(Editor's note: Parts 1 through 4 of this post were published in an unabridged edition on March 25, 2006. For the sake of my reader's eyesight and patience, I've chosen for now to delete the long version and republish only part 1. Parts 2, 3, and 4 will be republished over the next couple of weeks. Each part will be slightly revised from the original because, by nature, I can never leave well enough alone.)
* * *
Despite its less than seductive and beguiling reputation, the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania is actually chock full o' mystery and intrigue. No, really.
Please note, Jean Naté and others, that I am not alluding to the happenings and histrionics of life in the mythical Pennsylvania burgs of Pine Valley and Llanview, as evidenced in the U.S. daytime TV soaps, All My Children and One Life to Live, respectively. There are some real queer (as in strange) things going on in the Commonwealth, and they don't necessarily involve good and evil twins, multiple personality disorders, long-lost-loves returning from the dead, or games of baby, baby, who's got the baby.
In actual fact, some of the oddities and strangeness that take place in the Keystone State are even more freakish, warped, and unconventional than a crystal meth-adled Agnes Nixon could ever imagine.
Ladies and gentleman, Raplicious the Fabulous presents you with his own personal guide to Weird Pennsylvania, The Mysteries of Blogsburg. In part 1, you will learn about our odd, unexplained smells.
Enter, if you dare!
* * *
You ever notice, as Andy Rooney might whine (and by doing so should illustrate how we all might make careers out of being professional nudges), how sometimes when you're near a food manufacturing plant the air around it takes on the smell of the food being produced? For example, in Hershey, the air smells like chocolate. In part of Harrisburg near Stroehmann's Bakery, everything smells like fresh bread. In Baltimore, the air used to smell like cinnamon and other spices from the old McCormick Factory near the Inner Harbor. I can only dream that the Utz potato chip plant in Hanover occasionally smells like their delicious Carolina BBQ and Maryland Crab chips, at least from time to time. And as the gods as my witness, someday I'll realize my lifelong dream of traveling to Torino, Italy, just to savor the air around the Ferrero factory that produces Nutella hazelnut spread.
So it is with an odd mixture of incredulity, perplexity, and pride that I report to you that in my little West Shore community the air is vaguely reminiscent of . . . bacon . . . and ham . . . and maybe a scrapple-like product.
It's quite a pleasant aroma actually, especially if you are carnivorous and perpetually hungry like me. But it is an odd aroma for a seemingly non-ham-producing/non-abattoir-friendly community to emanate, and one not necessarily likely to draw in hordes of vegetarian tourists to any annual Quinoa and Quorn Festival we might choose to celebrate someday.
Plus, this essence of pork is a very inconsistent one.
I don't smell it when I'm in Camp Hill, three miles to the east. I don't smell it when I'm in Carlisle, eight miles to the west. I don't smell it in Dillsburg, five or so miles to the south (heck, I don't even smell pickles in Dillsburg, darn it all). I know there's a company that makes (manufactures? designs? what do you call it?) bacon in Lemoyne, but that's at least five or six miles to the east.
I do, however, notice it in my neighborhood from time to time, getting in and out of my car in the morning or afternoon, but I have also noticed the smell near the Sunoco Oil and Gas Terminal on Simpson Ferry Road. Could it be that my car is now burning bacon grease as an alternative fuel? Could it be that the major oil companies have switched our fuel supply over from petroleum, jumping right past ethanol, and straight into hog fat? Could it not be petroleum-related at all, that that little car air-freshener I bought, the one guaranteed to make my old car smell like a new car, has gone bad and flavors the air with smoked pork chops and kielbasa?
Perhaps not.
Thus, I am led to the only other possible conclusion: That I have stumbled upon a porcine product cold spot, a hog-heavy galactic portal, a tear in the cosmic space-pork continuum, which is transmitting pig-scented ether from the netherworld to our world.
Come into the light, Porky. Come into the light, Petunia. And somebody light up the Kingsford, pronto.
Thursday, March 30, 2006
Wednesday, March 29, 2006
Man, according to my PPO, I feel like a woman
Score one for the Paperwork Reduction Act. I am officially a man again, at least as far as my employer and my healthplan are concerned.
I went over to my workplace's HR office today (Editor's note: HR = Hell's Reach) to try once again to get my mailing address corrected and my new phone number added to my employer's official records. Third time's a charm, apparently. After two previous visits regarding the same matter, the information appears to have sunk in, the changes seem to have taken effect this time.
This communication conundrum came about, in part, because my healthplan provider kept sending me mail to my old address in Maryland, addressed to my new address in Pennsylvania, asking me to notify my new employer that my old address had changed. Now aren't you sorry you asked?
The human resources specialist emailed me later in the day to tell me that my address had been corrected and that I had "been changed from a woman to a man" in my healthplan's records.
At long last, the recognition and social approbation I've been craving for years.
I had forgotten about this part of my paperwork pickle, that when I was last at the doctor's in February, I had to explain that, yes, I was indeed a man, despite what my healthplan provider's records stated, and that, no, I had never been a woman in a previous incarnation, at least as far as I was aware. Thankfully, I didn't have to show my penis to prove my point, because when you've got the flu, it's last thing you feel like putting on display.
A certain amount of gender confusion has tagged alongside of me all cold-nose and puppy-like throughout my life, and I'm not completely sure where it stems from (although I can make a few guesses). It's not as though if you heard my real forename (surprise, it's not Raplicious), you'd get it confused with a that of a woman. It's not gender neutral in the least, although, admittedly in my time, I have heard some pretty masculine names made feminine by application to a woman. There was, for example, a female friend in college named Kevin, who was about as girly-girl as an actual girl can be. And then there's the masculine-to-feminine transgenderization, the opposite scenario when a man is given a more traditional female moniker. No, I'm not referring to all the male Taylors, Tylers, and Madisons out there, god help 'em. I'm specifically talking about a boy named Sue (may Johnny Cash rest in peace).
Nor do I think my appearance is gender-neutral, not in the least actually. I have the requisite amount of body and facial hair (and then some); the necessary gender-specific clothing, cologne, and toiletries (if a great many of all three); and the defining anatomy, both internal and external, to indicate rather conclusively that I am a male of the species. And although it doesn't happen often, I do get hit on by both men and women, which leads me to believe I'm not far off the mark in having a fair amount of all-around, both-teams appeal.
Yet every so often I get a "ma'am" on the phone or in person; a letter addressed to "Ms. Joan X," not "Mr. John X"; a Myers-Briggs test result that says my type is more common among women than men; or a healthcare provider who wonders why my last mammogram or pap smear wasn't included in the medical records I had sent from Texas.
(A digression: I've always thought a good marketing campaign for this type of gynecological exam would be to rename it the Pap's Blue Ribbon Smear and offer a free six-pack to the first 100 participants. Ladies, whaddya say?)
So what gives?
Is it my voice? I think it's generally deep enough, although I do have some of the tell-tale gay lisp about me. There's an interesting theory out there (Freud as interpreted by Richard Isay from Being Homosexual: Gay Men and Their Development, if I remember correctly) that gay men acquire the lisp at an early age in an effort to imitate their mothers and other women in trying to interest and attract men. In other words, gay children intrinsically know from a very early age which side their sexual bread is buttered on and adopt and adapt accordingly. Nature 1, Nurture 0.
Maybe it's a lack of obvious, chest-thumping, sabre-rattling, let's-invade-a-country-this-weekend, aggressive behavior on my part--although some of my friends would disagree on this point. When I once described myself as being occasionally passive-aggressive, like any other Southerner or person of English heritage, my friend Fouchat nodded his head and said, "Yeah, except for the passive part, I can see that." Others 'round the campfire would join him in this opinion, I believe.
I don't drive a fast car with New Jersey or Virginia tags (at all) and weave in and out of traffic (too much). I don't like to tell people what to do (too often). I don't make bold, reckless decisions and never look back (OK, sometimes). And I don't sleep with women (ever). So, in our culture's very narrowly defined sense of manhood and masculinity, some might think I lack a certain oomph in my He-Man.com profile.
Normally, I don't really give a fig about what others think of me, at least in this regard. However, sometimes, not fitting the traditional masculine role comes back to poke me with a stick in the ribcage. Someday, somewhere, some social psychologist is going to do a huge research study of employees, store clerks, and garage mechanics and how they react to and treat gay bosses and customers based on the former's perception of the latter's toughness and masculinity.
I am sure women go through this all the time--if you're not tough enough, you're a pushover; if you're too tough, you're a bitch. You can't win for losing. So who am I to complain?
Still, it is a funny thing to see, people reacting to you negatively and then figuring they can dismiss you altogether based on their perception of your masculinity (and here masculinity = authority). It's even funnier when you get to evaluate their work performance every year or decide whether you'll have your five-hundred-dollars' worth of car repairs done Homophobia Lube or at a kinder, gentler garage down the road. (Funnier for me, not for them.)
I don't help remedy the misperception, though. I make enough jokes in this blog and in life about my gender-neutrality. But I do so, in part, because it's a gay thing.
The UN Peacekeeping Force, Liberace Division, sets up camp in some gay men's psyches because we feel at times that we can relate to women on a certain intellectual or emotional level. No need, then, to be all caveman; we can just relax, kick off our kitten mules, and enjoy a white whine spritzer while we dish the dirt on the testosterone-addicted.
At other times, though, maybe our gender-Switzerlandishness represents another type of camp, the camp that, for whatever reason, thinks there's nothing funnier and more keepin'-it-real than calling one another "girl" (or, better still, "giiiiiiiiiiiirrrrrrrrrrrrllllllllllllllllllll") or "Miz Thang" or simply greeting a gaggle of ourselves with a "Ladies--and I use the term loosely." That one never fails to make the troops chuckle.
Wherever it stems (cells) from, whatever it means or suggests, all and all, I find I'm a happier person--and receive more positive feedback than not--if I just continue to be who I am and not what a malcontented, shriveled up, poisoning-the-well-with-their-bile few expect me to be. After all, who's life is it anyway? Maybe I'm wrong here, and in five years' time I'll feel very differently about it, but what would I gain by "playing it straight"? Faster service at Wal-Mart? Employees who bow and curtsy? A few more neuroses by play-acting at something I don't feel? The admiration of a few people who knee-jerkingly don't respect me because I "fail" to conform to their very limited view of what it means to be a man--even though many "straight-acting, straight-appearing" men have abandoned this archetype or never embraced in the first place--just doesn't seem worth it. For pity's sake, we're human beings, not walking-talking Marvel Comics.
So, take note, y'all. For the immediate future, I plan to continue to compete as Miss Stockholm in the Swedish Third Way Gender-Bender Scholarship Pageant. And I won't even insist that I win--1st or 2nd Runner Up's just fine with me, 'cause I hear you still get a nice sash, a tiara, and some flowers out of the deal.
All I ask is that on my medical records, you tick the right box (Sex: [X] M not [ ] F)--and please stop calling me "ma'am," or I'll have to kick your ass.
I went over to my workplace's HR office today (Editor's note: HR = Hell's Reach) to try once again to get my mailing address corrected and my new phone number added to my employer's official records. Third time's a charm, apparently. After two previous visits regarding the same matter, the information appears to have sunk in, the changes seem to have taken effect this time.
This communication conundrum came about, in part, because my healthplan provider kept sending me mail to my old address in Maryland, addressed to my new address in Pennsylvania, asking me to notify my new employer that my old address had changed. Now aren't you sorry you asked?
The human resources specialist emailed me later in the day to tell me that my address had been corrected and that I had "been changed from a woman to a man" in my healthplan's records.
At long last, the recognition and social approbation I've been craving for years.
I had forgotten about this part of my paperwork pickle, that when I was last at the doctor's in February, I had to explain that, yes, I was indeed a man, despite what my healthplan provider's records stated, and that, no, I had never been a woman in a previous incarnation, at least as far as I was aware. Thankfully, I didn't have to show my penis to prove my point, because when you've got the flu, it's last thing you feel like putting on display.
A certain amount of gender confusion has tagged alongside of me all cold-nose and puppy-like throughout my life, and I'm not completely sure where it stems from (although I can make a few guesses). It's not as though if you heard my real forename (surprise, it's not Raplicious), you'd get it confused with a that of a woman. It's not gender neutral in the least, although, admittedly in my time, I have heard some pretty masculine names made feminine by application to a woman. There was, for example, a female friend in college named Kevin, who was about as girly-girl as an actual girl can be. And then there's the masculine-to-feminine transgenderization, the opposite scenario when a man is given a more traditional female moniker. No, I'm not referring to all the male Taylors, Tylers, and Madisons out there, god help 'em. I'm specifically talking about a boy named Sue (may Johnny Cash rest in peace).
Nor do I think my appearance is gender-neutral, not in the least actually. I have the requisite amount of body and facial hair (and then some); the necessary gender-specific clothing, cologne, and toiletries (if a great many of all three); and the defining anatomy, both internal and external, to indicate rather conclusively that I am a male of the species. And although it doesn't happen often, I do get hit on by both men and women, which leads me to believe I'm not far off the mark in having a fair amount of all-around, both-teams appeal.
Yet every so often I get a "ma'am" on the phone or in person; a letter addressed to "Ms. Joan X," not "Mr. John X"; a Myers-Briggs test result that says my type is more common among women than men; or a healthcare provider who wonders why my last mammogram or pap smear wasn't included in the medical records I had sent from Texas.
(A digression: I've always thought a good marketing campaign for this type of gynecological exam would be to rename it the Pap's Blue Ribbon Smear and offer a free six-pack to the first 100 participants. Ladies, whaddya say?)
So what gives?
Is it my voice? I think it's generally deep enough, although I do have some of the tell-tale gay lisp about me. There's an interesting theory out there (Freud as interpreted by Richard Isay from Being Homosexual: Gay Men and Their Development, if I remember correctly) that gay men acquire the lisp at an early age in an effort to imitate their mothers and other women in trying to interest and attract men. In other words, gay children intrinsically know from a very early age which side their sexual bread is buttered on and adopt and adapt accordingly. Nature 1, Nurture 0.
Maybe it's a lack of obvious, chest-thumping, sabre-rattling, let's-invade-a-country-this-weekend, aggressive behavior on my part--although some of my friends would disagree on this point. When I once described myself as being occasionally passive-aggressive, like any other Southerner or person of English heritage, my friend Fouchat nodded his head and said, "Yeah, except for the passive part, I can see that." Others 'round the campfire would join him in this opinion, I believe.
I don't drive a fast car with New Jersey or Virginia tags (at all) and weave in and out of traffic (too much). I don't like to tell people what to do (too often). I don't make bold, reckless decisions and never look back (OK, sometimes). And I don't sleep with women (ever). So, in our culture's very narrowly defined sense of manhood and masculinity, some might think I lack a certain oomph in my He-Man.com profile.
Normally, I don't really give a fig about what others think of me, at least in this regard. However, sometimes, not fitting the traditional masculine role comes back to poke me with a stick in the ribcage. Someday, somewhere, some social psychologist is going to do a huge research study of employees, store clerks, and garage mechanics and how they react to and treat gay bosses and customers based on the former's perception of the latter's toughness and masculinity.
I am sure women go through this all the time--if you're not tough enough, you're a pushover; if you're too tough, you're a bitch. You can't win for losing. So who am I to complain?
Still, it is a funny thing to see, people reacting to you negatively and then figuring they can dismiss you altogether based on their perception of your masculinity (and here masculinity = authority). It's even funnier when you get to evaluate their work performance every year or decide whether you'll have your five-hundred-dollars' worth of car repairs done Homophobia Lube or at a kinder, gentler garage down the road. (Funnier for me, not for them.)
I don't help remedy the misperception, though. I make enough jokes in this blog and in life about my gender-neutrality. But I do so, in part, because it's a gay thing.
The UN Peacekeeping Force, Liberace Division, sets up camp in some gay men's psyches because we feel at times that we can relate to women on a certain intellectual or emotional level. No need, then, to be all caveman; we can just relax, kick off our kitten mules, and enjoy a white whine spritzer while we dish the dirt on the testosterone-addicted.
At other times, though, maybe our gender-Switzerlandishness represents another type of camp, the camp that, for whatever reason, thinks there's nothing funnier and more keepin'-it-real than calling one another "girl" (or, better still, "giiiiiiiiiiiirrrrrrrrrrrrllllllllllllllllllll") or "Miz Thang" or simply greeting a gaggle of ourselves with a "Ladies--and I use the term loosely." That one never fails to make the troops chuckle.
Wherever it stems (cells) from, whatever it means or suggests, all and all, I find I'm a happier person--and receive more positive feedback than not--if I just continue to be who I am and not what a malcontented, shriveled up, poisoning-the-well-with-their-bile few expect me to be. After all, who's life is it anyway? Maybe I'm wrong here, and in five years' time I'll feel very differently about it, but what would I gain by "playing it straight"? Faster service at Wal-Mart? Employees who bow and curtsy? A few more neuroses by play-acting at something I don't feel? The admiration of a few people who knee-jerkingly don't respect me because I "fail" to conform to their very limited view of what it means to be a man--even though many "straight-acting, straight-appearing" men have abandoned this archetype or never embraced in the first place--just doesn't seem worth it. For pity's sake, we're human beings, not walking-talking Marvel Comics.
So, take note, y'all. For the immediate future, I plan to continue to compete as Miss Stockholm in the Swedish Third Way Gender-Bender Scholarship Pageant. And I won't even insist that I win--1st or 2nd Runner Up's just fine with me, 'cause I hear you still get a nice sash, a tiara, and some flowers out of the deal.
All I ask is that on my medical records, you tick the right box (Sex: [X] M not [ ] F)--and please stop calling me "ma'am," or I'll have to kick your ass.
Tuesday, March 28, 2006
When the groundhogs return to Capistrano
At last! Spring in Central Pennsylvania seems to be on the verge of paying us a visit, putting up its feet for a spell, and asking for a diet IBC root beer and some Cheetohs. How do I know this? Let me count the ways for you . . .
Oh well. It's always something. North Carolina has its poorly placed possums; Texas, its awkwardly oriented armadillos; and Pennsylvania, its grievously ill-timed groundhogs (or, if you prefer, its weepingly woebegone woodchucks and its wantonly wasted whistlepigs).
I always think if people were serious about animal rights in this country, they would have banned cars as soon as the first deer got caught in the headlights of someone's Model A. But, let's get real--we can't even get people interested enough in mass transit to give up their cars, something in their own best interest in terms of time, safety, savings, community, environment, and peace of mind. What's a little roadkill among friends and neighbors?
So why did the groundhog cross the road? Probably to get to the groundhog on the other side, four lanes and a median strip away. Birds do it, bees do it, even educated academics do it, so why not groundhogs?
And why not me? Aye, yes, there's the rub. Now if only someone would rub *me.*
The advent of spring does make my fancy turn to young men--as well as middle-aged men and older men (I never said I was picky). But spring also makes me think about calling in sick ("It's my *cough cough* allergies") so I can go hiking along the Appalachian Trail, to which there is an entrance near where I live.
About darn time, too. I feel as though I haven't been out of the house since one especially warm weekday in Philadelphia last November. And "Filthadelphia," despite its soiled charms and grimy riches, doesn't really qualify as the great outdoors in either the "great" or the "outdoors" sense.
So, while it lasts, let's embrace the sunshine with open arms. Let's kiss the blue skies with parted lips and moist tongue. Let's even fondle the flowers and foliage while no one's looking. My dear snowbound, snowblind friends, welcome back to warm weather and the world beyond our doorsteps and windowsills. In the months ahead, may our days be free of downpours, may our throats be free of phlegm, and may our undercarriages be free of Punxsutawney Phil and his pals.
* * *
Thanks to the Wikipedia for this public domain image.
- Constant TV news reports of imminent, heavy snowfall are grossly exaggerated.
- Constant TV news reports of imminent, heavy rainfall are right on the mark.
- There's light in the sky when I leave for work in the morning and when I leave for home in the evening.
- I sneeze repeatedly but don't fear a bout with the flu, just one with the ecosystem.
- I throw caution to the wind and don't layer a damn thing.
- I put away my shovel, my Melt-Away, my boots, my hat, and my kitty litter.
- I fantasize about rekindling long-lost loves, who I haven't seen since before the climatic chill set in last October.
- There are more geese per capita than people.
- There is more goose crap per capita than people crap.
- The groundhogs surface from their burrows to play, explore, and feed along our highways and byways.
Oh well. It's always something. North Carolina has its poorly placed possums; Texas, its awkwardly oriented armadillos; and Pennsylvania, its grievously ill-timed groundhogs (or, if you prefer, its weepingly woebegone woodchucks and its wantonly wasted whistlepigs).I always think if people were serious about animal rights in this country, they would have banned cars as soon as the first deer got caught in the headlights of someone's Model A. But, let's get real--we can't even get people interested enough in mass transit to give up their cars, something in their own best interest in terms of time, safety, savings, community, environment, and peace of mind. What's a little roadkill among friends and neighbors?
So why did the groundhog cross the road? Probably to get to the groundhog on the other side, four lanes and a median strip away. Birds do it, bees do it, even educated academics do it, so why not groundhogs?
And why not me? Aye, yes, there's the rub. Now if only someone would rub *me.*
The advent of spring does make my fancy turn to young men--as well as middle-aged men and older men (I never said I was picky). But spring also makes me think about calling in sick ("It's my *cough cough* allergies") so I can go hiking along the Appalachian Trail, to which there is an entrance near where I live.
About darn time, too. I feel as though I haven't been out of the house since one especially warm weekday in Philadelphia last November. And "Filthadelphia," despite its soiled charms and grimy riches, doesn't really qualify as the great outdoors in either the "great" or the "outdoors" sense.
So, while it lasts, let's embrace the sunshine with open arms. Let's kiss the blue skies with parted lips and moist tongue. Let's even fondle the flowers and foliage while no one's looking. My dear snowbound, snowblind friends, welcome back to warm weather and the world beyond our doorsteps and windowsills. In the months ahead, may our days be free of downpours, may our throats be free of phlegm, and may our undercarriages be free of Punxsutawney Phil and his pals.
* * *
Thanks to the Wikipedia for this public domain image.
Monday, March 20, 2006
And the Daytime Emmy for Best Performance in a Self-Induced Drama goes to . . .
Today was a special kind of Monday, the kind of March Monday that only the life and climes of the Mid-Atlantic region can fete us with properly: cold, blustery, and gloomily gray for most of the day. There's a strong chance of snow tomorrow, just in time for the advent of spring, which seems long in coming to this part of the world. This is the kind of day that's just perfect for another Emmy-award-winning episode of the daytime drama known as The Edge of Raplicious. Or, better still, Raplicious on the Edge.
As you might be able to discern, the grayness and rawness of such a dull winter's day has made me extraordinarily grumpy and ill-humored--that is, to a level beyond my normal capacity for malcontentedness and misanthropy. On days like today, my cracked teacup of patience and tolerance runneth over with bad cheer to all and to all a horrible night.
In addition to the weather-induced doom-and-gloom, I woke up tired today and stayed that way all day long, which didn't help my sturm-und-drangy mood. It felt like one of those days where even the simplest of tasks took on Song of the Volga Boat People proportions of hassle and strife. Poor poor pitiful me.
The day actually started off well enough. I shaved my head and face without cutting myself or activating any in-grown hairs of the kind I seem to always perturb--red! angry! Alien-in-the-stomach-of-John-Hurt-esque!--right before a public appearance, a photo op, or a date. I figured out the right clothes to wear on the first try, ones that didn't make me look too chunky, too clownlike, or too slouchy, a good personal-professional balance. And I made it to my appointed round, an all-day meeting in Harrisburg, early, early I say, found a parking space, and was in the boardroom five minutes before the hour. Seriously, folks, you just don't know how difficult that simple task is for me most days. We sufferers of G&SSTD (Gay and Southern Standard Time Disorder) do endure so much.
But all was not going to go well. Halfway through the day, the 50 mph breeze that had been blowing my way suddenly changed direction and started fanning exhaust and effluvia from Life's Rendering Plant right up my nostrils.
During the meeting's break for lunch, the catering staff served pie--pie! glorious pie!--a rather competent key lime with the proper emphasis on tart lime and not library paste or whatever it is most restaurants use for key lime pie filling these days. And just as they served this lovely, flavorful, come-hither pie, they up and took away the coffee service. The bastards!
Not only did they offend me by being unabashedly anti-café, in one swift, careless gesture, they exhibited a total lack of understanding of the underpinnings of the American economic system: That without an afternoon caffeine break, our economic engine would be in the figurative crapper. Why, we'd be nothing more than Spaniards of a generation ago, spending all our time lunching with family and napping during the hottest part of the day. Or, worse, we'd be like the French, engaging in "les relations sexuelles" in an effort to institute an "ennui breaker" into our lives.
So strike one, no afternoon coffee.
Strike two, section A, for the day came later after work when I tried to get over myself and practice retail therapy at Boscov's in the form of buying a new pair of jeans (but ones that looked sufficiently old, of course) and a shirt. Mission accomplished--they even had my incredibly awkward, embarrassing size!--but not after being made comatose by the World's Slowest, Most Awkward Sales Trainee Known to Retail-kind, Central Pennsy Division, and being made paranoid by this creepy, lechery guy in the men's department, who kept staring at me, looking as though he was about to speak to me, then would pick up whatever I had just looked at and proceed to follow me around the store, carrying my leftovers in his arms.
He was not a personal shopper, nor did he seem particularly taken with my stellar ability to pick over the overpriced Liz Claiborne rack to find the sale items. Nor was he the type of Mr. Wonderful my good friend Jean Naté always seems to meet in finer retail establishments. And even some not-so-fine ones.
Well, of course, he wasn't; this is me we're talking about, after all. If he hasn't just been released from a state hospital or a rehab clinic, then why oh why would he come a-knockin' on my door?
I can't fully convey my discomfort with the moment, but retailers and marketeers of the world, please note: There's just something about a Coke-bottled-lensed, corduroy-coat-wearing, Pittsburgh Steelers-hat-bedecked, "grizzled Adam" following me with my sartorial discards that does not provide me with a satisfactory shopping experience. My Nordstrom becomes a maelstrom, as it were. My Hecht's a hex. My Macy's a can of mace. My Boscov's a buzz off!
Strike two, section B, occurred when I attempted to buy some toilet paper and Thai red curry paste (sorry to associate the two, I know how sensitive you are) at our local version of Whole Foods, the Healthy Grocer in Camp Hill. An easy enough task, one would assume, but then I would assume that you've never enjoyed the Healthfood Co-op Shopping Experience.
What is it about these "alternative supermarkets" that seems to attract the surliest, most contemptuous, most "you know, I really am a poet/play in a band/got my education direct from the Dalai Lama, a close personal friend of the family" workforce ever employed outside of a Tibetan forced-labor farmers' collective?
Is it the macrobiotic and vegan diet getting to you? Are you just so full of combustible undigestible consumibles that you're afraid if you crack a smile you'll explode and set off a toxic methane cloud over the Mid-State region, bringing on a mass societal panic as everyone tries to remember whether they are supposed to take the Red, Green, Blue, or Yellow Evacuation Route out of town? Are your piercings pinching you? Your tattoos too tight? Or did you finally realize that patchouli is not a suitable substitute for deodorant and that dousing yourself in it offends even you, after a time? Maybe if your lefty-fundamentalist value system allowed for the testing of essential oils in the eyes of cute little bunnies or baby seals you'd have realized this already, but nooooooo . . . .
Strike three. Ah, strike three. Here's where my love of traveling solo cantankero along the Via Dolorosa of modern existence gets stuck behind a ten-mile back-up at the exit to Calvary. No wait, that would just give me something more to moan and be miserable about as I travel down Life's Pot-Holed Turnpike. What happened was that my Via Dolorosa trailed off into an overgrown donkey path, then just vanished into the underbrush altogether. My ecstasy of raging anger and whimpering misery just kind of, ahem, petered out.
So here's what happened: On my way home, I made a pit stop at a public toilet to . . . take care of business. All that damn Diet Coke and water to make up for no coffee in the afternoon catches up with you after a while--and you gotta know the need was real if I stopped at a grimy Citgo (no, thank you, Hugo Chávez--now I really understand how you plan to stick it to the Yanquís--dirty, disgusting men's rooms at your Venezuelan-owned service stations) two miles from home to perform, um, other duties as assigned.
I walked into the bathroom and immediately went from simmer to hard boil, as only a maxed out, fussy, cranky, middle-aged man-queen on the verge of a nervous meltdown can do. Some dumb schmo had urinated all over the toilet seat--yet again!
Lady readers, let me inform you, this is a chronic problem in America: Men peeing all over toilet seats and not making the effort to clean up after themselves. I'm surprised there hasn't been a National Insitutes of Health study published about it yet. It's a problem that sounds ripe for a research grant.
Honestly, though, why does this happen? I mean, if you're going to hose down the toilet seat, mop it up the excess, bud. And if your aim is that pathetic and shaky, for the love of all that is holy and hygienic, SIT DOWN FIRST! With that kind of hand-eye coordination, it's amazing that our society has been able to be fruitful and multiply at all--or that Dick Cheney hasn't shot more friends in the face.
I attempted to clean up the mess and, of course, ended up getting someone else's "water" all over my hands, not to mention my shoes and pants' cuffs. (The previous occupant of the stall had had a "gusher," apparently.) At this point, I was practically boiling over onto the floor myself, detailing in my head a list of all that is wrong in the world (see the remainder of this blog for examples), in my best Serial Mom I-hear-voices-and-voices-tell-me-to-kill tones. But I finished what I started and began to move on. I reached for the handle to flush the toilet.
I don't know what made me pause at that exact moment. Maybe something said to me, "You know, there's really too much pee-pee here. What's up with that?" So I flushed the toilet and watched. Everything went down the drain as it should, with the appropriate glug-glug-glugs, but all was revealed when the bowl started to refill.
Sure enough, a bidet of Old Faithful proportions began to erupt from inside the bowl, with water (clean water, I want to stress) spewing, spraying, and splashing up and over the rim, onto the seat, and onto the floor. So it wasn't some lazy leaker with a plumbing problem. It was an actual plumbing problem!
I can't stress enough the volume of water emitted. With just one flush, there was enough to irrigate the Sahel region of Africa for a year or to water one lawn in San Antonio on an especially warm weekend in April. I'm sure glad I wasn't sitting down when I flushed the toilet, or I would have been treated to the latest in gas-station-powered high colonics. (I can envision the ad campaign now: "Free with every tank of gas at Tiger Mart, get your choice of a vanilla hazelnut latte, a carne asada burrito, or a high-pressure colon wash!")
So I admit it: I was wrong, hysterical, and exhibiting signs of borderline personality disorder for no reason whatsoever. (Except for the icky dresser/stalker at Boscov's and the macrobiotic-miserable check-out chick at Healthy Grocer.)
I so detest it when the facts get in the way of my drama.
But, never fear. One morning when I absolutely, positively have to be at work on time, I'll manage to get stuck behind two cars traveling side-by-side at 35 mph in a 65 mph zone (and everyone knows the speed limit on Route 15 or the Capital Beltway is at least 70, even in the 55 zone), the drivers on their cellphones talking, no doubt, to each other about how slow and boring the drive is and--hey, lookit, there's this crazy, bald-headed, middle-aged mo' fo' in the car behind me flipping me off for some reason. Dude, what the f---?
And then I'll be back to my old misanthropic, livid self again, and all will be right with the world. At least for me.
Like sands through the undershorts, these are the pains of our lives.
As you might be able to discern, the grayness and rawness of such a dull winter's day has made me extraordinarily grumpy and ill-humored--that is, to a level beyond my normal capacity for malcontentedness and misanthropy. On days like today, my cracked teacup of patience and tolerance runneth over with bad cheer to all and to all a horrible night.
In addition to the weather-induced doom-and-gloom, I woke up tired today and stayed that way all day long, which didn't help my sturm-und-drangy mood. It felt like one of those days where even the simplest of tasks took on Song of the Volga Boat People proportions of hassle and strife. Poor poor pitiful me.
The day actually started off well enough. I shaved my head and face without cutting myself or activating any in-grown hairs of the kind I seem to always perturb--red! angry! Alien-in-the-stomach-of-John-Hurt-esque!--right before a public appearance, a photo op, or a date. I figured out the right clothes to wear on the first try, ones that didn't make me look too chunky, too clownlike, or too slouchy, a good personal-professional balance. And I made it to my appointed round, an all-day meeting in Harrisburg, early, early I say, found a parking space, and was in the boardroom five minutes before the hour. Seriously, folks, you just don't know how difficult that simple task is for me most days. We sufferers of G&SSTD (Gay and Southern Standard Time Disorder) do endure so much.
But all was not going to go well. Halfway through the day, the 50 mph breeze that had been blowing my way suddenly changed direction and started fanning exhaust and effluvia from Life's Rendering Plant right up my nostrils.
During the meeting's break for lunch, the catering staff served pie--pie! glorious pie!--a rather competent key lime with the proper emphasis on tart lime and not library paste or whatever it is most restaurants use for key lime pie filling these days. And just as they served this lovely, flavorful, come-hither pie, they up and took away the coffee service. The bastards!
Not only did they offend me by being unabashedly anti-café, in one swift, careless gesture, they exhibited a total lack of understanding of the underpinnings of the American economic system: That without an afternoon caffeine break, our economic engine would be in the figurative crapper. Why, we'd be nothing more than Spaniards of a generation ago, spending all our time lunching with family and napping during the hottest part of the day. Or, worse, we'd be like the French, engaging in "les relations sexuelles" in an effort to institute an "ennui breaker" into our lives.
So strike one, no afternoon coffee.
Strike two, section A, for the day came later after work when I tried to get over myself and practice retail therapy at Boscov's in the form of buying a new pair of jeans (but ones that looked sufficiently old, of course) and a shirt. Mission accomplished--they even had my incredibly awkward, embarrassing size!--but not after being made comatose by the World's Slowest, Most Awkward Sales Trainee Known to Retail-kind, Central Pennsy Division, and being made paranoid by this creepy, lechery guy in the men's department, who kept staring at me, looking as though he was about to speak to me, then would pick up whatever I had just looked at and proceed to follow me around the store, carrying my leftovers in his arms.
He was not a personal shopper, nor did he seem particularly taken with my stellar ability to pick over the overpriced Liz Claiborne rack to find the sale items. Nor was he the type of Mr. Wonderful my good friend Jean Naté always seems to meet in finer retail establishments. And even some not-so-fine ones.
Well, of course, he wasn't; this is me we're talking about, after all. If he hasn't just been released from a state hospital or a rehab clinic, then why oh why would he come a-knockin' on my door?
I can't fully convey my discomfort with the moment, but retailers and marketeers of the world, please note: There's just something about a Coke-bottled-lensed, corduroy-coat-wearing, Pittsburgh Steelers-hat-bedecked, "grizzled Adam" following me with my sartorial discards that does not provide me with a satisfactory shopping experience. My Nordstrom becomes a maelstrom, as it were. My Hecht's a hex. My Macy's a can of mace. My Boscov's a buzz off!
Strike two, section B, occurred when I attempted to buy some toilet paper and Thai red curry paste (sorry to associate the two, I know how sensitive you are) at our local version of Whole Foods, the Healthy Grocer in Camp Hill. An easy enough task, one would assume, but then I would assume that you've never enjoyed the Healthfood Co-op Shopping Experience.
What is it about these "alternative supermarkets" that seems to attract the surliest, most contemptuous, most "you know, I really am a poet/play in a band/got my education direct from the Dalai Lama, a close personal friend of the family" workforce ever employed outside of a Tibetan forced-labor farmers' collective?
Is it the macrobiotic and vegan diet getting to you? Are you just so full of combustible undigestible consumibles that you're afraid if you crack a smile you'll explode and set off a toxic methane cloud over the Mid-State region, bringing on a mass societal panic as everyone tries to remember whether they are supposed to take the Red, Green, Blue, or Yellow Evacuation Route out of town? Are your piercings pinching you? Your tattoos too tight? Or did you finally realize that patchouli is not a suitable substitute for deodorant and that dousing yourself in it offends even you, after a time? Maybe if your lefty-fundamentalist value system allowed for the testing of essential oils in the eyes of cute little bunnies or baby seals you'd have realized this already, but nooooooo . . . .
Strike three. Ah, strike three. Here's where my love of traveling solo cantankero along the Via Dolorosa of modern existence gets stuck behind a ten-mile back-up at the exit to Calvary. No wait, that would just give me something more to moan and be miserable about as I travel down Life's Pot-Holed Turnpike. What happened was that my Via Dolorosa trailed off into an overgrown donkey path, then just vanished into the underbrush altogether. My ecstasy of raging anger and whimpering misery just kind of, ahem, petered out.
So here's what happened: On my way home, I made a pit stop at a public toilet to . . . take care of business. All that damn Diet Coke and water to make up for no coffee in the afternoon catches up with you after a while--and you gotta know the need was real if I stopped at a grimy Citgo (no, thank you, Hugo Chávez--now I really understand how you plan to stick it to the Yanquís--dirty, disgusting men's rooms at your Venezuelan-owned service stations) two miles from home to perform, um, other duties as assigned.
I walked into the bathroom and immediately went from simmer to hard boil, as only a maxed out, fussy, cranky, middle-aged man-queen on the verge of a nervous meltdown can do. Some dumb schmo had urinated all over the toilet seat--yet again!
Lady readers, let me inform you, this is a chronic problem in America: Men peeing all over toilet seats and not making the effort to clean up after themselves. I'm surprised there hasn't been a National Insitutes of Health study published about it yet. It's a problem that sounds ripe for a research grant.
Honestly, though, why does this happen? I mean, if you're going to hose down the toilet seat, mop it up the excess, bud. And if your aim is that pathetic and shaky, for the love of all that is holy and hygienic, SIT DOWN FIRST! With that kind of hand-eye coordination, it's amazing that our society has been able to be fruitful and multiply at all--or that Dick Cheney hasn't shot more friends in the face.
I attempted to clean up the mess and, of course, ended up getting someone else's "water" all over my hands, not to mention my shoes and pants' cuffs. (The previous occupant of the stall had had a "gusher," apparently.) At this point, I was practically boiling over onto the floor myself, detailing in my head a list of all that is wrong in the world (see the remainder of this blog for examples), in my best Serial Mom I-hear-voices-and-voices-tell-me-to-kill tones. But I finished what I started and began to move on. I reached for the handle to flush the toilet.
I don't know what made me pause at that exact moment. Maybe something said to me, "You know, there's really too much pee-pee here. What's up with that?" So I flushed the toilet and watched. Everything went down the drain as it should, with the appropriate glug-glug-glugs, but all was revealed when the bowl started to refill.
Sure enough, a bidet of Old Faithful proportions began to erupt from inside the bowl, with water (clean water, I want to stress) spewing, spraying, and splashing up and over the rim, onto the seat, and onto the floor. So it wasn't some lazy leaker with a plumbing problem. It was an actual plumbing problem!
I can't stress enough the volume of water emitted. With just one flush, there was enough to irrigate the Sahel region of Africa for a year or to water one lawn in San Antonio on an especially warm weekend in April. I'm sure glad I wasn't sitting down when I flushed the toilet, or I would have been treated to the latest in gas-station-powered high colonics. (I can envision the ad campaign now: "Free with every tank of gas at Tiger Mart, get your choice of a vanilla hazelnut latte, a carne asada burrito, or a high-pressure colon wash!")
So I admit it: I was wrong, hysterical, and exhibiting signs of borderline personality disorder for no reason whatsoever. (Except for the icky dresser/stalker at Boscov's and the macrobiotic-miserable check-out chick at Healthy Grocer.)
I so detest it when the facts get in the way of my drama.
But, never fear. One morning when I absolutely, positively have to be at work on time, I'll manage to get stuck behind two cars traveling side-by-side at 35 mph in a 65 mph zone (and everyone knows the speed limit on Route 15 or the Capital Beltway is at least 70, even in the 55 zone), the drivers on their cellphones talking, no doubt, to each other about how slow and boring the drive is and--hey, lookit, there's this crazy, bald-headed, middle-aged mo' fo' in the car behind me flipping me off for some reason. Dude, what the f---?
And then I'll be back to my old misanthropic, livid self again, and all will be right with the world. At least for me.
Like sands through the undershorts, these are the pains of our lives.
Thursday, March 16, 2006
Uncivil disobedience, or, Google this, President Mo' Fo'
I know you all share with me the joy of seeing our tireless federal government hard at work on our behalf once again. The latest example of their godliness-is-next-to-thought-police-iness approach to information-gathering and power-brokering involves the U.S. Justice Department's lawsuit against Google to require the company to "divulge some of its most sensitve data--the actual requests that people enter into its popular search engine" (Harrisburg Patriot-News, Wednesday, March 15, 2006, p. A3).
The government is concerned about child pornography, apparently, and the Justice Department "plans to use the search requests to show how easy it is for online pornographers to fool Internet filters, hoping that it will help demonstrate the need for a tougher law to protect children."
Thanks for sharing that observation, FBI Agent Homer "Doh!" Simpson. Any 10-year-old with a savvy search sense and a half-way decent vocabulary could have told you that filters can be fooled.
Before you report me to the Oceania Ministry of Truth, Airstrip One Division, please understand I'm all for protecting children. I'm all for stopping terrorism, too, which I think figures into the DOJ's Google-watching request but can't be expressed so openly given the continuing fallout over the "unwarranted" initiative to read the contents of our postal and electronic delivery systems and listen to our phone conversations.
And just in case anyone's watching/listening/reading, I do want to point out that, in addition to wanting to protect children and fight terrorism, I love puppies, babies, Mom, and apple pie (especially served warm with vanilla ice cream)--as well as sunsets, walks on the beach, and candlelight suppers with someone special. I am somewhat puzzled by baseball-on-TV's appeal, especially without beer, hot dogs, sunburn, and beehives (you shoulda seen the Orioles play at the old Memorial Stadium in Charm City). And Chevrolet is out; I drive a Subaru. Other than that and "the gay thing," I'm practically a one-man, all-American, walking, talking, Up with People multimedia experience.
It's just that, in this age of lackluster pols with their tepid, tedious "big reveals" ("America, I love you; now help me adjust this Roman toga I had made out of the flag . . . "), it's difficult to argue contrary viewpoints. For example, you can't say, "Why, I think exposing children to pornography is just dandy!" Or "Dadburnitall, why don't we give terrorists an even break in this country?!"
Nor, of course, would you necessarily want to say or do those things, but what results from all the Milquetoastiness is a kind of boring, vacant political landscape, a West Texas of thought and debate. This is the sort of nothing-to-offend-anyone drivel my home state's former governor, Jim Hunt of North Carolina, based his political platform and fortunes upon through four administrations. "I'm for education and against drunk driving," the ol' Guv used to say.
Now Jim, please, that's just crazy talk. Not to mention political pablum.
I'm just not sure I trust the government's intentions, that this is really their motivation, protecting children and clamping down further on terrorism. It sounds noble enough, but let's face it, the current junta hasn't had the best track record when it comes to restraining itself from overstepping its authority and the law. "It's illegal for us to wiretap and read your mail without a warrant, and lord knows it's easy enough to get a warrant, but we're still gonna do it anyway, 'cause Alberto said it was legal--or at least he told me it was OK--under these particular circumstances."
Thank you, Chairman Moe (of if you prefer, Moe Foe), for that compelling, circular argument. It is a decidedly better Pee-Wee's-big-'round-the-block adventure than your repeated "Iraq has turned a corner" pronouncements.
I guess Attorney General Alberto Gonzalez (aka "AGAG") didn't call it spying, much as they didn't call what happened in Iraq torture and Guantanamo against the Geneva Conventions. So that's their story, they're sticking to it--it's not spying until the Fat Attorney General Sings. (Erm, that acronym is "FAGS," isn't it?--I think I've just offended myself . . . .) I know I believe 'em, but then I've always been kind of frightened of Sopranos.
I do love this new version of English we're learning, though. Let's call me "buff" even if I haven't touched a weight machine in 6 months. Let's call me "raven-haired" or "flaxen-tressed" even though I have a shaved head (by necessity as much as choice) and what little hair I do have is more gray than anything at this point. Let's say I'm "fond of the ladies," even though I've never actually tiptoed through those tulips, as it were. This is going to be fun! And I never have to be responsible for anything I say! Or even understand it! Ever again.
What might be even more fun is to "help" Google's search data a little bit. The feds want something to look at? Let's give them something to look at. Madames et monsieurs, might I suggest these keyword searches in Google for your internet-surfing and data-skewing pleasure?:
But just imagine the possibilities! If we filled Google's search boxes to the brim with suggestive inquiries involving our incompetent, fussy, busybody leaders, might it not have some effect on the outcome of the search data? I'm no IT specialist, and I may not fully understand how Google's "deep searching" algorithms work. Nonetheless, it makes me feel all warm and radical inside, imagining that I might be able to skew the Justice Department's precious data and nefarious plans. And in a land where dissent, meaningful or not, is hard to come by, not to mention dangerous to promote or take part in, I'll take my civil disobedience where I can get it.
Happy Googling, y'all.
The government is concerned about child pornography, apparently, and the Justice Department "plans to use the search requests to show how easy it is for online pornographers to fool Internet filters, hoping that it will help demonstrate the need for a tougher law to protect children."
Thanks for sharing that observation, FBI Agent Homer "Doh!" Simpson. Any 10-year-old with a savvy search sense and a half-way decent vocabulary could have told you that filters can be fooled.
Before you report me to the Oceania Ministry of Truth, Airstrip One Division, please understand I'm all for protecting children. I'm all for stopping terrorism, too, which I think figures into the DOJ's Google-watching request but can't be expressed so openly given the continuing fallout over the "unwarranted" initiative to read the contents of our postal and electronic delivery systems and listen to our phone conversations.
And just in case anyone's watching/listening/reading, I do want to point out that, in addition to wanting to protect children and fight terrorism, I love puppies, babies, Mom, and apple pie (especially served warm with vanilla ice cream)--as well as sunsets, walks on the beach, and candlelight suppers with someone special. I am somewhat puzzled by baseball-on-TV's appeal, especially without beer, hot dogs, sunburn, and beehives (you shoulda seen the Orioles play at the old Memorial Stadium in Charm City). And Chevrolet is out; I drive a Subaru. Other than that and "the gay thing," I'm practically a one-man, all-American, walking, talking, Up with People multimedia experience.
It's just that, in this age of lackluster pols with their tepid, tedious "big reveals" ("America, I love you; now help me adjust this Roman toga I had made out of the flag . . . "), it's difficult to argue contrary viewpoints. For example, you can't say, "Why, I think exposing children to pornography is just dandy!" Or "Dadburnitall, why don't we give terrorists an even break in this country?!"
Nor, of course, would you necessarily want to say or do those things, but what results from all the Milquetoastiness is a kind of boring, vacant political landscape, a West Texas of thought and debate. This is the sort of nothing-to-offend-anyone drivel my home state's former governor, Jim Hunt of North Carolina, based his political platform and fortunes upon through four administrations. "I'm for education and against drunk driving," the ol' Guv used to say.
Now Jim, please, that's just crazy talk. Not to mention political pablum.
I'm just not sure I trust the government's intentions, that this is really their motivation, protecting children and clamping down further on terrorism. It sounds noble enough, but let's face it, the current junta hasn't had the best track record when it comes to restraining itself from overstepping its authority and the law. "It's illegal for us to wiretap and read your mail without a warrant, and lord knows it's easy enough to get a warrant, but we're still gonna do it anyway, 'cause Alberto said it was legal--or at least he told me it was OK--under these particular circumstances."
Thank you, Chairman Moe (of if you prefer, Moe Foe), for that compelling, circular argument. It is a decidedly better Pee-Wee's-big-'round-the-block adventure than your repeated "Iraq has turned a corner" pronouncements.
I guess Attorney General Alberto Gonzalez (aka "AGAG") didn't call it spying, much as they didn't call what happened in Iraq torture and Guantanamo against the Geneva Conventions. So that's their story, they're sticking to it--it's not spying until the Fat Attorney General Sings. (Erm, that acronym is "FAGS," isn't it?--I think I've just offended myself . . . .) I know I believe 'em, but then I've always been kind of frightened of Sopranos.
I do love this new version of English we're learning, though. Let's call me "buff" even if I haven't touched a weight machine in 6 months. Let's call me "raven-haired" or "flaxen-tressed" even though I have a shaved head (by necessity as much as choice) and what little hair I do have is more gray than anything at this point. Let's say I'm "fond of the ladies," even though I've never actually tiptoed through those tulips, as it were. This is going to be fun! And I never have to be responsible for anything I say! Or even understand it! Ever again.
What might be even more fun is to "help" Google's search data a little bit. The feds want something to look at? Let's give them something to look at. Madames et monsieurs, might I suggest these keyword searches in Google for your internet-surfing and data-skewing pleasure?:
- dick - cheney - alcohol - firearms - friends - good - times
- donald - rumsfeld - naked - drugged - underaged - girls
- condoleezza - rice - babies - kittens - puppies - breakfast
- karl - rove - hide - sausage - prison - fantasy - president - bush
- george - laura - wife - swap - ann - coulter - pat - robertson
- rick - santorum - dominatrix - nun - whip - please - hurt
But just imagine the possibilities! If we filled Google's search boxes to the brim with suggestive inquiries involving our incompetent, fussy, busybody leaders, might it not have some effect on the outcome of the search data? I'm no IT specialist, and I may not fully understand how Google's "deep searching" algorithms work. Nonetheless, it makes me feel all warm and radical inside, imagining that I might be able to skew the Justice Department's precious data and nefarious plans. And in a land where dissent, meaningful or not, is hard to come by, not to mention dangerous to promote or take part in, I'll take my civil disobedience where I can get it.
Happy Googling, y'all.
Sunday, March 12, 2006
We're into Barbie but have mixed emotions about Ken
It's often been said that some women develop a distorted self-image due to playing with dolls at an early age, especially from playing with Barbie. Her arched feet, her disproportionate proportions, her ever-flaxen hair that never needs conditioning or styling, her even-glow, tanned skin that's never known Botox, a microderm abrasion, or even a Buff Puff. Barbie represents a type of female genetic "perfection" that most women, save a well-financed few within the 213 area code, can never hope to achieve. (Nor should they, in my humble opinion. But that's another posting for another day.)
I would argue that not only are some women's perceptions of themselves distorted by La Barbie--thanks to childhood toys, their perceptions of men are distorted as well.
My proof? Look no further than Barbie's asexual, castrated, pastel-favoring best friend, Ken. I defy anyone to avoid befuddlement over the mixed messages Ken sends and the mixed emotions he engenders.
Ken in a nutshell: A chiseled, pliable, hairless body. Perfect, immovable hair, unstirred and undeterred by the harshest, most grueling bubble bath. A sherbet-hued wardrobe that favors sweaters worn as stoles around the neck. And, of course, no genitalia, not even a suggestion of it, just a void between his legs. Ah, the ideal . . . eunuch. Ken minus the nutshell, as it were.
To my knowledge, Ken is the only man that Barbie has ever known. Given Ken's ethos, as well as his fashion sense, is it any wonder then that some women spend their lives barking up the wrong tree of love and desire? Most men, at least those who've never written a tome chosen by Oprah for her bookclub, simply don't measure up to the standard that Ken conveys. I would imagine that to some little girls, non-sexual, non-demanding Ken--representing all men--seems to say to Barbie--representing all women--"I'm here for you, Barbie! All for you! I just want to admire and dote on you! You're so beautiful, so glamorous! I'm content to wait forever for you and never, ever entertain the notion of a physical relationship with you, my precious, pure Princess!"
We men do generally better Ken in the genitalia department (although disappointments do occur), but that just causes problems in most real-life relationships. The Barbie-infused mind of some women must regularly question how real reality actually is, compared to the comforting confines of child's play. It's hard not to imagine this sad kaffeeklatsch conversation: "Get this, gals--There's this unsightly growth between men's legs that requires regular care and feeding at all hours of the day and night! That has a will of its own and more sensory sensitivity than their brains! It can double in size (if you're lucky), but it tends to fade from glory rather quickly and often without sufficient warning or memorable satisfaction. What? You knew already? Why didn't anyone tell me about this?!"
Oh Mattel. What societal havoc hath you wrought?
Meanwhile, over at Anheuser-Busch HQ, they seem never to have heard of Ken and are banking that most of their all-male clientele aren't familiar with him either. However, from their commercials, they do seem to assume that most of their male customers are familiar with a type of Barbie (a Barbie cross-pollinated with Pamela Anderson, perhaps) and expect all women to be her--perfect body with a gi-normous, ahem, rack, a low-maintenance (if a bit consumer-goods-laden) lifestyle, and totally, impossibly, flexible and posable. You know the type: The Swedish Precision Bikini Candystriper Majorette Corps, Inc. Or whatever, delivering the goods to a certain class of men with all the nuance needed to make a Schnauzer laugh milk through its nostrils. If only Mattel would introduce a breastfeeding Barbie with beer on tit-tap--stout on the left, lager on the right--this insidious, gender-manipulating matrix would be exposed for all to see.
Of course, not all women are affected by Barbie and Ken in the programmatic, problematic way, nor are all men--free-thinking, completely heterosexual women and men, I should stress, who don't get all their lessons in "genderology" from Lady O or her heir apparent, Dr. Phil "Quickdraw" McGraw. But Maureen Dowd has made a better career out of those discussions than I ever will, so I'll leave that crumb for her next New York Times column.
Still, there are lesbian and gay perspectives about Barbie and Ken to consider, and being something of an expert on half that equation, I'll take over from here, Mo.
For example, some lesbians might actually be into Barbie, especially if she were more of a shaved-head, natural scent, "tank grrrl" kind of Barbie, a Barbie who only dons gowns and tiaras as part of an ironic, post-feminist statement or to go incognito as she rocket-launches into a high school prom. These gals might view Ken as a helpful, "eunuchly" qualified housekeeper or spear-carrier to rough-and-tomboyish, executive-by-day/softball-player-by-night Barbie--but surely he is no worthy, equal companion to Barbie-rella.
At a tender age, some young lesbians probably assumed Ken was, well, lacking, no doubt because of the gelati-flavored ensembles he prefers to wear. And because of his innate Nelly Olsen-ness, Ken might have been perceived as little more than a helper, an attendant, a Bobby Trendy, populating the planet solely to serve the female force that rules Amazonia. Thus, in the minds of some lesbians, Ken, a veritable Homo Hop Sing, exists chiefly to saddle up Barbie and Midge's horses for their ride off into the sunset, to fix all their meals, to clean up after them, and so forth--a kind of lesbian Brokeback Mountain, if you will--with nary a complaint or need expressed, ma'am.
Sort of the inverse of some straight men's fantasies about women, you might say. Except that Ken isn't expected to do all that, plus put out at the end of the day.
How is the lesbian perception of Ken as "homo helper" different from that of a straight woman's perception, you ask? Good question. Yes, Ken is a compliant, helpful attendant in both scenarios, but a certain type of straight woman expects that Ken, despite all signs to the contrary, will "be a real man," always picking up the check, never expecting "repayment" (but grateful for the morsel of a chaste kiss), and eager to help her select party dresses and appropriate jewelry for any romantic dining-and-dancing escapades the two may enjoy together. It's a life spent with Michael Bolton, Prince Charming, or perhaps Nico from the "I Can't Believe It's Not Butter" commercials.
By turn, Ken's devotion and loveliness reflect positively on Hetero Barbie's fantasy of self.
You'd never catch Tomboy Barbie entertaining such troubling, retro notions. Lezzie Babs couldn't imagine a cozy, candlelit evening at home with the cats and Queer Ken, building a deck together for Barbie's Dreamlogcabin, or sharing a sleeping bag, not even as a necessity when she and Lipstick Midge have had a temporary parting of the ways over Midge's insistence on an entirely vegan menu for their next all-female bookclub-and-barbecue get-together.
But what about the other third sex, gay men and their relationship with Barbie and Ken? Another good question. In case you didn't know this already, many gay men think Barbie is a diety. Some gay men worship Barbie, pay tribute to her, and have been known to call upon her to help them in moments of distress. Let it be . . . Barbie. The oft-heard gay greeting-card adage, "I want to be Barbie 'cause that bitch has everything," is both funny and true.
Barbie is too lovely and too product-oriented to be merely a Hag-in-Waiting; she is everything, completely worthy of all their Queer Eye-for-the-Het-Girl attentions. Hair! Make-up! Gowns! Lighting! Action! If anything, some gay men facilitate Barbie's supreme sense of self; they are the mirror that reflects Barbie's glamour and glory. In pop culture terms, think Anthony to Suzanne Sugarbaker from Designing Women.
Vice versa, Barbie, mind-blowingly, is the mirror that reflects some gay men's own glamour, achievement, and self-actualization. She represents refinement, taste, beauty, creativity, and an amazing line of credit, plus has a body that has been perfectly sculpted out of a durable plastic compound by scientists and engineers in a California laboratory. Every twink's dream. Think George Michael's friendship with former Spice Girl Gerri Haliwell.
Thus, viewed in this light, some gay men and Barbie and some straight women and Ken are forever entwined in a sisters-are-doin'-it-for-themselves symbiotic cha-cha-cha.
But someday, someone will come along to make Ken's head swim and question whether he really needs that mango-hued "St. Tropez" sweater from the International Male catalogue, might could lay off the body waxing, and cause him to reveal to a world unable to read subtleties (not to mention subtitles) that Barbie and he aren't that close.
And that someone is G.I. Joe, man of all men. Burly, brawny, ripped, and decked out in form-fitting uniforms and "activewear," G.I. Joe even earns some grudging respect from all-men-are-pawns Lesbian Barbie fans. Hetero Barbie lovers like the concept of G.I. Joe--he is attractive and obviously straight (or at least "straight-acting, straight-appearing")--but, try as they might, they just can't get past all that testosterone and lack of interest in the complexities of female attire and feelings.
Joe is loyal, patriotic, confident, and comes with his own overstock of apparel and paraphernalia. Joe's the kind of well-accessorized man's man Ken would like to bring home to Mom and flaunt in front of all his friends just to set 'em off. "Hey, bee-yatches! Lookit what Santa stuffed in my stocking for Christmas!"
Still, Joe is genital- and body hair-free, which will cause problems later in life for both Joe and Ken. Most gay men, for example, will ultimately dump straight (-acting, -appearing) arrow, nice-guy Joe for the well-endowed, rough trade charms of a Carlos, Billy, and/or Tyson. This "CBT" triumvirate will surely break Ken's fragile heart, not to mention . . . other body parts . . . and his retirement savings plan . . . but live and learn, Ken, live and learn.
* * *
Growing up, my sister never had a Ken, just a Barbie, which I enjoyed playing with, alongside of my couple of Joes, a blond and brunette, the latter with "real" hair and a beard. I also had a Big Jim, who showed up on the scene with his own camper van, lots of camping equipment, and, if remember it right, no shoes, no shirt, no service. As I recall, some combination of Jim and Joe almost always ended up naked in the back seat of Barbie's car, their taut torsos decorated with hand-drawn, Bic Flair felt-tip tattoos. Barbie would drive them around the house or the yard--from secret military base in Africa to wild adventure, Deliverance-themed camping trips to the tasteful home the men decorated together, at which Barbie served as perpetual houseguest and eternal galpal. I can just picture the pink palais du plaisir now, with Barbie's name scratched off the entrance to her former home and replaced with a Tom of Finland-designed "Adam and Steve" mezuzah . . . or perhaps I'm just remembering it differently than it was.
Nevertheless, at this boys' club, girls were always allowed, at least if they were stylish, entertaining, and didn't mind the guys dressing their tresses and lacquering them with makeup from time to time.
Naked men? Tattoos? Female chauffeurs and pink palaces? All-night makeup sessions? My poor parents . . . .
Maybe I have a few of my own psychosexual playtime issues to explore and ponder as well. Now where did I put that molded plastic, incredibly hot, psychotherapist doll, Dr. Troy Freud . . . ?
I would argue that not only are some women's perceptions of themselves distorted by La Barbie--thanks to childhood toys, their perceptions of men are distorted as well.My proof? Look no further than Barbie's asexual, castrated, pastel-favoring best friend, Ken. I defy anyone to avoid befuddlement over the mixed messages Ken sends and the mixed emotions he engenders.
Ken in a nutshell: A chiseled, pliable, hairless body. Perfect, immovable hair, unstirred and undeterred by the harshest, most grueling bubble bath. A sherbet-hued wardrobe that favors sweaters worn as stoles around the neck. And, of course, no genitalia, not even a suggestion of it, just a void between his legs. Ah, the ideal . . . eunuch. Ken minus the nutshell, as it were.
To my knowledge, Ken is the only man that Barbie has ever known. Given Ken's ethos, as well as his fashion sense, is it any wonder then that some women spend their lives barking up the wrong tree of love and desire? Most men, at least those who've never written a tome chosen by Oprah for her bookclub, simply don't measure up to the standard that Ken conveys. I would imagine that to some little girls, non-sexual, non-demanding Ken--representing all men--seems to say to Barbie--representing all women--"I'm here for you, Barbie! All for you! I just want to admire and dote on you! You're so beautiful, so glamorous! I'm content to wait forever for you and never, ever entertain the notion of a physical relationship with you, my precious, pure Princess!"
We men do generally better Ken in the genitalia department (although disappointments do occur), but that just causes problems in most real-life relationships. The Barbie-infused mind of some women must regularly question how real reality actually is, compared to the comforting confines of child's play. It's hard not to imagine this sad kaffeeklatsch conversation: "Get this, gals--There's this unsightly growth between men's legs that requires regular care and feeding at all hours of the day and night! That has a will of its own and more sensory sensitivity than their brains! It can double in size (if you're lucky), but it tends to fade from glory rather quickly and often without sufficient warning or memorable satisfaction. What? You knew already? Why didn't anyone tell me about this?!"
Oh Mattel. What societal havoc hath you wrought?
Meanwhile, over at Anheuser-Busch HQ, they seem never to have heard of Ken and are banking that most of their all-male clientele aren't familiar with him either. However, from their commercials, they do seem to assume that most of their male customers are familiar with a type of Barbie (a Barbie cross-pollinated with Pamela Anderson, perhaps) and expect all women to be her--perfect body with a gi-normous, ahem, rack, a low-maintenance (if a bit consumer-goods-laden) lifestyle, and totally, impossibly, flexible and posable. You know the type: The Swedish Precision Bikini Candystriper Majorette Corps, Inc. Or whatever, delivering the goods to a certain class of men with all the nuance needed to make a Schnauzer laugh milk through its nostrils. If only Mattel would introduce a breastfeeding Barbie with beer on tit-tap--stout on the left, lager on the right--this insidious, gender-manipulating matrix would be exposed for all to see.
Of course, not all women are affected by Barbie and Ken in the programmatic, problematic way, nor are all men--free-thinking, completely heterosexual women and men, I should stress, who don't get all their lessons in "genderology" from Lady O or her heir apparent, Dr. Phil "Quickdraw" McGraw. But Maureen Dowd has made a better career out of those discussions than I ever will, so I'll leave that crumb for her next New York Times column.
Still, there are lesbian and gay perspectives about Barbie and Ken to consider, and being something of an expert on half that equation, I'll take over from here, Mo.
For example, some lesbians might actually be into Barbie, especially if she were more of a shaved-head, natural scent, "tank grrrl" kind of Barbie, a Barbie who only dons gowns and tiaras as part of an ironic, post-feminist statement or to go incognito as she rocket-launches into a high school prom. These gals might view Ken as a helpful, "eunuchly" qualified housekeeper or spear-carrier to rough-and-tomboyish, executive-by-day/softball-player-by-night Barbie--but surely he is no worthy, equal companion to Barbie-rella.
At a tender age, some young lesbians probably assumed Ken was, well, lacking, no doubt because of the gelati-flavored ensembles he prefers to wear. And because of his innate Nelly Olsen-ness, Ken might have been perceived as little more than a helper, an attendant, a Bobby Trendy, populating the planet solely to serve the female force that rules Amazonia. Thus, in the minds of some lesbians, Ken, a veritable Homo Hop Sing, exists chiefly to saddle up Barbie and Midge's horses for their ride off into the sunset, to fix all their meals, to clean up after them, and so forth--a kind of lesbian Brokeback Mountain, if you will--with nary a complaint or need expressed, ma'am.
Sort of the inverse of some straight men's fantasies about women, you might say. Except that Ken isn't expected to do all that, plus put out at the end of the day.
How is the lesbian perception of Ken as "homo helper" different from that of a straight woman's perception, you ask? Good question. Yes, Ken is a compliant, helpful attendant in both scenarios, but a certain type of straight woman expects that Ken, despite all signs to the contrary, will "be a real man," always picking up the check, never expecting "repayment" (but grateful for the morsel of a chaste kiss), and eager to help her select party dresses and appropriate jewelry for any romantic dining-and-dancing escapades the two may enjoy together. It's a life spent with Michael Bolton, Prince Charming, or perhaps Nico from the "I Can't Believe It's Not Butter" commercials.
By turn, Ken's devotion and loveliness reflect positively on Hetero Barbie's fantasy of self.
You'd never catch Tomboy Barbie entertaining such troubling, retro notions. Lezzie Babs couldn't imagine a cozy, candlelit evening at home with the cats and Queer Ken, building a deck together for Barbie's Dreamlogcabin, or sharing a sleeping bag, not even as a necessity when she and Lipstick Midge have had a temporary parting of the ways over Midge's insistence on an entirely vegan menu for their next all-female bookclub-and-barbecue get-together.
But what about the other third sex, gay men and their relationship with Barbie and Ken? Another good question. In case you didn't know this already, many gay men think Barbie is a diety. Some gay men worship Barbie, pay tribute to her, and have been known to call upon her to help them in moments of distress. Let it be . . . Barbie. The oft-heard gay greeting-card adage, "I want to be Barbie 'cause that bitch has everything," is both funny and true.
Barbie is too lovely and too product-oriented to be merely a Hag-in-Waiting; she is everything, completely worthy of all their Queer Eye-for-the-Het-Girl attentions. Hair! Make-up! Gowns! Lighting! Action! If anything, some gay men facilitate Barbie's supreme sense of self; they are the mirror that reflects Barbie's glamour and glory. In pop culture terms, think Anthony to Suzanne Sugarbaker from Designing Women.
Vice versa, Barbie, mind-blowingly, is the mirror that reflects some gay men's own glamour, achievement, and self-actualization. She represents refinement, taste, beauty, creativity, and an amazing line of credit, plus has a body that has been perfectly sculpted out of a durable plastic compound by scientists and engineers in a California laboratory. Every twink's dream. Think George Michael's friendship with former Spice Girl Gerri Haliwell.
Thus, viewed in this light, some gay men and Barbie and some straight women and Ken are forever entwined in a sisters-are-doin'-it-for-themselves symbiotic cha-cha-cha.
But someday, someone will come along to make Ken's head swim and question whether he really needs that mango-hued "St. Tropez" sweater from the International Male catalogue, might could lay off the body waxing, and cause him to reveal to a world unable to read subtleties (not to mention subtitles) that Barbie and he aren't that close.
And that someone is G.I. Joe, man of all men. Burly, brawny, ripped, and decked out in form-fitting uniforms and "activewear," G.I. Joe even earns some grudging respect from all-men-are-pawns Lesbian Barbie fans. Hetero Barbie lovers like the concept of G.I. Joe--he is attractive and obviously straight (or at least "straight-acting, straight-appearing")--but, try as they might, they just can't get past all that testosterone and lack of interest in the complexities of female attire and feelings.
Joe is loyal, patriotic, confident, and comes with his own overstock of apparel and paraphernalia. Joe's the kind of well-accessorized man's man Ken would like to bring home to Mom and flaunt in front of all his friends just to set 'em off. "Hey, bee-yatches! Lookit what Santa stuffed in my stocking for Christmas!"
Still, Joe is genital- and body hair-free, which will cause problems later in life for both Joe and Ken. Most gay men, for example, will ultimately dump straight (-acting, -appearing) arrow, nice-guy Joe for the well-endowed, rough trade charms of a Carlos, Billy, and/or Tyson. This "CBT" triumvirate will surely break Ken's fragile heart, not to mention . . . other body parts . . . and his retirement savings plan . . . but live and learn, Ken, live and learn.
* * *
Growing up, my sister never had a Ken, just a Barbie, which I enjoyed playing with, alongside of my couple of Joes, a blond and brunette, the latter with "real" hair and a beard. I also had a Big Jim, who showed up on the scene with his own camper van, lots of camping equipment, and, if remember it right, no shoes, no shirt, no service. As I recall, some combination of Jim and Joe almost always ended up naked in the back seat of Barbie's car, their taut torsos decorated with hand-drawn, Bic Flair felt-tip tattoos. Barbie would drive them around the house or the yard--from secret military base in Africa to wild adventure, Deliverance-themed camping trips to the tasteful home the men decorated together, at which Barbie served as perpetual houseguest and eternal galpal. I can just picture the pink palais du plaisir now, with Barbie's name scratched off the entrance to her former home and replaced with a Tom of Finland-designed "Adam and Steve" mezuzah . . . or perhaps I'm just remembering it differently than it was.
Nevertheless, at this boys' club, girls were always allowed, at least if they were stylish, entertaining, and didn't mind the guys dressing their tresses and lacquering them with makeup from time to time.
Naked men? Tattoos? Female chauffeurs and pink palaces? All-night makeup sessions? My poor parents . . . .
Maybe I have a few of my own psychosexual playtime issues to explore and ponder as well. Now where did I put that molded plastic, incredibly hot, psychotherapist doll, Dr. Troy Freud . . . ?
Tuesday, March 07, 2006
June Carter Crash
Here's your reliable reporter, fresh from the Academy Awards with lots of questions but, alas, very few answers:
- Could the otherwise excellent Jon Stewart have come across more lame-o? (Note to J.S.: Please dont' shill for an industry event like the Oscars ever again. You are about the only thing that makes politics bearable in this country anymore. We need you on the outside, not the inside. Simply stated, we love you too much to see you hop on the casting couch to canoodle with Hollywood trash.)
- Could Jack Nicholson be less aware of how unattractive it is to act the part of a snarky teenager when you're well into your second century on the planet? Perhaps it's not painfully obvious to him, as it seems there's a streamy stable of ever-ready starlets in need of a good home. Maybe whomever Jack's currently schtupping is loathe to speak out for fear of putting her deal-a-meal plan in danger. But sing out sister! It just can't be worth it. Plus if you put in an honest day's work at a fast-food restaurant, I hear they let you eat for free. Seems like the better, more self-esteem-building plan to me.
- Could Ben Stiller be more overdrawn from the First National Bank of Fame?
- Does Will Farrell realize he's following in the increasingly irrelevant and washed out footsteps of Steve Martin? What's next for either of them, With Six You Get Eggroll: The Sequel?
- Could George Clooney have been separated at birth from Hamas leader Khaled Mashaal? See for yourself here.
- Speaking of George, could he more self-deluded?: "We're [i.e., "the industry"] the ones who were talking about AIDS when it was just being whispered, and we talked about civil rights when it wasn't really popular ... I'm proud to be a part of this academy, proud to be a part of this community, and proud to be out of touch." Hey George, are we going to the same Cineplex Odious? Did you hear how long it took Brokeback Mountain to get made, how long it was "in development," because no actor would touch it with a ten-foot penis? I didn't see you first in line for any cowboy-on-cowboy heartbreak action, George. True, it is difficult to imagine you as a cowboy love junkie, especially since during any intimate moments your pillow talk would consist of low-growled rants on CIA activity in the Middle East or the state of American journalism. Definitely a boner kill for me.
- And speaking of Brokeback, was it robbed? Actually, no, in this reporter's humble opinion; no one may have seen Crash, but it was an excellent movie and very deserving of best picture. Besides, could you imagine "the industry," the most navel-gazing of all, not voting for a movie with a Los Angeles focus? Please. You are killing me.
- Could Reese Witherspoon be any more Eve Harrington to Julia Roberts's Margo Channing?
"I can't believe that that little Reese Witherspoon won best actress over Felicity Huffman. I mean, Felicity Huffman played a man trying to be a woman. Reese Witherspoon played June Carter Cash. How hard is it to play a woman from Tennessee when you are a woman from Tennessee?"And people wonder where I get it from . . . .
Saturday, March 04, 2006
Spunkaliciousness (and vanity), thy name is Aaron Heslehurst
Like any gay man, I like my male TV newscaster eye candy. Sometimes I like it to be rugged, earthy, and all Juicy Fruity with a Canadian accent, like '70s-era Peter Jennings reporting in khaki from Tel Aviv. At other times, I like it tart, kinda edgy, like a green apple Jolly Rancher--ever-so Anderson Cooper in Gloria Vanderbilt jeans transmitting from post-Katrina Mississippi. Then other times, I like it sweet, soothing, and pleasing to the eye and to the tongue (or so I would imagine), an egg custard with cinnamon sprinkles, like Sanjay Gupta talking about America's need to watch its waistline. But when you're offering up tasty treats like Sanjay, Anderson, and Peter, who's thinking about calories and tooth decay?
But then at other times you gotta Touch the Windsor-Knot Tie of Temptation. You gotta Savor the Saville Row Suit of Dead Sexiness. You gotta Eroticize the Emu-Ego. You gotta Pump the Pavlova of Passion. You, my friend, have a Hunger Down Under for that Hunk Hunka Burnin' Love and Stock Market Reports that is . . . Australian TV presenter Aaron Heslehurst.
Not familiar with dear Aaron? Then you don't watch the business report on BBC World, relayed weekday mornings on BBC America in the States. Because if you did, you'd be nodding your head, licking your lips, and contemplating positions from the Kangaroo Kama Sutra, just at the mention of The Aaron.
But don't take my word for it. No, no. Check out Aaron's website to learn more. For to know Aaron is to lust him.
See Aaron look little-boy-lost, barefoot in a parka in some dingy ol' alleyway. See Aaron look all hirsute and soulful, contemplating his marvelous past and fabulous future. See Aaron act out his favorite Cliff Richard album cover, resting on his assets--but not his laurels--straddling his suitcases on the streets of London, no doubt waiting for a taxi to take him to even greater stardom. "Driver, take me to . . . erm . . . whatever you call the Hollywood for TV business reporters!" he'd bleat in his homey Aussie twang.And, finally, see the real Aaron, looking all chiseled and professional with pen and paper in hand, ready to report to the world on the Hang Sen's hourly status, the Save-the-Blackberry Fund, and recent developments in the North Sea eel catch.
But wait, is that a wedding ring on your finger, Aaron? Oh, Heslehurst, how could you? You bloody tease.
Aaron, if you're reading this--and I know you are because I know you, Aaron, I know you. You have to read everything written about you on the web, don't you? Well, if you're reading this, call me, OK? We can work this out. If I can overlook your predilection for Glamour Shots snapped by a photographer whose last gig was obviously as a stylist for Benelux Vogue, if I can shirk off concerns over your tanning bed and hairspray addictions, if I can turn a blind eye to your dangerously inflated sense of importance and seriousness--then I can certainly get past a little thing like a wife.
I'll be waiting by the phone, Aaron.
Friday, March 03, 2006
attn kewl kidz, i hv a msg 4 u
Pardon me, guys. May I interrupt your "O.C." lifestyle for a moment?
Please don't be frightened. I know I'm over 40, a little gray, kinda paunchy, and, thus, probably a little scary to you. But surely you've heard about people like me from someone . . . maybe your parents? Maybe a teacher? Or some kids whispering at the lunch table at school?
Let me allay your fears by explaining what I am: I'm an adult. Sound it out: a-d-u-l-t, a-dult. Yes, it is a funny word. What's even funnier about it is that in some cultures around the globe, I'm actually respected for being an adult. It's thought that my age indicates I've acquired some wisdom through experience along the way. And for the record, in those cultures--despite what little news you've glanced at lately between episodes of Real World/Road Rules Battle of the Sexes II on mtvU--they don't all practice child marriage, require the slaughter of a herd of sheep on feast days, or stone to death wives who want to learn to drive a car.
Even though I'm an adult and practically ready to be roasted on the open funeral pyre of my dearly departed youth, I'd like to be a friend to you--or at least offer you some friendly, helpful observations.
You see, I've been hearing a lot about you. Everyone's talking about you, in fact. Because you're young! And attractive! And have wealthy parents! And, thus, squillions of dollars' worth of disposable income!
There's something else at work here, though. The main reason everyone's got your name on their lips is because you're what's called a "millennial." High concept, hunh? And here you are without your PDA to connect to the web to look it up. As if you had the time or the interest.
It's a little hard for me to explain what a millennial is, but I'll try. If you do a web search and finally get past all the biblical prophesying that the end of the world is near, you'll come across the discussion of the millennial as an age group born in the late '70s through the '90s who don't have the same cultural touchstones as their parents, the baby-boomers. Well, imagine that. Apparently, you can get a Ph.D. from a lot of accredited universities in America by writing up these kind of "duh" statements and publishing them in peer-reviewed journals.
I'm gathering that because you grew up with quick-cut editing on TV and learned to play Grand Theft Auto at the age of nine months, that, according to millennial education theory, this might have had some affect on you and how you process information and the world around you. In other words, you generally seem to have trouble focusing on something longer than the time it takes for American cheese to melt in a microwave.
This millenial meshugas has made you a coveted demographic. I mean, advertisers are practically touching themselves in public over the hotness of potential revenue you could put out for them. And, golly, now look who else is exposing themselves over your marketability? Futurists! Pop psychologists! Think-tankers! Technologists! Educators! Magazine writers! It's the whole freakin' cabal of company-loves-misery types.
This cabal of the culturally hysterical tells us if we don't blog, or text, or K.I.S.S. it (keep it simple, stupid), or download all of human knowledge on an iPod--no wait, a Nano! no wait, make that a video iPod!--we've totally lost you forever. You'll go and get all your education and information from, I dunno, a crack house or Google or something.
For example, at work I keep being told that I need to keep it short and sweet, that anything that involves narrative--sorry, let me rephrase--too long of a text message (better?), or anything that can't be dealt with in under five minutes (or was that five seconds?), you'll just ignore. Thanks to your toys and outgrowing your ADD medication, you're simply incapable of paying attention. After all, while I'm trying to talk to you, I notice you're multitasking--researching a paper, text messaging your dudes and dudettes, listening to 960+ tunes on your Pod, and flirting with someone on the other side of the room. Who can keep up with something as lame as a conversation with an old guy when you've got so much else going on?
It's OK, though. 'Cause you've got the Power! You needn't change a thing about yourself. Everyone's willing to adapt to meet your needs and abilities. We'll give up any standards whatsoever that we might once have had to make you happy and comfortable. Let's reduce the size of the English vocabulary because you need quick, tiny words. Let's not approach anything with any depth or detail because you can't find the mindfulness to give it a nanosecond of your time. Let's not finish our thoughts because you can't listen to them anyway--you've already moved on.
Besides, all that extra, like, thought stuff gets in the way of what's really important--your lifestyle. Your toys and material pleasures. Your future career in management, computers, helping people, celebrity, or marriage. Your time spent thinking about what other people are thinking about you.
However, I'm just a wee bit concerned about this trend. I fear that your inability to concentrate any longer than it takes for a housefly to take a dump is impacting you in unforeseen and potentially tragic ways.
It's causing your good fashion sense to slip.
Let's take you first, Kirsten. Yeah, girlfriend, when I saw you on campus the other day, you did look pretty hot in those Ugg boots and the denim mini and slouchy turtleneck and bed-head hair, and, like, anything more would sooo seagull all over your style. But it was 25 degrees Fahrenheit that morning with a stiff wind coming down from the hills, and you're weren't even wearing hose, let alone a hat, gloves, coat, earmuffs, or anything remotely protective.
Frankly, my dear, I know I'm sounding like your grandmother when I say this--you remember her, the old lady your parents exiled to Fort Myers when she hit 65 because she was cramping their lifestyle and bumming them out?--but did you forget to put on any underwear, too? Or were you consciously going for that Pamela Anderson-meets-Tommy Lee-on-a-boat-for-a-web-cam-gynecology-exam look? Trust me on this, Kirsten, the next gust of wind, it's going to take you well past "I see London, I see France . . . ."
And you, Jayson--dude, flip-flops in the snow? With baggy shorts and a t-shirt? What up? I mean, I'm not even convinced that that Flying Tomato Guy from the Olympics would do that in Lake Tahoe on a dare.
You do have a hat, I'll grant you that, that stoner snow-boarding wooly cap you like to wear throughout the year. We both know it's just for style, or maybe it's just become affixed to your head, and you're too embarrassed to ask anyone to help you remove it. But to be honest, I'm not sure the rest of your studied, rebel-without-a-clue look is going to let you survive until after spring break. Yeah, I know it's warmer on the playas in Punta Cana, but we're living in the frigid peaks and valleys of Pennsylvania.
Besides, the plates on your Mini Cooper--the one you nearly ran me down with while you were wearing your Ray-Bans, chatting on your cellphone with your frat "bras," and being the kind of A+-student slacker-rebel you truly are--say you're from Connecticut, so you oughta be familiar with cold. True enough, I'm sure chicks don't think coats and sweaters are cool, but I hear they think cleaning up pneumonia-related sputum you coughed up on their Ugg boots as even less cool.
Again, sorry to interrupt your lifestyle. I just had to share. I know, at 18, you know everything already, but still, I just felt it was important to say someth--
Oh, wait, where'd you go?
Oh bother. You're texting again.
Lost another one to high tech.
Please don't be frightened. I know I'm over 40, a little gray, kinda paunchy, and, thus, probably a little scary to you. But surely you've heard about people like me from someone . . . maybe your parents? Maybe a teacher? Or some kids whispering at the lunch table at school?
Let me allay your fears by explaining what I am: I'm an adult. Sound it out: a-d-u-l-t, a-dult. Yes, it is a funny word. What's even funnier about it is that in some cultures around the globe, I'm actually respected for being an adult. It's thought that my age indicates I've acquired some wisdom through experience along the way. And for the record, in those cultures--despite what little news you've glanced at lately between episodes of Real World/Road Rules Battle of the Sexes II on mtvU--they don't all practice child marriage, require the slaughter of a herd of sheep on feast days, or stone to death wives who want to learn to drive a car.
Even though I'm an adult and practically ready to be roasted on the open funeral pyre of my dearly departed youth, I'd like to be a friend to you--or at least offer you some friendly, helpful observations.
You see, I've been hearing a lot about you. Everyone's talking about you, in fact. Because you're young! And attractive! And have wealthy parents! And, thus, squillions of dollars' worth of disposable income!
There's something else at work here, though. The main reason everyone's got your name on their lips is because you're what's called a "millennial." High concept, hunh? And here you are without your PDA to connect to the web to look it up. As if you had the time or the interest.
It's a little hard for me to explain what a millennial is, but I'll try. If you do a web search and finally get past all the biblical prophesying that the end of the world is near, you'll come across the discussion of the millennial as an age group born in the late '70s through the '90s who don't have the same cultural touchstones as their parents, the baby-boomers. Well, imagine that. Apparently, you can get a Ph.D. from a lot of accredited universities in America by writing up these kind of "duh" statements and publishing them in peer-reviewed journals.
I'm gathering that because you grew up with quick-cut editing on TV and learned to play Grand Theft Auto at the age of nine months, that, according to millennial education theory, this might have had some affect on you and how you process information and the world around you. In other words, you generally seem to have trouble focusing on something longer than the time it takes for American cheese to melt in a microwave.
This millenial meshugas has made you a coveted demographic. I mean, advertisers are practically touching themselves in public over the hotness of potential revenue you could put out for them. And, golly, now look who else is exposing themselves over your marketability? Futurists! Pop psychologists! Think-tankers! Technologists! Educators! Magazine writers! It's the whole freakin' cabal of company-loves-misery types.
This cabal of the culturally hysterical tells us if we don't blog, or text, or K.I.S.S. it (keep it simple, stupid), or download all of human knowledge on an iPod--no wait, a Nano! no wait, make that a video iPod!--we've totally lost you forever. You'll go and get all your education and information from, I dunno, a crack house or Google or something.
For example, at work I keep being told that I need to keep it short and sweet, that anything that involves narrative--sorry, let me rephrase--too long of a text message (better?), or anything that can't be dealt with in under five minutes (or was that five seconds?), you'll just ignore. Thanks to your toys and outgrowing your ADD medication, you're simply incapable of paying attention. After all, while I'm trying to talk to you, I notice you're multitasking--researching a paper, text messaging your dudes and dudettes, listening to 960+ tunes on your Pod, and flirting with someone on the other side of the room. Who can keep up with something as lame as a conversation with an old guy when you've got so much else going on?
It's OK, though. 'Cause you've got the Power! You needn't change a thing about yourself. Everyone's willing to adapt to meet your needs and abilities. We'll give up any standards whatsoever that we might once have had to make you happy and comfortable. Let's reduce the size of the English vocabulary because you need quick, tiny words. Let's not approach anything with any depth or detail because you can't find the mindfulness to give it a nanosecond of your time. Let's not finish our thoughts because you can't listen to them anyway--you've already moved on.
Besides, all that extra, like, thought stuff gets in the way of what's really important--your lifestyle. Your toys and material pleasures. Your future career in management, computers, helping people, celebrity, or marriage. Your time spent thinking about what other people are thinking about you.
However, I'm just a wee bit concerned about this trend. I fear that your inability to concentrate any longer than it takes for a housefly to take a dump is impacting you in unforeseen and potentially tragic ways.
It's causing your good fashion sense to slip.
Let's take you first, Kirsten. Yeah, girlfriend, when I saw you on campus the other day, you did look pretty hot in those Ugg boots and the denim mini and slouchy turtleneck and bed-head hair, and, like, anything more would sooo seagull all over your style. But it was 25 degrees Fahrenheit that morning with a stiff wind coming down from the hills, and you're weren't even wearing hose, let alone a hat, gloves, coat, earmuffs, or anything remotely protective.
Frankly, my dear, I know I'm sounding like your grandmother when I say this--you remember her, the old lady your parents exiled to Fort Myers when she hit 65 because she was cramping their lifestyle and bumming them out?--but did you forget to put on any underwear, too? Or were you consciously going for that Pamela Anderson-meets-Tommy Lee-on-a-boat-for-a-web-cam-gynecology-exam look? Trust me on this, Kirsten, the next gust of wind, it's going to take you well past "I see London, I see France . . . ."
And you, Jayson--dude, flip-flops in the snow? With baggy shorts and a t-shirt? What up? I mean, I'm not even convinced that that Flying Tomato Guy from the Olympics would do that in Lake Tahoe on a dare.
You do have a hat, I'll grant you that, that stoner snow-boarding wooly cap you like to wear throughout the year. We both know it's just for style, or maybe it's just become affixed to your head, and you're too embarrassed to ask anyone to help you remove it. But to be honest, I'm not sure the rest of your studied, rebel-without-a-clue look is going to let you survive until after spring break. Yeah, I know it's warmer on the playas in Punta Cana, but we're living in the frigid peaks and valleys of Pennsylvania.
Besides, the plates on your Mini Cooper--the one you nearly ran me down with while you were wearing your Ray-Bans, chatting on your cellphone with your frat "bras," and being the kind of A+-student slacker-rebel you truly are--say you're from Connecticut, so you oughta be familiar with cold. True enough, I'm sure chicks don't think coats and sweaters are cool, but I hear they think cleaning up pneumonia-related sputum you coughed up on their Ugg boots as even less cool.
Again, sorry to interrupt your lifestyle. I just had to share. I know, at 18, you know everything already, but still, I just felt it was important to say someth--
Oh, wait, where'd you go?
Oh bother. You're texting again.
Lost another one to high tech.
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