When I was growing up we spoke in hushed tones about my Grammy’s facelift. Upon completion of every whispered conversation my mother and I had about it, she would always end with the threat that I would be skinned within an inch of my life if I ever said anything about it in front of Grammy. My, oh my, how the world has changed.
Perhaps I’m sounding like an old fart, but I remember the day when celebrities were ashamed about their plastic surgeries and went to great lengths to hide public knowledge of their procedures. There used to be an air of mystery to the ol’ nip/tuck, and regular, average joe type of folks never thought twice about having anything done, because it was too expensive or it was the type of thing that was only done in Hollywood or New York City. The crazy thing is that these days I speak of were less than 20 years ago!
If someone would have cornered me in the hallways of junior high and told me that instead of Miami Vice, people in 20 years would be watching real women having nose jobs, facelifts, and tummy tucks on television, I would have been stunned out of my big hair and acid-washed jeans. What I’m left trying to figure out at this point is how we, as a society, in less than 20 years became so obsessed with our appearance that we are willing to undergo Spanish Inquisition-style tortures just to achieve an ideal.
First off, I don’t want to generalize. There is a world of difference between a 50-something woman who has a facelift, because she was ill informed about the dangers of sunbathing as a teenager and was left with a prematurely aged face as opposed to a 20-something woman who is working an entry-level job, and maxes out her credit cards to pay for an eyelash transplant (oh yes, this is an actual procedure).
I’ve heard arguments for and against the plastic surgery craze. Of course, the against looks at the issue as an inherently sexist one arguing that women have had an unrealistic image of beauty pounded into their heads for so long that body modification is merely the next step in the evolution of trying to live up to that poisoning image. This makes sense, and I do believe there is something to it, but the side that is for plastic surgery has their own weigh in. They reason that women finally have a way to fix what they don’t like about themselves, and the fact that they are doing it means that they have become financially viable enough to create an industry dedicated to them. While I’m happy that women have enough money and power to influence a segment of the economy; I just wish it wasn’t in a field that catered to making them pretty.
I also get a bit skeptical at an industry that claims to be driven by female consumers, yet allows some women to have multiple surgeries to the point where a doctor’s loyalty to the Hippocratic Oath comes into question. Also, I would argue that some of the procedures don’t seem very female driven such as the surgery that allows women to reconstruct their vaginas, so it will have a tighter teenage look, or the whole inflate-boob thing.
I must confess that I have personally taken an interest in possibly having a breast lift after I’m finished having children, because none of those wonderful, mommy-to-be instruction books ever warned me about the devastating effects childbearing would have on my tits! However, if I do opt to fix my boobs, they will remain the same size. I have seen those inflate-boob women, and they just look silly (that’s right Pamela Anderson Lee Rock Whatever; your boobs will embarrass your kids in about 10 years). How could a teenager ever feel cool about having their parents chaperone a dance when mom looks like she’s ready to strip at The Lusty Lady on “Over 40, but Still Fabulous” night.
If a woman with the means to do it wants to have a little something done here or there, more power to her, but I fear that the vast majority of women going under the knife are doing it, because they feel inadequate. They believe that what they have isn’t acceptable to the greater society, and that by doing a surgery, their whole life will be transformed. This sets them up with an unrealistic expectation, which for some leads to multiple surgeries, an assload of debt, and a person who still feels bad about who she is.
I’m not sure exactly what has changed from 20 years ago, but somewhere along the line as women were gaining higher professional positions, more wealth, better opportunities for advancement, and a collective voice, that annoying group of jocks who told them they weren’t pretty in high school reared their ugly heads via negative societal influence and made successful women feel bad about not being prom queen. The result has been a thriving plastic surgery industry where a nip and tuck might make you look younger, but will never make you feel better.
Sunday, October 29, 2006
Friday, October 27, 2006
Weekly Recap 10/22-28: Rush to Judgment & Dirty Ads
Headline News Recap
Rush Limbaugh proved, once again, that he was nothing more than a human piece of garbage by lashing out at beloved actor, Michael J. Fox. Mike recently filmed an ad in support of Missouri candidate Clair McHaskill, and her advocacy of stem cell research. In the ad, Michael J. appears fully medicated, yet still suffering the tremors and spasms, while talking about how stem cell research could really help people afflicted with Parkinson’s. After the ad appeared, Rush accused Mike of acting, purposely not taking his medication, as well as using his disease to stump for Democrats. To absorb this whole scenario, I feel it is only fair to give the two men a healthy comparison.
·Michael J. Fox – Happily married to his wife, Tracy, for nearly two decades, father of four children.
·Rush Limbaugh – Currently in his fourth marriage, no kids, but constantly criticizes people who are “anti-family values.”
·Michael J. Fox – Through his extensive acting career gave us lovable characters such as Alex Keaton, Marty McFly, and Mike from his last show, Spin City.
·Rush Limbaugh – Gave us negative, hateful talk radio and ushered in an era where telling blatant lies on-air to influence public opinion sunk politics to a frightening new low.
·Michael J. Fox – Currently takes a cocktail of medication prescribed by doctors to reduce the uncontrollable muscle spasms caused by Parkinson’s disease.
·Rush Limbaugh – Regularly hit up his Hispanic housekeeper to score OxyContin for him, while publicly criticizing drug addicts as a detriment to society on his daily radio program.
Once again, Rush is a piece of shit, and I really hope there is some new research and technology out there that Michael J. can utilize soon or that guy isn’t going to make it to 50.
White House mouthpiece Tony Snow came out back peddling in a fervor claiming that Resident Bush doesn’t use the term, “stay the course”. Hmmm…you would think that Tony Snow, having worked in the media all these years, would be aware of these new fangled thingamajiggers called cameras, and that some of these fancier cameras can record sound and movement as well as taking pretty pictures. Nice try, Tony, but your boy Bushy is to “stay the course” as peanut butter is to jelly.
Scientists have discovered the cause of why champagne is bubbly, and I have discovered that sometimes people with big college degrees and buttloads of research money have way too much time on their hands.
Television campaign ads sunk to a new low this week in the congressional race in Tennessee between Republican Bob Corker and Democrat Harold Ford, Jr. The ad features a blonde bimbo type talking about how she met Ford in the Playboy mansion or some weird crap like that, anyways the NAACP went apeshit when they saw it claiming that, because Ford is black, it plays on the whole racist fear of black men dominating white women. Normally, when someone cries about someone else not being politically correct I think they are a bunch of whiners, but I saw the ad, and it was totally racist, and the Republican National Committee can talk until they are blue in the face, but they meant every racist innuendo that was suggested in this ad. The RNC says they had black people look at the ad prior to it airing to let them know if it was racist, but c’mon guys, Condoleezza would give the thumbs up to anything to keep her power.
The mystery over how the crap got into the lettuce and spinach may be over. It was discovered that wild pigs have been the cause of the E.coli bacteria contamination of spinach and lettuce crops in California. My recommendation is to sharpen a stick at both ends, and send Jack after him (i.e. obscure Lord of the Flies reference).
In Local News
I’m still a touch exhausted from attending the Placebo show last night (Thursday night) at The Showbox. They were opening for some shitty, new band that I didn’t stick around for. Placebo was fantastic, and most likely, if you are from the U.K., you know who they are. Placebo was one of the headliners of Bob Geldof’s Live 8 concert series, because they are that big in England and Europe. Over here, no one really knows them, so I’ll kindly direct my fellow Americans to check them out at www.placeboworld.co.uk. They rock!
Things I Don’t Give a Fuck About This Week
I don’t give a fuck about Madonna’s adopted Malawian son. If the woman wants a baby from Africa and went through the whole paperwork and courts bullshit, then more power to her. They say that the adoption went through quickly, because she’s a celebrity. Of course it did, because that’s what happens when you have money, fame, and power. If Michael Jackson can be the legal father of two blonde-haired, blue-eyed kids, and one black one for the whole image thing, then Madonna should be left alone.
I don’t give a fuck about Kevin Federline’s latest acting role, and while I’m on the subject, why does anyone still give a flying fuck what Brittney Spears does, says, or looks like. She and her trailer trash hubby and her cock tease act are so over.
I don’t give a fuck about Snoop Dogg getting arrested for weapons and drug possession. He’s Snoop Dogg; of course he’s packing a gun and has pot on him at all times, he’s Snoop Dogg. What did you think you were going to find a box of tic tacs and some hand lotion?
Quote of the Week
“We believe there has been a misunderstanding.” – Spokeswoman for Naomi Campbell after she was arrested for attacking her drug counselor making this incident her eighth arrest for assault-related charges. There is no misunderstanding here; Naomi is one crazy bitch. She may look pretty, but this chick has serious issues. Not only should she be locked up for a while, but she is in serious need of anger management training. The world may be her oyster now, but in 20 years she will just be old, violent, and crazy, and that’s never a good combination just ask Courtney Love.
Rush Limbaugh proved, once again, that he was nothing more than a human piece of garbage by lashing out at beloved actor, Michael J. Fox. Mike recently filmed an ad in support of Missouri candidate Clair McHaskill, and her advocacy of stem cell research. In the ad, Michael J. appears fully medicated, yet still suffering the tremors and spasms, while talking about how stem cell research could really help people afflicted with Parkinson’s. After the ad appeared, Rush accused Mike of acting, purposely not taking his medication, as well as using his disease to stump for Democrats. To absorb this whole scenario, I feel it is only fair to give the two men a healthy comparison.
·Michael J. Fox – Happily married to his wife, Tracy, for nearly two decades, father of four children.
·Rush Limbaugh – Currently in his fourth marriage, no kids, but constantly criticizes people who are “anti-family values.”
·Michael J. Fox – Through his extensive acting career gave us lovable characters such as Alex Keaton, Marty McFly, and Mike from his last show, Spin City.
·Rush Limbaugh – Gave us negative, hateful talk radio and ushered in an era where telling blatant lies on-air to influence public opinion sunk politics to a frightening new low.
·Michael J. Fox – Currently takes a cocktail of medication prescribed by doctors to reduce the uncontrollable muscle spasms caused by Parkinson’s disease.
·Rush Limbaugh – Regularly hit up his Hispanic housekeeper to score OxyContin for him, while publicly criticizing drug addicts as a detriment to society on his daily radio program.
Once again, Rush is a piece of shit, and I really hope there is some new research and technology out there that Michael J. can utilize soon or that guy isn’t going to make it to 50.
White House mouthpiece Tony Snow came out back peddling in a fervor claiming that Resident Bush doesn’t use the term, “stay the course”. Hmmm…you would think that Tony Snow, having worked in the media all these years, would be aware of these new fangled thingamajiggers called cameras, and that some of these fancier cameras can record sound and movement as well as taking pretty pictures. Nice try, Tony, but your boy Bushy is to “stay the course” as peanut butter is to jelly.
Scientists have discovered the cause of why champagne is bubbly, and I have discovered that sometimes people with big college degrees and buttloads of research money have way too much time on their hands.
Television campaign ads sunk to a new low this week in the congressional race in Tennessee between Republican Bob Corker and Democrat Harold Ford, Jr. The ad features a blonde bimbo type talking about how she met Ford in the Playboy mansion or some weird crap like that, anyways the NAACP went apeshit when they saw it claiming that, because Ford is black, it plays on the whole racist fear of black men dominating white women. Normally, when someone cries about someone else not being politically correct I think they are a bunch of whiners, but I saw the ad, and it was totally racist, and the Republican National Committee can talk until they are blue in the face, but they meant every racist innuendo that was suggested in this ad. The RNC says they had black people look at the ad prior to it airing to let them know if it was racist, but c’mon guys, Condoleezza would give the thumbs up to anything to keep her power.
The mystery over how the crap got into the lettuce and spinach may be over. It was discovered that wild pigs have been the cause of the E.coli bacteria contamination of spinach and lettuce crops in California. My recommendation is to sharpen a stick at both ends, and send Jack after him (i.e. obscure Lord of the Flies reference).
In Local News
I’m still a touch exhausted from attending the Placebo show last night (Thursday night) at The Showbox. They were opening for some shitty, new band that I didn’t stick around for. Placebo was fantastic, and most likely, if you are from the U.K., you know who they are. Placebo was one of the headliners of Bob Geldof’s Live 8 concert series, because they are that big in England and Europe. Over here, no one really knows them, so I’ll kindly direct my fellow Americans to check them out at www.placeboworld.co.uk. They rock!
Things I Don’t Give a Fuck About This Week
I don’t give a fuck about Madonna’s adopted Malawian son. If the woman wants a baby from Africa and went through the whole paperwork and courts bullshit, then more power to her. They say that the adoption went through quickly, because she’s a celebrity. Of course it did, because that’s what happens when you have money, fame, and power. If Michael Jackson can be the legal father of two blonde-haired, blue-eyed kids, and one black one for the whole image thing, then Madonna should be left alone.
I don’t give a fuck about Kevin Federline’s latest acting role, and while I’m on the subject, why does anyone still give a flying fuck what Brittney Spears does, says, or looks like. She and her trailer trash hubby and her cock tease act are so over.
I don’t give a fuck about Snoop Dogg getting arrested for weapons and drug possession. He’s Snoop Dogg; of course he’s packing a gun and has pot on him at all times, he’s Snoop Dogg. What did you think you were going to find a box of tic tacs and some hand lotion?
Quote of the Week
“We believe there has been a misunderstanding.” – Spokeswoman for Naomi Campbell after she was arrested for attacking her drug counselor making this incident her eighth arrest for assault-related charges. There is no misunderstanding here; Naomi is one crazy bitch. She may look pretty, but this chick has serious issues. Not only should she be locked up for a while, but she is in serious need of anger management training. The world may be her oyster now, but in 20 years she will just be old, violent, and crazy, and that’s never a good combination just ask Courtney Love.
Tuesday, October 24, 2006
Is There Anything They Won't Make Into a Reality Show?
I just saw a commercial on TV for a new reality show called Intervention. Each week this show will highlight someone who has ruined their life with drugs and alcohol, and how their family and friends gather for an intervention right before they haul the intoxicated bastard off to rehab. Enough Already!!!
I will be the first to admit that I am a documentary junkie. I've always believed that real life is way more fascinating and stranger than fiction, but there's a world of difference between watching the woman with the 200 lb. tumor for a couple of hours where you witness her go from start to finish with her ordeal, as opposed to week after week of her drudging around with this huge thing attached to her body. A documentary has a beginning, an end, and a bit of shock value, after all, how does one end up with a 200 lb. tumor in the first place. However, reality shows just seem to drone on and on making big deals out of the littlest things.
Survivor was an interesting experiment, but I was never into it. If I wanted to watch a bunch of oddball people struggle to get away from a shithole, I'd move back to my hick town in Idaho. Jeff and I did get into The Apprentice for the first couple of seasons, because Jeff was going to business school, and I was at home with a newborn, which meant I had to live vicariously through others. It was an okay show until Donald Trump's ego took over, and the producers decided to focus more on the catfights and negativity turning it into every other reality show on the tube.
Now, the television has gone wacky with the sheer volume of reality television, and I'm convinced that there isn't anything they won't make into a reality show. Case in point, Little People Big World; a midget couple has three normal sized kids, one little person kid, they own a farm, run a business, go on vacation, and do the same day-to-day crap that everyone else does, but because they are midgets their lives are supposed to be more interesting? This show is a bit unsettling for me, because it harkens back to the P.T. Barnum/circus freak show days. I understand that this family's motivation is to increase awareness that people with dwarfism are just like everyone else, but there is something that just seems so wrong about it. Then again, it could be that I'm only 4'11", so I'm unable to appreciate the lives of short people as much as someone who is a more normal height, but I don't think so.
Most of the reality shows seem to boil down to fighting, whether it's two skanks fighting over Flavor Flav (why? no, seriously, why!), two guys fighting over the bachelorette, a person of size fighting over their addiction to donuts, or that asshole on The Amazing Race who spent every challenge yelling at his wife. How is this interesting? If I wanted to see a guy yell at his wife for an hour, I would show my husband the balance on my personal Visa statement.
Just when you think that perhaps the reality show craze is over, along comes a new batch of Andy Warhol disciples who want their 15 minutes no matter how much of an ass they look like on TV. The new crop includes a show called Monastery where it appears that five criminals are put into a group of monks. Is this a good idea? I'm not sure what the legal ramifications are when a monk gets beaten bloody with a sock full of batteries, but I guess we'll find out by episode three. Gene Simmons of Kiss has a show called Family Jewels that shows the day-to-day interactions of his common law wife and two kids. Although it's slightly more interesting due to Gene's celebrity status, I don't know if I ever wanted to have the mental picture of a 50-something, Jewish rock star bunking down to bed in footy pajamas.
I do find some reality television appropriate such as the home improvement shows on The Learning Channel, or the show about how gay people came out to their family on the LOGO channel, or even VH-1's Where Are They Now, because in the back of my mind I did always wonder what happened to the guy with the freaky hair from Flock of Seagulls. However, it seems these days that television executives have gotten lazy and will throw anything on the screen just to see if it sticks.
At this point, I should have hope. Reality TV has hit a low, and it appears to be on the way out, but that was the dream I had three years ago, and I'm still bombarded with commercials for the new season of America's Next Top Model. Maybe we just have to admit we are godless voyeurs, and wait for the inevitable day when one of the contestants from Survivor ends up getting eaten by a Gila monster. The family will sue for millions, and then this whole reality TV trend will be over. Until then, I'll focus on the most depraved, outrageous, disturbing reality show on the air, CNN's Headline News.
I will be the first to admit that I am a documentary junkie. I've always believed that real life is way more fascinating and stranger than fiction, but there's a world of difference between watching the woman with the 200 lb. tumor for a couple of hours where you witness her go from start to finish with her ordeal, as opposed to week after week of her drudging around with this huge thing attached to her body. A documentary has a beginning, an end, and a bit of shock value, after all, how does one end up with a 200 lb. tumor in the first place. However, reality shows just seem to drone on and on making big deals out of the littlest things.
Survivor was an interesting experiment, but I was never into it. If I wanted to watch a bunch of oddball people struggle to get away from a shithole, I'd move back to my hick town in Idaho. Jeff and I did get into The Apprentice for the first couple of seasons, because Jeff was going to business school, and I was at home with a newborn, which meant I had to live vicariously through others. It was an okay show until Donald Trump's ego took over, and the producers decided to focus more on the catfights and negativity turning it into every other reality show on the tube.
Now, the television has gone wacky with the sheer volume of reality television, and I'm convinced that there isn't anything they won't make into a reality show. Case in point, Little People Big World; a midget couple has three normal sized kids, one little person kid, they own a farm, run a business, go on vacation, and do the same day-to-day crap that everyone else does, but because they are midgets their lives are supposed to be more interesting? This show is a bit unsettling for me, because it harkens back to the P.T. Barnum/circus freak show days. I understand that this family's motivation is to increase awareness that people with dwarfism are just like everyone else, but there is something that just seems so wrong about it. Then again, it could be that I'm only 4'11", so I'm unable to appreciate the lives of short people as much as someone who is a more normal height, but I don't think so.
Most of the reality shows seem to boil down to fighting, whether it's two skanks fighting over Flavor Flav (why? no, seriously, why!), two guys fighting over the bachelorette, a person of size fighting over their addiction to donuts, or that asshole on The Amazing Race who spent every challenge yelling at his wife. How is this interesting? If I wanted to see a guy yell at his wife for an hour, I would show my husband the balance on my personal Visa statement.
Just when you think that perhaps the reality show craze is over, along comes a new batch of Andy Warhol disciples who want their 15 minutes no matter how much of an ass they look like on TV. The new crop includes a show called Monastery where it appears that five criminals are put into a group of monks. Is this a good idea? I'm not sure what the legal ramifications are when a monk gets beaten bloody with a sock full of batteries, but I guess we'll find out by episode three. Gene Simmons of Kiss has a show called Family Jewels that shows the day-to-day interactions of his common law wife and two kids. Although it's slightly more interesting due to Gene's celebrity status, I don't know if I ever wanted to have the mental picture of a 50-something, Jewish rock star bunking down to bed in footy pajamas.
I do find some reality television appropriate such as the home improvement shows on The Learning Channel, or the show about how gay people came out to their family on the LOGO channel, or even VH-1's Where Are They Now, because in the back of my mind I did always wonder what happened to the guy with the freaky hair from Flock of Seagulls. However, it seems these days that television executives have gotten lazy and will throw anything on the screen just to see if it sticks.
At this point, I should have hope. Reality TV has hit a low, and it appears to be on the way out, but that was the dream I had three years ago, and I'm still bombarded with commercials for the new season of America's Next Top Model. Maybe we just have to admit we are godless voyeurs, and wait for the inevitable day when one of the contestants from Survivor ends up getting eaten by a Gila monster. The family will sue for millions, and then this whole reality TV trend will be over. Until then, I'll focus on the most depraved, outrageous, disturbing reality show on the air, CNN's Headline News.
Sunday, October 22, 2006
Size, Schmize
At what point did strong, confident women who successfully manage careers, households, families, and active personal lives; women with the world at their feet, sell themselves short over a little number on a random piece of fabric?
For the past couple of weeks there has been a big ruckus over Madrid’s and London’s Fashion Weeks banning models that more closely resemble greyhounds and whippets rather than real ladies who like stylish clothing. By the way, hats off to the mayors of these cities, because today’s catwalk models look really, really bad. I’m not one of those jealous chicks who have a bad word to say about every woman with an ass smaller than mine, if I was, I would be one miserable girl, but the extreme thinness of this latest batch of runway models is downright disturbing. Did I miss some sort of memo declaring that the latest look should be less Heidi Klum and more Auschwitz survivor?
The crazy thing about this whole thin/fat/small size/large size craze is that women have allowed themselves to become controlled by a number on the inside of their garments. Countless times when I’ve been shopping I’ve overheard remarks like, ‘I can’t believe I’m a 12, I used to be a 10, now I want to kill myself’ or ‘If I can’t fit into this size 6, then I don’t want to go on living.’ These are comments from grown women in their 30s who are out shopping with friends at upscale department stores, yet the fact that they have a friend to be with or money to spend on clothing pales in comparison to the joy that will come to them if they are able to adhere to the number on the fabric.
Don’t think for a moment that this size issue has missed the fashion industry. I read an article a few days ago where the fashion industry has readily admitted to screwing with women’s clothing sizes. They have acknowledged that as women get larger in America, they have been expanding the definition of what a size means. They play it off like they do it so that women will feel good about themselves, yet this same article talked about a new size that the fashion world has come up with; Size 00. For all of you who stay up at night worried that Nicole Ritchie is no longer able to stuff her boney bod into a Size 0, along comes Size 00 to remedy the problem, and set a whole new standard for adolescent girls and Hollywood actresses to starve themselves down to.
I may not be a brilliant woman or have all of the answers, but I’ve come up with my own way of giving the finger to the fashion industry and their issue of sizing. When I go to a store and find a garment that I like, I take a size 10, 12, and 14 into the dressing room. Most of the time, I’m a size 12, but depending on the cut of the garment, the fabric, and how the thing looks on me, I could be as little as a size 10 or as large as a size 14, and I could care less. If the outfit looks good, and I don’t have to pay retail, then I will walk out with my size 12 slacks, a size 10 shirt, a size 14 jacket, and be a happy girl. My suggestion to other women is that you do the same, and start teaching this method to your daughters ASAP!
As I said before, I don’t have all of the answers and solutions, but this method of ‘the best of three’ has worked for me for quite sometime. It has zero effect on my self-esteem and allows me to have positive shopping experiences. As an additional benefit, I don’t have to wish death on myself if all of my clothes aren’t that magic size 10 as would the women I overhear while I’m shopping.
Women have been held to an unrealistic standard for decades in terms of size, and today, it seems that the extreme of what we should look like, and what we really are, are on the opposite ends of mall. Despite the best efforts by London and Madrid requiring that all runway models have a normal Body Mass Index, according to the BMI charts a woman who is 5’9” only has to weigh 125 lbs. to be considered “normal.” The average woman in the U.S. is 5’7” and weighs 160 lbs. The fashion industry and mass marketing has set us up for dramatic and tragic failure and we have fallen for it.
Much like the ‘girl-next-door’ celebrity that turns out to be a coke whore, and confesses tearfully on Oprah, there is a way to battle back. Us gals have to adopt the ‘best of three’ method in the dressing room, and the ‘see if I give a rat’s ass’ view to size and enjoy our physical quirks. Somewhere in between hippo and Holocaust is a range of weights, heights, body types, and figures along with clothing to fit them, and once we become less dependant on the little number on the random piece of fabric, we will actually be able to spend the rest of our lives enjoying who we are, which is the kind of happiness the fashion industry will never market to us.
For the past couple of weeks there has been a big ruckus over Madrid’s and London’s Fashion Weeks banning models that more closely resemble greyhounds and whippets rather than real ladies who like stylish clothing. By the way, hats off to the mayors of these cities, because today’s catwalk models look really, really bad. I’m not one of those jealous chicks who have a bad word to say about every woman with an ass smaller than mine, if I was, I would be one miserable girl, but the extreme thinness of this latest batch of runway models is downright disturbing. Did I miss some sort of memo declaring that the latest look should be less Heidi Klum and more Auschwitz survivor?
The crazy thing about this whole thin/fat/small size/large size craze is that women have allowed themselves to become controlled by a number on the inside of their garments. Countless times when I’ve been shopping I’ve overheard remarks like, ‘I can’t believe I’m a 12, I used to be a 10, now I want to kill myself’ or ‘If I can’t fit into this size 6, then I don’t want to go on living.’ These are comments from grown women in their 30s who are out shopping with friends at upscale department stores, yet the fact that they have a friend to be with or money to spend on clothing pales in comparison to the joy that will come to them if they are able to adhere to the number on the fabric.
Don’t think for a moment that this size issue has missed the fashion industry. I read an article a few days ago where the fashion industry has readily admitted to screwing with women’s clothing sizes. They have acknowledged that as women get larger in America, they have been expanding the definition of what a size means. They play it off like they do it so that women will feel good about themselves, yet this same article talked about a new size that the fashion world has come up with; Size 00. For all of you who stay up at night worried that Nicole Ritchie is no longer able to stuff her boney bod into a Size 0, along comes Size 00 to remedy the problem, and set a whole new standard for adolescent girls and Hollywood actresses to starve themselves down to.
I may not be a brilliant woman or have all of the answers, but I’ve come up with my own way of giving the finger to the fashion industry and their issue of sizing. When I go to a store and find a garment that I like, I take a size 10, 12, and 14 into the dressing room. Most of the time, I’m a size 12, but depending on the cut of the garment, the fabric, and how the thing looks on me, I could be as little as a size 10 or as large as a size 14, and I could care less. If the outfit looks good, and I don’t have to pay retail, then I will walk out with my size 12 slacks, a size 10 shirt, a size 14 jacket, and be a happy girl. My suggestion to other women is that you do the same, and start teaching this method to your daughters ASAP!
As I said before, I don’t have all of the answers and solutions, but this method of ‘the best of three’ has worked for me for quite sometime. It has zero effect on my self-esteem and allows me to have positive shopping experiences. As an additional benefit, I don’t have to wish death on myself if all of my clothes aren’t that magic size 10 as would the women I overhear while I’m shopping.
Women have been held to an unrealistic standard for decades in terms of size, and today, it seems that the extreme of what we should look like, and what we really are, are on the opposite ends of mall. Despite the best efforts by London and Madrid requiring that all runway models have a normal Body Mass Index, according to the BMI charts a woman who is 5’9” only has to weigh 125 lbs. to be considered “normal.” The average woman in the U.S. is 5’7” and weighs 160 lbs. The fashion industry and mass marketing has set us up for dramatic and tragic failure and we have fallen for it.
Much like the ‘girl-next-door’ celebrity that turns out to be a coke whore, and confesses tearfully on Oprah, there is a way to battle back. Us gals have to adopt the ‘best of three’ method in the dressing room, and the ‘see if I give a rat’s ass’ view to size and enjoy our physical quirks. Somewhere in between hippo and Holocaust is a range of weights, heights, body types, and figures along with clothing to fit them, and once we become less dependant on the little number on the random piece of fabric, we will actually be able to spend the rest of our lives enjoying who we are, which is the kind of happiness the fashion industry will never market to us.
Friday, October 20, 2006
Weekly Recap 10/15-21: CBGB R.I.P. & So Long Habeas Corpus
Headline News Recap
CBGB, the legendary club that nurtured the American punk movement, closed on Sunday night after years of battling property owners over the lease. Patti Smith took the stage to give a final performance paying tribute to groups like Ramones, Voidoids, Talking Heads, and New York Dolls. Never fear punks, the new CBGB will soon open in Las Vegas, and with any luck, pop culture poser addicts like Paris Hilton, Lindsay Lohan, and Tara Reid will show up just to front like they are down with the punk scene. Therefore, I would like to invite all of my fellow Vegas punks out to the commercialized, corporate fucking shill that is supposed to be the new CBGB (as if), and ask that they give it a real breaking in the way they did in the Bowery. Extra points for those who bring back that special aroma of piss and vomit to the new CBGB bathrooms.
Just when you thought your Habeas Corpus was safe, along comes Resident Bush to, yet again, wipe his ass with the Constitution and write into law legislation that condones torture, while at the same time, efficiently doing away with due process. Under the Regime's new rules, people can be grabbed right off the streets of their little town here in the States, thrown in jail for an indefinite amount of time with no opportunity to legally challenge their detention, be convicted and put to death based on coerced testimony. They are calling it the Military Commissions Act, but I think a better name would be the Gestapo Act or the Gulag Act or maybe, the Khmer Rouge Death Camp Act. This act is so bad that even religious groups showed up to protest.
Enron bastard, Ken Lay, who was convicted of defrauding his company of millions, then died before he could begin serving his sentence, had his conviction erased this week. What the fuck! This guy deserves to be publicly shamed for the rest of history. While he was spending millions and with full knowledge, running Enron into the ground, good people were working hard and relying on company pensions to support them in their retirement. Now that his conviction is erased, the government cannot go after millions he had in assets and investments to re-pay the workers. You got to love those compassionate conservatives hard at work for the American people (the American people that make up the top ten percent of the wealth, that is).
I'm not sure what humanity did to piss off the stingrays, but we'd better make amends and fast! They sent us a big warning by offing the crazy and lovable Crocodile Hunter Steve Irwin, but we didn't listen, and now, much like the Iraqis who were supposed to love us, the stingrays have gone on the offensive. On Thursday, a stingray jumped into the boat of a Florida man and stabbed him in the chest. The 81-year-old man was enjoying a little boat trip with his granddaughter and her friend when the attack happened, and he's now in critical condition. I'm not sure what the hell is going on, but Al Gore's movie never warned us about this side effect of global warming. We'd better make right by these fish fast, because they're pissed and they're coming for us.
In Local News
I learned the true definition of irony this week in a phone conversation with my friend. He is an IT specialist who has worked like a dog for his company for the past several years. It wasn’t unusual for him to be on call, and actually receive calls at all hours, nor was it unusual for him to be shipped off to New Jersey for long and boring training sessions, so that he could come back and train others at his company. Here’s the kicker: my friend is Indian (that’s right, an Indian guy who specializes in IT, how rare). Anyways, he just got laid off, because they outsourced his job to India! It’s a good thing he has hated his job for the past two years, and got an excellent severance package, or my “In Local News” might have read something like: ‘One of my good friends, who happens to be Indian, went ape shit this week when they outsourced his job to India, and proceeded to spike the “going away party” cupcakes with that curry sauce his wife makes causing third-degree burns to most of his co-workers.’ After this incident I can’t quite tell if irony or karma is the greater bitch.
Attention Whores Behaving Badly
Details of the divorce between Heather Mills McCartney and Sir Paul McCartney accidentally leaked to the tabloids this week (yeah, accidentally my ass). In Heather’s complaint she said that Sir Paul would get stoned and become abusive (hard to believe from a guy who only smokes pot), was callous about her amputated leg, and even stabbed her with the broken end of a wine glass. I find this a little far-fetched given his multi-decade marriage to Linda, who was one tough cookie in her own right and wouldn’t have hesitated to drop kick him if he started acting like a dick. Heather, here is a free Psych 101 lesson, guys don’t just become violent assholes overnight, they actually develop a pattern of abusive behavior over the course of several relationships. Prior to Linda there was Elizabeth Asher, who has said positive things about her affair with Sir Paul, so either both those gals are lying, or you are really going after some serious cash. In the end, Ms. Mills McCartney might end up with some money, but you don’t fight a music legend on his own soil without being the most hated woman on the block.
Casino mogul, Steve Wynn, accidentally put his elbow through an original painting by Picasso valued at $139 million. I can only venture to guess that someone is hating life right now. As if Steve didn’t feel bad enough about the blunder, every pretentious art fag within a continent had to sound off on TV about what a tragedy this was, so much so, you would have thought Steve had joined Al Qaeda or something. Back off assholes! The guy just screwed up an expensive work of art, and he’s Jewish, so he’s probably been walking around in a delusional fog wearing his pajama bottoms for two days while crying profusely and mumbling ‘139 million, oh G-d, 139 million’. I know that’s what my Jewish guy would be doing in the same situation.
Quote of the Week
"I think I'd just commit suicide." - Sen. John McCain on his response to a Democratic sweep in the upcoming elections. I used to like this guy, but after watching lay down and spread like a cheap whore for the Bush Regime, all I can say is, "Hey Johnny, when you cut, don't go horizontal from one side of the wrist to the other, go vertical beginning from the base of the hand towards the inside of your elbow, and don't forget to really make it deep." You’ll be doing everyone a favor, schmuck.
CBGB, the legendary club that nurtured the American punk movement, closed on Sunday night after years of battling property owners over the lease. Patti Smith took the stage to give a final performance paying tribute to groups like Ramones, Voidoids, Talking Heads, and New York Dolls. Never fear punks, the new CBGB will soon open in Las Vegas, and with any luck, pop culture poser addicts like Paris Hilton, Lindsay Lohan, and Tara Reid will show up just to front like they are down with the punk scene. Therefore, I would like to invite all of my fellow Vegas punks out to the commercialized, corporate fucking shill that is supposed to be the new CBGB (as if), and ask that they give it a real breaking in the way they did in the Bowery. Extra points for those who bring back that special aroma of piss and vomit to the new CBGB bathrooms.
Just when you thought your Habeas Corpus was safe, along comes Resident Bush to, yet again, wipe his ass with the Constitution and write into law legislation that condones torture, while at the same time, efficiently doing away with due process. Under the Regime's new rules, people can be grabbed right off the streets of their little town here in the States, thrown in jail for an indefinite amount of time with no opportunity to legally challenge their detention, be convicted and put to death based on coerced testimony. They are calling it the Military Commissions Act, but I think a better name would be the Gestapo Act or the Gulag Act or maybe, the Khmer Rouge Death Camp Act. This act is so bad that even religious groups showed up to protest.
Enron bastard, Ken Lay, who was convicted of defrauding his company of millions, then died before he could begin serving his sentence, had his conviction erased this week. What the fuck! This guy deserves to be publicly shamed for the rest of history. While he was spending millions and with full knowledge, running Enron into the ground, good people were working hard and relying on company pensions to support them in their retirement. Now that his conviction is erased, the government cannot go after millions he had in assets and investments to re-pay the workers. You got to love those compassionate conservatives hard at work for the American people (the American people that make up the top ten percent of the wealth, that is).
I'm not sure what humanity did to piss off the stingrays, but we'd better make amends and fast! They sent us a big warning by offing the crazy and lovable Crocodile Hunter Steve Irwin, but we didn't listen, and now, much like the Iraqis who were supposed to love us, the stingrays have gone on the offensive. On Thursday, a stingray jumped into the boat of a Florida man and stabbed him in the chest. The 81-year-old man was enjoying a little boat trip with his granddaughter and her friend when the attack happened, and he's now in critical condition. I'm not sure what the hell is going on, but Al Gore's movie never warned us about this side effect of global warming. We'd better make right by these fish fast, because they're pissed and they're coming for us.
In Local News
I learned the true definition of irony this week in a phone conversation with my friend. He is an IT specialist who has worked like a dog for his company for the past several years. It wasn’t unusual for him to be on call, and actually receive calls at all hours, nor was it unusual for him to be shipped off to New Jersey for long and boring training sessions, so that he could come back and train others at his company. Here’s the kicker: my friend is Indian (that’s right, an Indian guy who specializes in IT, how rare). Anyways, he just got laid off, because they outsourced his job to India! It’s a good thing he has hated his job for the past two years, and got an excellent severance package, or my “In Local News” might have read something like: ‘One of my good friends, who happens to be Indian, went ape shit this week when they outsourced his job to India, and proceeded to spike the “going away party” cupcakes with that curry sauce his wife makes causing third-degree burns to most of his co-workers.’ After this incident I can’t quite tell if irony or karma is the greater bitch.
Attention Whores Behaving Badly
Details of the divorce between Heather Mills McCartney and Sir Paul McCartney accidentally leaked to the tabloids this week (yeah, accidentally my ass). In Heather’s complaint she said that Sir Paul would get stoned and become abusive (hard to believe from a guy who only smokes pot), was callous about her amputated leg, and even stabbed her with the broken end of a wine glass. I find this a little far-fetched given his multi-decade marriage to Linda, who was one tough cookie in her own right and wouldn’t have hesitated to drop kick him if he started acting like a dick. Heather, here is a free Psych 101 lesson, guys don’t just become violent assholes overnight, they actually develop a pattern of abusive behavior over the course of several relationships. Prior to Linda there was Elizabeth Asher, who has said positive things about her affair with Sir Paul, so either both those gals are lying, or you are really going after some serious cash. In the end, Ms. Mills McCartney might end up with some money, but you don’t fight a music legend on his own soil without being the most hated woman on the block.
Casino mogul, Steve Wynn, accidentally put his elbow through an original painting by Picasso valued at $139 million. I can only venture to guess that someone is hating life right now. As if Steve didn’t feel bad enough about the blunder, every pretentious art fag within a continent had to sound off on TV about what a tragedy this was, so much so, you would have thought Steve had joined Al Qaeda or something. Back off assholes! The guy just screwed up an expensive work of art, and he’s Jewish, so he’s probably been walking around in a delusional fog wearing his pajama bottoms for two days while crying profusely and mumbling ‘139 million, oh G-d, 139 million’. I know that’s what my Jewish guy would be doing in the same situation.
Quote of the Week
"I think I'd just commit suicide." - Sen. John McCain on his response to a Democratic sweep in the upcoming elections. I used to like this guy, but after watching lay down and spread like a cheap whore for the Bush Regime, all I can say is, "Hey Johnny, when you cut, don't go horizontal from one side of the wrist to the other, go vertical beginning from the base of the hand towards the inside of your elbow, and don't forget to really make it deep." You’ll be doing everyone a favor, schmuck.
Tuesday, October 17, 2006
Bratz and Barbies and Princesses, Oh My!
I should have known with all of the godless marketing that exists Rachael would inevitably end up face-to-face with the “pretty” dolls. Barbies all lined up in a row, smiling perfectly from their bright pink boxes; Snow White, Cinderella, Princess Jasmine in a Charlie’s Angels-like trio with smiley faces printed on toddler-sized dress up clothes; skanky Bratz in their gangsta bitch glam snaring from the top of a mini-makeup kit. Rachael moved back and forth in a sideways pace from one end of the toy isle to the other.
“Ooooohhh Mommy! Day are soooo pwetty.”
I used to hate Barbie, and vowed to never buy her if I had a little girl. I believed she gave girls an unrealistic picture and narrow definition of what beauty was. In Barbie’s world, if you weren’t thin, blonde, and had colossal, plastic boobs, then you were merely a Skipper or a Kit follow up character. This idea of what constitutes gorgeous might be the standard in L.A., but I wanted my girl to have a scope of beauty that included curves, shades of dark hair, ethnicity, non-button noses, and a range of boob sizes, real boobs, that is.
Just when I thought Barbie was the most disastrous thing to hit the burgeoning self-esteem of young girls along came Bratz. I just about shit the first time I went through the toy isle as a pregnant woman and came across these things. Bratz make Barbie look like wholesome fun. I know they tried to market them as a punk-like alternative to Barbie, but as a punk I can proudly say that I would never buy my daughter a doll that conveyed that image. Instead of Barbie’s dream house, the Bratz hang out on a street corner complete with seedy, spray-painted, brick wall and a standing street light. Perhaps the message to girls is that if you don’t end up a trophy bride in a dream house like Barbie, you can sell your ass to a john or hustle drugs on the street corner like the Bratz. What the fuck!
One would think that after browsing through Barbies and skidding past Bratz, one would be able to take refuge in the sweet world of the Disney princesses, but not I. Unfortunately, having a Cultural Studies and media background doesn’t allow a person like me to just go with the flow and accept elements of popular culture for face value. I have to scrutinize and keep a check on the big picture, and princesses are not part of my plan.
I have never really accepted the whole Cinderella story even when I was a girl. My mother would tell the story about Cindy getting her prince then forgiving her stepmother and stepsisters, and something in my head would wonder why the hell she did. Here was a girl who was mentally abused by her stepfamily, then is just supposed to forgive them and live this charmed life. By the time I was 11, I had created an alternative ending where Cinderella ended up suing her stepmother for back wages, taking an extended engagement with the prince just to make sure she wasn’t marrying the first guy who asked her out, started her own cleaning solutions business, and worked with the Fairy Godmother to help other girls in domestically abusive situations.
As for Snow White and Princess Jasmine, well, I feel relatively uneasy having pretty cartoons telling my little girl that all of her problems will be solved if the right guy comes along, and that she is completely helpless until the moment the doors open revealing Mr. Handsome. Also, most GQ-looking guys that I knew, the ones who most resembled Prince Charming, were the dating raping jocks that were the kind of egotistical dicks you’d never even want your worst enemy to get involved with let alone your own daughter.
I let Rachael have her oogling moment in the toy isle, while I squirmed and wondered what I could offer as an alternative. She is now into baby dolls, which is cool. Perhaps the Groovy Girls will be the route I go for satisfying my little one’s hunger for pretty dollies. They seem wholesome, while at the same time offering an array of outfits that Rachael can dress them up in and strip off two minutes later in some sort of toddler runway show. The Groovy Girls come in a variety of colors, hair shades, ethnicities, and they have the traditional stuffed bodies rather than molded plastic, “here’s what a real girl’s figure should look like” thing going on.
Maybe I’m over-thinking this whole doll situation a bit too much, but I’d rather be a concerned mom who nurtures her daughter’s self-esteem from the beginning then one who lets her play with Barbies, Bratz, and the Princesses and ends up having to nurse her through an eating disorder at age 13. All I have to say to Corporate America is that you can take your flawless, L.A. beauties, your glammy street skanks, and your co-dependent royalty and shove them straight up you ass. My little girl deserves better.
“Ooooohhh Mommy! Day are soooo pwetty.”
I used to hate Barbie, and vowed to never buy her if I had a little girl. I believed she gave girls an unrealistic picture and narrow definition of what beauty was. In Barbie’s world, if you weren’t thin, blonde, and had colossal, plastic boobs, then you were merely a Skipper or a Kit follow up character. This idea of what constitutes gorgeous might be the standard in L.A., but I wanted my girl to have a scope of beauty that included curves, shades of dark hair, ethnicity, non-button noses, and a range of boob sizes, real boobs, that is.
Just when I thought Barbie was the most disastrous thing to hit the burgeoning self-esteem of young girls along came Bratz. I just about shit the first time I went through the toy isle as a pregnant woman and came across these things. Bratz make Barbie look like wholesome fun. I know they tried to market them as a punk-like alternative to Barbie, but as a punk I can proudly say that I would never buy my daughter a doll that conveyed that image. Instead of Barbie’s dream house, the Bratz hang out on a street corner complete with seedy, spray-painted, brick wall and a standing street light. Perhaps the message to girls is that if you don’t end up a trophy bride in a dream house like Barbie, you can sell your ass to a john or hustle drugs on the street corner like the Bratz. What the fuck!
One would think that after browsing through Barbies and skidding past Bratz, one would be able to take refuge in the sweet world of the Disney princesses, but not I. Unfortunately, having a Cultural Studies and media background doesn’t allow a person like me to just go with the flow and accept elements of popular culture for face value. I have to scrutinize and keep a check on the big picture, and princesses are not part of my plan.
I have never really accepted the whole Cinderella story even when I was a girl. My mother would tell the story about Cindy getting her prince then forgiving her stepmother and stepsisters, and something in my head would wonder why the hell she did. Here was a girl who was mentally abused by her stepfamily, then is just supposed to forgive them and live this charmed life. By the time I was 11, I had created an alternative ending where Cinderella ended up suing her stepmother for back wages, taking an extended engagement with the prince just to make sure she wasn’t marrying the first guy who asked her out, started her own cleaning solutions business, and worked with the Fairy Godmother to help other girls in domestically abusive situations.
As for Snow White and Princess Jasmine, well, I feel relatively uneasy having pretty cartoons telling my little girl that all of her problems will be solved if the right guy comes along, and that she is completely helpless until the moment the doors open revealing Mr. Handsome. Also, most GQ-looking guys that I knew, the ones who most resembled Prince Charming, were the dating raping jocks that were the kind of egotistical dicks you’d never even want your worst enemy to get involved with let alone your own daughter.
I let Rachael have her oogling moment in the toy isle, while I squirmed and wondered what I could offer as an alternative. She is now into baby dolls, which is cool. Perhaps the Groovy Girls will be the route I go for satisfying my little one’s hunger for pretty dollies. They seem wholesome, while at the same time offering an array of outfits that Rachael can dress them up in and strip off two minutes later in some sort of toddler runway show. The Groovy Girls come in a variety of colors, hair shades, ethnicities, and they have the traditional stuffed bodies rather than molded plastic, “here’s what a real girl’s figure should look like” thing going on.
Maybe I’m over-thinking this whole doll situation a bit too much, but I’d rather be a concerned mom who nurtures her daughter’s self-esteem from the beginning then one who lets her play with Barbies, Bratz, and the Princesses and ends up having to nurse her through an eating disorder at age 13. All I have to say to Corporate America is that you can take your flawless, L.A. beauties, your glammy street skanks, and your co-dependent royalty and shove them straight up you ass. My little girl deserves better.
Sunday, October 15, 2006
Hey Geoff Tate, Let's Make a Deal
I don’t wax nostalgic too often. My past is my past, and it is something I’ve had to reconcile at my own pace. However, every once in awhile I have a great experience that brings back fabulous memories while, at the same time, making me smile at the thought of what the future will hold. Tonight was one of those nights.
18 years ago I remember a bizarre, 30-second television commercial. A black and white illustration with a strange symbol in yellow that I had never seen, a crowd of people screaming, and a voice exclaiming, “Do you want freedom, or do we want equal rights…”. It caught my attention, and the next day after consulting with my friend Shane, who in my little teenage world, was the expert on music, I hopped on my 10-speed bike, hauled ass to the mall, and bought my first Queensryche album, Operation: Mindcrime.
Despite my tender age, I had already developed a healthy distrust of the government, and my favorite book was George Orwell’s 1984, so the storyline in Operation: Mindcrime was (disgustingly cliché pun) music to my ears. Two days later, I got back on my bike, hauled ass to the mall once again, and bought Queensryche’s three prior releases. I’ve been a fan ever since.
A few months ago, when I heard that the band was releasing Operation: Mindcrime II, I was all over it. The first one had left a mystery of an unsolved murder, and since it was 18 years later, they had to reveal who killed Mary, right. I bought the album, this time foregoing the bike trip, record store visit, and instead opting to order it over the internet. I listened to Mindcrime II twice, yet I still didn’t know who killed Mary. Now I was just fucking annoyed.
Queensryche is from the Seattle area, so part of me felt like just tracking them down and calling them up, or cornering them at the grocery store, and asking them to do some explaining, but that would have been a bit psycho. About the time that I was going to send a random email to their fansite, they announced a tour, which would feature a live, theatrical performance of both Mindcrime albums. I bought my ticket in two seconds, and tonight attended the show. I now know who killed Mary, and kudos to Queensryche, because I didn’t see that coming!
Aside from great music, I was also taken for a ride of pleasant nostalgia that I hadn’t expected. The entire first album brought me back to my small town in B.F., Idaho, riding my bike around with friends, listening to cassette tapes in a boom box while all of us walked home from school a group of ten kids enjoying the sun, and dreaming of the day when I would pack my bags and head to Seattle for good.
Who would have thought that in 18 years I would have earned two degrees, traveled to all over Europe and down to South America, achieved my dreams of working in the music industry, met nearly every famous person I’ve ever wanted to meet, gotten married, made it through a divorce, then got married again (this time doing it right), became a mom, and ended up living in the ‘burbs. The amazing thing was that when I heard this great music it evoked the same reaction it had the first time I heard it 18 years prior.
I have often struggled with the life I lead now wondering if sometimes I have lost myself in this suburban existence where motherhood, wifely duties, and my job seem all consuming. Tonight I was able to realize that I am all of those things, but I am also that optimistic person who is not afraid to push herself to make her life have relevance, and I like feeling that way.
Since I don’t want to lose that optimism, here’s the deal I want to make Geoff Tate. Geoff, if you, the rest of the guys, and I are still alive and well in 18 years, keep your pipes in shape, encourage the guys to keep their game up, book a show at The Moore (or whatever theater is standing that isn’t owned by Clear Channel or House of Blues or some bastard hybrid of the two), and I will be there. I don’t know if I’ll be living in Seattle, but I will drag my butt back here for it.
Sure, you might be one year away from qualifying for the senior discount at Denny’s and I’ll still be reeling from celebrating my 50th birthday the year prior, but if we are both still able, grab Scott, Eddie, both Mikes, and Pamela, and let’s all come together to celebrate an amazing work of music that should, in no way, ever be forgotten. I can promise you that more than a few ‘Ryche fans will be there to join me, but I can’t guarantee we will all be standing through the entire performance next time. What do you say, Geoff, The Moore Theater in Fall 2024? Unless I’m dead, I’ll be the first online for a ticket (or however they get tickets sold 18 years from now). Do we have a deal?
18 years ago I remember a bizarre, 30-second television commercial. A black and white illustration with a strange symbol in yellow that I had never seen, a crowd of people screaming, and a voice exclaiming, “Do you want freedom, or do we want equal rights…”. It caught my attention, and the next day after consulting with my friend Shane, who in my little teenage world, was the expert on music, I hopped on my 10-speed bike, hauled ass to the mall, and bought my first Queensryche album, Operation: Mindcrime.
Despite my tender age, I had already developed a healthy distrust of the government, and my favorite book was George Orwell’s 1984, so the storyline in Operation: Mindcrime was (disgustingly cliché pun) music to my ears. Two days later, I got back on my bike, hauled ass to the mall once again, and bought Queensryche’s three prior releases. I’ve been a fan ever since.
A few months ago, when I heard that the band was releasing Operation: Mindcrime II, I was all over it. The first one had left a mystery of an unsolved murder, and since it was 18 years later, they had to reveal who killed Mary, right. I bought the album, this time foregoing the bike trip, record store visit, and instead opting to order it over the internet. I listened to Mindcrime II twice, yet I still didn’t know who killed Mary. Now I was just fucking annoyed.
Queensryche is from the Seattle area, so part of me felt like just tracking them down and calling them up, or cornering them at the grocery store, and asking them to do some explaining, but that would have been a bit psycho. About the time that I was going to send a random email to their fansite, they announced a tour, which would feature a live, theatrical performance of both Mindcrime albums. I bought my ticket in two seconds, and tonight attended the show. I now know who killed Mary, and kudos to Queensryche, because I didn’t see that coming!
Aside from great music, I was also taken for a ride of pleasant nostalgia that I hadn’t expected. The entire first album brought me back to my small town in B.F., Idaho, riding my bike around with friends, listening to cassette tapes in a boom box while all of us walked home from school a group of ten kids enjoying the sun, and dreaming of the day when I would pack my bags and head to Seattle for good.
Who would have thought that in 18 years I would have earned two degrees, traveled to all over Europe and down to South America, achieved my dreams of working in the music industry, met nearly every famous person I’ve ever wanted to meet, gotten married, made it through a divorce, then got married again (this time doing it right), became a mom, and ended up living in the ‘burbs. The amazing thing was that when I heard this great music it evoked the same reaction it had the first time I heard it 18 years prior.
I have often struggled with the life I lead now wondering if sometimes I have lost myself in this suburban existence where motherhood, wifely duties, and my job seem all consuming. Tonight I was able to realize that I am all of those things, but I am also that optimistic person who is not afraid to push herself to make her life have relevance, and I like feeling that way.
Since I don’t want to lose that optimism, here’s the deal I want to make Geoff Tate. Geoff, if you, the rest of the guys, and I are still alive and well in 18 years, keep your pipes in shape, encourage the guys to keep their game up, book a show at The Moore (or whatever theater is standing that isn’t owned by Clear Channel or House of Blues or some bastard hybrid of the two), and I will be there. I don’t know if I’ll be living in Seattle, but I will drag my butt back here for it.
Sure, you might be one year away from qualifying for the senior discount at Denny’s and I’ll still be reeling from celebrating my 50th birthday the year prior, but if we are both still able, grab Scott, Eddie, both Mikes, and Pamela, and let’s all come together to celebrate an amazing work of music that should, in no way, ever be forgotten. I can promise you that more than a few ‘Ryche fans will be there to join me, but I can’t guarantee we will all be standing through the entire performance next time. What do you say, Geoff, The Moore Theater in Fall 2024? Unless I’m dead, I’ll be the first online for a ticket (or however they get tickets sold 18 years from now). Do we have a deal?
Friday, October 13, 2006
Weekly Update 10/8-14: Crappy Lettuce & Tempting Faith
Headline News Recap
North Korea claimed they launched a nuclear bomb underground. Now I’m no expert on nukes, but how the hell do you launch a bomb underground, and not only that, how do you launch a nuke without having at least just one of your neighboring countries (namely the other country that shares your name) not notice? I’m not saying it didn’t happen, after all, the U.N. Security Council is having a complete fit, I’m just wondering if perhaps the creepy, little lunatic who runs North Korea might be exaggerating to get attention. My toddler does this every now and then, only instead of threats with nuclear weapons; she throws her sippy cup on the ground and yells, which looks exactly like Kim Jong Il making a speech.
Just when you wanted to kick back and enjoy a salad, there’s something awry with the lettuce. The same place in California that produced shitty spinach is back with an encore of shitty lettuce. I used to be afraid of eating produce that came from Mexico or South American countries that had questionable water, now I’d rather take my chances with grapes from Guadalajara than leafy greens from Cali.
In a positive move for freedom of speech and putting weird crap on the Internet, Google bought YouTube for over a billion. Now, you will not only have the opportunity to query information on cats dancing in ball gowns; you will be able to see several videos of it as well. Then you may want to seek professional help.
A new book called Tempting Faith by David Kuo, the number two guy in the White House’s Office of Faith-Based Initiatives (this office really shouldn’t exist), claims that those pious neocons who basically sold the Bush presidency as “a vote for George is a vote for Jesus”, really can’t stand evangelical Christians and just used them to get their boy elected. Ya think! This regime hasn’t done one thing that remotely resembles anything I’ve heard my Christian friends and relatives talk about. Tempting Faith recounts instances where Karl Rove referred to Christian religious leaders as “nuts” and used tax dollars earmarked for “faith-based initiatives” to hold political roundtables between local religious leaders and incumbent Republican candidates who needed a boost in the polls. Most of this absolutely disgusts me, but I’m glad it’s coming out. Whether you are part of a religion or not, if anyone ever tells you that you have to do something without questioning it or G-d won’t love you, kick them in the teeth and tell them to “fuck off”, because it’s far easier to fight assault charges then it is to send your teenage niece or nephew off to an unjust, Middle Eastern civil war.
I would report on other important headlines, but all of the news sources are still frothing at the mouth over the former Congressman Foley’s jerk off emails to the pages, and in classic, Bush Regime form, no one is taking responsibility or being forced to resign despite outcries from the public.
In Local News
Curious George came out on DVD this week, and I’ll give $500 plus my eternal gratitude to anyone who will bring me the head of Jack Johnson. Seriously, if I have to hear that fucking song again, I’m going to do something psycho. On the new DVD, the video loops, so the song runs over and over again much to the joy of my toddler, and much to the detriment of the delicate balance of sanity in my brain.
Attention Hounds Behaving Badly This Week
Mel Gibson is on, what someone cleverly referred to as, “The Redemption Tour” discussing, with anyone who will listen, why he spewed anti-Semitic remarks while driving drunk. He is blaming the alcohol, but let’s get real, if it weren’t there to begin with, it wouldn’t have come out. I’ve said some crazy things while inebriated, but I’ve never gone off on some racist tirade. Nice try, Mel.
Madonna and her husband adopted an African kid this week. Is this now some sort of new celebrity trend like where all of the celebrities had those mini Chihuahuas? It just seems a little strange to me that every time a celebrity visits Africa, they come back with a kid. There are a lot of children in the U.S., who could use a good home, and they already speak English, so what’s the deal. I would love to believe all of these celebrities have pure motives, but at this point, I’m skeptical.
Expensive shoe designer, Manolo Blahnik, came to the defense of spoiled, dead royalty this week by proclaiming that Marie Antoinette’s death was “unjust” and she “died so badly.” He reasoned that while she shouldn’t have spent money lavishly, while the French people starved, she was “young and bored.” Apparently, Mr. Blahnik fails to realize that this is the same woman who was approached several times and told that her people were dying from starvation and disease, and her solution to the economic crisis was to “let them eat cake.” I think, much like Russia’s Romanov Family, she got what she deserved.
Quote of the Week
“Trust me, I look really awful naked.” – Victoria Beckham (a.k.a. Posh Spice) to Harper’s Bazaar magazine on her thin figure. This I believe, because when I was in the 4th grade, Karen Carpenter died of anorexia and my teacher, Mrs. Marshall, in an attempt to show the harmful effects of forgoing food went around the room with a medical journal picture of a woman who had starved herself down to 85 lbs. Holocaust Chic might be the look of choice for Keira Knightley, Mary Kate Olsen, and any of the stars of the “pro ana” websites, but to us regular people, it’s just gross, and to imagine that naked is the stuff nightmares are made of.
By the way, hats off to London Mayor Ken Livingstone for threatening to pull funding for London Fashion Week if the models don’t adhere to the new Body Mass Index requirements. Following Madrid’s lead, any model with a below-average BMI will not be allowed to walk at Fashion Week. Of course, the bare minimum of a normal BMI only requires a woman, who is 5’9” to weigh 125 lbs., but it’s a start.
North Korea claimed they launched a nuclear bomb underground. Now I’m no expert on nukes, but how the hell do you launch a bomb underground, and not only that, how do you launch a nuke without having at least just one of your neighboring countries (namely the other country that shares your name) not notice? I’m not saying it didn’t happen, after all, the U.N. Security Council is having a complete fit, I’m just wondering if perhaps the creepy, little lunatic who runs North Korea might be exaggerating to get attention. My toddler does this every now and then, only instead of threats with nuclear weapons; she throws her sippy cup on the ground and yells, which looks exactly like Kim Jong Il making a speech.
Just when you wanted to kick back and enjoy a salad, there’s something awry with the lettuce. The same place in California that produced shitty spinach is back with an encore of shitty lettuce. I used to be afraid of eating produce that came from Mexico or South American countries that had questionable water, now I’d rather take my chances with grapes from Guadalajara than leafy greens from Cali.
In a positive move for freedom of speech and putting weird crap on the Internet, Google bought YouTube for over a billion. Now, you will not only have the opportunity to query information on cats dancing in ball gowns; you will be able to see several videos of it as well. Then you may want to seek professional help.
A new book called Tempting Faith by David Kuo, the number two guy in the White House’s Office of Faith-Based Initiatives (this office really shouldn’t exist), claims that those pious neocons who basically sold the Bush presidency as “a vote for George is a vote for Jesus”, really can’t stand evangelical Christians and just used them to get their boy elected. Ya think! This regime hasn’t done one thing that remotely resembles anything I’ve heard my Christian friends and relatives talk about. Tempting Faith recounts instances where Karl Rove referred to Christian religious leaders as “nuts” and used tax dollars earmarked for “faith-based initiatives” to hold political roundtables between local religious leaders and incumbent Republican candidates who needed a boost in the polls. Most of this absolutely disgusts me, but I’m glad it’s coming out. Whether you are part of a religion or not, if anyone ever tells you that you have to do something without questioning it or G-d won’t love you, kick them in the teeth and tell them to “fuck off”, because it’s far easier to fight assault charges then it is to send your teenage niece or nephew off to an unjust, Middle Eastern civil war.
I would report on other important headlines, but all of the news sources are still frothing at the mouth over the former Congressman Foley’s jerk off emails to the pages, and in classic, Bush Regime form, no one is taking responsibility or being forced to resign despite outcries from the public.
In Local News
Curious George came out on DVD this week, and I’ll give $500 plus my eternal gratitude to anyone who will bring me the head of Jack Johnson. Seriously, if I have to hear that fucking song again, I’m going to do something psycho. On the new DVD, the video loops, so the song runs over and over again much to the joy of my toddler, and much to the detriment of the delicate balance of sanity in my brain.
Attention Hounds Behaving Badly This Week
Mel Gibson is on, what someone cleverly referred to as, “The Redemption Tour” discussing, with anyone who will listen, why he spewed anti-Semitic remarks while driving drunk. He is blaming the alcohol, but let’s get real, if it weren’t there to begin with, it wouldn’t have come out. I’ve said some crazy things while inebriated, but I’ve never gone off on some racist tirade. Nice try, Mel.
Madonna and her husband adopted an African kid this week. Is this now some sort of new celebrity trend like where all of the celebrities had those mini Chihuahuas? It just seems a little strange to me that every time a celebrity visits Africa, they come back with a kid. There are a lot of children in the U.S., who could use a good home, and they already speak English, so what’s the deal. I would love to believe all of these celebrities have pure motives, but at this point, I’m skeptical.
Expensive shoe designer, Manolo Blahnik, came to the defense of spoiled, dead royalty this week by proclaiming that Marie Antoinette’s death was “unjust” and she “died so badly.” He reasoned that while she shouldn’t have spent money lavishly, while the French people starved, she was “young and bored.” Apparently, Mr. Blahnik fails to realize that this is the same woman who was approached several times and told that her people were dying from starvation and disease, and her solution to the economic crisis was to “let them eat cake.” I think, much like Russia’s Romanov Family, she got what she deserved.
Quote of the Week
“Trust me, I look really awful naked.” – Victoria Beckham (a.k.a. Posh Spice) to Harper’s Bazaar magazine on her thin figure. This I believe, because when I was in the 4th grade, Karen Carpenter died of anorexia and my teacher, Mrs. Marshall, in an attempt to show the harmful effects of forgoing food went around the room with a medical journal picture of a woman who had starved herself down to 85 lbs. Holocaust Chic might be the look of choice for Keira Knightley, Mary Kate Olsen, and any of the stars of the “pro ana” websites, but to us regular people, it’s just gross, and to imagine that naked is the stuff nightmares are made of.
By the way, hats off to London Mayor Ken Livingstone for threatening to pull funding for London Fashion Week if the models don’t adhere to the new Body Mass Index requirements. Following Madrid’s lead, any model with a below-average BMI will not be allowed to walk at Fashion Week. Of course, the bare minimum of a normal BMI only requires a woman, who is 5’9” to weigh 125 lbs., but it’s a start.
Tuesday, October 10, 2006
Toddler Party
My friend Stacy is one brave mama. For her son’s 3rd birthday, she decided to invite 20+ kids and have the celebration at her house complete with games, lunches for each kid, cake, cupcakes, and munchies for the adults. Two hours, 15 kids, mounds of screaming, and a bump or two on a little head, everyone left the party exhausted.
In my lifetime I have seen some raging parties; whether it was the annual Margaritaville party at the Kappa Sigma house on the Boise State campus, the Up In Smoke Tour night off bash, scores of punk and riotgrrl after show parties, or my college roommate Mary’s 21st birthday celebration where I experienced a drink called “the atom bomb”, I have been to some serious parties. None of the above compare an iota to a toddler party.
For those who don’t have kids, or have older kids and have forgotten what toddler parenting was like, imagine yourself as a zoo keeper, and today it’s your turn to watch over the chimpanzees. Now let’s say that next door to the monkey house was the posh room that the zoo has their big donor events in. Let’s say that in preparation for a big donor event, fully stocked portable bars were brought in, and when the monkeys smelled the sweet aroma of wine, they broke loose got into the donor room and drank the bars clean. After that, the monkeys proceed to ransack the zoo, and finally end up in the zoo gun room where they are now destructive, drunk, and fully armed. The only ones left to put a halt to their path of wanton carnage is you and five other zoo keepers who are scared shitless. This is similar to what it’s like to be in a house with a bunch of toddlers hopped up on sugar and psyched, because it’s almost time to sing “Happy Birthday”.
Toddlers are the closest thing to the Freudian id that I have ever experienced. They run and jump around singing, yelling, and doing anything, but shutting up and sitting down. They have no regard for the property or sanity of others grabbing whatever suits their fancy, especially everything you tell them not to touch. Stacy did the party in a Bob the Builder theme and had two blow up construction cones with a blow up sign in the middle to keep kids off the stairwell. Despite all the parents’ attempts to keep the inflatable “caution” sign in place, the toddlers were drawn to it like Paris Hilton to the paparazzi.
Toddlers are also never satisfied. Stacy’s parents were there supervising games for the kids, and gave out little plastic medals with ribbons. Rachael participated in each game, and got her medals, but it wasn’t enough, she wanted more. She insisted on playing both of the games several times, then after collecting a plethora of medals and plastic, gold coins stole some of the other kids’ awards. Funny, I didn’t teach my kid to be a greedy thief, it just sort of happened that way. I was feeling inadequate about my parenting skills when I noticed a little blonde girl going through the goody bags of some of the other kids and taking the toys she found appealing despite her parents’ lecture about respecting the property of others. Her mother showed her that she had her own bag of toys, but the little blonde wanted what everyone else had. What a bunch of greedy, little bastards!
At the end of the party, with Stacy’s house thoroughly trashed, you would think that the toddlers, with their bellies full of goodies and cake, would have walked away happy, but that’s something a rational person would do, and toddlers are not rational. You would have thought some of these kids were being sent to their death with the way they carried on as their parents attempted to get them out of the house and into the car. Rachael left the house just fine, but was yelling at me all the way home. From the time we pulled out of Stacy’s cul-de-sac until nearly the time we entered our neighborhood Rachael made demands, screamed at the top of her lungs, and told me to “shut it up, Mommy” making me wonder if I was seriously mentally ill when I decided to have a child. This isn’t want I had imagined. I thought it was all about rocking a sweet little girl to sleep, then looking in on her with Jeff by my side as she slept peacefully. None of those fucking books ever said anything about the drunken, armed monkey behavior or the verbal abuse.
By the time we arrived home I had actually began to fear the impending December 2nd date that would be Rachael’s 3rd birthday. I’d like to say that I will have a less chaotic commemoration of my daughter’s 3rd year of life, but I’d also like to say that my ass is small, and neither is true. In two short months, I will host my own toddler party, and all I have to say is, G-d help us all.
In my lifetime I have seen some raging parties; whether it was the annual Margaritaville party at the Kappa Sigma house on the Boise State campus, the Up In Smoke Tour night off bash, scores of punk and riotgrrl after show parties, or my college roommate Mary’s 21st birthday celebration where I experienced a drink called “the atom bomb”, I have been to some serious parties. None of the above compare an iota to a toddler party.
For those who don’t have kids, or have older kids and have forgotten what toddler parenting was like, imagine yourself as a zoo keeper, and today it’s your turn to watch over the chimpanzees. Now let’s say that next door to the monkey house was the posh room that the zoo has their big donor events in. Let’s say that in preparation for a big donor event, fully stocked portable bars were brought in, and when the monkeys smelled the sweet aroma of wine, they broke loose got into the donor room and drank the bars clean. After that, the monkeys proceed to ransack the zoo, and finally end up in the zoo gun room where they are now destructive, drunk, and fully armed. The only ones left to put a halt to their path of wanton carnage is you and five other zoo keepers who are scared shitless. This is similar to what it’s like to be in a house with a bunch of toddlers hopped up on sugar and psyched, because it’s almost time to sing “Happy Birthday”.
Toddlers are the closest thing to the Freudian id that I have ever experienced. They run and jump around singing, yelling, and doing anything, but shutting up and sitting down. They have no regard for the property or sanity of others grabbing whatever suits their fancy, especially everything you tell them not to touch. Stacy did the party in a Bob the Builder theme and had two blow up construction cones with a blow up sign in the middle to keep kids off the stairwell. Despite all the parents’ attempts to keep the inflatable “caution” sign in place, the toddlers were drawn to it like Paris Hilton to the paparazzi.
Toddlers are also never satisfied. Stacy’s parents were there supervising games for the kids, and gave out little plastic medals with ribbons. Rachael participated in each game, and got her medals, but it wasn’t enough, she wanted more. She insisted on playing both of the games several times, then after collecting a plethora of medals and plastic, gold coins stole some of the other kids’ awards. Funny, I didn’t teach my kid to be a greedy thief, it just sort of happened that way. I was feeling inadequate about my parenting skills when I noticed a little blonde girl going through the goody bags of some of the other kids and taking the toys she found appealing despite her parents’ lecture about respecting the property of others. Her mother showed her that she had her own bag of toys, but the little blonde wanted what everyone else had. What a bunch of greedy, little bastards!
At the end of the party, with Stacy’s house thoroughly trashed, you would think that the toddlers, with their bellies full of goodies and cake, would have walked away happy, but that’s something a rational person would do, and toddlers are not rational. You would have thought some of these kids were being sent to their death with the way they carried on as their parents attempted to get them out of the house and into the car. Rachael left the house just fine, but was yelling at me all the way home. From the time we pulled out of Stacy’s cul-de-sac until nearly the time we entered our neighborhood Rachael made demands, screamed at the top of her lungs, and told me to “shut it up, Mommy” making me wonder if I was seriously mentally ill when I decided to have a child. This isn’t want I had imagined. I thought it was all about rocking a sweet little girl to sleep, then looking in on her with Jeff by my side as she slept peacefully. None of those fucking books ever said anything about the drunken, armed monkey behavior or the verbal abuse.
By the time we arrived home I had actually began to fear the impending December 2nd date that would be Rachael’s 3rd birthday. I’d like to say that I will have a less chaotic commemoration of my daughter’s 3rd year of life, but I’d also like to say that my ass is small, and neither is true. In two short months, I will host my own toddler party, and all I have to say is, G-d help us all.
Sunday, October 08, 2006
Here's a Big Braces Smile Wishing You a Happy Monday!
Only 8 more months of these damn things (okay, now I'm sad). Anyways have a Monday you don't want to kill yourself over, and remember posting while drunk can be funny (right Dinners!), posting while tired makes you take stupid pictures.
Setting Fire to Plastic People
I hate them; posers, fakers, plastic people who could care less about you, but ask you how you’re doing anyways. I find genuine people refreshing, no matter how rough their edges are. In my lifetime, I’ve been fortunate enough to come across straight-shooters who tell it like it is. Then again, I’ve met people who will smile at you one minute, then sling some serious shit about you behind your back the next minute.
Regarding the initial statement made above, I find it somewhat ironic that despite my intense loathing of plastic people I am in the fundraising profession. Ass kissing in fundraising is as rampant as Chlamydia at a private Catholic high school. At The Facility, the big boss is a master ass kisser with such a repertoire for tactfulness that he could teach the “How to Kiss Ass for Profit and Influence” class at any university. Fortunately, I was born without the ability to kiss ass, which has been challenging at certain times, yet allows me to look in the mirror on a daily basis and know that if I was hit by a bus crossing the street that very afternoon, I would die with a clean soul (well mostly clean anyways).
My problem with working in fundraising and having an acute knowledge of the plethora of plastic people sharing my profession is perception. Case in point, in a previous job, I had the opportunity to sit down with a gentleman in his 90s who was one of the original aviation barons. After drinking his glass of scotch and soda he reminisced about developing aircraft technologies with the likes of William Boeing and other great aviation masters. His stories were fascinating. Here was a man who, in his lifetime, helped airplanes go from crafts where the propellers had to be started manually to jumbo jetliners. I hung on his every word and felt so positive about the evening, until I got home and had the chance to think about it.
Although I could care less what most people think of me, that night I worried that this great man thought that the only reason I was listening to him came purely out of the motivation of schmoozing him for a contribution to my organization. I hoped that we made enough of a connection that he could see that I was really interested in his stories, but herein lays my daily predicament. I don’t kiss ass, and will tell you what I’m after point blank, but due to the kiss ass, plastic people in my world, I often have to wonder if the folks I deal with think I am one of the evil ones. I really shouldn’t care, but I do.
Since plastic people put me in this ethical dilemma on a regular basis, when I have the misfortune of running into one, I feel completely cool with torturing them, particularly the people who ask you how you are doing when you know they don’t give a fuck. On one hand I am tempted to just say, “Fine, thanks” and move on, but the inclination to induce mental anguish is just too good to resist. When I get the fake question, I want to launch into a diatribe about a random problem that would be boring even for people who are genuinely interested in my life, let alone someone who doesn’t really want to know me from Adam. It would be one of those sick, sadistic pleasures to watch them become nearly physically ill from having to listen to me drone on and on about nothing. The kicker is that these plastic people are usually so caught up in wanting to be the most popular kid in school that they never walk away from someone who is leaving a trail of vocal drool. They will listen, helplessly, until someone butts in to say “hello” and relieves them of the anguish. Until then, however, the sadist in me does relish the few sweet minutes of cosmic payback I get.
Don’t get me wrong, I know that businesses are pushing for genuine politeness, so when a salesperson asks me how I’m doing I take it more as his job duty rather than a genuine interest, and I’m happy to follow with a “well, thank you.” My brand of revenge is intended for the people who live in my neighborhood, the pathetic ass kissers in my occupational field who give us realists a bad name, and those socialite mommies who you know will eventually end up shopping in the juniors section in an attempt to compete with their daughters in about 12 years.
They say it takes all kinds to make the world go around, but I’m optimistic. I think the world would be just fine if there were no more Paris Hiltons, Kathy Lee Giffords, Jessica Simpsons, or those broads in the neighborhood who run into you once in a blue moon at the park and with a smile say, “I’m so happy to see you again, we should really get together.” Yeah bitch, I live two houses down, and funny, I’ve never heard a knock at my door or a ring on my phone. Thanks, but no thanks; I’d rather spend my time hanging with friends who are made of actual flesh and blood.
Regarding the initial statement made above, I find it somewhat ironic that despite my intense loathing of plastic people I am in the fundraising profession. Ass kissing in fundraising is as rampant as Chlamydia at a private Catholic high school. At The Facility, the big boss is a master ass kisser with such a repertoire for tactfulness that he could teach the “How to Kiss Ass for Profit and Influence” class at any university. Fortunately, I was born without the ability to kiss ass, which has been challenging at certain times, yet allows me to look in the mirror on a daily basis and know that if I was hit by a bus crossing the street that very afternoon, I would die with a clean soul (well mostly clean anyways).
My problem with working in fundraising and having an acute knowledge of the plethora of plastic people sharing my profession is perception. Case in point, in a previous job, I had the opportunity to sit down with a gentleman in his 90s who was one of the original aviation barons. After drinking his glass of scotch and soda he reminisced about developing aircraft technologies with the likes of William Boeing and other great aviation masters. His stories were fascinating. Here was a man who, in his lifetime, helped airplanes go from crafts where the propellers had to be started manually to jumbo jetliners. I hung on his every word and felt so positive about the evening, until I got home and had the chance to think about it.
Although I could care less what most people think of me, that night I worried that this great man thought that the only reason I was listening to him came purely out of the motivation of schmoozing him for a contribution to my organization. I hoped that we made enough of a connection that he could see that I was really interested in his stories, but herein lays my daily predicament. I don’t kiss ass, and will tell you what I’m after point blank, but due to the kiss ass, plastic people in my world, I often have to wonder if the folks I deal with think I am one of the evil ones. I really shouldn’t care, but I do.
Since plastic people put me in this ethical dilemma on a regular basis, when I have the misfortune of running into one, I feel completely cool with torturing them, particularly the people who ask you how you are doing when you know they don’t give a fuck. On one hand I am tempted to just say, “Fine, thanks” and move on, but the inclination to induce mental anguish is just too good to resist. When I get the fake question, I want to launch into a diatribe about a random problem that would be boring even for people who are genuinely interested in my life, let alone someone who doesn’t really want to know me from Adam. It would be one of those sick, sadistic pleasures to watch them become nearly physically ill from having to listen to me drone on and on about nothing. The kicker is that these plastic people are usually so caught up in wanting to be the most popular kid in school that they never walk away from someone who is leaving a trail of vocal drool. They will listen, helplessly, until someone butts in to say “hello” and relieves them of the anguish. Until then, however, the sadist in me does relish the few sweet minutes of cosmic payback I get.
Don’t get me wrong, I know that businesses are pushing for genuine politeness, so when a salesperson asks me how I’m doing I take it more as his job duty rather than a genuine interest, and I’m happy to follow with a “well, thank you.” My brand of revenge is intended for the people who live in my neighborhood, the pathetic ass kissers in my occupational field who give us realists a bad name, and those socialite mommies who you know will eventually end up shopping in the juniors section in an attempt to compete with their daughters in about 12 years.
They say it takes all kinds to make the world go around, but I’m optimistic. I think the world would be just fine if there were no more Paris Hiltons, Kathy Lee Giffords, Jessica Simpsons, or those broads in the neighborhood who run into you once in a blue moon at the park and with a smile say, “I’m so happy to see you again, we should really get together.” Yeah bitch, I live two houses down, and funny, I’ve never heard a knock at my door or a ring on my phone. Thanks, but no thanks; I’d rather spend my time hanging with friends who are made of actual flesh and blood.
Friday, October 06, 2006
Weekly Recap 10/1-7: Gunning Down the Amish & Perv Politicians
Headline News Recap
At the beginning of the week some whack job went nuts, burst into an Amish girls’ school and open fired killing five girls and injuring another five. This really perplexes me, because what I want to know is what the fuck this guy could possibly have against the Amish. These are a group of people who keep to themselves, ride around in a horse and buggy, and don’t bug the outside world in the least, and they make excellent, hand-crafted wooden furniture. Of course there is mounds of speculation that this guy was mentally unstable (ya think!), and that he killed girls, because he really wanted to molest them. Either way, it is a sad state of affairs when people who don’t even get to contribute to the decline of society have to deal with the business end of it.
Unless you’ve been living under a rock, or happen to be Amish, you’ve probably heard by now that the pious Republican Congressman from Florida, Mark Foley, sent nasty emails and IMs to young guys working as Congressional pages. The bigger story is who knew about it and for how long. Evidence is now coming out that many Republicans did know Foley had a thing for young dudes, but they kept their mouths shut. This story may be shocking, but it isn’t surprising. Everyone in D.C. seems to be obsessed with their own power, and when you take a group of people who barely have to run for office in order to get elected, they end up acquiring the mandatory “G-d complex” and think they have the right to do whatever they want. Foley claims he’s gay, but I don’t buy it. I think the Republicans are trying to dig their way out of their hypocrisy hole, and figure that if they can pressure Foley to come out of the closet, they can blame his behavior on a deviant lifestyle choice instead of admitting that they might have perverts in their ranks.
By the way, while everyone was focusing on the pervert and those who knew him to be a pervert, the Bush Regime scored a big win against all that is just and humane by legalizing torture. After wiping his ass with the Geneva Conventions, Bushy went to work gathering all of the allies, or at least those who will still admit to being a George W. ally, and got them to pass a bill giving the green light to “enhanced interrogation”. Basically, the U.S. government can’t rape or kill, and possibly can’t pull a detainee’s fingernails out with pliers, but I’m sure there are ways of getting around that pesky language. At this point, I wonder if Saddam will continue to stand trial, or be up for a Bush Administration appointment in the near future.
Other signs that the neocon house of cards is finally crumbling: Senate Majority Leader Bill Frist championed the idea of the Taliban being allowed back into power in Afghanistan, because the war could never be won there. I guess Frist is okay with the idea of forcing 9-year-old girls into sex slave marriages to 50-year-old men, as well as public executions of women who tell their husbands not to beat them. Former CIA Chief George Tenet did give Condoleezza Rice the 411 on Al Qaeda and their threats when the Bush Regime took office, but nothing was done and you know the rest of that story. Rule #1: If you’re going to lie about something, make sure it isn’t a big one that has a paper trail and where the people involved are still living and talking to the media. Most of the Republicans up for re-election are running from Bush like my husband from one of Rachael’s poopies, but hopefully the public can see through it. Remember folks, not one of these spineless weasels opposed their golden boy when he lied about WMDs, now go out and get some sweet voter revenge!
In Local News
The crazy broad who was obsessed with the woman who owned my house prior to me put her house on the market. Maybe she realized that the friendship she cultivated in the four short months that the previous owners lived here was the best she’d ever had, and that looking at their house everyday made life unbearable, or perhaps she moved East to be closer to her bestest friend, either way, I’m just happy she is gone. Hopefully the next people who move in will be cool. Maybe if I’m lucky, it will be another punk chick who is more than a bit uncomfortable living in the ‘burbs, but I have a feeling it will be awhile before I find out since the loony bitch overpriced her house.
Stuff I Don’t Give a Fuck about This Week
I don’t give a fuck that Brad Pitt hired David Beckham to tutor Angelina’s boy in soccer. I don’t give a fuck about Kate Hudson screwing Owen Wilson. I don’t give a fuck about Anna Nicole’s baby daddy. I don’t give a fuck about Paris Hilton’s fistfight with that former Playboy model, and think it’s kind of pathetic that it was over the idiot from Blink 182. I don’t give a fuck about Kirsten Dunst playing an overtly sexual Marie Antoinette in her latest movie, nor do I give a fuck that the French are objecting to it.
Finally, I don’t give a fuck about Tom Cruise keeping Katie Holmes on a tight workout schedule, and will everyone please stop saying he is kidnapping her! Getting to live in a ginormous mansion with a guy who lets you spend a decent chunk of his $600 million net worth, while he takes you to movie premiers, and makes sure you get non-Dawson’s Creekish movie roles is not being kidnapped, it is simply part of the tactic known as Operation: Beard.
Quote of the Week
“You know, I’m mad at you, because my book is probably going to be knocked out of the No. 1 by your book. I’m just kidding.” – Bill O’Reilly to legendary journalist Bob Woodward on The O’Reilly Factor. No, Bill’s not kidding, he’s a whiny bitch and he probably is a little mad, but that’s what happens when fiction goes up against well-written, non-fiction. Sorry Bill, if it hadn’t been Woodward’s book, State of Denial, it would have been the latest issue of Guns & Ammo or one of those cheesy romance novels.
At the beginning of the week some whack job went nuts, burst into an Amish girls’ school and open fired killing five girls and injuring another five. This really perplexes me, because what I want to know is what the fuck this guy could possibly have against the Amish. These are a group of people who keep to themselves, ride around in a horse and buggy, and don’t bug the outside world in the least, and they make excellent, hand-crafted wooden furniture. Of course there is mounds of speculation that this guy was mentally unstable (ya think!), and that he killed girls, because he really wanted to molest them. Either way, it is a sad state of affairs when people who don’t even get to contribute to the decline of society have to deal with the business end of it.
Unless you’ve been living under a rock, or happen to be Amish, you’ve probably heard by now that the pious Republican Congressman from Florida, Mark Foley, sent nasty emails and IMs to young guys working as Congressional pages. The bigger story is who knew about it and for how long. Evidence is now coming out that many Republicans did know Foley had a thing for young dudes, but they kept their mouths shut. This story may be shocking, but it isn’t surprising. Everyone in D.C. seems to be obsessed with their own power, and when you take a group of people who barely have to run for office in order to get elected, they end up acquiring the mandatory “G-d complex” and think they have the right to do whatever they want. Foley claims he’s gay, but I don’t buy it. I think the Republicans are trying to dig their way out of their hypocrisy hole, and figure that if they can pressure Foley to come out of the closet, they can blame his behavior on a deviant lifestyle choice instead of admitting that they might have perverts in their ranks.
By the way, while everyone was focusing on the pervert and those who knew him to be a pervert, the Bush Regime scored a big win against all that is just and humane by legalizing torture. After wiping his ass with the Geneva Conventions, Bushy went to work gathering all of the allies, or at least those who will still admit to being a George W. ally, and got them to pass a bill giving the green light to “enhanced interrogation”. Basically, the U.S. government can’t rape or kill, and possibly can’t pull a detainee’s fingernails out with pliers, but I’m sure there are ways of getting around that pesky language. At this point, I wonder if Saddam will continue to stand trial, or be up for a Bush Administration appointment in the near future.
Other signs that the neocon house of cards is finally crumbling: Senate Majority Leader Bill Frist championed the idea of the Taliban being allowed back into power in Afghanistan, because the war could never be won there. I guess Frist is okay with the idea of forcing 9-year-old girls into sex slave marriages to 50-year-old men, as well as public executions of women who tell their husbands not to beat them. Former CIA Chief George Tenet did give Condoleezza Rice the 411 on Al Qaeda and their threats when the Bush Regime took office, but nothing was done and you know the rest of that story. Rule #1: If you’re going to lie about something, make sure it isn’t a big one that has a paper trail and where the people involved are still living and talking to the media. Most of the Republicans up for re-election are running from Bush like my husband from one of Rachael’s poopies, but hopefully the public can see through it. Remember folks, not one of these spineless weasels opposed their golden boy when he lied about WMDs, now go out and get some sweet voter revenge!
In Local News
The crazy broad who was obsessed with the woman who owned my house prior to me put her house on the market. Maybe she realized that the friendship she cultivated in the four short months that the previous owners lived here was the best she’d ever had, and that looking at their house everyday made life unbearable, or perhaps she moved East to be closer to her bestest friend, either way, I’m just happy she is gone. Hopefully the next people who move in will be cool. Maybe if I’m lucky, it will be another punk chick who is more than a bit uncomfortable living in the ‘burbs, but I have a feeling it will be awhile before I find out since the loony bitch overpriced her house.
Stuff I Don’t Give a Fuck about This Week
I don’t give a fuck that Brad Pitt hired David Beckham to tutor Angelina’s boy in soccer. I don’t give a fuck about Kate Hudson screwing Owen Wilson. I don’t give a fuck about Anna Nicole’s baby daddy. I don’t give a fuck about Paris Hilton’s fistfight with that former Playboy model, and think it’s kind of pathetic that it was over the idiot from Blink 182. I don’t give a fuck about Kirsten Dunst playing an overtly sexual Marie Antoinette in her latest movie, nor do I give a fuck that the French are objecting to it.
Finally, I don’t give a fuck about Tom Cruise keeping Katie Holmes on a tight workout schedule, and will everyone please stop saying he is kidnapping her! Getting to live in a ginormous mansion with a guy who lets you spend a decent chunk of his $600 million net worth, while he takes you to movie premiers, and makes sure you get non-Dawson’s Creekish movie roles is not being kidnapped, it is simply part of the tactic known as Operation: Beard.
Quote of the Week
“You know, I’m mad at you, because my book is probably going to be knocked out of the No. 1 by your book. I’m just kidding.” – Bill O’Reilly to legendary journalist Bob Woodward on The O’Reilly Factor. No, Bill’s not kidding, he’s a whiny bitch and he probably is a little mad, but that’s what happens when fiction goes up against well-written, non-fiction. Sorry Bill, if it hadn’t been Woodward’s book, State of Denial, it would have been the latest issue of Guns & Ammo or one of those cheesy romance novels.
Sunday, October 01, 2006
Rage against The Olive Garden
I shuttered when Jeff told me where he wanted to meet after work for dinner, but I knew I was too brain dead from the busy week to offer any kind of a decent alternative. As I pulled up to the turn and spied the rock façade of the building I couldn’t help the look of disgust on my face. Within moments, I had put my name in, received the round buzzer thingy, and began the 35 minute wait at The Olive Garden.
It seems so strange that this particular restaurant evokes the level of distain in me. Maybe it’s my Italian heritage that becomes repulsed by the mediocre, Americanized excuse for my native cuisine, or the fact that no matter what time of day you hit this place, there is always at least a 35 minute wait. Both of those arguments are valid, but what irks me about The Olive Garden is, not so much what it serves, but what it represents; the homogenization of this once unique country.
Growing up in Idaho wasn’t exactly a bastion of multi-culturalism, but at least when you pulled into town you knew you were in, what was formerly known as the Old West. Most of the restaurants in the town I grew up in were locally owned, all of them had biscuits and gravy on the menu, and they all played real country music. I could walk into a small café in the three square blocks that made up Downtown Nampa and see my classmate waiting tables as the owner was cooking and his wife was ringing up a check. Hank Williams (the first) or Patsy Cline would be playing in the background, and the gravy that soaked the biscuits was the kind of liquid that would instantly clog an artery.
My first experience at The Olive Garden happened my sophomore year of college. My parents had heard of this “wonderful” new restaurant that served Italian and opened near the mall in Boise. I wasn’t impressed from the get-go. The marinara sauce was weak, and although the endless salad was cool, even the tiramisu lacked that extra kick. Seven years passed before I made my way back to The Olive Garden, and by then, the resentment had started to kick in.
From my first time visiting to the second time I ate there, I had traveled to places both remote and populated and noticed that The Olive Garden was everywhere. The country’s landscape was changing, and instead of new locally-owned businesses sprouting up, it was all the same shit, town after town after town.
On one hand, it is nice to know that if I am ever stuck in Missoula, Montana and need sandpaper, Home Depot is only a stone’s throw away, but too much of this homogenization seems to be taking over everything that makes an area truly unique. The fun of traveling to a new place is exploring all of the nuances that make that area somewhere you want to visit. You stop at a costal town for seafood, a place in the South for barbecue, the East Coast for deli, and Seattle for coffee.
Aside from the homogenization, The Olive Garden also represents this country’s burgeoning thirst for all that is mediocre. At what point did our society decide to settle, and how come I wasn’t invited to this meeting? Maybe I sound like an old fart, but I remember the day when musicians had to know how to do more than lip sync really good, famous people became famous for doing something, and reality television was called the news.
Corporate America has merged so many times that the presidents of the big conglomerates don’t know which business cards to carry from one week to the next, and the result is an America that all looks the same.
Before I sound like I’m selling my husband out, let me say that he does enjoy good food, and The Olive Garden isn’t his idea of exquisite Italian. However, the thing he likes more than food is a deal, and an endless bowl of pasta for $8 is too good for any proper Jewish guy to pass up. There is an amazing Italian restaurant just around the corner from The Olive Garden where the wait is just about the same amount of time, but the food is out of this world. It is more expensive, and completely worth it, but it isn’t exactly the kind of place you can take a 2 year old. The Olive Garden is cheaper, has crayons, and was probably designed with enough buffers to muffle the screams of even the most annoying toddlers. On paper, The Olive Garden is the best choice for us, but it leaves me feeling like a complete sellout.
Perhaps from now on I should keep a running list of decent places to eat in my head that way when the question is put to me I’ll be able to avoid The Olive Garden, Azteca, Chili’s, and all of the other look-alike restaurants that keep an authentic, homegrown place from springing up. Sure the $8 never-ending pasta bowl may be a good deal, but my soul is worth far more than mediocre marinara.
It seems so strange that this particular restaurant evokes the level of distain in me. Maybe it’s my Italian heritage that becomes repulsed by the mediocre, Americanized excuse for my native cuisine, or the fact that no matter what time of day you hit this place, there is always at least a 35 minute wait. Both of those arguments are valid, but what irks me about The Olive Garden is, not so much what it serves, but what it represents; the homogenization of this once unique country.
Growing up in Idaho wasn’t exactly a bastion of multi-culturalism, but at least when you pulled into town you knew you were in, what was formerly known as the Old West. Most of the restaurants in the town I grew up in were locally owned, all of them had biscuits and gravy on the menu, and they all played real country music. I could walk into a small café in the three square blocks that made up Downtown Nampa and see my classmate waiting tables as the owner was cooking and his wife was ringing up a check. Hank Williams (the first) or Patsy Cline would be playing in the background, and the gravy that soaked the biscuits was the kind of liquid that would instantly clog an artery.
My first experience at The Olive Garden happened my sophomore year of college. My parents had heard of this “wonderful” new restaurant that served Italian and opened near the mall in Boise. I wasn’t impressed from the get-go. The marinara sauce was weak, and although the endless salad was cool, even the tiramisu lacked that extra kick. Seven years passed before I made my way back to The Olive Garden, and by then, the resentment had started to kick in.
From my first time visiting to the second time I ate there, I had traveled to places both remote and populated and noticed that The Olive Garden was everywhere. The country’s landscape was changing, and instead of new locally-owned businesses sprouting up, it was all the same shit, town after town after town.
On one hand, it is nice to know that if I am ever stuck in Missoula, Montana and need sandpaper, Home Depot is only a stone’s throw away, but too much of this homogenization seems to be taking over everything that makes an area truly unique. The fun of traveling to a new place is exploring all of the nuances that make that area somewhere you want to visit. You stop at a costal town for seafood, a place in the South for barbecue, the East Coast for deli, and Seattle for coffee.
Aside from the homogenization, The Olive Garden also represents this country’s burgeoning thirst for all that is mediocre. At what point did our society decide to settle, and how come I wasn’t invited to this meeting? Maybe I sound like an old fart, but I remember the day when musicians had to know how to do more than lip sync really good, famous people became famous for doing something, and reality television was called the news.
Corporate America has merged so many times that the presidents of the big conglomerates don’t know which business cards to carry from one week to the next, and the result is an America that all looks the same.
Before I sound like I’m selling my husband out, let me say that he does enjoy good food, and The Olive Garden isn’t his idea of exquisite Italian. However, the thing he likes more than food is a deal, and an endless bowl of pasta for $8 is too good for any proper Jewish guy to pass up. There is an amazing Italian restaurant just around the corner from The Olive Garden where the wait is just about the same amount of time, but the food is out of this world. It is more expensive, and completely worth it, but it isn’t exactly the kind of place you can take a 2 year old. The Olive Garden is cheaper, has crayons, and was probably designed with enough buffers to muffle the screams of even the most annoying toddlers. On paper, The Olive Garden is the best choice for us, but it leaves me feeling like a complete sellout.
Perhaps from now on I should keep a running list of decent places to eat in my head that way when the question is put to me I’ll be able to avoid The Olive Garden, Azteca, Chili’s, and all of the other look-alike restaurants that keep an authentic, homegrown place from springing up. Sure the $8 never-ending pasta bowl may be a good deal, but my soul is worth far more than mediocre marinara.
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