Thursday, August 21, 2008

March on the Runway

I'm going to jump on Project Runway, because I'm so happy with the Auf this week. Spoilage all over the place in here.

First, and most importantly, I've perfected my Heidi Klum impression. Okay it's only one word "Hello!", but it is dead smack on. Killer.

Number two: drag queens. What a fan-freaking-tastic idea. It shows the outer edges of creativity plus demands excellent construction (I'm looking at you, Blayne, with your sad little droopy, last pinata at the fiesta costume. You were lucky, little man. I'd have aufed ya, fer sure.). Bonus points to the PR production staff for that one.

Number three: Well done on Joe. That spangly pink sailor suit on Ms. Merman was phenomenal! Her ass looked a pair of pink Hostess sno-balls. I knew Joe had it when he said it was like designing a Halloween costume for one of his daughters. Ding ding ding! Got it in one, hon.

And on to number four: Mr. High End Tastes. Bitch, please. You do a stage costume for a drag queen - no feathers, no rhinestones, no sequins. Just a few cha-cha ruffles? If I was his gal, I'd have crushed Daniel under my size 13 platform stilettos. What a twerp. And he called the drag queens tacky to their faces. Wow. Just wow. Stunning. Good riddance to whiney rubbish.

And lastly, how nice was it to see Chris March? I'm starting to feel very strongly that he was the best PR personality - EVER. That interplay between him and Heidi as they walked off the runway was completely delish. When does he get his own show?

A pain in the neck

I saw this and was curious. My back is all jacked up. I almost never don't have neck or back twinges. Thank the gods it's never gone to full fledged pain. But I know it's going there. So I thought, if this is a non-surgical technique, I'd give it a try. So I went to my library and looted all the books on the Alexander technique (a big 4), before any other Yahoo News readers could get there. And I can tell you right now, they're probably going straight back.

I'm flipping through the pages, and even though they were over in the self-help/diet/exercise books, these apparently are actually meant for performers (actors, singers, dancers, etc.). Um, okay. Whatever. I'll give 'em a try anyway. But if actors know so much about taking care of their backs, please explain Elizabeth Taylor to me. Liz is a martyr to the backpain. Anyway. So, I'm flipping through the books and I see a couple of references to how discovering the source of your bad posture and physical habits may unearth the bad memories of what caused the bad posture in the first place. And you may need help dealing with the feelings. Urhh, wha? Um, hell no. My feelings need to stay crammed down in a little corner where they belong, thank you very much. Possibly hence the back pain. Or it could be just that I slouch a lot at my desk, and my desk chair at work was designed by the Marquis de Sade. So back to the library with that lot.

Then I looked at the book that was right next to the ones on the Alexander technique, which I just picked up because I liked the name: The Vance Stance. Very catchy. Now this one had a lot of stuff about having owl eyes in your hips that you have to keep open, and a bucket in your pelvis that you shouldn't let tip. Yeah, I didn't get it either. But what I did see was a part about how 90% of all back problems come from locking your knees. Very, very bad stuff this knee locking. Which, of course, I do.

And in fact, I know exactly when I started locking my knees. It was back in Baptist school. We'd have to stand praying with our eyes closed for 10 minutes. For a kid who is already clumsy, standing with your eyes closed is pretty hard. No visual cues. So I'd end up falling over. Which is evidently poor manners when you're praying. I remember a teacher telling me I needed to push my knees back as I was standing. And they've been locked ever since. Voila. Back pain. I'm telling you, just one more way Baptist school screwed me up.

So, now I'm trying to train myself not to lock my knees. Harder than it sounds. Because after 30-something years of doing the wrong thing, suddenly doing the right thing feels wrong. And I've looked in a mirror while I'm doing it. Standing with your knees bent looks entirely goofy. But I'm still going to try it. Nobody ever died of looking goofy. And, you never know, it might help.

Wednesday, August 20, 2008

Gettin' my subversion on,28804,1703763_1703764_1810730,00.html

Dude. I am totally doing this.

Okay. Strictly speaking, this technique was designed for teenage girls. But I've got as many body issues as a 16-year old, so I think it's completely reasonable that I try this. Plus, using guerilla techniques to subvert the dominant paradigm is a personal dream of mine. I may have found a calling. And I really, really enjoyed my personal unmedia campaign against Anne Coulter Every time I saw one of her books, I'd move another book by somebody I thought she'd hate in front of her. My personal favorite was putting Anderson Cooper's book over hers. For some reason, I think Andy Boy must just torque her lug nuts. And with Bill O'Reilly's books, I'd just turn him upside down. How ya like them apples, Blow'Reilly?

Anyway. As far as social agitation for the perpetually shy and innately non-confrontational, this seems like the logical progression. I'm thinking I'm going to start something like the Post-It note gambit. I shall compose something suitably anti-beauty oligarchy, print them up on little sheets of paper, and drop them around town. I'm liking it. Okay, as far as the Forces of Anarchy go, this is pretty tame. But I'm a pretty tame gal. I'll update you as the campaign proceeds.

Well, hello, old friend

I saw it on a mannequin across a crowded Old Navy store. It was like spotting an old friend. A denim jacket.

Anybody who knew me in the late '80s and early '90s knows that the denim jacket was my fashion weapon of choice. I had the over-sized classic blue jacket, accessorized with military badges and insulting buttons ("You're ugly and your mother dresses you funny" and "who are all these tacky people?" - I was a delight as a teenager). I had the tight fit, faded black version with the sleeves flipped, and a square and an X drawn in pink ink on the inside cuff. Why? I don't know. It was the '80s. Seemed cool at the time. And from the moment it was even remotely cool enough to wear a denim jacket, and not look insane, until I risked frostbite by not giving it up, even layered with my stoutest sweater, it was plastered to my body. Did I wear it with the collar popped? I'll never tell.

But at a certain point, you have to give up your fashion obsession. Either you've worn it so much that you're sick of looking at yourself and need a change. Or so much time, and so many other fads have passed that you look like a dinosaur. Dated, honey. For me it was a combination of both. It was time to move on, and more. So I gave away my black jacket. And sewed all my travel patches to the over-sized blue one and so it could be used it for display purposes only. I was strong. I found other ways to ward off the cold. Oh, I relapsed once. I bought a bright green, shrunken cordouroy version, but it just wasn't the same. The green was an accessory. An affectation. Not like old times at all.

Then I saw it. That denim jacket. My heart stopped. I tried to walk away. But I went back the next week. I had to have it. And, yes, it is just like old times. I'd forgotten the way it feels - light, protective, beyond trends or fads. And I forgot about the way that the outside pocket forms a secret pocket on the inside. Perfect for snuggling my iPod in. And the whackadoo weather we've been having has offered coolish and damp mornings for me to wear my jacket in August without looking insane. Sleeves jauntily rolled, of course. It's like it was meant to be.

Tuesday, August 19, 2008


Tee hee.

One good reason it will never be Senator Julie B.

I think we're all screwed up about age limits in the US. We think age limits should be about setting moral boundaries and restrictions on the young. Fooey on that. Age limits should be logical. Government shouldn't be in the morality business. They suck at it.

Like this nonsense about moving the limit on drinking from 21 to 18. Wrong, wrong, wrong. The legal limit should be 15. That way parents have to deal with alcohol real time when they're kid is still in the house. Have you ever been out to drink with a youngun? No home training. They can't handle their booze at all. If their parents had had to deal with a 16-year old with legal access to booze, they'd have to take the time to show them how to drink like a responsible adult. [By the way kids, the object is not to drink as much as you can as fast as you can. That leads to barfing. And that's a waste of money. Slow and steady. No pukey. Just a tip from your Auntie Julie.] Until 18, all the discussions of booze are "hypothetical". You should be drinking, so it's not really happening, so I can hide my head in the sand. And by the time they hit 18, they're more or less out of the house, and it's too late to show them how it's done.

Now while the kids are loving me, I shall pull the rug out from under their feet. They shouldn't be able to drive unrestricted until they're 18. That's right. I said it. 18. No driving after 10 pm. No one under 18 in the car with you. No freeway driving. And for each time you are caught violating one of these rules, or have a serious moving violation, you bump the age of unrestricted driving up another year, up to the age of 21. And drunk driving - automatic restriction until 21. I can feel the teenagers hating me. But to quote many a teenager: "I'm not being mean. I'm just being honest." They drive like maniacs. Let 'em cool they're jets a little while until their brains are a bit more mature.

And while I'm screwing around in this area, why not fix the draft age? Draft age should be the same age as Social Security retirement. Why would we want a bunch of scared kids with everything to live for going to war? Too cautious. Send in a bunch of cranky old timers with nothing to lose. They get shot and end up in a wheelchair, uh what? Like they weren't going to end up there anyway? And old people would be bad ass in a war. They'd be thinking, "I've had a good life. You think death scares me? Yippee ki yea, mother fu####!" Plus, take a look at the Congress. If it's old coots making wars, it should be old coots fighting them.

Well, let's see. I pissed off the teenagers and the seniors in one fell swoop. Well done, me. Good blog.

Monday, August 18, 2008

Following Suit

I can see where the Knights Templar might have a tiny grudge against the Vatican. Those old boys got taken to the woodshed by the Pope and Co. back in the day. The Knights Templar were very rich and very powerful in the Middle Ages. And now they're a whacky plot twist in the Da Vinci Code. How the mighty have fallen. And the Catholic church seems to have done fairly well over the years. You may have heard of them.

And in fact, I'd like to announce my own personal litigation with the Vatican. I'm a legitimate descendant of the Druids. And I, as the rightful heir, am suing the Vatican to get back Christmas. We want all of it back. The tree, the holly, the yule log, the mistletoe. And we especially want December 25 back. That was ours. The Baby Jesus needs to take his birthday back to the spring where it belongs.

Not coincidentally, we, the Druids, would also like all associated revenues for the Christmas/Winter Solstice returned to us forthwith. We deserve a piece of that action. I understand that the actual costs would be hard to calculate. So let's make it an even $1 billion. In tens and twenties. Delivered to me. Personally. I'll take care of the headache of making sure the money gets distributed to the rest of the Druids. You're welcome.

Pope Benedict, you know where to find me when you're read to settle.

Al Fresco

So, I went to see Dave Matthews Band on Saturday night. Yes. Dave Matthews. I know. So not cool. I know I'm supposed to hate Dave. Jam band. So trite. So 90s. So over. But wait. There's a problem with that. What was it? Oh, yeah. I'm not cool. Therefore I can like who I like. No repercussions to my coolitude. So - whatevah! I do what I want! And this was a delayed birthday present (thanks, T!). So, I was going to enjoy the hell out of myself, come hell or high water, which it nearly did.

I put on my hippie-dippie peasant blouse and was ready to jam out. And it was like Mother Nature was conspiring to back me up. It was an out door show. Because of which, when I got the tickets, I thought "August 15, in Texas - hot, humid, hell". But it was in the mid-80s when we got there, and admittedly humid, but breezy, so actually very comfortable. Then about half-way through the show, it started to sprinkle. Not rain, just a little light love-tap from the sky. Very nice.

Pretty much there are 3 types of people that go to a DMB show: 1) ex-hippies who are reliving their Grateful Dead days, 2) frat types who will be doing the frat boy yell and point at the stage "Woooooo - yeeeaaaahhhhh! Dave, man! Ants Marching! Yeaaaaaahhhhhh!", and 3) the sexy couples who will be doing the sexy dance to every song whether it's Wasting Time (appropriate) or Halloween (inappropriate - and, editorial note, they did do it at this show, never seen it live - awesome) or Tripping Billies (virtually impossible to sexy dance to - but somehow they manage). And all 3 contingents were out in force.

And just as a side note: what is up with people who go to a concert and sit in the parking lot tailgating blaring the band that they have come to see? You know, those people are going to be there, right there, on the stage, playing live. The real people. Playing the same songs. But live. Which is presumably why you paid $50 + $15 for parking to here rather than the privilege to be here loitering in the parking lot. I do not get it. Personally, I go on radio silence the week after a show, and listen to anything but that band. Sort of a brain sorbet. A palate cleanser if you will. But there they sit. To each his own, I guess.

Funniest event of the show went on right in front of us. There was this guy. Nice looking. Great body. And hitting on anything within a 3 foot radius. Seriously. Working his mojo like a hoodoo man on St. John's Eve. And our boy needed some help, because his mojo was waaaay outta whack. 5 girls up. 5 girls walk away. Seriously, if you're that good looking (and at a Dave Matthews concert, please and thank you) and you can't score, either you're a complete asshole or a complete idiot. Or possibly both, because I think baby boy went home alone. So sad. So sad.

Anyway, good time had by all. Well, almost all. Sorry hot guy. Better luck next time.

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