mind-numbing about his preference for one brand of top-shelf tequila over another (passionate and knowledgeable, sure. Nerd: eh, I'm thinking no).

And because even the least-geeky among us could spout ad nauseum about why the Dior mascara that clocks in at $24 is nowhere as good as the $6.99 tube of L'oreal from the drug store - and if someone argued with us, sure, we'd be incited to passionate oratorial lengths...but probably wouldn't end up classified "nerdy" for flirting purposes.

And because invoking Tommy Lee and nerd in the same sentence skews the context of the entire argument. All of a sudden no one reading this article is thinking about wooing that World Of Warcraft fanatic or about sealing the deal with the guy that wears his Three Wolves t-shirt earnestly, without irony. They're thinking of Tommy Lee and his tattoos and his sex tape and his Pamela Anderson - and none of those specifically conjure Nerd associations.

I'll take further issue with his notion that nerds are somehow more selective than their less Tommy Lee-esque compatriots (see - I can't reference Tommy without seeming contrary, either - it sinks the nerd ship):

"Nerds are MUCH choosier. If a nerd goes out with a coiffed, perfectly tan Barbie doll, he'll probably become bored (albeit extremely horny) within a few minutes. He might even sabotage the date to find more engrossing company — whereas other guys will patiently listen to her stories of nail polish and shopping in the hopes of getting into her pants."

Let's not be so swift to write Tommy Lee off as MUCH choosier. And let's not assume that those irony-free Three Wolves t-shirt-wearing "nerds" wouldn't endure uninteresting shopping anecdotes if there's a naked light at the end of the boring conversation tunnel. AND, let's not further assume that all perfectly tanned Barbie dolls are dull and incapable of discussing nerdy things. There are plenty of good-looking, well-coiffed girls out there that find a vocabulary infinitely sexy. And I'm sure even the most devoted Farmville fan gets laid every now and then.

Weak logic.

On the topic of "ways to turn a nerd's head" our Nerd Nite boss says this:

"Just tell him you have nerdy tendencies too. It's amazing how many guys will snap to attention if you share your own nerdy obsessions. Few things are more endearing."

Au Contraire.

I suspect geeky one-upmanship never leads to true love.


And then She-Nerd can say "I never split infinitives."


And then She-Nerd will say "When it comes to English Language Usage, I agree with Wallace: 'Whether Methodological or Philosophical or pseudo-progressive, Descrptivists are, all and essentially, demagogues; and dogmatic Prescritivists are actually their most valuable asset, since Americans' visceral distaste for dogmatism and elitist fatuity gives Descriptivism a ready audience for it's Pathetic Appeal'"


And in the end, neither of them go home with Barbie OR Tommy Lee. And neither probably asks the other for a second date. And neither care about the quaintly endearing nature of the other's obsessive quirks.


So really, the entire article probably should have just been called "10 Ways to Flirt." And I wouldn't have been interested because I've already written my flirting skills off as atrophied, comatose, otherwise vegetative and I wouldn't have had the gall to believe that a bullet-pointed article on msnbc would have anywhere near valuable enough information to revive my skills.

But, since it invoked the Nerd title I was a sucker (as I am likewise a sucker for nerds when it comes to matters of the heart). Should have noticed the Marie Claire connection and saved us all some time.


*See: dream where I have an opportunity to ride around in a sleigh (you got it) with a particularly touchy-feely Colin Farrell only to be reprimanded by my mother for not making the most of my opporunity with a famous guy by being a generally terrible flirt. Mother offered to show me how it's done. Cue lifelong fear that if it ever came down to brass tacks and my mother and I had to beguile the same man, I would certainly FAIL. FAIL. FAIL miserably. My mother is very beguiling.