...More posts soon.
09 June 2009
14 May 2008
food networkout
My new gym has mini flat screen TVs on most of the cardio equipment. I like to turn on something mildly interesting, like the Documentary Channel, so I can watch it when I run too fast to read the words in my magazine.
I was watching some documentary about young German male ballet dancers in the mountains, when I peeked out from behind my TV into the vast ocean of treadmills and stair machines...
About 70% of the TVs in the room were tuned in to... THE FOOD NETWORK. Sweat trickled down my very furrowed brow. "What the hell?" I may have said. Not just women, not just white people, not just old people. Almost everyone at the gym was watching the Barefoot Contessa season a pork roast.
I am not a TV person, but recently my boyf and I moved in together and now I have...cable! I don't really know what to watch if I turn the television on, so I dabble in the Food Network's programming. I love cooking and I love food and I hate channel surfing. But. At the gym? Huh?
Maybe, maybe, maybe
these people are dying to know how to make a meal in 30 minutes with Rachael Ray...?
The next day, it happened again... but worse. Paula Deen was making some kind of southern fried cream-filled chicken pie with gravy butter.
This show makes me gag when I'm home laying on the couch, never mind when I'm strapped to an elliptical and feeling each beat of my pumping heart!
WHY? Why do most people at my gym in HOLLYWOOD love to watch The Food Network whilst exercising?
1. The obvious. People are starving themselves to be thin and are employing the oldest anorexic trick: watch food! Watch others eat, watch people cook. But... these people don't SEEM anorexic... yet.
2. The Food Network is boring, and thus meditative.
3. The sound of Rachael Ray's voice makes them angry enough to keep running.
4. They want to look like/look at the glorious Giada De Laurentiis and yeeesss I googled the spelling.
5. They DON'T want to look like/at the Barefoot Contessa.
No offense to Dara's mother, who apparently does resemble this tender creature.
6. Mating ritual? Guys want to let the ladies know they are sensitive and appreciate a good meal, and ladies want to broadcast their po-fem domesticity?
7. Food is delicious?
Reason #7 is my personal reason for watching these shows, wherever and whenever... and is actually my motivation for most everything. Yum.
I was watching some documentary about young German male ballet dancers in the mountains, when I peeked out from behind my TV into the vast ocean of treadmills and stair machines...
About 70% of the TVs in the room were tuned in to... THE FOOD NETWORK. Sweat trickled down my very furrowed brow. "What the hell?" I may have said. Not just women, not just white people, not just old people. Almost everyone at the gym was watching the Barefoot Contessa season a pork roast.
I am not a TV person, but recently my boyf and I moved in together and now I have...cable! I don't really know what to watch if I turn the television on, so I dabble in the Food Network's programming. I love cooking and I love food and I hate channel surfing. But. At the gym? Huh?
Maybe, maybe, maybe
these people are dying to know how to make a meal in 30 minutes with Rachael Ray...?The next day, it happened again... but worse. Paula Deen was making some kind of southern fried cream-filled chicken pie with gravy butter.
This show makes me gag when I'm home laying on the couch, never mind when I'm strapped to an elliptical and feeling each beat of my pumping heart!WHY? Why do most people at my gym in HOLLYWOOD love to watch The Food Network whilst exercising?
1. The obvious. People are starving themselves to be thin and are employing the oldest anorexic trick: watch food! Watch others eat, watch people cook. But... these people don't SEEM anorexic... yet.
2. The Food Network is boring, and thus meditative.
3. The sound of Rachael Ray's voice makes them angry enough to keep running.
4. They want to look like/look at the glorious Giada De Laurentiis and yeeesss I googled the spelling.
5. They DON'T want to look like/at the Barefoot Contessa.
No offense to Dara's mother, who apparently does resemble this tender creature.6. Mating ritual? Guys want to let the ladies know they are sensitive and appreciate a good meal, and ladies want to broadcast their po-fem domesticity?
7. Food is delicious?
Reason #7 is my personal reason for watching these shows, wherever and whenever... and is actually my motivation for most everything. Yum.
21 March 2008
Dusk: The Hut Trip (3)
The light from Josh's headlight was small and far away and up, so far up. The tiny tears in my eyes were immediate.
When that blue bouncing light disappeared beyond the trees and up the path, that was when the blizzard came, suddenly snowing from all sides, and even above the roar I could hear all the ghastly winter beasts approaching, and through the white storm sky I saw the stars blink out one by one-- I tried to scream but I gasped instead and all the freezing snowflakes filled me, my lungs, my mouth, freezing my core and my eyes hard as diamonds looking their last for the blue bouncing light that would never come back--
The blue light did fade, but just fifty more paces, stop, breathe, curse aloud. Despite my dread, the only real result was the pack on my shoulders weighed down even more by the frustration to at least catch up to my group. And thankfully the stars remained firm in their night posts, because when I did stop to regain my breath, I had only to tilt my head and wonder.
The stars were so many and so bright that the sky seemed naked. By climbing to this altitude, the night had peeled away layers of darkness so I could see even further into time. I felt shy before it; it was unabashed.
A faulty snowshoe in the group did allow me to temporarily catch up, but this time I didn't mind falling behind again. There was no choice. If I didn't stop to breathe, I couldn't keep hiking. But before I fell too far behind again, Haley's father Michael skied down to us, as promised.
He had reached the hut earlier, started the snow melting on the stove, and waited for the first group to arrive and take over. He told us the hut was only about 2/3 of a mile away and that it would only be another half hour. I immediately (and correctly) doubted this, as we were moving so slowly, but my attention was devoted to lightening my pack. Michael took my bed roll, a few jars of food, and the inflatable sled. This probably only took off about 7 pounds of weight, but the difference was unbelievable. I thanked him again and again and in my mind I called him every nice name I could create.
I once again caught up with the other three, feeling myself gliding on the snow, compared to my former pace. The whole world seemed lighter! Unfortunately, Haley's snowshoe was worse than ever now and Josh was feeling the very beginnings of altitude sickness, mixed no doubt with exhaustion. Here, the group shifted again: Haley dropped behind with Michael helping her, Dara pulled ahead and did not stop until she reached the hut, and I continued with Josh, sharing a headlight and making very frequent stops. The remainder of the hike was indeed longer than a half hour, but finally I caught the glimmer of the blue diamond on a post. This meant to turn right and the hut would be just yards away! I urged Josh to just make it a little farther, we were almost there.
I reached the post and followed the path to the right, and soon before me was the hut, under a thick shell of snow. There were figures in the windows, swimming in candlelight. I felt like a ghost hiker, dreamily staring at what could have been, if only I hadn't fallen off the trail and broken all the most necessary bones. But the feeling didn't last, I was unclicking my gear and Josh's, flinging open the door with giddy, joyous, triumphant laughter! All the well-worn mountain natives might not have been tested in the way we were that day, but I did not receive one strange look-- the lunacy of accomplishment in nature was known to everyone in the room.
Those who had reached the cabin were warm and settled, and they ushered us into their fold. The large room was a common area with benches and tables, two wood burning stoves, and a wide kitchen. Snow was melting for our hot water, folks were beginning to cook the food we brought, and more hikers arrived and were welcomed.
I stripped my outer layers and sipped hot orange gatorade, the most delicious, comforting, and bizarrely restoring potion I'd ever consumed. Despite the lingering pain, the smile had not left my face. Josh stood outside and freed his dizzy stomach, a gruesome black on the snow blanket. Haley arrived finally, cheerfully trying to ignore her own altitude sickness. Dara set to work preparing food- the prevailing activity in the hut at all times.
I tried to envision this moment ever since I bought my ticket to Vail, and not one of my imaginings came close to this feeling of what I can only call peace. I settled into my exhaustion and exhilaration, introducing myself to a new part of me. I saw my friends, as they did the same, crafting a new extension of themselves that climbed snowy mountains to sleep in huts. "Yes, now we do this," we thought. The mountain made everything else we did after inevitably easier, surmountable-- and us victorious, in our way. We were all there, we had done it. On the first day of the new year, we were finally at the hut and the hike was over.
How can it be over? I feel it now.
When that blue bouncing light disappeared beyond the trees and up the path, that was when the blizzard came, suddenly snowing from all sides, and even above the roar I could hear all the ghastly winter beasts approaching, and through the white storm sky I saw the stars blink out one by one-- I tried to scream but I gasped instead and all the freezing snowflakes filled me, my lungs, my mouth, freezing my core and my eyes hard as diamonds looking their last for the blue bouncing light that would never come back--
The blue light did fade, but just fifty more paces, stop, breathe, curse aloud. Despite my dread, the only real result was the pack on my shoulders weighed down even more by the frustration to at least catch up to my group. And thankfully the stars remained firm in their night posts, because when I did stop to regain my breath, I had only to tilt my head and wonder.
The stars were so many and so bright that the sky seemed naked. By climbing to this altitude, the night had peeled away layers of darkness so I could see even further into time. I felt shy before it; it was unabashed.
A faulty snowshoe in the group did allow me to temporarily catch up, but this time I didn't mind falling behind again. There was no choice. If I didn't stop to breathe, I couldn't keep hiking. But before I fell too far behind again, Haley's father Michael skied down to us, as promised.
He had reached the hut earlier, started the snow melting on the stove, and waited for the first group to arrive and take over. He told us the hut was only about 2/3 of a mile away and that it would only be another half hour. I immediately (and correctly) doubted this, as we were moving so slowly, but my attention was devoted to lightening my pack. Michael took my bed roll, a few jars of food, and the inflatable sled. This probably only took off about 7 pounds of weight, but the difference was unbelievable. I thanked him again and again and in my mind I called him every nice name I could create.
I once again caught up with the other three, feeling myself gliding on the snow, compared to my former pace. The whole world seemed lighter! Unfortunately, Haley's snowshoe was worse than ever now and Josh was feeling the very beginnings of altitude sickness, mixed no doubt with exhaustion. Here, the group shifted again: Haley dropped behind with Michael helping her, Dara pulled ahead and did not stop until she reached the hut, and I continued with Josh, sharing a headlight and making very frequent stops. The remainder of the hike was indeed longer than a half hour, but finally I caught the glimmer of the blue diamond on a post. This meant to turn right and the hut would be just yards away! I urged Josh to just make it a little farther, we were almost there.
I reached the post and followed the path to the right, and soon before me was the hut, under a thick shell of snow. There were figures in the windows, swimming in candlelight. I felt like a ghost hiker, dreamily staring at what could have been, if only I hadn't fallen off the trail and broken all the most necessary bones. But the feeling didn't last, I was unclicking my gear and Josh's, flinging open the door with giddy, joyous, triumphant laughter! All the well-worn mountain natives might not have been tested in the way we were that day, but I did not receive one strange look-- the lunacy of accomplishment in nature was known to everyone in the room.
Those who had reached the cabin were warm and settled, and they ushered us into their fold. The large room was a common area with benches and tables, two wood burning stoves, and a wide kitchen. Snow was melting for our hot water, folks were beginning to cook the food we brought, and more hikers arrived and were welcomed.
I stripped my outer layers and sipped hot orange gatorade, the most delicious, comforting, and bizarrely restoring potion I'd ever consumed. Despite the lingering pain, the smile had not left my face. Josh stood outside and freed his dizzy stomach, a gruesome black on the snow blanket. Haley arrived finally, cheerfully trying to ignore her own altitude sickness. Dara set to work preparing food- the prevailing activity in the hut at all times.
I tried to envision this moment ever since I bought my ticket to Vail, and not one of my imaginings came close to this feeling of what I can only call peace. I settled into my exhaustion and exhilaration, introducing myself to a new part of me. I saw my friends, as they did the same, crafting a new extension of themselves that climbed snowy mountains to sleep in huts. "Yes, now we do this," we thought. The mountain made everything else we did after inevitably easier, surmountable-- and us victorious, in our way. We were all there, we had done it. On the first day of the new year, we were finally at the hut and the hike was over.
How can it be over? I feel it now.
Day: The Hut Trip (2)
On the first morning of 2008, we departed on our long-awaited hut trip. My Los Angeles core had counted down to the trip with as much excitement as the end of 2007. It was a hard year for us all.
With oatmeal in our bellies, we packed our food and gear and set out, slightly later than anticipated. We parked the truck at base camp, only to discover we were short one pair of skis. Haley's mother, Jan, and Laura, would have to retrieve the skis and head up after. A second wave of hut-hikers would join us, so our group would be staggered up the mountain anyway.
We LA kids strapped snow shoes to our small human feet and danced into our heavy packs. Later on, my ambitious packing would almost cripple me, but at the time I was more concerned with my frozen toes and fingers than my straining shoulders. Josh gave me his mittens, and so the first mile of the hike, my fingers thawed. After we hit the first blue diamond, when the trail turned up several grades, I was heated enough to remove my hat and mittens! By our first break, I could take off my coat, and that initial numbness would not trouble me for miles.
I got through the first four miles by counting 50 to 60 paces and then stopping for a few breaths. We stopped twice to eat and rest, and during lunch I peed in the snow-- a great relief!
But as night fell, and there was no sign of our leader Michael, Haley's father, I wondered how far we truly were from the hut. Some experts following us passed us, and eventually so did Jan. At that point, my pack was unbearable and my three friends were pulling ahead. In the brief time I was alone, I felt tears freezing on my cheeks and heard phantom rustles in the pines. All I had to do was look above me to the night show and wow myself into utter bliss, despite the pain and cold.
True to his word, Michael doubled back to help us once he reached the hut. He took my sled, sleeping bag, and several bottles of food. Making everything in my world better. I reached my friends in no time, with 2/3 of a mile left (of a 7 mile hike from 6500' to 11300'). I was recharged.
Sadly, the rest of the group had hit a threshold. Haley had a faulty snow shoe and Josh was suffering the beginnings of altitude sickness. I stayed behind with Josh, while Dara, in her incredible tolerance for discomfort, struggled forward.
Finally, we saw the last blue diamond between two posts on the right. I knew the hut was 50 yards ahead so I urged Josh forward-- we were almost there. I trudged forward, my toes frozen through, and sure enough, the snow-covered hut formed in my view. I was laughing, and I kept laughing in pure joy as we opened the door.
I wasn't tired, hungry, sick, or any one sensation. I was weak, but so triumphant that all else faded. I stripped my layers and sat on the long bench where my friends were sipping chicken soup. Jan made me a luxurious hot drink comprised of water and orange gatorade. It might have been the most perfect drink I'd ever tasted.
That night we let the others cook the meal we planned (pesto, veggies, and pasta) and tried to re-fill our tired bodies. The hut was dark and candlelit, our group of adults, twenty-somethings, and one toddler filled the cabin with a happy din. There were 4 others staying there as well, but since I barely knew those in our own group, in my mind we formed one organism: eating, drinking, playing games, coming and going from the out house in the starry mountain night.
It was an early night for all of us, but even earlier for Josh, who fell asleep after throwing up several times.
The following morning I woke up to the smell of pancakes and the indisputable pressure of pee. I couldn't believe I had made it through the whole night without a trip to the out house! I slipped into my coats and boots and hurried to the little stand beside the house. It felt so warm compared to the sub-zero temperature we hiked in the previous night!
After eating an inhuman amount of pancakes, half the group left for a day of skiing. We, of course, stayed behind and filled our day with books, scrabble, hot chocolate, lazy yoga, and good talk. Napping was our sport of choice. I took photos and wrote this story. Others mustered the energy to sled or roll down the mountain.
The ambitious part of the group returned and joined the sledders just as the sun began to fade. The hut was once again full of bodies and gear, and we melted pot after pot of snow for dinner and tea. Jan made her famous bourbon-baked brie, and I decided to fill my stomach with the rich, warm cheese instead of waiting for dinner. We formed a faulty game of gin rummy after the plates cleared, blindly inventing rules and scores. I was dizzy from wine and thin air. I made one last trip to the out house before bed, wondering when I'd ever see the stars so close and bright and perfect.
With oatmeal in our bellies, we packed our food and gear and set out, slightly later than anticipated. We parked the truck at base camp, only to discover we were short one pair of skis. Haley's mother, Jan, and Laura, would have to retrieve the skis and head up after. A second wave of hut-hikers would join us, so our group would be staggered up the mountain anyway.
We LA kids strapped snow shoes to our small human feet and danced into our heavy packs. Later on, my ambitious packing would almost cripple me, but at the time I was more concerned with my frozen toes and fingers than my straining shoulders. Josh gave me his mittens, and so the first mile of the hike, my fingers thawed. After we hit the first blue diamond, when the trail turned up several grades, I was heated enough to remove my hat and mittens! By our first break, I could take off my coat, and that initial numbness would not trouble me for miles.
I got through the first four miles by counting 50 to 60 paces and then stopping for a few breaths. We stopped twice to eat and rest, and during lunch I peed in the snow-- a great relief!
But as night fell, and there was no sign of our leader Michael, Haley's father, I wondered how far we truly were from the hut. Some experts following us passed us, and eventually so did Jan. At that point, my pack was unbearable and my three friends were pulling ahead. In the brief time I was alone, I felt tears freezing on my cheeks and heard phantom rustles in the pines. All I had to do was look above me to the night show and wow myself into utter bliss, despite the pain and cold.
True to his word, Michael doubled back to help us once he reached the hut. He took my sled, sleeping bag, and several bottles of food. Making everything in my world better. I reached my friends in no time, with 2/3 of a mile left (of a 7 mile hike from 6500' to 11300'). I was recharged.
Sadly, the rest of the group had hit a threshold. Haley had a faulty snow shoe and Josh was suffering the beginnings of altitude sickness. I stayed behind with Josh, while Dara, in her incredible tolerance for discomfort, struggled forward.
Finally, we saw the last blue diamond between two posts on the right. I knew the hut was 50 yards ahead so I urged Josh forward-- we were almost there. I trudged forward, my toes frozen through, and sure enough, the snow-covered hut formed in my view. I was laughing, and I kept laughing in pure joy as we opened the door.
I wasn't tired, hungry, sick, or any one sensation. I was weak, but so triumphant that all else faded. I stripped my layers and sat on the long bench where my friends were sipping chicken soup. Jan made me a luxurious hot drink comprised of water and orange gatorade. It might have been the most perfect drink I'd ever tasted.
That night we let the others cook the meal we planned (pesto, veggies, and pasta) and tried to re-fill our tired bodies. The hut was dark and candlelit, our group of adults, twenty-somethings, and one toddler filled the cabin with a happy din. There were 4 others staying there as well, but since I barely knew those in our own group, in my mind we formed one organism: eating, drinking, playing games, coming and going from the out house in the starry mountain night.
It was an early night for all of us, but even earlier for Josh, who fell asleep after throwing up several times.
The following morning I woke up to the smell of pancakes and the indisputable pressure of pee. I couldn't believe I had made it through the whole night without a trip to the out house! I slipped into my coats and boots and hurried to the little stand beside the house. It felt so warm compared to the sub-zero temperature we hiked in the previous night!
After eating an inhuman amount of pancakes, half the group left for a day of skiing. We, of course, stayed behind and filled our day with books, scrabble, hot chocolate, lazy yoga, and good talk. Napping was our sport of choice. I took photos and wrote this story. Others mustered the energy to sled or roll down the mountain.
The ambitious part of the group returned and joined the sledders just as the sun began to fade. The hut was once again full of bodies and gear, and we melted pot after pot of snow for dinner and tea. Jan made her famous bourbon-baked brie, and I decided to fill my stomach with the rich, warm cheese instead of waiting for dinner. We formed a faulty game of gin rummy after the plates cleared, blindly inventing rules and scores. I was dizzy from wine and thin air. I made one last trip to the out house before bed, wondering when I'd ever see the stars so close and bright and perfect.
Dawn: The Hut Trip (1)
The best thing I could think to do in the first hours of 2008 was to hike from 6500' to 11300' on a snow-covered mountain in Colorado. I had never been to Colorado, never hiked with a pack, nor even worn snowshoes. It sounds like a horrible idea on paper.
I vaguely attempted to train for this adventure by hiking some trails in the canyons of Los Angeles and infrequently going to the gym. As a city-dweller who works in an office and spends two hours a day in the car, this attempt was downright sad. Nevertheless I bought my plane tickets with resolute internet clicks and spent most of the holiday season outlining my winter plans to my friends and family with determination and pride. I didn't come home with a new hair style, piercing, or tattoo- just a crazy plan to stomp up a mountain with my friends for the sheer hell of it. So, with the tested and true support of my sisters and parents, I flew to Colorado at the dead end of December 2007, incredibly ready to start a new year.
The entire trip was based on a framework of stories Haley had shared with me of her family's past hut trips. I immediately accepted her invitation to visit her family in Colorado and do one of these trips, which apparently involved storytelling, games, welcome intoxication, and wood-burning stoves. I don't think either of us knew how serious I was about going. This resolution flowed through me, and it spread into my boyfriend Josh and our mutual friend Dara. These three friends- Haley, Dara, and Josh- had most significantly and positively affected my LA existence in the past two years, and our hut trip plans grew as organically as our friendship: it was obvious.
We three found ourselves in Colorado on the morning of the trek, filled with oatmeal, stretching and packing and beseeching nature and our bodies to be kind to us that day.
I vaguely attempted to train for this adventure by hiking some trails in the canyons of Los Angeles and infrequently going to the gym. As a city-dweller who works in an office and spends two hours a day in the car, this attempt was downright sad. Nevertheless I bought my plane tickets with resolute internet clicks and spent most of the holiday season outlining my winter plans to my friends and family with determination and pride. I didn't come home with a new hair style, piercing, or tattoo- just a crazy plan to stomp up a mountain with my friends for the sheer hell of it. So, with the tested and true support of my sisters and parents, I flew to Colorado at the dead end of December 2007, incredibly ready to start a new year.
The entire trip was based on a framework of stories Haley had shared with me of her family's past hut trips. I immediately accepted her invitation to visit her family in Colorado and do one of these trips, which apparently involved storytelling, games, welcome intoxication, and wood-burning stoves. I don't think either of us knew how serious I was about going. This resolution flowed through me, and it spread into my boyfriend Josh and our mutual friend Dara. These three friends- Haley, Dara, and Josh- had most significantly and positively affected my LA existence in the past two years, and our hut trip plans grew as organically as our friendship: it was obvious.
We three found ourselves in Colorado on the morning of the trek, filled with oatmeal, stretching and packing and beseeching nature and our bodies to be kind to us that day.
21 February 2008
Please Advise.
1. Arial gives her iPod to have 2 legs.2. Katie Holmes is saved from eternal damnation by the under-ice god of Scientology.
3. Shadow models having iGasms.
4. A warning depicting my worst and most unfounded fear: iPods explode and maim in work-out/sweat short-circuit malfunctioning disaster catastrophe.. death.
5. Your comment/suggstion below.
12 October 2007
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.
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.
02 October 2007
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.
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.
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.
21 September 2007
Who Killed... Britney Spears?
I saw the comparison between Britney Spears and Michael Jackson while reading my online* news this morning, and while it was factually impressive, it was a little too obvious for me. I prefer this more subtle and obscure link between two corrupted and troubled youths...
1. Both Britney Spears and Laura Palmer were once innocent young girls, loved by their communities.
2. Both women underwent an enormous change of morals, one being more public and media-driven, and the other being much more fictitious in nature. These downfalls both included drugs, embarrassing boyfriends, and stupid dancing.
3. In the end, Britney Spears was not found dead on a river bank "wrapped in plastic", but she was found on stage at the VMA's in a sorry state. The gap between the crimes of "homicide" and "boredom" seemed to narrow all too quickly in the case of Laura vs. Britney.
4. If you look closely at the photos above, you will notice that both women are smiling with their head tilted ever so slightly to their right shoulder. This is, of course, what clued me in to their remarkable similarities.
5. Just like Laura Palmer, I fear this turn from pretty bad to even worse is only the beginning of Britney's story....
*note: this is me passively venting frustration at my poorly performing shower radio now hanging from my rearview mirror. Thus, static-filled NPR and online news instead.
13 September 2007
Mid-City Thieves, and the Women Who Love Them
Mid-City Thieves, I am impressed. For over two years, you have kept a watchful eye on the southern blocks of Redondo Blvd, waiting for the perfect time to strike... when the winds were in your favor for optimal glass-breaking noise reduction, when the moon was new and hid in shadow, when the landlords were on their European summer holiday... Cue slow clap.
On the morning of September 11, 2007, I found my car parked in the back of my apartment complex: the fifth (known) vehicle to be broken and entered in the past month, stereo-less and shattered. A car parked nearby appeared to be in much the same state. Startled, but not shocked, I dealt with the damage and hoped you band of Mid-City Stereo Terrorists would not grow the balls to break into my apartment next time...
My point is not, in fact, to go on forever about the recent criminal activity in my neighborhood in the normal flowery sarcasm I insist on infusing in every post. My real reason for this entry, my audience of barely five (maybe six?) readers, is to talk about the true BOON these hooligans have bestowed upon me!!
And that gift is... silence.
Mind-raping, soul-stabbing, more-numbing-than-Open-Water-and-live-golf-tournaments-playing-at-once, more-retarded-than-the-love-child-of-Bill O'Reilly-and-Lindsay-Lohan, sssssssiiiiiiiiiiilllllllllllllleeeeeeeeeeeeennnnnnnnnnnccccccccccccceeeeeeeeeeeeeee.
Sh. Shhhh. You can hear it now. That's the sound of nothing. I can recognize because I hear it everyday on my way to and from work. In my car. In my car without a stereo. In my car that won't have a stereo till I move, or get a car alarm. When it's too hot to have the windows down in the morning parking lot of the ten west. When it's too chilly at night to have the windows down, and therefore always blocking out the sound of the LA world, and leaving the remainder of me and my thoughts.
This is what I get for never becoming a member of KPCC.
I am in Day Three of Silent Driving. Day One consisted of involuntary motions to turn on the radio and looping thoughts like "Geez, what has taken me so long to turn on a cd?" and "Oh, right." Day Two was filled with boring phone calls "just saying hi..." to family and friends. Now I'm in Day Three and I have reached many sage conclusions:
1. I should take voice lessons before singing in a band again, most definitely.
2. People do not like to be looked at in traffic, because they need to:
a. pick their nose in peace
b. be creepy at every opportunity
c. drive their shit-big cars out of eye-line
3. National Public Radio is a blessing from god and should never be doubted as one of the premier achievements of man-kind. Each soul that works at this wondrous company should be given a front seat in heaven, and have first access to the glory of all the almighty power in the universe.
4. Face plate stereos are for fucking losers asking to be robbed, and I need a god damn boom box, so I can further remove myself from the status levels in society to which material possessions grant inclusion. Even dirty 1999 Honda Accords aren't safe: all cars with face plate stereos say "Fucking break the little window on the right passenger side and take everything! Go ahead do it, I'm an asshole loser!!"
Whoa.
On the morning of September 11, 2007, I found my car parked in the back of my apartment complex: the fifth (known) vehicle to be broken and entered in the past month, stereo-less and shattered. A car parked nearby appeared to be in much the same state. Startled, but not shocked, I dealt with the damage and hoped you band of Mid-City Stereo Terrorists would not grow the balls to break into my apartment next time...
My point is not, in fact, to go on forever about the recent criminal activity in my neighborhood in the normal flowery sarcasm I insist on infusing in every post. My real reason for this entry, my audience of barely five (maybe six?) readers, is to talk about the true BOON these hooligans have bestowed upon me!!
And that gift is... silence.
Mind-raping, soul-stabbing, more-numbing-than-Open-Water-and-live-golf-tournaments-playing-at-once, more-retarded-than-the-love-child-of-Bill O'Reilly-and-Lindsay-Lohan, sssssssiiiiiiiiiiilllllllllllllleeeeeeeeeeeeennnnnnnnnnnccccccccccccceeeeeeeeeeeeeee.
Sh. Shhhh. You can hear it now. That's the sound of nothing. I can recognize because I hear it everyday on my way to and from work. In my car. In my car without a stereo. In my car that won't have a stereo till I move, or get a car alarm. When it's too hot to have the windows down in the morning parking lot of the ten west. When it's too chilly at night to have the windows down, and therefore always blocking out the sound of the LA world, and leaving the remainder of me and my thoughts.
This is what I get for never becoming a member of KPCC.
I am in Day Three of Silent Driving. Day One consisted of involuntary motions to turn on the radio and looping thoughts like "Geez, what has taken me so long to turn on a cd?" and "Oh, right." Day Two was filled with boring phone calls "just saying hi..." to family and friends. Now I'm in Day Three and I have reached many sage conclusions:
1. I should take voice lessons before singing in a band again, most definitely.
2. People do not like to be looked at in traffic, because they need to:
a. pick their nose in peace
b. be creepy at every opportunity
c. drive their shit-big cars out of eye-line
3. National Public Radio is a blessing from god and should never be doubted as one of the premier achievements of man-kind. Each soul that works at this wondrous company should be given a front seat in heaven, and have first access to the glory of all the almighty power in the universe.
4. Face plate stereos are for fucking losers asking to be robbed, and I need a god damn boom box, so I can further remove myself from the status levels in society to which material possessions grant inclusion. Even dirty 1999 Honda Accords aren't safe: all cars with face plate stereos say "Fucking break the little window on the right passenger side and take everything! Go ahead do it, I'm an asshole loser!!"
Whoa.
13 July 2007
Channing, Now and Forever
Big lips, saucer-huge eyes, a maelstrom of blond hair, a deep... raspy... meaty... mouth-full-of-used-plastic-wrap voice that any god-fearin' hobo missus would kill her last muskrat for... who else could it be?
Carol Channing was born January 31, 1921 at Seattle, Washington, the daughter of a prominent newspaper editor, who was very active in the Christian Science movement. Among many things you may not know about Ms. Channing is that her trademark, poofy blonde hair has always been achieved by the use of wigs, as she's allergic to bleach. But that's just the beginning...
She attended high school in San Francisco and later worked as a model in Los Angeles. She attended prestigious Bennington College in Vermont and majored in drama and dance and supplemented her work by taking parts in nearby Pocono Resort area. When she left home to attend Bennington College in Vermont, her mother informed her that her father, a journalist who she had believed was born in Rhode Island, was of German American and African American descent, born in Augusta, Georgia, saying that the only reason she was telling her was so she wouldn't be surprised "if she had a black baby". She kept her heritage secret so she would not be typecast on Broadway and in Hollywood, ultimately revealing it only in her autobiography, Just Lucky I Guess, published in 2002 when she was 81 years old. It should be noted, at the same time, that part of Carol's wide-eyed charm is her penchant for tall tales and exaggeration; no photographs of her father are available, and his birth certificate lost. "My mother said to me, 'You're revolting. And on top of that, you're not very feminine.' Well, that led me to the stage, which is an accepting and comfortable place. So in a way I have my mother to thank."
The winner of three Tony Awards (including a lifetime achievement award), a Golden Globe and an Academy Award nominee, Channing is best remembered for two roles: Lorelei Lee in Gentlemen Prefer Blondes and Dolly Gallagher Levi in Hello, Dolly!
Channing's first job on stage in New York was in Marc Blitzstein's No For an Answer, which was given two special Sunday performances starting January 5, 1941 at the Mecca Temple (later New York's City Center). Channing then moved to Broadway for Let's Face It, in which she was an understudy for Eve Arden. In 1942 Channing was cast in a supporting role in Proof Through the Night, a drama which ran only eleven performances. This play was extremely unusual: a war drama with an all-female cast. Except for one native girl, all the onstage characters are U.S. Navy nurses who have been sent to a remote location in the South Pacific. They envision a frolic on the beach with furloughed sailors, until they learn that Japanese troops are advancing in their direction. In the depressing finale, all the nurses are captured or killed by offstage Japanese. Channing's role exploited her unusually deep voice: she played a nurse with a male name and mannish traits; the script's dialogue implied that the character played by Channing in this drama was secretly a lesbian.
Channing had a featured role in a revue, Lend an Ear, where she was spotted by Anita Loos and cast in the role of Lorelei Lee, which was to bring her to prominence. (Her signature song from the production was "Diamonds Are a Girl's Best Friend.") Channing's persona and that of the character were strikingly alike: simultaneously smart yet scattered, naïve but worldly.
Channing came to national prominence as the star of Jerry Herman's Hello, Dolly! She never missed a performance during her run, attributing her good health to her Christian Science faith. The musical won ten Tony awards in 1964, including Channing's for best actress in a comedy. Jacqueline Kennedy and her two children made their first public appearance after John F. Kennedy's death by seeing her perform in Hello Dolly and later visited her backstage.
Her performance won her the Tony Award for Best Actress in a Musical, in a year when her chief competition was Barbra Streisand for Funny Girl. She was deeply disappointed when Streisand, who many believed to be far too young for the role, successfully campaigned to play the role of Dolly Levi in the film, which also starred Walter Matthau and Michael Crawford.
She reprized the role of Lorelei Lee in the musical Lorelei, and appeared in two New York revivals of Hello, Dolly!, in addition to touring with it extensively throughout the United States. She also appeared in a number of movies, including the cult film Skidoo and Thoroughly Modern Millie, opposite Julie Andrews and Mary Tyler Moore. For Millie she received a nomination for the Academy Award for Best Supporting Actress, and was awarded a Golden Globe Award for Best Supporting Actress.
William Goldman, in his book The Season, refers to Channing as a classic example of a "critic's darling" -- an actress who is always praised by critics no matter the caliber of her work, chiefly because she is simply so unusual and bizarre.
She has been married four times. Her first husband, Theodore Naidish, was a writer; her second, Alexander Carson, was center for the Ottawa Rough Riders Canadian football team. They had one son, Channing Lowe, who is a Pulitzer Prize-nominated finalist cartoonist. In 1956 she married her manager and publicist, Charles Lowe. They remained married for 42 years, but she abruptly filed for divorce in 1998, alleging that she and Lowe had not had marital relations in many years and only twice in that time-span; she also alleged that Lowe was gay, but he denied her allegations. He died before the divorce was finalized.
On May 10, 2003, she married Harry Kullijian, her fourth husband and junior high school sweetheart, who reunited with her after she mentioned him fondly in her memoir. The two performed at their old junior high school, which had become Aptos Middle School, in a benefit for the school.
At Lowell High School, they renamed the school's auditorium "The Carol Channing Theatre" in her honor. The City of San Francisco, California proclaimed February 25, 2002 to be Carol Channing Day, for her advocacy of gay rights and her appearance as the celebrity host of the Gay Pride Day festivities in Hollywood.
The most astonishing fact of Carol Channing's life: it's not over yet! Most recently, she played herself on "Family Guy" - Celebrity Boxing (1 episode, 2006). When she's not playing herself on TV, she's doing voices for children's movies, the last of which was the Ceiling Fan in "The Brave Little Toaster Goes to Mars" in 1998.
The career of Carol Channing is varied and continuing. She performs with the gusto of a young aspiring actress. However, her heart will remain on stage even though she has recently committed her life to bring a refocus of the Arts in the public educational system of California. Scholarships, teaching and lecturing and performing, hoping to engage the public support for education in the Arts."I'm terribly shy, but of course no one believes me. Come to think of it, neither would I." You're right Carol, we don't believe, not for a damned second.
References:
imdb.com, wikipedia,org, and my personal fav- the Official Carol Channing Website: www.carolchanning.org. I encourage you to treat yourself to that delicious site on the world wide web.
For added fun, re-read this article aloud in your best Channing impression!
18 June 2007
Dying at Nighttime
It was March and winter wasn’t finished with us. It wouldn’t be warm at night for a solid three months and we knew it, but everyone was tired and excited and the sense of completion made us giddy enough to turn up the music, turn down the windows, and wrap our arms around each other for warmth in the back of Ryan’s dying Volvo. Hours earlier, the car wouldn’t start in the driveway, until some force of will that charges all indie film shoots smiled on the ignition. We were riding back into Boston with our fingers crossed.
We wrapped early on the set, and I took all the credit for the tight, efficient schedule. I knew it wouldn’t take three days to shoot a script that short, and I solved the mathematics of actors, lighting set ups, and an itchy director so it equaled four meals and a late night. Assistant directing requires the skill of surprise party timing, political handshakes, and a hidden ruthlessness. You have to choose when you’ll raise your voice to make silence, and what to utter to make it last.
For all the spoils of a well-crafted shoot day, I was content to know I’d sleep in my own bed that night. Film sets always seem so much longer than real time, displacing you that much further from sleep. At the most, I hoped for a fightless night with my recent re-boyfriend. At the least, I hoped for the heat in the house to be turned on. Both were just as basic as they were unlikely. With the music and the cold surging through our rickety time-machine, I forgot even my slim hopes and drew my arm tighter around my co-producer.
From under the river, in the mouth of the tunnel, the accident was instants old. I saw this arm, a normal arm, spilled hair, small glass, too much blood. The car was still rocking on its side. The exit of the rabbit hole, every fast emerging car coming up for air would risk what this car lost. We were a mile past it before my mind saw anything and I realized we had left the scene. The music played the whole ride home, the wind slid over our patches of numb exposed skin, turning with the wheels, all things automatic now without their magic. I didn’t know what happened, and we’d never know, and they would never know. It was over and if we hadn’t seen it then, it may as well have never had happened, like any fluttering action pinned down to a strip of film.
The house was cold, and stairs creaked their goodnights as we climbed to find our patiently waiting dreams. My co-producer changed back to my roommate and into her pajamas. The blankets returned my body heat back to me twofold, but underneath them I still felt exposed. In the hallway between our rooms, the drafts of cold air carried the ghosts we believed to occupy the old house. The light gusts from under doors and windowsills lingered the whispers of shouting arguments between the lovers that came and went. It trembled with our small fears of yet another break-in, after the one our ramshackle fortress had already sustained. This the same wind that bursts from the subways and tunnels, from under the Charles, dispersed the last snowflakes of the season around the city like shattered glass around twisted metal.
And when the draft went still for a moment, I realized I must still be awake. Not a ghost, not a victim, alive in my bed. In a deep breath I fill my lungs, and let it rush out into the night.
We wrapped early on the set, and I took all the credit for the tight, efficient schedule. I knew it wouldn’t take three days to shoot a script that short, and I solved the mathematics of actors, lighting set ups, and an itchy director so it equaled four meals and a late night. Assistant directing requires the skill of surprise party timing, political handshakes, and a hidden ruthlessness. You have to choose when you’ll raise your voice to make silence, and what to utter to make it last.
For all the spoils of a well-crafted shoot day, I was content to know I’d sleep in my own bed that night. Film sets always seem so much longer than real time, displacing you that much further from sleep. At the most, I hoped for a fightless night with my recent re-boyfriend. At the least, I hoped for the heat in the house to be turned on. Both were just as basic as they were unlikely. With the music and the cold surging through our rickety time-machine, I forgot even my slim hopes and drew my arm tighter around my co-producer.
From under the river, in the mouth of the tunnel, the accident was instants old. I saw this arm, a normal arm, spilled hair, small glass, too much blood. The car was still rocking on its side. The exit of the rabbit hole, every fast emerging car coming up for air would risk what this car lost. We were a mile past it before my mind saw anything and I realized we had left the scene. The music played the whole ride home, the wind slid over our patches of numb exposed skin, turning with the wheels, all things automatic now without their magic. I didn’t know what happened, and we’d never know, and they would never know. It was over and if we hadn’t seen it then, it may as well have never had happened, like any fluttering action pinned down to a strip of film.
The house was cold, and stairs creaked their goodnights as we climbed to find our patiently waiting dreams. My co-producer changed back to my roommate and into her pajamas. The blankets returned my body heat back to me twofold, but underneath them I still felt exposed. In the hallway between our rooms, the drafts of cold air carried the ghosts we believed to occupy the old house. The light gusts from under doors and windowsills lingered the whispers of shouting arguments between the lovers that came and went. It trembled with our small fears of yet another break-in, after the one our ramshackle fortress had already sustained. This the same wind that bursts from the subways and tunnels, from under the Charles, dispersed the last snowflakes of the season around the city like shattered glass around twisted metal.
And when the draft went still for a moment, I realized I must still be awake. Not a ghost, not a victim, alive in my bed. In a deep breath I fill my lungs, and let it rush out into the night.
12 June 2007
Tsing-Loh.... Sweet..Chariot?
"Her delivery style is generally ironic and spoken very quickly."
Oh, Kai.. Corey.. Terry.. Larry, dear Larry Mantle... Ira, Garrison, Steve! Some close friends and business associates might label me as unhealthily obsessed with the hosts and personalities of National Public Radio, 89.3 KPCC. It's true I listen to KPCC more often than not in my car- in the spirit-crushing traffic of Los Angeles, these programs (with the occasional voyage to 89.9's Morning Becomes Eclectic) keep me focused on the issues as they spin and collect in the radio waves around me.
But I don't just listen... I invest myself personally with the voices, creating faces and lives behind the names that bring me the news. Recently, when assuming the myspace identity of Marketplace's Kai Ryssdal, I did some basic research on his background. I immediately ceased and desisted this myspace joke, as I became slightly bummed at knowing anything remotely true about this person's life. It's far more fun to imagine!
All of my beloved NPR hosts, like so many puppets at my disposal. And the very bottom of that puppet pile is Tsing-Loh.
Sandra Tsing-Loh. You might not know her by name, but if you tune in casually to any NPR station, you may recognize her blip-reports like "The Loh Life" or "The Loh Down on Science". If you are a more dedicated listener, perhaps her inexplicable pronunciation and intonation haunt you long after the segment is completed. Sandra gives a snipet of something slightly more interesting than the Middle East or the stock market (sorry, Kai), but you realize when it's over you've haven't retained a notion of her speech, for the sake of her ABSOLUTELY INCOMPREHENSIBLE mode of speaking.
What does it take to get a radio journalist to that point, and still have a career? I have nightmares about seeing her speak in person, watching that mouth contort in ways I thought impossible to the human anatomy. I only wish my nightmares, and daymares, and trafficmares, stopped with her bizarre emphasis...
Tsing-Loh is a humorist, based in Los Angeles, who writes about her experiences living in the Valley. Her completely SoCal-centric novels handle her musings, her motherhood, and her middle-aged adventures in possibly the most boring neighborhoods of LA.
And yet, hearing her speak on a panel, I agreed with a lot of her ideas and politics, however pronounced. She's had an interesting career, and fashioned a market for herself...
I truly enjoy "musing" literature, like the work of Chuck Klosterman, and various other magazine journalist/novelists that seek merely to tell you what they think and make you chuckle....
I actually write a blog... uhm, this one... about my relatively young and somewhat unemployed perspective of living in Los Angeles... gulp.
Christ. What if I'm just one full-mouth gnashing mis-emphasized self-obsessed step away from Tsing-Loh?
Oh, Kai.. Corey.. Terry.. Larry, dear Larry Mantle... Ira, Garrison, Steve! Some close friends and business associates might label me as unhealthily obsessed with the hosts and personalities of National Public Radio, 89.3 KPCC. It's true I listen to KPCC more often than not in my car- in the spirit-crushing traffic of Los Angeles, these programs (with the occasional voyage to 89.9's Morning Becomes Eclectic) keep me focused on the issues as they spin and collect in the radio waves around me.
But I don't just listen... I invest myself personally with the voices, creating faces and lives behind the names that bring me the news. Recently, when assuming the myspace identity of Marketplace's Kai Ryssdal, I did some basic research on his background. I immediately ceased and desisted this myspace joke, as I became slightly bummed at knowing anything remotely true about this person's life. It's far more fun to imagine!
All of my beloved NPR hosts, like so many puppets at my disposal. And the very bottom of that puppet pile is Tsing-Loh.
Sandra Tsing-Loh. You might not know her by name, but if you tune in casually to any NPR station, you may recognize her blip-reports like "The Loh Life" or "The Loh Down on Science". If you are a more dedicated listener, perhaps her inexplicable pronunciation and intonation haunt you long after the segment is completed. Sandra gives a snipet of something slightly more interesting than the Middle East or the stock market (sorry, Kai), but you realize when it's over you've haven't retained a notion of her speech, for the sake of her ABSOLUTELY INCOMPREHENSIBLE mode of speaking.
What does it take to get a radio journalist to that point, and still have a career? I have nightmares about seeing her speak in person, watching that mouth contort in ways I thought impossible to the human anatomy. I only wish my nightmares, and daymares, and trafficmares, stopped with her bizarre emphasis...
Tsing-Loh is a humorist, based in Los Angeles, who writes about her experiences living in the Valley. Her completely SoCal-centric novels handle her musings, her motherhood, and her middle-aged adventures in possibly the most boring neighborhoods of LA.
And yet, hearing her speak on a panel, I agreed with a lot of her ideas and politics, however pronounced. She's had an interesting career, and fashioned a market for herself...
I truly enjoy "musing" literature, like the work of Chuck Klosterman, and various other magazine journalist/novelists that seek merely to tell you what they think and make you chuckle....
I actually write a blog... uhm, this one... about my relatively young and somewhat unemployed perspective of living in Los Angeles... gulp.
Christ. What if I'm just one full-mouth gnashing mis-emphasized self-obsessed step away from Tsing-Loh?
11 June 2007
Tales from the Cinespia Crypt
During the first summer I lived in Los Angeles, I heard of the night-time outdoor films that screen every Saturday night in the Hollywood Forever Cemetery. Despite the ultimate perfection and absolute enticement of that description, I never went. Two summers slipped by, and finally, after I could successfully spell "cemetery" without spell-check, I decided it was time to join in the fun. (Hint: all e's! I know it looks weird, but basically every other letter is an "e", till the end!)
Three weeks ago, I saw Vertigo in the graveyard, amid roughly 300 of Hollywood's most attractive living specimens. Some are professionals, bringing low chairs, candles, and real glasses for their cocktails. For newbies, we did okay, with enough blankets and substances to keep warm and enough snacks to call it dinner. All these small comforts are simply that when the sun goes down, and then it's just you, the screen, and that lone palm tree under the stars.
It seems utterly obvious to praise such a long standing summer tradition in Los Angeles, but it's so unique, it's worth a brief post. Where else do people happily wait in line for 2 hours, only to be let in the gates and wait another 2 hours for the sun to go all the way down, and contentedly and respectfully watch classic cinema? Where else can you, for 10 easy smackers, enjoy a whole night with friends, eating and drinking and smoking in a huge crowd?
This week at Harold & Maude, it sure did get me teary-eyed in the peaceful dead air, to hear so many people singing quietly along to Cat Stevens and celebrating the type of film that, in theory, most of us are here to create. And we were wiser: increasing our rations, bringing a makeshift table, and getting there early enough to get a good parking spot around the block. Next week, I'm bringing a tarp to offset the odd dampness, a few more friends and a few more bottles of wine.
And I swear I'll find more reasons like this to bear this ghost town.
Three weeks ago, I saw Vertigo in the graveyard, amid roughly 300 of Hollywood's most attractive living specimens. Some are professionals, bringing low chairs, candles, and real glasses for their cocktails. For newbies, we did okay, with enough blankets and substances to keep warm and enough snacks to call it dinner. All these small comforts are simply that when the sun goes down, and then it's just you, the screen, and that lone palm tree under the stars.
It seems utterly obvious to praise such a long standing summer tradition in Los Angeles, but it's so unique, it's worth a brief post. Where else do people happily wait in line for 2 hours, only to be let in the gates and wait another 2 hours for the sun to go all the way down, and contentedly and respectfully watch classic cinema? Where else can you, for 10 easy smackers, enjoy a whole night with friends, eating and drinking and smoking in a huge crowd?
This week at Harold & Maude, it sure did get me teary-eyed in the peaceful dead air, to hear so many people singing quietly along to Cat Stevens and celebrating the type of film that, in theory, most of us are here to create. And we were wiser: increasing our rations, bringing a makeshift table, and getting there early enough to get a good parking spot around the block. Next week, I'm bringing a tarp to offset the odd dampness, a few more friends and a few more bottles of wine.
And I swear I'll find more reasons like this to bear this ghost town.
13 March 2007
We Can Change Time
Summer fainted on Los Angeles the morning after the time change. Somewhere in that lost hour before dawn, the shadowy seasons of this desert town politely traded places, and winter waltzed away.
I wasn't shocked that Sunday brought record high temperatures- nothing in moderation, this place. Sick and sore as I was, I insisted on walking to the diner for brunch, as it looked like a gorgeous day from inside the windows. I was fooled, and I sweat out half my fever on the way back. I saw all the shade in Echo Park get small with children and church goers... watched the lake go glassy in my gaze. I slept off most the day.
And finally the evening came, an hour late, an hour brighter. I rolled down my windows in my car and let the dusk in. With it came the one real magic of Los Angeles: the smell of flowers in the air. In the sprawling neighborhoods of Los Angeles, there are as many rose bushes as palm trees. The scent has become ingrained in me, a thing of memory that will bring me back here after I've gone, like the smell of cut grass to my childhood home. It is pervasive, overpowering exhaust, taco stands, and donut shops in all directions. I breathed in the city's deep perfume, through stuffy sinuses, and summer flooded me...
No one in the city slept right that Sunday night. Sheets were tangled, pillows abused, and the time many alarm clocks was checked repeatedly in the wee morning hours when it should have been light but wasn't. We jarred the faults in time and this was the recovery. Amid the sudden heat, there was a degree of bewilderment on the faces of each worker in Monday's morning traffic.
Occasional morning frost is now occasional morning fog. The weather forecasters say "cooling off to mid-80s" and other ridiculous phrases. Instead of resolute nighttime, I drive home from work in fading sunlight, windows down, roses rushing by me on both sides.
I wasn't shocked that Sunday brought record high temperatures- nothing in moderation, this place. Sick and sore as I was, I insisted on walking to the diner for brunch, as it looked like a gorgeous day from inside the windows. I was fooled, and I sweat out half my fever on the way back. I saw all the shade in Echo Park get small with children and church goers... watched the lake go glassy in my gaze. I slept off most the day.
And finally the evening came, an hour late, an hour brighter. I rolled down my windows in my car and let the dusk in. With it came the one real magic of Los Angeles: the smell of flowers in the air. In the sprawling neighborhoods of Los Angeles, there are as many rose bushes as palm trees. The scent has become ingrained in me, a thing of memory that will bring me back here after I've gone, like the smell of cut grass to my childhood home. It is pervasive, overpowering exhaust, taco stands, and donut shops in all directions. I breathed in the city's deep perfume, through stuffy sinuses, and summer flooded me...
No one in the city slept right that Sunday night. Sheets were tangled, pillows abused, and the time many alarm clocks was checked repeatedly in the wee morning hours when it should have been light but wasn't. We jarred the faults in time and this was the recovery. Amid the sudden heat, there was a degree of bewilderment on the faces of each worker in Monday's morning traffic.
Occasional morning frost is now occasional morning fog. The weather forecasters say "cooling off to mid-80s" and other ridiculous phrases. Instead of resolute nighttime, I drive home from work in fading sunlight, windows down, roses rushing by me on both sides.
07 March 2007
Let Your Knees Fall
This is how it goes:
You go into the office, sign a form or two. You wait a bit and when your name is called you go behind a door. A nurse takes your blood pressure. You go into the bathroom and pee all over a plastic cup. Some of it gets inside the cup. You clean it off and give it back to the nurse. Go into another room, switch your clothes for big paper towels. Your doctor knocks, enters, rubs two hands all over you and inside you to check for abnormal cell growth, and finally, pries open your vag to scrape some cells off your cervix. You both chat about prescriptions, and your doctor exits. Switch back your clothes. Pay the receptionist. Wave goodbye, till next year, goodbye fair Gyno, goodbye...
It's not as easy as one might imagine, to get yourself in the position. You have to push yourself to the fatal edge of the table. Then you put your heels on cushions about three feet apart. When the Gyno calls action!, you have to relax your thighs all the way down. Without question, the most vulnerable positions for a naked human. My doctor always assures me that only patients who are yogis and Olympic gymnasts can do this the right way. (And I believe her, because you believe anything coming from a stranger who annually touches your uterus, and can determine something from what is felt. I mean, honestly.) As my knees pretend to play it cool, my face is pointed directly at a nick in the ceiling board, donning an expression I can't be held responsible for. It's somewhere between masked discomfort and questioning all of humanity. Thankfully, the doctor's attention is centered on my oven, and not my heinous visage.
My Gyno is an Angel. She was sent down from Heaven, speculum in hand, with a barely perceptible sexuality and most matter-of-fact frankness in all of Creation. She talks to me about my generic birth control during my breast exam, and never really pauses until my chart is filled out. She came into my life after a truly insane experience at a Planned Parenthood: my first attempt at the "Annual" (as they say in the biz) including yelling, crying, and not a pap to be smeared. I failed.
Angel Gyno rescued me.
No, I haven't changed partners, Angel Gyno.
No, I have no problems with my current brand of crazy pills- I mean, birth control.
Yes, I'll schedule my next Annual.
Go ahead, scrape away. If I had cervical cancer, it would already be too late to save me, wouldn't it? That's okay, Angel Gyno, Vag Soldier, Queen of Pap. We'll get through it, together.
You go into the office, sign a form or two. You wait a bit and when your name is called you go behind a door. A nurse takes your blood pressure. You go into the bathroom and pee all over a plastic cup. Some of it gets inside the cup. You clean it off and give it back to the nurse. Go into another room, switch your clothes for big paper towels. Your doctor knocks, enters, rubs two hands all over you and inside you to check for abnormal cell growth, and finally, pries open your vag to scrape some cells off your cervix. You both chat about prescriptions, and your doctor exits. Switch back your clothes. Pay the receptionist. Wave goodbye, till next year, goodbye fair Gyno, goodbye...
It's not as easy as one might imagine, to get yourself in the position. You have to push yourself to the fatal edge of the table. Then you put your heels on cushions about three feet apart. When the Gyno calls action!, you have to relax your thighs all the way down. Without question, the most vulnerable positions for a naked human. My doctor always assures me that only patients who are yogis and Olympic gymnasts can do this the right way. (And I believe her, because you believe anything coming from a stranger who annually touches your uterus, and can determine something from what is felt. I mean, honestly.) As my knees pretend to play it cool, my face is pointed directly at a nick in the ceiling board, donning an expression I can't be held responsible for. It's somewhere between masked discomfort and questioning all of humanity. Thankfully, the doctor's attention is centered on my oven, and not my heinous visage.
My Gyno is an Angel. She was sent down from Heaven, speculum in hand, with a barely perceptible sexuality and most matter-of-fact frankness in all of Creation. She talks to me about my generic birth control during my breast exam, and never really pauses until my chart is filled out. She came into my life after a truly insane experience at a Planned Parenthood: my first attempt at the "Annual" (as they say in the biz) including yelling, crying, and not a pap to be smeared. I failed.
Angel Gyno rescued me.
No, I haven't changed partners, Angel Gyno.
No, I have no problems with my current brand of crazy pills- I mean, birth control.
Yes, I'll schedule my next Annual.
Go ahead, scrape away. If I had cervical cancer, it would already be too late to save me, wouldn't it? That's okay, Angel Gyno, Vag Soldier, Queen of Pap. We'll get through it, together.
22 January 2007
Tyra! Tyra! Tyra!
I suppose I'm a little torn on some women's issues.
Here is an example of my squirming feminism:
The Tyra Banks Show, January 22nd. Tyra demonstrates how to maximize your tube of lipstick by digging out the extra bits with a toothpick and placing the bits that would have otherwise been wasted into a little plastic container. She then has some kind of expert woman come on stage and they discuss the handy trick of using toilet seat lining from public restrooms as blotting paper for facial oils or make-up. The cameras cut from the stage to an audience of very attentive, very happy women of various weights and ages.
1. My first instinct is harsh judgment. Is there nothing better to talk about on a television show geared towards women? All this focus on beauty and fashion and blah blah I begin to bore myself even thinking about it again. This is The Obvious.
2. Second reaction: Why shouldn't Tyra Banks give these tips to women? A lot of women are interested in this topic, and the whole point is getting the most for your money from the beauty products you buy (--to conform to this completely arbitrary standard of worth that models like Tyra Banks perpetu--) no stop you're going back to your first instinct stop stop stop judging these women!! My second reaction is marked by my concerted effort to stop judging people for adhering to gender stereotypes, and to start recognizing that maybe the most progressive gender attitude is to accept that some things are specific to men and women in general, while keeping a social and moral analytical mind!
3. I'm led to my third set of feelings, to reassure myself. These women in the audience must understand that physical beauty is not all-important or defining, and thus are honestly investigating the part of themselves that enjoys the process of beautification as an art and an expression of their inner spirit. They are intelligent women who are professionally successful and respect an entrepreneurial woman like Tyra Banks...?
4. Fourth response: doubled rebellion! Only in a perfect world where SUVs and the death penalty don't exist, and internet is always free could my third reaction be true! FUCK this show. This is so vulgar, so depressing. Such a disgusting encouragement of all things that keep women out of so many male-dominated industries. Such a distraction from what could build character and self-esteem and knowledge. Tyra Banks hates herself and she's teaching all women to hate true femininity!! Rampage!!
5. The reality of my own hypocrisy makes my eyes glaze as I look at myself: on a workout machine in the late morning, looking up from GQ magazine long enough to catch two minutes of a talk show, at a gym in Los Angeles trying to improve my physical appearance. How am I that different from those hopeful faces in the audience, those women looking for ways to form their bodies to fit into Tyra's little jeans?
But I am different. And I do judge people. I suppose I'm torn about just HOW wrong this is, on which levels.
I think I should do some research before I write anything else. Consider it a five level knee jerk.
Here is an example of my squirming feminism:
The Tyra Banks Show, January 22nd. Tyra demonstrates how to maximize your tube of lipstick by digging out the extra bits with a toothpick and placing the bits that would have otherwise been wasted into a little plastic container. She then has some kind of expert woman come on stage and they discuss the handy trick of using toilet seat lining from public restrooms as blotting paper for facial oils or make-up. The cameras cut from the stage to an audience of very attentive, very happy women of various weights and ages.
1. My first instinct is harsh judgment. Is there nothing better to talk about on a television show geared towards women? All this focus on beauty and fashion and blah blah I begin to bore myself even thinking about it again. This is The Obvious.
2. Second reaction: Why shouldn't Tyra Banks give these tips to women? A lot of women are interested in this topic, and the whole point is getting the most for your money from the beauty products you buy (--to conform to this completely arbitrary standard of worth that models like Tyra Banks perpetu--) no stop you're going back to your first instinct stop stop stop judging these women!! My second reaction is marked by my concerted effort to stop judging people for adhering to gender stereotypes, and to start recognizing that maybe the most progressive gender attitude is to accept that some things are specific to men and women in general, while keeping a social and moral analytical mind!
3. I'm led to my third set of feelings, to reassure myself. These women in the audience must understand that physical beauty is not all-important or defining, and thus are honestly investigating the part of themselves that enjoys the process of beautification as an art and an expression of their inner spirit. They are intelligent women who are professionally successful and respect an entrepreneurial woman like Tyra Banks...?
4. Fourth response: doubled rebellion! Only in a perfect world where SUVs and the death penalty don't exist, and internet is always free could my third reaction be true! FUCK this show. This is so vulgar, so depressing. Such a disgusting encouragement of all things that keep women out of so many male-dominated industries. Such a distraction from what could build character and self-esteem and knowledge. Tyra Banks hates herself and she's teaching all women to hate true femininity!! Rampage!!
5. The reality of my own hypocrisy makes my eyes glaze as I look at myself: on a workout machine in the late morning, looking up from GQ magazine long enough to catch two minutes of a talk show, at a gym in Los Angeles trying to improve my physical appearance. How am I that different from those hopeful faces in the audience, those women looking for ways to form their bodies to fit into Tyra's little jeans?
But I am different. And I do judge people. I suppose I'm torn about just HOW wrong this is, on which levels.
I think I should do some research before I write anything else. Consider it a five level knee jerk.
13 January 2007
Ingvar Kamprad, Elmtaryd and Agunnaryd
Dear Valued Customer,
Recently, you wrote a letter asking what is the key to our success...
If there are pillows being sold for four dollars to your right, and bath mats on sale for ten dollars to your left, and straight ahead is a bin of pot holders for fifty cents, doesn't it SEEM that everything in the general area is an absolute bargain?
You buy three pillows. Pillows are never sold for four dollars, that's lunacy. A bath mat for twelve dollars? Throw it in the cart, another bargain. And fifty cents can't buy you a soda these days, let alone a very useful and reliable pot holder. That pot holder might out last a current friendship or pet. For fifty cents, you can purchase what could eventually be a permanent fixture in your home, and homes to come! An investment! Or you could place it in the nearest gutter on your way home and feel no regret, as you most likely lost two quarters in the shuffle of couches and laundry and life that very morning. You don't really love the pattern on the pot holder, but you won't find one for less than fifty cents anywhere. In fact, you have a brief feeling of admiration- not only for pot holder's cost vs. value, but for yourself! You bask in a brief semi-conscious spotlight that makes you just that much smarter than other consumers for having discovered this wonderland of bargains. You barely perceive this feeling, but it moves you forward- smirking through the store, enabling purchases like a $1 wooden spoon, a $5 little rug, a $2 metal plate that might be for a candle, but you're not sure.
Our answer... Most bath mats are cheaper than twelve dollars.
Love,
IKEA
Recently, you wrote a letter asking what is the key to our success...
If there are pillows being sold for four dollars to your right, and bath mats on sale for ten dollars to your left, and straight ahead is a bin of pot holders for fifty cents, doesn't it SEEM that everything in the general area is an absolute bargain?
You buy three pillows. Pillows are never sold for four dollars, that's lunacy. A bath mat for twelve dollars? Throw it in the cart, another bargain. And fifty cents can't buy you a soda these days, let alone a very useful and reliable pot holder. That pot holder might out last a current friendship or pet. For fifty cents, you can purchase what could eventually be a permanent fixture in your home, and homes to come! An investment! Or you could place it in the nearest gutter on your way home and feel no regret, as you most likely lost two quarters in the shuffle of couches and laundry and life that very morning. You don't really love the pattern on the pot holder, but you won't find one for less than fifty cents anywhere. In fact, you have a brief feeling of admiration- not only for pot holder's cost vs. value, but for yourself! You bask in a brief semi-conscious spotlight that makes you just that much smarter than other consumers for having discovered this wonderland of bargains. You barely perceive this feeling, but it moves you forward- smirking through the store, enabling purchases like a $1 wooden spoon, a $5 little rug, a $2 metal plate that might be for a candle, but you're not sure.
Our answer... Most bath mats are cheaper than twelve dollars.
Love,
IKEA
13 October 2006
Coffee Don't Lie
Trains coming out of the pavement under my sneakers. Logos I don't recognize. Make Art Not War. I still love you.
LOVE ME TILL MY HEART STOPS.
I miss graffiti.
Why is it that the second I step a foot out of Los Angeles I fall in love with every other city? I'm like a teenage boy with an indiscriminate travel boner. I'm sitting in a coffee shop in San Francisco (with FREE internet!!!!) and all I can think about is how get out of LA and back to a Real City. I'm thinking about my old coffeeshop in Boston, my coffeeshop friends, my coffeeshop attitude. I walked here thinking about New York and Boston and Philly, haunted and dreaming.
Maybe I remember things with rose glasses, and I'm never happy where I am. I hated Boston by the time I left. Still, I doubt I will remember my time in LA with any great longing. I haven't made it mine, I doubt I could. It tricks people that way, this vast beast challenging you tame it. All this time it just tamed me, in traffic and artifice.
I have to move as soon as I can, I know it. I am not this jaded. I am not this depressed. I am not this creatively constipated. I recently told my boyfriend that I am over palm trees and I think they are stupid. He said I didn't really think that. He was right, probably more right than he knew when he said it, because when he said that I didn't think palm trees are stupid, he was really saying:
"Carol. You don't think any trees are stupid."
Everyone is coffeeshop looks familiar. Not from TV or movies, not from magazines, but from my life. I know all of these people. I've served them coffee and discussed music with them. I'm curious and they are curious. I have to get back here.
LOVE ME TILL MY HEART STOPS.
I miss graffiti.
Why is it that the second I step a foot out of Los Angeles I fall in love with every other city? I'm like a teenage boy with an indiscriminate travel boner. I'm sitting in a coffee shop in San Francisco (with FREE internet!!!!) and all I can think about is how get out of LA and back to a Real City. I'm thinking about my old coffeeshop in Boston, my coffeeshop friends, my coffeeshop attitude. I walked here thinking about New York and Boston and Philly, haunted and dreaming.
Maybe I remember things with rose glasses, and I'm never happy where I am. I hated Boston by the time I left. Still, I doubt I will remember my time in LA with any great longing. I haven't made it mine, I doubt I could. It tricks people that way, this vast beast challenging you tame it. All this time it just tamed me, in traffic and artifice.
I have to move as soon as I can, I know it. I am not this jaded. I am not this depressed. I am not this creatively constipated. I recently told my boyfriend that I am over palm trees and I think they are stupid. He said I didn't really think that. He was right, probably more right than he knew when he said it, because when he said that I didn't think palm trees are stupid, he was really saying:
"Carol. You don't think any trees are stupid."
Everyone is coffeeshop looks familiar. Not from TV or movies, not from magazines, but from my life. I know all of these people. I've served them coffee and discussed music with them. I'm curious and they are curious. I have to get back here.
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