That's John in the bottom photo, far right, and Mark next to him. That's a heapin' helpin' o hair you got there, Mark.
Read more about the movie here.
Showing posts with label pop culture. Show all posts
Showing posts with label pop culture. Show all posts
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
cotton candy tomorrow night
Oh yeah--tomorrow night, I'll be at the AllGood Cafe to see a screening of Cotton Candy, a 1978 Ron Howard film about a battle of the bands that was filmed in Dallas. The bad guys band features my longtime buddy Mark Ridlen a k a DJMrRid and one of my first roommates in Dallas, John Painter. (Boy, did that living situation end badly...I try not to think about it.) I've never seen the movie but I've heard about it for years and tomorrow night should be a hoot and a holler.
That's John in the bottom photo, far right, and Mark next to him. That's a heapin' helpin' o hair you got there, Mark.
Read more about the movie here.
That's John in the bottom photo, far right, and Mark next to him. That's a heapin' helpin' o hair you got there, Mark.
Read more about the movie here.
Monday, October 6, 2008
when I shake my head, this falls out my ears
Some loose thoughts that have been rattling around in my head. Maybe if I get them out I’ll have room for fully developed thoughts.
Last night, DJ MrRid came over with eight DVDs of The Midnight Special. You oldies remember those—the live rock shows on TV every week. Oddly, I didn't watch them back then but we had a blast last night. Earth Wind and Fire. Small Faces. Aerosmith. Kiss. KC and the Sunshine Band. Minnie Ripperton. Peter Frampton. Delicious and we still have hours to go.
I was struck, once again, how nice it was to see people on TV with lumpy hair, crooked teeth, pores. People who look like the people we see every day, only dressed up. Or not dressed up. Those were not dressing up days. Some guys looked pretty smelly. But still, it was nice to see people I could imagine hanging out with instead of people so perfectly toned, exquisitely groomed, and impeccably dressed, I would be struck dumb in their presence.
What are we doing to ourselves? We're beating ourselves up with relentless images of unattainable beauty. We're wasting countless hours and dollars on things that have nothing to do with our true potential value to society. We hate ourselves.
**
Has anyone every pined for you? I don’t think anyone has ever pined for me, and that kinda bums me out.
**
Our front yard swarms with busy, busy squirrels and I’m not the only one who has noticed. A red-tail hawk has been hunting here. The other morning, I saw him lift off with a squirrel. I’m haunted by the image of the squirrel’s little legs hanging down helplessly.
**
Tom and I went to the Fair on Friday. Funny how sometimes the Fair clicks for us and sometimes it’s just off. Last year was great, this year was off. We should know better than to try the exciting new fried foods of the year. They’re expensive and we’re almost always disappointed. The chicken fried bacon ($6, I think) was mostly salty, the chocolate dipped strawberry waffle balls ($5) were gummy. Nasty. I didn’t finish mine. Fortunately, my funnel cake was as good as I expected.
But I had the wrong shoes and my feet hurt and Tom had been working like a dog all week and he was tired. We saw a daredevil act, but heights make me so tense that I couldn’t enjoy it. We saw the dancing dogs, sat in a new car, saw a kid throw up, looked at the creative arts. But this visit, we weren’t feeling it. Mostly we felt sticky. The waffle balls were our last-ditch effort at fun and when they didn’t work out, we went home and fell asleep on the couch.
(State Fair 2007)
Although, lest I romanticize State Fair '07, I will report that the fabulous expensive pillows we bought last year suck. They are rock hard and I woke up with a stiff neck the two or three times I tried to sleep on one.
**
Last week, a friend and I went to a dance recital at SMU. Student dancers dancing student choreography. The kids were all very talented and it was a lot of fun.
I’m not big on regrets. I decided long ago not to nurse regrets and have been mostly successful. I acknowledge my regrets but don’t wallow in them. But one of my regrets is the way I ignored my body through my youth. I envy dancers for their control of, respect for, and joy in their bodies. I wish I could dance. I mean really dance—turn my body into a leaf or a stream, into anger or ecstasy. I think that would be swell.
Last night, DJ MrRid came over with eight DVDs of The Midnight Special. You oldies remember those—the live rock shows on TV every week. Oddly, I didn't watch them back then but we had a blast last night. Earth Wind and Fire. Small Faces. Aerosmith. Kiss. KC and the Sunshine Band. Minnie Ripperton. Peter Frampton. Delicious and we still have hours to go.
I was struck, once again, how nice it was to see people on TV with lumpy hair, crooked teeth, pores. People who look like the people we see every day, only dressed up. Or not dressed up. Those were not dressing up days. Some guys looked pretty smelly. But still, it was nice to see people I could imagine hanging out with instead of people so perfectly toned, exquisitely groomed, and impeccably dressed, I would be struck dumb in their presence.
What are we doing to ourselves? We're beating ourselves up with relentless images of unattainable beauty. We're wasting countless hours and dollars on things that have nothing to do with our true potential value to society. We hate ourselves.
**
Has anyone every pined for you? I don’t think anyone has ever pined for me, and that kinda bums me out.
**
Our front yard swarms with busy, busy squirrels and I’m not the only one who has noticed. A red-tail hawk has been hunting here. The other morning, I saw him lift off with a squirrel. I’m haunted by the image of the squirrel’s little legs hanging down helplessly.
**
Tom and I went to the Fair on Friday. Funny how sometimes the Fair clicks for us and sometimes it’s just off. Last year was great, this year was off. We should know better than to try the exciting new fried foods of the year. They’re expensive and we’re almost always disappointed. The chicken fried bacon ($6, I think) was mostly salty, the chocolate dipped strawberry waffle balls ($5) were gummy. Nasty. I didn’t finish mine. Fortunately, my funnel cake was as good as I expected.
But I had the wrong shoes and my feet hurt and Tom had been working like a dog all week and he was tired. We saw a daredevil act, but heights make me so tense that I couldn’t enjoy it. We saw the dancing dogs, sat in a new car, saw a kid throw up, looked at the creative arts. But this visit, we weren’t feeling it. Mostly we felt sticky. The waffle balls were our last-ditch effort at fun and when they didn’t work out, we went home and fell asleep on the couch.
(State Fair 2007)
Although, lest I romanticize State Fair '07, I will report that the fabulous expensive pillows we bought last year suck. They are rock hard and I woke up with a stiff neck the two or three times I tried to sleep on one.
**
Last week, a friend and I went to a dance recital at SMU. Student dancers dancing student choreography. The kids were all very talented and it was a lot of fun.
I’m not big on regrets. I decided long ago not to nurse regrets and have been mostly successful. I acknowledge my regrets but don’t wallow in them. But one of my regrets is the way I ignored my body through my youth. I envy dancers for their control of, respect for, and joy in their bodies. I wish I could dance. I mean really dance—turn my body into a leaf or a stream, into anger or ecstasy. I think that would be swell.
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
abercrombie & fitch should shrivel and die
Abercrombie & Fitch is entitled to run its business almost any way it wants, although it did get spanked for discriminatory hiring practices.
However, this story about how employees deemed not attractive enough are hustled away to the storeroom, out of sight of customers, is so very very icky that I get the hoobie goobies thinking about it.
Ick. Ick, ick, ick, ick, ICK!
What are we doing to ourselves, what are we doing to our youth, where did our values go so far astray? We are marinating in a strange brew of entitlement and self-loathing, setting up impossible standards and then hating ourselves for our inability to live up to them. We must not only be young forever, we must be young and beautiful.
But by whose standards, please? Some numbnuts who has risen to district manager of an Abercrombie & Fitch? This person gets to decide who is beautiful enough to represent the company? Are our sensibilities, as consumers, so rareified that we would make our shopping decisions according to whether we are attracted to the elf who greets us at the door? Honestly, if you haven’t been chased out by the onslaught if music in A&F, which is played at jet-engine decibels, then surely you are tough enough to withstand the shock of seeing a young person who might not ever appear on the cover of a fashion magazine.
Besides, even if that person is worthy of a cover shot, he or she would be airbrushed anyway. Lilies must be gilded and then gilded again. We are never good enough.
However, this story about how employees deemed not attractive enough are hustled away to the storeroom, out of sight of customers, is so very very icky that I get the hoobie goobies thinking about it.
Ick. Ick, ick, ick, ick, ICK!
What are we doing to ourselves, what are we doing to our youth, where did our values go so far astray? We are marinating in a strange brew of entitlement and self-loathing, setting up impossible standards and then hating ourselves for our inability to live up to them. We must not only be young forever, we must be young and beautiful.
But by whose standards, please? Some numbnuts who has risen to district manager of an Abercrombie & Fitch? This person gets to decide who is beautiful enough to represent the company? Are our sensibilities, as consumers, so rareified that we would make our shopping decisions according to whether we are attracted to the elf who greets us at the door? Honestly, if you haven’t been chased out by the onslaught if music in A&F, which is played at jet-engine decibels, then surely you are tough enough to withstand the shock of seeing a young person who might not ever appear on the cover of a fashion magazine.
Besides, even if that person is worthy of a cover shot, he or she would be airbrushed anyway. Lilies must be gilded and then gilded again. We are never good enough.
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
enough with the beauty
So I was watching Mad Men the other night and a startling thought suddenly occurred to me: I’m tired of looking at beautiful people. Beautiful women in particular, all roughly the same age. Separate from the feminist issue of media images and the psychological issues of self-esteem and body image--all this beauty has become dull and predictable,
Specifically, it occurred to me how much more interesting the character Bobbie Barrett would be (she’s the comedian’s wife, Draper’s most recent dalliance) if she were a little more roadworn, a little less young and fresh under her hardened broad act. Give me a face that has lived a little, please. On a person who still manages to be sexy and sexual.
One reason British television shows and movies are so engrossing is that the Brits are unafraid of character actors whose faces are more interesting than strictly beautiful.
Which leads me, in a roundabout way, to an interesting campaign to get one of the women’s magazines to publish an issue in which the feature photo shoot and cover have no airbrushed imagines. If you join the campaign, you are promising to purchasing at least two copies of the first magazine to rise to the challenge.
Sure, it sounds like a very fat chance. But it’s worth a try, eh what? To join the campaign, click here.
Specifically, it occurred to me how much more interesting the character Bobbie Barrett would be (she’s the comedian’s wife, Draper’s most recent dalliance) if she were a little more roadworn, a little less young and fresh under her hardened broad act. Give me a face that has lived a little, please. On a person who still manages to be sexy and sexual.
One reason British television shows and movies are so engrossing is that the Brits are unafraid of character actors whose faces are more interesting than strictly beautiful.
Which leads me, in a roundabout way, to an interesting campaign to get one of the women’s magazines to publish an issue in which the feature photo shoot and cover have no airbrushed imagines. If you join the campaign, you are promising to purchasing at least two copies of the first magazine to rise to the challenge.
Sure, it sounds like a very fat chance. But it’s worth a try, eh what? To join the campaign, click here.
Friday, August 15, 2008
flotsam friday
I rarely agree with conservative groups agitating over our degrading morals, but this bunch bitching about how marital sex doesn’t get nearly the bump adultery does on TV strikes a chord. Because it’s not just the sex that’s portrayed as dismal—it’s marriage itself.
To quote myself:
…long-term relationships are most often portrayed as stultifying, tainted by seething resentments and unspoken disappointments.
Granted, there is some truth to the challenges of keeping marriage fresh, but long-term does have rewards. They're rarely explicitly portrayed in pop culture, though. Instead, we get Frank and Marie Barone, lobbing insults at each other. Or, more currently, Don and Betty Draper, going through the motions while Don gets his kicks in the big city and Betty gets hers on a horse.
Where are my role models, please?
***
This USA Today story addresses what women already know—the dressing room is a terrible, terrible place. I was kind of relieved to read that I’m not the only woman who has ever cried in a dressing room. It happened at The Gap, where I discovered that I am grossly deformed according to the standards of their designers.
How ‘bout bathing suit shopping? Most bathing suit makers seem to have no idea at all how women are put together.
Once, after a particularly demoralizing 30 minutes trying on bathing suits in Dillard’s, a saleswoman noticed how depressed I looked when I stepped out.
“It’s not you,” she said. “It’s the clothes.”
I will love that woman forever.
***
I haven’t mocked press releases for a while so here are some excerpts that made me slump.
This one arrived today:
Holiday shopping, a busy travel schedule and dry winter weather. Feeling overwhelmed yet? Recharge and get in the spirit with the enticing scent of cranberries in XXXXXXX wash and lotion.
This refreshing duo provides the perfect pick-me-up for tired hands and feet. Integrate them into your daily beauty regime to soothe seasonal stress. Festive XXX puts the “happy” back in front of holidays.
I understand that they’re pitching in time to make it into magazine holiday round-ups, but no, I’m not feeling overwhelmed yet and I don’t want to get into the spirit. I want to make it through the last of summer.
I am of the opinion that press releases should never ask questions because when they do, my answer is almost always, "No."
How about:
2008 is a year all about POWER, the struggle for it (politically), the display of it (athletically), and the conservation of it (economically and environmentally). This fall, XXX launches its olfactive answer to the question of what is power and how is it being redefined by modernity.
In an unprecedented partnership with prolific Japanese designer and art director of XXX proposes a powerful new identity for masculinity, one centered on simplicity, honesty, and an imaginary flower.
I don’t know which I like better, the “olfactive answer to the question of what is power” or “simplicity, honesty, and an imaginary flower.” Actually, this release is so ludicrous, it’s compelling.
I have to leave the product name in here because it’s part of the joke. The lame joke:
If you have commitment phobias, Sircuit has a product that will make you say Eye Dew!
This also arrived today:
With the winter months beating down upon us, it’s crucial that we prepare, protect and hydrate to keep our skin healthy all year round.
I just realized that they probably meant bearing down not beating down. At least I hope so.
Nothing wrong with this pitch, it just gets a shout-out for the unnecessary quotation marks:
As you are probably are aware, one of the "hottest" topics in the health, family, youth and beauty arenas right now is the safety and performance of sun block products.
And here’s one working much too hard:
Whether you are climbing the side of a mountain, kayaking through a canyon, or snorkeling off the coast, outdoor adventures render picturesque moments that deserve to be displayed and remembered. Present the moments you capture along the journey in a XXX.
XXX has just recently announced the XXX, a premium, hard-bound digital photo book. By simply uploading digital photos, XXX technology allows users to organize photos and preserve memories—like the time the canoe flipped— in the form of professional-looking photo book.
If the canoe flipped, would you really have photos? Or would you have a ruined digital camera? OK, presumably someone else’s canoe flipped … I’ll allow it. But it seems such a non sequitur…
***
Thanks to FrontBurner for finding this video, of a drunk and giddy Kelly Clarkson at a Red Sox game:
I've always like Kelly Clarkson and now I like her even more.
And thanks to Very Short List for this oddly moving and simply odd little film that puts a balloon into famous movie scenes. I don’t know why I was compelled to watch all six-plus minutes but I couldn’t stop.
To quote myself:
…long-term relationships are most often portrayed as stultifying, tainted by seething resentments and unspoken disappointments.
Granted, there is some truth to the challenges of keeping marriage fresh, but long-term does have rewards. They're rarely explicitly portrayed in pop culture, though. Instead, we get Frank and Marie Barone, lobbing insults at each other. Or, more currently, Don and Betty Draper, going through the motions while Don gets his kicks in the big city and Betty gets hers on a horse.
Where are my role models, please?
***
This USA Today story addresses what women already know—the dressing room is a terrible, terrible place. I was kind of relieved to read that I’m not the only woman who has ever cried in a dressing room. It happened at The Gap, where I discovered that I am grossly deformed according to the standards of their designers.
How ‘bout bathing suit shopping? Most bathing suit makers seem to have no idea at all how women are put together.
Once, after a particularly demoralizing 30 minutes trying on bathing suits in Dillard’s, a saleswoman noticed how depressed I looked when I stepped out.
“It’s not you,” she said. “It’s the clothes.”
I will love that woman forever.
***
I haven’t mocked press releases for a while so here are some excerpts that made me slump.
This one arrived today:
Holiday shopping, a busy travel schedule and dry winter weather. Feeling overwhelmed yet? Recharge and get in the spirit with the enticing scent of cranberries in XXXXXXX wash and lotion.
This refreshing duo provides the perfect pick-me-up for tired hands and feet. Integrate them into your daily beauty regime to soothe seasonal stress. Festive XXX puts the “happy” back in front of holidays.
I understand that they’re pitching in time to make it into magazine holiday round-ups, but no, I’m not feeling overwhelmed yet and I don’t want to get into the spirit. I want to make it through the last of summer.
I am of the opinion that press releases should never ask questions because when they do, my answer is almost always, "No."
How about:
2008 is a year all about POWER, the struggle for it (politically), the display of it (athletically), and the conservation of it (economically and environmentally). This fall, XXX launches its olfactive answer to the question of what is power and how is it being redefined by modernity.
In an unprecedented partnership with prolific Japanese designer and art director of XXX proposes a powerful new identity for masculinity, one centered on simplicity, honesty, and an imaginary flower.
I don’t know which I like better, the “olfactive answer to the question of what is power” or “simplicity, honesty, and an imaginary flower.” Actually, this release is so ludicrous, it’s compelling.
I have to leave the product name in here because it’s part of the joke. The lame joke:
If you have commitment phobias, Sircuit has a product that will make you say Eye Dew!
This also arrived today:
With the winter months beating down upon us, it’s crucial that we prepare, protect and hydrate to keep our skin healthy all year round.
I just realized that they probably meant bearing down not beating down. At least I hope so.
Nothing wrong with this pitch, it just gets a shout-out for the unnecessary quotation marks:
As you are probably are aware, one of the "hottest" topics in the health, family, youth and beauty arenas right now is the safety and performance of sun block products.
And here’s one working much too hard:
Whether you are climbing the side of a mountain, kayaking through a canyon, or snorkeling off the coast, outdoor adventures render picturesque moments that deserve to be displayed and remembered. Present the moments you capture along the journey in a XXX.
XXX has just recently announced the XXX, a premium, hard-bound digital photo book. By simply uploading digital photos, XXX technology allows users to organize photos and preserve memories—like the time the canoe flipped— in the form of professional-looking photo book.
If the canoe flipped, would you really have photos? Or would you have a ruined digital camera? OK, presumably someone else’s canoe flipped … I’ll allow it. But it seems such a non sequitur…
***
Thanks to FrontBurner for finding this video, of a drunk and giddy Kelly Clarkson at a Red Sox game:
I've always like Kelly Clarkson and now I like her even more.
And thanks to Very Short List for this oddly moving and simply odd little film that puts a balloon into famous movie scenes. I don’t know why I was compelled to watch all six-plus minutes but I couldn’t stop.
Monday, July 7, 2008
rock on marriage
Did anyone see the Chris Rock special on Comedy Central this weekend—his “Never Scared” show?
Tom and I caught the last 40 minutes or so—and since we celebrated our 17th wedding anniversary on Sunday, we felt justified in laughing our asses off at his riffs about marriage. “Married people are disgusting!” Rock said and we howled at our own disgustingness. “You ever been to dinner with six neutered adults?”
Yeah, we’re boring.
“Married and bored or single and looooonely,” Rock said.
“All good relationships are boring,” he said. “The only exciting relationships are the bad ones.”
We laughed hardest at the “grown man playdate”—wives putting their husbands together in a room so they can make friends. “He likes baseball, just like you…”
Oh god, the grown man playdate. We have so been there and will be there again. I’ve had a few close friends whose husbands were such a bad match for Tom, the playdate was painful to witness. We gave up ever trying to make it work and settled for socializing only sans boys.
I have other friends with husbands Tom can make nice with (and vice versa) now and then, but it’s a stretch. By the end of a long evening, Tom is worn out and retreats to his happy place. I can see it happen and it’s time to go home.
We have some couples friends we can hang with easily, although we wouldn’t necessarily choose to hang with our same-sex counterparts one-on-one. As a foursome it works, as twosomes, not so much.
From time to time, in the perpetual quest for new couples friends, we go on couples dates, which are every bit as awkward and stressful as date-dates. Sometimes couples first dates end with everyone getting way too drunk—just like date-dates. Sometimes second dates occur, sometimes everyone slinks off and pretends the whole thing never happened. Sometimes these first dates feel like we have found our soulmates but more often than not, it was just a deceiving first-date glow.
The quest for couples friends is one of the difficulties of marriage that no one tells you about. Are you old enough to remember the show Thirtysomething? What a big lie that show was. Once past their 20s, few people have a gang to run with anymore. It’s the couples-friends version of all the rosy romantic bullshit that is shoved down our throats our whole lives. Just like romance fades into boring (if comforting and no less valuable) marriage, friendships get more peripheral and less vital—and I don’t mean less important, but they pulse with less juice. If you have one or two decent friendships on top of your marriage, you’re ahead of a lot of people.
I found Rock’s Married People schtick on YouTube and I’m laughing at it again. I won’t post it here, what with the whole copyright thing, but go find it yourself. If you’re married, you can laugh at yourself. If you’re single, feel free to laugh at me.
Tom and I caught the last 40 minutes or so—and since we celebrated our 17th wedding anniversary on Sunday, we felt justified in laughing our asses off at his riffs about marriage. “Married people are disgusting!” Rock said and we howled at our own disgustingness. “You ever been to dinner with six neutered adults?”
Yeah, we’re boring.
“Married and bored or single and looooonely,” Rock said.
“All good relationships are boring,” he said. “The only exciting relationships are the bad ones.”
We laughed hardest at the “grown man playdate”—wives putting their husbands together in a room so they can make friends. “He likes baseball, just like you…”
Oh god, the grown man playdate. We have so been there and will be there again. I’ve had a few close friends whose husbands were such a bad match for Tom, the playdate was painful to witness. We gave up ever trying to make it work and settled for socializing only sans boys.
I have other friends with husbands Tom can make nice with (and vice versa) now and then, but it’s a stretch. By the end of a long evening, Tom is worn out and retreats to his happy place. I can see it happen and it’s time to go home.
We have some couples friends we can hang with easily, although we wouldn’t necessarily choose to hang with our same-sex counterparts one-on-one. As a foursome it works, as twosomes, not so much.
From time to time, in the perpetual quest for new couples friends, we go on couples dates, which are every bit as awkward and stressful as date-dates. Sometimes couples first dates end with everyone getting way too drunk—just like date-dates. Sometimes second dates occur, sometimes everyone slinks off and pretends the whole thing never happened. Sometimes these first dates feel like we have found our soulmates but more often than not, it was just a deceiving first-date glow.
The quest for couples friends is one of the difficulties of marriage that no one tells you about. Are you old enough to remember the show Thirtysomething? What a big lie that show was. Once past their 20s, few people have a gang to run with anymore. It’s the couples-friends version of all the rosy romantic bullshit that is shoved down our throats our whole lives. Just like romance fades into boring (if comforting and no less valuable) marriage, friendships get more peripheral and less vital—and I don’t mean less important, but they pulse with less juice. If you have one or two decent friendships on top of your marriage, you’re ahead of a lot of people.
I found Rock’s Married People schtick on YouTube and I’m laughing at it again. I won’t post it here, what with the whole copyright thing, but go find it yourself. If you’re married, you can laugh at yourself. If you’re single, feel free to laugh at me.
Tuesday, July 1, 2008
why celebrity marriages fail
I was intrigued by the Yahoo headline “4 Reasons Why Celebrity Couples Fail.” When I’m not worrying about world hunger and peace in the Middle East, I have wondered why celebrities bother marrying in the first place, considering the odds. (Paul Newman and Joanne Woodward vs. everybody else.)
The Yahoo blog post was pretty thin, though. I swear, she just made it all up off the top of her head.
I’ve given my theories a lot more thought.
Reason No. 1: They’re just too damn hot
We all tend to end up with mates who are roughly as attractive as ourselves. So, imagine if your dating pool included George Clooney, Will Smith, Brad Pitt, Johnny Depp, Angelina Jolie, Gwyneth Paltrow, Vanessa Williams—not to mention all those lingerie models and back-up dancers running around looking all hot n shit.
If you’ve ever been to a buffet and ended up with a plate loaded down with enough to feed a small developing nation because everything looks so yummy, then you understand the trouble celebrities must have in settling for just one super-hot spouse.
Reason No. 2: They fall in love on movie sets
Rather than falling in love with each other, they fall in love with the characters they’re playing, then fall out of love once the last vestiges of whoever they were pretending to be drops off and they turn back into regular super-hot, super-rich shmoes.
Reason No. 3: They’re actor-shmactors
Not all of them of course, sometimes they’re rock stars. But movie stars are paid large sums of money to be the characters other people want them to be. Can you turn off that tendency in real life? Will Katie Holmes suddenly one day realize she’s just been playing The Little Woman in a movie called Tom Cruise’s Life and want a new role?
Reason No. 4: Celebrity nurtures narcissism
For people who are even slightly narcissistic to begin with—and I’d argue that anyone who seeks the limelight must have a bit of that—celebrity is like gasoline on a red ember. And that’s not great for relationships. If they find another celebrity (narcissist) mate, they won’t get the attention and adulation they feel is their due. If they find a non-celebrity mate, then they’re probably pretty sure they deserve better.
Reason No. 5: They don’t need the paycheck
Marriage remains an economic arrangement. If you don’t need the money, if you can pay well-trained child care professionals to help with the kids, if you never have to fill the refrigerator or make the bed, if your paycheck is enough to cover your own needs and the needs of your entire extended family, why bother working through the rough patches in a marriage when you can just move on without a blip in your quality of life? What's your motivation?
The Yahoo blog post was pretty thin, though. I swear, she just made it all up off the top of her head.
I’ve given my theories a lot more thought.
Reason No. 1: They’re just too damn hot
We all tend to end up with mates who are roughly as attractive as ourselves. So, imagine if your dating pool included George Clooney, Will Smith, Brad Pitt, Johnny Depp, Angelina Jolie, Gwyneth Paltrow, Vanessa Williams—not to mention all those lingerie models and back-up dancers running around looking all hot n shit.
If you’ve ever been to a buffet and ended up with a plate loaded down with enough to feed a small developing nation because everything looks so yummy, then you understand the trouble celebrities must have in settling for just one super-hot spouse.
Reason No. 2: They fall in love on movie sets
Rather than falling in love with each other, they fall in love with the characters they’re playing, then fall out of love once the last vestiges of whoever they were pretending to be drops off and they turn back into regular super-hot, super-rich shmoes.
Reason No. 3: They’re actor-shmactors
Not all of them of course, sometimes they’re rock stars. But movie stars are paid large sums of money to be the characters other people want them to be. Can you turn off that tendency in real life? Will Katie Holmes suddenly one day realize she’s just been playing The Little Woman in a movie called Tom Cruise’s Life and want a new role?
Reason No. 4: Celebrity nurtures narcissism
For people who are even slightly narcissistic to begin with—and I’d argue that anyone who seeks the limelight must have a bit of that—celebrity is like gasoline on a red ember. And that’s not great for relationships. If they find another celebrity (narcissist) mate, they won’t get the attention and adulation they feel is their due. If they find a non-celebrity mate, then they’re probably pretty sure they deserve better.
Reason No. 5: They don’t need the paycheck
Marriage remains an economic arrangement. If you don’t need the money, if you can pay well-trained child care professionals to help with the kids, if you never have to fill the refrigerator or make the bed, if your paycheck is enough to cover your own needs and the needs of your entire extended family, why bother working through the rough patches in a marriage when you can just move on without a blip in your quality of life? What's your motivation?
Monday, June 30, 2008
wallowing in the 1970s
Did anyone catch Saturday Night Live this week—the rebroadcast of the first episode, starring George Carlin?
He was great, of course. He didn’t participate in skits but instead his stand-up was interspersed among the skits and musical performances by Billy Preston and his band of nattily dressed ‘70s hipsters, and poor, unhappy Janis Ian. Such a sad sack.
The ‘70s ... so long ago.
Carlin’s schtick about the irony of going through airport security and then being handed eating utensils was prescient. His joke about threatening a stewardess by cutting her throat with a piece of paper was disturbing.
And did you catch the TV commercial satire about a razor with three blades? Three blades! Can you imagine? Outlandish!
I think we’re up to five blades now. How high can we go?
My, how things have changed.
I’ve also been watching Maude on DVD again. Most disturbing: Maude is supposed to be 47 years old in the show. The disk I have includes an episode of Walter celebrating his 50th birthday.
I'm still waiting to feel older than Archie Andrews and now I learn I'm older than Maude.
Aside from that, this disk includes the episodes in which Maude gets pregnant. (Oy, she’s so upset, she needs a double something. Looks like Scotch.) She decides, after two episodes of discussion, to get an abortion. It was weird, just weird, to hear a discussion that frank and unburdened by politics or hysteria. Her daughter Carol (Adrienne Barbeau) was all over ditching that fetus. It’s hard to imagine any television show today touching this topic.
My how things have changed.
In another episode, Maude and her “housewife” friends decide to protest a young supermarket checker getting busted for pot by buying pot and all getting arrested.
The whole episode is like entering a parallel universe.
For example: Carol comes downstairs in the morning feeling groggy. Maude and Walter had kept her up fighting about the planned protest and so Adrienne finally had to give in and take a Valium, she explains. Oh, Maude can help--here's a Ritalin to wake her up. (“That’s what mommies are for.”)
Then, their doctor buddy Arthur stops by (with a hangover) and Walter hits him up for refills on their drugs--Secenol, Miltown, Librium.
Holy crap, Maude. You’re all hopped up on dolls! Who knew?
Yes, that’s the point—the hypocrisy of marijuana laws when people are taking all kinds of other drugs, but still… Can you imagine Ray Romano downing a Miltown after a bad day?
Maude was responsible for getting weed to get herself and her friends busted but Walter confiscates her $20 bag and she ends up going to the police station with a bag of oregano. The sergeant at the desk figures that out and won’t arrest anyone for that. He also complains of exhaustion and so Maude rummages in her purse and helpfully hands him a Dexamil.
I was sure the punch line would be that she would get arrested for distributing another kind of controlled substance. Nope. Blablabla, Maude and the women end up going home, free, and after she’s gone, the cop shrugs and pops the Dexamil.
Cue the music.
MY how things have changed!
Finally, last night Tom and I wallowed in VH1 Classic’s History of Rock episodes about 1970s rock and then punk. No particular insights about that here, except to note how deep the roots of the rock of our formative years run. It just sounds, looks and feels so right to me, so personal, in a way no music from before or after does. I still belong to the Blank Generation. That doesn’t seem to change.
He was great, of course. He didn’t participate in skits but instead his stand-up was interspersed among the skits and musical performances by Billy Preston and his band of nattily dressed ‘70s hipsters, and poor, unhappy Janis Ian. Such a sad sack.
The ‘70s ... so long ago.
Carlin’s schtick about the irony of going through airport security and then being handed eating utensils was prescient. His joke about threatening a stewardess by cutting her throat with a piece of paper was disturbing.
And did you catch the TV commercial satire about a razor with three blades? Three blades! Can you imagine? Outlandish!
I think we’re up to five blades now. How high can we go?
My, how things have changed.
I’ve also been watching Maude on DVD again. Most disturbing: Maude is supposed to be 47 years old in the show. The disk I have includes an episode of Walter celebrating his 50th birthday.
I'm still waiting to feel older than Archie Andrews and now I learn I'm older than Maude.
Aside from that, this disk includes the episodes in which Maude gets pregnant. (Oy, she’s so upset, she needs a double something. Looks like Scotch.) She decides, after two episodes of discussion, to get an abortion. It was weird, just weird, to hear a discussion that frank and unburdened by politics or hysteria. Her daughter Carol (Adrienne Barbeau) was all over ditching that fetus. It’s hard to imagine any television show today touching this topic.
My how things have changed.
In another episode, Maude and her “housewife” friends decide to protest a young supermarket checker getting busted for pot by buying pot and all getting arrested.
The whole episode is like entering a parallel universe.
For example: Carol comes downstairs in the morning feeling groggy. Maude and Walter had kept her up fighting about the planned protest and so Adrienne finally had to give in and take a Valium, she explains. Oh, Maude can help--here's a Ritalin to wake her up. (“That’s what mommies are for.”)
Then, their doctor buddy Arthur stops by (with a hangover) and Walter hits him up for refills on their drugs--Secenol, Miltown, Librium.
Holy crap, Maude. You’re all hopped up on dolls! Who knew?
Yes, that’s the point—the hypocrisy of marijuana laws when people are taking all kinds of other drugs, but still… Can you imagine Ray Romano downing a Miltown after a bad day?
Maude was responsible for getting weed to get herself and her friends busted but Walter confiscates her $20 bag and she ends up going to the police station with a bag of oregano. The sergeant at the desk figures that out and won’t arrest anyone for that. He also complains of exhaustion and so Maude rummages in her purse and helpfully hands him a Dexamil.
I was sure the punch line would be that she would get arrested for distributing another kind of controlled substance. Nope. Blablabla, Maude and the women end up going home, free, and after she’s gone, the cop shrugs and pops the Dexamil.
Cue the music.
MY how things have changed!
Finally, last night Tom and I wallowed in VH1 Classic’s History of Rock episodes about 1970s rock and then punk. No particular insights about that here, except to note how deep the roots of the rock of our formative years run. It just sounds, looks and feels so right to me, so personal, in a way no music from before or after does. I still belong to the Blank Generation. That doesn’t seem to change.
Monday, June 9, 2008
puh-lease
Megan Daum’s essay in yesterday’s Dallas Morning News spurred much discussion between me and Tom. The gist of the essay is that she’s sick to death of hearing about baby boomers and why don’t we shut up because nobody cares. It sounded a lot like a petulant teenager complaining about grandpa’s war stories. Bo-ring grandpa.
What struck me as moronic about the whine is that she’s not actually complaining about boomers. She’s complaining about marketing. I was born on the tail-end of the boom but I take no responsibility for such things as art house revivals of the Rosemary's Baby, innocuous if tiresome public radio features about Valerie Solanas' shooting of Andy Warhol, and, if there's a slow week, maybe even an E! special commemorating the marriage of Jackie Kennedy to Aristotle Onassis.
Daum needs to get out of the office sometimes and stop reading so many press releases—she’s starting to confuse media hype with reality. Of course media companies are going to try to make money out of whatever they can. That’s what they do. Not my fault, chickie.
If you want to wallow in your own pop culture, watch music awards shows. I have no idea who any of those young women in trashy clothes are. Don’t know, don’t care. I don’t blame you for that.
It’s all money and marketing, Megan. As soon as Gen X's anniversaries start rolling around, you’re welcome to throw yourself parades if you want. What big important moments would you suggest we celebrate? I’m sure there is someone ready to make money off it. Actually, I can't begin to articulate how little I care about Raiders of the Lost Ark but I heard an awful lot about it recently. I believe that's your fault?
Tom and I agreed that if she’d wanted a truly compelling angle, Daum would have wondered why classic rock has become such a music juggernaut. She touched on this then veered off into dopey, unfocused griping. No radio stations, no television commercials are safe from wheezin’ geezer rock—and I say this as a wheezin’ geezer. Every time we hear a boomer hit on TV, Tom wonders why they dig so far back. To whom are they selling? We keep hearing about that precious 18-35 demographic--so what's with the Bob Dylan and Beatles?
It could be that old rockers have finally decided that they’ve made their point about integrity but you can’t eat integrity for dinner so might as well sell out and cash in. Maybe the dinosaurs are cheaper than today’s music hitmakers so the advertisers are getting while the getting's good?
It could be that these songs became entrenched at a time when we were not overwhelmed by too much music—when songs had a chance to reach large audiences instead of being quick blips in an ever-increasing barrage of blips. It’s hard for anything to be heard among the racket these days and it’s also hard for artists to mature in our increasingly hit-obsessed media industry.
It could be that radio is full of oldies because younger peeps don’t listen to the radio—they’re too busy pirating music online.
Me, I still like listening to the radio, although I find less and less new music to buy that way, so layered is it under the oldies. (And if I have to listen to Heard It Through the Grapevine one more time, there’ll be hell to pay.)
Daum’s essay had my eyes rolling so hard I almost pulled a muscle. Who’s acting self-important? You want to be center of attention? Go ahead. We’re all waiting.
What struck me as moronic about the whine is that she’s not actually complaining about boomers. She’s complaining about marketing. I was born on the tail-end of the boom but I take no responsibility for such things as art house revivals of the Rosemary's Baby, innocuous if tiresome public radio features about Valerie Solanas' shooting of Andy Warhol, and, if there's a slow week, maybe even an E! special commemorating the marriage of Jackie Kennedy to Aristotle Onassis.
Daum needs to get out of the office sometimes and stop reading so many press releases—she’s starting to confuse media hype with reality. Of course media companies are going to try to make money out of whatever they can. That’s what they do. Not my fault, chickie.
If you want to wallow in your own pop culture, watch music awards shows. I have no idea who any of those young women in trashy clothes are. Don’t know, don’t care. I don’t blame you for that.
It’s all money and marketing, Megan. As soon as Gen X's anniversaries start rolling around, you’re welcome to throw yourself parades if you want. What big important moments would you suggest we celebrate? I’m sure there is someone ready to make money off it. Actually, I can't begin to articulate how little I care about Raiders of the Lost Ark but I heard an awful lot about it recently. I believe that's your fault?
Tom and I agreed that if she’d wanted a truly compelling angle, Daum would have wondered why classic rock has become such a music juggernaut. She touched on this then veered off into dopey, unfocused griping. No radio stations, no television commercials are safe from wheezin’ geezer rock—and I say this as a wheezin’ geezer. Every time we hear a boomer hit on TV, Tom wonders why they dig so far back. To whom are they selling? We keep hearing about that precious 18-35 demographic--so what's with the Bob Dylan and Beatles?
It could be that old rockers have finally decided that they’ve made their point about integrity but you can’t eat integrity for dinner so might as well sell out and cash in. Maybe the dinosaurs are cheaper than today’s music hitmakers so the advertisers are getting while the getting's good?
It could be that these songs became entrenched at a time when we were not overwhelmed by too much music—when songs had a chance to reach large audiences instead of being quick blips in an ever-increasing barrage of blips. It’s hard for anything to be heard among the racket these days and it’s also hard for artists to mature in our increasingly hit-obsessed media industry.
It could be that radio is full of oldies because younger peeps don’t listen to the radio—they’re too busy pirating music online.
Me, I still like listening to the radio, although I find less and less new music to buy that way, so layered is it under the oldies. (And if I have to listen to Heard It Through the Grapevine one more time, there’ll be hell to pay.)
Daum’s essay had my eyes rolling so hard I almost pulled a muscle. Who’s acting self-important? You want to be center of attention? Go ahead. We’re all waiting.
Saturday, May 31, 2008
no thanks
Although I like both sex and the city, I don’t really get the whole cult status of Sex and the City. I used to watch it in reruns sometimes, BC (Before Cable) but found it more irritating than entertaining.
I was particularly annoyed to read a quote from a 45-year-old woman in today’s paper saying, “They were the first really powerful women” on television.
Wow. Can we define power here? Yeah, have good jobs, although except attorney Miranda, they all were in pink-collar jobs. (And, by the way, could Carrie really afford all those clothes on a columnist’s salary? She must work at the same place the friends of Friends worked to pay for all those nice apartments.)
But what they did most was talk about men, think about men, fret about men, sleep with men, pine for men, break up with men … I know sex is in the title, but where is the power in all that? Considering that the theme of the show seems to be we don’t need no stinkin’ men, we have each other! they sure seem boy crazy. Bo-ring.
And let’s talk about powerful women on TV. While she’s at the front of my mind--what with the death of Harvey Korman-—how about Carol Burnett? She was powerful as a professional and she was completely in control of her comedy. Maude was a powerful female character. The golden girls of The Golden Girls had a lot more on their minds than men, even though they were out there dating and getting laid plenty. I know that because the show has become one of my late night guilty pleasures. Believe it or not (I know you don’t) it’s funny.
Mary Richards was virginal, but she was out there makin’ it on her own. Actually, the girls of SATC are more like Rhoda, who was supposed to be the boy-crazy loser on the MTM show. Hot Lips Hoolihan wasn’t above a little extramarital hoohoo, but she was nothing if not strong like ox and she had lots more on her mind than shoes and penis.
Yeah, SATS brought a baby into the mix, and breast cancer. But in the shows I saw, all the other characters were self-congratulating when they tore themselves away from their sexual needs to pay attention to the enormous life challenges their dear, dear friends faced. Such sacrifice!
First strong women on television? I don’t see the characters of SATS as strong at all. I see them as needy, demanding and annoying. They might have been the first to talk openly about sex, but they also had the benefit of cable. The Golden Girls was pretty good at innuendo, working within network broadcasting codes.
Are the women who admire this gang of whiners as strong women to emulate the same ones who think a Hillary nutcracker is funny?
OK, I’ll give the show one thing: The catch phrase “He’s just not that into you” is incredibly useful and applies in various contexts. But even Dr. Phil has contributed to our society with “How’s that workin’ for you?” which is equally useful although he is equally annoying.
I won’t be getting a gang of gal pals together to partake in this particular pop culture nonevent. I’m just not that into them.
I was particularly annoyed to read a quote from a 45-year-old woman in today’s paper saying, “They were the first really powerful women” on television.
Wow. Can we define power here? Yeah, have good jobs, although except attorney Miranda, they all were in pink-collar jobs. (And, by the way, could Carrie really afford all those clothes on a columnist’s salary? She must work at the same place the friends of Friends worked to pay for all those nice apartments.)
But what they did most was talk about men, think about men, fret about men, sleep with men, pine for men, break up with men … I know sex is in the title, but where is the power in all that? Considering that the theme of the show seems to be we don’t need no stinkin’ men, we have each other! they sure seem boy crazy. Bo-ring.
And let’s talk about powerful women on TV. While she’s at the front of my mind--what with the death of Harvey Korman-—how about Carol Burnett? She was powerful as a professional and she was completely in control of her comedy. Maude was a powerful female character. The golden girls of The Golden Girls had a lot more on their minds than men, even though they were out there dating and getting laid plenty. I know that because the show has become one of my late night guilty pleasures. Believe it or not (I know you don’t) it’s funny.
Mary Richards was virginal, but she was out there makin’ it on her own. Actually, the girls of SATC are more like Rhoda, who was supposed to be the boy-crazy loser on the MTM show. Hot Lips Hoolihan wasn’t above a little extramarital hoohoo, but she was nothing if not strong like ox and she had lots more on her mind than shoes and penis.
Yeah, SATS brought a baby into the mix, and breast cancer. But in the shows I saw, all the other characters were self-congratulating when they tore themselves away from their sexual needs to pay attention to the enormous life challenges their dear, dear friends faced. Such sacrifice!
First strong women on television? I don’t see the characters of SATS as strong at all. I see them as needy, demanding and annoying. They might have been the first to talk openly about sex, but they also had the benefit of cable. The Golden Girls was pretty good at innuendo, working within network broadcasting codes.
Are the women who admire this gang of whiners as strong women to emulate the same ones who think a Hillary nutcracker is funny?
OK, I’ll give the show one thing: The catch phrase “He’s just not that into you” is incredibly useful and applies in various contexts. But even Dr. Phil has contributed to our society with “How’s that workin’ for you?” which is equally useful although he is equally annoying.
I won’t be getting a gang of gal pals together to partake in this particular pop culture nonevent. I’m just not that into them.
Thursday, May 8, 2008
more kooky album kovers
Click here.
Just because I have no time to say anything today and I feel compelled to waste your time, for some reason.
What are your favorites?
Just because I have no time to say anything today and I feel compelled to waste your time, for some reason.
What are your favorites?
Monday, April 14, 2008
Sunday, March 16, 2008
weekend update
Tom and I bent over for our first visit to the House of Blues Friday night.
We took the light rail (Dallas version of public transport) and started with a dreary, greasy dinner at Friday’s in the West End. If we’d had a clue, we would have gone to Victory Plaza instead, where we could have overpaid for a meal but at least had more attractive people to look at while we did.
(Note to Dallasites—what went wrong with the West End? Tom and I went to the opening festivities in the 1980s, when all was excitement and promise. Now it’s a bleak wasteland. The West End Marketplace is closed and empty. Dallas Alley is dark and creepy and deserted. I did like the Archway of Random Neon Geometric Shapes, leading from Dallas Alley to the Plaza of Empty Promises before you reach the razzle-dazzle of Victory Park. But my gosh, if it weren’t for the aggressive roses-selling guys and a few misguided tourists, the West End at night would be deserted.)
Anyway, we went to the Cambridge Room, which is the smaller HoB venue, to see The Donnas. The tickets were listed on the website for $15.50 but somehow cost $37.50 for two at the box office. That pissed me off from the gitgo.
Then, as we passed through exterior gates, a couple dumpy security guys with wands approached us and muttered at us officiously and unintelligibly.
“Wha?” both Tom and I said.
“Take everything metal out of your pockets, put your purse on your wrist and hold your arms out,” they clarified, only slightly more intelligibly.
Oh, OK. The guy preparing to wand me—-he looked like an enormous five-year-old and sucked on a lollipop—-started waving his wand like I was a plane taxiing to the gate.
“What?” I said. “Purse too high up? Open it? What?”
He kept waving the wand.
“Use words,” I finally said.
Evidently, he wanted me to take a step to my left so, I guess, he could be spared the monumental effort of taking one step to his left to reach me.
“OK, I guess I’ll move over,” he said, through his lollipop.
Yeah, good idea. He gave me a perfunctory wanding, peeked in my purse and waved me on.
“You know what, Tom?” I said as we walked the ramp to the doors.
“You hate the House of Blues already?” he guessed correctly.
Happily, the Donnas were already on stage. (It was an all-ages show; I expect that’s why it was deliciously early.) The crowd was mostly men. We did note a few couples in roughly our age range. Former punks like us or tourist game for anything? Hard to tell. Tom bent over for a $5 can of Shiner, I saved for my retirement by not drinking anything.
The Donnas were Miley Cyrus punk. Very Disney slick ‘n ‘shiny. Lead singer Brett Anderson was altogether too talkative between songs and her patter was needy, focusing entirely on whether or not the crowd was sending enough love her way. She was having a good time—the crowd was loud and loving her—but that was pretty much all she could talk about. Ho hum. I did like her arms, though. I would like long, lean arms like that. Tom declared her not as hot as she was when she was younger. So what else is new?
While the band did their thang, dawg, we entertained ourselves speculating about a young-ish blonde in a short black sequin dress circa 1992 who was allowing herself to be dance-humped from behind by the parade of exceedingly dorky young men she was partying with. Tragic, really.
We were in bed by midnight, sated by calories, music and mocking. It was a good night. It would have been a great night, in its own ridiculous way, if it hadn’t been so damn expensive. The Cambridge Room pleasant enough but honestly, it will take a helluva band to get me back there.
It may have been rock and roll but it wasn't really rock and roll.
We took the light rail (Dallas version of public transport) and started with a dreary, greasy dinner at Friday’s in the West End. If we’d had a clue, we would have gone to Victory Plaza instead, where we could have overpaid for a meal but at least had more attractive people to look at while we did.
(Note to Dallasites—what went wrong with the West End? Tom and I went to the opening festivities in the 1980s, when all was excitement and promise. Now it’s a bleak wasteland. The West End Marketplace is closed and empty. Dallas Alley is dark and creepy and deserted. I did like the Archway of Random Neon Geometric Shapes, leading from Dallas Alley to the Plaza of Empty Promises before you reach the razzle-dazzle of Victory Park. But my gosh, if it weren’t for the aggressive roses-selling guys and a few misguided tourists, the West End at night would be deserted.)
Anyway, we went to the Cambridge Room, which is the smaller HoB venue, to see The Donnas. The tickets were listed on the website for $15.50 but somehow cost $37.50 for two at the box office. That pissed me off from the gitgo.
Then, as we passed through exterior gates, a couple dumpy security guys with wands approached us and muttered at us officiously and unintelligibly.
“Wha?” both Tom and I said.
“Take everything metal out of your pockets, put your purse on your wrist and hold your arms out,” they clarified, only slightly more intelligibly.
Oh, OK. The guy preparing to wand me—-he looked like an enormous five-year-old and sucked on a lollipop—-started waving his wand like I was a plane taxiing to the gate.
“What?” I said. “Purse too high up? Open it? What?”
He kept waving the wand.
“Use words,” I finally said.
Evidently, he wanted me to take a step to my left so, I guess, he could be spared the monumental effort of taking one step to his left to reach me.
“OK, I guess I’ll move over,” he said, through his lollipop.
Yeah, good idea. He gave me a perfunctory wanding, peeked in my purse and waved me on.
“You know what, Tom?” I said as we walked the ramp to the doors.
“You hate the House of Blues already?” he guessed correctly.
Happily, the Donnas were already on stage. (It was an all-ages show; I expect that’s why it was deliciously early.) The crowd was mostly men. We did note a few couples in roughly our age range. Former punks like us or tourist game for anything? Hard to tell. Tom bent over for a $5 can of Shiner, I saved for my retirement by not drinking anything.
The Donnas were Miley Cyrus punk. Very Disney slick ‘n ‘shiny. Lead singer Brett Anderson was altogether too talkative between songs and her patter was needy, focusing entirely on whether or not the crowd was sending enough love her way. She was having a good time—the crowd was loud and loving her—but that was pretty much all she could talk about. Ho hum. I did like her arms, though. I would like long, lean arms like that. Tom declared her not as hot as she was when she was younger. So what else is new?
While the band did their thang, dawg, we entertained ourselves speculating about a young-ish blonde in a short black sequin dress circa 1992 who was allowing herself to be dance-humped from behind by the parade of exceedingly dorky young men she was partying with. Tragic, really.
We were in bed by midnight, sated by calories, music and mocking. It was a good night. It would have been a great night, in its own ridiculous way, if it hadn’t been so damn expensive. The Cambridge Room pleasant enough but honestly, it will take a helluva band to get me back there.
It may have been rock and roll but it wasn't really rock and roll.
Thursday, March 13, 2008
hell in a hand basket
Heard on TV last night:
"After the break, Valerie Bertinelli talks about Eliot Spitzer and infidelity."
Great. It’s not enough that we have Spitzer and his stupidityfest--we also must be subjected to a former teen idol’s spin on it. (Am I correct in thinking that everyone—men and women—of a certain age had a crush on sassy little Valerie Bertinelli back in the day? I’m sorry to be hearing her blathering all over the place, promoting her new book. She looks great but she's annoying.)
Read in the newspaper this morning:
Bargains move closer to home
With 3 outlet centers planned to open in ’09, area shopping commutes will get shorter.
Shopping commutes?
Hell in a hand basket, I say.
"After the break, Valerie Bertinelli talks about Eliot Spitzer and infidelity."
Great. It’s not enough that we have Spitzer and his stupidityfest--we also must be subjected to a former teen idol’s spin on it. (Am I correct in thinking that everyone—men and women—of a certain age had a crush on sassy little Valerie Bertinelli back in the day? I’m sorry to be hearing her blathering all over the place, promoting her new book. She looks great but she's annoying.)
Read in the newspaper this morning:
Bargains move closer to home
With 3 outlet centers planned to open in ’09, area shopping commutes will get shorter.
Shopping commutes?
Hell in a hand basket, I say.
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