Turtles Rule, Boys Drool.

There are so many places to eat and things to see in Los Angeles, so many crazy happenings that I always mean to attend, but only seldom do I follow through on my lofty city-life goals.

Last night, my lovely roommate suggested that we finally carry out a Thursday night plan in Marina del Ray. This neighborhood-famous event is none other than:

Turtle Racing!! Wowee! We envision lanes of turtles happily charging, and us poised like Royal Tenenbaum, betting pennies. The early evening just crawls by as we wait to travel to Brennan's and drink/be merry. Look at the website! It's so inviting, I just can't believe it has taken us so long to go.


We stroll in to the pub and get our first beers. Served in plastic cups, oh that's cute... frat-chic. Let's go outside and see this shit!

There's a circle shaped court surrounded by wooden stands, and a stage at one end. Ok... no lanes. That's fine. But, the races actually start at 10:15, not 9pm as advertised, so we wait/shiver in the damp chill of the west side, chatting with some young sweet sk8r boi's until the stands have filled all around us and the game begins.

I look around me and see a mix of college hipsters and dude guys. And... what I can only describe as "skanks". I don't know what else to call girls who wear glam and stripper heels to Turtle Racing. "Why is Malibu Barbie here? It's just turtles!! Geez, LA is nuts alright," Carol thinks, riddled with naivety yet again.

It's $5 to race your very own turtle, so a few of us pony up a buck and race who will now be referred to as "Miss Johnson". Another cold half-hour passes while people claim turtles. After which, the rules are announced.

1. No pointing at the turtles! You can't point at the turtles. If you do, you get charged $10. If you do it again, $20. A third retarded time, $50. (I'm thinking that pointing must distract the turtles somehow, and thus it is prohibited.)
2. No getting up during the race.
3. No blocking cocktail waitresses.

Finally! The game begins! They race 4 turtles at a time, and a representative from each team must place their turtle in the ring in center of the court. The first team sends a lady up to get the turtle.

The judges and ref tell her to take off her coat and she giddily does so. Then she goes to the ring with her turtle.

And here's another rule: you have to place the turtle in the ring without bending your legs. If you do, you have to do it again, until you get it right. (Looks something like this: only, you know, add the "skank" element.) Oh and there's a dude taking a low-angle picture of your ass every time you do it.

Perhaps needless to type, my mouth is now dry from gaping for so long. I know now that I am at a thinly veiled college frat party. Oh.

After four women perform this stupid routine, the race actually starts. The turtles run from the center of the circle, in what I can only assume is pure fear. The race has to stop twice, though, because a few people always point.

They point at the turtles even though it is posted EVERYWHERE and they know they have to PAY. This is where I am totally divided once again by admiration and hatred for people like the turtle-racers: part of me is disgusted by the exploitation and encouragement of stupidity, and part of me does a slow clap for how much money they rake in every Thursday because people can't control themselves/don't listen.

Anyway, it's Miss Johnson's turn to race. Since we, the only girls in the group, will not do the honors, another girl volunteers. She looks like a twenty year-old hipster Glenn Close with horrible hair. A low blow, but true. She places Miss Johnson in the ring with yoga-like dexterity, and is still made to do it over, twice. Sigh.

Miss Johnson hauls turtle ass to the edge of the circle and WINS!! Yaayyy!! We feel a little better about our night.

Until Glenn Close picks her prize out of a laundry bag full of 99 cent store merchandise. And what does she pick, but old lady underwear! Did she put on the undies and prance around the circle?

You bet Miss Johnson's scrawny neck she did.

The night progressed with similar and much worse antics, until we were frozen enough to duck out. I swear to Christ I didn't mean for this to happen again, but I got tricked into yet another feminist battle!! I am all for sexiness (and strippers!), but why oh why do some girls think a jeer from a toolbox meat-head is a compliment? I tried to keep my mouth shut as the boys around us said it was "all in good fun". I tried to see the fun in it. But all I really saw was vapidness, danger, and at least two other genders apart from real men and women.

Despite the seedy underbelly of Brennan's Turtle Racing, I am glad I went. I almost hate to write this post and spoil the shock for others. I left in utter hysterics over just how deceived we were, just how low some girls will go to get attention, and just how much I didn't miss by going to a trade/art school in the city.

Nobel Peace Prize Smackdown

I very much appreciated "An Inconvenient Truth" (and, more so, "11th Hour") and generally all publicity concerning action in environmental issues. No matter what anyone argues, this is a global crisis that needs to be fought through legislation. As far as the Nobel Peace Prize goes... sure! I mean, it's a stretch... but, fine! I'm in. Yay Gore. I just think this quote is hilarious:

DR JEREMY LEGGETT, OXFORD UNIVERSITY ENVIRONMENTAL CHANGE INSTITUTE

The Nobel committee spoke of the conflict threat posed by climate change

I can't think of a better combination for this award - the previously unsung and much-falsely maligned legion of scientific whistleblowers, and their tireless chief advocate.

Perhaps now the shrivelling band of fossil-fuel-funded contrarians and car-enthusiast media stars will finally have the good grace to shut up with the ignorance they pedal about the threat we face.

I Straight Up Hate American Apparel

Preface : Please believe I have almost written this specific entry roughly 38 times. You might not think that's very much, but it's not an exaggeration- think about almost doing something 38 times. Only now have I been pushed to the veritable edge of the Blogosphere with contempt. Despite the rage, I am thankful to be so provoked, because this will be all the better for it...

I STRAIGHT UP HATE AMERICAN APPAREL

Many many many (intelligent, thinking) people also hate American Apparel. I do not want to bore you with echoes of popular criticism. Here are some reasons, in short, why I straight up hate American Apparel:

1. I do not like the style. Seriously, this IS my number one reason. I think that shopping at American Apparel spits in the face of decency, as it is cheap and bland, and embarrassing. (I'm not saying I've never bought anything from this company, because I have, about a year ago. It was a skirt, and it faded from black to gray in a few washes, not to mention the shrinking. Furthermore, I buy or receive t-shirts and hoodies from bands that are inevitably American Apparel. What can you do, it's the style of the screen-printing times, it happens. But I try boycott this company whenever possible.) To be clear, what I'm talking about here is the tight, neon, short, ill-fitting styles that AA is now churning out as fast as kids can create drool outside store fronts in every major city. I don't like it. I just don't.

2. The billboards, and other ads. This should tie for Number One Reason Why I Straight Up Hate American Apparel, but I want to be fair. If you live in a major city, especially American Apparel's home of Los Angeles, then you get to see this sort of thing, larger than life, every single day:










This company has done worse: is that a girl starved and tortured in the back of an unmarked van? No, just an American Apparel model, selling threads. I'm going to go on a photo hunt in LA to better illustrate my point, but you've seen the ads... girls in bright light, half-naked and sprawled out or dazed on a dirty couch ready to be roofied out of their leggings. Let's go shopping, ladies!

3. The obvious choice to make the Top Three Reasons Why I Straight Up Hate American Apparel. Dov f-ing Charney. Soak in the wisdom...













a. Models without headshots need not apply to work at AA.
b. Must be willing to you-know-what with you-know-who, but it's an honor, really. And it's not just hearsay.
c. Making people think that anti-sweatshop business practices are somehow a license/excuse/waiver to have completely sexist and regressive marketing campaigns and business practices. Folks at Clamor have it down.

In addition to the total backwards and hypocritical nature of this treatment of workers, it really brings up a deeper point with me, that resonates with all indie, vegan, hippy issues. Put simply: practice what you preach. There is very little I hate more than people who have these wonderful ways of being eco-friendly, DIY, totally green, and liberal, and at the same time can not be good, polite, or mature to others if their spokes/soy/canvas/whathaveyou depended on it. I am not religious in an organized way, but until people get the basics right, very little will fundamentally change in the world, and it becomes obvious that those issues are purely self-involved rebellion against the norm, and nothing to do with actual concern for the environment or animals. Sigh. Point is, I don't want to hear one more person or article tell me about the anti-sweatshop redemption of American Apparel.

4. I straight up hate American Apparel because it is so insanely popular. Yes, I of course blame consumers for this as well. I hate that this company was able to reach this point of success. It means:
a. Many women (and men) really do hate themselves, just like they've been told to do. There are really young girls (and boys) and some older girls (and guys) that think it's just fine to pose in those ads, work at the stores, suck Dov Charney's cock, because it's cool.
b. Worse, people don't care. I know plenty people who hate the ads and are fully aware of the issues and who DO NOT care. They still shop at American Apparel, because it's cool.

5. The clothes are over-priced. Obviously.

6. That t-shirt might be damn soft, but that's because it's CHEAP. And it's CHEAP because it cost about five cents to make, and you just bought it for twenty dollars. See Number Five, above.

7. American Apparel is aptly named. I think the company embodies every terrible American stereotype that sadly rings true: arrogance and cocky disregard. But don't take my word for it.
From the article in Nylon 10/06: "And in an era when cars give talking directions and apple slices come packaged in plastic, not only do we not want to look like we're trying too hard, we really don't want to try too hard. American Apparel offers something the fashion world has never seen before: It's quite literally a convenience store of cool. City-dwellers can pick up a hot little dress or a last-minute change of underwear - neatly polybagged and arranged by color - late on a Saturday night, after a movie and before bar-hopping. That, in light of the company's ethical practices, makes it the sartorial equivalent of grabbing a salad (maybe even an organic one) at the drive-thru instead of McNuggets. Charney has hit upon a significant and lucrative truth: We want life - and looking and feeling good - to be as easy as possible. That's the American, and the Californian, way." Maybe that's just what I hate, what Nylon tries to wrap a bow around: the American way of convenience and cool. I don't dig drive-thru fashion and I don't think looking good is as easy as donning a sweatband.

And I straight up hate American Apparel.